Julia continued her awkward, painful, and unrhythmic dance with the post. The shooting pain in her side served to clear her mind of anything but a singular focus: escape. Each volley Sister Elizabeth fired and each broadside it received recoiled and rocked the ship. With her hands held over her head as she rubbed the rope over the broken iron peg, every jolt upset her balance.
The bilge water now reached her knees—and she expected every moment that her attempt to free herself would be thwarted by the arrival of the master carpenter and his mates to man the pumps.
After what felt like hours, the rope started to give way. She increased her intensity—and ignored the heat the friction caused.
The loop of rope went lax. Julia lowered her hands and used her teeth to pull at it, and it uncoiled, falling away. In moments she extricated herself from the bindings. She stretched and flexed her hands, arms, and shoulders, delighting in the freedom of movement but was glad of the dark—she did not want to see the truth of the bloody mess her wrists must be, from the nicks and cuts made in the sensitive flesh by the peg.
She struggled against the rising water to get to the stairs. She looked up. No one was standing at the top; at least, not that she could see in the deeper-than-twilight darkness. She cautiously ascended, finding the orlop deserted.
She oriented herself and recognized the passageway leading to the hold. She felt her way along the path between crates of supplies and goods until she reached the walls of the supply rooms.
The second door. Her hands came in contact with the iron bolt, and she slid it back and pulled the door open.
“James?”
No response. She moved into their prison cell, leaning over to feel with her hands in case he lay on the floor.
The space was empty. Frustration pressed painfully against the inside of her head. If James was not here, she could only think of two other places he might be—with Shaw or dead. And if he was with Shaw, James’s death would not be far off.
Rather than continue up the stern companionway, she moved forward, to the stairs near the mainmast. This flight led her to the lower gun deck and utter mayhem. Smoke filled the space, shadowy figures churning through it. Voices, orders, screaming, and cannon blasts assaulted her ears.
She crouched under the companionway leading up to the main gun deck, but no one took notice of her. Before they could, she rounded the over-worked stairs and ran up.
Here on the main gun deck, chaos also reigned. Light streaming through the grates covering the hatches above glared off the smoke.
The smoke swirled. Someone ran toward her. She ducked under the stairs, wishing for anything she could use as a weapon.
The pirate stopped and pinned her with an astonished stare. She readied herself to fight him off, but before she could he started running again.
Julia didn’t wait any longer. She climbed the last set of steps. Near the top, she paused, peeking over the edge of the opening in the quarterdeck. Smoke and noise and men and bodies and blood…
No. She couldn’t focus on that. Climbing up onto the deck, she crouched and ran a few feet to take cover between the rigging brace and the mainmast.
Through the haze of smoke, off Sister Elizabeth’s starboard, the smaller unknown vessel looked as if it was trying to get close enough to send a boarding party. Marines—yes, she could see their red coats—were aloft on the yards shooting down into the bedlam about Julia. She could not see more than hints of the two ships at the bow and stern.
Shaw would be somewhere safe, somewhere out of the range of bullets, cannonballs, and shrapnel. His cabin. But he would also want William to be able to see James.
Alexandra was the ship to the stern. Julia rose, scanning the back of the quarterdeck and what she could see of the poop. If Shaw had James on display, he would be somewhere back there, not only visible but vulnerable.
Fire seared her shoulder, and she fell back against the rigging brace. She looked down. A scorch mark marred her sleeve, but, thankfully, the bullet had done no more than graze her.
Fear vibrated through her limbs. Julia took a deep breath, prayed for protection, and stood again.
A bullet thudded into the thick wood of the brace mere inches from her hand. She dropped to the deck. The jolt made something in her side pop, and for a moment, she couldn’t breathe. Her head spun and her stomach churned. But then, almost as quickly, the agony started receding. The sharp, stabbing pain she’d had ever since Shaw had compressed her side during James’s hanging was gone. She tested herself by moving her arm about. Her side ached and pulled, but she could live with it.
The intensity of the fighting increased along the starboard side of the quarterdeck. The crew of the other ship must be preparing to invade.
She had to find James. She stood—and the world exploded.
Terror ripped through Michael’s throat as Sister Elizabeth’s mainmast snapped and tipped toward the ship’s larboard side.
The exploding shell had landed in the cavity pounded out in the thick wood by constant bombardment. And he’d rejoiced.
Until he saw a flash of long reddish-brown hair and fluttering blue fabric disappear behind the smoke and debris of the explosion.
His crew and the men from Alexandra swung over to Sister Elizabeth, emptying his ship and beginning the boarding that would be the last act Michael and Vengeance would play in this battle.
But he couldn’t leave her there. Not if she was hurt—or worse.
Disregarding the agreement he’d made with William Ransome—that he would not take part in boarding the pirate ship—Michael climbed up the mainmast shroud, grabbed a line, and swung over to the deck of the larger ship.
Something hit his back. He grabbed his cutlass and turned. A pirate wielding a canvas bag weighted with what was probably a cannonball staggered a few steps away and then turned. Seeing Michael, he roared and raised the bag over his head, whirling it like a slingshot.
Michael ducked under his arm, and the bag hit the deck. The impact ripped the canvas, and the cannonball rolled harmlessly away. Michael knocked the man in the back of the head with his sword hilt, and the pirate crumpled to the deck.
He dispatched three more men similarly as he fought to get through the fracas.
At the base of the mast, sticking out under a tangle of rigging line, was a small-heeled boot and blue fabric.
Michael sheathed his sword and pulled the ropes away. His sister lay prone, arms over her head, left sleeve torn and bloody at the shoulder. He slid his hand under her torso to lift her.
She groaned.
He shouted with relief. Julia was still alive.
Now he had to keep her that way.
He hoisted her over his shoulder and drew his cutlass again. In the brief time it had taken him to rescue her, the tide of battle on deck had turned—in his favor. He reached the side of the ship with no resistance, found a line, and returned to Vengeance.
Jean Baptiste met him and assisted in lowering Julia to the deck.
“We’ve accomplished our mission. Get us out of here.”
“Aye, aye, Cap’n.”
Michael crouched over his sister’s inert form, pushing her tangled, dirty hair back from her face. He looked up at Lau, who also hovered near. “Light the fires.”
“Aye, Cap’n.”
William had a surgeon aboard his ship. The idea of having a doctor examine Julia and treat her injuries struck Michael as a good one, but he could not risk that William would refuse to let Michael see her if he turned her over.
He swung her up into his arms and carried her to his cabin, placing her in Charlotte’s hammock. “I promise I will make everything right.” He kissed her forehead and then returned to deck.
Sailing Vengeance with so few men required more of everyone than they were accustomed to. But with the smoke of battle, combined with the heavy black smoke from the pitch and oakum fires burning in strategic points along Vengeance’s deck providing cover, they slipped away unnoticed.
With only half the sails unfurled, gaining distance from the battle took time and energy. But the wind cooperated and picked up strength, guiding the frigate away from the thunderous skirmish.
Michael raised his spyglass. Alexandra had moved in to try to fill the void left by Vengeance’s departure, but Sister Elizabeth had sustained enough damage that it would never be able to run away from the two Royal Navy ships.
“Lau, spread all canvas. Jean Baptiste, set course.”
The boatswain and sailing master obeyed. Michael closed the telescope and returned to his cabin.
Suresh leaned over the hammock, the washbasin in one hand, a bloodied rag in the other. The steward had managed to remove Julia’s dress, leaving her in chemise, corset, and petticoats, which were soiled to the knee with what smelled like bilge water.
“She has many injuries, Captain.”
Michael joined him at his sister’s side. Her face now clean, he worried at her paleness—and her puffy eye and bruised cheek.
Suresh dropped the rag in the basin and held up one of Julia’s arms to reveal inflamed, red rope burns on the outsides of her wrists, and several fresh, shallow, horizontal cuts on the insides.
“Looks like she found something sharp to rub the rope against to release herself.” Suresh set her hand down by her side. “When I tried to roll her onto her side so I could check her back for injuries, she cried out when I put pressure here”—he touched the right side of her ribcage—“so she may have broken ribs.”
“She woke up?”
“Not completely. She muttered something and then was gone again.”
“What did she say?”
Suresh shook his head. “Nothing I understood.” He carried the basin to the table and returned with strips of white cloth. “I will bandage her wrists now. I have put water on to heat so you can bathe, Captain.”
Michael sat down and began pulling at a boot.
“Is she who I think she is, Captain?”
“Who do you think she is?” He got the first boot off and started on the second.
“Your sister, Julia Ransome.”
“Yes, she’s who you think she is.”
“Why did you take her, Captain? You never said that was part of our mission.”
Michael dropped his second boot on the floor with a sigh. “It wasn’t. But I could not stand by and watch her die when I was close enough to do something about it.”
He stood, collected his boots, and moved toward his sleeping cabin. “This whole nightmare began because I wanted to protect my sister. I could not let it end with her dying only feet away from me.”
The slashing, hacking, deadly blade sent vibrations of rage up Shaw’s arm and straight to his heart. He was the greatest pirate to have sailed these waters since Bartholomew Roberts, Henry Morgan, or Blackbeard. Men fell silent in fear at the mere mention of his name.
He forced the young officer up the steps to the poop. His ship might be failing, but he would not. He would kill James Ransome and then he would kill Julia. Or maybe he would take her with him and enjoy her company a little longer before killing her. After all, there was so much they had not done together yet.
Terror filled the eyes of the boy on the business end of Shaw’s sword. If his men hadn’t fallen so easily to the attackers, Shaw would stop this fight now and offer the lad a choice. Death or joining the crew of Sister Elizabeth. A vital recruitment strategy. One that had gained Shaw some of his best men over the years.
But this morning, his crew had failed him.
That was fine. He would start over. Start fresh. A new ship. A new crew.
He brought his blade up at an angle and swiped the cutlass from the midshipman’s hand. The lad fell back from the force of the blow. Shaw swung his sword around and brought it down hard.
The midshipman rolled out of the way. Shaw turned to follow him and—
Pain—hot, searing, and spreading through his gut. He looked down.
The midshipman still held the smoking pistol pointed toward him. Shaw dropped his sword, the strength ebbing from his arms. His legs went numb and he crumpled to the deck. He clutched his stomach, hot liquid oozing through his fingers.
Gut shot. The best way to kill an enemy. Shoot him in the stomach and watch him die a slow, agonizing death.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to end. When he died, it was to be glorious, in battle with an enemy even greater than himself. An enemy he had yet to find.
The fighting continued around him. Did not one of his men care that their captain lay dying? One of the Royal Navy ships should have a good surgeon. They should take him, force him to care for Shaw, and bring him back to health so he could continue his quest to defeat the Ransomes and Witheringtons.
He would rest for just a while.
Lying back on the deck, he thought back to when this battle truly began. Fifteen years ago. He had been a pirate for five years, had worked his way up through the ranks until he was first mate for one of the most notorious pirates of the age—until Shaw had overthrown him and taken that title.
When the survivors from the Royal Navy frigate had been brought aboard to be held for ransom, Shaw discovered Michael Witherington among them. He suggested to the captain that he take the boy under his wing. Convince Michael his family no longer wanted him. Make him turn against them.
And it worked. Shaw dreamed of the day when he had Edward Witherington under his blade and revealed Michael—Shaw’s first officer and right hand—to his father. Revealed how Arthur Winchester had been able to take Witherington’s son away from him, just as Witherington had taken everything away from Arthur.
But then Michael turned on him. Convinced the captain what they were doing was bad.
Shaw turned his head. Not as many men still fighting. His vision blurred.
But Michael never returned to his father. So Shaw left him alone. Waited for the right time to reveal his existence.
Water. He needed water. He rolled his head the other way. Where was Collier?
A shadow fell over him. He looked up.
Ransome.
“Here’s his sword, Commodore.” The midshipman who had felled him handed his sword over to Commodore Ransome.
Shaw reached for it. One swift blow, and he could take William Ransome down with him.
“Well done, Midshipman Kennedy. Congratulations. The bounty for bringing down Shaw is a rich one.”
“It should be shared by both crews, sir. I was only doing my duty, just like every other man here.”
Shaw wanted to laugh at the pious youth, but all that came up was a bloody cough.
“Very good, Mr. Kennedy. Help the others with the prisoners.”
Shaw turned his head again. The fighting had stopped. His men had surrendered. He struggled to sit up, but his body would not respond to him.
William Ransome crouched beside him. “Taken down on the deck of his own ship by a sixteen-year-old midshipman. An ignominious end to a bloody and brutal career.”
“It…should…have…been you.” A hate so cold it stole all the warmth from his body settled over Shaw.
“Yes, I should have been the one to take you down. It is sad when boys are thrust into battle at so young an age. Taking a life is not easily forgotten.” William turned the cutlass over in his hands, examining the etching in the silver hilt.
“Tw-twenty years ago…should have killed you.”
Ransome frowned. “Twenty years ago?” He seemed to think on it and then shrugged. “If we met then, I do not recall. You do not leave as deep a first impression as you seem to think.”
Shaw reached up to choke the smugness out of Ransome’s voice, but Ransome batted his hand away.
“Where is my wife?”
“She’s…dead. Drowned in the bilge.” Shaw laughed, blood filling his mouth, darkness obscuring his vision.
“I see.”
Shaw struggled for breath. “Your brother—”
“Yes. We found him, tied to the mizzenmast. My surgeon is even now looking after him. He took two bullets, but his injuries are much less severe than yours.” He looked away a moment and then back down at Shaw, a different, almost apologetic expression on his face. “If you ask God to forgive you, He will. And though you cannot make reparations with everyone whom you have wronged, I will forgive you, if you ask.”
Cold, stark blackness pressed in around Shaw.
“Don’t throw away your afterlife as you’ve thrown away your life, Arthur.”
Too late. It was too late for him.