Beloved Captive (2 page)

Yes, I remember. All a part of the game.

But this was no game.

Above them, the lookout skittered to the highest reaches of the rigging while others moved about fore and aft. Due west, the sun still rode high enough above the horizon to be trouble.

“What’ll ye have me do, sir?” the captain said.

“We’ll not stand by and have them board us so take the necessary actions.” He glanced over at Fletcher, who gave a slow and almost imperceptible nod. “You are in command here, Captain. I am but a passenger, albeit one willing to defend the vessel.”

The captain of the
Cormorant
barked orders to load. He addressed Caleb, offering an amateur’s version of a courtly bow. “Beggin’ yer pardon, but ye might want to go below until this bit o’ bluster’s done. Your mother would have my hide if yours is damaged.”
 

“I am no babe in arms, sir.” Anger flashed white hot. “Would that I had the time to answer such an affront.”
 

“She’ll be upon us soon, lad.” Fletcher returned the spyglass to Caleb. “What’ll you be defending yourself with?”

The vessel now bore down on them, her name easily read through the glass in his hand.
Hawk’s Remedy.
Caleb pushed away the fear in his gut and stared down into the wide eyes of the captain. “Have a man fetch my grandfather’s—my sword and pistols.”
 

Once the order was given, the captain looked to Caleb for further instruction. He looked up at the
Cormorant
’s mainsail and found it empty.

“Where is the Benning flag?”

“If you recall, you wished it removed some days ago,” Fletcher said. “I felt it prudent to honor that wish, at least until we come within site of Santa Lucida.”

“Raise it once more,” Caleb called as the first volley of shots rang out. “And fly the red banner beneath her. The only response to an unprovoked attack is to let the infidels know we’ll take no quarter.”

“Would that we might discuss this,” the captain said.
 

Caleb pointed to the advancing ship. “Do those ruffians look as if they’d like a discussion or a fight, good sir?”

A second later, the
Hawk’s Remedy
sent a volley of shot hurtling near the forward bow, and the time for action was upon them. A second round of shot found its mark just shy of the quarterdeck. Splinters of wood peppered Caleb’s face and arms, but a smoldering coil of hemp leaning against the mainmast stole his attention.
 

Should the hemp ignite, the mainmast would be next. Bounding toward the potential disaster, Caleb gathered the rope into his arms and tried not to think about the flames as he raced to the gunwale and threw the rope overboard. The rope sizzled and smoked as it hit the churning water and slowly disappeared beneath it.

That accomplished, he fell into action beside those around him, heedless of the wounds now rising. Another explosion hit near the vessel, and the
Cormorant
shuddered but remained true and seaworthy.

When the attacking vessel came about, Caleb reached for his pistol but found no clear shot. A second try proved just as fruitless when a rising blister on his palm caused him to jerk at the last minute and miss his target, a large and vocal fellow wearing a top hat and strutting about the foredeck shouting and pointing.

“Likely he’s the captain of that tub.” Caleb turned to see Fletcher standing beside him, the spyglass at his side. “You’ve got your grandfather’s instincts, lad, and that fellow knows it.” With the spyglass, he pointed to the
Hawk’s Remedy
. “He’ll not make the same mistake.
I saw his face when he knew you’d found him in your sights.”

Caleb watched the wake from the smaller vessel lap against the sides of the
Cormorant
, attesting to the near miss. “Had I my grand-father’s instincts,” he said, “perhaps my—” Another shot from the attacker’s cannon prevented further debate.
 

Someone peppered the deck with grapeshot, causing Caleb to dive. Fletcher followed, landing nearby. A moment later, Caleb glanced up at the mainmast, then with difficulty climbed to his knees and peered over the rail.
 

“They’ve tacked away.” Fletcher rose and limped toward the aft deck, shouting something about the colors to a lad who had the misfortune to cross his path. Caleb watched the older man a moment, then returned to the cannon crew.

“You almost got ’em,” one of the sailors remarked.

“Indeed that’s fine shooting,” another said as he prepared the wadding and stuffed it into place. “You’re a real Benning, you are.”

Rather than comment, Caleb fell into position and waited for the cannon’s fire before joining with the men to repeat the process. The ropes he held tore at his palms and chafed against his bare arms, but he ignored the petty aches by doubling his efforts and urging the others to do the same.

Several volleys hit their mark, but none managed to sink the agile vessel.
 

“Look at that,” the fellow next to Caleb said as he pointed to the center of the ship.
 

Caleb held tight to the rope as he glanced over his shoulder. There above the fray was a lone figure shinnying up the mainmast with the Benning flag in his teeth.
 

“What in the world? He’s going to get himself killed.” Caleb dropped the rope and ran toward the mainmast, reaching for his pistol. Thankfully, the enemy ship was too far away for anyone to fire directly at the youth. When he slid down, his grin broad, Caleb was waiting to upbraid him for the careless act.

“It was an order, Mr. Benning, I mean, Spencer, sir,” he said, eyes wide. “When I joined up with this crew, the captain said I was to do what I’m told and that’s what I did.”

“Is that so?” Caleb looked around for the source of the child’s irresponsible order but found all hands otherwise occupied. Turning his attention back to the lad, Caleb forced a smile. “Good work, sailor. Now get yourself off to someplace safe until this is over.”

The boy tipped his hat and scurried aft. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flash on the deck of
Hawk’s Remedy
. A second later, something exploded just above the head of the retreating youth.
 

Caleb watched the boy skitter away, thankfully unharmed; then he turned to see from whence the shots had come. On the deck of the vessel stood the scoundrel in the top hat. With a flourish, the villain bowed at the waist, then straightened to aim his weapon directly toward Caleb.
 

The fact that the man’s gun could not reach the distance between the ships seemed to be of no concern to the madman who captained
Hawk’s Remedy
. Caleb stood his ground, his fear fading as anger grew.

Whether it was because of the skilled aim of the
Cormorant
’s crew or the green and gold banner that flew above her, the marauding vessel struck her colors and made to limp away.
 

“After them,” Caleb shouted over the din of the celebrating crew. “We’ve promised no quarter, and we shall give none.”

“Lad.” Caleb felt the weight of the captain’s hand on his shoulder. “Why give chase to cowards? Likely they’ll not trouble us further.”
 

“But they wished no quarter. We must grant that wish.” He began to pace, his mind reeling as he sought to justify the argument to pursue. “If allowed to escape, they may return to plague us again.”

“If they do, then they’ve earned what we give them.” The captain paused. “Of course, this is your vessel, and you’ll do as you wish, although I suggest seeing to your wounds as a priority.”

Caleb wanted to argue but found nothing to counter the older man’s logic save his own anger. “Others are in worse need of doctoring, Captain,” he said. “But I’ll take my turn when they have been seen to.”

“Aye, Mr. Benning.” He shook his head. “Er, Spencer.”

Caleb stepped past the captain to stride to the rail, being careful not to impede the progress of those still at their tasks. Heedless of the debris floating around them, gentle waves lapped against the hull as if pushing her toward home.
 

The ship’s home, not his. The litany began to play in his head, a series of thoughts all leading to the same conclusion: The choice had been made long before Caleb was given the chance to make it himself.

From the corner of his eye, Caleb saw Fletcher approach.

“See that you record this encounter in the log, Fletcher.” He flexed his fists, then paid for the effort with a pain he ignored. “I’ll not be wanting to forget the name of the scourge who plagued us this day.”

“Indeed.”

Caleb gave him a sideways glance and noted red stains on Fletcher’s sleeve and shirtfront. “You’re bleeding.”

“It’s nothing. Now, if you’ve no further need of me, I’ll see to the recording of the log.”
 

Fletcher turned away, leaving Caleb to stand amid the chaos. Caleb looked down to see his palms showed both the blisters from the smoldering hemp and the marks of the rope he’d held to balance the vessel’s short gun.

Splinters from a percussion shell had torn holes in his shirt and peppered the skin below, and his left arm likely had been grazed by the same weapon. Swiping at the blood with the back of his sleeve, Caleb took a strange satisfaction in watching the fleeing vessel grow smaller as the shadows grew longer.
 

As darkness fell in heavy shadows around him, satisfaction turned to confusion.

Less than two weeks ago, he had sat behind his desk and thought that was where God wanted him to be. Now, as he shook the splinters from his hair and inhaled deeply of the sulfur-tinged salt air, Caleb was no longer so sure.

For a man who had vowed to uphold justice and the word of the law, taking those things into his own wounded hands was a heady and fearful thing. Heady because of the great pleasure it gave him, and fearful because there seemed no end to it.

“Beggin’ yer pardon.”

Caleb whirled around to find one of the young riggers standing a short distance behind him. He shifted from side to side as if his bare feet were touching hot metal.

“The old man what boarded with you?”

“Aye,” Caleb said, “that would be Mr. Fletcher. What of him?”

The boy removed his cap and held it against the tattered rag that served as a shirt. “I reckon he’s in a bad way, sir. Leastwise that’s what I heard the—”

“Take me to him.” As Caleb fell into step behind the boy, revenge—
a new and curiously invigorating emotion—took hold and wrapped around his already conflicted heart. If Fletcher was dead, then every last hand aboard
Hawk’s Remedy
would have to die as well.

In the time it took Caleb to reach his old friend’s side, a promise had been made. An accounting would be made of each sorry soul aboard the
Hawk’s Remedy
, and payment would be extracted in hide rather than in coin.
 

Much as his Spencer blood called for justice, his Benning blood boiled for revenge.

Caleb balled his fingers into fists as he ducked beneath the low beam to enter the galley that had been turned into a makeshift hospital. Bloody rags and the stench of sulfur permeated the room, while the sound of men suffering played in harmony with the creak of the ship and the lapping of the waves.

Once his eyes adjusted to the gloom, Caleb found Fletcher immediately. Propped against a barrel, he had been stripped to the waist. Bandages covered his torso and right arm, and a nasty bruise had spread across one cheek. His right eye had swollen shut. Still, he held the ever-present empty pipe between his teeth, even as his good eye followed Caleb.

“Can he speak?” he asked the surgeon, an affable fellow whose last call of duty had been in a dental office in Boston.

“Of course I can speak,” Fletcher said. “I’m just having a bit of trouble standing.” He swung his attention from Caleb to the young doctor. “Go work on someone who needs the help.”

Nodding, Caleb sent the man off to the next wounded man, then lowered himself to his knees beside Fletcher. For a moment, neither spoke.

Fletcher removed the pipe to balance it in his hand. “Could be the confusion started when I woke up in this mummy suit.” He looked down at his chest, then back up at Caleb. “I warrant the young surgeon’s a bit overzealous with his bandages. I’m trussed up like an Egyptian being readied for the tomb.”

And a sorry excuse for a mummy you’d make.” He sobered. “What happened?” he asked as he pointed to the bandages.

“Grapeshot,” he said. “Even with the scoundrel’s bad aim, the shot managed to catch me off guard. I attribute it to old age, lad, for I’ve no other reason to it.”

“That ain’t true at all.”

Caleb looked over to where the heavily accented voice had come from. “Are you calling my man Fletcher a liar?”

“He ain’t lying, but he sure ain’t giving you the whole story.” This from a man bundled beneath a greatcoat and bandaged about his head and shoulders.

“Is that so?” Caleb looked to Fletcher, who shrugged.

“I’ll tell you what happened.” The fellow leaned up on his elbows as his voice strengthened. The greatcoat fell away, revealing serious damage to his midsection.

“Enlighten me,” Caleb said.

“The
Hawk
, it came about just as the Benning banner went up. I saw him, this redheaded fella on the other ship. He took aim right at you, Mr. Benning, whilst you were hauling that burning rope over the side, and well, your friend saved your life.”

“Is this true?” Caleb looked to Fletcher, who said nothing.

“With the Lord as my witness, I ain’t lying.”

Caleb reached for the old man’s hand and placed his atop it. “You risked your life for mine.”

“It was nothing.” Fletcher shifted positions. “One sailor to another on the field of battle.”

One sailor to another. Caleb looked away. Fletcher’s highest praise, no doubt.

Caleb turned his attention to Fletcher and found him staring. “I owe you my life,” Caleb said. “You’ve gone far beyond the call of duty.”

“No. Long ago I made a promise,” he said slowly, his voice rough and his forehead now beading with sweat, “and even as I am guilty of much, I am a man of honor.” He closed his eyes, then opened them again with difficulty. “Never forget you are a man of honor as well, Caleb Benning.”