Captive Splendors (38 page)

Ahead of him, Malcolm could see the dark hull of the
Sea Siren
against the starlit sky. He swam, kicking with his feet, straining one arm in front of the other, willing himself to reach his goal.

Minute after agonizing minute passed; from time to time, exhausted, he rolled over on his back and floated. Still the ship seemed no nearer. His arms ached and trembled. His legs were cold and becoming stiff. Each breath he took seemed to fill his lungs and expand his chest and was squeezed out of him as though he were trapped in a vise. His clothing and the pouch of jewels, still stuffed inside his shirt, weighed him down; a cramp jolted through his calf muscles. The
Siren
continued to elude him. Glancing back, he saw that he hadn't even swum half the distance. In the darkness the shoreline was nearly impossible to discern. The inky, black waves became his enemy. Overpowering him, filling his mouth and nose, shutting out his air. Valiantly, he struggled onward, one goal in mind—the darkness of the locker box, where no one would find him. Safety. Security. Almost a homecoming. His exhausted muscles refused to work in coordination. It was increasingly fatiguing to keep his head above water, to gasp the next breath.

Tears mixed with the swells of the Sound. Tears of self-pity and rage against the injustice of his fate. He had come so close to having it all, everything, and now he had nothing. And it was all because of Wren. She had actually killed him back in the flat in London when she had robbed him of his one marketable asset —his good looks. Even Sara hadn't wanted him after she had seen his ruined face. Wren had destroyed him as calculatingly as if she had put a knife to his heart and pierced it.

The black waters closed over his head. Once. Twice. He felt himself going under for the third time, and instead of uttering a prayer of contrition, he heard himself cry out wretchedly, “Wrenl”

Caleb rode his mount hard and fast, stopping once for a few quick hours of much needed rest. When he awoke, darkness had settled around him. He had wasted too much time rounding up the stragglers of his crew. Traveling alone was much quicker, and he had instructed the men to wait for him to make port in New Amsterdam, where they would take on additional stores for the return trip to England.

The horse's hooves tore up chunks of turf as he raced toward Saybrook. Ahead of him, Caleb could see lanterns and torches lining the riverbank. On perceiving so much activity near the water, he rightly assumed it had something to do with the
Sea Siren.
Dismounting, he cautiously approached the thronging colonists from the trees and soon realized they were discussing the fate of his ship.

It was several moments before he began to understand that Kiefft had paid a visit to Saybrook and convinced the settlers that Caleb and his crew were Indian partisans, supplying the Pequots with weapons and spying on their behalf. It was a ridiculous statement, yet Caleb knew there was nothing he could say to refute it. Tempers were high and hostilities were fed by fear. The Pequots offered a very real threat, and he
had
been with Sassacus on several occasions.

Peering through the trees toward the ship, he felt his stomach tighten. She was a good mile out into the Sound. Without a chance of retrieving his jolly, it would be a long swim.

Suddenly a cry went up. “The preacher! The preacher, Stoneham!” the voice shrilled. “He's dead! Murdered!”

Caleb's ears pricked as he listened. One man, whose modish clothing revealed he was not one of the settlers but was probably one of Kiefft's men, linked Caleb's name with Bascom's murder. Outraged, the throng drew closer to the water, looking toward the
Siren
and waving clenched fists.

Knowing it would be only a matter of time until they ventured out in their boats to attack the ship, Caleb also knew it was time to take his chances.

He ran as though his life depended on it, and it did. Gasping, his long arms giving him momentum, he skidded to a stop at the river's edge. One quick look over his shoulder at the advancing colonists, and he leapt into the murky waters of the Sound. When he surfaced some distance from the shoreline, he kicked off his boots, the shouts of “Murderer!” and “Indian lover!” ringing in his ears.

His feet free of the weighty boots, he struck out just as his own jolly was launched from the shore, full of shouting, cursing men, intent only on his capture. Another quick look over his shoulder told him four members of his crew who had returned to Saybrook were behind him. Their intent was the same as his.

As Caleb's arms slashed through the water, he realized how the past days had taken their toll of him. Farrington's death, Sara's duplicity, Wren's supposed death and then her miraculous reappearance, along with his hatred for Malcolm Weatherly, had left him drained of emotion. Too many sleepless nights worrying what might or might not have been with Wren were now in the past, and he had to force his body to keep moving in the churning black water. He had to reach the ship and Wren. He was tired. The crewmen were almost abreast of him, and they had hit the water after he had. He had to make it; he couldn't fail now, not after all that had happened. Deep, even strokes would bring him to the
Siren.

Lifting his head as his arms knifed through the water, he saw the four crew members, two each abreast of him. They were good men, his men, and they knew that his strokes were less than even and measured and that his breathing was ragged, much more so than theirs. If he faltered, they were there. Determination and anger raced through him. He couldn't let the crew bring in its captain. He'd die first. Even if he slowed, as long as his strokes were measured, he would make it.

Wren stood on the quarterdeck of the
Sea Siren,
her face softly lit by the gimbaled lantern. Her anxious gaze was fixed on the commotion ashore, when suddenly she realized what she was seeing. “Peter! Look! It's Caleb!” Excitement rang in her voice and mingled with her anxiety.

“Aye! And it seems as though four of our men have finally found their way back to the ship!” His eyes were pressed tightly against the ship's glass as he looked toward shore. “And look what's behind them and gaining distance!”

Wren peered out, her hand shielding her eyes from the lantern's light. In the distance, behind Caleb and the crewmen, was the
Siren
's jolly boat, manned by Kiefft's men, their muskets raised and ready to fire.

Peter ran to the foredeck, hoisting the winch which would lower the second jolly. “I'll row out and pick them up. You and Lydia go below and lock the cabin doors.”

“I'm going with you,” Wren stated, lifting her skirts in preparation of climbing down the Jacob's ladder.

“No, you're not! Stay below—that's an order!”

“I'll be damned if I'll go below and hide like a criminal. My running and hiding days are over, Peter. I'm going with you!”

“And leave Lydia alone? You must stay here. Now, do as you're told. Now!” Peter thundered.

Wren gulped and seized Lydia by the arm. “We'll do as you say. Hurry, Peter.”

With the boat lowered into the dark water, Peter cast a last, longing look at his Lydia and slid down into the jolly. Every muscle in his back bunched into knots as he dipped the oars and then swung back, only to dip and swing again. There they were, he could see them struggling in the churning tides. He prayed he would reach them in time. The governor's men were fast closing the distance. Soon they would be within shooting range.

On deck, Lydia was trembling with the force of her fear. “Wren, I'm frightened,” she whispered. “Why is this happening? Why would Governor Kiefft do this?”

“You heard what Peter said before. What better way to insure that Caleb never makes his report to the burghers in Holland? This way, we will all be victims of mass hysteria, not of coldblooded murder.”

“Wren, we have to do something. If they come aboard . . . I've heard what men can do to women. . .”

“They're not pirates, Lydia, they won't rape us. That's not what they have in mind. Right now they just wouldn't want any witnesses to say what really did happen.” Wren's voice conveyed a confidence she did not feel. “Be brave, Lydia. When Caleb comes aboard, he'll know what to do.” She hugged Lydia close.

Several shots rang out through the darkness. Kiefft's men were firing on the swimmers and Peter.

“Dear God! They're firing on our men!” Lydia squealed.

Wren's heart constricted in panic, her amber eyes flashing with rage. “Lydia! Come with me. We have a gun, too! The ship's cannon.”

“The cannon! You must be crazy! We can't fire that!”

“Why not? Caleb said it's always loaded. All we need to do is add powder. Do you know where it's kept?”

Lydia glanced at the cumbersome, lethal cannon whose muzzle pointed through a bay abaft the starboard beam. She froze with terror.

Wren seized her shoulders and shook her. “Do you know where the powder is kept? It's in the stern, in the magazine!” Lydia shook her head in the affirmative, like a puppet whose string had been pulled. “Get it!” Wren ordered, pushing Lydia toward the stern. “If you can't carry it, roll it down!”

Wren ran down the starboard side, stopping at each gun sight, peering over the gunwale to assess the best aim. At sea, the crew would bring a ship about for the best firing vantage. Trapped on a sandbar the way they were, there was no chance of doing that. The best she could do was choose the cannon facing the target; then hope and pray that when she fired it, it would at least alarm Caleb's pursuers and give him time to get aboard safely. Cannon 2 on the starboard beam seemed to fit her specifications.

Lydia came forward, hunched over, carrying the twenty-pound powder cask on her back, supporting it with a rope drawn forward over her shoulders like Wren had seen peasants do in Java. The cask thudded to the deck and spilled open, saving Wren the trouble of breaking into it. “How much powder do we use?” Lydia gasped.

“I don't know. But I've seen it done before, when Regan was testing the guns on his ships in the Batavia harbor. Help me, Lydia. There's little time left!”

The women worked quickly, uncertain of what they were doing. At the last moment Wren remembered to use the long plunger to tamp down the powder. Exerting all their strength, they rolled the gun into place. Wren grabbed the lantern and lifted the chimney, holding the naked flame to the fuse. Squeezing her eyes shut, she fired the cannon. It reeled backward on its mounts from the force of the explosion.

An oily, inky cloud exuded from the gun, and when the smoke cleared, Wren hardly dared to look, fearing that somehow she had miscalculated and that Caleb and Peter had also taken the brunt of the shot.

“Look! Look!” Lydia squealed. “I see the jolly and our men! Throw down the ladder so they can board!”

Caleb had one foot on the ladder, a dumbfounded expression on his face. “Did they fire on us or on Kiefft's men?” he muttered. “That was too close for comfort.”

Wren was loading the cannon again when she felt a hand on her shoulder and swung around, a silent scream in her throat. “Caleb! I didn't know what to do. We thought Peter wouldn't get to you in time, and those men were firing at you!” She collapsed into his arms.

“Hush, now! You did everything just right. You saved our lives and gave us the time we needed.” He hugged her to him and then released her, shouting orders to the crew.

“Peter, there's little chance we can keep them from boarding the ship,” Caleb said. “The cannons were meant for long-range firing. Once they're on board, we've lost firing range. We'd better prepare to fight.” He drew Peter aside. “Listen to me carefully. If they manage to board and the fight is all to their favor, set fire to the Siren and go over the side. We'll take our chances in the water.”

“Aye, Captain. And I'm sorry about the sandbar. I panicked with the responsibility of the women. If only the tide had been right, we could have turned the ship around and headed for sea. It's my fault, Captain, and if anything happens to you and the others, I'm to blame.”

“There's no blame being placed on your shoulders, Peter. You did the best you could, and that's all I ask of any man. Tomorrow the tide will be right and we'll sail away from here. I hope,” he muttered under his breath.

At the first sound of the grappling hooks, Wren's eyes took on a feverish glaze and her body began to tremble. Kiefft's men wanted Caleb, and the only way they would get him would be to kill her first.

She flinched at the sound of a pistol being cocked, and then another and another. The four crew members were stationed broadside, while Peter stood a little to the left of Caleb to give him backup support should his volley miss. Where was Lydia? “Lydia, where are you?” she hissed.

“Shhh, over here. See, I have a rapier, too.”

“Good. Use it, don't just hold it,” Wren whispered back.

“It's the same principle as jabbing a hairpin, isn't that so?”

“Oh, Christ,” Caleb moaned to Peter, who rolled his eyes at Lydia's words.

“Yes,” Wren told her, “but be sure that you use force.”

There was no time to give Lydia an exercise on the finer points of fencing. Wren was only glad that as a little girl she had pretended to be the infamous Sea Siren and that Regan had seen to her lessons himself.

Over the port rail climbed Kiefft's men, aided by colonists from Old Saybrook. The decks became alive with sharp cries and mayhem. Lydia jabbed out with her weapon, delaying an attacker until Peter could see to him himself.

Wren waited in the darkness, undecided where she was needed most. How could eight people survive this attack? she wondered fearfully. She refused to speculate whether or not she could actually use a rapier to kill a man. Her fencing lessons had been child's play, meant more for form than for actual defense. Her mouth became a thin line of concentration as she emerged onto the deck, the sword clutched in her hand.

She stepped over two fallen bodies and advanced warily on an unsuspecting man bent upon cutting Peter down from behind. The point of her blade plunged deep into the back of his neck, and he dropped before her. She pulled her weapon free of his resisting flesh and grimaced, but the expression on Peter's face was all she needed to keep going.

Again and again she lashed out, mentally counting the odds against them as three to one. She jabbed and feinted, cracking one man over the head with the rapier's handle, only to stun him. Lydia saved her in the nick of time by running her own rapier through the man's arm. Peter finished him off.

Wren was seized with a panic which choked off all reason. Averting her eyes from the gore, she backed against the foremast, weapon held loosely in her hand. One of Kiefft's men advanced on her, his eyes raking her and taking in the sword she held. She was an easy target, stunned by panic, immobile with fear. Even as he approached her, she was defenseless against him. He wielded a cutlass, held at a menacing angle, ready to slash out at her if she made a move.

Her mouth was dry, her gaze fixed; she was helpless. None of the polite and genteel lessons she had learned from Regan had prepared her for this. Just as the man's hand reached out for her, she turned to run. He grabbed for her viciously, pulling at the fabric of her skirts, tearing the stitches at the waistline. The material trapped her legs and caused her to sprawl onto the deck.

A soundless plea rose to her lips as he ripped the fabric away from her legs and feasted his eyes on the elegant length of her legs stripped bare to his view. Frozen by terror and what she read in his face, Wren was paralyzed. Amid the frenzied happenings around her, she knew there would be no help from anyone: only herself. Slowly, unseen by her attacker, she groped the deck near her side, searching for the hilt of her rapier. Just as her fingers found their target, he lunged for her, naked lust casting dark shadows over his eyes. The tip of her weapon found his breast, and with a deliberate, unhurried action, she plunged it deep into his flesh. Rolling onto her side, she avoided his dead weight falling on top of her. “That was for you and all the Malcolms of this world!” she screamed, beyond the edge of panic now and into the grip of deadly willfulness. “No one will ever do that to me again!”