Almost a Lady (8 page)

“You don’t mind?”

He shook his head. “Not if you’ve the stomach for it.” She was not to know that he wanted to see how she would react to a ship under threat. Ana, on another ship at another time, had loved it. She’d stood at the rail with her long red hair streaming in the wind, her green eyes almost wild with excitement, not a nerve in her body even as the guns bellowed and the cannonballs screamed overhead.
Just what was Meg Barratt made of?

Meg drew her cloak more closely around her and stared out into the darkness until finally she could catch a glimpse of white. Sails. And they seemed to be drawing closer. A little shiver, part apprehension, part excitement, prickled her spine. “Is it bigger than the
Mary Rose
?”

“A frigate,” Cosimo answered. “Bigger certainly, but not as swift.”

Meg asked no more questions. The man needed no distractions. The
Mary Rose
swung away to starboard under full sail and leaped across the water with the French ship in pursuit.

Chapter   5

C
osimo remained at the rail, his telescope trained on the white sails in the distance. As best he could judge, the
Mary Rose
was holding her lead. He swung the glass across the water, examining the faint shadow of the island of Sark, some two miles distant. In the moonlit night it was visible but only as an outline. He concentrated his gaze on the water around the island, the telltale white foam of waves breaking on rocks. A tiny smile touched his lips.

He lowered his glass. “Mike, hold her steady on this course, I’m going below for a minute. Call me if anything changes.”

“Aye, sir,” the helmsman said, not taking his eyes from the bellying sails above.

Cosimo, his step more hurried than Meg had ever seen it, swung away from the rail and headed for the steps to the mid-deck. She watched him disappear down the companionway and hesitated about following him. She had seen that little smile. It had not been at all humorous, sinister rather, a smile of satisfaction that one could imagine Mephistopheles wearing when he’d finally bought a soul.

After a moment, she made her way resolutely towards the companionway. The cabin door stood open and Cosimo was bent intently over the chart table seemingly oblivious of Gus, who was pacing the long bar in his open cage with every appearance of agitation, emitting distressed little squawks every few minutes.

Meg entered the cabin quietly, unwilling to disturb the captain’s concentration, but he was not as oblivious as he seemed. Without raising his head he said, “Put that red cover over Gus’s cage, will you, Meg?”

She looked around and saw a square of crimson silk on the window seat close to the cage. She picked it up and Gus immediately tilted his head towards her and said clearly, “G’night . . . g’night . . . poor Gus.”

“Poor Gus,” she agreed, arranging the cover over the cage. “Should I close the cage door?”

“No,” Cosimo responded, still without looking up. “He doesn’t like to be locked in, merely tucked away when things get tense.”

Meg nodded. It struck her as very sensible of the macaw to opt out of circumstances that upset his equilibrium. She sat on the window seat and watched as Cosimo poured over his charts, making swift notations as he did so. “Do we have a destination in mind?” she ventured.

“Not exactly,” he said, straightening and laying down his pen. “Just a plan. Which will lead where it will lead.” His eyes were alight with an unholy amusement, that quirk of a smile lingering on his lips. He radiated a certain private exhilaration, as if there was a secret to which only he was a party. But beneath the sparkle of excitement, Meg could sense that cool, hard core she’d been aware of before. It showed in the set of his mouth, the line of his jaw, the subtle tension in his frame. This was a man who was completely in control of his emotions, emotions that were mere adjuncts to the cool steadiness of a ruthless determination.

She found him rather frightening in this guise and, curious though she was, kept a rein on her questions. When he at once left the cabin with his earlier swifter-than-usual step she did not immediately follow him. She glanced towards the macaw’s red silk tent, half wishing Gus would resume his usual stream of chatter, but the bird was completely silent. She stood for a minute, her thumbs hooked beneath her chin, her steepled fingers tapping her mouth. She was inhibited from returning to the deck by the sense of her own uselessness. Everyone up there had a task, a clearly defined purpose, while all she could do was try to keep out of the way.

With sudden resolution she left the cabin, closing the door gently behind her, and plunged into the inner recesses of the ship. She had no idea where she was going but exploration seemed a pointful occupation at the moment. It was hard to keep her footing in the dim corridor as the
Mary Rose
danced across the waves under full sail, running before the wind. She passed a kitchen, deserted now, the stoves extinguished, hanging pans secured behind wooden bars, and reached another short flight of steps, at the end of the corridor. These were narrower than the companionway to the deck, more of a ladder than real stairs, but there was a glow of lamplight and she could hear a voice that she recognized as David Porter’s drifting up from below.

Without hesitation, Meg swung herself onto the ladder and clambered down. She found herself in a low-ceilinged space, lit by oil lamps hanging from hooks, the smell of oil mingling with pitch and pine and tar. Sacks and roped bundles were stacked against the sloping bulwarks and the sound of water slapping against the wooden sides was very loud. She guessed that they must be below the waterline.

The surgeon, wearing a canvas apron over his shirt and britches, was laying out shiny instruments on a wooden chest; the young boy who usually assisted Biggins was scrubbing a long deal table bolted to the deck in the middle of the space. They both looked up, startled as Meg stepped from the ladder.

“Why, Miss Barratt, is something the matter?” David inquired, frowning in the swaying light of the lamp above him.

“No, not at all,” she said swiftly. “Is this the hospital?”

“The sick bay, yes. A temporary use of the space as and when necessary.”

Meg nodded, wondering if this was where she’d been brought unconscious the previous night. The table, despite the boy’s vigorous scrubbing, bore ominous stains of old blood. Not her own, she knew, but the thought of lying on that table gave her the shivers.

“Are you preparing for wounded?”

“It’s wise to be prepared, but with Cosimo’s usual luck and judgment there won’t be any.”

“He doesn’t wish to fight then?”

David looked at her a little askance. “Of course not. Why would he?”

She frowned a little and spoke hesitantly, feeling for words. “I don’t know, but he has an air of . . . of triumph almost, as if he was contemplating some victory.”

David gave a short laugh. “Knowing Cosimo, I’m sure he is doing just that. He’ll have a plan of some kind, but it won’t include needlessly putting his men or his ship in harm’s way.”

Once again Meg marveled at the calm, almost blind acceptance Cosimo appeared to inspire in those who sailed with him. David Porter was clearly an intelligent, educated man, and even he placed unquestioning trust in a man who didn’t share ahead of time either his actions or his intentions.

“What can I do to help?” she asked, dismissing the puzzle of Cosimo in favor of more urgent matters. The boy was now sprinkling vinegar liberally over the decking and the sharp acrid smell rose above all the others.

“Tear up linen for bandages,” David replied promptly, gesturing to a stack of linen on an upturned barrel. “I’ll need strips of different widths.”

Meg set to the task with willing hands. The deck was bucking beneath her and every now and again plunged forward and then reared up again like an unbroken colt under its first saddle.

“Go up top and get some air,” David instructed after a while, seeing her color change. “The motion’s actually smoother down here, but the atmosphere is noxious.”

“If you don’t mind . . .” Meg said, lurching towards the ladder. She had an overpowering need for great gulps of fresh sea air and was doing her best not to think of the hearty dinner she’d so recently devoured.

She maneuvered her wobbly way back down the dimly lit corridor to the companionway and immediately felt better as the cool air hit her. She drew deep breaths, steadying herself against the rail. The moonlight if anything was brighter than it had been earlier and the sails of the frigate were clearly visible. Cosimo was standing behind Mike at the helm, gazing out towards the French ship through his glass.

“Lower the topgallants,” he called suddenly and there was an instant of complete silence as the command reverberated across the decks. Then men sprang into action, balancing on the yards as they manipulated the ropes that brought down the three great sails.

Meg knew little about the art of sailing but she did know that less sail meant less speed. There was no shortage of wind, so why was Cosimo deliberately slowing his ship? But no one had questioned the order, although there had been that instant of involuntary hesitation.

Cosimo turned his attention away from the sails and swept the telescope towards the rocky outcrops of Sark. They were growing clearer, the white foam of the breakers more pronounced. He said something quietly and Mike stepped away from the wheel. Cosimo took the helm and adjusted their course a fraction.

Meg had forgotten all about her momentary spasm of nausea. She came over to the wheel. “Why?” she asked simply.

He glanced sideways at her and that reckless glitter in his eyes was even more pronounced. “A variation on an old tale,” he told her. “Are you familiar with the story of the Piper of Hamlin?”

“Vaguely,” she said. “He was supposed to have lured . . .” She stopped, staring at him.

For answer he merely inclined his head in acknowledgment, then returned the helm to Mike and went to the rail, where he scanned the pursuing ship.

Meg could feel that the
Mary Rose
had slowed and she could almost fancy that she could see the frigate closing the gap between them. Little shivers ran up and down her spine and she drew her cloak closer about her. Cosimo was going to lure the enemy to . . . to what? She wanted to ask but sensed that he was now so immersed in his own plans that even if he heard her he would choose to ignore her. So she stayed at the rail beside him, gazing out across the moonlit sea, filled with a mingled dread and anticipation.

Cosimo turned abruptly from the rail and called another order. “Fore and mizzen topsails, gentlemen.”

This time there was no instant of hesitation. The two sails were down and furled in minutes and the
Mary Rose
pressed on under her mainsail and two foresails.

The frigate grew closer. Meg could now begin to make out details of the ship herself. The array of guns gleamed, all eerie menace, in the moonlight. The air of expectation on the
Mary Rose
was almost tangible, as every man stared fixedly at the pursuing ship.

Then there was a flash of fire, a plume of smoke, and a cannonball burst into the sea to their stern. “I hope,
mon ami,
that you intended that only as a warning shot,” Cosimo remarked with a shake of his head. “To do any damage you need to be at least fifty yards closer.”

Meg looked at him, astounded. It almost sounded as if he was encouraging the French commander to get close enough to hit them. She could make out figures on the frigate’s decks now, hurrying shapes. A loud hail came across the water.

Cosimo listened intently, then he spoke to young Mr. Graves, who was now standing at his side. “Run out the guns, Miles.”

“Aye, sir.” The young man was pale with excitement that Meg guessed had an edge of fear to it. She guessed too that Cosimo had addressed him informally as a means of reassurance and wondered how many engagements Miles Graves had been a part of. His voice was a little squeaky as he bellowed through cupped hands at the men standing ready beside the gun ports on the upper deck.

The clattering roll of the guns on the casters filled the air as their snubbed muzzles poked through the ports.

“Let’s give them a starboard broadside,” Cosimo said as casually as if he was ordering a strawberry ice.

Again Miles bellowed, the pitch of his voice still a little squeaky. A sheet of flame accompanied the fusillade, the explosion of gunpowder, and the sea churned, sending up a blinding veil of foam, as the cannonballs crashed into the water.

“If they’re too far to hit us, doesn’t the same apply to us?” Meg asked.

Cosimo laughed and he sounded truly amused. “We’re answering provocation with its like.”

As he spoke there was another burst of flame from the French vessel and this time the
Mary Rose
rocked as a cannonball crashed into the stern timbers. A cry went up, “Hit.”

Cosimo stepped to the rail, looking down at the mid-deck. “Report.”

“Above the waterline, Cap’n.” The grizzled boatswain came running to the steps. “Nothing we can’t fix.”

“Any injuries?”

“Two men, sir. Splinters. They’ve gone below.”

Cosimo nodded and turned back to the starboard railing, raising his telescope once more. “That was a little too close for comfort,” he observed more to himself than to any of his small and silent audience. He called, “Raise the topsails, gentlemen,” and in a few minutes the two lowered sails were once more filling with wind.

Cosimo strode to the helm and took it from Mike. He called, “Wear ship,” and threw the wheel over as men scurried to adjust the sails on the new tack. The great boom swung over and Meg grabbed the rail as the
Mary Rose
listed to port and then came about. To Meg it seemed as if on their adjusted course they were heading straight for the crashing surf that could now be heard on the ugly outcrop of rocks.

Another bellow of cannon came from behind now and she turned to look towards the approaching frigate just as a ball crashed into the side of the ship immediately below where she stood. The sound of splintering wood was appalling and she clutched the deck rail to keep her footing as the ship bucked and rose on the waves.