Boom! The blast jarred Hope awake, and she shot up in bed. Rubbing her eyes, she glanced across the room, the details of Falkland’s cabin forming in her hazy vision. The pounding of boots sounded above her, adding to the wild thumping of her heart. Was it thunder she heard? Were they in the midst of a storm? Though the rays of sunshine filtering in through the stern window defied her assumption, she flung off the coverlet and dashed toward the salt-streaked panes. The bright orb of the sun hung above the horizon in the east. White, puffy clouds dotted an otherwise clear azure sky. No storm. At least not the natural kind.
Boot steps pounded louder, and Falkland’s nasal shouts echoed across the ship. Though Hope couldn’t make out what he said, she could tell from the urgency in his tone something frightening was upon them. She scanned the horizon, just catching the stern of a ship passing beyond the window on the right.
A ship!
Without concern whether it be friend or foe, Hope donned her gown, slipped on her shoes, and dashed into the dark hallway. Whoever it was, perhaps they offered a reprieve from the torment of Falkland’s confinement. Weaving around sailors rushing past her, she grabbed one by the arm. “What is happening?”
“Pirates.” His eyes bulged, his face twisting in fear. Yanking from her grasp, he darted away.
Hope’s breath quickened as a chill coiled up her back. Pirates. Lord, Your salvation does indeed come in odd forms. Bumbling through the crowded companionway, she leapt up the ladder and emerged onto deck. A mad scene of fury and frenzy met her gaze as men dashed to and fro, some arming themselves, some climbing the ratlines, others tugging upon ropes and halyards. The acrid scent of gunpowder, sweat, and fear assailed her.
“Run out the guns. Man the swivels.” Falkland’s shrill voice, rippling with terror, crashed over her as he jumped onto the main deck from the quarterdeck. His harried gaze locked onto something off their larboard side, and Hope slunk against the rise of the quarterdeck and glanced aloft.
Her heart stopped. She tossed a hand to her throat to loosen the lump that had formed there.
The Enchantress, her creamy sails bursting with wind, foam bubbling against her hull and crashing over her bow, and the black flag of Captain Poole flapping from the mainmast. Hope squinted, trying to make out the men who stood atop her foredeck, but only Captain Poole came into focus, his black velvet coat clapping in the wind, his dark hair flailing about his face in abandon. Had he come for her? But she’d made no connection with the capricious pirate. Perhaps this was simply a routine raid, an event of happenstance, and she another of his unfortunate victims. Nevertheless, she could not help the joy that surged through her, for she would take salvation in whatever form it came.
Oh Lord, make his attack swift and sure and allow no deaths this day.
“Hope, go below!” She turned to see Falkland’s eyes glinting with anger and his face mottled red. “Go below. I cannot be bothered with you now.” Before she could respond, he spun around and bellowed further orders to his crew.
“She’s coming around again, Captain,” a sailor cried from the crosstrees.
“Blast!” Falkland loosed a string of curses that stung Hope’s ears. Sinking into the shadows beneath the quarterdeck, she prayed he would take no more note of her, for she had no intention of leaving. Whether she lived or died was in God’s hands, and if her future held naught but the company of Falkland, then she preferred the latter.
The Enchantress veered to larboard, showing her rudder, and opened fire with the stern chasers. Hope ducked beneath the pelting shots as the air quivered with the roar of guns. Profanities marred the silence that followed. Hope rose and gazed upward to the slivered remains of the Victory’s main and mizzen topsails.
Cursing, Falkland stormed across the deck, pounding his cane against the hard oak as he went. He studied the pirates, his chest heaving beneath his satin waistcoat. The Enchantress swung fully about and shouldered the sea high and wide as she brought her starboard guns to bear.
“Fire on my command!” Falkland, stripped to his waistcoat, barked, his voice a dissonance of fear and rage. His white shirt edged with lace dangled atop his breeches. Strands of tawny hair had loosened from his tie and tumbled over his face and shoulders. Rage flashed in his eyes and poured from his mouth in nonsensical mutterings.
The Enchantress bore down upon them, lowering sail as she went.
“Fire!” Falkland shouted, and Hope plugged her ears as thunderous booms exploded one after the other, causing the ship to tremble and sending Hope’s heart into her chest. Black plumes shot into the air, then dissipated over them. Hope threw a hand to her nose. Coughing, eyes stinging, she batted the vapors away and squinted toward the Enchantress, slowing on her tack and sailing by them with no apparent damage.
“Did we hit her?” Falkland leapt onto the bulwarks, his voice spiked with urgency.
“Nay, Captain.” A tall man beside Falkland spat with disgust. “Not a scratch. She’s out of our range.”
Falkland swore, gripped the hilt of his sword, then faced the foredeck. “Back astern and bring our other broadside to bear, Mr. Deems. Lay me athwart her stern. Load the starboard guns!” he bellowed, then lowered his hardened gaze to the deck. “We’ll come in closer,” he said to no one in particular. “Closer, yes. Then I’ll blast her from the sea.”
But before the crew could respond, an ominous boom split the air. Hope snapped her gaze to the Enchantress. A spike of gray smoke darted from the hull.
“Hit the deck!” Falkland commanded as a metallic zing and zip rang through the air above them. An earsplitting boom thundered. A shudder ran through the ship. Eerie silence ensued. Hope opened her eyes to see the crew slowing rising from the deck.
Crack. Snap. The sound of splitting wood grated over her ears, followed by the shouts and screams of the men. “The mainmast! Clear away!”
Falkland stumbled back, falling to the deck, his eyes as wide as doubloons. Hope backed against the bulkhead and winced. The giant mast toppled, showering a web of lines, spars, and billowing sails upon the men. The ship staggered under the blow that smashed her bulwarks at the waist, then she canted to starboard beneath the strain. Hope clung to the quarterdeck to keep from falling.
Cheers and hollers blared from the Enchantress.
Biting her lip, Hope peered through the tangled mass of ropes and spars, praying no one had been injured. Soon every sailor who’d fallen to the deck lumbered to his feet and made his way from beneath the wreckage. Including Falkland, who wobbled with each tentative step he took.
“What do we do, Captain?” one of the sailors asked him, but Falkland only stared at the shattered mast as if he could resurrect it by sheer will. His numb gaze swept to the Enchantress, her decks littered with pirates thrusting weapons and curses into the air.
“Captain?”
“Set the white flag aloft,” he finally said, his voice heavy with defeat. His eyes shifted toward Hope, and she thought he would order her below again, but his glance breezed past her as if he didn’t see her.
The Enchantress swept around again, lowered sails, and came even on the Victory‘s keel.
Hope’s throat grew dry. Her chest heaved. Without Nathaniel, without Abigail, who would restrain the licentious urges of Captain Poole? Had she been delivered from one monster’s hands into another’s?
The pirates, many of whom she recognized, lined the railing of the Enchantress, their grins dripping with wicked intent, their weapons glinting in the sunlight. They flung ribald insults toward their victims.
“Out, grappling hooks! Prepare to board,” Captain Poole howled, though Hope could not yet see him through the crowd.
Falkland brushed the dirt from his waistcoat, tucked in his shirt, and adjusted the tie in his hair, then took a stance upon the deck as if he were greeting royalty. Some of his crew amassed behind him; others draped themselves over the railings above, their sweaty faces streaked with black lines of defeat and fear. Being overtaken by a pirate was a death sentence. If the sailors weren’t killed, they would be marooned at sea or on an island. Often their only choice was to join the pirate crew. Hope’s heart went out to them despite her fear for her own safety.
Grapnels clanked into the deck. The snap of splintered wood filled the air. Poole’s pirates tugged on the ropes, and the two ships thumped together, sending a tremble through the timbers. Captain Poole leapt to the bulwarks, cutlass in hand, a brace of pistols slung over his chest. “Board ‘em, ye swabs!”
He leapt onto the Victory, his boots sounding an ominous thud on the deck.
Hope’s gaze shifted to the pirates behind him, and she threw a hand to her mouth and shrieked.