Chapter 7

7

Dawn was announced by the clanging of the ship's bell. Sailors thudded across the decks, waking their mates, hastily folding, tying and stowing their sleeping hammocks. On most days, there were duties that had to be completed before the breakfast bell tolled. Decks had to be scraped free of splinters; rigging had to be inspected for damage; rails had to be varnished and cracks puttied.

On this day, there were going to be floggings and all hands were required to be on deck at eight bells to witness them.

Courtney's muscles had stiffened overnight; the sores on her wrists stung; her throat was raw and tasted bitterly of her fear for Seagram. He was strong but no one could survive three hundred strokes. And it would be an ignoble death for a man who had breathed life and fire at every turn.

Something cool and hard intruded on Courtney's senses, and she looked down to see that she was clutching the small gold locket she wore as if it was a talisman, an icon to give her the strength she needed to carry on through the day. With trembling fingers she snapped the tiny clasp open and fanned the two halves apart. In one oval was a miniature of her mother, Marguerite de Villiers. Pale blue eyes were set in a delicately regal, flawlessly beautiful face that had won the heart and devotion of a wild Irish adventurer. Duncan Farrow's boldly sculpted features were crowded into the second oval. The portrait did not do him justice aside from the mane of thick auburn hair and the square, stocky jaw, but she could picture the rakish smile and the ever-present gleam in the dark, brooding eyes.

Marguerite de Villiers had been the daughter of Valery Gaston de Villiers, financier and confidant of Louis XVI. She had eloped with Duncan Farrow against the express wishes of family and friends. Her father, in retaliation, had sent a score of hunters to track the lovers down. He had found them within the week, only hours before they would have reached the coast and freedom. Duncan had been attacked and left for dead; Marguerite had been carried back to her father's chateau, where her child had been born eight months later.

Within a few short years, the Revolution came into full bloody form. The king was imprisoned; the great estates of the aristocrats were confiscated, their owners herded into small, cramped prisons to await the impersonal judgment of the guillotine. By some miracle, Marguerite de Villiers and her young daughter were smuggled to the city of Toulon, an important port that had been seized by anti-revolutionary forces and turned over to the British to defend. For the next few years Marguerite aided countless fleeing aristocrats, but refused to leave herself, especially after hearing rumors of a bold Irish mercenary who was fighting on the side of the British. It took further months of delay to confirm his identity as Duncan Farrow, and yet more wasted time to send word to him that she had not been executed with the rest of the de Villiers.

By then it was too late.

A brilliant young artillery captain named Napoleon Bonaparte had been placed in command of the bombardment of Toulon. Marguerite was once again forced to flee for her life, this time to the countryside where she and her child were kept safely hidden by loyal ex-servants. Attempts to re-establish communications with Duncan took another full year, but by then the strain of running and hiding had taken its toll on her health. Betrayed by greedy peasants and too weakened by fever to fight the overwhelming odds, in a last gesture of defiance Marguerite arranged Courtney's safe delivery to the rendezvous with Farrow's ship while she lured the military troops to a village many miles away. For her bravery, Marguerite had been presented to the guillotine by a cheering crowd.

Courtney snapped the locket shut and held it tightly in her clenched fist. The courage of a selfless mother flowed in her veins, as did the cunning and resourcefulness of the man who had vowed he would not rest until the sea had turned red with French blood. Duncan Farrow's war had not been against the Americans until they had chosen to interfere. He had hunted, chased, and sunk more French ships than any other corsair in the region, and if his efforts had seemed to support Yusef Karamanli's own reign of piracy, it was merely a by-blow.

If Duncan was still alive—and Courtney believed it to be so with all her heart—she had to find a way to reach him. She had to be strong and determined enough to do whatever was necessary to survive so that she and her father, together, could bring vengeance down on those who had sought to destroy them.

"They have not beaten us yet," she whispered fiercely. "They have not beaten me, by God. I will let them think they have broken me. I will be meek and dutiful and—" She stopped, her gaze caught by the shimmering reflection of light dancing across the ceiling beams indicating the sun had risen and the rays were bouncing off the water.

And what? She asked herself.

"If I have to let the Yankee believe he has broken me, I will," she murmured. "If I can find some way to make him believe it. Just long enough for him to lower his guard."

With the strength of new resolves, Courtney forced aside her aches and pains and quickly vacated Ballantine's berth. She retrieved the linen neckcloth from the floor and carefully wound it around her breasts to flatten them, then splashed her face with the ice-cold water from the pitcher. As an afterthought, she carried the jug out into the companionway and refilled it from the huge barrel of rain water, taking the opportunity to mark the location of stairwells, storerooms, and hatchways. She had been too angry, too confused, too hurt to note much of anything the previous day.

Ballantine was descending the steps as she hurried back from taking a quick peek forward to the gun deck.

He said nothing to her, did not acknowledge her presence except to cast a brief glance at her clothing and toss her a narrow-brimmed woolen cap. He was unshaven, and his hair was loose and windblown about his face. His clothes were grimy and rumpled and smelled strongly of the canvas sails he had made do with for a bed.

In the cabin, he kept his back to her as he stripped off his shirt and flung it with the rest of his soiled linens on the floor of his wardrobe. He leaned over the washstand and scrubbed his face, leaving a thick lather of soap across his jaw. A small ivory-handled straight razor was taken from a locked compartment beneath the table, and he began scraping the stubble from his chin.

His gray eyes adamantly ignored the green ones that studied him so closely.

His chest, she noted, was armored in hard muscle; his waist was trim, his belly flat. The pelt of coppery fur began high on the curve of his breastbone and narrowed to a hand's width where it snaked into the waistband of his breeches. A finer version darkened his forearms and—she guessed—his long, powerful legs. Courtney calmly studied the breadth of his back and shoulders, envisioning the fine work she could have done had the razor found its way into her hands first.

The chipped mirror seemed to fill with the blue-gray of his eyes, and she felt them probing for her in the shadows.

"It is the ship's policy for all hands to witness punishments," he said matter-of-factly. "I had hoped to be able to spare you, but unfortunately the captain has heard about ‘Curt Brown' and will be expecting to see him on deck."

"Curt Brown?"

"It was the best I could come up with on short notice," he said dryly. He straightened and rubbed the flecks of lather from his jaw with a rough towel, then took a brush to his tawny hair and smoothed it into a clubbed tail at the nape of his neck. His eyes found hers again as he tied and bowed the black silk ribbon.

"While we are discussing procedures, you might note that I like my coffee black and waiting for me when I waken. I like my biscuits to arrive hot and my porridge without a scum on top. The cabin will want a thorough scrubbing once a week, as will my laundry. From here on out, you will rise a half-hour before me. I hope you had a good night's sleep because if I ever catch you in my berth again, I will blister your ass raw. Is all of that understood?"

Courtney reined in her temper. "Understood."

"That should take care of your mornings and keep you out of trouble. The afternoons you will spend with Dr. Rutger in the surgery. Your lack of squeamishness should come in handy there. Dinners you will take in here, alone. Any pilfering or hoarding or fighting with the other boys will be dealt with harshly. Any lying, cheating, or stealing will earn the lash. Is all of that understood?"

"I understand," she said smoothly, "that you can go straight to hell."

The gray eyes flicked to hers as he half-turned. "There will also be an end to the profanity. Use it again in my presence and you risk feeling the flat of my sword across your fanny."

Courtney narrowed her eyes and braced her hands on her hips. "Sometimes the profanity is needed to express just the right sentiment, you damned Yankee bastard."

Ballantine took a deep breath. He had spent a sleepless night in the open air, mentally listing every excuse he could think of for sending the girl back down into the hold and cursing aloud every reason why he could not. His patience was at a low ebb.

"I will warn you one last time—"

Courtney's eyes issued a blatant challenge as a stream of her father's finest Irish curses found their way from her memory to her lips. Ballantine did not wait to hear them through. His scabbard hung from a peg on the inside of the wardrobe door; he was within reach of it in two strides and had the blade hissing free of the sheath and carving the air before Courtney's heart had taken an extra beat. The flat of steel caught the tender flesh of her upper thigh with a loud slap, causing her to yelp inelegantly as she scrambled in retreat.

"You bastard! You self-righteous, yellow-bellied—" She gasped as a second, equally biting strike found its mark. The air exploded from her lungs, and she rubbed her stinging flesh with a frantic palm.

Ballantine's expression showed nothing beyond a grim promise in the set of his jaw. Still stripped to the waist, his mahogany skin glowing in rich contrast with his white breeches, he resembled a raging warlord, sword poised, eyes blazing.

"You bloody bastard," she cried. "You damned, contemptible, Yankee bas—"

The sword flashed brilliantly two more times, and twice her flesh jumped. The agony centered on her left thigh, and she looked in vain for a path to safety. He had backed her into the corner; there was nowhere to dodge, nowhere to hide from the cold determination in his eyes. She was close to tears, but she willed away the lump at the back of her throat. Tears were a woman's weapon and she refused to use them.

"Does this make you feel big and powerful?" she cried softly. "First your fists, now your sword. Does it make you feel good to beat on a defenseless woman?"

"I strongly doubt that Duncan Farrow would consider this a fitting display of his daughter's intelligence," he said, unmoved by the accusation. "As for you being defenseless, you forget I have seen you wield a knife and shoot a gun."

A spark flared in the depths of the sea green eyes.

"Furthermore, from now on, you will address me as Lieutenant Ballantine," he said, raising the blade threateningly.

Her chin quivered but the fire stayed in her eyes. "Tell me something, Lieutenant Yankee: At the end of a long, hard day beating women and flogging wounded men, do you sleep well?"

The saber wavered. His face was still a mask of anger, his stare cold and unrelenting, but a shadow moved behind his eyes.

"Does nothing affect you?" she asked in a disbelieving whisper. "Does your conscience never trouble you?"

"It troubles me as much as yours does you."

She shook her head slowly. "I have never ordered a mortally wounded man to die under the lash—a brave man whose only crime was wanting to die with dignity and honor. Tell me, Yankee, would you have been content to lie like a dog in your own filth and do nothing to try to free yourself and your men? Are you content now to hide behind your fancy gold braid and your arrogance and pass judgment on everyone else's behavior but your own?"

"The incident sickens me," he said, quietly. "A great many incidents on board this ship sicken me."

"And yet you do nothing? How brave of you, Lieutenant."

The saber dropped to his side. Adrian's face flushed. "This is a warship, Miss Farrow, and we are at war. There are rules and regulations that must be obeyed whether I agree with them or not. The captain's power is absolute at sea; surely you, of all people, know that. Sometimes it rankles and sometimes it sickens, but were any one of us to challenge the chain of command, our own chaos would defeat us. The navy is no place for individual vanities. Not a one of us can survive without the support of a hundred others."

"Seagram will not survive at all," she said bleakly, and her slender shoulders sagged.

"The fighting is over for Seagram. He knew it the moment he decided to break out of the brig. It is over for your father and your uncle, for Garrett Shaw for all of your people. When will you understand that?"

"When there is no one left to fight," she replied quietly. "When there is no one to hate and nowhere to run. When will you understand that, Yankee?"

Ballantine stared at her for a long minute, then shook his head and walked back to the wardrobe He sheathed the saber and drew a clean shirt from a neatly folded stack. He did not know if she believed what she said. He hoped not. If all she lived for was hate and vengeance, there would be no future for her, no hope, no happiness.

"When we go on deck," he said shortly, "You will take your place with the other boys, and since both Matthew and myself will be busy elsewhere, I would advise you to stay close to Dickie and do exactly as he does."

"Advise? Do you not mean command?"

Ballantine glared at her. "Irish, if you want to kill yourself, or be killed, that is entirely up to you. If you want to share the lash alongside Seagram and his friend, or if you have an insatiable desire to spend time in the company of Captain Jennings—that too is your prerogative. And if your identity is discovered, that is exactly what will happen. Jennings will rape you raw then sit back and enjoy watching the rest of the crew take their turn. As for me? I might get a harsh reprimand, but in all honesty, it might be a greater relief to be rid of you. So by all means, do me that favor. If my company and my requirements are too much for you to bear, expose yourself and let the captain take you off my hands."

Adrian quickly stripped out of the soiled breeches and stepped into a clean pair. Tall white stockings were snapped in place with garters, and his feet were stamped into high polished black boots. He thrust his arms into a white linen waistcoat and impatiently dealt with each of its ten small pearl buttons. His double-breasted tunic was dark blue and had a standing collar and cuffs trimmed liberally with gold embroidery. His belt was strapped on and his saber slung about his lean waist. He took his bicorne down from the shelf of the wardrobe, locked the compartment that held his shaving gear, then paused long enough at his desk to separate a leather journal and a chart from the clutter.

When he walked to the door, his eyes were hard and uncompromising again. He passed her without a word and stepped out into the narrow companionway. He did not glance back to see if she had followed, but he did make note of the sound of his cabin door being shut behind them.

Lieutenant Adrian Ballantine stood on the bridge of the Eagle, slightly ahead of and to the left of Second Lieutenant Otis Falworth. Sergeant Rowntree and Third Lieutenant Les Loftus completed the front row of officers; behind them were a double rank of midshipmen, eyes straight ahead, shoulders ramrod stiff, mouths set and grim. They were all in dress uniform, their swords burnished and gleaming, their crisp collars and gold trim flashing smartly in the bright sunlight. Below them, flanking either side of the main deck, were the columns of marines in blue and white, the able seamen in striped jerseys, pea coats, and black leather round hats, the landsmen in clean shirts and canvas trousers. All stood in the heat and silence with nothing to alleviate the tension apart from the gentle creaking of yards and tackle overhead.

The Eagle's sails were loosely reefed, and she rocked effortlessly in the water. High on the mizzenmast, the Stars and Stripes wavered in the breeze, while on the mainmast the long trailing pennant of Captain Willard Leach Jennings fought to remain untangled from the slack rigging.

Courtney tipped her chin up so she could see out from beneath the brim of the woolen cap she had pulled low over her forehead. Jennings' colors were red and black—ironically enough, the same as her father's, although Duncan Farrow's red lion on a black field was far more impressive than Jennings' narrow black stripe on a red background. As for the Stars and Stripes, the flag conjured only disdain in Courtney's mind, unlike the bold Irish green and white that accompanied the Farrow pennant.

She had never been to Ireland, but her father's stories had brought to life his glorious fighting ancestors, the beauty of the mists rising off the River Shannon, and the musky scent of peat fires crackling on the hearth. Duncan Farrow may have been exiled from the land he loved, but he had made it real for Courtney and, like the wild geese of Irish legend, he was convinced that even though he might die on a foreign battlefield, his heart would return to haunt the skies of his beloved homeland.

Dreams, Courtney thought, and her gaze descended from the mast to the bridge, to settle on the tall blond officer whose presence seemed to dwarf the others who stood alongside him. She felt a tingle course along her spine, and a small part of her had to grudgingly acknowledge the fact that he was strikingly handsome. With the vibrant blue of the sky behind him and the stiff white collar supporting the stern, sun-bronzed jaw, he looked more like the commander of a warship than the short, pudgy Jennings. Unbidden images of oak-hard muscles and tautly leashed power sent a flush creeping into Courtney's cheeks, a flush that drained and paled in the next instant as she remembered why he stood so imposingly over the bridge. They were waiting to witness the execution of Seagram and Nilsson. Ballantine was indirectly responsible, and for that he should deserve only her contempt.

The boatswain's pipe shrilled, and all eyes looked toward the stern. Captain Jennings strutted into view, tipping his cockaded bicorne belligerently to the ranks of saluting officers.

Courtney Farrow had to rise surreptitiously onto her toes to catch a glimpse of the man as he moved toward the forecastle. Her memory of his face had not dulled in the week since the battle for Snake Island; her hatred, if anything, had increased twofold. Her father's men were being slowly starved into submission; many were fevered, their wounds left to fester. Courtney's eyes grew inky with loathing as she watched the captain's progress to the bridge.

She saw the mottled, split-veined face cast an imperious glance around the deck of the ship, and she thought of a finely honed cutlass cleaving the bloated trunk in two. She watched the fleshy lips move as he exchanged a curt salutation with his officers, and she conjured a crimson fountain of blood in place of the words.

Dickie Little, a head shorter than Courtney and as slim as a reed, looked up at her, his dark eyes wide with alarm. He tugged furtively on her sleeve to catch her attention, then with more vigor when it seemed that she had not felt the warning.

Courtney glanced beside her, frowning in annoyance. The mute boy made a eloquent plea with his eyes. The other eight boys in their group were standing tense and silent, heads bowed, eyes lowered, not daring to call attention to themselves from any quarter. Landsmen and sailors alike were also prudently keeping their eyes averted, and she realized she was expected to do the same. With a reluctant nod to Dickie, she lowered her head in compliance—too quickly to notice another pair of gloweringly expressive eyes staring at her from across the width of the deck.

Miranda Gold stood in the shadow of the stern bulkhead, her amber eyes blinking in disbelief. It was true. It was her! Courtney Farrow, was alive, disguised as a cabin boy! What few curves the wench boasted were concealed beneath the baggy trousers and loose shirt. The short-cropped auburn hair was covered by a woolen cap, one that shadowed her features and kept her as anonymous and nondescript as the other ragged boys. Had Miranda not been forewarned of Courtney's presence on the Eagle, she might well have stood within ten feet of the hated form and not recognized her.

Courtney Farrow, alive! Good God, could nothing kill the bitch? She had been brought on board bloody and in chains, had spent a week in a rat-infested hold. How had she managed to survive? How had she escaped the indignities and degradation she deserved? And how, by all the saints, had she managed to worm her way into the protection of the arrogant and despicable lieutenant? Did he know who she was? Did he know he was harboring Duncan Farrow's daughter or just some girl he had taken pity on and rescued from the hold?

Miranda's amber eyes narrowed speculatively. No. Courtney would never have admitted to anyone who she was. She probably won him over with

With what? Miranda scoffed. The chit would not know what to do with a man if one was placed between her thighs.

As for Ballantine, the more Miranda studied him, the more she despised him. She knew the type; aloof and guarded, filled with scorn for anyone who failed to meet his strict, upright standards. Undoubtedly rich, a man who had never had to struggle or compromise himself for anything. Heaven forbid he should admit to a weakness or a desire he could not control!

Now, there was a picture worth savoring for the sheer absurdity of it: Courtney Farrow, thighs clamped and mouth screaming obscenities; Adrian Ballantine, his proud weapon shriveled beyond all possibility of bringing her to womanhood.

Miranda almost laughed aloud.

"Is the entire ship's company present, Mister Beddoes?" the captain asked in a loud voice.

The quartermaster stepped out of line and saluted. "All present, sir, or accounted for."

Jennings nodded pompously. "Very well. Have the prisoners brought forward to hear the charges and the declaration of punishment."

"Aye, sir!"

A drummer commenced rapping out a steady, staccato as the ten marine guards— including the burly Corporal Angus MacDonald—were led through a narrow channel in the ranks of men toward the main deck. All were dressed in breeches and plain white cotton shirts; all were bareheaded, barefooted, and held their hands clasped into fists by their sides. McDonald, the tallest by far, and the beefiest, was the only one to glance up at the forecastle bridge.

"For dereliction of duty," the quartermaster announced in a tight vice. "Three dozen lashes apiece."

The drummer struck up another tattoo, and all eyes turned to watch the two corsairs as they were brought forward through the mass of angry men. Seagram seemed to stoop under the weight of filth and crusted blood. His arms were bound with spirals of heavy, rusted chain; his leg irons restricted his movement to small, scraping footsteps. His shirt and doublet hung in tatters from the brawny shoulders, and Courtney could plainly see the wide bands of blood-soaked cotton that held his arm rigid.

Nilsson was barely alive. He was half-carried, half-dragged by the escort of guards. From the blankness in his eyes and the gray, wet sheen of his complexion, he did not appear to be aware of the proceedings. His head lolled on his chest, and a thread of pink-tinged spittle hung from the corner of his mouth.

Bringing up the rear, dressed in a long flowing robe, was Chaplain Knobbs. His head was bowed, his lips moved in feverish prayer over his open missal. Matthew Rutger walked by the chaplain's side, his plain black frock coat and fawn breeches looking somehow out of place amid the sea of uniforms and striped jerseys. His face seemed to have aged overnight. It was no longer boyish, but wan and haggard in the harsh sunlight, and his eyes were clouded with apprehension.

"Attempted escape," Beddoes droned. "Inciting to riot, perpetrating a hostile act against a vessel of the United States Navy. Captured in the act, they have been found guilty. Three hundred lashes apiece."

Even though there was hardly a man aboard the Eagle who had not already heard the terms of punishment, scores of shocked faces were upturned toward the bridge. The prisoners themselves remained unmoved. Seagram's deep-set eyes were fastened on Courtney, as they had been from the moment he had spotted her in the blur of faces. He did not acknowledge the reading of the charges or the fact that he had been tried and sentenced without an opportunity to defend himself.

"Have the prisoners any last words to say?" Jennings asked blithely.

MacDonald stiffened and thrust his chest out on a deep breath. "Ma men accept their sentence, sar."

Jennings smiled and sucked in a pinch of air through his teeth as his pale eyes settled on Billy Seagram.

An insolent grin split the wiry black beard. "Get on with it, ye damned jackanapes. An' may ye rot in hell for yer trouble."

Jennings arched a brow. "Bravely said. And yet I think the sting will be mine to deliver over the next hour or so."

Adrian Ballantine, standing to the right of the captain, heard a grumble from the body of prisoners who were collected together at the rear of the assembly. They were blinking in the raw sunlight, hunched with cramps from eight days in the brig. All of them knew what was about to happen and knew there was nothing they could do to prevent it. Ballantine felt their hatred washing over the deck in waves, and he silently cursed Jennings for insisting that the prisoners witness the proceedings. One shout, one surge against the guards, and they could have the makings of a bloodbath.

"Seize up the first prisoner," Jennings ordered and twined his fingers together behind his back.

One by one the ten marines were led to an iron grating that had been set against the shrouds. They were ordered to unfasten their shirts and remove them, then they were bound spread-eagled to the iron bars. None of the marines balked or uttered a sound. Each took his strokes with clenched teeth and streaming brow, accepting each hiss and bark of the leather cat-o'-nines as a personal triumph over pain. The lashes were dealt by a new man each time, the captain having decided early in his command that, after two dozen strokes, eve the strongest man's arm loses some of its effectiveness.

Angus MacDonald was the final marine to be flogged. He shook off the hands of the man who sought to strap him to the irons; instead, he grasped the bars himself and stood braced for the kiss of the cat. The great slabs of muscle across his back barely rippled beneath the stinging lashes, and when it was done, he turned toward the bridge and tugged a forelock in a mocking gesture of respect for the helm.

Only the two corsairs remained. The hush that engulfed those assembled on deck was stifling; it pricked the skin and caused shudders of revulsion in men long hardened to the cruelties of life at sea.

When the quartermaster signaled to the men holding Seagram, the captain raised his ivory walking stick and wagged the end.

"No, no, Mister Beddoes. The other fellow first. Let anticipation be part of the punishment."

Nilsson was carried to the platform and thrust up against the iron grating. His shirt was torn open across his shoulders and stripped down so that it hung from the waist of his breeches. His arms were jerked apart and bound to the iron bars, as were his ankles.

"Seized up, sir," Beddoes reported.

The chaplain stepped forward and raised a shaky voice to the bridge. "In the name of all that is merciful, sir, I implore you to reconsider the severity of the sentences you have ordered. As you can plainly see, neither man is capable of withstanding—"

"Reverend Knobbs," Jennings interrupted, "what I plainly see is that you are interfering with naval disciplinary measures. If you favor keeping the skin on your own back, I suggest you return to your prayer-making and say nothing more to me."

Jennings gestured impatiently to the drummer and turned his back to the chaplain. The officers and sailors removed their hats, as they had for each previous flogging, and tucked them beneath their arms as the boatswain's mate moved onto the break of the deck. He shook the coiled length of whip, letting the four-foot tails slither free on the planking. He glanced askance at the captain, who nodded and drawled, "Do your duty, sir."

The mate braced himself against the roll of the ship. He swung the lash back and over his head, putting the full force of his weight into the swing as the nine tails cracked sharply across Nilsson's back. The prisoner jerked on impact and his hands gripped the iron grate as if welding to it. His eyes bulged, and his lips drew back in a scream of agony that had not finished echoing across the deck before the hiss and crack came again ... and again. The wounds to his ribs and thigh began to pour blood through the bandages. His fevered flesh shivered; his muscles went into spasms. The knotted tips of each leather tail tore into flesh that was already contused, drawing out splatters of blood on each stroke.

At the end of twenty-four lashes the mate stopped, his face and arms bathed in sweat. He ran the whip through his fingers, squeezing out the blood, then handed the lash to the next mate in line. Dr. Rutger had gone to Nilsson's side, but there was nothing he could do to ease the man's pain, nothing he could say to halt the debacle. His soft hazel eyes reflected a mixture of anguish and contempt as he looked to Adrian for support, but the lieutenant's face was impassive.

At the end of the second set of strokes, the prisoner had fallen silent; by the third he was limp and unmoving. A ring of cast-off blood surrounded him and marked the lash's path to and from the grating. Matthew rushed to Nilsson's side when the fourth set finished; one look was all he needed to turn bitter, outraged eyes to the bridge.

"This man is dead, Captain."

"Thank you, Doctor. Continue the punishment, Mister Beddoes."

Matthew leaped forward. "I said, the man is dead! The sentence is complete—you have your pound of flesh!"

Jennings leaned on the deck rail, his eyes narrowed to slits. "And I have ordered the quartermaster to have his men continue the punishment. Three hundred strokes were called for, three hundred he shall have."

The doctor was stunned, as was everyone within hearing. "That is barbaric!"

"Dr. Rutger, you will stand aside at once!" the captain ordered.

"Be damned, sir! I will not!"

Silence washed over the deck. The company froze, not daring to breathe or to move so much as an eyelash. The creaking of clews and tackle overhead seemed deafening in the silence; even the wind contributed to the tension by plucking at a loose rope and vibrating it on the mast like a snare drum.

"I beg your pardon, Doctor?" Jennings said in an ominously smooth voice. "I do not believe I heard what you said."

Matthew ignored the warning on Adrian's face and stepped toward the bridge. "You heard me. You all heard me," he said and whirled accusingly to confront the ranks of men. "I am sick to death of the needless bloodshed we tolerate on board this ship. The prisoner is dead; there is nothing more to be gained by continuing his punishment. For Gods' sake, cut him down and let his soul rest in some semblance of peace!"

Jennings frowned and turned to Ballantine. "Lieutenant. We seem to have a minor revolt brewing. Since you are the one most familiar with the consequences of such an action, perhaps you could explain to the doctor—?"

"There is nothing to explain," Matthew retorted, his face flushing an angry red. "Adrian, for pity's sake ...!"

"Pity?" Jennings mused. "Yes, indeed, I would pity any man who condones such blatant disrespect for his commanding officer."

Adrian spoke through clenched teeth. "The prisoner is dead, Captain. What more can be gained by seeing the flogging through?"

"An example can be gained, Lieutenant," Jennings said, eagerly watching the conflict in Ballantine's face. "An example of authority and of respect for the discipline I will see enforced aboard my ship!"

"Humane treatment of the prisoners would not be construed as a sign of weakness," Ballantine insisted. "Nor would respect for their dead in any way detract from your authority. The man attempted a reckless act and has paid with his life. What greater price do we dare ask?"

"I ask nothing," Jennings said evenly. "I have, however, given a direct order. One that will be carried out regardless of who attempts to stand in the way."

Ballantine tried another tack. "If you martyr a dead man, you may find yourself with sixty more equally determined rebels."

"Are you presuming to question my order, Lieutenant?"

"I question the consequences," Adrian replied tautly.

"Duly noted. I shall face them if and when they arise. Mister Beddoes—" he turned to the quartermaster— "have your next man take his place. The sentence will be completed as ordered."

"No!" Matthew roared, placing himself between the bloody corpse and the man holding the lash. "If you insist on seeing this travesty through, you will have to cut through me first!"

"Matt!" Ballantine stepped to the rail, and Jennings' ivory walking stick came smashing down on the oak rail beside him.

"If the doctor wishes to stand in the way of justice, then he shall have the pleasure. Beddoes! Have the flogging resume. Anyone standing in the path of the lash does so by his own choosing. Now, by God!" He smashed the cane down on the rail again. "And you will put your back into the work or there will be more flesh stripped here today!"

The new mate coiled the lash back and sent it snaking toward the grate. Matthew turned and shielded Nilsson's body with his own, gasping as the leather strips were laid across his shoulder. With the second stroke, welts were raised on his neck above his collar as two of the nine tails found bare skin. His frock coat was thick enough to absorb most of the shock in the beginning, but after a dozen strokes, the cloth began to shred, and patches of white cotton shirt showed through the criss-crosses.

As the first splashes of blood seeped through Matthew's clothing, the numbing rage that had immobilized Adrian exploded. Fury blinded him to his own precarious position as he lunged past the grouped officers. He was halted, as was every other man on deck, by the blood curdling roar that shattered the horrified silence.

Seagram had thrown his massive body forward, jerking the three men who had been restraining him off their feet and into a heap of arms and legs on the planking. He plowed into the ranks of midshipmen and crew, swinging himself like a dervish so that the ends of his chains spun out and flayed at the men like a scythe. The chain linking his leg irons snapped under the tremendous pressure, and Seagram was up the ladder and shoving aside the marine stationed at the top before anyone could move to block him.

The captain, seeing the ferocity in the depths of the black eyes, screamed for protection and scrambled to the far side of the bridge. A shocked marine found himself thrust into the giant's path, and without thinking, he raised his musket and fired point blank.

The force of the blast carried the corsair back against the rail. The rail gave way under the sudden strain, offering no support as Seagram's arms flailed wildly for balance. His hands folded over the gaping hole in his chest, and he pitched onto the deck, his body sending another wave of sailors scrambling out of range. Only one figure dated toward the confusion rather than away from it. Courtney bent over Seagram in time to catch a few gasped words before the glitter faded from the sunken eyes.

Ballantine pushed his way past the guard that had formed around Jennings. The soldier who had fired the shot was still aiming the barrel of the musket at the sprawled body as if expecting the corsair to come to life again. Courtney was on her knees beside the body, her face bloodless, her eyes wide and haunting as they sought Ballantine.

"Get away from the body," he murmured urgently. "Go below and lock yourself in the cabin and stay put."

"Seagram ... "

"Did you hear me?" Adrian snarled, conscious of the men venturing closer now that the danger was apparently over. "Do it: Go! Now!"

"Please." She reached out a hand to his arm. "Please do not let them do anything to Seagram!"

"Dammit, do as I tell you!" He grabbed her roughly by the arm and spun her away from the body. She stumbled back into the crowd of sailors, but her eyes stayed locked to his, her lips trembling in a soundless plea.

Ballantine looked away and saw Matthew still protecting Nilsson's body with his own, although his head drooped and his fingers were frozen to the iron grate. Beside him, Dickie Little plucked frantically at the doctor's frock coat, his mouth contorted in anguish, his eyes streaming. The prisoners in the stern were shouting and surging against the line of marines—they were only a spark away from erupting across the deck. Whirling around, Ballantine saw the top of the captain's feathered cockade; the man himself was a bodiless babble of orders coming from within a wall of thick-chested marines.

"You!" Adrian shouted to the quartermaster. "Beddoes, quickly, cut that man down."

"But, Lieutenant— "

"I said cut him down!"

Beddoes recoiled from the savagery in Ballantine's voice, but it was Sergeant Andrew Rowntree who stepped to the grate and shouted, "Aye, sir!"

Adrian turned back to Seagram's body and found himself staring into the crisp blue eyes of Angus MacDonald.

"If ye nay mind, sar, I'll just be helpin' ye mysel'."

"Good man," said Adrian. Together they lifted the dead corsair and carried him to the rail. Two of the other guards who had been lashed helped Rowntree bring Nilsson's body from the grating, and the two corpses were gently shipped over the side. Then crew and prisoners alike fell silent, turning row by row to see what the reaction would be from the bridge.

Only Adrian ignored the hushed cluster of officers. He crossed the main deck to where Dickie Little was helping Matt to a seat on a capstan. The doctor's face was contorted with pain; his shoulders were slumped beneath the bloodied tatters of his coat. He glanced up as Adrian approached, but he could not force the words through his chewed, puffed lips.

"You damned fool," Adrian muttered. "What the hell were you trying to prove?"

"The s-same thing you just did," Matt gasped and gave a weak smile The smile turned brittle as he focused on the florid face looming up behind the lieutenant.

"Mr. Ballantine?"

Adrian straightened slowly.

"You have at last overstepped your authority on this ship, Lieutenant. You have not only countermanded a direct order, you have encouraged the men to join in a demonstration of your contempt for my command. You leave me no option but to order you, and Dr. Rutger, confined to quarters, pending my decision as to whether your court-martial will be held here, on board the Eagle, or whether I should share the pleasure with my fellow captains in Gibraltar."

Adrian stared at Jennings with unconcealed loathing.

The captain took a precautionary step back. "Mr. Falworth!"

The Second Lieutenant moved forward eagerly. "Aye, sir?"

"Have these men—the lot of them—confined to their quarters. They may consider themselves under arrest and without rank as of this moment."

"Under arrest?" Falworth could hardly believe his ears.

"Do you have an objection, Lieutenant?" Jennings demanded, directing a portion of his wrath toward Falworth.

"No sir. No, I—"

Jennings cut him off and redirected his venom at Ballantine. "Your saber, if you please, Mr. Ballantine."

Adrian's fists flexed. Reading the flinty contempt in his eyes, Jennings signaled furiously to a nearby marine.

"Soldier, if this officer does not relinquish his saber at once you are ordered to draw your pistol and shoot to kill!"

The marine was visibly shaken by the command, and more visibly relieved when Adrian's hand moved slowly to his belt buckle. He unstrapped the scabbard from around his waist and presented it to Jennings with a mocking flourish. The captain accepted the polished steel and leather, his face splotched crimson.

"Now get out of my sight," he hissed. "Take yourself and this worthless, yellow-bellied leech and get out of my sight."

"With pleasure," Adrian murmured and turned his back on the two officers. He supported Matthew as the doctor struggled to his feet, and with the sound of their bootsteps echoing in the taut silence on deck, he and Dickie Little steered the wounded doctor below to his cramped cabin.

There, they eased him onto his bunk and gingerly peeled away the layers of coat and shirt until his back was bared for inspection. Welts rose in a crisscross pattern, red and angry, across most of Matthew's back and shoulders Thankfully few had split, but they all burned like the very fires of hell.

Adrian fetched a crock of rum from the sideboard and poured a healthy draught into a tin mug. "Here, drink this."

"Nodon't need it."

"You will need it when I rub the salt and turpentine in," Adrian advised him dryly.

Matthew took the mug and swallowed the contents in four loud gulps. "I never was one for heroics."

A wry grin trembled on Adrian's mouth, then broadened, and in moments both men were laughing at the absurd irony of the statement.

"I guess we have both done it this time," Matt said, sobering.

"I guess we have, old friend."