Boom! Grace jerked awake. A colorful pattern blurred in her vision. She rubbed her eyes. The pattern came into focus, and she realized it was the upholstered back of the chair she knelt beside. The bulkhead quivered. The planks shook beneath her legs. Her heart seized. She sprang to her feet. Ignoring her dizziness, she bolted for the door. A gun had been fired. That meant an enemy was in sight. And that carried the possibility of her rescue. She darted down the companionway and up the ladder, praying that perhaps her sister Faith had somehow found her. Oh, Lord, let it be so!
Pushing aside her fear, she rushed across the deck, weaving among the sailors dashing here and there as they obeyed their captain’s orders. Gripping the railing, she batted away the smoke and peered toward a two-masted ship bearing down upon them off their larboard bow. Red sails, stark against the blue sky, gorged with wind as they pushed the vessel onward. Her heart sank. ‘Twas not her sister Faith’s ship, the Red Siren. But perhaps the ship’s captain might still be noble enough to save her from these villains. She coughed as the dissipating smoke stung her nose.
“Sacre mer, what are you doing? Get below, mademoiselle!” Captain Dubois clutched her arm and dragged her to the companionway hatch.
“Who are they?” Grace could not keep the hope from her voice.
“Ah, you think they are your sauveteurs, your champions, eh, mademoiselle?” He raised a brow then released her arm. “Je t’assure, they will not save you. Now get below. I have no time for this.”
“The Avenger wishes a parley, Captain,” Mr. Thorn shouted from the quarterdeck.
Swerving away from Grace, Captain Dubois darted to the bulwarks. His men ceased their frantic activities and formed an audience upon the main deck. Grace slunk into the shadows beneath the quarterdeck. She would not allow her fear to send her below when a possible rescue was at hand.
The schooner ranged up alongside them keel to keel within twenty yards, and her captain, a brawny man with a full beard and plumed tricorne hailed them in a powerful voice. “I am Captain Howell of the Avenger.”
Captain Dubois leapt upon the gunwale and grabbed a backstay for support. “I know who you are, monsieur.” His deep tone full of cheerful insolence held not an ounce of fear. With his tricorne atop his head, his gray coat flapping in the breeze behind him, and the sun glinting off the long rapier at his side, he appeared every bit the pirate he claimed he was not.
“We come with the compliments of Captain Roger Woodes,” the man bellowed, waving his plumed hat through the air, “who bids you to haul down your colors and surrender your ship.”
Coarse chuckles bounded over the sailors, and Grace wondered what they found so amusing. She had heard of Roger Woodes, the expirate turned governor of New Providence—a man who thought nothing of rounding up his one-time colleagues and stringing them upon the scaffold.
“For what reason, monsieur?” Captain Dubois asked.
“For the crime of piracy,” boomed the captain of the Avenger, who replaced his hat atop his head and began fingering the hilt of his sword.
Snorts of derision replaced the laughter among the crew, and Mr. Thorn broke away from the agitated mob and retreated toward the starboard side of the ship as if frightened of the altercation. But when his eyes met Grace’s, only malevolence brewed within them.
“With my compliments,” Captain Dubois shouted, “you may tell Governor Woodes that I am no pirate and as such, am in no position to surrender anything.” He turned and whispered something to a sailor behind him, sending the man scampering below.
“Most unfortunate, Captain, for I have been instructed to blast you from the sea should you resist.” Howell’s laughter bounced over the sapphire waves between them, silencing all within its hearing upon the deck of Le Champion.
All save Captain Dubois.
“By all means, I beg you to try, monsieur.” Captain Dubois swept his hat out before him, hand on his heart.
Seeing that she only had a few moments before the battle began, Grace rushed to the railing, waving her hands through the air. “Captain Howell! Captain Howell!”
The man halted and squinted in her direction. She continued, “I am a prisoner aboard this ship. I am the daughter of Admiral Westcott. Please save me!”
Instead of the expected look of horror on the captain’s face, followed by his quick action to save her from these scoundrels, the man chuckled, put his hands on his waist, and replied, “What is that to me, miss?”
The crews on both ships broke into coarse laughter as Grace’s heart sank to the deck. One of the sailors fired a pistol into the air, initiating the battle, and Grace attempted to go below but found her feet would not move—no longer from curiosity, but from pure terror. Instead she uttered a prayer for the souls on both ships, herself included.
Captain Dubois, on the other hand, stormed the deck with all the confidence and courage of a man born to lead, his crew close on his heels awaiting his commands.
“Haul foresheets to the wind!” he bellowed, and seconds later the ship lurched and sped on its way.
A gust of hot air struck Grace, bringing with it the smell of salt and wood and the sweat of the crew as they readied for battle. Managing to pry her shoes loose from the deck, she crept toward the companionway just as the air reverberated with the thunder of guns. Streams of dark gray smoke spurted from the Avenger‘s hull as the ship sped by their larboard quarter. Grace braced herself for the impact of their broadside. But instead of the jarring crunch of wood, the snap of coiled lines, and the screams of the injured, only hollow splashes met her ears.
“Bring her about, Mr. Thorn!” the captain shouted, planting his hands upon his waist and staring at the enemy as if they were naught but a temporary annoyance.
The ship yawed widely to starboard, and Grace flung herself against the mainmast to keep from tumbling across the deck. She gripped the rough wood. Splinters jabbed her tender skin. Above her, the sails clapped as loud as a cannon blast. Sailors darted around her, some jumping into the ratlines with muskets in hand, others hauling shot to the various guns positioned about the deck. Curses filled the air and took flight on the wind, burning her ears, but the men took no notice of her.
As Le Champion veered on her tack, the Avenger slipped from Grace’s sight. She lifted a silent prayer that the ship had slunk away in cowardice. But no such luck. The threatening red sails appeared again on the horizon like bloated demons flying through the sky. In minutes, the ravenous schooner swooped down upon Le Champion‘s lee quarter with her rigging full of men and white foam salivating over her bow.
“They hope to board us.” Captain Rafe chuckled. Doffing his coat, he laid it over the capstan and rolled up his sleeves as if he were commencing a day’s work. The sash strapped about his waist whipped upon the gleaming metal of his rapier, whose pommel he now gripped with a tight fist.
“Load the swivels,” he shouted. “And arm yourselves with hand grenades, men.”
A furious rumble filled the air, and Grace clapped her hands over her ears. Small shot from the Avenger‘s swivel guns whistled through Le Champion‘s shrouds, ripping holes in her canvas and sending the sailors into a frenzy.
Grace threw a hand to her throat to still her chaotic breathing then swept a gaze over the deck for injured men. But she saw none. Thank You, Lord.
“Strike their rigging only,” the captain ordered.
Before her eyes could locate him, Mr. Thorn shouted, “Fire!” and the air was set aquiver with the roar of guns.
Sooty smoke blasted over Grace, stinging her eyes and nose. She gasped for air, then peered through the haze. The men aboard the Avenger staggered back beneath the onslaught and made haste for the stern of their ship. Their captain stood by the helm, spewing a string of unending commands.
The Avenger continued on its tack, cruising by Le Champion, its occupants scurrying back and forth across the deck like ants upon an upturned anthill.
Rafe nodded to Mr. Thorn, who in turn yelled to a man standing at the entrance to the companionway. “Fire the crossbar!” A second later, a gun exploded in a thunderous boom that shook Le Champion from truck to keelson. Grace squeezed her eyes shut, fearing the ship would be rent apart by the force.
A massive crunch filled the air, followed by the eerie snap of wood.
A shout of victory ensued, and Grace opened her eyes to see the rigging upon the main and top mizzen sails of the Avenger fold into a tangled mass of rope and spar. Without their mainsail, the Avenger groped listlessly through the sea. Their captain charged toward the stern as if he would jump the distance between the ships and pummel Captain Dubois to the deck. Instead, all he could do was raise his fist in the air and assault them with his foul mouth. Captain Dubois leapt upon the gunwale and gave a mock bow. “Another time, perhaps, Capitaine. Mes compliments à Woodes.” Chuckling, Captain Dubois slipped down to the deck where he was engulfed with cheers from his men.
His white shirt flapped in the breeze. The tanned skin on his chest and neck glistened with sweat in the noonday sun. He ran a hand through his coal-black hair, and his eyes latched upon Grace—dark eyes, flashing from the heat of battle. A shiver ran through her, the cause of which she could not explain. Fear, perhaps? More likely disgust at how easily he resorted to violence.
Tearing her gaze from him, Grace released the mast, ignoring the pain in her hands, and took a tentative step with her trembling legs. Her stomach lurched, and she was thankful the broth had long since digested, or she feared she’d lose it upon the deck. She’d never been in a gun battle. Everything had happened so fast, she hadn’t time to consider that she could have been torn to pieces by a twelve-pound ball of metal. But now as relief flooded through her, she began to shake uncontrollably. She made her way to the companionway, hoping to manage a quiet exit, when she saw a gray mound rising out of the sea off their larboard side.
“Sir,” she called to one of the crewmen who was passing by—a young, lanky lad with a braid of brown hair hanging halfway down his back. He turned to her, surprise and delight brightening his sun-baked face.
“What land is that?” She pointed to the sight on the horizon.
“’Tis the island they call Inagua, miss.”
“It appears so close.”
“A mile or two, aye.” He started to leave.
Grace grabbed his shirt, but quickly released it, not wanting him to think her wanton.
“What is your name?” She attempted a coy smile as a sour taste filled her mouth. How did her sisters feign such coquettish mannerisms?
“Andrew Fletcher, miss.”
Grace leaned closer to him. “Mr. Fletcher, may I ask where we are heading?”
Huzzahs and hurrahs blared from the crew. The young sailor glanced nervously across the deck as if seeking his captain’s permission.
Grace wondered if he or any of the crew were aware of the reason she’d been brought on board. “I am a prisoner, Mr. Fletcher. What harm would it do to tell me?”
He faced her and nodded. “We should arrive at Port-de-Paix in two days’ time, miss. I’m told we’ll anchor there for only a short while before setting sail again.”
“Thank you.” Grace smiled.
He gave her a curious look before being whisked away by his companions who passed around bottles of some vile alcohol in celebration of their victory.
Port-de-Paix? That would mean they’d be anchored close to land. Close enough to swim—or float—to shore. A daring idea began to form in her head.