My Lady Pirate (8 page)

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interview with Sir Graham Falconer’s flag-captain, Colin Lord, while
Victory
plowed an unerring course toward Tobago, Trinidad, and—Nelson hoped—a glorious battle with the French fleet that would immortalize him forever in the eyes of England, Lady Hamilton, and of course, posterity.

The Fleet had found nothing in Barbados except Falconer’s handsome flagship, the sugar

convoy he was to have escorted back to England, and information from a brigadier general

named Brereton, who’d sighted Villeneuve’s mighty fleet off of St. Lucia. General consensus on Barbados held that the enemy had gone to attack Tobago and Trinidad, though why Villeneuve would bother with coal when the diamonds of Jamaica and Antigua were at hand was a puzzle that Nelson could not solve. His every instinct told him the information rang false, but an officer on Barbados, assuring him Brereton’s word was sound, had lent him some two thousand of his own troops in support of it, and now, less than twenty-four hours after anchoring in Carlisle Bay, the Mediterranean Fleet was headed south in hot pursuit of the enemy.

Dinner had long since ended, and now Nelson and Colin Lord sat in the quiet splendor of the cabin, sipping champagne and indulging in a fine white cake while Nelson’s beloved Emma

Hamilton looked down at them from her portrait on the bulkhead.

Nelson, of course, had positioned himself so that the portrait was in direct line with his eye; he had only to look above the top of Captain Lord’s fair head to see it.

In his mid-twenties, the young officer was tall, spare, and steady as a first rate in a gale. His cheeks were round in the English way, his brow intelligent, his eyes sensitive and of the clearest shade of purple-gray. The barrage of questions Nelson had fired at him was enough to shake even the stoutest of hearts—but the captain, son of an admiral himself, seemed well used to the demands of authority and did not quail beneath Nelson’s penetrating eye, answering his queries in a frank, forthright way that brought a twisted smile of approval to his lordship’s tired face.

“I’m grateful for the truth, Colin,” Nelson said, shrewdly watching the man across from him.

“I did question Captain Ben Warner upon reaching Barbados yesterday, but had a feeling that he, in his eagerness to protect Falconer’s name, was not being quite
honest
with me.”

Carefully, Captain Lord said, “Admiral Falconer created his own Band of . . . uh,
Brethren,
sir. We were all very loyal. Warner is not to be blamed for trying to protect our admiral’s reputation, if I may be so bold as to voice my opinion.”

Nelson looked at him sharply.
Brethren,
the captain had said, not
brothers.
The significance of
that
fact did not escape him.

He smiled wryly. “Any commander who earns the love and loyalty of his men is to be

praised. Your Admiral Falconer, eccentric as he was, was a fine sailor and a fierce fighter, and that is all that matters to
me.
I care not what he did in his spare time, but should the gossips in England get wind of this, they’ll have a fine day of sport indeed. Damn them all to hell. Damn them all to hell and
beyond!”
The solitary little fist crashed down on the table. “Upon my life, Captain, this shall go no farther than this cabin!”

The younger man flushed beneath the sudden outburst and gazed down into his glass.

“Besides,” Nelson snapped, petulantly tightening his mouth, “my own conduct has given the gossips enough fuel for their damned fires. D’you think I intend to give them any more? By God, I shall see that your admiral’s name suffers no tarnish, and that he will be remembered for his achievements, his duty to his country, and, of course, his bravery under my command during the Battle of the Nile! Furthermore—”

He paused, the color high in his face, his fist poised above the table.

“Milord?”

Nelson was frowning, cocking his head and listening intently. “Did you hear something,

Captain?”

“No, sir.”

“Age. It must be age, then, what else could it be? I cannot sleep, I cannot eat, and now I’m hearing things that go bump in the night! By God, I sometimes think I am losing my mind, as indeed I shall if I do not find that damned
Veal-noove
and bring him to battle! How I long for peace! How I long for battle! How I long for my dear Lady Hamil—oh, never mind! Instead, let us discuss
you,
Colin, and the convoy you shall be escorting home to England—”

He never finished.

At that moment, a window imploded in a shatter of glass, a figure fell sprawling to the deck, and the admiral—darling of the British Navy, Victor of the Nile, and nemesis of the dreaded Napoleon—shot to his feet.

“Great
God!
”

The intruder picked herself up, brushed off the bits of glass, and dripping seawater, flung a long tail of wet auburn hair off her shoulder. In her hand was a dagger, and this she touched to her brow in a jaunty salute.

“Allow me to introduce myself,” she said brightly, as another, smaller figure crawled

through the window after her. “I am Captain Maeve Merrick, and this, my quartermaster, Orla O’Shaughnessy.”

Nelson stared, his mouth falling open.

“I’m sorry,” the woman said with a mischievous grin. “Perhaps you’ve not heard of me? I

am the Pirate Queen of the Caribbean.” She swept a jaunty, ludicrous bow. “Welcome to the Indies, milord!”

“Sentry!” Nelson roared, recovering.
“Sentry!”

Captain Colin Lord dived protectively in front of the admiral as the door crashed open and a surprised Royal Marine charged in.

Maeve’s sudden shout pierced the air.

“No, milord!
I bring you news of Villeneuve
/”

Stepping impatiently around Colin, Nelson raised his hand to stay the marine. He stared at Maeve with an expression of fury and disbelief.

“What did you say?”

“I said, I bring you news of Villeneuve!”

Tense silence. The sigh of wind around the stern. The stamp of feet as more marines came

running, an outcry of voices, shouts . . . and the slow, stealthy movement of Captain Lord’s hand toward his sword before Orla’s dagger impaled the carpet two inches from his foot.

The admiral gave an agitated jerk of his head. “Leave us,” he snapped. “I am sure that

Captain Lord and I can handle this situation!”

One by one, the marines filed out, leaving the two to assess each other; the stiff little admiral and the savage pirate queen, each taking the other’s measure like two fleets squaring off before a battle.

Nelson saw a wild, wet, untamed beauty with gold earrings tangled in hair the color of fire; a face tanned to bronze, glittering gold eyes of sunlight and sin, a graceful neck ringed by a choker of sharks’ teeth; he saw elegant hands, long coltish legs, bare feet, frayed and soaked trousers cut off at the knee, and a purple blouse tucked into a leather belt.

And Maeve, looking at this schoolboy-sized admiral whose height rivaled that of her chin, saw the total antithesis of what she had expected—and the smile faded from her lips as raw disappointment swept in to take its place.

So much for heroes,
she thought, feeling somewhat cheated. These days they must’ve gone the way of gallant knights. This one stood fiercely erect which did nothing to accentuate his height, and had a pale, sickly little face unremarkable in aspect, save for the bold nose and penetrating eye, out of which glowed a fire that even approaching blindness could not dim. The admiral’s features were open, honest, earnest, energetic, vulnerable, anxious, and melancholy all at once. She saw suffering in his eyes, in the lines of his cheeks, in the rough scar that cleaved his right brow. The armless sleeve was pinned carefully over a chest bedecked with enough medals, stars, and orders to make the heavens look dim and deprived in comparison.

Surely,
this
small fellow could not be the hero proclaimed in broadside and ballad? Surely, this little gamecock was not the sailor who was the subject of newspaper jibes and huzzahs alike, paintings, poems, and sculpture, with everything from flowers to plants to streets named after him? Surely,
this
slight man could not be the dread of the French, the pride of the British Navy?

Another fairy tale, blown to hell.

“Captain Lord! Do you know this woman?!”

Maeve’s attention swept to the handsome, fair-haired officer held at bay by Orla’s sword.

His face was carefully schooled into calmness, but his color was pale and she guessed he had indeed heard of her. “Aye, sir,” he answered, staring at her as though she was something out of his darkest nightmares. “Or shall I say, I know
of
her . . . She’s a pirate operating out of the Windwards—”

Nelson roared, “Ever prey upon an English ship?”

“Not to my knowledge, sir—”

“Ever plague English shipping? Annoy English convoys?”

“No, sir—”

“Ever irritate His Majesty’s vessels, officers, or seamen in and around the Indies?”

“No, sir, but—”

The admiral swung fiercely on Maeve. “Sit down!”

“Thank you,” she said archly, “but I prefer to—”

“
I said, sit down!”
roared the little lion, and Maeve, her belief in heroes happily restored, did so with a huge smile curving her lips.

He came right up to her, the stump of his arm jerking beneath his sleeve in agitation, his eyes fierce and angry.
“You,”
he said sharply, slamming his hand on the table and leaning down to glare into her face, “have just damaged Crown property and your reason for doing so had better be a damned good one, so help me God!”

She laughed, her heart singing.
This
was the Nelson of song and legend,
this
was the hero she’d long dreamed of meeting,
this
was— '

“Answer me!”

Still smiling, Maeve leaned over the table, plucked an apple from the silver bowl there, and bit into it with a loud
crunch
that shattered the strained silence of the cabin. The admiral bristled.

The handsome officer went a shade whiter and found a sudden interest in a small cut on his knuckle.

Another man, wearing a captain’s uniform, stormed into the cabin, pistol primed and ready and pointed directly at Maeve’s heart.

“For
God’s
sake,” Nelson said curtly, “I do believe I have the situation under control. Pray, sit down, Hardy, this beauteous
female
is about to reveal to us the whereabouts of
Veal-noove.”

She took another bite of her apple and looked up. “Ah, Nelson’s famous flag-captain.”

Maeve munched, swallowed, and grinned. “Don’t doubt me, milord. I have the Sight.”

“The
wha
t?”

“The Sight.” She took another bite and, with the point of her knife, pried a sliver of apple out from between her front teeth. Nelson narrowed his eyes. Hardy, now seated, looked shocked.

The fair-haired Captain Lord—still staring intently, unnervingly, at her— flushed with

embarrassment, his cheeks pinkening in a way that was almost endearing. “It’s the Irish gift of being able to see the future,” she said casually. “Predict events. Interpret meaning in signs and symbols. You see, I was born with the caul over my head and I am all-knowing.”

“Balderdash!” Hardy exclaimed. “You don’t even
sound
Irish!”

“I’m American.”

“You’re
mad.
“ Hardy stood and pivoted on his heel. “I shall call the guards!”

“No, Hardy, I wish to hear what she has to say about
Veal-noove.
“

“Surely, sir, you would not believe the word of this—this
pirate?”

“My mind is an open one, Hardy. I shall hear her out. Captain Lord? For God’s sake, do sit down, you look fair to fainting!”

“I er, cannot, sir—”

The tip of Orla’s sword was pointed at his groin, and held so close to the stainless white breeches that the captain could not move without risk of injury.

Maeve plucked the folds of her wet shirt from her body, smiled, and took another bite of her apple. “Be easy, Orla.”
Crunch.
“Let the poor man sit down, as His Lordship says.” She watched in high amusement as Captain Lord, who was still staring at her, moved warily to a chair. “Now that we are all happily seated, let me state my business.”

“Yes, please
do,“
Hardy growled, clearly annoyed.

“Damn your business,” Nelson said anxiously,
“just give me news of Veal-noove!”

“Villeneuve,” Maeve said, casually motioning with her apple, “has been at Martinique,

where he joined forces with the Spanish admiral, Gravina. I knew that already, of course, thanks to tavern talk, and had it confirmed while speaking a ship on my way to find you. As we sit here talking, the Combined Fleet is passing Dominica on a northerly course. You’d do well to come about and steer after them, milord. There is nothing for you at Tobago, nor Trinidad.”

Nelson looked thunderstruck. He glanced up at Hardy.

“Folly, sir!” the burly captain exclaimed. “General Brereton
insists
the French are at Tobago! I urge you to think carefully before considering the words of a
pirate.
“

“But Hardy, her words are in keeping with my own hunches!” Nelson cried, thumping his

fist against his chest. “And when have they ever steered me wrong? What if she is right and the French are indeed heading—oh, dear God—toward Antigua?”

“What if she is lying, sir, and we come about, steer north, and find afterward that Brereton’s information was right? You will be the laughingstock of the Fleet, of
England,
for heeding the advice of a soothsayer.”

“’Twould not be the first time I believed such advice, Hardy, indeed it would not!” But then Nelson looked at Maeve, and the wisdom of Hardy’s words sank in. Could he risk his career, indeed, England’s safety, on the word of a pirate?

Maeve held out her apple and perused it for a moment, then took another bite. “Funny thing about apples,” she soliloquized. Then she turned the half-eaten fruit toward them, exposing its pale flesh, the pocket of seeds. “Did you ever stop to consider, when you eat an apple—or an orange, or any other fruit, for that matter—that what you’re looking at is something no other person on earth has ever looked upon before?”