Captive Splendors (18 page)

Bascom's eyes were dangerously cold when he stumbled to his feet. As cold and malignant as a snake's. It was just as well Wren couldn't see them from this distance. If she had, she would not have slept a wink that night.

 

One day ran into the next, with Wren becoming more hostile toward the ranting preacher. He forbade her to go topside with the others for the usual afternoon airing; instead, he made her kneel for hours on end, although she refused to pray aloud. If it were the last thing she did before she died, she would make Caleb pay for the humiliation Bascom was making her suffer. It wasn't as if she didn't believe in God—she did—and she prayed daily in her own way. Unfortunately, she thought morosely, He wasn't seeing fit to answer her prayers. She would have to take matters into her own hands, as she had done in Malcolm's room when she had killed the card player and wounded Malcolm.

The body stench in the close confines of the hold was making her nauseous, and she had seen Sara vomit more than once. Bad weather had prevented Bascom from taking his flock topside for its daily allotment of fresh air. Wren was sick of it all. She was sick of Bascom, sick of Sara with her vacant eyes, sick of Mrs. Stoneham and her simpering expression. Only Lydia, Bascom's wife, appeared to be normal —or what passed for normal, Wren thought. Lydia had given up her airing three days ago and knelt with Wren in the position of prayer. Later she had tried to explain her husband to Wren, who had scoffed at her. Tears had gathered in Lydia's hyacinth eyes and she had gone on to say Bascom was different and that one had to get used to his strange ways.

“Never!” Wren had exploded. “He's insane. Why do you put up with him?”

Lydia had cried, great heart-rending sobs, and said she had nowhere to go and no one to turn to. Bascom provided a roof over her head and food for her stomach.

“But there's more to life than a roof and food,” Wren had protested. “You're young and healthy and strong. There are other men who would take care of you and love you. Take Peter, for instance. I've seen the way he looks at you when he brings us food.”

When Lydia had returned to the other side of their quarters to see to Sara, who was retching wildly, Wren had sighed and blessed herself. “The devil made me do it, God. She deserves better than that fanatic. Help her. If You can't see Your way to helping me, then help Lydia.”

Now, satisfied with repeating these same prayers, Wren settled back into a sitting position, withdrew her deck of cards and looked at the colorful squares. Damnation. Here she had the tools to win a fortune, and she was locked up like a common criminal. If she could just figure out a way to get her hands on Bascom's hoard of money, she would be set for life. The heavy pouch of gold he kept tied around his waist was the only thing that prevented him from going over the side of the quarterdeck rail in a strong wind. He was so thin and brittle that he would have taken to the wind like a dry leaf. Besides getting even with Caleb, Wren promised herself that somehow she would leave the ship with Bascom's cache. Lydia had said that as soon as he reached America he was going to have a stonemason carve his likeness for his new church. America didn't need a likeness of Bascom, not if she had the real thing. If Wren could persuade Lydia to bolt, she would share Bascom's wealth with her. The idea seemed more than fair to Wren, and she smirked to herself as she slid the deck of cards into her pocket.

The
Sea Siren
rode high on the waves as she dipped and rocked amid the white-capped peaks. Although it was high noon, the sky was black and threatening, the wind buffeting wildly. Caleb cast an anxious eye at the crow's-nest and the man in it trying valiantly to gain a secure hold on the rigging. All hands kept their eyes peeled on Caleb, knowing instinctively by a nod, a shrug, a movement of his leg, what he wanted them to do, since his voice couldn't carry over the wind.

All thoughts fled from Caleb's mind as the storm gained in intensity. He felt strangely exhilarated by the force of the elements and knew he had a battle on his hands. The tang of the salt air was like a balm as he gripped the wheel, the wind howling through the rigging and the close-reefed sails. Gigantic swells, whipped into curly white combers by the gale, rolled in continuously from the north. Spindrift flew in flakes, stinging his face as he fought to master the wheel. Hands gripping the slick, stout mechanism, which was nearly as tall as he, Caleb stood erect, man and ship brazening nature. Lightning flashed, illuminating the dark, spectral clouds scudding across the sky. Rain had not yet begun to pelt the decks, but it was out there, waiting. Making ready for the onslaught, Caleb lashed himself to the wheel as Sirena had taught him to do.

Minutes seemed hours and hours an eternity. The storm now raged in full fury. Blinded by the savage downpour, Caleb kept the ship true to her heading. His body was battered by the elements; his hair beat against his face and twisted about his neck like insistent, strangling fingers. When his physical strength began to ebb, an iron determination to survive became his mainstay. Nothing would stop him from conquering this storm. He had ridden out worse in the
Siren
and always lived to sail another day.

Below decks, Bascom braced himself in the confines of the hold, the wind and rain pounding in his ears. His flock was kneeling in prayer of its own accord. Most of the Puritans had never been on a ship before or been exposed to this monster that was howling and shrieking above. They held on to each other, secure in another's touch. Bascom himself was elated, and his eyes gleamed in the flickering light. This was God's way of punishing all sinners. And the biggest sinner in his flock was Wren van der Rhys. He would take her topside in the storm, and if she survived, then she would know that she was one of God's chosen few and that He forgave her her sins. Bascom knew she was a harlot, a jezebel, a tainted woman. She had probably lain with a hundred men. He knew it as sure as he knew his name was Bascom Stoneham, messenger of the Lord.

He would drag her forcibly by the scruff of the neck, if necessary, to the quarterdeck and make her kneel there, her eyes and head raised to Heaven, and if she still refused to pray to the Lord, he would do it for her.

A vision was coming to him and he closed his eyes. He saw Wren kneeling on the slippery deck, her arms reaching out . . . to him . . . to help her. Her clothes were ripped and tattered, her breasts bared, one long leg and thigh silken from the slick rain. He was helping her . . . His breathing became ragged and his eyes narrowed to slits as the ache in his loins grew more pronounced. When he felt the exquisite release of pain, he would know the Lord had purged her soul.

Wren flailed out with both fists when Bascom bent down to drag her to her feet. “Take your hands off me. Help me, somebody!” she shrieked to be heard over the crashing waves that beat against the ship. “I'll kill you, you lecherous bastard!” she screamed as she lashed out with her foot to give Bascom's stick-thin leg a vicious kick. No one made a move to help her. All of them would merely stand by and allow this crazy person to take her topside in the storm. She screamed her protests and continued her struggles, to no avail.

She was almost comical in her entreaty as she prayed to the real God to help her. “Please, God, don't forsake me now; deliver me from this madman who is bent on killing me.” Bascom was shouting for his God to purge her soul, that he was doing everything in his power to follow the instructions of his visitation.

Caleb was stunned when he saw the two figures hurl themselves onto the deck. Now, what in the name of holy hell was going on? He tried vainly to see if any of his men were about, but all were secure in their posts and following his previous orders. He couldn't leave the wheel. All he could do was watch the macabre scene below. His ears rang with Wren's cries for help, and for the first time in his life he felt powerless. His heart hammered in his chest, not from the storm, but from fear for Wren.

Bascom lost his hold on the screaming girl when a wave leapt the side and crashed down upon them. Wren struck out and grabbed at a water barrel standing next to a heavy tack box. She managed, amid the vicious downpour, to wedge herself between them and at the same time loop the thick ropes around her wrists. She hung on for dear life, the waves and the rain beating against her like a drum.

Bascom was shouting words and prayers to his God, words and prayers which sounded obscene to Wren's dulled mind.

Lightning raced across the sky like a fleet-footed runner, and Caleb saw a swell coming and groaned. She would drown or be washed over the side by the force of the water. He drew in his breath as the rain lashed against him, beating him, clutching at him, trying to claim him, trying to claim Wren. Caleb wasn't a religious man, calling on God only when he felt the need, and those times had been few and far between, but he prayed now. Please save her. Surely He would hear that it wasn't a prayer for himself.

Wren had seen the wave at the same time Caleb had, and she drew in a mighty breath. She had to hold on. She wedged herself tighter between the barrel and the tack box till the rough wood cut into her ribs. It was all she could do. The rest was in His hands. Her eyes were tightly closed, and so she missed Bascom's departure from the quarterdeck to the stern rail as the elements washed him from her sight.

Caleb watched helplessly from his position at the wheel. He saw Bascom being swept along and saw Wren's indrawn breath. If she could just hold on long enough and not lose her grip, she might make it. The tightness in his shoulders was the searing pain of a branding iron.

The ship heaved with the force of the swells; the masts groaned with the weight of the saturated rigging. Rhythmically, the
Siren
rose and fell as she rode the turbulent waves. Caleb guided the vessel from the trough to the crest of each gigantic wave. For moments the
Siren
would balance dizzily on the crest, then plunge steeply into the next trough as though dropping off the edge of the world.

For hours the storm persisted, each hour an eternity that took his toll on Wren and Caleb. He couldn't see her, didn't know if she was alive or dead. She could have been washed overboard. As for that preaching emissary of the Lord, he had to be dead. Nobody that evil—and Caleb had decided he was evil—deserved to live. But Caleb had never lost a man at sea. How would he explain to Sirena and Regan that he had let Wren go overboard? They would never understand, nor would they ever forgive him. Especially Regan, who loved Wren as if she were his own flesh and blood. Regan would pierce him accusingly with those agate eyes of his. Regan would never forgive him.

He experienced a loss that he had never known before. Wren. How well he remembered the feel of her, the warmth of her slim body. Even then he had realized he wanted to know her better, the way a man knows a woman. The way Regan knew Sirena.

He felt helpless. He was more tired than he'd ever been in his life. There was no sign of the storm's abating. How much longer could he take this torture? As long as necessary, an inner voice answered. His shoulders slumped and his head rested on his chest. He couldn't be beaten, wouldn't be. Imperceptibly his shoulders straightened, and with every ounce of willpower he possessed, he raised his dark head. His body leaning against the wheel, he could feel the burn marks on his rib cage from the lines holding him, and he knew that when he removed his hands from the wheel, his skin would be torn and bloody. He could bear the physical pain, but he would carry the hurt in his soul for the rest of his life. The thought of Wren's body being hurled about beneath the relentless tides was more than he could bear. A single, lone tear formed in his eye and clung to the lash. Only once before could he ever remember a tear coming to his eye, and that had been when Sirena had told him Regan was his father. The tear had clung precariously to his thick lash and somehow, miraculously, found its way back into his eye. No one had even seen that tear; no one had known his gut-searing joy on hearing those words. His great head slumped and he felt the tear drop from his lash. He had shed his first tear. And he had shed it for a woman. No one would ever know that except him. In that moment he understood he would have given his life if Wren could have been saved. He couldn't love her, could he? He barely knew her, but in some strange way he had always been drawn to her. Ever since the first time he had seen her.

Caleb had gone to visit Sirena and had been in the library of her London town house when Frau Holtz had entered with an enchanting little girl at her side, dressed all in pink. The first time he had ever heard her name, Sirena had said it. “Come here, Wren. There's someone I want you to meet. He comes from the Spice Islands and his name is Caleb. He is Mynheer van der Rhys' son.”

Wren had been staring at him, oblivious of the new frock she wanted to model for Sirena. She had moved toward him slowly and asked softly, in her little girl's voice, “Do you know the Sea Siren?” Her brown-gold eyes had been lit from within like tapering candle flames.

Caleb had laughed, his strong, white teeth catching the light. “I know the story very well. She was a beautiful lady.” He had taken a step closer and dropped to his knee. “I think she was almost as beautiful as you are,” he had said, taking her hand and bringing it to his lips. His smiling eyes had sobered as he had gazed at her.

When she had spoken, it had been quietly, and her words had startled both Frau Holtz and Sirena. “I hope the man the Sea Siren loved looked like you.”

Caleb had temporarily torn his gaze away from Wren and glanced at Sirena. After a brief period he had whispered, “I hope he looked like me. I would be proud to have someone like the Sea Siren love me.”

Wren had smiled, a knowing smile, adult beyond her years. “When I grow up, I'm going to be like the Sea Siren. Then I can . . .” She had hesitated. “Will you wait for me to grow up?”

Wait for me . . . wait for me
. . . The words echoed in his head, words said by a little girl, in a little girl's voice; yet, as they gathered in intensity, they became the words of a young woman with a woman's voice, and they resounded over and over in his head.
Wait for me
. . .
wait for me
. . . And the words became the song of the sirens who beckoned to sailors at sea.

The storm persisted in its outrageous assault on the
Sea Siren
for another twelve hours. Caleb had long since slumped against the wheel, believing he was half dead. Yet his numb arms continued to steer the ship to a safe course through the swells and stinging spray.

An hour before dawn the storm wore itself out and the waters calmed to a mere boil. Peter, the first mate, and Harkin, the second mate, untied Caleb from the shoulder-high wheel and carried him to his cabin. Farrington was called in. He looked at Caleb with awe and pity and immediately set to work. No matter what he had ever said or done, the old man loved Caleb like a son. He performed healing ministrations to the best of his ability and sat back to wait.

When Harkin next appeared in the captain's quarters, he was carrying Wren's limp body. Farrington raised his gray brows in astonishment. The second mate gently placed Wren on the bunk opposite Caleb and spoke in a somber tone. “I don't know if she's even alive. I found her half in and half out of the tack box. Her shoulder's been wrenched by the rigging and has to be snapped back in. I've seen it done, but I could never be the one to make her suffer that pain. And while she's lying here more dead than alive, that preacher's out on deck, hale and hearty, praying for our souls. He's saying we're all going to Hell and it's up to him to save us from the devil's clutches. I want permission from someone, now that the captain is laid up, to throw him overboard.”

Farrington waved Harkin away, his gaze intent on Wren. He peered down at her white face and noticed that the bodice of her gown was torn, revealing deep red welts peppering her sides. Her ribs were bruised at best, if not broken. Harkin was right. She was more dead than alive, her breathing ragged and raspy. Yet if her shoulder was to be snapped to, no better time to do it than when she didn't know what was happening to her.

“Harkin, come over here and help me with her. And if you're not man enough to make a good job of it, send me someone who is. I'll hold her neck and shoulder, you do what must be done with her arm. And make a good job of it, man, or it's the captain you'll be answering to.” Aubrey's voice was gruff and revealed little of the pity he was feeling for Wren. His knowledge of medicine was limited, and he relied on common-sense remedies. Warm blankets, hot tea, bindings for the wounds and tender, loving care.

Farrington was unwavering in his care of the young couple as he tended and mended their battered bodies as best he could. Both spoke in delirium from time to time. Wren would cry out pitifully, “Caleb, help me!” And the man in the next bunk seemed to answer her. “Wren! I'll wait for you . . . Wren!” his cries tortured and heart-rending.

Though exhausted from bathing their fevers and changing the dressings on their wounds, Farrington refused the help of the crew and spurned the suggestion that one of the women from below assist him in his care of Caleb and Wren. He would allow no one to touch them save himself, and he spent the long hours stretched out on the floor between their bunks.