The Following Sea (The Pirate Wolf series) (2 page)

When the smoke cleared, the survivors had been transferred off the crippled
Valour
and onto the
Iron
Rose
. Simon Dante, the patriarch of the clan, had paced from one side of the great cabin to the other, his steps slow and measured, his head bowed, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. On each turn he glanced at the berth where the ship’s carpenter-cum-doctor was in the process of sewing a deep gash in Juliet Dante’s temple.

"Skull might be cracked," Nog announced casually. "Nay doubt she’ll be hearin’ bells and walkin’ into walls the next few days, dizzy as a wench on a whirligig. Shoulder is blacker than Lucifer’s hoary arse too, but if she’s not plannin’ on t’rowin’ herself at any more Spaniards wearin’ steel breastplates, she should heal up nice."

"She will have plenty of time to heal back at Pigeon Cay," the Pirate Wolf declared. He saw his daughter’s eyes swim open and he narrowed his own in a warning. "There will be no arguments either. Your quartermaster has a hole in his ribs. Half your crew is licking wounds. Gabriel’s ship is bound for the bottom of the ocean and between the pair of you, we couldn’t manage one captain with enough common sense to know when to run and when to fight. Which brings me to the other demented female in this family."

He turned the full power of his silvery blue eyes on his wife Isabeau, who was sitting on the corner of the desk winding a clean strip of bandaging around the stump of her left arm. She had lost half the arm in a battle several years earlier but the disability rarely slowed her down.

"That I, of all people," Simon muttered, "should have been cursed with two addle-witted women who—"

"Love you dearly," Isabeau said sweetly, "and tolerate your bouts of ill temper with enduring patience."

"
My
ill temper?
Your
patience? Madam! You took my ship into battle! You risked your life, the lives of my crew, the well-being of my
Avenger
—"

"To go to the rescue of
your
daughter and
your
son."

"To go to the...?" He stopped and clamped his jaw tightly shut. When he found the patience to loosen it again, he snarled. "I should send you back to Pigeon Cay in irons."

Isabeau smiled. "You could certainly try."

He muttered a curse and aimed the silvery glare at the next victim. The cabin on board the
Iron
Rose
was crowded and he had plenty to choose from. Gabriel and his brother Jonas stood in one corner slouched against the wall, the former almost unrecognizable beneath a swollen, closed eye, multiple cuts and bruises, and lips that looked like two slabs of raw meat. Jonas had fared little better. He had a gash down his cheek, another on his arm; his hand was wrapped in a wad of linen and was cradled against his chest. A grin a mile wide split the red fuzz of his beard, however. His good arm was draped over Gabriel’s shoulders and every now and then, he ruffled his brother’s dark chestnut hair as if he still could not believe the Hell Twins were alive and together again.

"You find something amusing?" Simon asked.

"Aye, Father, I do," Jonas boomed. "A brother who smells like a vat of pickled herring, for one thing. For another, a sister who has ballocks the size of Gibraltar, inherited from a mother who can outsail, outshoot, and outwit any bloody papist on the Main. Add to that two fat prize galleons loaded to the hatches with treasure, and I’d say we have a fair bit to put a smile on our faces. Oh, and did I mention a father canny enough to find the wife to give him the sons and daughter able to accomplish these feats?"

Simon glared at his eldest son a moment longer.

"Oh, do strut over here and sit down, my love," Isabeau said, patting an empty corner of the desk beside her. "You’re as proud as a peacock and you damn well know it."

"I will be even prouder when we get these ships back to home port. There is still a fleet of Spanish galleons out in the Straits, any one or ten of them could come upon us at any moment. The
Valour
is sinking faster than we can offload her cargo."

Jonas nodded. "Of the two galleons we captured, the strongest looks to be the
Santa
Maria
, which will have to serve my little brother for the time being. At least until we get back home."

Gabriel spoke up through a frown. "I have no intentions of returning to Pigeon Cay and even less of running before the wind. As you say, there is still half a plate fleet out in the Straits."

Simon Dante shook his head. "We are all going home, Gabriel. Captain David Smith has already led a fleet of fifteen privateers north to blockade the exit from the Straits. More of the Brethren have been attacking in deadly skirmishes up and down the line, picking off the galleons and scattering the remnants of the
flota
. My guess is the ships that have been unscathed will turn tail and run back to Havana rather than risk further losses. Chances are we'll not see another Spanish flag between here and Pigeon Cay."

"From your lips to God's ears," Isabeau said quietly.

“God gave us a victory today,” Simon told her. “We should accept it with grace and not test His generosity.”

~~

Two hours later the
Santa Maria
weighed anchor and unfurled her sails to catch the wind that would carry them south and east through the Providence Channel and home. Dawn was painting the horizon a watery pink and as Gabriel leaned on the upper rail, he drew a crisp, clean lungful of the salty air. All that remained of his beautiful
Valour
was a wide ring of iridescent bubbles marking the spot where she had given a final sigh before slipping to her silent grave in the deep blue waters. She had been a fearsome, spirited lady who never balked at a good fight whether the odds were in their favor or not. She had been sleek and fast and had flown over the waves like a seabird.

The galleon by contrast, swayed and creaked with every crest that rolled beneath her hull. She was heavy and awkward, hampered by square-rigged sails that sent her plowing into the trough of each wave like a lumbering sow. Gabriel had already set the carpenters to work on the
Santa
Maria’s
yards and rigging in the hopes of improving her steerage, but there was nothing to be done about the towering fore and after castles that made her so unwieldy.

Gabriel had personally torn down the huge square of white silk emblazoned with the former
capitan's
coat of arms. High on the main mast, the galleon now flew the distinctive flag bearing black wolves on a crimson background that identified the ship as a prize of the Dante clan. The crew had set to work clearing the decks of debris and scouring the oak surfaces free of bloodstains. The gilded letters across the stern had been hastily covered with a sheet of black canvas upon which her new name,
Endurance
, was being painted in tall, bold characters. There was not an idle hand below or above decks, for each man knew the importance of becoming familiar with every aspect of the galleon, as well as the need to prime her for any potential trouble that might cross their path.

The former quartermaster, Riley, had died on board the
Valour
and Gabriel assigned one of his best gun captains to the position. Stubs MacLeish—so named because of the three half fingers on his left hand—was short and stout, with a face that resembled crumpled canvas. He had been in the thick of the fighting and half of the dark cropped curls on his head had been scorched off by an exploding shell, making him look like two different men, depending on which profile was in view. He had proudly assumed Riley’s place beside the captain, relaying each of the Dante’s orders with enough vigor to make Gabriel's head pound like a drummer’s snare.

"Full and by, Stubs," Gabriel ordered quietly. "Take us home."

"Aye Cap'n!" Stubs formed a cup with his hands and shouted aloft. "Man the braces! Look alive there! Full an' by, lads, full an' by. We be goin' home!"

The men on the yards cheered as they strained on the lines, heaving and panting until the great sheets of canvas were unfurled and lashed to the rigging. The sails luffed like curtains in an open window until the wind became trapped and began to bell them forward. Lines were winched tight and whined like a throng of sin-eaters. The men heaved on the braces again and with sequential booms of thunder, the sails exploded full-bellied before the wind, curling out hard as marble.

The
Endurance
balked a moment, as if unsure of her new masters, but in the end, she responded and glided forward, groaning and creaking her way toward the southern horizon.

The distance of a pistol shot ahead, the
Iron
Rose
was making similar headway. Off the starboard bow, the
Avenger,
carrying the Pirate Wolf and his wife Isabeau, and the
Tribute
, captained by Jonas Dante, were both surging forward, tall pyramids of white sail against the shocking blue of the sky.

"You have the helm, Stubs," Dante said wearily. "Try to keep this beast apace with the others and on course, east by southeast, until we are well into the Providence Channel."

"Aye Cap'n." Stubs touched a finger to the melted stubble on the left side of his head. He scowled a moment as he groped the singed patches, then cursed and turned his attention back to the setting of the yards.

Gabriel moved painfully across the deck and down the ladderway, ducking through the hatch and following a companionway into the stern where the captain’s quarters were located. As on most Spanish ships, the great-cabin was lavishly decorated in velvets and gilt, with ornately carved furnishings better suited to a royal brothel than a warship. The
capitans
were mostly figureheads, members of court who were appointed by the king and not accustomed to suffering the hardships and discomforts of common seamen. Most surrounded themselves with rich trappings from home, placing creature comforts well above practicality.

Directly overhead was a smaller, far less pretentious cabin assigned to the ship’s sailing
maestro
, the true commander of a galleon. Gabriel briefly debated abandoning all the crimson velvet and gold curlicues for simple wood and wool, but his legs had barely held up coming down the ladderway and he did not think it prudent to be seen crawling along the companionway on hands and knees.

Gabriel scanned the luxurious cabin with his one good eye and grimaced... a painful gesture which sent him searching hesitantly for a mirror. He spied one, cracked with battle damage, hanging over a porcelain washstand. He approached it with no small amount of trepidation, for his captors had applied both the lash and their fists, beating him savagely for three days and nights. His back and shoulders were whipped raw and if the widespread patches of black and blue flesh on his chest, arms, belly and legs were any indication, his face was likely just as grotesque.

Jonas often mocked his younger brother's cavalier good looks saying there was no place for vanity on board a fighting ship. Bracing himself, Gabriel inched up to the mirror but the thing that stared back at him was even worse than he expected. His left eye was purple, swollen to the size of a small coconut, sealed shut with a crust of dried blood that had leaked from a deep cut across the eyebrow. His right eye was red with broken blood vessels, making the tarnished amber iris look inflamed. A second deep gash along his cheek puffed and distorted the square lines of his jaw. Lips that could normally make a wench lick her own in anticipation were split and scabbed. The long thick waves of chestnut hair were caked with blood and filth, and hung in dirty strings to his shoulders.

A wave of nausea swept through him. There was water in the pitcher and he poured some into the basin then took a square of linen and began to carefully wash away the layers of dried blood and grime. When he finished, there was not much of an improvement; he still resembled one of the gargoyles mounted on cathedral roofs to scare off the demons.

He tossed the cloth aside and looked around. He could not remember the last time he slept, and every muscle and sinew in his body was crying out for rest.

The Spaniard's berth was no berth at all but an actual four-poster bed draped in a crimson canopy. Gabriel stared at it a moment, then went to the desk instead and began to sort through the piles of maps, charts, and logbooks that had been salvaged from the
Valour
.

He was interrupted once by the cabin boy, Eduardo, who brought in a tray laden with biscuits and cheese and heaps of cold mutton. There was a pot of broth too, which was steaming hot and coursed through Dante's battered body with much-welcomed restorative powers. The Spanish
capitan
had had good taste in wine and after several goblets, with his belly full and his aches starting to go numb, Gabriel gave in to the temptation to rest his head on the desktop for a moment.

At some point he woke and found himself on the bed under a thickly quilted blanket. The cabin was dark save for a single glowing lantern that flickered above the desk, suggesting he had slept through the entire day. Since there were no sounds of gunfire or thundering footsteps overhead, he surmised their progress out of the Straits was steady and uneventful. His eye closed again and he buried his head in the feather bolster, letting the motion of the ship rock him gently back to sleep.

CHAPTER TWO

Somewhere in the Providence Channel

The ship was dying around her.

The death knell had sounded a week ago when one of the crewmen had collapsed on deck with a blood-curdling scream. His body had been soaked in sweat, his skin covered in ugly, festering pustules, and his eyes glassy from a raging fever. The men who had slept, eaten, or gamed in his vicinity followed in horrifyingly swift succession. The surgeon, a drunkard and a fool, had been among the first to succumb, which had left no one to offer relief to the sick and dying.

After six weeks at sea, the
Eliza Jane
had dropped anchor in Fox Town, a port on the island of Eluthera. It was the captain’s grim supposition that the first feverish crewman had caught the sickness from one of the island whores. He had ordered the ailing men confined belowdecks, but it was already too late. The stench of death engulfed the
Eliza Jane
like a cocoon, bringing even the strongest, stoutest men to their knees. The last valiant act the captain was able to perform was to raise the yellow flag on the mainmast, a signal to all passing ships to steer well clear.