Eden's Pass (9 page)

Chapter Twelve

Finn couldn’t remember the last time such joy had swept through her as she stood on deck in the refreshing rain. Her fingers tightened about the cutlass’s leather hilt and she smiled, glancing down at the gleaming blade. A bubbly laugh rose to her lips as she sliced the air before her, and slipped it back into the worn leather baldric draped over her chest.

A buzzing drone rose into an intermingling of lyrical voices, each one rapid-fire in his native tongue be it English or Spanish as the
María’s
men readied for battle. It was almost musical, adding to her growing delight. Her laughter returned as Ennis stepped up, also armed and ready to plunge into the fray. She caught his eye and he raised his blade in greeting, which she returned.

Iñigo stood above them, on the quarterdeck, spyglass in hand and Diego at his side. Both dark heads bent together, as if they wanted to keep their words between themselves. Feeling blissfully lighthearted, she took the short flight of steps to the quarterdeck two at a time. She was no longer earthbound, but as if she could fly.

True, the rain had already begun seeping through her clothes, surprisingly cold against the damp heat, but she no longer cared about it. She was no longer a cabin boy. She was as free as she’d ever been onboard the
Smiling Jack
. Freer still than ever before. Her smile only widened as she approached Iñigo and Diego.

“Captain?”

Both men glanced over a shoulder before turning. Diego's eyes moved slowly over her from top to bottom. His disdain was evident as he gestured at her. “Iñigo, are you certain this is a wise idea?”

Iñigo's gaze flicked toward her and he shrugged. “It’s a fine idea. What could be more amusing than to know one of Ramírez’s most treasured ships, one of his most feared captains, was defeated at the hands of a boy?” His accompanying chuckle was oddly mirthless. “Besides, we need every able-bodied man we have.”

At the name Ramírez
,
Diego stiffened. Finn glanced from Diego to Iñigo and back. Who was this Ramírez and why did he cause both men such consternation? She frowned, staring at the ship slowly gaining on them. Ramírez. Though she couldn’t recall ever hearing the name, it wasn’t an altogether unfamiliar one, either. Glancing up at Iñigo, she opened her mouth to ask about the unknown sailor when he growled at Diego. “I’ll kindly ask you to
not
question my judgment. We have much more pressing matters with which to concern ourselves.”

Diego looked properly chagrined and Finn had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling as he nodded, saying, “Aye,
Capitán
,” and turned back to lift his spyglass once again.

Iñigo turned to her, an unexpectedly devilish grin lifting the corners of his mouth. “I think you make him nervous, Finn.”

Deciding her questions could wait until they’d bested the
Magdalena ,
she smiled. “A first, I’d wager—a cabin boy terrifying a group of bloodthirsty pirates.”

His grin became a full smile. “I suppose it is.”

He turned back to the
Magdalena
. The ketch was even closer now and as she stepped up beside him, Finn saw the Union Jack fluttering high atop the mainmast. Iñigo nudged Diego. “Think you we should run up the red flag?”

Finn's chuckle mingled with theirs. The red flag struck more terror than any Jolly Roger ever could, for all sailors knew its meaning: no mercy would be shown to any man onboard the approaching ship.

Diego laughed along with his captain. “Ah, now
that
would be a sight to behold, watching the English wet themselves at the sight of it.”

The rain lessened somewhat as the
Magdalena
neared. Onboard the English ship, men scurried about, preparing for battle. Men hurried below—most likely to man the guns, and her thrill faded a bit. They were not quite quick enough, though, for the Spaniards were already set to fire the
María’s
guns.

Though she was quite accustomed to the thunder of firing guns, she started at the first blast from the
María
. An explosion of wood followed the first ear-splitting boom as the three-pounder tore through the
Magdalena’s
port side.

The battle had begun.

The thunder grew, swelling until Finn could no longer hear Iñigo, though he stood right beside her. Gray-black smoke rose from both ships with each blast to mottle the air, despite the spitting rain. Sails were shredded, masts splintered and men shattered as the
Magdalena
quickly took the brunt of the damage.

The
Magdalena
was not going quietly, though. The
María
rattled to her timbers, lurching wildly from a particularly nasty blast. Wood shards exploded and several men screamed as shot tore through the lower deck. Finn coughed, ignoring the growling fear as smoke billowed forth in an ugly black cloud and Tomás, the ship’s carpenter, raced down to assess the damage.

Her ears rang from the repeated bursts of guns firing, and the sheeting rain made matters worse. Though it prevented the fires from raging wildly, it mingled with the acrid smoke to form a pasty soot clinging to her skin. It threatened to choke the breath from her as she crouched low behind a bulwark, waiting for the inevitable hand-to-hand that would follow the guns. Drawing the back of one hand across her eyes to clear her vision, she pulled it away to see it smeared black.

Another blast, and above her, wood shards speared the air. She covered her head as best she could as the
María
let loose a particularly violent blast.

The screams from the
Magdalena
echoed across the water as finally, with one long, low roar, the
María
blasted chain shot to wrap about the
Magdalena’s
mainmast. It tore through wood and yards as if they were delicate silk. The mast crumpled, crashing down onto the deck, exactly as it had done on the
Smiling Jack
.

The
María
bumped up alongside the
Magdalena
,
and the men set to work setting up a makeshift bridge to prepare for boarding. The shouts, both in English and Spanish, rose as both crews prepared for the next battle. Despite her growing nervousness, Finn couldn’t hold back her grin as she hurried to the main deck, slipping her cutlass from her baldric and tightening her grip on its hilt.

A hand on her arm made her stop and she turned to see Iñigo standing beside her. Over the din, he shouted, “You gave me your word, Finn!”

“Aye, Captain! And keep it I shall.”

He smiled. “God be with you.”

“And you as well, Captain.”

He clapped her on the shoulder. “
Una mujer tan hermosa.
”

She frowned, not understanding a word he uttered. “I beg your pardon?”

Either he did not hear her, or he chose to ignore her, for he did not respond, but hurried across to board the
Magdalena.
She stared after him for a moment, shrugged, and followed. Maneuvering deftly across the bridge, she barely noticed the menacing sway. Her belly alive with anticipation, her fear receded as she jumped down onto the English ship.

It returned with great haste as men locked in fierce battles to the death. It was no dream, nor was it the result of boredom-induced fantasy. The screams and yells surrounding her were beyond real. Steel meeting steel with deafening clangs—
that
was real. The blood spattering her cheeks with sticky, stomach-churning warmth—
that
was real.

Her palms grew damp as the Spaniards swarmed up behind her in a crushing wave, shoving her into the action. She’d never before raised her weapon to attack, only to defend herself, and her blood ran as icy as the rain spattering her skin.

There was no time to dwell. She lost sight of Iñigo, swallowed up by the crush of his men leaping aboard the
Magdalena
with sabers drawn and daggers at the ready. The ringing clang of steel against steel rose, combined with the shrieks and screams of men being run through in a deafening chorus of brutal noise. Tangy salt air mingled with the coppery stench of blood and acrid sting of gunpowder to permeate the air like a ghoulish perfume. Finn blocked it out as best she could, concentrating on the man suddenly before her, squinting at him as the rain drove harder.

He was near her height, skinny and sinewy, his blond hair matted to his skull, breeches and raggedy pale blue shirt stained with both blood and sweat. His piercing blue eyes were narrow slits as he faced her.

“A mere boy,” he jeered, relaxing and tightening his fingers about the hilt of his sword. “The fierce, arrogant Spaniards are now sending children to fight their battles?”

Though her mouth was as dry as sand under the blazing sun, she forced her tongue free to growl, “Know you this, English,” in a tight voice, her knees flexing as she acclimated herself to the feel of the deck beneath her feet. A sudden calmness filled her. The sounds around her faded into nothing—the world consisting of only her and her opponent. “It’s hardly a child standing before you, but one fully skilled and most experienced.”

“That be so?” he scoffed, shaking his head. “It’s remarkable how you neither resemble, nor sound, like a Spaniard. Methinks you are not one of them, but one bested by them and impressed into service.”

She laughed, waving his taunt aside with a lazy wave. “Think again, mate. I am here of my own free will. It’s the greatest victory, to run through an English dog such as yourself.”

Another derisive laugh. “Run me through? Oh, dear boy, you do have a sense of humor, even as you face death.”

He lunged. She jumped, battle noises swallowing her surprised yelp. Swinging wildly, she slashed perilously close to his midsection. The very tip of her blade caught him between the ribs and he yelped as a thin ribbon of dark blood stained his shirt.

“Ye whelp!” he fumed, swinging around for another attack, shaking his dripping hair out of his eyes. “I’ll cut your heart out for that!”

“I think not, English.” Making contact surprised her as much as it did him, and left her with a much-needed dose of confidence. He swung and she managed to block, taking care not to lose her footing on the rain-slicked deck. “Even if I had not heard that high arrogance in your voice, cur, I would know you to be English. You are every bit as lacking in skill as a child wielding your cutlass.”

The Englishman’s ruddy face grew redder still at her taunt. His eyes narrowed as he swung again. The tip of his blade found its mark, Finn gasping at the sudden, cold sting in her upper arm. Blood rose to the surface, seeping through the frayed slash across her right sleeve and the cold sting morphed into a hot, pulsing throb burning its way through her arm and through her body.

Her fury increased, replaced her false bravado in a wave of red heat. Though she might be powerless against Iñigo, the same could not be said now. She could, and would, take out every last bit of anger, of frustration, of disappointment, on the Englishman. A small comfort, mayhap, but she would take it. He would pay for drawing her blood. She lunged, finding her mark with ease.

The Englishman’s surprise mirrored on his face as her blade sunk into his chest. He let out a sickening gurgle, blood bubbling from the corner of his twisted mouth, foamy as it trickled down over his chin. Raindrops pattered his face, thinning the trickle into a watery, pink ooze.

“And it’s to hell with you,” she muttered as he dropped. Her stomach lurched, bitter nausea adding to the churning. Her mouth filled with a sickly sweet saliva, her arms and legs quaking as she placed her booted foot on the man’s chest, gave a sharp twist of her blade, and yanked it free. She wanted to retch as the steel grated against bone, grinding with a sickening squelch before sliding free.

Dropping to her knees, she fought to regain her bearings, to will her nausea into the furthest recesses of her mind. The rain a welcomed coolness against her hot skin, she closed her eyes, swallowing hard. She fought to return to her feet. It wasn’t easy, but she managed, though a film of icy sweat prickled over her as she turned to face another.

Everywhere she looked, Spaniards were locked in fierce battle, and still English kept coming at them. Blood spattered the decks, stained clothing, hands, faces, and still the English refused to surrender.

She spun about, ignoring the sticky ooze on her cheeks, on her neck, on her arms, the backs of her hands and between her fingers. Blood. Hers. English. Perhaps Spanish. Though her stomach still threatened, its contents remained in place as she cast a wary glance for Captain Kittles. She’d never before laid eyes upon him, but knew him only by reputation. A giant of a man. Nearly six and a half feet tall, with hair so blond it was almost white, and eyes so dark it was said they reflected how he had no soul. All who knew him detested him, and it was rumored his crew was always on the verge of mutiny. That they fought valiantly for him now was most likely a last, desperate attempt at saving their own skins.

He emerged, simply stepping up to her as if from nowhere. He towered above her, a devilish smile on his lips.

“Do my eyes deceive me?” he sneered, holding out his broadsword to press its tip into her chest. “Has the bold, fearless Spaniard, Iñigo Sebastiano, put a
boy
on his front line? Ah, Ramírez should only see this. He’d never believe it. Tell me, does the cowardly Sebastiano rely on
you
to keep him safe? And you, a mere boy, a mere whelp from the looks of it, are in the service of
Spaniards
?”