The Ransom (9 page)

“Stations for stays! Bring her about. Helms alee!” Larkin continued, sending more men scrambling over the deck. Within minutes, the ship tacked slowly about, cordage straining and blocks creaking, and the railing flirting dangerously with the rushing sea as the ship canted to starboard. Suddenly, nothing but the mad dash of water and groan of wood could be heard as sails drooped impotent, mourning their momentary loss of wind with angry flaps and flutters, only to glut themselves fully with a thunderous clap when the ship turned to catch the breeze.

“Brace up the weather yards! All canvas out!” Alex commanded. Then facing his sailing master, “Bring us to windward of them, if you please, Larkin.”

Larkin examined the Fluyt before bellowing further orders to the excited crew. Jonas appeared from below. Strapping a belt and cutlass to his hip, he nodded to Alex. Though the quartermaster made no effort to hide his disapproval of pirating, he fulfilled his duties with more heart and skill than most of the crew, fighting alongside them during battle and stitching up the injured afterward.

Close-hauled to the eastern wind and listing to starboard under the force of it, the
Vanity
rose and plunged through the turquoise waters. Sunlight pierced the clouds overhead, stabbing the scene with shafts of light as the storm retreated on the horizon.

Grabbing the backstay, Alex leapt onto the bulwarks, allowing the wind to whip him as he gazed intently at their prey. The French merchants had spotted him, and with all sail crowded in a bloated mass of grey and white, they swung about, wagging their foamy stern in defiance. No doubt they had recognized the Pirate Earl’s flag—a skull and a shield, both pierced by a sword—and were shivering in their froggish skins. Alex’s reputation as a fierce and relentless pirate spanned the entire Spanish Main.

The
Vanity
dipped into the trough of a wave, and Alex tightened his grip on the stay, closing his eyes for a moment and relishing in the wind and salty spray and the smell of life and brine and the shouts of his men. Blood dashed through his veins, his senses heightened, his dormant heart sparked to life. Had his father felt this same thrill when he’d been king of the Caribbean? Would he be proud of his only son? Or would he feel naught but shame and disgust? Most likely the latter, which leeched some of his excitement. Would that his father had remained a pirate, and he and Alex could rule these seas together. But Merrick had taken another path, devotion to an invisible God. And though Alex had started down that path, it had ended in darkness and disappointment.

Nigh an hour later, as they fast approached the much slower ship, Alex gathered the men on deck and glared down at them from his position by the helm. They were a fierce crew, some barely wet behind the ears, some who’d lived on the sea more than on land—all with greed and malice dripping from their eyes. They were filthy, fetid, sporting mismatched articles of stolen attire, and adorned with every kind of weapon known to man, the metal of which now blinked in the sunlight. But they were
his
crew. Men he had made rich, and because of that, men who obeyed his every command. At first the power had intoxicated him. But after a while, even that had become commonplace. Nevertheless, he must use that power now to keep these miscreants under control.

“You well know the articles you put your mark to when you signed on with me,” he shouted above the wind, scanning the mob and noting the faces of two men he’d recently recruited. “We are gentlemen of fortune, not savages. We are out for gold, not blood. Hence, you will avoid unnecessary violence to our dear frog friends.” Bracing his boots on the heaving deck, Alex fisted hands at his waist. “We will take their gold and silver and pearls. And if necessary, we will take them prisoner. But there will be no slaughter. Or you’ll answer to me!”

Jonas nodded his approval. Larkin crossed thick arms over his chest and scowled. And though groans of disappointment filtered through the crowd, all finally agreed.

Alex raised his cutlass in the air. “Let us be after our prey!”

“Aye! Aye!” Shouts followed as the men dispersed to their duties.

“Extinguish the galley fire. Sand the decks!” Larkin commanded.

Sails thundered in anticipation of battle. Wind whipped Alex’s shirt as he made his way to the railing to glance at their fleeing prey. He grinned. Within seconds, they’d be well on her weather quarter. Scanning the deck, he found the master gunner. “Run out the guns, if you please, Bait!”

The one-armed Negro flashed two rows of blinding white teeth at Alex before issuing orders for the gun crew to ready the ten culverins housed at intervals along the bulwarks.

A flame shot from the hull of the Fluyt, followed seconds later by a shattering
boom
!

“To the deck!” Jonas shouted, and the men dropped to the planks. All except Alex, who stood firm upon the quarterdeck, glaring at his enemy. He cared not if the shot struck him. Many a day he had begged for a cannon ball to tear him asunder. He had no fear of death. Forsooth, he welcomed it. At least it would offer a change in his otherwise meaningless existence.

The shot splashed into the sea several yards from the ship, and soon the men were on their feet flinging curses at their enemy for daring to defend herself.

“Sweep across her bow to rake her!” Alex commanded, and Larkin marched over the deck issuing commands to the topmen.

With every stitch of canvas spread, the
Vanity
swung about, pitching over endless waves. The
pop pop pop
of musket fire showered them from the Frenchmen’s tops, sending the pirates scrambling for cover. A scream drew Alex’s gaze to one of his men holding his shoulder, blood spilling down his arm. Jonas sped toward him and gazed up at Alex, who nodded his consent for the would-be physician to take him below.

White foam exploding over her bow, the
Vanity
creaked and groaned and heaved as she sped across the Fluyt’s stern.

“Fire!” Alex shouted.

The air ignited with ten blasts that shook the ship from truck to keelson. The culverins leapt back a good foot beneath the strain as smoke poured over the railing, dousing them in a stinging, blinding cloud.

Coughing and batting it aside, Alex peered toward their enemy. Shouts of anger and fright ricocheted across her decks as the Frenchmen rushed to and fro assisting their wounded. Above them, shredded canvas flapped, ropes parted, blocks hung, and jagged pieces of wood stuck out from a mizzen mast that wobbled beneath the weight. Within minutes a white flag inched its way up the main truck.

“They surrender, Captain!” Larkin shouted.

But another flag in the distance caught Alex’s eye. The Union Jack blowing in the wind from the mainmast of a Royal Navy frigate. And they were heading straight his way.

Chapter 8

Alex cursed under his breath. Where had the Navy frigate come from? ’Twas as if they’d followed him out of Port Royal. That’s three times now that one of His Majesty’s ships had come upon him while he was in the midst of capturing a prize. Such a thing happening in the vast Caribbean was unheard of. He narrowed his eyes upon the approaching enemy, gauging their speed and position. With the direction of the wind, it would take them at least an hour to tack their way to Alex’s brig. He had time to plunder the French Fluyt. Not
much
time, but he knew his men could do it. Besides, the danger of it, the risk, ignited every nerve and fiber, bringing him back to life. Finally a challenge!

“Prepare to board!” he yelled as he leapt down to the waist of the ship. The crew stood still, shifting their wide gazes between the oncoming frigate and the French merchant ship.

“I said, prepare to board! And be quick about it!” Alex all but growled.

Grumbling, his crew obeyed. Sharpshooters sped to the tops while the rest further armed themselves and prepared the grapnels.

“Bait, reload the guns,” Alex ordered the master gunner. They might need them against the frigate if time ran out.

Minutes later, the
Vanity
came alongside the Fluyt. Grappling hooks were thrown, the ships thudded together, and with cutlass drawn, Alex led his pack of pirates onto the deck of the merchant ship. He wished the French captain and his officers would have given some resistance—made things a bit more interesting—but even with the assurance of the British frigate approaching, they merely stood there, relinquishing their weapons and cowering like puppies. No doubt they believed the Royal Navy would capture the pirates and return their goods forthwith.

Obviously, they had not had the pleasure of an encounter with the Pirate Earl.

Alex grew bored. So terribly bored. He took up a position leaning against the rail while some of his crew guarded the French and the rest did what they did best—plundered the treasure below. Within a half hour, all the silver, jewels, valuable foodstuffs, spirits, and anything else they could sell for pieces of eight were hoisted above and carried to the
Vanity
. Thankfully there were no females on board, for Alex did not relish the thought of protecting them from his men. Though he did have to restrain a few pirates from harming a foolish French sailor who dared to spit at them as they passed.

Alex raised his scope to the oncoming enemy, when a gush of French stung his ears. “He will catch you and kill you, filthy pirate.”

Lowering his glass, Alex eyed the captain of the French ship, a man too young to fully understand the threat he was facing. Slight of figure and sharp of chin, he raised a haughty nose toward Alex.

Alex responded in fluent French, “The Pirate Earl is never filthy, Monsieur, and neither will he
ever
be caught.” Enjoying the surprise registering in the man’s eyes at Alex’s command of the language, Alex raised his scope again, focusing on the commander of the frigate. Lud, what devilment was this? He’d recognize that sturdy stance and grim face anywhere. ’Twas the idiot, Captain Nichols. Egad, the man was relentless! Would his grudge against Alex never cease? Cursing, he slammed his scope shut.

Larkin approached, the greed in his eyes of only moments ago transformed into fear. “Captain, we should leave.”

Alex agreed. “Back to the ship, men!” he bellowed.

The crew happily complied, bidding adieu and tossing insults upon their victims as they hoisted armfuls of goods back to the
Vanity
. Alex leapt from the Fluyt to his own deck, regretting not having time to take the merchant ship as prize. Grapnel lashings were cut as the remaining pirates scrambled over the bulwarks.

“Lay aloft and loose main sail! Hoist away royals and jib!”

The crew scattered to do his bidding, and within minutes the
Vanity’s
sails were raised, seeking the wind as the brig inched away from the Fluyt. With their guns flooded with water and their weapons confiscated, the defanged French could do naught but watch.

The Royal Navy was another story.

Bearing down on them at full speed, the frigate fired a shot from their bow swivels. It pounded the air and skipped across the sea just short of the
Vanity
’s larboard quarter.

Finally the
Vanity
’s sails caught the wind with a deafening crack as each canvas spread to the favoring breeze, full and taut. The brig tacked to larboard and shot a stream of seawater off her starboard quarter toward their enemy. Alex smiled. The fastest ship on the Caribbean!

Another boom labored from the frigate, but once again the shot slipped impotent into the sea. Bracing his boots on the canting deck, Alex turned a haughty eye toward his enemy. He needed no spyglass to see the fury twisting Nichols’s face as he paced the quarterdeck spouting orders to his crew. Halting, he raised a scope toward Alex as another jet of flame and thunder of a shot cracked the air. This time, the splash lagged even farther off
Vanity
’s stern.

Removing his plumed hat, Alex gave a leg and dipped a flourishing bow toward his archenemy. He could almost hear Nichols growl in fury—almost. When he righted himself, he gave a salute before turning and heading toward the main deck.

“Proud of yourself?” Jonas joined him, his shirt splattered with maroon stains.

“Yes,” Alex returned, raising a brow at the blood. “How is Milford?”

“He will live. This time.” Jonas drew Alex to the railing away from the pirates, some of whom were already passing around rum in celebration. “But how many more lives will be lost to satisfy your lust for adventure?”

“’Tis not my lust alone, but the way of pirates.”

“But you don’t even need the treasure, nor the—”

“I do it because I’m good at it,” Alex interrupted, his anger simmering. “Because it is who my father was and who I am. I do it because I am free to do it should I choose. I need no other reason. If you detest it so, why sail with me?”

Jonas rubbed the back of his neck and gazed at his friend with amused irritation. “Call it fate, call it God, but I fear my destiny is to be by your side, Alex. Think of me as your conscience.”