Crimson Rapture

Justin
Phillips's unconventional height allowed him to stare out a rectangular hole in
his prison cell to observe a pair of worn black boots belonging to a young lady
strolling on deck. A hemline of heavy black bombazine material brushed the tips
of the small boots and told him she was in mourning, wearing widow's weeds. She
stopped in front of his only opening to the outside world and she turned toward
the sea to stare at the expansive blue space there, and for this seemingly
insignificant freedom, he envied her.

Unlike
the other twenty-three civilian passengers aboard the HMS
Defiant
traveling
to Australia, Christina Ann Marks had not been able to nap during this the
hottest part of the day, and, always inclined toward optimism, she stepped out
on deck in hopes of finding a breeze. She knew it was probably ill-advised to
stroll on deck unescorted, without benefit of chaperon or companion—the act
could in fact incite comment—and had the air in her tiny cabin not been so insufferably
stifling, she would have remained below deck, content with her solitude and a
cherished copy of Marvel.

Unfortunately,
it was as stifling above as below and not a breeze stirred. The proud British
naval ship stood motionless on the smooth blanket of blue ocean beneath a
cloudless azure sky and the air remained unnaturally still, exactly as it had
been for the past four days. A weather condition the crew called the doldrums.
The ship's normally ceaseless rocking motion was gone too and the great ship's
sails hung lifeless from its three tall masts. Like a ghost ship, she thought.

The
quiet was also complete. Small waves gently lapped against the side of the ship
and she could hear her own soft breaths, somewhat labored in the oppressive
heat and the cruel tightness of her stays. The sudden sound of a small mouse
scurrying along the deck startled her, and she turned, washed in a hot wave of
brief panic.

Never
in all her seventeen years had she been so hot! The heavy black dress, weighted
with a cumbersome petticoat of thick crinoline, absorbed the relentless sun
like a magnifying glass. Small beads of perspiration tickled her unmercifully.
Her boots felt like braces and she was acutely aware of her feet swelling in
protest, crying for freedom. She untied the black ribbon of her bonnet, stole
the hat from her head, and began to fan her flushed face, thinking with a sad
longing of the carefree windy days roaming the green hills, meadows, and woods
of her home, Hollingsborne, in Kent.

Abruptly
seized with an irresistible idea, she bit her lip and anxiously looked in both
directions for passersby. The ship seemed deserted and not even a crew member
was in sight. With no further hesitation, she plopped down on the deck and
began removing her boots and stockings.

Justin
knew he had reached the limit of human deprivation when the highlight of his
day was watching the young lady unlace and slip off her boots, then her
stockings. He was shown a brief glimpse of two slender legs and pale white
feet, pinched red where they had rubbed against the boots. He watched her toes
wiggle with their new freedom, heard a sigh of contentment, and he chuckled.

"I
would say... oh, perhaps seventeen or eighteen years old, much too slender and
small for my taste and from the looks of your hands, I suspect you have fair
features—which some might find pleasing to look at, if it only weren't for your
mousy brown hair. Unfortunately—and I'm hardly surprised considering how my
luck's been running—I prefer my women tall, dark, and exotic."

With
a sudden pounding of her heart, Christina looked down both sides of the
deserted deck, then toward the heavens and, not finding anyone or anything, she
concluded her mind had finally collapsed under the burden of her grief. She was
about to run off for the ship's surgeon when the sound of his amusement forced
her eyes to the small hole at her feet. A pair of dark blue eyes laughed back
at her.

"You!"
she accused and rather breathlessly. "You spoke to me!"

"Slow
wits to boot," he observed. "Too bad, I was hoping you might make up
in conversation what you lack in appearance.

So
stunned that the prisoner dared speak to her, Christina took a full minute to
grasp the nature of his insults. "Why... why, I never—"

Justin
chuckled again, shaking his head. "Close your mouth, sweetheart, it's
unladylike."

Her
hand flew to her open mouth, her large gray eyes widened enormously. She
glanced around the deck in search of the quickest escape route, but spotted a
wooden bucket of water instead. She wasted neither a thought nor a second.

Justin
howled his surprise as the blessed relief of cool water splashed over his face,
down the wide expanse of his bare chest. Nothing could have felt better to him.
Nothing with the possible exception of turning the young lady over his knee.

* * * * *

Tension
marked Captain Forester's tanned, weathered face and showed in his rigid
carriage, as, with telescope to eye, he straightened to his full height and
began a routine search of the horizon.

Colonel
Carrington, the first officer, stood next to him, gathering all his small
patience not to show a certain bemusement. Bemusement resting on the border of
scorn. Which in itself was unusual, for his captain rarely solicited any
unfavorable judgments from his men, much less scorn.

Captain
Forester's long career had been illustrious; he was considered one of the
finest officers in His Majesty's royal navy and this despite rumors of Irish
ancestry. Not only had he been decorated for valorous conduct numerous times,
most noteworthy during the great Admirals Jervis and Nelson's campaign against
France and Spain in the battle of Saint Vincent, but his men considered him
exceptionally fair and worthy of respect; few would willingly sail with anyone
else.

The
captain lowered his glass, though kept his narrowed gaze on the distance.
"Nothing but empty ocean, vast and endless and barren."

"I
daresay, it shall remain that way," Carrington added with but a bare hint
of exasperation.

The
captain turned to his subordinate and stared unkindly, seeing the tall lean
man's reckless confidence, the sentiments he was trying to hide.

The
colonel in turn shifted uncomfortably under such scrutiny. "With all due
respect, sir," he sought to explain, "I can't help but believe your
fears are unfounded."

"A
fool's wish," the captain replied bluntly. "Believe me, young man, it
is just a matter of time. Justin Phillips's ships—two, maybe three, of the
boldest sailing ships known—are out there and, at this very moment, held
motionless by the exact same weather. And we shall see them at first
wind."

"Perhaps
the swine had abandoned their leader," he suggested. "After all, one
hardly expects a virtue such as loyalty from such disreputable creatures."

"That's
precisely what my superiors thought when I tried to warn them. But no, the
collective concern from the king down to the magistrates officiating at Mr.
Phillips's trial was expedience. Get the wretched matter over as quickly as
possible before popular opinion turned completely to make Mr. Phillips into a
hero, some kind of modern-day Robin Hood."

"A
hero?" Carrington questioned incredulously. "That bastard is the
basest of criminals, a notorious traitor to both his country and his heritage,
operating from the lowest principle of self-interest. He's made a fine fortune
pirating anything with a British or French flag, playing both sides against the
other; playing us for fools!" And the worst crime as far as he was
concerned, "Profiting off the war!"

"And
getting away with it." Captain Forester pointed out. Justin Phillips
indeed had played both countries for a pack of bloody fools, amassing a fortune
doing it. England was at war with France and both countries desperately
depended on American shipping for supplies. There were demands in both
countries for anything an American ship could hold, especially munitions. Each
country, in turn, had outlawed American shipping to the other country. Besides
outraging the citizens of the young republic, all this had done was create
ideal conditions for any man bold enough to risk smuggling. Justin Phillips was
such a man. He had started off as a smuggler, quickly making a fortune and
quadrupling the number of his ships.