Bound by the Heart (47 page)

"Then we must assume she is
still being held against her will. Unfortunately Mr. Glasse's reports have been
somewhat incoherent. In any case, we must also assume she is still very much
alive and in need of a merciful return to the bosom of her family."

Ashton-Smythe met the cold, pale
eyes of his commander. He knew Winfield would go after the
Chimera
whether he
had a justifiable excuse or not. Just as he knew, suddenly, that Mrs. Winfield
was no more a hostage than Morgan Wade was guilty of the murder thirteen years
ago.

."I'm afraid I have no
knowledge of the conditions on the
Chimera
after the confrontation," he
said. "But the ship did not appear to suffer much damage to her hull,
so—"

"So I may assume that wherever
Wade is holding my wife and child, they are safe?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Let us hope they remain
that way. I have a burning desire to see my wife alive again." Bennett
flipped a thumbnail to the catch of his pocket watch. "You estimate he has
four hours on us, give or take?"

"He wasted no time when the
calm lifted."

"And damn my luck in
approaching Martinique from the west. We could have had him a day sooner. As it
is, he'll be heading north for Bounty Key. Two damaged ships shouldn't be too
difficult to spot on the horizon." Bennett finished the last swallow of brandy
and stood up. "You will naturally remain on board the
Caledonia
...
in an advisory capacity."

"My men, sir?"

"De Ville has assured me they
will be treated hospitably until such time as we return for them."

"Yes, sir."

"Now if you will excuse me,
I'm told Glasse has been asking to see me again. Poor man. The doctor tells me
he won't live out the night." Bennett paused at the door and looked back.
"You should clean yourself up, Captain. Have that hand treated properly
and see the ship's barber. I would as soon not have my men or my officers
reminded of your recent debacle."

Chapter 27

A
n urgent clanging
of the ship's bell brought Morgan boltupright in bed,
instantly awake. Summer took a moment to rub the sleep from her eyes, and in
that moment Wade had pulled on his breeches and stamped his feet into his boots
and was out the cabin door. Summer dressed quickly and was not far behind,
amazed at how easily her stomach churned with fresh panic.

The gunports were opened as she reached the deck, the
lashings were off the cannon and the cork tompions were removed from the iron
muzzles. The bright sunlight revealed the scars from the battle with the
Northgate,
and Summer could not help but
wonder if the
Chimera
would ever regain her beauty and polished grace.

Summer ran along the quarterdeck toward the bridge,
searching for signs of what had caused the alarm, but saw nothing beyond blue
sky and dazzlingly clear water. Mr. Monday was talking to Morgan in a rapid
undertone; Morgan in turn was staring along the brass spyglass, holding it
steady on some point in the distance. From the look on his face, Summer knew it
had to be the
Caledonia.
Mr. Monday fell silent beside him, and Mr. Phillips
clenched his fists and leaned on the rail.

It was not until she heard the faint, muffled pounding
that she whirled around quickly and understood the grimness on the men's faces.

"Michael
...
is it the
Gyrfalcon?"

Her brother tore his eyes away from the two small sets
of sails on the horizon. "She fell back during the night. Captain Bull
kept lighting signals that he was all right, that the sea was clear behind him,
and then
...
he just turned away
suddenly and
..."

Summer felt the deck tilt and realized, with a second
jolt, that the
Chimera
was tacking sharply about. On Morgan's order Mr.
Phillips shouted for more sail, and Summer was pressed back against the
bulkhead as men clambered past her and swarmed up into the rigging. She was
close enough to overhear what was being said on the half deck above her.

"It will take an hour, maybe more to reach
her," Morgan cursed.

"Why didn't Captain Treloggan signal, sir?"

"I don't know, Mr. Phillips. But you can be sure
I intend to find out. Can we work up any more speed?"

"We're fully rigged as it is, sir. We haven't an
empty yard anywhere."

"Then we'll have to lighten her," Morgan
decided. "Put some strong backs on the winch and off-load those bloody
crates of copper. Get a pump in the stern and do the same with most of the
drinking water. I want three more knots by the end of the hour."

"Aye, sir," Mr. Phillips said and vaulted
down the ladder.

"Dammit, Monday, Jamie had a good question. I'll
kill Bull myself when I lay my hands on him if he doesn't have a damn good
explanation."

"Mebbe he fink he givin' us a chance to get
away," Mr. Monday said. "Mebbe he know two ships woan make it."

Morgan's jaw tensed and he raised the glass, sweeping
it across the horizon. "Where the devil are we, anyway?"

"Bird Island's over there," Monday grunted,
pointing westward.

Morgan took a deep breath and cursed. Bird Island was
a favorite rendezvous point for smugglers and privateers, and the chances of
stumbling across a British revenue cutter were excellent.

Mr. Monday only grinned and shrugged.

Morgan lowered the glass and looked down, seeing
Michael standing in the shadow of the bridge and beside him, Summer.

"You'd better go below," he ordered harshly.
"Both of you."

"Sir?" Michael frowned and turned away from
the deck rail. "You said I was part of the crew now."

"We're headed into a fight, boy. This is no time
for games."

Michael's cheeks flushed angrily. "I know it's
not a game, sir. But I recall you saying once that every man on board your ship
had to pull his own weight; there could be no special treatment for
anyone—including a governor's son. Well, sir, I am not the governor's son any
longer. I am a full member of your crew. As such I
...
I demand to be treated the s-same way. I am not afraid to
fight the
Caledonia.
You won't
regret hiring me on."

Morgan's eyes had narrowed during
the breathless speech, and now they widened in an expression intimating he was
dangerously close to the edge of his patience.
"Hired
you?"

"Yes, sir. I should expect to
share in the prize when we take her."

The dark blue eyes flicked to
Summer. Instead of finding support, he was met by a proud smile and a similar
calm defiance.

"Mr. Monday," he growled
under his breath, "take your new powderboy down and explain what his
duties will be."

Mr. Monday chuckled dryly and left
the bridge.

."Thank you, sir,"
Michael cried. "You won't be sorry."

"Mr. Cambridge, we put men to
death for even looking pale on board this ship. You may be sure
I'll
not be
sorry about anything. Do we understand each other?"

Michael returned the penetrating
gaze for a moment, then swallowed hard. "Aye, sir."

"As for you"—Morgan's
attention shifted to Summer after Michael was led away by Mr. Monday—"I'll
deal with your obstinacy once and for all when this is over."

"Yes, Captain. Is that a
promise?"

"It is, by God."

"Then I look forward to it,
sir," she said. "Eagerly."

* * *

The
Gyrfalcon
was reeling
under the amount of shot raking across her hull. The upper deck was caught in a
terrible deluge that rained iron and fragments of lead from exploding canisters
of grapeshot. The dead and dying were strewn about the bloody planking, and her
defenses had withdrawn to the shielded lower gun deck, where incredibly enough,
the gunners were still maintaining a steady reply to the
Caledonia's
onslaught.
The battle was forty minutes old, already twice as long as Commodore Winfield
had confidently predicted it would take to destroy the privateer.

Bull Treloggan refused to leave the
bridge of his ship. He roared as many oaths across the span of ocean dividing
the two ships as his cannon retorted with shot. Twice he had to drag bodies
away from the wildly spinning wheel and guide the helm himself until a
replacement appeared. Five, six, seven shots from the Royal Marine
sharpshooters zinged close to his head, and three times his body staggered as
eighteen pounds of iron gouged through the deck within arm's reach. He merely
threw his head back
and bellowed the louder for the insult; cursing the
Britons' aim, cursing their training, cursing their lack of nerve to come too
close to the
Gyrfalcon.
He was bare-chested, and his skin shone from the
rivulets of blood where flying fragments had sliced into him. His face streamed
sweat, his beard glittered; both hands were burned raw from loading and firing
hot cannon.

He blessed Stuart Roarke each time he heard the
deep-bellied explosions from the four sixty-four-pound carronades his
son-in-law had mounted on the lower deck for him last year. They had already
worn a dent in the
Caledonia's
arrogant striped hull and had slashed her masts and
rigging so that the panther's maneuverability had been vastly reduced. Like a
feisty terrier, the
Gyrfalcon
made use of her lightness and greater speed to attack,
fall back, attack, to circle around and attack again. Bull did not stay in
position long enough for the
Caledonia's
precision gunners to aim let alone unleash anything
near to her capabilities. And their frustration was showing in the poor
marksmanship, in the haste with which they attempted to reload and fire.

Unlike the decking Roarke had specially reinforced to
withstand a pounding, the black panther was catching each heavy shell the
Gyrfalcon
spat at her and was suffering
damage on all decks. Twice the shots landed so close to the outer skin that her
ports were blown from the inside and the cannon tipped out and into the sea. It
did nothing to impede the deadly eruptions from the three full decks of cannon,
but it struck a proud chord in Bull's heart to see the mighty giant feeling
more than just the annoying bite and scratch it had expected.

The
Chimera
came in fast before the wind and reduced to fighting
sail as she sidled into position. Bull's crew cheered feverishly as she
commenced heavy fire from all of her guns, even though she was beyond the range
Wade preferred. But she earned the panther's attention, and the
white-and-navy-clad officers on the
Caledonia's
bridge could be seen redirecting the helmsmen to bring
her about and line her guns on the new arrival, giving Bull's men a much-needed
breather.

Wade's big twenty-fours were aimed and fired without a
visible break in the clouds of smoke. The
Caledonia
responded vigorously with her
thirty-two-pounders, heavier guns but not as accurate against a fast-moving
target. The
Chimera
cut in swiftly, moving out again too quickly for the
British gunlayers to compensate.
 
Even so,
she caught more than a fair share of direct hits, and Winfield praised his men
as he saw Wade's foresails hanging in tatters. He pursued the privateer, hoping
for an opportunity to cross Wade's bow and deliver a broadside similar to the
one that had so unnerved the gunners of the
Northgate.
Wade saw
what the commodore was about and pulled sharply up into the wind, ordering his
headsails backed so that his ship glided to a dead halt in the water. Instead
of ending up in front of the
Chimera
as planned, Winfield found his
broader, slower ship head-on to Wade's port battery. The Yankee gunners blasted
the length of the
Caledonia,
managing five scorching rounds in
all before Winfield could correct his fatal miscalculation.

Both ships veered onto parallel
courses, firing as fast as their guns could be swabbed, loaded and discharged.
Wade sheered off again and crossed behind the panther's stern, this time
ordering double shot up against the masts and rigging. The
Gyrfalcon,
meanwhile,
had limped up beside the
Caledonia
and resumed pouring into her with
the awesome carronades.

Two shots arced simultaneously at
the British ship's stern gallery windows, shattering the carved trim and
sending a spray of exploding glass out into the sea. Moments later yellow
tongues of fire snaked from the gaping wound, along with billowing clouds of
black smoke. The frigate was beginning to handle poorly, beginning to lumber
and roll in the troughs created by her own recoils.

Wade and Treloggan managed to take
the
Caledonia
in two more devastating cross fires, turning her decks into
shambles and blowing away the braces that held her remaining foresails aloft.
The yards holding the sails gave and fell like axed trees, dropping men and
canvas into the ocean. One of her light carronades was blasted from the
quarterdeck and flew across the breadth of the ship, carrying the bloody pieces
of three crewmen with it.

The
Chimera
tacked away
to give the crew a chance to clear the smoke and debris from underfoot. The
Gyrfalcon
followed
Wade's lead, peeling away from the
Caledonia's
wake and ploughing drunkenly back
across her own wash. The British ship, unable to mount any fresh canvas,
maintained a steady crawl forward while her officers screamed for makeshift
repairs.