The Pirate Ruse (3 page)

“Those bloody Brits have a hold full of goods, sir…but little ammunition,” Baskerville answered. “Not the usual cargo for a merchant vessel…especially in times of war.”

“No,” Captain Navarrone mumbled as his narrowed gaze fell to Cristabel for a moment. “Not the usual cargo at all.”

“Bully Booth’s men scattered like fleas, Cap’n,” a young boatswain chuckled. The others who had heard him smiled
, chuckled, and exchanged triumphant nods.

“As well they should have,” Captain Navarrone said, patting the young man on the back. “The crew of the
Merry Wench
is not to be trifled with, eh?”

The pirates cheered, and Cristabel watched as Captain Navarrone began to stride toward a plank leading to the deck of the
Chichester
.

“Lock the woman in my quarters, Baskerville,” he ordered. He paused midplank, turned, and, glaring at his men, added, “Any man who entertains one thought toward her…will feel twenty lashes with the cat. I did not face and run through a pirate the like of Bully Booth to see my prize spoiled.”

“Aye, Cap’n,” the men said in unison.

“Come along, lassie,” Baskerville said, taking Cristabel’s arm and pulling her to her feet.

“Unhand me, blackguard!” Cristabel said, somehow managing to deliver a stinging slap to the pirate’s face.

Baskerville’s grip only tightened at her arm, however—painfully. The intensity of his applied seizure rendered Cristabel unable to offend him further.

“Oh, and, Baskerville,” she heard Captain Navarrone chuckle, “be wary. That one’s got a bit of a she-devil in her.”

“Aye, Cap’n,” Baskerville grumbled, glaring at Cristabel.

“You’re hurting me!” Cristabel cried as Baskerville pushed her toward the captain’s cabin beneath the quarterdeck.

“The
cap’n’s got arrangements to make, lassie,” Baskerville said as he forced her into the cabin. “But don’t you worry your pretty little head none. He’ll be back.” Baskerville’s smile broadened, revealing devious thoughts. “I’m certain Captain Navarrone won’t keep the likes of you waiting.”

“Please, sir,” Cristabel began to beg. Perhaps this man Baskerville would take pity on her—protect her from Captain Navarrone and whatever he planned to do to her.

“You rest a bit now, lass,” Baskerville said, however. “It won’t be long. The cap’n can plunder a ship faster than any man I ever sailed with.”

With that, Baskerville closed the door behind him. Cristabel heard him bark out an order to a boatswain that the door be barred and guarded.

She was trapped—held prisoner by bloodthirsty pirates! Exhausted, Cristabel crumpled in a heap on the floor of the captain’s cabin. Sobbing wracked her tired, frightened body and soul, hopelessness and despair overwhelming her. She was lost—entirely lost! She would be beaten, seized, despoiled, and finally murdered! Cristabel Albay would find her end in being tortured in the heinous misery inflicted by pirates. She again thought of her mother.

“Pray…help Mother to find happiness,” she whispered through her tears. “I beg thee…never let her gain knowledge of the circumstance of my demise.”

Suddenly a strange, unexpected desperation began to wash over Cristabel. She could not perish—not at the hands of pirates! She could not! She would not! Brushing the tears from her cheeks, she pushed her weary body to kneeling at least. She brushed more tears from her face as she glanced about the cabin in which she was prisoner. She frowned, bewildered by the finery meeting her gaze. The desk and its chair, the blue velvet-cushioned chaise lounge to one side, a painting on the wall, the bedding of the captain’s berth—all were wildly luxurious and of great worth. Yet Cristabel was only momentarily dazzled, for she was indeed in a pirate captain’s cabin, and no pirate captain would linger in his cabin without knowing weapons of defense were within his reach. Though pirate crews that were captained by a man they respected were loyal to their leader, pirates were still pirates, and no captain of such a vessel as the
Merry Wench
could trust his men entirely. Thus, there must be weaponry at hand.

Hope began to swell in Cristabel’s bosom. Perhaps she could find a pistol, a dagger, something with which to aid in escape—or at least something with which to defend her virtue. She tried to stand, but her legs were still too weak from the exertion of swimming. Still, she was not thwarted and began crawling toward the desk at the far side of the room. She would not forfeit her virtue or her life without a struggle. When the pirate captain, Navarrone the Blue Blade, came for her, she would defend herself—to the death if necessary. She would plunge his own cutlass into his belly, drive his own dagger into his heart, shoot him between the eyes with his own pistol before she allowed him to touch her.

Reaching up, she took hold of the desktop, at last pulling herself to her feet. She smiled as she saw a dagger enclosed in a bejeweled sheath lying on top of the desk. Smiling, she picked up the weapon—drew the sharp blade from its ruby-encrusted scabbard.

Remembering the words Captain Navarrone had uttered a moment before he had hurled them both from the
Screaming Witch
and into the sea, she whispered, “Oh, but you’ll thank me one day, love,” as she studied the lethal weapon in her hand. “Will I thank you one day, Captain Navarrone?” she questioned the air. She smiled and whispered, “I may indeed, love. I may indeed.”

Navarrone stood before the
Chichester
’s few surviving crew members. Bully Booth and his men had well slaughtered the British sailors. Only seven remained. He was angry—angry that Bully Booth had come upon the
Chichester
before the
Merry Wench
had found her—angry that his boots were sopping wet for the sake of the swim necessary to save the woman now locked in his cabin—angry at the British sailors for being part of the Empire’s tyranny. Independence from the British Empire had been hard fought for by the United States. Many men died for the sake of it, and now the British were attempting to conquer, or in the least oppress, the fledgling country. For over two years, since June of 1812, battle had been waged between the states and territories of the United States and the bloody British Empire. Navarrone was weary of it.

Navarrone studied the uniforms of the remaining British crew
, their bloodied lips and defiant stances.

“You men,” he began, addressing the
enemy, “you are fortunate to be alive. The pirate Bully Booth did not intend to spare you. Yet I have.” He glared at the men, pacing back and forth before the line of young British sailors. His eyes narrowed as he closely studied the uniform of one man. “You,” he said, glaring at the man, “you’re first mate. Where’s your captain?”

“Dead, you filthy pirate!” the man growled.
Navarrone raised a hand, intent on striking the man for his disrespect and British alliance. He paused, however, for it took courage to stand in defiance of an enemy to which one was forfeit.

“The
woman that was aboard your vessel,” Navarrone began, lowering his hand, “the one Bully Booth captured. Was she your captain’s wife?” His instincts whispered that he should not allow the Brits to know he had taken the woman from Bully Booth. Furthermore, he was pleased with his men, for as ever, they displayed solemn faces—revealed nothing to the Brits that might alert them to their captain’s trickery.

“No,” the
Chichester
’s first mate admitted.

“Why was she
sailing with you?” Navarrone asked.

“What
will the pirate do with her?” the first mate bravely inquired.

Again Navarrone’s eyes narrowed.
“Bully Booth is merciless,” he answered. “He will keep no prisoner alive…not for long anyway. Tell me why she was aboard an Empire’s merchant vessel, and I may spare your lives. Was she of some value…other than the obvious, that is? Speak, and with respect…or you will share the same fate as your dead brother sailors.”

The
first mate swallowed. Navarrone knew the man was considering whether to tell the truth.

“I wa
rn you, Brit. I will know if you are lying,” he growled.

The
first mate of the captured
Chichester
sighed—slightly shook his head. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I don’t know why she was aboard. But I do know she was not willingly aboard.”

Navarrone’s eyes narrowed.
“Not willingly aboard? Do you mean she was forced aboard?”

“Aye,” the man answered.
“We weren’t told nothing about why she was with us. The captain only told us we weren’t to…to touch her. A small ship brought her to us in the dead of night.”

“Did she tell you anything?
Speak to you of why she was on the
Chichester
?” Navarrone asked.

The
first mate shook his head once more. “No. Seems to me she didn’t know why herself.”

Navarrone glanced to Baskerville.
Baskerville nodded; he too understood that there was something inexplicably strange about the presence of the woman they had found aboard the
Chichester
.

“Do you mean to
hang us?” a British boatswain asked.

Navarrone looked to the lad—judged him to be no more than seventeen.

He did not answer the boy—simply spoke to his own men instead. “Empty the hold of anything of value,” Navarrone ordered. “Gather any logs, maps, or parchments from the captain’s cabin.”

“Aye, Cap’n,” Baskerville agreed.

“Have Fergus choose amp
le men to sail the
Chichester
back to New Orleans,” Navarrone said. He paused, glaring at the line of British sailors. “If they want to live, they will man their posts…and the governor will decide their sentence when we arrive.”

“Aye, Cap’n,” Baskerville said with a nod.

“Give the orders, Baskerville,” Navarrone ordered.

“Aye, Cap’n.”
Baskerville inhaled a deep breath then and began to bark out orders. “You heard the cap’n, men! Empty the hold! Haul that British booty to the
Merry Wench
! Quick as you can, lads. We sail for New Orleans for feasting and riotous entertainment!”

The men cheered
, and Navarrone had to fight to keep a smile from breaking over his face. He well liked the sounds of his men when they were merry; he well liked besting the British. Yet as he crossed the plank to the deck of the
Wench
, his thoughts turned somber once more. It was not logical, the girl being aboard the
Chichester
—and unwillingly. His sixth sense told him there was more to her presence, something of worth about her—or about something she possessed. Perhaps she owned a knowledge the Brits had deemed valuable.

Whatever the
reason for her presence, Navarrone would discover it—use it to his advantage if he could. He remembered the look of defiance on her face, even as Bully Booth held her in threatening her virtue and life. Her courage was admirable. Yet it revealed a stubborn nature—a strength that, though estimable, could be unpredictable and therefore dangerous. He would have to watch her carefully, read her expressions and movements if he hoped to extract information from her. Still, if she did hold secret some valuable or precious information, Navarrone the Blue Blade would reap it from her.

“
Cap’n,” Fergus said as Navarrone stepped onto the deck of the
Merry Wench
.

Navarrone tur
ned to see Fergus deftly crossing the plank toward him.

Lowering his voice
, Fergus whispered, “There’s a trunk of women’s necessities in the
Chichester
’s cap’n’s cabin.” Fergus—the
Merry Wench
’s first mate—was a man to be trusted. Navarrone ever admired his quick wit and ability to solve riddles. “Might it belong to the lady?”

“Most likely, Fergus,” Navarrone mumbled.

“Should we bring it aboard the
Wench
, Cap’n?” Fergus inquired. “Allow the lady some dry clothes?”

Navarrone’s eyes narrowed
. “Bring the trunk aboard…but do not take it to the woman,” he answered. “No one is to touch its contents until I have seen to them first.”

“Aye, Cap’n,” Fergus said.

“In fact…have it brought to me at once,” Navarrone said. “There is something strange in all this. It unsettles me somehow. Best we root out whatever knowledge we can before we reach New Orleans.”

“Aye, Cap’n.”

Perhaps the contents of the woman’s trunk would reveal her purpose aboard the enemy’s vessel—or in least her identity. Navarrone’s eyes narrowed. Yes, something was greatly amiss where the
Chichester
and its woman passenger were concerned.

*

Cristabel glanced about the cabin. She held the dagger at her back, yet she wished for some alternate weapon to aid her. She saw none easily accessible, however, and knew the captain of the
Merry Wench
would return soon. She must prepare, convince herself that death may be at her door yet likewise persuade herself that she could survive—even triumph. Her eyes fell to the captain’s berth, strewn with linens and clothing. She considered snatching up one of the shirts she saw abandoned there in order to rid herself of the weight of the sopping brocaded vest. She knew the vest would inhibit her movements, yet she feared there was not time for such considerations.