Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

NORTH ATLANTIC OCEAN, JUNE 1815

“Sleeping beauty is awake!” The husky feminine voice cut through the pain in his head like a razor blade. “Better let the captain know.”

Connor’s head was pounding worse than any hangover he had ever had, and his stomach was rolling ominously. I must have tied one on severely last night? He cracked an eyelid and blinked, his eyes watering as sunlight hit them with blinding force. He closed them quickly and groaned, making a second discovery, his limbs were confined by ropes, tying his hands and legs together in front of him and forcing his knees up near his chest.

He was lying on something hard and a strong smell of salt, fish and something rotten assailed his nostrils, making his stomach heave.

“Oh, there he goes!” said another female voice as he rolled onto his knees and vomited. “You’ll have to clean that up mate, you realise!” his tormentor chastised. But he was too miserable to care. He just wanted to die. He would never drink again. Never again I swear!

His stomach stopped heaving, and he rolled back onto his side away from the mess.

“Hey Dev, bring a bucket and mop, better get this cleaned up before the captain arrives.” A third female voice called out.

Connor ignored the activity around him, preoccupied with his stomach and the state of his head. Vaguely it occurred to him to wonder why he was tied up and why his tormentors appeared to all be female, perhaps he was in a whore house? That would make sense.

After a bit, someone lifted his head, “here we go mate!” and a flask of strong raw liquor hit his lips, he opened his mouth and swallowed reflexively, choking a bit on the fiery spirit. Rum. It wasn’t the best quality, rough as hessian drawers, but at least it took the horrible taste away. For a perilous moment he thought it would all come back up again, but then the heat spread, and his stomachsettled.Perhaps there was some truth to hair of the dog after all?

He cracked an eye open again and blinked his still watering eyes.

Sitting on his arse with his knees perforce drawn up to his chin, he took in the ropes that had him trussed like a Christmas turkey and the fact that he appeared to be on the deck of a ship–which would explain the slight pitch and roll of the hard surface under him, with the sun beating down - and surrounded by a sea of people dressed in a motley array of colourful garb. Most of them he noted with surprise, their breeches notwithstanding, appeared to be female. What sort of ship was this? Not like any whore house he had ever visited.

The group parted to reveal a tall slender figure in a tricorn hat, a long old-fashioned waistcoat over a full sleeved shirt, stained and shiny buckskin breeches and long boots. The figure approached him and came to a stop, feet planted apart to keep her steady as the deck heaved with a gentle swell, and the wind buffeted the sails above his head with an audible flap and snap.

“So, the pretty one is awake at last.” Her voice was soft and full, rich in timbre, it sent an odd shiver through his pain wracked body and, as her full lips parted in a smile, a dart of heat to his groin. The colour of her eyes, shaded by the brim of her hat, eluded him, but they sparkled with a lively fire that made his heart quicken.

It wasn’t her beauty that struck him. It was her vitality. Energy poured off her in waves and seemed to eddy around her, impacting everyone in her proximity, Connor included.

“We thought we must have done you some permanent damage sir, you’ve been out for close on twelve hours.” She nodded to the activity behind him. “Sick as dog I see. That’ll pass when you get your sea legs. Give it a few days, at most a week.”

She looked back down at him and grinned, “Welcome to the Sea Devil sir, I’m Captain Montamayne. Care to tell us your name?”

Connor blinked his watering eyes and cleared his raspy throat. “Connor Mor, darlin’, care to untie me and tell me what I’m doin’ on yer ship?”

“An Irishman, ladies!” Her smile widened, and she waved a hand to one of the crew, Hispanic looking, dark-haired, with olive skin. She was short of stature and curvaceous of figure, one of the few wearing petticoats, albeit the old-fashioned corseted type with fitted bodice and full skirt. She stepped forward and came at him with a wicked looking knife. He flinched instinctively, and she grinned baring perfect white teeth, her black eyes dancing, as she sliced through his bonds. He rubbed his wrists and ankles and thought about standing up and decided against it. His head was still spinning. He looked up at Captain Montmayne warily.

“You were pressed, pretty boy,” she said with another wide grin of satisfaction. His presence seemed to be affording these women some amusement.

“I’m not a boy.” Pressed?

“No but you’re pretty enough to be one!” the captain laughed at her own joke. “And we like pretty things, don’t we, ladies?”

The women nodded, murmured and grinned. He noticed that there was a mix of races among them, the majority were white like the captain, but there were two Black women, one darker than the other, and two what he thought were probably Chinese. And dotted among the women were several men, all white except for a Black man with a leg missing below the knee.

“You were the last of our pressed crew. The rest have been with us for a few days. You can tell the new ones, they’re still green about the gills.” She turned to pace around the half circle formed by the watching crew, her hands behind her back as she took several confident strides. “The question is, what are you good for? Purely decorative, or can you serve some useful purpose?” She turned to spear him with a look that skewered him in place. His heart pounding, he gathered his self-possession and reached for a nonchalant tone. He wasn’t used to being on the back foot with women. She wants to play games, does she?

“Depends love, what did ye have in mind?” he threw her a look, that from experience, never failed to melt the woman he directed it at.

The captain laughed, which made him jolt in surprise, women didn’t usually laugh in his face, unless he meant them to. She shook her head and just like that, her mood changed. She straightened, her expression becoming quite serious. “New recruits come and join our Irishman. Mr Mor you’ll stand up please.”

Connor thought about arguing and his stomach lurched again, making him rethink it. Later perhaps when he felt more in control of his body, at present these wretched women had him at a disadvantage. He rose slowly to his feet and spread them to maintain his balance as a dozen or so men ranging in age from early twenties to mid-forties, shuffled forward to join him. To a man they looked white, drawn and lank-haired, in bad need of a bath and shave.

Standing afforded him a view of the sea stretching all the way to the horizon over the rail of the ship and the reality of his situation suddenly hit him like a blow to the solar plexus. His stomach pitched, and he fought the urge to vomit up that spirit they had just fed him. He swallowed, sweat breaking out on his skin as the sun hit his back and a cooling breeze buffeted his front, plastering his shirt to his chest.

“Now that we have our full complement, it’s time to lay down a few ground rules gentlemen.” The captain came to a stop in front of them, her hands behind her back, bouncing lightly on her toes. He noted that there were two men, an older white man with grey at his temples and the Black man with the missing lower leg who remained with the group of women, and the Indian boy who had been mopping up his mess also stood with them, all three watching Connor and the rest of the men with sober expressions.

The woman in the green dress who had cut his bonds, had disappeared, he turned around and spied her standing behind the wheel on a raised deck at the rear of the ship.

“Some of you have sailed before, some of you have never set foot on a vessel before. Certainly not one of this size at any rate. The Sea Devil is a 400-ton brig, rigged for speed and manoeuvrability. This ship is not like any ship you may have been on or have heard of before. Why?” She paused and eyed them each in turn.

Connor straightened his shoulders and spread his legs further to rebalance himself as the deck pitched slightly.

“Because this ship has almost fifty percent female crew!” She waved at the women behind her. “And the Captain is a woman!”

She patted herself on the chest. Which drew Connor’s attention to the fact that the captain, while not as curvaceous as the Hispanic looking woman in the dress, definitely had breasts, and hips.

“They are not your servants, your whores or your playthings. They are not your wives! They are members of this crew with the same rights and privileges as you. They have the right to your respect. And where they hold rank superior to yours, and they give you an order using that rank, they are to be obeyed. Instantly and without question!”

The men around him moved restlessly and faint mutters could be heard in the ranks.

“What was that, gentlemen?” The captain paused in her perambulation and rounded on them.

An older man behind Connor spoke up. “Last I looked lady there are more of us than there are of you. And we’re bigger and stronger. We didn’t ask to be here, and frankly I want to go home to my wife and children, so give me one good reason why I shouldn’t do just that?”

“A very good question Mr Furness. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you are our carpenter by the way.” she waved a tanned hand. “Perhaps you can tell us why you haven’t already attempted to do so?”

“Been sick as a bloody dog for three days, damn you!” Connor watched the man’s face go red with rage. His scraggy beard showed some grey among the red, and he swallowed visibly, clearly his stomach was still troubling him.

“You’ll keep a civil tongue in your head sir!” the white man with the greying temples, standing with the women, stepped forward. His cultured English accent spoke of gentry origins, and his clothing was neat and respectable, if not in the first stare of fashion.

“Thanks Angel,” said the captain with a smile over her shoulder at the older man. “Mr Harper, our Navigator gentlemen.” She chewed a plump soft lip, and Connor swallowed saliva, wondering fleetingly what her lips would feel like beneath his.

“Miss Lin, I think Mr Furness needs a lesson in discipline, don’t you?” She turned towards the older Chinese woman. “Lin Chen our Bosun,” she said waving the other woman forward. She wore a long tunic over trousers, in a rough stained material that might be unbleached calico.

Lin Chen, moved with liquid grace and took up a stance with arms raised, her face serene. It was impossible to say how old she was, as her face was relatively unlined. She was tall and slender, no match you would think for a man of Mr Furness’s solid build, even given his indisposition.

“Mr Furness?” the captain beckoned him with a wave of her hand. Furness swaggered forward, throwing a look at the other men as if to say, is this a joke?

Furness squared up to the fragile looking Chinese woman and threw a punch. Which failed entirely to land. Lin Chen evaded the blow with a graceful arc of her slender frame and in a blur of limbs, the next moment Furness was flat on his back on the deck with Miss Lin’s slender bare foot on his neck.

Furness lay gasping, clearly winded and Miss Lin removed her foot and stepped back as the captain bent over him, a wickedly sharp dagger in her hand. She placed it delicately against his jugular and smiled.

“You will find, Mr Furness, that we women are well able to defend ourselves from the unwanted attentions of men and,” she moved the dagger down his body, tracing it lightly over his clothing until it came to rest on his groin. “Any infringements of the rules will result in the culprit having his cods removed and stuffed down his throat!” She glared at him, her face grim and Connor swallowed, flinching inwardly at the implied threat to his manhood.

She glanced up and said clearly, “anyone who doubts my ability to do that?” She ran her eyes over the men. “Anyone who doubts I’ve the stomach for it?”

Mr Harper chuckled quietly and said sotto voce, “I wouldn’t try her gentlemen, I’ve seen her do it. Not pretty!”

“Aye,” the Black man interjected. “You don’ wanna be on the wrong end of the captain’s knife.”

She straightened slowly and nodded to the Black man. “A man you don’t want to cross gentlemen. That’s our cook, Mr Adebayo. Never know what you might find in your stew otherwise.” She turned back to Furness who seemed to be breathing slightly easier now.

“I trust we have made our point, Mr Furness?” She waited and he nodded slowly, swallowing visibly. She offered him a hand up, and he looked shocked at this courtesy. Finally, he took her hand and clambered to his feet.

Furness shuffled back into line and the captain resumed her position in front of them. “There are two berths for the crew, one for the women and one for the men. You will be assigned a hammock each and a ration of grog each day. Anyone who still feels the urge to cast up his accounts can sleep on the deck until he finds his sea legs. If you throw up on the deck you clean it up. Meals are served in the mess, don’t be late, or you’ll miss your ration. The rainwater barrel is on the deck under the main mast, use the ladle to fill your flask. Anyone caught wasting or contaminating water will be whipped. Water is life out here and the most precious thing on board this vessel. Understood?”

“Aye,” A grumble of sound from the men.

“You will begin training immediately, you have four weeks to learn how to keep this ship afloat. Are we clear?”

A disgruntled murmur greeted this.

“I’m sorry I didn’t catch that, gentlemen. Are we clear or do you need to become better acquainted with Poesie here?” she twirled her dagger, the sun glinted off it, a fine piece with a silver hilt studded with gems.

“Yes ma’am,” responded about half the men.

“You will address me as Captain,” she snapped.

“Yes Captain!”

She nodded. “Any questions?”

Connor cleared his throat and said, “where are we going?”

She smiled. “I think I’m going to like you Mr Mor. Jamaica, to intercept a slave ship owned by one Captain Rafael Jose Perez, as black a scoundrel as ever sailed the Atlantic, and I’m not referring to the colour of his skin!” The corrosive bitterness in her tone could flay a man’s flesh to the bone. Connor shivered, even as his cock stiffened in his breeches. This woman...

“We have a Letter of Marque from the British Government to take slaver ships and free the cargo. Mr Perez’ days as a trader in human flesh are numbered.”

“How long will it take to get to Jamaica?”

“Forty-one days, give or take.”