The Red Siren (2 page)

“Aye, I beg ye, be quick about it afore our ship burns to a cinder,” the massive bald man beckoned to Dajon.
      Dajon hesitated. He knew he should obey his father’s instructions, he knew he shouldn’t risk the hoard of goods in his hold, he knew he should pay heed to the foreboding of dread that now sank like an anchor in his stomach, but all he could see was the lady’s admiring smile beneath the shadow of her hat, and he led his men over the bulwarks.
      After directing them to assist in putting out the fire, he marched toward the dark bald man and bowed.
      “Captain Dajon Waite at your service.”
      When his gaze drifted to the lady, she slunk into the shadows by the foremast, her features lost in the dim light. Odd. Somehow he had
envisioned a much warmer reception. At the very least, some display of feminine appreciation.
      “Give ’em no quarter! Give ’em no quarter!” a shrill voice shrieked, drawing Dajon’s attention behind him to a large red parrot perched on a peg jutting from the mainmast.
      A sharp blade of fear stabbed him.
      “Captain,” one of his crew called from the quarterdeck. “The ship ain’t on fire. It’s just a barrel with flaming rubbish inside it!”
      The anchor that had sunk in Dajon’s stomach dropped into his boots with an ominous clunk.
      He spun back around, hoping for an explanation, but all he received was a sinister grin on the bald man’s mouth.
      Alarm seized Dajon, sucking away his confidence, his reason, his pride. Surely he could not have been this daft. He glanced back at the
Lady Em
, bobbing in the sea beside them—the pride of his father’s fleet.
      “To battle, men!” the woman roared in a commanding voice belying her gender—a voice that pummeled Dajon’s heart to dust.
      Dozens of pirates spat from the hatches onto the deck. Brandishing weapons, they rushed toward his startled crew. One by one, his men dropped their buckets to the wooden planks with hollow thuds and slowly raised their hands. Their anxious gazes shot to Dajon, seeking his command. The pirates chortled as Dajon’s fear exploded into a searing rage. They were surrounded.
      The woman drew a pistol from her sash. Dajon could barely make out the tilted lift of her lips. He wiped the sweat from his brow and prayed to God that he would wake up from this nightmare.
      “I thank you, Captain, for your chivalrous rescue.” The woman pointed her pistol at him and cocked it with a snap. “But I believe I’ll be taking over your ship.”

W
ith a light kick to his gelding’s sides, Dajon prodded his horse into a trot as he made his way down Bay Street. To his right, over the wall that surrounded Charles Towne, the Cooper River swept past the city in smooth ripples that, joined by the Ashley River to the west, poured fresh water into Charles Towne Bay. A muggy breeze eased over him, stealing away the icy chill that had seeped into his bones from a winter spent patrolling the English Channel. Though he had heard tales of the brutal summer heat in the British province of Carolina, he looked forward to the warm sunshine boasted about by the settlers. He had never been fond of the continual dome of fog and clouds draped over England.
      He nodded at the women strolling in front of the town’s shops and warehouses, shrugging off their admiring gazes, telling himself the women’s interest stemmed purely from the Royal Navy uniform he wore. Had it really been four years since he had rejoined His Majesty’s Navy—and five years since that accursed woman pirate had stolen his father’s ship and forced Dajon to return home in humiliation? Somehow it seemed only yesterday.
      Passing one of the town’s many taverns, he grimaced at the swarm of men already visible through the windows and pouring out the door into the street so early in the evening. Bawdy music accompanied by the raised voices of men playing billiards and the laughter of women oozed over Dajon like the slimy bilge from his ship, reminding him of a time when he, too, had wallowed in the filth with the worst of them.
      
Shaking off the bad memories, he urged his mount forward past a brick Presbyterian church, framed with dogwood and oak trees, that rose like a beacon of hope. Dajon scratched his head at the dichotomy of a place where debauchery and holiness coexisted without contention. In fact, more than ten churches graced this tiny port of nearly four thousand citizens, branding it the “Holy City,” a title that warmed Dajon to his soul.
      Thunder rumbled as he turned his mount onto Hasell Street, where moss-draped trees stood like sentinels dressed in royal robes on each side of the dirt path. Dajon examined the houses lining the avenue for the one that matched the description given him by his old friend Rear Admiral Westcott. Though quite pleased to have unexpectedly run into the admiral at the Powder Magazine the night before, Dajon couldn’t halt the pang of trepidation he felt for what the admiral wished to discuss with him.
      Rain drizzled from the darkening sky, and Dajon tugged his dark blue bicorn farther down upon his head just as the only cherry red house on the street came into view. Guiding the horse through the open iron gate and down the gravel path, he lightly drew back the reins at the front entrance and slid from the saddle. A brawny man with wiry, long black hair and skin the color of copper sped around the corner of the house much faster than his bulk seemed to allow and took the reins. When the man’s dark eyes met his, a spike of familiarity halted Dajon.
      “I’ll take care of yer horse, sir.” He snapped his gaze to the ground and shuffled his feet in the mud before turning away.
      “Hold up there. Have we met before?”
      The man let out a nervous chuckle. “No, sir.” And kept his eyes leveled at the dirt. “They’s awaitin’ ye inside, sir,” he said then led the horse around the corner.
      A strong breeze blew in from the bay, sending the palmettos dancing in the front yard and immersing Dajon in the spicy incense of moist earth as he took the stairs in one leap and ducked under the porch’s covering. Doffing his hat, he slapped the rain from it on his knee and rapped the brass door knocker. It was only after the clang tolled through the humid air that he noticed it was shaped like a three-masted frigate. He smiled.
      The thick oak door opened to reveal a middle-aged man of small stature and rounded belly.
      
“Mr. Waite, I presume?” He pursed his thin lips and stepped back, allowing Dajon entrance. “Please follow me. The admiral is expecting you.” Closing the door, he adjusted his silk waistcoat and led the way through a spacious entrance hall. A marble staircase with shiny brass posts rose to a second story. Candlelight and feminine giggles floated down from above and danced around Dajon, sparking his interest and bristling his nerves.
      “May I?” The steward turned and proffered his hand when he reached an open door to his right. Dajon shrugged off his frock and handed it to him, along with his bicorn, and entered the parlor. The admiral sat by a fireplace, intently perusing a document.
      “Mr. Waite, sir,” the steward announced, and the admiral stood.
      “Commander.” Rear Admiral Westcott dropped the papers onto a table. “Good to see you again.” He shook Dajon’s hand and directed him to a sofa.
      “Thank you for your invitation, Admiral.” Seating himself, Dajon scanned the room. Mahogany bookcases and cabinets lined the walls, an oak desk and chair perched beside open french doors that led to a wide porch, and imported rugs warmed the hardwood floor.
      The admiral resumed his seat by the brick fireplace, where smoldering embers added unnecessary warmth to the stifling summer heat. Or maybe it was only Dajon’s jittery nerves that caused the beads of sweat to form on his forehead. Could this be the promotion to post captain he had been waiting for? Certainly during the past two years as commander, he had more than proven himself capable during skirmishes with the Spanish and the French. He had heard that promotions came more quickly in the colonies because of a shortage of good officers. It was one of the reasons he had requested a transfer to Carolina.
      Wiping the moisture from the back of his neck, he smiled at the admiral, noticing the man wore his gold-trimmed blue coat even when at home. Although the British Navy required no uniform, Dajon took pride in wearing his as well.
      An uncomfortable silence permeated the room. “What brings you to Charles Towne, sir?” Dajon began. “I must admit my shock when I came across you in town.”
      The admiral stared out the window, suddenly looking older than his fifty years. “I fear I needed a change of scenery. Portsmouth holds far too many memories for me.”
      
Dajon swallowed, chiding himself for bringing up the subject and only now remembering that the admiral’s wife had died some years ago. “You have my deepest condolences.”
      The admiral shifted in his seat. “It was a long time ago,” he huffed, the sorrow on his face tightening into firm lines. “But I thought it would be wise for the girls and me to start afresh. And what better place than the American colonies?”
      “The girls?”
      The admiral sighed. “I have been
blessed
with four daughters. Would you believe it? Three have traveled to Charles Towne with me. The fourth remains in Portsmouth with her husband.”
      Dajon smiled, finding it difficult indeed to fathom the admiral as a father. He was a gruff old man whose booming voice and piercing gaze frightened the most stalwart of sailors. He could not imagine their effect on a genteel woman.
      The admiral stuffed a pipe into his mouth and took a puff, folding his hands over his stomach and examining Dajon as if he were a cadet taking his first lieutenant’s exam. “I’m a direct man, Mr. Waite, so I’ll get to the point of your visit.” The pipe wobbled in his mouth as he spoke. “In your time serving under my command, I found you to be an honorable, trustworthy man.”
      “Thank you, sir.” Anticipation rang within Dajon. He moved to the edge of his seat.
      “I have rarely encountered a man so naturally skilled and suited for command in His Majesty’s Navy.”
      Dajon broadened his shoulders. “Due to your excellent tutelage, sir. I was fortunate to learn from one of the best officers in the navy.” In fact, Dajon owed his quick rise to commander to Admiral Westcott’s hearty recommendation. He clamped his sweaty hands together, his heart skipping a beat.
      “Yes, yes.” The admiral waved a hand in the air. He scratched his gray hair and flashed his auburn eyes to Dajon—that imperious gaze that could wither the staunchest of hearts.
      “But I fear you did not bring me here to recount my success in the navy,” Dajon said.
      “No, quite right.” The admiral stood and began to pace in front of the fireplace, the tails of his coat flapping on the back of his white breeches.
      
The muted sound of a bird squawking reached Dajon’s ears, and he glanced above him curiously.
      “Ah yes, my daughter’s infernal parrot.” The admiral shook his head, drawing Dajon’s attention back to him. “She refused to leave the blasted beast behind. Noisy creature and quite messy, to be sure.” He puffed on his pipe. “But back to business. I am afraid I have been called away suddenly.”
      “Sir?” Dajon feigned ignorance at the admiral’s reasons for disclosing his plans. But why else would he mention his sudden departure unless he wanted Dajon to assume command of a higher-rated ship in his absence?
      “As you have no doubt heard, the Spanish are causing problems in Italy. They have landed a fleet on Sardinia.”
      “Yes, I have read the dispatches.” Dajon blinked, wishing the man would get to the point.
      “I am to report overseas in a month in preparation for the possibility of war.”
      “Nothing to fear, sir. I am sure it will not come to that.”
      “Egad, man, I am not afraid! ’Tis my daughters that concern me.” The admiral’s eyes flared with the same sternness Dajon had grown accustomed to when he had sailed under the admiral’s command. “This barbarous town is no place for young ladies. When I heard you were stationed here indefinitely, I knew you were the man for the job.”
      Dajon slowly rose and lengthened his stance. Indeed, he was the man for the job, but what did that have to do with the admiral’s daughters? A slight disturbance ruffled his anticipation, like the beginnings of a quarrel in the dark corner of a tavern, but he shrugged it off. “You can count on me, sir.”
      “I knew I could.” The admiral smiled. “ ’Tis a big responsibility to force on you so suddenly.”
      Responsibility? Not to Dajon. Being post captain gave him more power, and more power meant he could protect more people—could play a bigger part in guarding his country, her colonies, and her citizens—and perhaps make some amends for past wrongs. “I am up to the task, sir.”
      “Very well, then. I shall make arrangements to have your things moved as soon as possible. That way, my daughters can get used to having you around before I set sail.”
      Dajon’s exuberance sank to the floor. “Your daughters?” his voice squeaked.
      
“Why yes. There is no better man than you to be their guardian in my absence. With the Spanish and Indian attacks of late, not to mention the savage nature of some of the settlers, they need a naval officer to protect them.”
      
No promotion?
Dajon’s breath halted in his throat. He wiped the sweat from his brow. A guardian? Of women? Every encounter he’d ever had with females had ended in disaster.
      And drastically changed the course of his life.
      For the worse.
      ’Twas one of the reasons he had joined the navy. No women.
      Dajon stared at the admiral and knew he could never trust himself to protect a woman again. “Sir, I fear you have the wrong man. I could not possibly—”
      “Of course you will not be staying here in the house.” The admiral snorted, ignoring him. “That would not be proper, but I will have Edwin prepare a bed for you in the guesthouse out back. I have no doubt you will find it quite comfortable. No need for you to stay on your ship while you are at anchor.”
      Dajon felt as though he were tumbling headlong into a dark void. “I appreciate your trust in me, Admiral, but ’tis a most untoward request, sir, and I must refuse it.”
      “I know. You fear your duties will keep you away overmuch?” The admiral slapped him on the back. “Of course your responsibilities in the Royal Navy come first. I only ask that you check on my girls daily and be aware of their comings and goings.”
      Dajon took a forceful step toward the admiral, trying to formulate his words. How could he deny this man’s request—this man who had done so much for him?
      The admiral stomped a boot atop the brick hearth and stared into the dying embers, puffing on his pipe. “I daresay any man who can successfully command my three daughters and run my home like a tight ship during my absence”—he chuckled, a disbelieving kind of laughter that said the feat had yet to be accomplished—“now that man would have more than proven his ability to command.” He tapped his pipe into a tray on the mantel. “In fact, I might be inclined to promote such a man to post captain.” He slowly turned around and gave Dajon a sly look.
      Dajon swallowed. So that was the way of it. Admiral Westcott continued to hold Dajon’s future solely in his hands. Making post
captain was no easy feat. A commander or lieutenant had to have political influence—of which Dajon had none—win some daring battle at sea—hard to do when one’s country was currently not at war—or wait until someone above him died—a rather morbid way to be promoted. The only other hope was by the recommendation of an admiral. And it was clear now to Dajon that he would not receive such an honor unless he did as the admiral requested.
      But how could he?
      Either way, doom cast an ominous cloud over his naval career like the endless black fog over London. Nevertheless, if he were to remain a commander forever, the position would be more easily borne without the added tarnish of having caused harm to innocent young ladies. And yet he could not agree, no matter the cost to his career. He opened his mouth to speak when a shuffle sounded at the door.
      “Ah, there they are.” The admiral smiled.
      Dajon swerved about to see three women enter the room: One was a petite girl with hair the color of the sun pinned up in a bounty of curls; another had dark hair pulled tight in a bun, a book cradled in her arms. But it was the third woman who drew Dajon’s attention and sent his blood racing. She sashayed into the room, flinging her brazen red curls behind her and wearing a saucy smirk on her plump lips.
      Dajon’s heart crashed into his ribs.