The Following Sea (The Pirate Wolf series) (16 page)

"Reef all sails so it looks like we're just as curious as they are," he said quietly to Stubs. "But get men up there with buckets to wet down the sheets. If we have to maneuver out of range fast, I want every breath of wind we can catch, every knot of speed we can squeeze out of the bitch.”

While Stubs relayed the orders, Gabriel signalled to the master gunner. Giddings was the oldest member of the crew, lean and wiry, and did twice the work of men who were half his age. He had an affinity for blowing things up and had personally tested each cannon on board.

“Open the ports and run out the upper tier of culverins. If they can show their teeth, so can we, and since ours are bigger, it might make them think twice about annoying us."

"Aye Cap'n. An' might I say ye cut a fine figure as a Spanish officer."

Gabriel glared and ran a finger around the plate-sized ruff where it was pinching his neck. It was pleated so stiffly it reminded him of the time he and Jonas were locked in a stockade. He was also coming to realize why Spanish officers all walked straight as pikes. It was out of fear of having the stiffened, pointed end of the doublet turn them into eunuchs.

He had to admit, however, looking around at his crew, he would have no reason to suspect they were not Spanish. There was a sea of scarlet and black, of plumes and striped caps. Apparently the
capitan's
taste in clothing had been the order of the day for his crew as well.

"Whup, there they go," Stubs said, pointing out the flags that were being run up the lines on the lead ship.

Dante consulted the signal book and relayed the order of colored flags to form the proper response. The galleon appeared to be satisfied and showed no sign of slowing or maneuvering into a hostile position.

"How well do you speak Spanish?" Dante asked in a murmur.

"I understand most of it. Can't speak but a few words though, just enough to get an ale or a whore, or tell a sonofabitch to surrender or lose his guts through his nose."

Dante nodded grimly, but he was far more interested in the ships themselves. They were easily half the tonnage of the
Endurance
with ten gun ports down each side for heavy cannon as well as smaller perriers and several light swivel guns mounted fore and aft. One on one, the
Endurance
outmanned and outgunned the Spanish ships, but if they had to take on all four, combined in force, they might be hard-pressed to avoid taking heavy damage.

Neither was Dante as he glanced casually down over his own main deck. He did not see the scarlet and stripes this time so much as the solemn faces of his men, most of them crouched down out of sight. He noted some of the wounded had come up from their sickbeds below and his chest swelled with pride. Any grumblings or misgivings or questions they had concerning his sanity over rescuing Eva and bringing her on board had been replaced by absolute loyalty, trust, and a craving to avenge their lost shipmates.

He felt a slight change in the motion of the
Endurance
and noted the dark shades of blue as the currents lulled them into to the treacherous stretch of reef that ran alongside the island. The wind may have fallen off, but there were other elements running beneath the keel that might be used to good advantage.

Something was still bothering Dante about the galleons.

He turned his focus to the lead ship. It had glided close enough for him to see the soldiers and officers on the quarterdeck. The open ports worried him but there was no sign of gun crews standing at the ready. No other signal flags had been raised, not even the white flag calling for a parlay. Two of the other three ships had moved up to flank their leader, leaving the fourth still too far back to identify. In another few minutes, the lead ships would be in the ideal position to unleash full broadsides and every instinct he possessed told him that was exactly what was about to happen.

The itching sensation across the nape of his neck grew more persistent, and this time it was not from the tightness of the ruff. He trained his glass on the lead ship and extended the telescoping shaft as far as it would reach.

“Son of a bitch,” he muttered. “That’s no goddamn patrol.”

“Eh?” Stubs raised his glass.

“The black-haired bastard with the winemark on his face. That’s Estevan Quintano Muertraigo. He was in command of the garrison in Havana until he got too greedy and was arrested. He was sentenced to hang but his men broke him out and he’s been flying the
jolie rouge
ever since.”

“He i’n’t flyin’ it now,” Stubs observed.

“No. But I expect his ploy is similar to our own, to give the appearance of a normal patrol, get close enough to their quarry, then force a surrender or blast them out of the water.”

Dante lowered the glass. The itching persisted but at least he knew the cause. The Spaniard was cautious enough to know Dante’s thirty-two-pounders could do considerably more damage than his twenty-fours at such close range. Dante could prove that point now by opening fire first. There was a fair to even chance he could destroy at least one of the three ships, but then the battle would be on against the other two. And if they caught him in a crossfire, it would likely end badly, especially with the wind reduced to a luffing breeze.

Indecision was not a part of his nature and Gabriel wondered if the recent capture and loss of the
Valour
had wreaked more havoc on his nerve than he suspected. He could not afford to let his crew think he was hesitant about going into battle. The eyes of each and every man on board were watching him, waiting for him to give the signal. They would fight. They would die to the last man if he asked it of them.

Dante glanced up at the brilliant blue of the sky. The sun was out, the breeze smelled sweet, bringing the scent of pine and frangipani from the distant island.

It was a good day to die.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Just as he was about to give the order to open fire, Gabriel heard a commotion on deck and turned to search out the cause. Beside him, Stubs’ eyes were nearly popped out of their creases, and as Dante followed the quartermaster's stare, his flew equally wide.

Eva Chandler had come up on deck. She was wearing an elegant gown cut from fine green moire silk, heavily embroidered from waist to neck with a matching panel of gold leaves and vines down the front of the skirt and around the hem. The neck was high, severely modest in the Spanish style, topped by a narrow ruffle liberally embellished with pearls and gold thread. Her hair had been gathered up in a high twist, the camphored oiliness of it covered by a lace veil over which sat a pert green velvet caplet trailing silk ribbons.

Up close, it was easy to see where the hooks and eyes on the bodice were not evenly matched, where lacings had not been pulled tight, and where bare toes peeked out from beneath the sweeping circle of the farthingale. But from a distance she could fool the sharpest eye into admiring the exquisite richness of the garment, the delicate beauty of the woman wearing it, the feminine puff of the lace handkerchief she withdrew from a ruffled cuff and held daintily to her nose.

Dante could barely contain his anger. “What the devil do you think you are playing at?”

"I found this in the captain's sea chest," she explained. "He must have been taking it home to his wife or mistress. You did say I could try waving a bit of lace and appealing to their gallant nature to simply sail away and leave us unmolested."

She faltered slightly at the look of absolute horror on Dante's face but she managed to walk past him and stand at the rail. With one hand gripping the wood for support, she smiled gaily and waved the lace by way of a friendly greeting to the men watching from the galleon... men who appeared to be as momentarily shocked by her appearance on deck as Dante—and indeed Dante's entire crew—had been.

"This is not a game,” he said through his teeth. "In case you have lost the ability to count along with all of your senses, there are four of them and only one of us."

"I count very well Captain. Mostly I have counted the number of times I have been forced to let someone else decide my destiny. If this ship is attacked and I am to die today, I would as soon do it with the sun on my face, not hiding under a table in your cabin."

Her words so closely mirrored Gabriel's own thoughts that he bit back the command that would have had two of the crewmen hastening her below and locking her in a pen with the livestock.

"We will discuss your penchant for disobeying my orders later," he warned softly.

"I'm sure we will," she said, the green of her eyes blazing defiantly. "For the time being, however, you may want to look a little less murderous, for the
capitan
is smiling and waving back, as are some of his crew and officers."

Dante tore his gaze away from her face and looked out across the water again. By God, and damn his eyes if she wasn't right. The Spaniard had doffed his tricorn and was offering a gallant bow, and when he straightened, there was a smile on his face. It was a thin, cruel smile, undoubtedly fuelled by notions of taking the stunning beauty captive, but for the time being, at least, it might buy Dante some precious time.

As if he needed any further evidence of Muertraigo’s original intention, heads began to appear along the rails as the men who were crouching behind the guns stood. Gabriel was sorely tempted to open fire just because they had done the same thing as he.

Instead, he took up the speaking trumpet and hailed the Spaniard in flawlessly refined Castilian. He identified the ship as His Most Majestic Majesty King Phillip’s
Santa Maria
and himself as Capitan Rafael Enrique Padilla, a name he had employed on other nefarious occasions. When the words finished echoing across the water, the reply came back: “Capitan Francisco de Cuellar sends greetings and felicitations from the
San Mateo
.”

While more mundane lies were exchanged, Eva remained by the rail, hearing only the rushing of her own blood in her ears. What had struck her as being a good idea at the time was obviously not held in such high regard by Gabriel Dante—or the rest of the crew. She could feel several hundred pairs of eyes boring into her back and had no doubt they would blame her—yet again—as a bad luck charm if this encounter turned sour.

Dante jarred her out of her thoughts when he wrapped a hand around her elbow, gripping it so tightly she thought he might crush through the bones.

His fingers pinched deeper, sending her up onto her toes from the pain. She was led, almost dragged across the deck by his side, having no choice but to accompany him down the ladderway and below.

When they were inside the great cabin, he released her arm and slammed the door shut. He tugged at the choking ruff and tore it off his neck, then attacked the row of buttons down the side of the doublet. When it was loose and he could breathe freely again, he rounded on Eva and glared her into slowly backing up into a corner.

His eyes were cold and hard as he followed, step by measured step.

"When I give an order,
Evangeline
, I expect it to be obeyed. I don't expect it to be questioned. Or ignored. Or embellished with hare-brained notions. A ship runs on discipline.
My
discipline. As my father is fond of saying, on board this ship I am God, king, and all the saints combined and if you pray to anyone to keep you safe, you pray to me."

"You're damn right it won't happen again. Because if it does—" he took another step closer and she felt the open edges of his doublet press against her. His face was only inches away. Anger was evident in every taut inch of his body, but most especially in his hands which he had to unclench in order to spread them flat against the wall, placing one on either side of her head. "If it does, Mistress Chandler, I will not be held responsible for what happens to you. I will only promise that it will be unpleasant.
Extremely
unpleasant. Do I make myself quite clear?"

She could not speak, she could only nod.

His eyes narrowed. He continued to stare until she felt as if she might melt into one of the cracks on the floorboards, and when he finally did relent and push away from the wall, she very nearly slid into a heap on her knees.

"It seems your little performance was so enchanting, the
capitan
wishes to come on board to see if you look as tasty a morsel across a table as you do across three hundred yards of open water."

“Flirt. I vow it is a woman’s best weapon at the best of times and if possible I want that bastard lusting after you like a dog. Do you think you can manage that?”