The Diamond King (6 page)

The merchant ship looked fat and benign. It looked like prey, and Alex was still hungry for prey.

Thus far, they had been lucky. Neither merchant ship had fought back. He’d had no injuries among his crew or the enemies’ crews. But it wouldn’t be long before the news spread from island to island, then to England, that a privateer was attacking English vessels in the Caribbean. He did not believe it wise to hover in the area.

He planned to change the name of the ship, forge a new logbook, and sail for Brazil.

“We can claim it,” Claude said, the edges of his mouth turning upward.

Alex wasn’t sure why Claude hated the English, but he knew his first mate’s fury equaled his own, though neither had talked about their backgrounds, or what had turned them into hunters.

Robin appeared beside him, his eyes squinting, trying to see the distant ship.

“I want you and Meg to go down to my cabin,” Alex said. His cabin was on the other side of the ship from the powder magazine.

“I can help take powder to the cannon,” the boy said. He’d never looked less the lord he’d been born to be. He had discarded shoes long ago, and his trousers were torn. His shirt was stained with dirt and sweat.

But the boy’s eyes gleamed. His skin had been darkened by the sun, and his hair was overlong. Meg had cut her hair with a knife until it was shorter than Robin’s. She looked as much lad as lass.

After the first captured ship had sailed to France and the second was taken to Martinique, Alex had given up trying to return them. They’d made it clear they were not going to be returned, and they would steal, cheat, and starve to get their way.

“No,” he said. “You will not go anywhere near those cannon.” He paused. “Swear it.” The one thing Robin did not do was lie. Not to him.

Robin was silent.

“Swear it,” Alex said again, “or I’ll keep you two locked in my cabin until I find you passage to France.”

Meg crept up to them. She had obviously been listening. She nodded. After a moment, Robin did, too.

“Say it,” he insisted.

“I swear,” they said in unison.

“Now go to my cabin,” he said.

Both gave a reluctant nod, but Robin kept turning his gaze toward the British ship.

Once they were gone, Alex ordered his crew to fly the British flag, then called for more sail. Although he’d picked up several crewmen in Martinique, he knew the ship was woefully undermanned, yet there was not one complaint as they went to battle stations.

The sun hovered on the horizon, spreading trails of gold along the sparkling emerald and cerulean blue of this most beautiful of all seas. His gaze swept the horizon, the interweaving of blues and greens, and the merchantman in the distance. Once more, he hesitated. Perhaps he was pressing his luck. Perhaps he should just turn away and head toward Brazil as he had planned.

He looked in the spyglass again. Four guns. Small ones.

Arrogance. The confidence of Britain. Bitterness boiled up inside him again. He touched the scar on his cheek and felt the pain that never went away in his leg. In his mind, he heard Cumberland’s order over and over again: “No quarter.” He heard the moans of the wounded and the prayers they uttered as the English and their Scottish allies went from man to man, finishing them.

He’d held his breath when they came to him. He thought he would die of holding it in. Then they’d left and gone to the next wounded man. He would never forget those moments....

He wanted to puncture that arrogance.

“They have guns,” he said.

Claude took the eyeglass from him and looked. “They are nothing.”

“There’s the children.”

“The guns are nothing,” Claude said again. “They probably will not even fire.”

Claude’s assurance wiped away his last reservation.

“Claude, set the royals. We’re going to take it.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” his first mate said with a gleam in his eyes. He bellowed out orders, and the seamen started climbing the rigging, piling on more sail. Others went down to the gun deck to man and load the cannon.

Alex reached the quarterdeck and took the wheel, reveling in the way the ship responded to him, and the sails to the brisk wind. He had more sail, more maneuverability than the English ship.

This should be easy.

Jenna couldn’t sleep. Celia remained sick, unable to keep food down. Despite the fact that the pitching had lessened, the maid did not seem to improve. Jenna feared the land would be the only cure. It would be Celia’s salvation and her own confinement. Jenna wished she could stay aboard forever.

First light filtered through the porthole. She rose and dressed. There would be coffee available. She had become used to the bitter brew, and found she liked it better than tea. She was discovering a great deal about herself, exploring feelings—even sensations—she’d never dared to entertain before. The wind was like a caress, the sea sometimes like a cradle, sometimes heaving with rage. She liked both equally, calmed by one, exhilarated by the other.

Swaying with the rhythm of the ship, she made her way down the companionway to the galley for a cup of coffee. Then balancing carefully, she took it up to the main deck. She loved to watch the sun rise over the Caribbean waters.

Seamen were piling on sail and with each pull she could feel the ship give a little kick as if delighted at the chance of dancing across the ocean.

Dancing, of course, was an exaggeration. The ship was more a lumbering laggard, but still she liked the image.

“Sail ho,” cried a sailor above her.

She strained to see, but though she had excellent eyesight, she saw nothing of a ship.

She felt something though. The seamen moved a little faster, and their faces tensed. She walked over to where the captain stood next to a helmsman.

His lips turned up in a smile as he saw her. “First one up again this morning, I see,” he said. “How is Miss Celia?”

“She will never be a sailor,” Jenna said.

“Not like you,” he agreed. “If you were a man I would hire you straightaway.”

“I could always cook,” she said, only half in jest.

“Ah, but you would have the crew in a twist,” he said. “It is no job for a lady.”

Being a lady was a bore, she thought, but instead of arguing, she turned back to where the phantom sail had been sighted.

“Is there really a ship out there? I can’t see it.”

“Williams has the best eyes on the sea,” Captain Talbot said.

“Another merchantman?”

“Most likely,” he said, but she could see little lines of worry dart away from his eyes.

She sipped the coffee as they both strained to see the distant ship. The sun rose, detaching itself from the sea. Against its background, she saw a sail.

“It’s coming toward us,” cried the lookout.

The worry on the captain’s face deepened. “Can you make out a flag?”

“Nay,” came the answer.

The captain turned to the helmsman. “Helm a’weather,” he said, ordering a turn. “Let’s see if she follows us.”

She stood, listening to the calls, the new urgency among the crew. Why? They had passed other ships along the way.

But she didn’t want to interrupt the captain, who was conferring with his first mate and helmsman. Instead, she went over to the rail and stared out at the sea.

The sun had risen farther, and they seemed to be sailing away from it, fleeing from the streams of light it sent cascading into the sea. The sail had disappeared again.

She breathed easier.

But the deck was still busy, and she decided to fetch tea and crackers for Celia. The rhythm of the ship had increased, as had the voices. She had hoped Celia would get some sleep while she was gone, but now she doubted it.

The cook, an east Indian, gave her a grin full of teeth as she collected more coffee, bread, salted fish, and cheese for herself, and crackers for Celia, along with hot tea, then made her way to the cabin.

When she opened the door, she found Celia asleep. She set the tray down on a table bolted to the floor.

Quietly, she sipped her coffee, nibbled on the bread and cheese, and picked up a book of poetry she had brought with her.

She’d read for perhaps an hour when she heard a loud voice outside the cabin. Celia jerked awake, looking bewildered. “What... ?”

Jenna opened the door. A sailor was knocking on each of the doors.

“What is it?” she asked.

“A ship is closing on us,” he said. “The captain fears it might be hostile.”

“Hostile?” Celia’s trembling voice came from behind her.

“Yes, ma’am. The captain wants the passengers to stay in their cabins.”

Jenna glanced over her shoulder to see Celia sink back on her bed. When she turned back, the sailor was down the companionway, knocking on another door. “Stay here,” she told Celia. “I’m going to see—”

“But he told us to stay here.”

“I will be right back,” she said, slipping out the door before Celia said any more and before the sailor turned around. She sped through the ship, out to the quarterdeck, seeing no sailors along the way.
They must all be at their posts
. The captain had turned the ship; she knew that from the position of the sun.

She looked around and this time she did see sails of another ship. She saw its graceful outline, and it really did seem to dance across the water. It was nothing like the thick, heavily laden merchantman.

Why did the captain believe it hostile? Because it appeared to be following the
Charlotte
?

She wondered how something so beautiful could be deadly, then she remembered the tales of pirates. Breath caught in her throat even as she watched the ship approach ever so slowly, its guns highlighted by the sun.

She stood transfixed, shadowed by the longboat near where she stood.

“A French flag,” shouted the lookout.

She heard curses, then a boom that echoed out over the water.

The
Charlotte
was being fired upon.

The sluggish English vessel tried to make a run for it but it was like a tortoise trying to outrun a fox.

Alex waited until they were well within firing range and ordered a shot fired over its bow. His crew had improved considerably and the shot landed just beyond the ship. The
Charlotte
, he saw from the writing on the side.

A good English name. It whetted his appetite.

He ordered the French flag hoisted. That had been enough, with the sight of his guns, to cause the surrender of the other two ships.

Instead, the ship turned again. It was making for Antigua, hoping, he thought, to find help.

There would be none for the Englishman. The ship he’d sent to France wouldn’t yet be close to that country, and news of the one he’d sold in Martinique would take weeks to travel to an English port, then on to London.

He’d become so deadened to violence, he felt little sympathy. Still, a small glimmer of admiration stirred in him. This captain, like him, obviously believed in hopeless causes.

He ordered the gun crew to send another ball across the ship’s bow.

The aim was nearly perfect, splashing about twenty-five feet past the fleeing ship.

Still, the merchantman didn’t stop.

Because of valuable cargo? He hoped so.

Through the telescope, he saw men manning the four guns on deck.

“That captain must be insane,” he said to Claude, who stood nearby.

“
Oui
,” he said. “What do you want to do?”

“He must have something valuable, to risk his neck,” Alex said. “Aim for their masts.”

They were closing rapidly.

One cannon roared, then another. The deck lurched as the cannon recoiled beneath them. One shot felt short. Another smashed into the mizzen topsail.

He expected the ship to surrender then. Instead, he saw men working the enemy ship’s guns. A ball ended fifty feet short of the
Ami
. The next splintered the deck.

He spun around at the shouts of his crewmen. None looked seriously injured other than several minor wounds from wood splinters.

“I want that ship,” he said, his anger vibrating in his voice. A rolling round of thunder responded. One ball tore into the
Charlotte’s
mainmast. Another hit the deck. Smoke enveloped the ship.

Yet it fired back, this time the ball falling five feet short of the
Ami
.

He ordered another round of cannon fire, this time over the bow. Despite his angry words, he did not want to destroy the ship. He wanted its cargo and wanted to get that cargo to a French port. A destroyed ship with no sailing power would not suit his purposes. The volley of all his guns should show they meant business.

In minutes, the English flag dipped. They were surrendering.

He assigned a prize crew, then decided that he himself would go over. The captain was a fool, but a brave one. He also wanted to see the cargo that had been protected at such risk.

As the boat was being lowered, Francois, one of his youngest sailors, ran over to him. “Captain, come quick.”

He followed the sailor to find Meg lying on the deck, a large splinter from the deck rammed halfway through her shoulder. Robin was kneeling next to her, holding her hand.

Her lips were clenched in pain but she didn’t make a sound.

Alex glared at Robin. “So this is how you keep your word,” he said, to defuse his own fear for the lass.

Robin looked down at the deck.

“‘Twasn’t his fault,” Meg said. “He tried to keep me from coming up, but I darted out and he came after me.”

“Find Hamish,” Alex said. Hamish was the closest thing they had to a doctor when he wasn’t serving as sailmaker. They had not been able to find a physician before sailing, but then Alex had never had much faith in them anyway. He’d always objected to the principle of bleeding someone who had already lost a lot of blood.

He tore away the cloth around the wound. Some of the material had been driven into the wound by a three-inch wide splinter that had gone nearly through Meg’s arm. He swallowed hard. His own wounds had not been as hard to bear as this one. He felt every moment of the pain, knowing the burning, tearing agony Meg must be feeling. He only hoped the splinter had missed the muscles.