Chapter Two

Long ago, Adriana and her mother had lived in a modest merchant’s house on the west side of Saint-Malo, a house of airy, high roofs and bright, golden light. Adriana remembered the sound of a soft, lilting voice reciting Psalms. She remembered the gleam of the furniture and the warmth of a crackling hearth. She remembered the brush of fine wool and linen against her skin, the way her mother’s skirts whirled as she danced, and the weight of her own long hair brushing against her back.

She remembered soft kisses and tight hugs.

But these were less like remembrances than impressions, gentle feelings she had to scramble to invoke, and they were overwhelmed by two distinct memories.

The first was the day the news came of her father’s death at sea. Creditors had burst into their home, swarming through, stepping on her toys. In loud voices they had demanded their due, descending like vultures to devour a widow and orphan’s peaceful existence. They scoured drawers for money, sent in rough men to seize the furniture, and then threw her and her mother out of their own home. Suddenly, she and her mother were forced to abide in a series of dark, cold hovels.

The second memory was on a day not long after her mother started inviting men into those dark hovels. The men did strange, noisy things to her mother that caused her to cry. After one of those sessions, her mother came out of that terrible room and took the dolls Adriana had saved from their old house. Her mother seized Adriana's skirts, her ribbons, and the little child-sized corset Adriana had been so proud to wear. Her mother tossed everything into the hearth fire and then came at Adriana with a razor.

A woman with no husband, no means, and no vocation had only one choice, her mother told her. But a boy had options.

Now, standing in the cold air in front of the smoking, ashy remnants of the last hovel she and her mother had shared—on the other side of town from that first lovely home—Adriana felt nothing but a sinking relief that her mother’s worries and cares and troubles were finally over, and the hollow-eyed, rum-stinking woman her mother had become was now nothing but warm ashes, whirling up in the wind.

A ball of fur leapt onto Adriana’s shoulder. She tumbled back to the harsh present, to the cold sunrise, to the smoky streets of Saint-Malo, and the feel of her pet on her back.

She raised her hand to scratch him. At least Chou-Chou had survived the chaos. She hadn’t lost everyone she loved.

“Much good you were to me last night,” she murmured, running his striped tail through her fingers, “when I was attacked by an Englishman on the ramparts.”

Chou-Chou made a chirring noise as he dug his little claws into her scalp. She’d bought the lemur from a street thief in St. Mary’s, Madagascar, when she was just a powder boy on her first voyage. He’d been with her ever since.

“Looks like we’d best get back to sea,” she said, tilting her head so she could look into his eyes, as round and shiny as little gold coins. “I wager you won’t mind returning to warmer climes, eh, Chou-Chou?”

Holding in tears, she turned away from the ruins and headed in the direction of the harbor. From what chatter she’d overheard, the battle of Saint-Malo was over. Unable to breach the walls, the English had retreated. That also meant that the uneasy amnesty she and all the other street urchins of Saint-Malo had enjoyed during the fighting would soon be over. The sooner she signed onto a ship, the safer she’d be from a prison cell.

At least stealing supper would be easy today. The streets of Saint-Malo were littered with slate, burned pieces of masts, cordage, and bobbing fruit and vegetables. Chou-Chou tumbled off her shoulder to seize an apple rolling about unclaimed, while she collected iron nails and other tidbits she might be able to sell in the square for a tidy profit.

In the higher city, the lingering odor of charred wood and sulfur permeated the air as she passed through the main entrance to the shoreline. Sail-makers, carpenters, and cordiers were conducting a brisk business with traders who sought to fix the damage to their ships anchored in the bay. Ships of all sizes were sailing in now that the English warships had retreated. Sailors worked small boats, unloading cargo. Bags of grain, bolts of Indian calico, unmarked barrels, crates of fish, and boxes of spices littered the beach. Everyone who worked the port knew the hour when it would rise to lap against the rampart walls.

Adriana squinted to try to identify the ships. Because the tide was low, they were anchored too far out for her to read their names on the bows. She counted a few wide-bellied merchant ships, with false cannon holes painted on their hulls. A few light frigates, several two-masted corvettes, and a number of large ships were hidden behind them. Glancing down the beach, she noticed cannon being loaded onto rowboats and several large groups of sailors gathered in clusters near the blackened city ramparts. The hilts of daggers gleamed dully against the knees of their jackboots, and they had skin of every hue.

Pirates.

Excellent.

Adriana strode in their direction and then nudged her way to the inner circle of one of the crowds. Chou-Chou yelped, leapt from her shoulder, and then scurried away to find a safe retreat until her business was done. Adriana listened to the men talking about which ships were looking for sailors. The names of the captains were impressive—Duguay-Trouin, Danycan, Boscher—all successful Saint-Malo privateers. She’d be happy to get a berth on any one of those ships.

Then she heard one other name. Le Loup de Mer.

Captain Wolfe.

Possibilities prickled through her. In the years before she’d returned to Saint-Malo to see her mother, she’d sailed the waters of the Indian Ocean where the Sea Wolf’s name was spoken in whispers. This pirate’s prizes included the head ship of the Great Mogul’s fleet. While her last pirate ship had been careened in St. Mary’s in Madagascar, Adriana had met some sailors of the Sea Wolf’s ships. Some had lived off their booty for months.

What she wouldn’t do to finally grasp that kind of security.

She strode to the group of men gathered around the Sea Wolf’s foppish lieutenant. “Get out of my way, landsman.” She pushed her way past a burly man and wedged herself in front of him. “Make way for a real sailor.”

“Why you little whelp.”

Her feet left the ground. She kicked back. Though her heel hit him hard, the man didn’t flinch.

“Do you think you can worm your way in front of me,” the man said in a too-familiar voice, “you stinking little rascal—”

“Gwynn?”

The man stopped shaking her. She twisted to glance over her shoulder and found herself eye to eye with a Welshman.

“Why if it isn’t that little pip from The King’s Arse— Ow!”

A well-placed kick opened Gwynn’s fist. Adriana tumbled to the sand. Chou-Chou leapt on Gwynn’s back and started to sink his teeth in his shoulder.

“Chou-Chou, stop!”

“Still got your sea-rat, I see.” Gwynn clutched his shoulder as the lemur raced to her side. “I should have fed that creature to the sharks long ago.”

“He served you well enough once,” she said, “outside that alehouse in St. Mary’s.”

Gwynn’s heavy beard split in a grin. “Aye, he did that—and me having a night of ale for not a sou. But look at you, lad. It’s been a year and you’ve not grown an inch! We’ll be calling you a dwarf before long and you know how suspicious we seamen are.”

She knocked him in the belly. The blow had no more effect than to smudge his tarred leather jerkin.

“What are you doing here?” he asked. “I thought you’d still be on The King’s Arse.”

“I found a better ship—one that brought me here.” She didn’t tell him that she’d been gone for over three years and had a yearning to see her mother. “But you deserted that floating wreck a month before me. I thought you’d still be spending your booty on some piece of—”

“Booty!” He scowled. “That whoreson of a captain gave me a mouse’s share of the takings. It lasted no more than a month. I boarded a corsair out of La Rochelle and made my way up the coast. I’ve been working these waters for months. It’s wartime, so they’re as rich as everyone said they would be.”

“Looking to work for the Wolf?”

“You know damned well he’s the richest. But steer clear, he ain’t the kind for the likes of you.”

She rolled her eyes. Gwynn warned her away from every pirate captain.

“Lad, think twice. In a rage, the Sea Wolf once killed half his crew, and then as a warning to the rest—”

“—cut the dead sailors’ bodies to pieces to use as fish bait?” She rolled her eyes. “That’s a tale told in the darkness to idiots.”

“The dead sailors are sure wishing they believed it before they signed on.”

“I’m no brainless sailor, nor a legless landsman. And there’s not a man in Saint-Malo who can climb rigging faster than I can.”

Laughter erupted around her and she realized that everyone was listening. She scratched the white fur beneath Chou-Chou’s chin and ignored them.

“This isn’t a pirate ship,” Gwynn warned. “It’s a privateer—”

“No difference at all.”

“A privateer captain can hire royal soldiers to keep us all in line. You’re not too young to kiss the whipping post.”

“You’re just afraid that he’ll hire me and not you.”

He barked a laugh. “I’ll worry about that when you finally grow into your breeches.” His gaze fell upon the Breton horn protruding from Adriana’s rope belt. “If you want a berth, at least show us your real talent. Play that horn of yours.”

She didn’t hesitate. She was welcomed onto The King’s Arse because of her skill with the Breton horn. A sailor who knew music had an advantage. Being so small meant she needed every advantage she could get.

She pulled the thin wooden horn from her waistband. The horn used to be smooth and well-oiled, a sleek piece of workmanship given to her by her mother in better days. Now it was bleached and pocked from wear, but none the worse for playing. At the sight of it, Chou-Chou sat at Adriana’s feet with his striped tail wrapped around his neck, watching the horn in fascination.

The high, reedy sound quieted the tumult around them. Soon all the sailors were tapping their feet, and not much long after, two men began to step lively and dance. Another one twirled into the crowd and pretended to be a woman. Fluttering his eyes and pressing his chest together to form a sort of cleavage, he pursed his lips and danced with his legs tightly closed, making everyone roar with laughter.

Then she thought of her mother, teaching her this song in the quiet warmth of their sunroom so long ago, and a sudden sadness swelled in her breast.

The music died in her heart, and on her lips.

She shoved the horn under her rope belt, only noticing vaguely that the men had stopped dancing and tapping their feet long before she’d stopped playing. In the growing silence you could hear the wind moaning over the ramparts.

“I was playing a jig, not a funeral march,” she snapped, glaring at them. “You’re acting as if you’d seen the devil himself.”

Only then did she feel a prickling at the back of her neck and realize someone new had arrived.

She took a deep breath and faced him.

The commander did not look nearly as dangerous in the bright of day as he had by torchlight. The southeast wind blew his hair away from his sun-bitten face, revealing eyes the color of the sea. She felt that breeze flattening her shirt against the linen bindings underneath. It had to be her imagination that his gaze seemed to pierce her as easily as the wind. To the men behind her she knew they saw nothing but a rag of a boy, but in front of this man she felt, oddly, like a woman.

“Ah, an Englishman,” she said, not liking the feeling. “Scum seems to settle here at low tide.”

The silence thickened. She expected Gwynn, at least, to laugh at her quip. Certainly these sailors didn’t fear this land-loving soldier. Certainly this man was nothing but some young, rebellious English aristocrat who happened to be in Saint-Malo during the bombardment. He was commander no more, since the battle was over. Her gaze traveled over his rich attire: well-polished boots, thin-legged culottes, and a finely-fitted burgundy coat. He was dressed like one of the rich bourgeois that the sailors scorned so much.

Why did they stand behind her, paralyzed and mute?

The answer came to her as swiftly as the blood that rushed to her wind-stung cheeks.

“Perhaps you have the courage of a man,” the Sea Wolf said in a low voice. “Or maybe it’s the brashness of a foolish boy.”

There was no backing off now. “A bit of both, I’d wager.”

“I don’t allow the spineless on my ship.” His eyes glittered. “But I will hire mouthy boys who can shoot cannon and play music—provided they learn to temper their tongues.”

Her mind tumbled over itself. Did the notorious Captain Wolfe just ask her to sign onto his ship?

His gaze fell to the lemur now curled around her leg. “I suppose you’ll want to bring that creature aboard?”

“I won’t leave without him.”

A strange half-smile curved his lips. “How easily you risk my offer.”

“Chou-Chou is all I have.” She wished she could bite back the words the moment they left her mouth. “That,” she added swiftly, “and my Breton horn.”

One dark brow lifted. “Chou-Chou?”

Hesitant laughter gurgled among the sailors.

“I didn’t name him,” she lied, for her mother had called her that endearment in better days. “And it’s too late to change it for that’s all he’ll answer to.”

In the silence that stretched, once again she had the strange feeling that those gray-green eyes could see through the linen of her shirt and bindings to what she’d hidden from the world since the summer of her sixth year.

“Be here before the drums beat at sunrise.” Captain Wolf raised one brow. “The first thing you’ll have to do on board, boy, is prove that you can climb the rigging faster than any other of my crew.”

***

The captain’s ship, L’Aventure, nosed its way out of Saint-Malo the next day. With only the mainsail billowing above him, the pilot steered past the islets and hidden rocks that littered the shallow water just beyond the city. Adriana watched the color of the sea turn from blue-green, to a darker, opaque blue-gray. Then, reaching the open channel, she joined the crew in unfurling all the snowy white sails of the three-masted frigate until the wind caught them and propelled the ship over the waves.

Though the sun shone bright on the water, the wind was cold. Wrapped in the coarse woolen coat she had bartered for during her last moments in Saint-Malo, Adriana could hardly believe her good fortune. The frigate held twenty-six guns and weighed well over 250 tons. It was one of the finest fighting vessels she’d ever been on. As she pulled the rigging according to the bosun’s orders, she took stock of the other sailors. The crew was a motley mix of French, Irish, and dark-skinned Africans. She could tell that they were the most experienced of pirates by the way they set effortlessly to the bosun’s commands.

Chou-Chou pressed close to Adriana’s legs for warmth. She had fashioned a new harness for the lemur out of pieces of cordage found in the Saint-Malo streets. In the harsh northern seas, Chou-Chou could easily be swept off deck by a wave in a storm. To prevent this, she had attached a leash to the harness and tied it beneath her cloak at her waist. This allowed the animal some freedom but kept him safe.

The ship surged forward as the wind billowed its sails. They had escaped the land and now felt the full force of the northeasterly winds.

“Pretty, isn’t she?” Gwynn came up behind her and squinted at the sails. “It’s like looking up a harlot’s skirts.”

“More sail than ship,” she said. “She’ll be easy to maneuver.”

“Especially around all those heavy-laden merchantmen.”

“Laden with pounds sterling, I hope. The sooner we get our portion the better.”

“Don’t expect anything soon. The English are still out there. They’ll probably guard any ships coming in or out of the Channel for the next few weeks.”

“Soon enough, the Channel will be open again. A few days won’t matter.”

“Aye, but I hear the Sea Wolf doesn’t have patience, lad.”

“Isn’t that a good thing?”

She didn’t hear Gwynn’s answer above the shouted orders to twist the sails to port. Adriana pulled on the rigging for the main yardarm, the rough hemp dug into her cold hands. She glanced up at the forecastle and saw the captain—Captain Wolfe. He hadn’t said another word to her since he’d taken her on. That was a blessing, for his eyes were unnervingly sharp. She’d hoped to be treated like any common sailor, far below his notice.

As if he sensed her stare, the captain suddenly turned toward her.

“Joubert!”

She startled, released hold of the hemp, and ran over the planking to the base of the forecastle with Chou-Chou at her heels. From this angle she couldn’t help but notice the captain’s powerful legs and the width of his chest stretching above his waist.

Silly things to notice on a man who had the power to lay bloody stripes on her back.

She stopped at the base of the stairs. “Yes, sir!”

“You climb rigging faster than anyone on this ship, eh?”

“Better than anyone,” she said, gesturing to her pet, “except him.”

“Not shy, are you?”

“Modesty doesn’t put food in my belly.”

“Or wool on your back, yes?”

She stayed silent as she contemplated his remark. He must have seen her on the shore bartering with a ragman for this coat. She’d driven a hard bargain, but in the end, the ragman had relented. A boy needed to show some nerve to be respected by a man.

“Look at this boy, Drake,” the captain said to the lieutenant standing by his side. “He’s got the mouth of a street thief and the eyes of an orphaned child.”

“Scrawny little creature.” The lieutenant wrinkled his patrician nose. “His bones would crack with one hit of the lash. How are you to discipline him? Spank him?”

“I suspect,” she interrupted, “that you’ll discipline me like any other sailor on board, sir. I am being paid like any one of them.”

“Then prove yourself.” The captain gestured to the top of the mainmast. “Hie up to the crow’s nest, and keep your eyes open for sails.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

She tied Chou-Chou’s harness more tightly around her waist. She stopped at a barrel of pitch, dipped her fingers into it and rubbed the sticky black tar over her hands. Then, taking a deep breath, she leaped onto the main rigging. Chou-Chou jumped off her shoulder and landed on the webbing just above her. She followed his quick, agile steps up the first stretch of rigging until they reached the midpoint of the mast.

Her heart beat furtively in her breast, but she did not rest. Clutching the thick hemp of the rigging leading to the crow’s nest, she quelled the queasiness of her stomach and wedged her feet in the webbing. Mimicking the lemur’s confident, unerring steps, foot over foot, hand over hand, half-suspended in the wind, she ran ever upward. As the rigging narrowed, her steps became smaller and quicker until she clutched the floor of the crow’s nest. Pulling herself inside, she wrapped her legs around the main topgallant mast. She wished she could see the captain on the forecastle, but the ship’s fore-end was hidden by the square foresails. So instead she waved at the sailors watching below. Through the whistling of wind she heard cheers of approval.

A few more moments like this, she thought, and the suspicion that I’m a girl will never pass their minds.

Chou-Chou clung to the tip of the mast just above her. She reached up and scratched his chin. He crawled into the space between her belly and the mast, and she folded him inside her cloak. “That wasn’t so bad, Chou-Chou,” she whispered. “It couldn’t be any worse than the trees you used to climb in Madagascar.”

The lemur shivered in response.

Clouds had already obscured the morning sun and the north-northeast wind howled in the timbers of the ship. The three masts, loaded with sails, bent precariously leeward. If Adriana were to fall, she knew she would miss all the sails and rigging and drop directly into the churning gray sea. She scanned the foggy gray horizon. The yardarms creaked below her as the master ordered them adjusted according to changes in the wind. The sea grew rougher and the frigate began to sway up and down with the motion of the water.

An hour passed before she saw a sail.

At first it was only a shadow on the horizon, easily mistaken for a cloud, but as the ship moved closer, she discerned the distinctive pattern of sails for a three-masted frigate. Rising to her knees on the platform, she yelled down to the deck.

“Sail! Sail! Off the starboard side.”

She heard a burble of voices below. She squinted toward the sails until she had no doubt of what she saw, then, ignoring the lean of the mast and the wind that buffeted the rigging, she released Chou-Chou and scuttled down the rigging until she landed upon the solid wood of the upper deck.

“Where’s that sail?” The lieutenant named Drake stared with impatience off the starboard side.

“Two o’clock.” She rushed to the gunwale and pointed toward the shadow. “It’s a frigate, low in the water.”

Drake barked orders so the bow of the ship turned. Filled with wind, the sails soon made L’Aventure cut a frothy wake.

“It’s a frigate, all right.”

Captain Wolfe came up close behind her. With a start, she realized she had been gazing at the frigate instead of manning her post at the mainmast rigging. She started toward her post but the captain slapped a hand on her shoulder to stop her.

“You have sharp eyes.” His long woolen cape flapped in the breeze. It mocked the elements, for it exposed his entire body from neck to toe. “Keep an eye out for any other ships that might be guarding.”

She focused her gaze on the horizon though her mind was focused on him, tall and steady, standing just at her side.

“The frigate has a fractured foremast,” she stuttered.

“Which is why it is trailing behind,” the captain murmured.

“Trailing behind what?”

“The rest of the English fleet.”

Her blood ran colder than the sea-spray that splattered over the bow of the ship. Her mind balked at what he had said. He couldn’t possibly be considering engaging the English fleet, even if the ship they could see was hobbled.

Then Adriana saw another shadow on the horizon. “There’s a second ship.”

“The boy is right.” The lieutenant strode up to join them, raising a glass to his eye. “It’s moving faster than the first.”

Captain Wolfe swiveled on one boot and headed back up the stairs to the forecastle and the lieutenant followed, talking in low tones.

She returned, summarily dismissed, to her post.

“Didn’t I say as much?” Gwynn said. “The Sea Wolf is not a patient man. He’ll attack the first prize he sees.”

“Gwynn,” she whispered, “this ship isn’t a merchantman.”

She closed her mouth, unwilling to voice the full of her suspicions. Captain Wolfe was English, even if he did speak French well. She wondered if he intended to deliver this ship, one of the finest ships in the French privateering fleet, into the hands of the British. Her head said no—he’d fought for the French at Saint-Malo—yet if he continued toward multiple war ships, he was either asking to be captured or giving himself up.

No single privateering vessel could capture two British warships without expecting defeat or, at the least, irreparable damage.

She noticed the moment that the first frigate sighted them. Without the use of its foremast, it maneuvered awkwardly in the water, trying to turn its bow toward them. As it twisted, she counted the cannon ports along the side—thirty-two.

Already L’Aventure was outgunned.

And the second frigate was on a path to aid the first.

“Prepare the ship for battle, men,” Captain Wolfe bellowed. “There’s an English warship for the taking.”