Chance the Winds of Fortune (3 page)

Alec MacDonald sucked in his cheeks again and again as he struggled against the wind to get his pipe to draw. Finally, when a thin trail of aromatic smoke floated up from the tobacco-filled bowl, MacDonald leaned against the foremast, his eyes trained aloft as he proudly surveyed his sails, every inch of the mended and patched canvas having at one time or another gone through his calloused hands.

“The cap'n has a gentle hand on the wheel,” Cobbs commented, glancing aft to the quarterdeck, where Dante Leighton had taken over the helm. “Likes having her in his hands. Like a fine woman, she is. You can't beat that, a woman and a ship. They be the finest sights to a man's eyes, but both can bring a man to his knees.”

“Aye, lad, ye've got to give both plenty o' respect,” MacDonald agreed.

“To be sure, I was thinking that fancy widow in Charles Town was going to be catching the cap'n last time we was in port,” Seumus Fitzsimmons said. He was mending a pair of rather well-worn breeches, his long, sloppy stitches causing MacDonald to raise his bushy eyebrows in growing dismay as he imagined those stitches coming loose at an inopportune moment.

“That widow in question, Fitzsimmons,” interjected Barnaby Clarke, joining his mates on the forecastle, the captain having relieved him from the helm, “happens to be a very genteel young woman and should be addressed with proper respect. 'Tis a pity she was widowed so young.”

“Speakin' of showing proper respect, mate, tha's no way to speak to the first mate,” reprimanded Cobbs. Clarke's fancy gent ways had never set too well with him anyway.

“Very well,
Mr.
Cobbs,” Clarke responded, bowing deeply to the assembled hands, who chuckled. “I think
Mr.
Fitzsimmons should show the proper respect due the lady.”

“And, to be sure,” Seumus Fitzsimmons responded easily, “I am showing her all the respect she's deservin'. Heard tell she broke the captain's heart. Made him the laughingstock of Charles Town, she did. Reckon she got to thinkin' herself too fine for the likes of our captain. Reckon her be too good for the smuggler who puts fancy brandy on her table. Hear she hightailed it to London for a season of hunting.” Seumus grinned. “Hear she was looking for a titled gentleman. Reckon 'tis sometimes better to do your looking closer to home, eh, mates?”

“Figure the cap'n's weathering it well enough. Perhaps he's better off'n you think,” contributed the closemouthed Trevelawny.

“Reckon she might start looking the cap'n's way fast enough when he's got that treasure fillin' his purse,” Cobbs said, spitting a stream of brown tobacco juice over the bulwark. “Hope she don't come back empty-handed from her scalp-huntin' trip to London. The cap'n'll be in real danger then.”

“What makes you think that?” Grimes, a seaman who worked the yards and masts, asked curiously, for Cobbs's words had been full of meaning.

“Something I heard said when Mr. Kirby was in his cups. Got a tongue runnin' on wheels. 'Tis amazing the things that little fellow knows,” Cobbs said with a wide grin. “Could be, if that fancy widow don't get the cap'n, she might set her sails after Mr. Kirby, or, devil take her, one o' us!”

“Ye really thinks we'll be findin' treasure?” Sampson, another topman, inquired hesitantly. “'Twouldn't hurt none to be rich. Could have three sheets in the wind every night if I wants. Ye thinks this Cap'n Leighton'll be sharin' fairly wi' us?”

“Reckon we'll not keel haul ye this time, matey, seein' how ye ain't been with the cap'n of the
Sea Dragon
long enough to be knowin' better,” Longacres warned him, while several “ayes” sounded threateningly behind him.

“Here now, mates. I meant no disrespect to the cap'n,” Sampson quickly apologized, noticing the expressions on the faces of the loyal crew of the
Sea Dragon
. “I was just wonderin', fer sure, mates.”

“Aye, well it'd better have been just that, and now that we've set yer mind at rest, I'll not want to be hearin' anything more about it,” Longacres said grudgingly, his big fingers moving deftly and delicately on the fragile piece of ivory he was carving.

“'Cause we happen to be on the subject,” Cobbs began importantly, then winked at Conny Brady, who was curled up at Longacres's feet, “I'm wonderin' what ya going to do with your share, ya old pirate?”

“Got meself some plans,” Longacres admitted. “Maybe open up a tavern in St. Thomas, now that 'tis a free port I'd be gettin' plenty of trade. And what about yeself?”

A wide grin split Cobbs's face. “I always fancied meself as Squire Cobbs, country gentleman, that I have.”

“To be sure, Cobbs, they'll be callin' ye Squire
Nabobs
,” Fitzsimmons predicted. “And if given a free hand in the designing of yer countryseat, 'twill most likely be called Cobbs's Folly.”

Cobbs grinned appreciatively as he was engulfed by laughter. “And what will yew be doin' with yours, Mr. Fitzsimmons? Buying yeself the Blarney stone?”

Fitzsimmons returned his barb with a mocking glance. “No,” he replied. Then for once he turned serious. “I'll be purchasin' meself a schooner, and outfittin' her as a privateer. I've got a feeling that it'll be coming to a raisin' of arms soon, what with them damned redcoats being sent over from the
mother
country, and, I might be addin', causing nothing but trouble.”

“Here now, watch that tone of voice,” someone growled. “I don't have much love for them redcoats, but I'll not 'ear nothin' bad said about England.”

MacDonald sent a cloud of bluish smoke over the group. “Aye, though, 'tis the truth, that. There's war coming. Reckon ye'll be needin' a good sailmaker tae make your sails strong, Mr. Fitzsimmons. Been thinkin' of late, I have, of opening myself a shipyard along the Chesapeake Bay. Thinkin' there'll be a need for good ships soon. Nothing in the Highlands for me since I fled after the '45,” he said, his light blue eyes darkening with remembered anguish. “Aye, Culloden finished it for us. My home is in the colonies now.”

Conny Brady stared with openmouthed amazement at his fellow shipmates. “You'd abandon the cap'n?” he exclaimed. “Who'll man the
Sea Dragon
?”

“Well now, if I'm not mistaken,” Fitzsimmons said thoughtfully, his dark eyes twinkling, “and I'm remembering me legends proper like, lad. Then, it seems to me that dragons have always had a soft spot for gold, and I'm thinkin' the
Sea Dragon
and her captain might be finding a safe harbor to be anchoring in with that treasure. Besides,” the Irishman continued, “the cap'n's no colonial. He's a blue-blooded gentleman if there ever was one, not that I'm holdin' that against him,” he added quickly. “He's a fine man. As good as any Irishman I'd care to be liftin' a glass with, but he
is
a gentleman born and bred, and despite his dislike of King George's edicts, I'm not seeing the cap'n raisin' arms against him. From what little Kirby has let slip, I'm thinkin' the cap'n has more titles to his name than captain.”

“Aye, ye're right there, but he's got more on his mind than that. Strange, a man like 'e bein' out here. Maybe with his fortune found 'e'll go home and settle his affairs,” stated Trevelawny, to everyone's amazement, for the carpenter seldom offered an opinion.

“Could be. How about yeself, Trevelawny? Goin' home?” Fitzsimmons asked.

“Aye, I'm a Cornishman. I'll be with the
Sea Dragon
when she heads home. I'll be with the cap'n until he needs me no more. Got a brother workin' a copper mine near Truro. Might just invest in it.”

“Well, to be sure, we've all got our shares invested in somethin',” Fitzsimmons said with a comical look toward the darkening skies. “Now let's just hope we can be findin' this treasure, and that storm coming ain't a warnin' to us to be leaving well enough alone, and the dead in peace.”

“D'ye think the sunken treasure ship is haunted?” Conny Brady demanded, his eyes widening with fearful excitement.

“Aye, and they be after
your
blood, young Conny,” one of the mates growled, “unless ye get yeself below. Mr. Kirby wants ye to help him with the cap'n's meal. So get!”

Conny Brady scrambled below, leaving the other hands to enjoy the last few peaceful minutes of the sunset while they smoked their pipes, did their mending chores and gossiped. Soon the new watch would be set, and with the oncoming storm now a certainty—a flash of lightning sliced through the black belly of a thundercloud looming to starboard—they knew it was just a matter of time before they would be swarming over the rigging and up the masts to furl the royals and top-gallant sails, reef the topsails, and batten down the hatches before the deluge.

The blackness of night had fallen with a vengeance, cloaking the
Sea Dragon
in its shroud. Below decks, Dante, anticipating the lee lurch of the
Sea Dragon
as she rode the heavy seas, grasped his goblet of wine before it could tumble from the table. The worst of the storm had passed, but the sea was still rough as the snug brig slammed into a wall of water. A pale, flickering light gleamed against the rich mahogany paneling of the captain's cabin, the lantern's glow creating an island of warmth against the stormy darkness surrounding the
Sea Dragon
, whose bow was now pitching into the trough of a wave.

“Captain, ye've hardly touched that nice breast of chicken I sautéed especially for ye,” Houston Kirby berated him as he began clearing the dishes from the captain's table. “Now look at Mister Marlowe's here, he cleaned his plate nearly through to the tabletop, that he did. Nicely brought up young gentleman he is. Always thought he was, ever since I laid me eyes on him. And despite what he's learned at your side, beggin' your pardon, m'lord, he still is a well-mannered gentleman,” Kirby continued, barely pausing for breath. “Still thanks me proper for my trouble, even now as he was hurryin' topside. Don't suppose he's seasick, d'ye? Still suffers from that, he does.” The steward sniffed as he scraped the contents of the captain's plate into a chipped china saucer. “Reckon ye purposely saved your share for him,” he grumbled with a derisive snort as he glanced over at the orange and white tabby, who was lazily stretching on the captain's berth.

After giving his whiskers an efficient wash, the cat sniffed appreciatively, hopped silently off the berth, and unhurriedly made his way to the captain's table. There, he settled himself beside the captain's chair and watched unblinkingly, with celery-colored green eyes, the little steward's every move.

“Do hope 'tis cooked to your highness's taste,” Houston Kirby said with sarcastic sweetness, his sandy brows hiked up to within a quarter of an inch of his hairline. “Looks like he's always ready for a meal. Never missed one yet, he hasn't,” muttered Kirby beneath his breath, continuing the feud that had become an everyday ritual between himself and the big tomcat. Kirby placed the saucer before the cat, whose white, furred chest looked as if a large, linen napkin had been tied around his neck in preparation for his meal.

Dante leaned back in his chair, holding the silver goblet of wine carelessly while he watched the two antagonists sparring with each other. “Well, what do you think?” he demanded suddenly.

His steward glanced up, the wet rag he'd been using to wash the table now dripping water onto his rolled-up sleeve. “Reckon he likes it well enough. Licked it clean, he did,” he replied, eyeing the cat's empty plate.

Dante grinned and rubbed the soft fur of the cat, who was now curled up on his lap. “I was not speaking about Jamaica, or how much he enjoyed his dinner. You know what I'm asking,” he continued relentlessly, despite the steward's obvious reluctance to answer his query, “Do you think we shall find treasure this time?”

Kirby gave a final swish with the damp rag, then straightened up. “Maybe. Maybe not,” he allowed finally, a frown of concentration on his face while he busied himself with stacking the tray.

“You don't sound overly enthusiastic about the prospect. You do realize what it might mean?” Dante asked softly, his gray eyes glowing strangely in the candlelight.

“Aye, m'lord,” Kirby replied evenly. “I do realize what it will mean.”

Dante smiled thoughtfully at this tactful reply. “Do you not trust me, Kirby?”

“I know ye well enough, m'lord,” Kirby said, looking directly into the captain's eyes. “Aye, that's the problem. I know ye only too well. And don't ye be forgetting, m'lord, that I helped ye into your first pair of breeches. Aye, I know ye well, cap'n. I know what ye're planning, m'lord, and it has me grievously worried, that it does.”

“Now, Kirby, you know that I am a man of discretion. I am well used to biding my time,” Dante answered, a grim tightness around his lips. “I shall be subtlety personified.”

Kirby cast the captain a doubtful glance. “Aye, ye might at that,
until
ye set eyes on the bastard's face. Then I'd not care to be in his shoes.”

“Tch, tch, Kirby.” Dante sighed, making light of the steward's doubts. “I must say I am disappointed in your lack of faith in me.”

“And I'm afeared I'm not going to be disappointed by your actions,” Kirby muttered as he stomped from the cabin, Dante's amused laughter following him even after he'd closed the door with exaggerated care.

“I think we shall not be disappointed this time, Jamaica, old boy,” Dante whispered into the sleeping cat's ear. “This time we shall find our treasure.”

Dante Leighton, captain of the
Sea Dragon
and Marquis of Jacqobi, smiled unpleasantly as he let his thoughts travel further. “Yes, you have reason not to trust me, Kirby,” he told the empty room as he continued smoothing the cat's striped fur with a firm, yet at that moment, gentle hand.