Sea Fire (33 page)

“What, that Harold might not like it?” he questioned coldly.

“That the baby might be stillborn,” Cathy corrected, her eyes beginning to snap. “As you know very well, you swine! How you can suggest such a thing about your own child?”

“Which you’ll never persuade me to believe,” Jon interpolated, his voice hard.

“Won’t I?” Cathy’s head was tilted way back as she stood glaring angrily up into his set face. Her hair flowed in a rippling golden river down her back, and her pale skin glistened with the sheen put
on it by the mist. Her eyes had brightened with temper to a sparkling cobalt, and her arms were akimbo as she faced him down. Jon, growing angrier by the minute, admired her nevertheless. Big with child, dressed in garments that were little better than rags, her nose shining and her bright hair dulled by the day’s dampness, she was beautiful. His heart suddenly speeded up, and he cursed it silently. Would she always affect him this way? Would he never be free of the hold she had on his senses?

“No, you won’t,” he growled, madder at himself than her. “You. . . .”

What he had been going to say was never uttered. It was buried forever by a ringing cry from somewhere high in the rigging.

“Sail, ho!”

“Where away?” Jon instantly bellowed in reply, all thought of his ongoing quarrel with Cathy vanishing in an instant. Any sail was a cause for anxiety. If it was not the Sheikh, it could well be the Royal Navy, or even a pirate vessel, although God knew that pickings on the
Cristobel
would be slim.

“Off to starboard!”

Jon immediately swung around to stare off to his right, as did everyone else on the deck. He, and they, could see nothing but an endless expanse of dull silver water, broken up by dense patches of darker gray like thick wads of cotton wool. The ship, or ships, if indeed they existed, were totally hidden by the fog.

“Where are you going?” Cathy demanded, grabbing at his arm as he would have moved away from her. Jon looked down at her with a frown, clearly abstracted.

“Up in the rigging. I have to see. . . .” his voice trailed off, but Cathy let him go. She suddenly realized the danger of their position. She didn’t know which would be worse, to be overtaken by the Sheikh’s men, or the Royal Navy. At least, in the latter case, she
would be spared, and perhaps she could help Jon and the others. . . . But it was more than likely that she was growing unnecessarily alarmed, Cathy comforted herself. If there was a ship, it was probably a harmless freighter.

Pulling himself to a vantage point high atop the main mast, Jon stared off to starboard. He was above the mist, and he could see. . . . There it was—one, no, two of them, frigates both, less than three hours away, he would figure at a guess. The fog had allowed them to draw close. And the worst thing about it was that they were flying the unmistakable red, white, and blue emblem of Her Britannic Majesty’s navy.

Lowering himself hand over hand down the pole, Jon thought furiously. There was little doubt that the
Cristobel
had been spotted. Victoria’s sailors were some of the finest in the world, not like his own lackadaisical crew. And they would be equipped with the most up-to-date of spyglasses—to say nothing of guns. The next question was, would they recognize the
Cristobel
as a mutineed prison ship? It was possible, after all, that their presence in this part of the world was mere coincidence. But not likely. Jon admitted the fact to himself with a tightening of all his muscles. No, it was best to acknowledge it: the way those frigates were heading straight toward her, it was more than likely that the
Cristobel
was their prey.

All right, given that, what was best to do? As he saw it, they had three choices: surrender, flight, or fight. With the
Cristobel
’s few guns and inexperienced crew, fighting the heavily armed frigates would be tantamount to suicide, and with Cathy aboard it was something that he couldn’t contemplate with any degree of fortitude. If the frigates had a mind to do it, they could blow the
Cristobel
out of the water with one salvo, and all aboard her would die. Fighting was out of the question. But surrender also had little appeal, not only for himself but for the men. They would hang along with him, and not for the crimes for which they had been sentenced. Mutiny was punishable
by death, and Jon didn’t think that the frigates’ captain would be content to wait until he got them back to England to have the sentence carried out. No, he would be far more likely to order them strung up at once, from the rigging, using as his judge and jury the law of the sea.

Clearly the only thing to do was to outrun their pursuers. If they could. Jon, remembering the
Cristobel
’s unwieldy lines, felt a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. He didn’t think they could do it.

But he tried. With a few terse words he told the men what they faced, and then rigged up as much canvas as she could carry. Using every ounce of sailing knowledge he possessed, he sent the
Cristobel
scuttling before the wind. The fog was a blessing, he thought, concealing their exact whereabouts. But even as Jon thanked God for it, the fog began to lift.

Cathy, white-faced, stayed on the quarterdeck throughout the afternoon, although Jon tried more than once to send her below. She knew by the silent desperation in the movements of the men that the
Cristobel
’s chances of escape were not good. Jon had forborne to tell her the almost certain fate he and the rest of the men faced if captured, so Cathy was spared worrying about that. She was able to comfort herself with the thought that she was an English lady of quality, after all, and if they should be taken, she had only to do what she could to ease Jon’s imprisonment until they reached England, when she could hopefully turn to her father—or even, if necessary, Harold—for aid.

The fog lifted as suddenly as it had arisen. One moment they were shrouded in a dense gray cloak, and the next the sun shone down on water veiled by only a few thin wisps. Cathy, following Jon’s grim glance, was surprised to see the frigates so close. Suddenly she was quite, quite certain that the
Cristobel
was not going to be able to get away.

“Go to my cabin, and stay there,” Jon ordered grimly, his eyes expressionless. “Don’t
come out for any reason. If there’s need, I’ll fetch you myself.”

“Jon. . . .” Cathy began softly, wanting to let him know that he could count on her help if they should be taken. He silenced her with a fierce frown.

“I said, go to the cabin!” he ordered harshly. Cathy forgave his tone because of the bleakness of his face. He was worried. She started to do as he said, then hesitated. Swiftly she stood on tiptoe, her hand against his sandpaper cheek as she pressed her lips to his hard mouth. For just an instant he was motionless under the soft caress, and then his arms came around her, crushing her to him in a desperate embrace. His mouth moved hotly on hers, seeming to want to record its imprint for all time. Cathy returned his kiss with fervor, knowing all at once that she loved him despite everything. Then, suddenly, he pushed her almost roughly away.

“Get to the cabin!” he said again, his eyes wintry, and then turned on his heel and strode away.

Cathy did as he ordered—for a little while. But it wasn’t long before waiting, not knowing what was going on, became more than she could stand. She had to see. Stealthily she left the cabin, taking care to stay in the shadow of the overhang so that Jon couldn’t see her from the quarterdeck. She would stay outside for just a minute, and then she would go back.

The frigates were almost directly astern now, and closing fast. Cathy stared at the huge, flatbottomed ships, her eyes widening as she saw and recognized the dozens of cannon set along their sides. The
Cristobel
would be helpless against such adversaries! She thought about the inevitable taking of Jon and the others, and wanted to cry.

Jon, on the quarterdeck, watched the rapidly approaching warships with a face that could have been carved from granite. It was not the first time that he had watched an enemy in a faster, better-armed vessel drawing ever closer like a shark for the kill, but, with Cathy on board and the lives of all those on the
Cristobel
dependent upon what he
decided to do, it was the worst. Not that there was much of a decision to make: if they fought, all aboard would perish, while if they surrendered, at least Cathy and the other women would survive.

Never before in his life had Jon surrendered without a fight, and it went very much against the grain for him to do so. But with three ancient cannon and only two men, besides himself, who knew how to fire them, the cause was hopeless before it was launched. He knew the men would disagree, since, like himself, they faced certain death if they were taken prisoner. But it was his decision, as captain, to make, and he knew that he had already made it: for Cathy’s sake, the
Cristobel
would not fight.

One of the frigates, separated from the
Cristobel
by perhaps a quarter mile of sea, began to draw alongside. Jon noted the name
Four
Winds
emblazoned on her side. She was close enough that he could see men scurrying like ants across her deck. He saw what looked like preparations to fire cannon, and frowned. Probably they just intended to pop a warning shot across the
Cristobel
’s bow as a way of telling her to give up quietly. But still, it never hurt to take precautions. . . .

“O’Reilly, tell Logan and Berry to prepare those cannon for firing. Quickly, and as unobtrusively as possible.”

“Aye, Captain!”

The men were unaware that he had decided to surrender, and they were not likely to be overjoyed, Jon reflected grimly, setting himself up so that he could shoot any who tried to storm the quarterdeck. A mutiny attempt was entirely to be expected. Not that it had any chance of succeeding. He had been in this position before, and he knew what he was about.

Jon primed both pistols, and thrust them into his belt. He placed two more, loaded and ready, on a barrel within easy reach. He would have no compunction about shooting these men, whether or not they were under his command. One way or another, they were already as good as dead. He had Cathy to think about. And
think about her he did, as he stared with steely eyes at the steadily approaching vessels.

One frigate was still well astern when the other drew directly alongside. The time for fight or flight was at hand, and Jon prepared to order a white flag to be run up the mast.

A cannon boomed. Jon, watching the arching trajectory designed to show them that resistance was useless, thought grimly that the time was upon him. He opened his mouth to roar out their surrender—and it stayed open in sheer surprise. Because that deadly black sphere was not arching harmlessly past the
Cristobel
’s bow, as he had expected. Instead, it was headed right for her crowded deck!

It landed with a burst of fire. The sound of the explosion mingled with the screams of the
Cristobel
’s crew. Jon, cursing steadily under his breath, headed for the main deck at a dead run. It looked as if the frigates weren’t going to give them a choice: they clearly meant to blow the
Cristobel
out of the water!

“Logan, Berry, man those cannon!” Jon roared, heading for the forward one himself. “Frazier, to the wheel! O’Reilly, you take about half the men and be ready to put out fires! The rest of you gather up any kind of iron you can find—nails, anything!—that we can use to load these cannon! Move! For your lives!”

Sweating, cursing, he was loading the forward cannon, ramming home the charge, when the side of the
Four
Winds
seemed to explode in a burst of black smoke as perhaps half-a-dozen cannon fired. The balls found their target in the
Cristobel
’s starboard side. The prison ship screamed as the missiles tore through her flesh with a roar like thunder.
The men caught below screamed, too.

Jon closed his ears to the piteous cries of the wounded, and set his own cannon alight. It coughed, belching smoke, as it expelled its shell, kicking back so hard in its leather harness that it almost knocked him down. Grimly he wrestled it back into position, barely remarking
that his first ball had done slight damage to the
Four Winds
’ prow. Again he rammed home the shot and set the cannon alight. Again it fired.

Behind him men were yelling, some screaming in pain, running hither and yon across the deck as they tried to put out the fires caused by the warship’s salvos. Jon knew the scene would be mass confusion, but he determinedly closed his mind to it. For now, his job was that of gunner, not captain. O’Reilly would have to direct the men. He concentrated on blowing the
Four Winds
to hell.

The huge frigate was getting into position for another broadside. Jon knew what she was about, and signalled to Logan and Berry at the other cannon. They had to coordinate their shots. He loaded his cannon, looked down and saw that the two men were ready, then lowered his hand. The three cannon boomed, simultaneously. Jon, watching their effect out of the corner of his eye as he struggled to get his gun ready to fire again, saw that one ball missed, one hit and caused slight damage, and the other tore a hole in the
Four Winds
’ side.

The frigate was not long in replying. The full force of her dozen side cannon roared louder than any thunder clap Jon had ever heard. The missiles caught the
Cristobel
broadside. One brought down the mizzen. Jon could hear it crashing to the deck, hear the shrieks of men crushed by its weight. Jon scooped up the scrap brought him by his men, and rammed it into the cannon’s mouth. By damn, if they wanted carnage, he’d give them carnage!

A savage smile curved his mouth as he set the charge alight. He’d seen this trick—peppering the deck of an enemy ship with shrapnel, each sliver of metal having the force of a bullet—used by the canniest pirates ever to sail the sea. He’d even used it a time or two himself. Now it was worth its weight in gold.