Captain of My Heart (22 page)

Mira bounced out of the hammock, buttoned her
long coat up to her chin, stuffed her braid down beneath her
collar, and, hastily grabbing her hat and yanking on her boots,
went on deck. The wind hit her like an arctic blast, driving snow
and salt spray into her eyes.
Kestrel
’s bow rose and fell,
rose and fell, smashing down on long gray swells and sending great
sheets of foam hissing past. It was still snowing, but wind had
swept the rails and hatches clean. Mira blinked and peered aloft. A
man clung to the shrouds, a glass to his eye and his blue coattails
flapping in the wind. She looked again.

It was Brendan.

“Looks like the luck of that fool Irishman’s
with us,” said Abadiah Bobbs, a stout, thick-jowled Newburyporter
with a mole the size of a musket ball just below the left corner of
his mouth. He shook his head and gave her a wry grin. “Out of port
not half a day and he’s already found us a prize.” Bracing his feet
against the roll of the deck, he squinted and pointed off through
the snowy mist. “See there? Fine-lookin’ brig, eh? Surprised her,
we did. She’ll not get out of her hidey-hole now.”

Tucking her chin into her coat, Mira peered
off to starboard. The world was white, and she couldn’t see a
thing.

“There, Mira.” Abadiah pointed again, and
this time she saw the fuzzy outline of a ship, barely visible
through the swirling snow. Her sails were down, her head was to the
wind, and she wallowed heavily in the gray, foamy seas.

Abadiah rubbed his mole and jerked his head
toward the ice-encrusted four-pounder, lashed tightly several feet
away. “Better station yourself by
Freedom,
missy. These
bloody Irishmen’ll have their eyes on ye, to be sure.”

Not only the Irishmen, she thought wryly, but
the half-Irishman, too. The Captain from Connaught, his men called
him. Now he was climbing down the stiff shrouds, his boots steady
on the icy ropes, his sword belted to his waist. He’d still been
topside when she’d sought her hammock last night, yet he didn’t
look—or act—tired at all. His eyes were full of mirth, snow frosted
his long lashes, and his cheeks were healthy with cold. Mira
thought he had never looked more handsome. Landing lightly on the
deck, he straightened his coat, thumped his tricorne against his
knees to knock the snow off, and made his way toward them.

She quickly yanked her hat down and looked
down at her toes.

“You’re right about that brig, Mr. Bobbs,”
Brendan said, rubbing his hands together and stamping his feet to
get his blood moving. “I believe her to be the
Caper.
Fourteen guns, and launched three years ago in Gloucester.” He shot
a curious glance at the small, bundled-up figure standing beside
the Newburyporter. It was the same wee lad whose lusty voice had
led the singing yesterday, though now he seemed shy and quiet.
Brendan frowned. There was something terribly familiar about him,
but he couldn’t quite put his finger on just what it was. “Pardon
me,” he said, bending and peering closer. As though terrified of
him—and at that age, most of them were of their commanding
officer—the lad drew his face in between hat, lapels, and scarf,
reminding him of a turtle going into its shell. “I don’t remember
signing you up, Mr. . . .”

“Uh, Starr.”

Liam, casting the lashing from a nearby gun,
saw Mira’s predicament immediately. Grabbing the steaming mug of
black coffee that Dalby was just bringing to his captain, he all
but shoved it into Brendan’s hands. “A shy one, he is! Ye don’t
remember him ’cause I signed him up meself, right, bucko?”

Mira nodded, still staring at her toes.

“Well, take off your hat so I can have a look
at you,” Brendan said, grinning.

“Can’t,” Mira mumbled.

“Scared o’ ye, he is!” Liam explained,
placing a massive hand between her shoulders and shoving her toward
the hatch. “Ye know how the wee mites are with their commandin’
officers, Brendan!”

Brendan was persistent. “There’s no need to
be afraid of me, Mr. Starr. I ask only your trust, not your
life.”

“Can’t take off m’ hat, sir.”

“Faith, why not?”

She thought quickly, wildly. “Because . . .
because my skin can’t take the sun, sir. Can’t take the . . .
light. I’ll break out in little bumps all over if I take it
off.”

“But it’s snowing out, Mr. Starr!” Brendan
wrapped his hands around the hot mug and stared at her
curiously.

“Don’t matter.” She pointed skyward. “Sun’s
still up there.”

Liam made a big show of clearing his throat.
“Uh, Brendan,” he said, curving his big, brawny arm around his
captain’s shoulders and trying to draw him away, “Mr. Starr’s one
o’ those albino people, he is. He can’t take
any
light.”

Brendan stared at her for a moment longer.
But the answer must’ve suited him, for he nodded, shot a final
glance at her, and then seemed to dismiss her with no further
thought. Over his massive shoulder Liam winked, and Mira caught the
conspiring grins of her crewmates. She clapped a hand over her
mouth to still her laughter.

Beside her, Bobbs tugged at his mole to hide
his own smile and eyed his new captain speculatively. “You sure
about that brig, sir?
Caper
’s American.”

“So she is. And that brig yonder flies the
Union Jack above her true colors, Mr. Bobbs. Here, have another
look.” Brendan handed the seaman his glass and sipped his coffee,
totally unconcerned. “She’s
Caper,
all right—and now, an
Englishman’s prize.”

Abadiah took the glass, wiped the snow from
the lens with his elbow, and raised it to his eye. “What d’ye
intend to do with her?”

Brendan downed the rest of his coffee. “Why,
make her
our
prize and send her back into port under her
true colors, of course.”

Lowering the glass, Bobbs stared as though
his ears had failed him. “Sir?”

Brendan shrugged and gave an innocent grin,
his cider-colored eyes sparkling with mischief. “Well, America has
few enough ships without Britain helping herself to them. Greed,
Mr. Bobbs! ’Twill never do anyone any good, remember that.”

“But, sir,
Caper
mounts fourteen
guns—which means that whoever captured her must mount a hell of a
lot more. They ain’t gonna be too agreeable about letting a fancy
schooner with a mere ten guns and a handful of swivels take her
back.”

But Brendan was already striding aft, humming
something Irish-sounding and looking about as worried as a fox
checking out a henhouse. “Mr. Wilbur!” he called, over his
shoulder. “We’ll ease the fore and main and prepare to tack!”

“Aye, sir!”

Seconds later, the commands came from aft,
were repeated forward, and carried out with brisk efficiency. “Ease
the foresail!”

“Let fly!”

Mira stared, her jaw hanging open in
amazement. Then she turned to Liam. Her voice was a fierce whisper.
“Is he always like that?”

“Like what, lassie?”

“So . . . cool! So blithe, so totally
unconcerned!”

For answer, Liam merely gave a broad grin.
Miss Mira Ashton would find out about her captain’s other
idiosyncrasies soon enough. Chuckling to himself, he took station
near the smart row of starboard four-pounders and waited.

“Stand by on the forward guns!”

Mira grabbed a priming iron and ran forward.
Her breath came hard and fast, and the cold air dragged tears from
her eyes. Swiping them away, she drew herself up and waited
impatiently as Abadiah and several other Newburyporters cast off
Freedom
’s lashings. She was uncomfortably aware of Brendan’s
curious stare upon her. “Hurry up!” she urged. Grunting and
cursing, the men hauled the gun inboard for loading. Powder monkeys
scurried up from below decks, carrying powder and shot.

They were getting closer. And closer.

Without taking his eyes off their quarry,
Brendan yelled, “Mr. Doherty! Choose your best gun captain and have
him demonstrate to us how fine his eyesight is! If he can take out
that brig’s mizzen, I’ll give him my share of the prize money!”

Someone nudged her shoulder, and Mira looked
up into Liam’s twinkling blue eyes. He held a linstock, a forked
rod used for holding the match to the cannon’s touchhole; now he
shoved it into her hand and jerked his head toward the big gun
beside her. “Here’s yer chance, lassie! Don’t waste it!”

She nodded eagerly and laid her hand upon
Freedom’s
ice-cold breech, brushing the snow away from the
Scripture words so faithfully—and appropriately—inscribed there:
It is more blessed to give than to receive.

That was for damned sure!

Abadiah sponged out the gun, rammed a
cartridge down its bore, and followed it with bar shot and
wadding.

“Lively, now!” Brendan yelled, obviously
testing her.

Mira shoved a priming rod down
Freedom
’s touchhole to pierce the flannel powder cartridge.
Her hands were shaking in nervous excitement, and she was sweating
beneath Matt’s heavy coat.

“Easy,” Abadiah said, touching her shoulder.
“Ye can do it.”

She nodded and passed a wrist over her brow.
Forward, Brendan strode to the shrouds and raised his speaking
trumpet, his feet braced against the roll of the ship, his chestnut
hair caught in a piece of ribbon and hanging between his handsome
shoulders. “Ahoy! What ship are you and what are your true
colors?”

Tension mounted. The crew exchanged glances.
Beside her, Abadiah tugged nervously on his mole. Mira pictured
what
Kestrel
must look like to the brig’s crew, sweeping out
of the gray mists like a ghost.

The answer floated eerily back through the
snow. “
Caper
’s the ship, and her colors are the king’s
own!”

“Well, haul them down, my friend, or I shall
do so for you!”

The other ship came alive. A shot banged out
in reply, skipping through the waves and hissing into the sea a
quarter mile away. Canvas tumbled from her yards, someone cut her
anchor cable, and she leaned hard over, showing her belly as she
fell away with the wind.

“Very well, then!” Brendan raised his trumpet
once more, grinning. So they wanted to play, did they? He glanced
at the little mite standing at the gun dubbed
Freedom,
and
felt his jaunty good spirits fade to trepidation. If having the lad
there was Liam’s idea of a joke. . . .

“Ease the main a wee bit, Mr. Wilbur! And Mr.
Starr! You may run out now!”

Behind him came a protesting squeal as the
big gun was moved up to its gunport. The little gunner, his face
tight with concentration, flung his braid over his shoulder and
crouched down beside
Freedom
’s ugly snout.

“Point your gun!”

Handspikes, the crowbar-like instruments used
to heave and lever a gun into position, lifted
Freedom
’s
mouth. Her heart pounding, Mira gripped her linstock, wiped the
snow from her eyes, and sighted along the barrel. The iron was cold
against her cheek. With the sea heaving
Kestrel
up and down
and her target a dim shape in the snow, it was going to be hard to
hit
Caper
’s hull, let alone her mizzen.

“Maximum elevation, Mr. Starr!”

She felt every eye upon her. Brendan,
resplendently handsome, clinging to the shrouds and watching her
intently. Liam, his arms folded confidently across his mighty
chest. Dalby, his teeth clamped down on a clawlike hand. And the
crew, elbowing one another in the ribs and making bets on whether
or not she could do it.

The Irish ones, that was. The Newburyporters
knew better.

Catching Bobbs’s eye, Mira sighted one last
time along
Freedom
’s snowy breech, stepped back to avoid the
recoil—and lowered her match to the vent. With a mighty roar the
gun flung itself inboard, coughing a cloud of flame and smoke from
its angry mouth. The crew rushed to the rail, and a great, awed
sigh rose up from their midst.

“Holy Mutherr o’ God.”

It was Liam, white-faced and shocked, and
staring at her with a strange, frozen grin on his beamy features.
Behind him, Mira saw the brig’s mizzen topple into the sea,
dragging a tangle of spars, rigging, and sail with it. There was no
need to load up again. That one shot had destroyed the nerve of the
brig’s crew. Already the Union Jack was slinking down in
defeat.

Liam’s throat worked as he tried to find
words. Beyond him Brendan was staring at her, his mouth hanging
open and his speaking trumpet dangling uselessly from his wrist.
The crew, turning from the rail as one, had gone mute. At last Liam
shook his head. “That was mighty fine shootin’, er, Mr. Starr.”

“Thank you,” she mumbled.

Brendan was still staring at her.

Kestrel,
however, was not impressed,
taking her skills for granted and as though they were her due. She
came up on the defeated brig, confident and assured, and fretting
rather impatiently while her captain sent a prize crew across to
man it. The brig was disabled, but with the wreckage of her mizzen
cleared away, she could still be sailed. And then both victor and
vanquished swung their noses through wind and snow, sails shivering
and filling once more.

They were just clearing the point of the cove
when the lioness came after her cub: HMS
Viper,
a frigate
with thirty-two guns and a new captain at the helm.

A new captain, hell-bent on revenge.

Richard Crichton.

Chapter 13

It had been two days since the confrontation
between
Kestrel
and HMS
Viper,
a confrontation that
had been disastrous as far as the Royal Navy—and especially Captain
Richard Crichton—were concerned.

“Not good, Richard.” Sir Geoffrey Lloyd
cleared his throat and turned another page of his frigate captain’s
report. “I daresay, not good at all.”