Captive Secrets (11 page)

Fury knew the moment they lost course. The huge galleon listed, righted, then rolled almost on her side. She was thrown from the bunk, her body crashing against the wall. Dazed, she struggled to her knees.

“The captain's lost control of the wheel,” she moaned to the glowering hawks. “This storm will carry us off our course, back out to sea!”

The galleon's hold on the monstrous roiling ocean was weak—she was in dire need of ballast. Fury rolled from one end of her cabin to the other as the
Queen
fought to remain upright under the first mate's hands.

She was beneath the hawks now at the foot of the bunk, her fear-filled eyes on their gigantic talons. Deadly talons. They could grasp hundreds of pounds and lift it straight into the air and still fly as though unencumbered. There was no other word to describe the hawks except to say they were powerful.

She cried out in despair, knowing full well there was nothing she could do to fight the battering storm and keep the galleon on her course. She'd manned the wheel on her father's ships hundreds of times, but always in calm waters. She was strong, but no match for this.

Her stomach heaved sickeningly. She'd never before given thought to her own mortality. If she died now at the hands of the storm and sea, she would never enter the convent, never, ever see . . . nevernevernevernever.

She wished she knew more about eternity, that nebulous place after death. Her final accounting in the eyes of God. Was she clean and pure enough to enter the gates of heaven?

With one mighty shove she was on her feet. “Oh, God, I don't want to die, not yet. Please!” she shrieked.

The hawks' feathers rustled, the sound vying with the storm, their jet eyes on the girl.

She was upright now, holding to the bunk with a viselike grip. “I must ask the impossible of you,” she told the two hawks, whose eyes were fixed on her with uncanny comprehension. “Of you . . . and of myself.”

When she made her way, weaving and stumbling, out of the cabin and down the passageway, they followed. Twice she was thrown against the wall with the violent pitching of the boat. At the ladder, she paused. She knew the hawks couldn't help her open the hatch to the deck; there was nothing for their talons to grasp. She swore then, words she didn't know she knew, words she'd heard her brothers hiss at one another when they were angry, words her father had muttered under his breath. With a strength born of desperation, she threw herself against the hatch door again and again, but each time the battering wind slammed it shut, her shoulder taking the brunt of the blow. She waited, counting seconds before she gave one last heave. A flurry of angry sound roared past her ears as Gaspar soared through the tumultuous wind, his talons securing a hold on the stout wood support. A second later Pilar was at his side.

Fury stumbled up and out, then fell to her hands and knees, fighting the wind and blinding water. She saw no one, but could hear the crew cursing and shouting as they struggled with the sail and rigging.

Her nails were broken to the quick, her hands and knees full of splinters as she crawled a few steps and then was driven backward by the ravaging wind. She had no idea how long it took her, but at last she reached the wheelhouse and pulled herself upright with the wheel for support.

Everywhere was black as India ink; the lanterns had all gone out. Fury's hands moved on the wheel and touched something cold and hard. Gaspar's talons. She moved her hand to the right: Pilar's talons.
How did they know this was what she wanted them to do?
An eerie feeling swept through her as she realized that her life depended on these hawks that were so tuned to her feelings. She would have cried for joy but she was too frightened. In the very core of her soul she knew no force on earth could make them relinquish their hold on the wheel.

Fury felt silly and ridiculous when she shouted, “Steady on, mates, a true course to Java or dry land, whichever comes first!” The crew couldn't hear her, and if they did, she didn't care.

For hours the
Java Queen
heaved with the force of the surf, the masts groaning with the weight of the saturated rigging. The battered ship rose and fell in the angry, swelling sea. Fury steered her course straight and true—frightened, yes, but exhilarated and buoyed by the unshakable conviction that Gaspar and Pilar would see the
Java Queen
home safely.

The relentless wind and surging sea left with the last of the black night, and dawn appeared, gray and misty. Fury's shoulders slumped as a weary sigh escaped her. Gradually her ears picked up the jabbering sounds of the men as they emerged one by one from their posts onto the now gently rolling deck. They'd all survived, she thought in relief. The disbelief she read on their faces at the picture of herself and the hawks at the wheel made her smile wanly.

“Where's the captain?” Tobias asked uneasily, his eyes still on the hawks.

“I don't know.” She shook her head. “I took the wheel from Eduardo.”

“He ordered us to take cover when the storm was at its worst. There was nothing we could do but go over the side. We did our best, miss, so did the captain.” He blessed himself to make his point. “Spread out, mates,” he ordered the others, “and see what you can find.”

Tobias turned back to Fury. “These birds steered this ship through the storm?”

Fury smiled. “I helped a little, but, yes, they did exactly that. And the three of us will be more than happy to turn the wheel over to you, Tobias. I have no idea where we are or how far off course.”

Pilar's wings rustled slightly, and in the blink of an eye she and Gaspar were sailing upward toward the mizzenmast.

“Devil birds,” Tobias muttered as he took the wheel.

“Would devil birds save your life and mine? We'd all be dead now without them. Remember that,” she called over her shoulder as she stumbled out on deck.

Seven days later the
Java Queen
sailed proudly into the Port of Java. No one noticed the huge black birds at the top of the mizzenmast, their glittering eyes raking the harbor of their new home.

There was a tension about the crew that troubled Fury as she prepared to go ashore. Obviously they were uncertain of their future, which was understandable. They were without direction for the first time in many weeks. Without Captain Diaz they might find themselves stranded with no hope of returning or even of signing on to another voyage.

Fury stared at the pouch in her hands—it contained all the money she'd won from the crew over the long voyage. Coming to a decision, she sought out Tobias and handed him the velvet purse. “I'll have no use for this where I'm going,” she told the first mate. “Please . . . divide it among the men. In the absence of my father and Captain Diaz, I urge you to stay aboard until matters can be arranged regarding your welfare. I myself will see to it tomorrow.” She turned to those of the crew who had gathered near. “Adios, my friends.” They nodded, their eyes full of relief as they prepared to carry her trunks to shore.

Fury's eyes. roamed the dock until they rested on the familiar face of Father Sebastian. He was older than she remembered, his round hat sitting on his head like a fat pancake. She watched as he waddled to the gangboards leading to the wharf, his round, pigeon's body shaking with each step he took. “Welcome to Java, Miss Fury,” he called. “You're as beautiful as your mother, and I would have known you anywhere.”

Fury hurried down to meet him. “Thank you, Father Sebastian. I was hoping someone would be here to greet me. I'm most eager to reach my parents' home, but first I must go to the Dutch East India offices. Our captain was . . . lost at sea during a murderous storm. His family must be notified and provisions made for them and the crew.”

Father Sebastian blessed himself as he escorted Fury to his flat wagon. “Yes, of course. It's what your father would want. I never met a fairer man than Mynheer van der Rhys. In his last letter to me he said he was sailing to the Americas to see his son, Caleb. Did your mother accompany him?”

Fury nodded. “When their visit is over they will come here, or at least that was their plan. Circumstances . . . I've found lately that one cannot count on anything fully.”

The priest favored her with a gentle smile. “It's about to rain, so I suggest we hurry. You remember the rains, don't you, my dear?”

“Yes, Father. There is very little about Java that I don't remember.” She gazed about her fondly. “I loved it here, and that's why I chose to enter the convent here. . . . Is Juli still at the house?”

“Yes, and she's looking forward to serving you as she did your mother.”

Fury smiled. “She'll have exactly one week to fuss over me. I hope you told her it would just be temporary.”

“I told her,” Father Sebastian said quietly. The priest's eyes were fretful as he snapped the reins and urged the horse forward.

“The Dutch East India offices are just up the street here. And afterward I'll drive you to the house.” He gazed up at the darkening sky. “I think,” he said, reining his horse to a halt, “that we did beat the rain by a scant second or two. Step down, child, and run into the offices. My hat will protect me. I know how fussy you ladies are about your hair.” Fury raced for her father's old offices just as fat raindrops began to splatter.

The man behind the desk stood up in greeting, his hands outstretched. “It's uncanny,” he said, a look of awe on his face. “I don't know who you resemble more, your mother or your father. The best of both, I suppose.”

“Captain Dykstra, it's nice to see you again. I have a letter for you from my father. Will tomorrow be soon enough to deliver it?”

“Tomorrow will be fine.” He searched her troubled eyes for a moment, then escorted her to the chair beside his desk. “Please sit down for a moment. The rains will let up shortly. And I can see by your expression that all is not well. Tell me what's wrong.”

Dykstra rubbed his chin thoughtfully as Fury spoke. At least the girl was safe, but that wouldn't stop Regan from flying into a rage when he heard this particular piece of news.

“Ronrico Diaz was an able-bodied seaman, one of the best. Your father and I both sailed with him on many occasions. His family will be well taken care of, I assure you. I myself will arrange a service with Father Sebastian. The crew's wages will be paid, of course. In the meantime they can stay aboard until a decision is made regarding the
Java Queen's
next voyage. If they have a mind to, they can sign on with another ship.”

“And a bonus, Captain Dykstra. They've earned it,” Fury told him.

Dykstra laughed. “Ah, your mother's daughter through and through! That's exactly what she would have said. Your father, on the other hand, would have offered extra rations of rum and ale.”

“Both, then,” Fury said firmly.

“Done!” Dykstra boomed.

She clapped her hands in delight. “My father said you were one of the fairest, most honest men he'd ever met . . . after himself.”

“I always say that myself,” Dykstra agreed, nodding pleasantly. “Tell me, who brought the
Queen
into the harbor?”

“I did . . . in a manner of speaking. But I had a little help.”

“Well done, my dear. Your parents will be proud of you.” He turned to peer out the window behind him. “Ah, the rain is letting up. You'll want to be on your way to a nice long bath and a hair wash, no doubt. Well, the house is ready for you. We'll talk later, and you can tell me tall tales of that rascal father of yours.”

Fury grinned. “Only if you tell me of some of your escapades.”

“I'll walk you to the wagon; I want a word with the good Father,” Dykstra said, offering her his arm.

Midway to the door, Fury's eyes fell on the cork board attached to the wall. “Is that what I think it is?”

“The infamous sea witch? Yes, it's been hanging there for twenty-some years now. I think every man on Java was in love with her. She's become a legend. She nearly destroyed the Dutch East India Company, something your father did not take lightly. He didn't have a peaceful day until the witch retired from her plundering ways. I met her once,” he murmured, his eyes fixed on some long-ago memory. “She was the most beautiful, most magnificent woman I've ever seen.”

“Were you in love with her, too?” Fury asked quietly.

“Yes, unfortunately.”

“Do you think she'll ever roam the sea again?” Fury asked.

He glanced at her. “It's strange you should ask me that. A few weeks ago a bark sailed in for repairs, and there was talk of a black ship off the coast of Africa. The men aboard swore it was captained by a woman. Every so often such tales are whispered about. That's why the legend of the Sea Siren will never die. I live in dread of the day she might return to the sea. Of course, if she just did away with the bloody pirates and left my fleet alone, I wouldn't mind.”

Fury smiled. “A fairy tale, Captain Dykstra.”

“No, my dear, the Sea Siren was no fairy tale. She was a live, flesh-and-blood woman with vengeance in her heart. And the black ship was indeed seen—the fear I saw in those men's eyes convinced me of that. As to the Sea Siren, I don't know,” he said nervously. “Only time will tell.”

Impossible, Fury thought as she settled herself in the wagon while the priest and Dykstra conversed in low tones. Her mother was the Sea Siren, and she was in the Americas. A rumor started by a drunken sailor—that's all it was. But the first moment she had to herself, she would visit the bend in the river where the
Rana
was hidden. The black paint had been stripped away long ago; she was just another frigate now and probably rotting away to nothing.