Chapter Three

“You heard the captain!” the lieutenant shouted. “Clear the ship!”

Adriana snapped to the orders of the bosun and helped secure the sail-yards to the masts. Other sailors ran below decks to remove the hammocks and stow them in the quarter deck. She heard the gunners’ mates yell for more charges, fuses, and balls. The master barked in fury as the edges of the sails shivered, and she helped trim them until they grew taut with wind. She realized that they would have to engage the first disabled ship before the second frigate came within range, if they were to have any chance of a prize—or survival.

The captain stood stony on the forecastle. Lieutenant Drake called all hands to quarters. She scrambled to her post to help supply the gunners with powder. Through the cannon port, Adriana and the gunners watched as they drew near the damaged ship.

“She may be hurt but she’s still got over thirty guns,” one of the gunners whispered. “If the captain doesn’t watch his sails we could catch a broadside.”

“She’s not much damaged,” another added. “Only her foremast is cracked. She’s got enough sail to maneuver, and her rudder is all right.”

“That second frigate is running free with the wind on the port quarter. She’ll be upon us soon.”

“We’ll be facing sixty guns.”

“If I wanted to be fighting warships,” another piped up, “I would’ve signed on in the royal navy.”

The men mumbled their agreement and the whispering spread in earnest.

Adriana’s heart pounded as they closed within cannon distance. On the other ship’s upper deck, the English sailors raced to maneuver. Adriana heard Captain Wolfe order the showing of the colors. A moment later, cannon barrels protruded from the side of the enemy frigate and smoke burst from every barrel.

The oncoming cannonballs whined through the air. Adriana braced herself. As always before battle, her mind burst with random thoughts and images—her mother sewing before a fire, an alehouse in St. Mary’s that stank of rum, the fire ship explosion, the captain pressing against her body, Chou-Chou curled against her—Chou-Chou. She glanced down and realized she’d never put him back in the harness after coming down from the crow’s nest. She hoped her pet had found a safe place to hide.

The series of ocean splashes proved that the cannonballs had fallen just short of target. L’Aventure lurched hard about, and she saw the English ship trying to keep pace. But her ship had the wind and maneuverability. Within minutes, they approached the gilded end of the frigate’s stern and then propelled fast to just within cannon range.

Adriana could see the men on the wounded frigate struggling with rigging, just as her master gunner paced down the row to prepare every other cannon with his priming iron. Then he lit the slow fuses.

On deck, the captain shouted Fire!

She stayed clear as the cannon recoiled. The weapon strained against the bolts that held it to the wooden floor. The cannon deck filled with dense gray smoke and the stench of brimstone. With her sleeve held against her mouth and nose, Adriana rushed to the stores to resupply the gunners with charges of powder while they cleaned out the hot barrels. Hearing the cheers of the men on the upper deck, she paused, waved away the dense smoke from a cannon hole, and peered out to see what had happened.

The English frigate’s rudder was smashed, its mainmast held aloft only by rigging. Perfect aim—the ship was dead in the water. And by the torque of the boards beneath her, she knew that Captain Wolfe had his mind now on the second frigate.

The master gunner slapped her on the back of the head. “No time for gawking. Get me powder.”

She stumbled off to the stores. Chou-Chou leapt out of nowhere to clamber onto her shoulder. The lemur’s nervous, shifting weight and digging claws were an annoyance, but she knew she couldn’t tether the animal anywhere on the ship, not during the madness of a fight.

Footsteps pounded across the deck above her. Officers barked orders as they neared the second British ship. The enemy had the advantage of the wind, Adriana realized, as she ran back to her post with charges of the black powder. L’Aventure had lured the British frigate away from the dead ship, forcing it to chase them southwest.

Still, the enemy ship was gaining on their stern.

Back at the cannons, the lieutenant soon gave the order to fire. She clamped her hands over her ears as the fuses were lit. In uneven staccato the cannons burst, shaking the floor and spewing their smoke into the room. With Chou-Chou shouting in her ear, she rushed to the stores to bring more powder just as the timbers around her shook with the force of a hit.

The sickening crack of wood reverberated through the hull. A man screamed on deck. The ship lurched to starboard and the flutter of a flaming sail hung just outside the aft cannon ports. As the floor tilted, she slapped a hand on a hot cannon and then hissed as she took it off. The ship twisted to an uneasy halt.

“Man your post, boy!” one gunner yelled, his face black with soot. “Bring more powder!”

On deck, the lieutenant gave the order to fire at will. The floorboards protested against the weapons’ powerful recoil. Another hit vibrated through the ship and she heard the faint rush of water through wood below decks. She coughed at the thickness of the smoke as she reached for a bucket of seawater to cool the heat of the iron barrels. She emptied the water over the nearest cannon. Steam rose from the black surface.

The haze was so thick that she could see nothing through the ports. In a moment of reloading she heard the crack of muskets from the upper deck and realized that the enemy ship was nearly abreast. A cannon fired and the force of recoil tore it from the floorboards. A pinned gunner screamed. Two men ran to his aid and struggled with the scorching, heavy cannon.

Adriana startled when she heard the terrifying, rhythmic sound of grapnels being thrown over the edge of the ship. She heard the captain cry, “All men to deck!” She dropped the powder charges on the floor. The gunners reached for the swords and pistols piled beside the stairs and climbed up. Adriana waited until they all had climbed and then climbed herself. On deck, through the haze of musket and cannon smoke, she made out the rigging and masts of the enemy ship, directly abreast.

“Prepare to fight, men!”

She followed the voice to where the captain stood, feet braced, his sword gripped in his hand. He’d torn off his cloak. Sweat plastered his linen shirt to his skin. He barked orders to the sailors as he paced, waiting for soldiers to emerge from the smoke.

“You!”

She started. He was pointing right at her.

“You, boy, you stay out of the fighting.” With the tip of his sword he pointed to the huge anchor cables coiled near the stern. “Stay behind those and watch for fire.”

She ran to the huge anchor cables, rounding the mizzenmast which lay shattered on the poop deck. Its tangle of rigging littered the aft-end of the ship. Many of the sails that only hours ago billowed with snowy whiteness now hung in dirty tatters from splintered yardarms.

As she crouched behind the coils, Chou-Chou peeled himself from her shoulder to huddle by her feet. She pulled the harness from her pocket, slipped it around him, and attached it to the anchor cables. Through the thick smoke, English soldiers climbed onto the rail of L’Aventure. They lunged at the pirates with vigor. She sensed in their focus a determination to avenge the humiliating defeat they had suffered at Saint-Malo. The privateers waved their cutlasses and attacked.

As she watched, many died.

There was a time, long ago, when her stomach would have heaved at the sight of so much blood. There was a time when she would have wept to the heavens as friends fell in battle. She’d learned to suppress those feelings, to act like she was a man even though she wasn’t even a boy. Adriana did not show tears or weakness. She’d been working on ships since she was nine years old. She’d trained herself to imagine these fights as if they were macabre dances where one of the partners must die. Only the strongest, the quickest, the smartest, and the best-armed would survive.

Death came for all of us. When she’d returned to Saint-Malo from the Indian Ocean several months ago, and laid eyes on her mother for the first time in years, she knew this to be true. All the hoarded booty she’d saved to present to her mother couldn’t doctor her mother’s once-joyous spirit back into that worn-out, diseased body.

A quick death was far better.

A flare of light brought her attention to a pile of splintered timbers. She jumped from her hiding place to suffocate the flicker before it became flame. As she ran back to the protection of the cables she saw the captain near the gunwale. The man he fought wore the uniform of an English officer. Captain Wolfe’s breeches were torn in a bloody slash at the thigh, yet he fought as if he had no wounds at all. Sweat pasted his shirt to the indentation of his back. With unyielding determination, he drove the English officer against the wall of the quarterdeck. Another English soldier, noticing his beleaguered captain, rushed to his aid. Without missing a stroke of his sword, Captain Wolfe raised his good leg and pushed the second officer away. Reaching for the pistol lodged in his belt, Wolfe aimed at another uniformed enemy heading in his direction.

The English captain shouted, “No.”

“Surrender,” Captain Wolfe shouted, his voice rising above the clatter of swords, “and no more will die.”

Hearing these words, another English soldier lunged to aid his captain. She grabbed a piece of splintered mizzenmast that lay on the deck and rushed to intercede. She swung the wood with all her might at the back of the soldier’s knees before he could reach the captain. The soldier crumbled to the deck, cursing.

She staggered back as the English sailor recovered from the blow. He rose to his feet and turned toward her.

“Quarter!” The English captain shouted. “I surrender!”

A shuddering silence spread through the ship as the clang of sword hitting sword ceased. The English soldier eyed her and then, in frustration, tossed his sword on the deck. The moans of the wounded rose in the silence.

Adriana stood, mute and trembling, as the ritual of reparations began. With clipped efficiency the captain ordered his lieutenants to board the English ship. His officers rounded up the English soldiers. The surgeon clambered on board and surveyed the scattered bodies to assess the wounded with the best chance of survival. The sailors who still had strength carried the wounded down to the orlop deck, where the surgeon plied his trade. A carpenter rushed down the stairs, his arms laden with shot plugs and nails, to caulk the hull where a cannonball had penetrated. The French bureaucrat whose job it was to catalogue the prizes poked his head up from below decks, and then skittered across to board the captured ship. Captain Wolfe stared up at the masts, rigging, and sails, assessing the damage.

Gwynn Sayer, bloody but grinning, approached her. “We won, lad. You can stop shaking in your boots.”

“Aye, we won.” How could he grin while standing in a pool of blood?

“It was a bold move to capture two British warships.”

“Many paid for his boldness.”

He paused a moment, eyeing the carnage. “Their people will be compensated well, as by custom.”

“Will they?” She had to stop shaking or Gwynn and the other men would think her weak. “This is no Mogul treasure to be parsed out in the evening. We’ll have to ransom the officers. It could take months before we see our shares.”

“Keep your voice down.” His gaze skittered around the deck. “Others are saying the same, but you don’t want to be the one caught with the words in your mouth.”

Gwynn stepped away to help another sailor carry a wounded man. Stirring herself into action, Adriana followed the men carrying the wounded until she reached the fore-part of the lowest deck. The surgeon, stained from beard to boots, worked over a makeshift table. The ship’s priest groaned the last rites in a Latin that was barely audible above the noise of misery.

“Boy!” The surgeon saw her figure in the dimness. “Fetch me linens.”

She had to step over the wounded to reach the surgeon’s extra supplies. Tearing the chest open, she grabbed a handful of linens and returned to his side.

“Hold his leg, there, boy—hard.”

Adriana put pressure on the leg and braced herself as she looked into the sailor’s terrified face.

No shaking.

No crying.

For hours she stayed in the dim, stifling lower deck, fetching camphor and needles and ammonia and holding down patients as the surgeon worked. After the most seriously wounded were tended, the less wounded men made their way down. Any sailor worth his salt could sew, so Adriana agreed to sew the less serious gashes as the weary surgeon and his mates plied their quicker needles. Between patients she played her horn for the men. It seemed to give them some comfort. Other than reading from the Bible, it was all the kindness she could offer.

“Have time for one more patient?”

She glanced up to find Captain Wolfe standing before her.

The surgeon hurried over. “Of course, Captain—”

“I was speaking to this ship’s mouse. I wasn’t aware that the lad knew surgery.”

“A strong constitution, that boy.” The surgeon leaned over to get a look at the captain’s bloody leg. “But it’ll take him ten minutes to stitch that and it’ll only take me two—”

“He’ll do.”

The surgeon glanced up in mild surprise and then shrugged. “See you do your best, boy.”

Her stomach dipped as she closed the Bible she’d been reading to the sailor now asleep on the pallet beside her. As she stood up, Chou-Chou squealed his annoyance as his bed unfolded beneath him.

“The light is better over there,” she said, gesturing to the surgeon’s table.

The captain turned around and tore off his bloodied shirt. His back, craggy with muscles, flexed.

“Come now, lad.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Surely you’ve seen the work of the British Navy before?”

It wasn’t the whipping scars she’d been noticing, and that realization made her strangely mute.

“Even I had to work as a ship’s mouse once.” He worked the buttons of his breeches. “I was about as mouthy as you.”

“They did that to you when you were young?”

“Not much older than yourself.” In the darkness his face took on sharp, harsh angles that the sunlight made soft. “I had a tongue as quick as yours, but I was big enough to pose a threat. Not all captains are as lenient as I am to irreverent urchins.”

A retort flew to her lips, but it died in her throat as he eased his legs out of his breeches. His bloodstained linens followed.

Adriana had seen more naked men than she’d like to admit. It was unavoidable on long sea-voyages, especially through the tropics where the sailors preferred to work in the briefest of loincloths. Bony, barrel-chested, brawny and slight, men came in all sizes and she’d long lost any curiosity. But she could say with all honesty that she’d never seen a man so magnificently proportioned as Captain Wolfe, now standing before her in all his fleshy glory.

He climbed on the table. The red-gold glow of the lanterns tinted his skin bronze. The muscles of his arms and chest swelled from exertion. His abdomen folded in on itself. When her gaze roamed lower, hot blood rushed to her cheeks.

Fine proportions, indeed.

“Stop standing there like a mute,” he said, “and stitch this up.”

She forced her gaze to his injured thigh. The slash was ragged, bloody, and stretched from just above his knee to halfway to his hip.

“I can’t do this,” she said, breathless. “It’s too long.”

“Women have been telling me that for years.”

Scattered in pallets around them, the sailors barked in laughter. She hoped the dim light concealed the heat of her cheeks.

She said, “I’ll get the surgeon—”

“He’s already in his hammock.” He braced the butt of his palms on the table and leaned into her. “Stitch it up. That’s an order.”

Left with no choice, she approached the table and reached for clean linens. Dipping one in fresh water, she washed the dried blood from the gash. A light spray of hair covered his thighs. He smelled of pitch and sweat…and man, but not in the smelly way men got when they were too long without a bath.

Chou-Chou chose that moment to surprise her by crawling on the bloodstained table. The lemur was usually wary of strangers, except for about two weeks every spring when he became weird, smearing the musky scent that oozed out of his wrists on every piece of available wood. During those days, he stayed alert all night, his tiny heart beating fast in his chest, prowling the decks and releasing plaintive cries, peering at any living creature that passed.

The captain reached toward her pet. “Don’t,” she said, splattering some bloody water over him. “He doesn’t like to be touched by anyone but me.”

The captain ignored her and scratched the lemur under his chin. The lemur stilled, but, after a minute, he released a quiet, satisfied chirr.

Damn it. “He must be tired from the battle.”

“I’d like to think it’s my charm.”

“It’s a he, captain.”

“What a pity. We could use a few women on this ship, even hairy ones.”

The sailors laughed again and she realized that he was pitching his voice so all the wounded could hear him. She also realized that he chose to sit naked on a table in the middle of the orlop deck and let a ship’s mouse stitch his wounds so that every sailor in the ship would know that he was just like one of them.

Maybe he’d already heard the grumbling amid the ranks.

“So, ship’s boy,” he said, speaking above her head, “where did you learn to read?”

So he’d been watching her. “My mother taught me.”

“It’s odd enough to find a man who reads, much less a boy.” He winced as she made the first stitch. “How old are you?”

Not much younger than you. “Fifteen.”

“You look smaller.”

“I’ve been working ships since I was nine.” It took all her will to concentrate on the gash beneath her fingers. “Pirate ships, of course.”

“So that’s where you learned to speak your mind at every opportunity.”

“I’m not strong enough to fight with my fists,” she said, “so I fight with words.”

“I heard you doing just that when you stole that coat.”

“I didn’t steal it,” she said, wondering where he was amid the crowd while she was working the ragman. “It’s full of holes and hardly worth the plucked goose I traded for it.”

“A rotting goose, by the smell.” He swiped her forehead and held up his dirty finger. “If soot were gold, you’d be a rich urchin.”

She noticed his clean-shaven face and her eyes narrowed. “You’re a captain fond of bathing, I wager.”

“I ought to scrub you pink just so I can see what you look like.”

Her heart did a summersault. “It’s not healthy to scrub the skin off a lad’s back.”

“You’ll do it if I order it.”

She tilted her chin. In this, above all things, she would risk everything—including a flogging—to win.

“Your face speaks insolence. Careful, boy. Lieutenant Drake thinks I ought to whip you until you know your place.”

“Drake’s an overdressed fop. He’s prettier than a woman and I’m surprised you listen to him at all.” She thought she saw a twitch at the corner of his lips, but it was gone before it was truly there.

“You just insulted my first lieutenant and one of my best men.”

“Am I to be punished for the truth?”

“Truth is a valuable quality,” he said, “but often dangerous. You remind me of someone I once knew.”

She plunged the needle through his skin again, hoping the whole bath idea was forgotten.

“You intrigue me, Joubert. Speak your mind. I want to hear what thoughts run through the head of a fifteen-year-old ship’s mouse.”

She could no more stop the words rushing to her lips than she could stop the rush of water through a breach in the ship’s hull. “Twenty-seven sailors died this afternoon,” she said. “Was the prize of a British warship worth the fight for those who still live?”

The room went silent but for the rustling sound of men shifting under their bedclothes. Her throat tightened as she felt his gaze grow hot on her head.

“Those English warships,” he said, “had just finished bombarding your native city.”

“We’re not soldiers. We signed on board this ship to capture rich English merchantmen, not fight their navy.”

“This is a privateer, boy. We fight against the English—whether they are merchantmen or warships. Everyone in this room knows the difference.”

The silence grew tense. She had an inkling that he’d prompted her to speak her mind just so she would say those words aloud. He had pitched his voice so everyone could hear again, and the message could not be denied. Still, this was the notorious Captain Wolfe before her, frightening even in his nakedness. She could see each angry muscle tense in his long, lean body. And she was a fool to think just because he’d prodded her that he’d hold back from giving her a set of stripes.

“You gave me leave to speak my mind,” she said with a whiff of defiance. “And so I did.”

“And only a fifteen-year-old boy would be mad enough to take me by my word.” He pointed to his wound. “Finish the stitching.”

With nervous, fumbling fingers she stitched the last of the gash. She secured the wound by wrapping a clean linen binder around the bulk of his thigh. When she finished, she stepped away from the captain and awaited the inevitable punishment.

“Look at me, boy.”

Chou-Chou whined as he leapt from the table. He clambered to her shoulder and then grasped her head.

“Another captain,” he said, “might strap you to what’s left of the mizzenmast and whip your hide red. But I am a lenient man.”

She couldn’t seem to draw in enough air. Her head swam and the deck began to roll under her feet.

“There’s something else.” He eased off the table and reached for his linen undergarments. “You disobeyed orders this afternoon when you came out to fight.”

She startled. “I was putting out a fire when I saw—”

“I told you to stay hidden.”

She tightened her jaw.

“In the process,” he added, “you saved my life.”

More bedclothes rustled in the silence. She felt the attention of the entire crew upon her, an uncomfortable scrutiny.

She shuffled, wishing she could leave. “It was all part of my duty.”

“No it wasn’t.” He reached for his breeches. “I’m in your debt now, Joubert. Use that chit wisely.”