Chapter 1

1

Captain Willard Jennings stepped from the bow of the longboat that had transported him ashore from the Eagle, and surveyed—with great satisfaction—the damage inflicted on the pirate stronghold of Snake Island. Flanking him on either side were his senior lieutenants — Otis Falworth and Adrian Ballantine.

"A splendid job, I must say, Mr. Ballantine," Jennings nodded, his eyes darting along the smoking ruins of the beach. "Convey my congratulations to your gunners for a job well done. Extra rum all around, I should think, and ... er, whatever else we keep in stores for special occasions."

"Salted mutton, sir," Lieutenant Falworth supplied dryly. "Unless we can find fresher fare here."

"By all means. By all means. Rout it out, Mr. Falworth. I will put you in charge of the acquisition of whatever goods you deem acceptable to our needs."

"Aye, sir."

The captain kept walking, his head swiveling on his stocky neck as he absorbed the full extent of his triumph. Lieutenant Ballantine was a pace or two behind, his expression blank, his body taut, as if it was taking all of his willpower to endure the formalities. Unlike the captain and Otis Falworth, Ballantine disliked gloating over the devastation his guns had wrought. He was impatient to return to the ship and to determine the condition of his own crew and armaments. But he knew too well that Jennings needed this moment of glory and that the men had earned this frenzied release from such a close brush with death.

The looting was already well underway. The village was being systematically ransacked, the women driven screaming out of their hiding places and herded together for future selection. Bedlam would reign until the small hours of the morning, and even then the rum would be flowing from the scores of puncheons the men would squirrel on board, away from the quartermaster's prying eyes.

"Down this way, I see," Jennings said, pointing toward a huddled group of prisoners surrounded by a marine guard. "God's teeth, is that what we have been fighting for two days?"

Ballantine's gaze swept over the ragged group of sullen-faced men. Most were bloodied from wounds sustained in the hand-to-handspike fighting that had been necessary to finally win the beach. Ballantine was surprised by the numbers. Barely three score raised hate-filled, glowering faces to the trio of approaching officers.

Courtney Farrow crouched near the center of the group with her uncle and Seagram. The short, squat captain and the lean, sharp-nosed officer earned hardly more than a disdainful glance; it was the third man, the tall lieutenant, who drove the film of sullenness from Courtney's eyes. She had seen only half a dozen fair-haired men in the past ten years or so. The inhabitants of the Barbary Coast were all dark skinned, with dark hair that never sun-bleached gold. And his eyes. They were the color of polished steel, cold and distant. They never stopped moving, assessing, no doubt contemplating the size of the reward that would be forthcoming on surrendering the prisoners to a Yankee court. His was the face of a man she could easily focus her hatred upon.

Captain Jennings halted beside a deep crater in the sand and brushed a speck of sand off his sleeve. "Which one of you is in command here?"

Not a single pair of eyes flickered, not a single head turned to betray their leader. For eight months the American forces had been actively engaged in fighting a war that had been dragging on for three years; for eight years the Mediterranean had been a hotbed of piracy; for eight centuries the northern coast of Africa had been the thriving center for white slavery. The corsairs of the Barbary Coast were among the most vicious, cunning, and ruthless breed of criminals imaginable. It was unlikely that any one of them would betray their leader now ... or ever.

"I want to know the identity of the man in charge," Captain Jennings bristled. "I know his name is Farrow. Everart Farrow, brother to Duncan Farrow, who at this very moment swings from a yardarm on board our flagship, the Constitution, anchored off the coast of Gibraltar."

Lieutenant Ballantine's eyes were drawn away from the Eagle as he noticed a brief scuffle near the center of the prisoners. A wounded man and a young boy sat together, the man's grizzled head cradled in the lap of a large man who resembled a well-fed gorilla. The wounded man's hand clawed at the boy's wrist, apparently to caution him to silence. Ballantine guessed the age of the man to be about fifty, but the thin, wiry appearance was deceptive. He had wispy brown hair shot through with gray and gathered untidily at the nape of his neck. Torn clothing revealed skin turned leathery by the sun and rock-hard flesh covered with a latticework of sinews and blue veins. Despite an ugly bleeding wound that covered the whole of the corsair's chest, the dark green eyes were clear and alert.

The lieutenant felt a tingle skitter along his spine and realized that he, too, was being carefully studied. The lad's huge green eyes were devouring every detail of his face and uniform—not out of casual curiosity, but out of the age-old need to know an enemy well. The centers of the emerald eyes glowed with an inner fire unlike anything the lieutenant had seen before. The boy was otherwise indistinctive. He was thin and scrawny and wore a dirty blue bandanna tied on an angle over dark, greasy hair. The boy, like most of the survivors, was wounded, but he ignored the blood seeping down his arm and seemed to be more concerned with the comfort of the other man.

The third member of the group was plainly awesome. Even seated, there seemed to be more than seven feet of him, Ballantine judged, all of it gnarled muscle and seething hostility. The giant's hair was jet black and hung shaggily to his shoulders; his mouth was scarred cruelly from a knife wound that had left him with a permanent scowl. His hands were like slabs of ham but, astonishingly, held the wounded man as if he were a piece of delicate china.

The lieutenant's concentration was broken by the sound of the captain's voice demanding once again the identity of the leader.

"‘E lies wi' ‘is skull stove in down yon beach," a man near the perimeter of the group sneered. "We leads ourselves now, we do."

"Identifying marks?" Captain Jennings shrilled.

"Eh?"

The captain's face turned a dark, ugly red. He tapped his ivory walking stick against his thigh in a gesture of impatience. "Everart Farrow is known to have a tattoo of a boar's head across his chest. Should I walk down the beach in this sweltering heat and find that this ... this man with his skull stove in ... is not so adorned, I might be tempted to disembowel the cur who gave false information."

The corsair looked away in feigned boredom while his mates hurled insults at the American officers.

"On the other hand—" The captain crooked a forefinger at one of the nearby marines. The solder immediately seized the man who had spoken and dragged him clear of the others.

"On the other hand," the captain continued, "I could order this dog gutted now. And each man-jack of you in turn thereafter until either I have my answer or you are all dead. Now then. Where is Everart Farrow? If he is dead, I wish to know the location of the body. If he is alive and listening to me, let it be known that he was given fair warning of the deaths of his compatriots and that the blame therefore lies solely on his shoulders."

He waited a full minute in glowering silence before he struck his thigh impatiently with the ivory cane. He glanced at the marines, who held the tense and cursing corsair between them, and nodded curtly. A third marine stepped back a pace, and his saber sang in the bright sunlight. The tip of the blade slashed down faster than the eye could follow it, leaving two torn halves of a shirt and vest in its wake, and a bright red stripe of blood welling from the man's breastbone to his navel. The prisoner gaped down in horror at the parted edges of his flesh. The curses ceased but he did not flinch as the sword began a second descent.

"No! Enough!"

Lieutenant Ballantine focused swiftly on the man and the boy. Their positions had reversed. Now it was the boy who was attempting to restrain the man from rising.

"Nay, Court, leave me be. I'll not be the cause of more good men being put to the sword for the sake of a Yankee bastard's pleasure." Verart raised his voice and shouted scornfully, "I am Verart Farrow, ye murtherin' sons of whores. I am the one ye seek an' have the mark to prove it."

Captain Jennings held up the ivory cane to halt the gutting.

"Show me."

Verart struggled one-handed to bare an enormous reproduction of a charging fanged boar on his chest, barely discernible through the slick, fresh blood. The effort cost him dearly, and he slumped back into the giant's arms, the angry color draining rapidly from his cheeks.

The captain gloated as he turned to the lieutenant. "Mr. Ballantine, I will want this man transported to the Eagle at once. It should be dusk in two hours; I will want the trial and the hanging over with by then. The rest of this scum is to be chained and locked in the Eagle's brig. Mr. Rowntree—" He lifted his cane to signal the sergeant-at-arms— "I do not want to see a single tree or piece of thatch left standing on this island. Have it thoroughly searched and anything not of value burned to the ground."

"Aye, sir." The sergeant of the marines stepped aside as the captain passed, with Lieutenant Falworth close behind. They walked a dozen paces toward the well-guarded pen of women prisoners, and would have passed them by with no more than a cursory glance if a raven-haired beauty had not moved—just enough to be noticed—as they neared.

Jennings came to a dead halt and stared.

The woman looked almost untouched by the battle, unlike the others who were caked with grime and filth, their hair matted and greasy, their clothes torn and sweat-stained. Her blouse was pure white and pulled low enough on her shoulders that the fabric was threatening to pop off the magnificent fullness of her breasts. A hint of the dark aureoles was visible through the flimsy cotton, and the sharply defined peaks strained against the cloth like ripe berries. Her waist was incredibly narrow, her calves slender, and her ankles trim where they peeped out from beneath the hem of her skirt.

Jennings eyes devoured the woman's face and a tremor slithered through his loins at the thought of having such a wench beneath him. She was a rare find indeed. The unblemished oval face and the shimmering cascade of black hair surrounding it were enough to render his mouth dry and his palms clammy.

"You," he rasped. "Come here."

Miranda stood and, after a moment's hesitation, advanced with the grace of a cat, her hips playing with the sway of her skirt as if she had practiced the effect in a hall of mirrors. She was conscious of the eyes of Verart's men following her, as well as the lustful gazes of the Yankee guards, the sailors, the stubby little captain and his officers.

"You have a name?" the captain demanded.

The delicately shaped nostrils flared slightly as she nodded. She allowed the captain and Falworth an unimpaired view down the front of her blouse as she leaned forward to gingerly rub her thigh.

"You have been injured?" Jennings asked, over the catch in his throat.

"A scratch. Nothing more."

"Your name?"

The black lashes lowered and lay in a crescent on each cheek. "Miranda," she murmured.

"Miranda." Jennings tasted the name and found it to his liking. He smiled and turned to Lieutenant Falworth. "She seems to be the least likely of the lot to be harboring the pox. Have her brought to my cabin after the prisoners are all on board."

"Aye, sir," Falworth replied, his gaze still stuck fast to the girl's cleavage.

Jennings noted the absence of activity and scowled at Sergeant Rowntree. "Well, sir? What are you waiting for? I believe I gave you your orders. I want this business with Farrow over and done with before nightfall."

Rowntree snapped to attention. "Aye, sir! Sorry, sir." He watched Jennings and Falworth stride away and added beneath his breath, "And bugger you, sir."

"Careful, Sergeant, he just may take you up on the offer."

Rowntree whirled, startled to find Lieutenant Ballantine standing directly behind him. He flushed hotly and stiffened, waiting for the inevitable reprimand and probable arrest for insubordination.

But the lieutenant only arched an eyebrow and turned his attention back to the prisoners. Recognizing a reprieve, Sergeant Rowntree shouted to a pair of guards to separate Verart Farrow from the others and bring him forward. At the sound of the order, Courtney leaped to her feet. A dirk appeared out of the folds of her clothing and was held unwaveringly in an outstretched fist.

"Stay away from him." The warning was hissed through almost bloodless lips. "I will geld the first bastard who dares to lay a hand on Verart Farrow."

"No! Court, no!" The man grunted and craned forward to snatch at a slim ankle. "Do ye hear me, I say no! God love ye, but can ye not see I am a dead man anyway. Leave it be, Court! Leave it, I say."

"I will not let them hang you like a thief," she cried angrily. "I will see us all dead where we stand before I will allow that."

The vow was scarcely past her lips when Courtney heard the smooth slip of steel leaving leather. She dropped into a crouch and spun, but the tip of Ballantine's saber was there to meet her. She stared along the gleaming steel, past the carved hilt, the rock-steady arm, and up into the deadly calm, gray eyes.

"Drop the knife, boy," he murmured.

Courtney's heart pounded within her breast. Her fury was so great she was willing to die at that moment if she could take the golden-haired bastard with her. In a movement so deft it barely caught Ballantine's eye; she flipped the dirk so that the blade was held in the throwing position.

"No, Court!" Verart leaned forward. A cough halted him before he could reach her, and a terrible gurgle of blood surged from the cavity in his chest.

Courtney tore her eyes away from the Yankee Lieutenant. The rage died as swiftly as it had risen, and she fell to her knees by her uncle's side, the dirk thudding forgotten to the dirt. Some of the tension left Ballantine's arm, but he kept the saber pointed warily at the trio—especially the giant who looked to be on the verge of erupting into violence.

Ballantine bent over cautiously and retrieved the dirk from the sand, fingering it thoughtfully for a moment, noting the sharpness of the blade.

Courtney was bowed over her uncle, clutching his shoulders as if she could infuse him with some of her strength. The coughing spasm continued until it seemed there could be no more breath in the ravaged chest. Verart's head sagged against Seagram, his eyes glazing over with an unnatural brightness. The blood-flecked lips moved feebly.

"Court. Court, can ye hear me?"

"I hear you, Uncle," she cried softly. "Oh please ... please don't die. You are all I have now. Please ...!"

"I am that sorry, Court," he whispered. "Truly I am. But there is nothin' to be done for it. I am all broken inside. ‘Tis up to you now to see that the Farrows survive."

His eyes softened, and a hand quivered as it reached up to rest against her cheek. "Lord, how I wanted to see ye grown, child. How I wanted to see ye off this heathen land and into the likes of as fine a home as ye deserve. "It was what yer father and I both strove for. He never wanted this life for ye." A coughing spasm gripped Verart again, and it was several moments before he could continue. "There is land, Court, land in America. And a fine big house with servants to care for ye. Promise me—" his voice faded to a dry rasp— "promise me ye'll live to claim it. Promise me yer father and I have not died in vain ..."

Courtney had to place her ear against his mouth to hear the final few rattled words: a name, a place—things she cared nothing about at that moment. Tears blurred her vision, and her throat was scalded with helpless rage. When she raised her head, she saw a faint proud smile on her uncle's face, and a hard shine in his eyes as they flicked to a point over her shoulder.

She looked up and saw that the blond-haired officer had replaced his sword in its sheath and was silently observing them.

"Court—"

She looked back down at her uncle, her chest constricting with the crush of confused emotions. Verart used the last of his strength to twist his fingers into the coarse homespun cloth of her shirt and drag her close again. "Court, there's more ... something ye should know ... ye must be warned ... Seagram ... Seagram knows." He rolled his eyes up to the black-haired giant. There was sudden look of wildness in his gaze. His mouth stretched into a rigid O and his tormented body arched upward. The hand twined in Courtney's shirt tightened enough to tear a section of the shoulder seam, then went suddenly slack.

"Uncle?" she gasped. "Uncle Verart?"

The glow faded from his eyes, and a final, weary groan emptied his lungs. Courtney stared at the wizened face for a long moment, her eyes huge and swimming with horror. She drew the lifeless head to her breast, and the tears slid hotly over the fringe of her lashes, leaving two shiny, wet streaks in the filth of her cheeks. From her chin, the tears dripped squarely onto her uncle's brow and trickled into his creased eyelids so that is appeared as if he too was weeping.

Lieutenant Ballantine knelt on one knee and pressed his fingers against the corsair's throat. There was no sign of life, no pulse, no flicker of a heartbeat. He glanced around him at the sea of hostile faces, then beyond to the circle of waiting guards.

"I would not let it become common knowledge that you are related to this man in any way," he murmured. "Do you hear me, boy?"

Courtney did nothing to acknowledge his warning.

"The captain will feel cheated when he hears about this. You would be wise not to offer him a substitute."

Ballantine pushed to his feet and strode briskly out of the ring of prisoners. He snapped a series of orders to the guards and without a backward glance, headed along the beach to the waiting longboats.

The sergeant of the marines approached the burly, shaggy-maned giant with trepidation. Bloodied from a dozen scratches and in possession of two of the blackest, fiercest eyes Rowntree had ever seen, the pirate stood protectively by the young boy's side, his massive hands flexing in a mute challenge. His arms were as solid as tree trunks, his torso powerful enough to rival Ulysses'. The sergeant halted and a dry tongue scraped nervously around his lips.

Seagram, Courtney, and six others were the last of the prisoners waiting on the beach for transportation to the ship. Behind them, belching clouds of black smoke curled over the knoll that concealed the main village from sight. Every hut, shed, and fencepost had been smashed and put to the torch, and no one on the beach had needed to see the nestled village to know how widespread the destruction was. Stores of food, caches of gold and silver plate, silks, priceless gemstones, as well as a small mountain of rum puncheons had been carried down to the shoreline and were surrounded by grinning, clawing men whose task it was to sort and itemize the booty before transferring it to the Eagle.

Musket-fire sounded sporadically from beyond the dunes. Once, an immense explosion ripped the evening air wide apart, signifying that the powder magazine had been found and the surplus destroyed. The smell of smoke and charred flesh stung the nostrils; dozens of glowing fires robbed the summer sunset of its cool beauty.

"I am ordered to put you all in chains," Rowntree said, fortified by the presence of armed guards on either side of him. "Anyone resisting is to be shot."

Seagram's eyes narrowed. "You'll not be putting chains on me, boy. I cut my teeth on bones larger than you."

The sergeant paled. He was young and earnest-faced, and the chains trembled in his hands. "Y-you have my final warning, sir: the manacles ... or a lead ball."

Courtney raised her head and laid a hand on Billy Seagram's forearm, halting the rumble of anger that was rising in the corsair's throat. "It would serve no purpose to die for such a trifling matter," she said softly.

She stepped out from behind the shield of Seagram's bulk and walked rigidly toward the young officer, meeting his gaze unflinchingly as she held out both wrists.

Rowntree faintly smiled both his thanks and his apologies as he snapped the heavy iron bands around her slender wrists. The weight of the manacles and their linking chain dragged Courtney's arms downward, but she countered the strain and determinedly raised them to chest level again, holding them steady while the bolt was threaded and locked.

A four-foot length of iron chain separated her from the next pair of manacles, and she felt the startled tug as Rowntree looked up to find that Seagram had moved forward. The bracelets proved too small for the hairy wrists, and it took several minutes for the lieutenant to jury-rig an adequate way to lock Seagram in line. In the end there were two twisted bolts and a good deal of damage to the hard flesh, but Seagram only grinned and glared down at Rowntree with a silent promise.

The rest of the men shuffled forward, accepting the manacles with balled fists and tautly compressed lips.

The sun had dipped below the horizon and the sky was painted deep maroon and gold as the prisoners were led through the shallow surf to the waiting longboat. The water was surprisingly clear and dark where it rushed across the shale and, farther out, was like a velvet seat on which the graceful silhouette of the Eagle gently rocked. Damaged spars and rigging had already been removed and men were busy making repairs by lantern light. Marines had shed their battle dress and toiled alongside the ordinary seamen to haul away debris and wash down the bloodstained decks. Cannon blown from their carriages were being winched upright and reseated. Torn canvas sails were spread out on the spar deck and were being set to by the sailmaker and his league of frantically stitching apprentices.

The Eagle was a light frigate, one hundred and fifty feet long from bow to stern, carrying an armory of forty guns and a crew of two-hundred-and-seventy-five. Her three masts rose high above the cocoons of lamplight; her rigging sparkled against the sunset, bejeweled in droplets of fine, clinging evening mist.

The longboat scraped against the hull of the frigate, and a bowline was tossed to a waiting sailor. A huge pair of emerald eyes gazed slowly up the curved side of planking, halting only when they came to the yawning lower level of gunports.

"On your feet," a guard ordered gruffly, prodding the prisoner closest to him with the butt of his musket. "Step lively now. One slip and you all go down. Not a one of us about to jump in the drink to save you, either."

Seagram tilted his head, giving a signal, and a small, scruffy corsair stood and grasped hold of the first ladder rung. He moved nimbly despite the cumbersome chains and led the seven others up and over the curve of the ship. Courtney was last in line, grateful to have Seagram ahead of her to take up the slack of the chain; she doubted whether there was enough strength left in her legs to make the climb without his help.

She stepped through the open gangway onto the main deck. All around them sailors stopped working to stare, curse, or jeer at the last of the Barbary captives. Many wore stained bandages to show for their efforts in battle; many more fingered the dirks they had strapped to their waists as if desirous of continuing the fight. That the crew did not appear to have been excessively depleted by the day-long battle was yet another blow to the men of Snake Island. Would that they had had the support of the Falconer or the Wild Goose! The Yankees would not be standing quite so smugly on their deck now; they would not be looking quite so contemptuous of the men filing slowly past them.

Courtney felt a resurgence of the hatred that had been numbed temporarily by the death of her uncle. She stared at the neat row of bodies stretched out under canvas and knew there would be great pomp and ceremony accompanying their burial at sea. The brave men of Snake Island lay where they had fallen, exposed to the broiling sun and flies, defenseless against the two- and four-legged predators that would strip them to bleached bone before many days had passed. She thought of Everart Farrow, sprawled with the other corpses on the pure white sand of the dunes.

They will be made to pay, she vowed bitterly as she cast her eyes around the cluttered deck. All of them. Somehow, in some way, they will be made to pay for Verart's death and for the death of each and every man left behind to rot on the beaches of Snake Island.

The creak of tackle overhead caused Courtney to lift her gaze to the upper mainsail yard. The Yankee captain had said that Duncan Farrow swung from just such a yard, but she refused to believe it. Handsome, daring, and reckless, Duncan Farrow had commanded the men of Snake Island with a skill and boldness that had kept the rival bands of corsairs at a respectful distance. He had no use for the Dey of Algiers, no interest in the petty squabbles between the ruler of Tripoli and the nations whose merchant ships were regularly plundered and held to ransom. Farrow's was a private odyssey and if, as it happened, his goals coincided with those of the Tripolitans, he took advantage of the Pasha's protection, just as the Pasha took full advantage of the reputations of the Falconer and the Wild Goose.

Courtney could not believe—she refused to believe—he was dead. The idea that Duncan Farrow could have been caught by these primped and overstuffed popinjays was laughable. It had been a ploy by the captain to shock Verart Farrow into revealing himself, and it had worked. But she, Courtney, would make them pay dearly for their treachery.

A pair of pale, steel-gray eyes stole into her consciousness.

He was standing on the quarter-deck, his hands braced on the carved oak fife rail, his tall, broad frame highlighted by the blood-red sunset. He wore a slight frown, as if he had been observing her for some time and suspected that something about her was wrong, out of place.

The bindings Verart had insisted she wrap around her breasts cut into her flesh, preventing Courtney from taking the deep swallows of air that would have helped control the anger rising within her. She knew her only chance to survive—and to escape—lay in her remaining an anonymous face among the prisoners. To reveal her sex or identity would place her in the hands of the Eagle's captain and expose her to his thirst for retribution. At the very least it would leave her to share a fate no better than that of the other women of Snake Island. Both Verart and Seagram had insisted on the ruse; it was necessary for her survival.

That the blond-haired lieutenant knew at least half of her secret should have prompted her to lower her eyes and keep them lowered, yet she was drawn to the threat like a magnet: the Irish curse was with her, the need to see and know an enemy, to show lack of fear so there could be no doubt about the outcome of a confrontation.

Lieutenant Ballantine felt the hatred ripple across the open deck, glowing from the depths of the eyes that had turned almost black with intensity. The blood pounded in his temples, and his knuckles turned white on the railing. The challenge was unmistakable. He could almost see his own death in the boy's eyes, and he had the distinct feeling he would come to regret not having used his sword earlier this afternoon.

The spell was broken by the rough hand of a guard shoving against Courtney's shoulders. The line of prisoners was ushered along the main deck to the afterhatch and led down two levels of steep, dark stairs to the musty airlessness of the orlop deck. They were below the waterline, and the sounds of the chains clinking and dragging were muted in the dankness. A command was barked from somewhere ahead in the narrow confines, and the line shuffled forward in darkness.

The deck housed, among other things, the infirmary and the surgeon's cockpit. Courtney tried to block out the groans and the cries of the wounded, but she could not avoid glimpses of the two lighted rooms they passed where men in white aprons leaned over bloody worktables. Nor could she completely ignore the stench of cauterized flesh, of boiled tar and sickly-sweet camphor. She saw a man, dressed in a chaplain's collar and black apron, holding a cup of rum to a sailor's lips with one hand, and making repeated signs of the cross over the patient's legless stumps with the other.

A strained, weary voice halted the prisoners.

"Any wounded in this lot?"

The guard shrugged and waved a hand casually. "Dunno, doc. This is the last of ‘em, though."

The doctor moved slowly along the manacled line, studying limbs and faces and torsos for signs of damage. When he came to Seagram, he stopped and tilted his head up in appreciative awe.

"I do not suppose you want medical attention for any of those scratches, do you?"

Seagram bared his teeth and grunted, "Bugger off."

"I didn't think so." The doctor's mouth twisted wryly, and he was about to return to his small anteroom when he caught sight of Courtney's blue bandanna. He craned his neck to see around Seagram and saw the ugly, weeping wound high on her arm.

"What about you, son? Care to let me take a look at that?"

"Bugger off," she said, duplicating Seagram's low hiss. "I will live."

"Perhaps." He limped slightly, favoring a game leg, as he moved past Seagram. "And perhaps not, if you keep losing blood at that rate."

Courtney's eyes narrowed, but she said nothing as the doctor's hands deftly probed beneath the soiled bandanna.

"Right," he pronounced crisply. "I will see this one. Cut him loose."

The guard warily unlocked the bar connecting Courtney's chains to the others. "You want me to wait, doc?"

"Are you suggesting the boy could overpower me? Or perhaps you think he will try to make a run for the side and swim ashore? No, corporal," the doctor sighed when his sarcasm was lost on the soldier, "leave the boy and leave the key and get on with what you were doing. I will send him down when I have finished."

"Aye," grumbled the guard, clearly not pleased by the tone of the dismissal.

The doctor started back for the surgery. "Come along, lad. Quicker in, quicker out."

Courtney exchanged a terse glance with Seagram as he was led away down the dark corridor. She remained standing in the spill of light from the surgery, listening to the fading clink of chains. When there was nothing more to see or hear, she moved tentatively toward the lantern light, blinking uncertainly as she stopped in the entranceway.

The doctor was busy at the far side of the room pouring clean water into a chipped enamel basin. He was of medium height and build, and his hawkish profile was softened by curly, cropped chestnut-brown hair. He could have been any age: a young man cursed with a mature face, or an older man favored with smooth features. Only the deep-set hazel eyes betrayed the fact that he would probably not see his thirtieth year again. They were haunted by the many hours spent witnessing the suffering of others.

"Come along, boy," he muttered, noting the inspection. "I haven't all day."

Courtney ventured into the surgery, warily examining the dreadful assortment of files and pincers, saws and knives that lay spread out on a long wooden bench. Her gaze was drawn to a particularly thin, razor-like blade that seemed to beckon to her from across the table.

"I can move surprisingly fast," the doctor murmured, not looking up from the basin he was filling with water, "crippled leg or not."

Courtney released her pent-up breath, acknowledging the warning. She also saw that they were not the only ones in the surgery. A thin, wide-eyed boy of ten or eleven years stood by a steaming vat of hot water into which he stirred soiled rags and bandages to be washed and reused.

"That is Dickie," Dr. Rutger said, by way of an introduction. "Dickie Little. He helps me out with odd jobs."

The doctor smiled at the boy and moved his hands in a series of gestures. The boy studied the doctor's hands, nodded, and crossed over to stand by the table of instruments.

"He is also stone deaf," the doctor added. "The ship he was on exploded, taking his family, his identity, and his hearing with it. We have developed a rather rudimentary method of communicating. Crude, but effective. Have a seat. I will need to clear away a few layers of grime on your arm before I can see what has to be done. How did it happen?"

Courtney sat on the edge of the chair and kept her lips pressed firmly shut. To her chagrin, the doctor smiled again.

"So, I have myself a tough, seasoned pirate, eh? Well, let me see then—" He rolled her sleeve up to her shoulder and swabbed at the crusted blood and dirt. The scrap of cotton that had been tied around the wound to staunch the flow of blood came away with difficulty, making Courtney grind her teeth together to stop from crying out. It took three squares of linen to completely clean the wounded flesh, then a separate dry cloth to dab at the fresh trickles of blood while the doctor decided what to do.

"I would guess it to be from a fragment of an exploding shell. Would that be close?"

The emerald eyes lifted to his.

"Among my many other attributes, I have been in the navy for seven years." His smile slipped under the intensity of her gaze, and he straightened. "How old are you, son?"

"I am not your son."

"True enough. You do have a name though, do you not?"

"Court," she said after a pause.

"Curt? Very well then, Curt, how old are you?"

"Old enough to slit your throat ear to ear and take pleasure in snapping your head off."

The doctor glanced up, mildly startled. He almost laughed at the attempted bravado, but when he sensed it wasn't entirely trumped-up boastings, he thought better of it. Instead, he gestured to Dickie Little which instruments to fetch from the table. "Then I suppose you are old enough to sit still while I attempt to sew this together?"

Courtney glanced involuntarily at the wound. She had not seen it without the benefit of the ragged cloth but she knew by the pain and the amount of blood clotted on her arm that it was no small cut. The sight of the jagged, furrowed flesh caused a bubble of nausea to rise in her throat, and she swiftly turned her head away.

"The laceration goes rather deep, I am afraid. Lucky for you the main blood lines were missed and the bone seems to be in one piece." He saw her eyes close and her throat move in a heavy swallow. "You can take your shirt off before we begin. I will find something clean for you to put on later."

"No," she said sharply, the queasiness vanishing instantly. "No, I—" She clamped her mouth shut and turned away.

"Suit yourself," he shrugged. "Although I fail to see how an absence of filth and odor could be construed as cowardice by your associates. Here, take this."

Courtney frowned at the wedge of wood he held out to her.

"What is this for?"

"You hold it in your fist and squeeze," he said gently. "Or if you prefer you can bite down on it when I begin. Even the bravest of men have limits to the amount of pain they can endure in silence."

Courtney looked from the doctor's face to the chunk of wood.

"By the way, my name is Matthew. Matthew Rutger. You may, from time to time, hear the men address me fondly as "Rotgut", but pay no heed. They know full well their wretched lives depend on my mercy. Consequently, they know when to lose at dice, the type of brandy I enjoy in the evening, and the general temperament of the women I prefer. It helps if you breathe."

Courtney gasped and squeezed her eyes tightly shut. He was talking to distract her, to divert her attention from the needle and thread punching through her flesh, but he was unsuccessful. She felt the sweat beading across her brow, and she gripped the edge of the bench so hard her arms trembled and her fingers burned with the agony.

"Almost done," he murmured. "Two more ... one .... finished."

Courtney exhaled loudly, shuddering as the shock jolted through her body. Her arm throbbed so badly it took several minutes for her vision to clear and the pounding to leave her temples. The deaf boy touched her shoulder and held out a cup of rum.

"Go ahead," Rutger said. "Drink it. The worst is over."

Courtney accepted the cup and swallowed the strong rum in two desperate gulps. It landed in her empty stomach like a fireball. While she collected her breath and her wits, the doctor finished bandaging her arm.

"Better?" he asked, with a smile.

She was about to answer when she sensed they were no longer alone in the room. She glanced toward the door and saw the tall blond Yankee officer leaning casually against the jamb.

"Ah." The doctor followed her gaze. "Lieutenant Ballantine. Is this a social visit or are you in need of my services?"

"Neither." The lieutenant straightened from the doorway, a movement duplicated by a suddenly nervous Dickie Little, who backed away from the table as the lieutenant approached. "I was just on my way to the brig to see if our guests were secured." He nodded at Courtney. "Is the boy ready to join them?"

"His arm is patched, if that is what you mean. I am not so sure I am ready to condemn him to the prison hold."

Ballantine shrugged. "He fought as hard as any of them. Seems to me he has earned the right to share in their reward."

"Adrian, for God's sake, he is only a boy."

"Weren't we all at one time or another?"

Rutger sighed. "And look at how you turned out. Perhaps given half a chance—"

"Softening in your old age, Matthew?" Ballantine's mouth curved down at the corner. "Or is this just a desire to adopt another stray?"

"I hardly call it soft to try to give the boy a chance."

"What would you have me do?" Ballantine asked, with gentle sarcasm. "Convince the captain to take him on as a boot boy?"

The doctor shook his head and grimaced. "No, but maybe you could arrange a parole to the galley, or let the boy work with the sail-master, or the carpenter, at least during the day. It has been done before with good results."

The lieutenant glanced pointedly at Dickie Little, who was trying unsuccessfully to blend into the shadows. The gray eyes narrowed and raked casually over Courtney's tattered clothing. "Your ... friend on the beach ... was he your only family?"

The emerald of her eyes flared darkly with an unspoken retort.

"Speak up, boy. Do you have anyone else on this ship? Any other family?"

"No," she spat. "You bastards have done your job well."

His jaw squared into a ridge. "I see. Matthew seems to think you deserve an opportunity for redemption. What do you think?"

Courtney smiled tightly. "I think you are a pair of filthy bastards and I would shoot you both dead if I had the chance."

Rutger sighed audibly. Ballantine simply stared.

"Have you ever had a taste of the lash, boy?" he asked finally.

Courtney's response was to tilt her chin defiantly higher.

"I warn you not to test my patience too far, or you will," he promised. "Now thank the good doctor for his services."

"Go to hell."

The lieutenant reached forward suddenly, grasping the chain that linked her manacled wrists together. He twisted it hard to take up the slack, causing the iron bracelets to bite deeply into her flesh. She was yanked off balance at the same time and only saved herself from a bad fall by bracing her hands against his chest.

"I said: thank the doctor," he hissed. His eyes had become darker, angrier, hinting at a violent temper beneath the cool exterior.

"Thank you, doctor," she spat contemptuously.

He shoved her toward the door and scoffed, "Any more humanitarian suggestions, Matthew?"

The doctor avoided meeting the lieutenant's gaze as Courtney was shoved roughly again, this time hard enough to strike her wounded shoulder against the bulkhead in the companionway. She choked back a cry of pain and stumbled ahead of the Yankee's impatient bootsteps, half running along the dimly lit corridor. When they arrived at the farthest, murkiest point in the hold, he barked at her to halt.

Three lounging guards, alerted to the lieutenant's black mood, jumped to attention at once.

"Put this boy in the cage. He wants a few days alone to learn some manners."

"Aye, sar." One of the men saluted and stepped forward. "And ‘is bracelets?"

Ballantine glanced down at the chafing manacles. "Leave them. It will give him something to sharpen his teeth on."

With that, the Yankee officer turned on his heel and strode back along the passageway. Courtney felt a tug on her shirt and heard the guard grunt an order to follow him. Tears, pressing and unwanted, burned behind her eyes as she inwardly voiced every curse and invocation she could remember. She passed the barred entrance to the brig and felt some relief when she recognized Seagram's scowling face peering out from the dark interior. He roared a stream of oaths when he realized she was not to be put in the same holding pen, and his voice was joined instantly by a rousing chorus of oaths from deep in the darkness.

The guard muttered a Scottish oath and banged on the iron bars with his truncheon. The din only increased in volume, and several arms snaked out from between the bars in an attempt to grab the wooden club.

"Get on wi' ye," he snarled, pushing Courtney away from the bedlam. There was a squat iron cage at the far corner of the hold, three of its sides made of rusted bars and the fourth of moldy, slime-covered planking. Something dark and furry darted out from behind the crates stacked nearby, and she could smell and feel the vileness accumulated an inch thick beneath the soles of her feet. There was no source of light other than the yellowish glow that came from the lantern at the guard station. There were creaks and drips and constant groans from the outer hull, and for the first time since the attack on Snake Island began, Courtney experienced a shiver of fear.

"Could I not be put in with the others?" she whispered, facing the burly guard.

"Ye heard the lieutenant's orthers. And I'm no' the man to go against ‘im when he's in a foul mood." The Scot hesitated, see the involuntary tremor in the lad's chin. "Ach ... I'll fetch ye a crate to sit on. Keep yer feet up off the muck and give a rattle on the chains now an' then to keep the rats away."

Courtney shuddered. She watched him slot a thick iron key into the lock, twist it, and swing the cage door wide. She looked up into his face once, steeled herself against the pity she saw there, and ducked slowly inside.