I heard you scream.” James’s voice rasped out of the darkness, startling Julia. She had dozed intermittently since coming back to their closet, so she wasn’t certain how long James had been unconscious. Not that time existed here in the absolute dark.
“When Shaw’s men ambushed me, they shot one of the horses and the carriage flipped over. I fell onto the edge of the door and, I think, cracked a few ribs. I made the mistake of letting Shaw’s men know I was injured. As you well know by now, Shaw finds your every weakness and exploits it to get what he wants.”
“How does almost killing me by hanging and then letting me down get him what he wants?” Scraping sounds came from his position, and she imagined him maneuvering himself into a seated position.
“It gains our cooperation.” Julia twisted her wrists back and forth. After days of this exercise, she had a greater range of movement under the ropes. She could not keep it up for long, though, before the raw burning of her skin made her stop.
“I’m sorry.”
Julia stopped moving, unsure she’d heard the whispered words properly. “Sorry?”
“That he caused you pain to make what I was going through worse. When I heard your scream, all I could think of was how I’d failed you.”
“You have not failed me. There was nothing you could have done.”
“I failed you by giving Shaw another method of causing you anguish. I saw William a week ago. He ordered me to follow my commodore’s orders and not to get involved. But I was so angry at him—and worried about Charlotte—that I disobeyed him and set out after Shaw. I knew his ship was larger than mine, but in my arrogance I believed that with the element of surprise on my side, I could take Sister Elizabeth, rescue Charlotte, and gain more fame and fortune than William.” His voice gave out at the end of his speech.
“You wanted to rescue your sister. That is an honorable quest.”
“Not when it meant sacrificing the lives of more than three hundred men in an action I was not authorized to take. I know if I live that I will be court-martialed, and I will have no excuse to give for my action as the blame lies solely with me. But it is not that sentence I fear.” He paused to clear his throat. “It is God’s judgment, whether I meet it soon or a long time from now.”
James could not have chosen a topic on which Julia felt less adequate to converse. But as Shaw had so vividly proven, neither of them knew how much longer their lives might last. “William has been trying to teach me more about God. I cannot articulate it as well as he, but it is my understanding that God wants us to trust Him entirely so that He can forgive us entirely. If we do not trust Him with everything we do, we will continue to make erroneous choices and do things that go against His will for our lives. Does that make any sense?”
“Some. But the problem lies in what to do when we have gone against His will. Then we will be judged and condemned.”
Julia found her first smile since her ordeal began, remembering when she’d put a similar question to her husband in one of their many discussions on this topic. His example had helped her. It should help James. “When you were a child, did you ever disobey your mother?”
“Naturally. All children do.”
“What did your mother do?”
“She made me confess, apologize, and promise I would never do it again.”
“But did she condemn you? Cast you out?”
James coughed out a laugh. “No. She loved me.”
“I have heard and read many Scriptures that say God is our Father and we are His children. So why would He not do the same as your mother: make us confess the wrong we have done, apologize—to Him and to others—and promise to never do it again?”
“But breaking a teacup with a cricket bat and condemning hundreds of men to their deaths are not the same—”
The door suddenly swung open. “Missus, you’re to come with me now.”
James tried to move between Julia and Collier, but she nudged him out of the way. “No. Rest. Regain your strength.”
“I will pray for you, Julia.”
“And I for you, James.” Julia held her left elbow toward the steward so she could be yanked through the door.
Outside her prison, she was met with a storm of activity. The crew was clearing the ship for action. Her heart raced. Could rescue be at hand?
“James—” She tugged against Collier’s grip.
“Commodore Shaw wants to see just you.” He yanked her arm, and Julia yelped at the fresh jolt of pain through her chest. She also felt the rope around her wrists give slightly.
The companionway ended in the shade of the wheelhouse, but beyond the edge of the poop deck bright sunlight bathed the quarterdeck. Here, as below, the crew prepared for battle. Collier pulled her out into the sunlight and up the steps to the poop.
She scanned the waters around them. There. A ship off the larboard bow. And another astern. And a third to starboard. Three ships?
Shaw did not deign to look at her when Collier pushed her forward to stand beside him. “I see you are as surprised as I to see three ships bearing down on us.”
“Are they pirates?” She wanted it to be William but could not think of a third ship he might bring with him.
“In your vernacular, no. In mine, yes. Your husband’s ship”—Shaw pointed to the one off the larboard stern—“has already signaled me, demanding my surrender.” He turned a wicked smile on Julia. “And you know how I feel about demands.”
He took her by the shoulder and led her to the larboard gunwale. “Have a look, Mrs. Ransome. I would be remiss not to offer you the opportunity for one final moment to gaze upon your husband.”
She took the spyglass he held out toward her and pressed it to her eye. Though still too far away to be in accurate firing range, the ship came into closer view through the telescope. She scanned each face in the forecastle until—
An involuntary cry leaped from her throat. “William!”
He lowered his spyglass so she could see his face, pressed his left hand to his heart, and then raised the glass again. Julia pressed the telescope and her bound hands to her heart.
Shaw snatched the telescope away from her and called for Collier. “Take her to the bilge. Tie her to a post. And take her across the quarterdeck to the forecastle.”
Collier’s wide-mouthed grin showed a myriad of missing teeth. “Aye, Commodore.”
She gave up trying to struggle when the intensity of the pain in her side became unbearable. Below deck, she trotted to keep up with Collier crossing the length of the ship again. Then down three flights of stairs, finally ending below the orlop in the lowest portion of the ship.
Bilge water lapped at Julia’s shoes and tugged the hem of her dress as it sloshed back and forth, following the motion of the ship.
Collier tugged her over to the nearest upright pole—a support beam, as the bases of the masts where they joined the bottom of the ship were enormous down here. He jammed her hands against the beam, as if expecting the rope to split apart to pass around the beam and then stitch itself back together on the other side.
He held his lantern aloft and looked around them. Frowning, he looked down.
“Hold that.” He thrust the lantern into her hands and then reached down and untied the rope serving as his belt.
Julia lifted her eyes to the bottom of the deck above, just in case his pants gave way.
He looped the thinner rope down between her wrists, circled it around the beam, and tied the ends in a knot, leaving some slack in the loop.
Collier took the lantern back and splashed back toward the stairs. Julia let her eyes roam down the beam in the fading light. She stifled a gasp, hoping Collier did not hear her sharp intake of breath. He continued up the stairs.
A wan light—not light, really, but a memory of light filtering down through the three decks above—came down the companionway after Collier disappeared. Julia moved around the post so she faced astern. She pressed the sides of her hands against the beam and slowly pushed them upward until her fingers came in contact with something sticking out.
Excitement prickled her skin. The square iron peg wasn’t large, just a nail, really, but rather than having a flat end, the end was sharp, as if part of the peg had been sheared away.
She stretched her arms as high as she could reach, panting against the throb in her side, and pulled her hands down until the rope around her wrists caught. She angled her hands to the right and rubbed the rope on the metal peg.
A loud boom shuddered through the ship, which jolted. Sharpedged iron bit into the tender skin of her wrist. She adjusted the angle of her hands and kept rubbing as fast as she could as blasts and booms filled the air.
If the pirate El Salvador were hiding prisoners aboard his ship, and if he had no value and respect for human life, where would he put them?
Michael Witherington lowered his spyglass. Why would Julia have been brought up the companionway under the poop deck but led away, once Shaw was assured everyone was watching, down the quarterdeck and through the forecastle? “She’s in the aft section, likely the orlop or bilge.”
“Sir? How can you be certain?” The sandy-haired lieutenant lowered his glass also.
“Because, Lieutenant Campbell, that’s where I would hide her.”
William Ransome’s second lieutenant startled and then looked scandalized. Again, Michael wondered at Commodore Ransome’s choice to send Campbell when a couple of the others had appeared eager at the idea of serving aboard a pirate ship, even if just for a few hours.
But other than trying to think like a pirate—like a vicious, bloodthirsty one—he had work to do now.
The smallest of the four ships now engaged in combat, Vengeance could do something Alexandra and Audacious could not: sidle up to Sister Elizabeth through the blinding smoke and dispatch a boarding party. Certainly, the addition of Lieutenant Campbell and several marines to Vengance left Alexandra shorthanded, because Ned already had no one to spare, and meant quite crowded quarters on Vengeance.
The billowing smoke enveloped the frigate, making it impossible to see from one end of the ship to the other.
“Marine guards and sharpshooters, aloft and to the starboard side now,” Michael called, keeping his tone low but clear. “Jean Baptiste, take us in.”
“Aye, Cap’n.”
From their positions on the mast tops and along the yardarms, the sharpshooters—both William’s marines and those from Michael’s crew—fired down onto the deck of Sister Elizabeth.
Michael climbed the mainmast shroud to get a better look. Though the view was clearer from here, smoke still obscured the view. But even with the aid of his telescope, he did not see Shaw anywhere on deck.
Coward.
Beyond Sister Elizabeth, the hulking forms of the two Royal Navy ships, each at a forty-five degree angle off the bow and stern of Shaw’s ship, looked like phantoms, appearing only briefly through the billows of roiling smoke.
Michael lowered himself to the deck and leaned over the hatch to the gun deck below. “Load chain shot and bar shot. We must put more of their battery out of commission before we draw closer.”
“Aye, aye, Captain,” Picaro called back.
“Jean Baptiste, lay off here.”
“Aye, sir.”
Michael returned to the shroud, scanning Sister Elizabeth’s deck. He would find Shaw, and when he did, the pirate El Salvador would make one final appearance.
Charlotte sat in the chair directly across the table from the door to the wheelhouse, a loaded pistol on her lap and a cutlass on the table in front of her. Jamison and Gardiner sat to her left and right, similarly armed. Kent, however, paced behind them.
“I’m no child to be cosseted and cared for by a nursery maid. To be in the same room with you is a grievous insult. I will see that Cochrane and Ransome are both drilled out of the service—”
Jamison flew from his seat and pinned Kent to the wall, his forearm across Kent’s collarbones. “You will hold your tongue still in your mouth, you ungrateful wretch.”
Lieutenant Gardiner stood but made no move to interfere in the midshipmen’s quarrel.
Charlotte also rose, not wanting to interfere, but she stepped forward and gently extricated the loaded pistol from Jamison’s other hand.
Kent blinked and then squeezed his eyes shut as if trying to clear them of a foreign object. He’d been doing that regularly ever since they returned from Sister Mary. And if he happened to be standing at the time, usually wavered and needed to reach out to steady himself. Charlotte hoped for his sake that whatever ailed his vision and balance would correct itself as his other injuries healed.
“You spent five weeks making Charles Lott’s life miserable because you were jealous of Lott’s skills and knowledge, and perhaps you were frightened Lott would prove you did not deserve to be a watch captain, regardless of your seniority. Charles Lott was one of the finest midshipmen I’ve ever had the pleasure of serving with. So Charles Lott turned out to be Charlotte Ransome. Who cares? To me, it makes Charles Lott’s accomplishments all the more extraordinary. So still your tongue or I will still it for you.” Jamison held Kent there a bit longer and then released him.
“I’ll see you’re out too, Jamison—”
“That is quite enough, Mr. Kent. You are bordering on insubordination. Now sit down and be quiet. That is an order from the first lieutenant of this ship.” Lieutenant Gardiner stared at Kent until the younger man looked away.
As Charlotte reached for her chair the ship rocked, throwing her off balance.
“That was a hit for certain.” Jamison, whose eyes were still puffy and bruised, squinted toward the door.
“I can’t stand this any longer.” Kent grabbed his gun and cutlass and ran from the room.
“He’s going to get himself—or someone else—killed.” Charlotte grabbed her weapons, sheathing the cutlass and tucking the gun under her belt. She ran from the dining cabin and out through the wheelhouse, shading her eyes against the glare of the sun and the sting of the smoke, searching the confusion on deck for the white blond head she’d come to know oh so well during her time as Charles Lott, mainly so she could avoid him.
“Kent! Mr. Kent!” She ducked and wove amongst the sailors and gun crews, her eyes straining against the glare and smoke.
Someone grabbed her arm. “What are you doing here? You swore you would stay to the cabin.”
Never had she seen Ned so angry, but this was no longer about her. “It’s Kent. He’s out here somewhere. I have to find him. His eyes—his balance. He’s a danger to everyone, especially to himself.”
Ned growled and released her arm. “Find him, fast, and get him back to the main cabin.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Ned disappeared into the fray again. Charlotte raised up on her toes, trying to see over the rest of the crew. Oh, to have Declan’s height.
Declan! He could help. She turned, scanning the deck for the giant. There, just a few yards away.
Someone yelled, “Take cover.”
Charlotte ducked but kept moving toward Declan. Grapeshot pounded into everything at a certain height above the deck—from masts to rigging to men. Declan disappeared during the barrage, but popped up, bellowing orders as soon as the gun crews on Sister Elizabeth stopped to reload.
“Mr. Declan, I need your help—”
“You’re not supposed to be out here.” Without ceremony he grabbed her around the waist, lifted her off her feet, tucked her under his arm, and started back toward the main cabin.
She slapped and smacked at his arm. “Let me down. I have to find Kent. He’s injured. He can’t see well. He’s out here on deck. You have to find him so I can take him back.”
Declan finally set her down. “What’s he look like?”
“Tall—well, compared to me, he’s tall.”
“Everyone is tall compared to you.”
“I will laugh at that joke later, I promise.” She held her hand up to a height about eight inches above the top of her own head. “About this tall, white blond hair. Sharp features like…like a bird. Wearing a midshipman’s uniform.”
If Declan held his arms out to the side, he would look like a capstan. He turned slowly around, scanning the crowd. “He’s in the forecastle. Want that I should go fetch him?”
“What?” It took her a moment to translate his question. “No. You’re needed here. I’ll go.”
Staying low—which also helped in pushing her way through the sea of bodies crowding the deck—Charlotte reached the forecastle.
“Mr. Kent, return to the big cabin. You are in direct violation of your orders!” Lieutenant Duncan held Kent’s wrists, perhaps trying to get the midshipman to drop the short sword and pistol he wielded. “Mr. Lott, get Mr. Kent off the deck.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” But Kent wasn’t going to come back at her request, and she couldn’t overpower him. So…“Mr. Kent, you’re needed at the cannon in the big cabin. They’re making a right mess of it and need someone with your experience.”
He turned to look at her. The glazed look in his eyes probably had something to do with why he did not immediately begin hurling insults at her. “Take me to it. I’ll show them how it’s done. Captain Parker will see. He’ll write me the letter of preferment to stand for the lieutenancy early.”
Charlotte looked at Duncan, whose face showed the panic she felt. If Kent no longer remembered that Captain Parker was dead, that he had died a week after setting out from England, Kent’s mind had gone.
“Take cover!”
Everyone dropped to the deck.
Everyone but Kent.
Charlotte stood to pull him down. Grapeshot and shrapnel whistled past. She wrapped her arms around Kent’s middle and twisted, turning her back toward the incoming missiles and crooked her knee into the back of Kent’s, making his buckle. They started to go down, but Kent recovered his balance and straightened again, babbling on about taking the lieutenant’s examination.
“Mr. Kent, get down!” Duncan crawled toward them and grabbed Kent’s wrists and started pulling down.
Charlotte wrapped her arms around his neck from behind and pushed herself off the deck with her feet, putting her entire weight on his back. Finally he started to go down.
Searing pain scorched the back of Charlotte’s left arm. Kent fell to his knees and Charlotte rolled off his back and onto the deck. She reached around to feel her left sleeve to see if it was on fire.
No, but it was wet. She pulled her fingers away, covered in blood. Her blood.
She’d had her share of injuries during her service on Audacious, but most had been bruises and minor abrasions. Nothing like this.
She floated into the air. No, someone carried her. She blinked to clear her eyes of excess moisture. Declan, a deep scowl on his face, jumped down from the forecastle and started down the companionway to the main gun deck.
He set her down on one of the tables in the sick berth and then reached one long arm out, grabbed the surgeon’s mate’s shoulder, and pulled him over. “Fix her.”
With that, he left.
Charlotte and the mate stared at each other a moment, both uncertain as to what had just transpired.
“You’re bleeding.”
“I got shot.”
“Probably why.” The surgeon’s mate smiled at her and set to treating her wound.