Children of the Dragon book 6
A Pirate’s Daughter
Smashwords Edition by Theresa M. Moore
Copyright 2011,2012 by Theresa M. Moore, all rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced in whole or in part in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author. Requests to make copies of any part of this work should be by electonic mail to:tmoore@theresammoore.com. Any resemblence to any dramatic character or personality, living or dead, or geographical locations, is purely intentional within the context of human history without libelous intent. Not intended for reading by children under the age of 16.
Published by Antellus, Los Angeles, CA USA
http://www.theresammoore.com
Antellus catalog no. 10520706
Other books in this series by Theresa M. Moore: Destiny’s Forge - To Taste The Dragon’s Blood - NAGRASANTI Illustrated Vampire Omnibus - Red Dragon - The Queen’s Marksman - Truth and The Dragon’s Blood - Written In Blood – Swords of The Dragon’s Blood
FOREWORD
This is the sixth book in a planned series loosely based on a collection of short stories written for a monthly fanzine during the period 1988 to 1995. My stories featured a character named Antonia Bellero, whose creation was a homage to numerous science fiction and horror films and novels I had read over the years. The result was a string of epic adventures of espionage, fellowship, betrayal, murder, conspiracy, political intrigue and a host of other snippets about the human condition within the confines of a rigidly defined universe established by precedent; one which did not leave much room for innovation. I found it challenging to introduce a character which could exist credibly within that universe without violating the basic rules.
As a result of this outpouring of creativity, I decided to embark on writing more speculative science fantasy stories featuring my characters in my own universe, which is as real for the reader as I can make it. These are fresh and original stories and as such I have designed them to stand alone but linked together by a common theme. Each book explores more of the origins and adventures of Antonia’s people while keeping faith to the original concept.
The Children of The Dragon series is a chronicle of the Xosan, living vampires from the mythical planet Antellus who were once human but were transformed by a dragon’s blood. They are stories of science fiction, fact and fantasy, myth and history, tragedy and triumph, intermixed with real historical events in the theme of the vampire as hero.
There are many facets to this fantasy universe that are as yet unexplored and as I continue to delve into its mysteries the whole is becoming greater than the sum of its parts, much to my own delight. As I write each story, another comes calling to add to the saga and challenges my creativity and imagination.
I hope that you the reader will be fascinated and entertained by the people who are the descendents of Xosan and the inheritors of the dragon's blood.
--- Theresa M. Moore
PROLOGUE
“Well, some say it's true, and some say it ain't, but there's something mighty peculiar about The Black Witch and her crew. She runs shallow in the draft, and when she puts into any port she does so in the middle of a fog. And her captain, he never sets foot off her decks. The crewmen have been seen from time to time haulin' supplies and such from town to the ship but I swear on me uncle's barnacles down in Davy Jones's locker they never go near a tavern or inn. It's damned peculiar, says I. It just ain't normal.”
The man took a healthy swig of rum when he had finished speaking and then wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. He was tanned and gristled, with a grey stubble about his face and a squint that kept his left eye closed. He had seen better days but chose to spend the rest immersed in drink and good times when he could afford them. A corncob pipe dangled from his thick lips.
“Normal?” his drinking companion asked skeptically. “What ship or crew can be called normal in these dangerous times?” His face was pale, and his grey eyes looked silver in the yellow light of the lanterns. He had wild longish dark hair tied back in a queue with a deep maroon ribbon, and he wore a pendant of Spanish silver dripping from his left ear. He was dressed for the sea and resembled a hodgpodge of naval officer mixed with nobility; and his manner was too refined for a scalawag. His voice was melodic, smooth and warm as silk, and his diction was perfect English but the accent leaned a bit toward Italian or Greek.
The sailor could not place it, nor conjure the memory of where he had heard it before. Still, he was not discomfited by it, having been charmed somewhat by the man's solicitous and affable nature when they had first met on the street. He was grateful for the timely intervention of the stranger, for he was already in his cups when the young man stopped him to ask for directions to the apothecary, then quickly pulled him aside before the barrel wagon's horses trampled him underfoot as it rushed pellmell down the street. As a reward he had insisted he would buy the stranger a drink, and he had a story to tell in his heart as gossip was a common pastime. But the stranger patted him on the back and said it was more like he was the one who would do the buying, and that warmed the cockles of the old sailor's heart more than anything he had heard in a good long while.
The man leaned forward and spoke in a conspiratorial tone. “Aye, but what if I was to tell ye that wherever she puts into port, she goes away trailin' rumors?”
The younger man started a little and regarded him with that steely eyed gaze, then leaned forward with interest and asked, “what kind of rumors?”
“People comin' down with some kind of strange weakness and dreamin'. Strange things goin' on in the middle of the night. Dogs howlin' like someone's gone and died.”
“The cholera, you think?” the man suggested. “There was a run of it in Barbados last year.”
The rummy waved a hand and looked from left to right, not wanting to be overheard. “Nah, nothin' so horrible. I've seen the cholera so it can't be that. They recover right enough in time, but it only seems to happen when The Black Witch puts down anchor.”
His companion shook his head with disbelief. “Perhaps it is mere coincidence. Such rumors are common when ships come in to harbor after a long voyage.”
“Ghost ships, more like,” the rummy insisted. “I say The Black Witch is one such, though I've never seen it meself. Oh, she must be a fast one to slip around the Royal Navy and the Costa Garda.” He made a motion with his hands in the air like a swimming fish.
The man leaned back in his oaken chair, tipped it back, and placed his boot against the table's edge as he began to laugh. He raised his pewter mug to his lips and took a sip of his honey mead.
His drinking buddy's face went dark with indignance. “You think I be funnin'?” the sailor growled, the squinty eye closing.
The other repressed his smile quickly, then said with an amiable shrug, “no, of course not. I just think it's the influence of rum that has caused these rumors to spread about, and a man with little else to do is prone to believe anything. No, there may be a more rational explanation for these stories.”
“Then how do you explain the legend gettin' started? Is there no truth to be told in it?”
The mate regarded the man with another wolfish stare. “You want to believe something fantastic and magical. I'm not saying it's not possible, just that a little imagination can go a long way in a place where strangers meet.” He glanced up at the clock on the wall, whose pendulum was silent against the din of celebration and plotting in the room. He put down his mug and rose, shifted his rapier and pistol straighter and straightened his black oilskin waistcoat; swept up the broad brimmed leather hat and smoothed down the large grey ostrich feather tucked in the black band as he placed it on his head. He tossed a silver coin onto the ale soaked wood, winked at the man and said, “got to be goin' now. Thanks for the story.”
The sailor glanced down at the coin. It was a Spanish doubloon, shiny and clean as if it had been minted the day before. “Here now. Where did you get that?” he asked as he picked it up and peered at it closely. “Is there more where this come from, ay?”
“That, my friend, is a very long story, which I've neither the time nor the inclination to tell you just now.” The tall young man collected his long black cloak and walked toward the tavern door. Waving farewell to the innkeeper, he pushed his way out the front door into the darkness beyond.
The sailor took another gulp of rum to steel his resolve, then rose and followed.
At first he could not see the tall young man walking away in the darkness of the cobbled street. The rum blurred his vision a bit and he tottered dizzily, but he was determined to find treasure and he was not going to let the drink stop him from reaching his goal. Then he spotted his quarry already about a block away turning down the lane to the left, heading for the apothecary in question. He hurried after, but not too closely.
The stranger's pace was unhurried and steady, yet kept gaining ground no matter how fast the sailor walked. When he reached the door of the apothecary's shop the stranger stopped and turned to look behind him. The sailor quickly flattened himself against the wall of the pie shop and waited until he entered the shop. After a few minutes passed, his quarry emerged and resumed walking. The sailor followed him until they arrived at the docks. There the man in black walked up the gangplank of the dark ship anchored at one of the piers and spoke to two men who nodded and resumed the watch. Then he disappeared into the captain's cabin at the stern.
The rummy looked closely at the ship and his mouth fell open. No fog, nor mist, nor rum, could make her less sharply defined in the moonlight. She was real all right, a frigate rigged for stealth and darkness, all sharp angles and points like a sea urchin. She had a sleek hull, painted black down to and past the water line. Her black sails were furled and tied off on the yardarms. She had three masts and her bow sprit was long and sharp looking. She had twenty guns. He saw the wooden mascot carved in the shape of a woman with wild hair and eyes stretching her long arms back to embrace the hull attached to her back, and her skin was black as pitch. A chill went through him as he saw the red letters painted on the black wood with the name, matching the long red flag fluttering in the tropical island breeze atop the main mast. The Black Witch.
Then he saw the door to the captain's cabin open again, and he saw the man come out followed closer by a slimmer man, who had long dark hair and wore dark clothes like the stranger's. He heard a reedy voice that told him the man was a woman as she barked, “Rise up, ye dogs! Raise anchor! We're leaving now!”
He watched the deck come alive with activity as the crew made preparations to set sail. He knew he could not get closer without being seen and challenged by the men on the deck. They did not look like ghosts but honest God-fearing men. He stayed where he was and watched the sails unfurl and swell with warm island wind. The great iron weight was raised to the scuppers as the ship eased away from the pier on the gentle swell of the tide. He saw her disappear into the darkness of the sea and the mist rising from its surface, and now he knew why she did so readily. No lamp was lit on the deck. The men were working by the light of the moon.
Nodding his sudden understanding, the sailor abandoned his post and made his way back toward the inn, where he would drown his wonder in more rum, saving the sight for future telling.
1
MARCH 1718
The Mary Catherine bobbed heavily on the water, loaded down with kegs of ale and rolls of fabric, and headed straight into the warm trade wind blowing toward Jamaica. There she would be off-loaded and then steer up the Gulf Coast toward New Orleans to pick up Louisiana cotton and rum for the return voyage to Port Royal. The little twin-masted schooner had done so for two years without encountering a single obstacle in her way. She was too small a ship to attract the attentions of the privateers and warships that plied the dangerous shark-filled waters of the Carribean Sea, and she held the advantage in that even when fully loaded with goods she was faster than most of the ships that sailed the waterways.
Her captain, Joshua Makepeace Rakham, was an affable sort who treated his crew like partners. A widower, he had brought his daughter Charity aboard to live with him rather than leave her in foster care with his relatives. At first his crew had been a little uneasy with this arrangement, for they believed that a woman brought bad luck to any ship unfortunate enough to carry her. But the little girl was sweet and charming in her manner and soon won them over. Some of the men promptly accepted her because she reminded them of their own daughters, and she had insisted on pulling her own weight early on. Rakham made a place for her where she could have privacy, building her a small room in the unused space of the large cabin at the stern where he made his quarters.
She was intelligent and mature for her young age, so she served as cabin boy until a young man two years older than she was brought aboard to satisfy a debt and replaced her. Jonathan Cantwell was his name, with a sour expression that soon vanished once he became acquainted with his duties, which were rather light compared to most.
Rakham made sure that both children were well educated and took on the task of teaching them letters and reading, psalms from the bible and how to do their sums, and how to behave to all with charity and tolerance.
Young Cantwell and Charity grew attached to each other as children isolated in such conditions were wont to do, and they became affectionate toward each other. They talked to each other about the sea and the stars and played games. Charity practiced mending clothes and began to embroider flowers onto the roughspun fabric of Jonathan's shirts; and he in turn fetched pails of water and did other chores for her that she could easily do herself but that he insisted she should not be burdened with. He was then just fourteen years of age when he had come aboard and he had to endure the mockery of some of the crew when he displayed the result of her mending, but he had also impressed them with his serious attention to his duties and when he declared that he was man enough not to be mocked they took him at his word and made no more trouble for him.
After two years had passed Charity was afflicted with her monthly courses, and she grew faster than expected until she was quite tall for her age. Rakham kept her shut up inside her room a week out of every month from then on. He warned the crew that on no account was she to be disturbed during these times on pain of a lashing at the mast. Young Cantwell had the good sense not to question this, and the rest of the crew honored Rakham's dictum even if some did not agree with him. Then he took the young man aside and explained the way of birds and bees in plain unvarnished English, and told him that he must avoid the temptation to succumb to whatever carnal urges assailed him.
When the first year had passed without incident Charity became conscious of the way the men started to watch her. She grew uneasy with this until she took to her cabin and would not come out. Captain Rakham went to her and asked her what was amiss. She said, “Papa, what am I to do? I am different than I was but a month ago. I feel strange and most discomfitted by the way the men watch me come and go. Is this the way of things?”
“You are becoming a young woman,” Rakham assured her. “You must accept that there are to be many changes in your life.”
“Aye, but I cannot stay in this cabin forever. Would the men accept me better if I was a boy?”
Rakham drew her into his arms and said, “You are better than any son I could ever have had, Charity. If you wish, you may go on dressing as a boy until you feel at peace with yourself. Would that help you rid yourself of this discomfiture?”
“It would, papa,” she said.
“Then I will ask Master Cantwell if he would bear to part with his old clothes, for he has outgrown them faster than I expected.” In truth Rakham found the young man's growth spurts somewhat alarming. “And when we dock in New Orleans I will take some time to obtain more for you and him,” he said.
2
The next morning Charity emerged from the cabin. She was dressed head to toe in the young man's old breeches, jerkin and waistcoat. She wore the dark leather tricorn hat he had said was too small for his head and it fit her just right. Her long dark hair was braided down her back. When the men saw her they stared as if she had turned into a mermaid, then gave her good morning as if she was one of them and resumed their work.
She breathed a deep sigh of relief at that and then went to see the cook, a Frenchman named Jean Reneau, to arrange her father's breakfast as she did every morning. Reneau had served with Rakham's crew from the start and seemed a friendly sort. He also served as ship's physician, so he was always solicitous of this or that ailment suffered among the crew. Charity thought of him as a foreign uncle and he treated her as his niece in his own fashion.
“Good morning, Monsieur Reneau,” she called gayly from the door of the galley as she entered.
Reneau turned quickly from stirring a pot of stew and looked her up and down as if he did not recognize her. Then he smiled and said, “ah. Good morning, Mademoiselle.”
She sniffed. “You are preparing supper early,” she said.
“I am preparing a special meal. Today is the Feast of the Ascension. I am also putting up candies and other treats for the crew to enjoy along with their rations. It is something left over from the days when there was joy and celebration in the world. It is a tradition passed down to me from my granpère.”
“You do like to cook, Monsieur,” she said. Then she pressed her fingers to her temple as a dull ache came into it. She had felt it when she rose but had ignored it until it seemed to go away. Now it was back to plague her again.
He peered closely into her greenish grey eyes. “Are you not feeling well, Mademoiselle?” he asked.
She shrugged at that. “In truth I have a slight ache in my head, but papa tells me that eating an apple would banish it,” she said.
Reneau nodded, then turned toward the apple barrel and selected a ripe one from the top of the pile. “Oui, your skin is very pale” he replied. “You should spend more time in the sun.” He handed the apple to her and watched her bite into it, and was rewarded with a delighted smile.
“Really, Monsieur Reneau, you always pick the best ones. What is your secret?”
He smiled back. “The trick is in squeezing the flesh of the fruit, just so...” he reached for her hands, then hesitated. “If you will permit me?”
“Please,” she replied.
He moved closer. His fingers closed gently over hers and pressed them against the apple's skin. The fruit yielded only slightly, but Charity nodded her understanding. “Yes, I see!” she exclaimed.
“Use but a gentle pressing, and you will always know the sweetness of the fruit before you eat it. Bon apetite!”
She took another bite from the apple and chewed, smiling. “Merci, Monsieur.”
“Ah,” he said. “You speak the words perfectly, Mademoiselle.” Then his smile fell and he added, “I cherish knowing you, seeing you grow up into a beautiful young woman. You remind me so much of my own daughter, Fleurelle, who would be just your age now. Will you favor me with a hug, like father and daughter?”
Charity threw herself into his arms and gave him a strong, loving hug. “Monsieur Reneau, I am honored to stand in place of your daughter at this moment.”
“Thank you, cherie’,” he replied. “May God shine upon you for taking pity on a sentimental fool like me.”
“Have you had no word of comfort from your family?” she asked.
Reneau's eyes looked at the floor and he uttered a long sigh. “Alas, non. I send letters home telling of my work at sea but I fear that some ill fate has befallen my family, or that my wife has given up on me. I signed on with your père because I could not afford the life of comfort I wanted to give them. The wild rough life of a former mousquetaire is no way to earn a proper fortune to bestow on a wife and child.” He gently pried her loose, looked into her grey green eyes and said, “but that is not important right now. Now I must warn you about things you may have already learned from your father. Has he told you of intercourse between a man and a woman? How children are brought into the world?”
Charity's large eyes grew wider with shock. “You mean, there is more? I thought he told me all.”
Reneau shook his head, and his face grew somber. “There are a few men on this ship who are not the gentlemen they claim to be. Beware of Lacey and Durham. Steer clear of them if you can, but avoid Lacey above all. They have been watching you, and I fear they have carnal desires of you. The captain is wise and knows every part of his ship but he seems blind to the truth, for they have taken extra pains to conceal their designs from him. I know these men better, for I have watched them at work and they stay apart from the rest. I know not their plans but they send a chill through me that I have not felt since...” his voice trailed off, as if he wanted to avoid upsetting her. He swallowed deeply and said, “will you heed my advice?”
“Of course, Monsieur Reneau,” Charity replied with a low voice. “Thank you for bringing this to my attention. I will certainly try to do as you suggest.”
She had just finished speaking when there was a noise at the door behind her, and Captain Rakham entered the galley with a stern look on his weatherbeaten face. “Charity, you should not be disturbing Monsieur Reneau at his work,” he said. His voice rang with disapproval.
Charity swallowed. He had never sounded this angry before. “Monsieur Reneau was just telling me about his family, papa,” she protested mildly. “About his daughter, who he says is about my age.”
The captain grunted. “That may be so, but he must be about preparing breakfast for the crew, and you must be about your lessons. I will take my own breakfast here this morning.”
“Papa, I --” she began.
“To your room, girl. Now,” Rakham said sternly. Today he would accept no word to the contrary.
“Yes, papa,” she replied, then left the galley.
She could hear the angry tones in the two men's voices as they spoke to each other in rapid French. She could barely understand it as it was so she got lost and was forced to give up on following the conversation. She began to walk along the deck toward her cabin but was so distracted by worry about Reneau that she collided solidly with something in front of her without actually seeing it. As she bounced back she slipped on something and started to fall when a large hand snaked out and caught her by the arm, stopping her. She blinked up into the light and the rakishly handsome face of Tom Lacey. His blue eyes were twinkling with mischief and a bit of scorn, and his lips were contorted into a toothy devilish leer.
“Well, the woman has become a boy,” he declared, laughing at his own joke. Behind him, some of the crew looked up from their work and took notice. “Careful, Miss Rakham,” he said. “The decks are still slippery from cleanin' this morning. We wouldn't want to ruin those fine clothes of yours now, would we?”
Charity's mouth turned down into an indignant frown, and she tried to pull her arm from his grip with a jerking motion. She was not strong enough, and he did not let go. “Excuse me, Mister Lacey, but I think you have drifted too far off course, and I am not inclined to indulge your humor today.”
“Now, there's no cause to be so disagreeable,” he drawled. “I saved ye from a wetting, didn't I? You're in need of a friend and protector, methinks, and your father can't do it all alone.”
She had endured their unsavory eyes watching her for months as she went about her chores. Now she fumed with resentment, drew herself ramrod straight and looked up into his eyes boldly, daring him with her anger. “I have no need of your protection or your friendship, sir.”
Lacey's smile fell from his lips and his grip tightened on her small arm. “Careful, girl. It's a man you're speakin' to. I've a mind to take ye over my knee for speaking to me without respect.”
“If it's respect you want from me, then you will have to earn it,” Charity replied bravely, though by now she was quaking with uncertainty and fear. She was no physical match for the burly seaman and she knew it, and she had not yet mastered the art of bluffing. “Now let go of me.”
“Please forgive a man for fallin' under your spell. It's bewitched I am, Miss Rakham.” Lacey burst into laughter as he released her. Charity stood her ground and stared at him with anger brewing at his jibe.
The only man laughing with him was Miles Durham, who was just as mischief minded as Lacey. But the other sailors stirred and murmured that the captain ought to know what was going on. Lacey heard, and he threw a bold menacing look at the men until they grew silent. Then he leaned in close to Charity and said quietly, “sooner or later, missy, I'll kiss that bold mouth of yours, and I'll teach ye to be more friendly. Me and Durham's got a pool to see which one of us ye'll marry, though I'm not averse to sharin', if ye take my meanin'.”
A sudden shudder ran the length of Charity's spine, and she backed away slowly, not at all sure what to do next. She remembered that young Cantwell was down below decks, counting the kegs of ale and rum to make sure no one was pilfering the stores, and her father was still arguing with Reneau. She stole a careful glance toward the galley. “If you so much as speak to me again I'll tell my father,” she declared.
Lacey caught her glance and frowned. “Here, now,” he said. “Have ye been talkin' to the Frenchy? What piracy is he about, I wonder? He been tellin' ye secrets?”
“I know not what you speak of, Mister Lacey, but you need only to look in the glass to see who's the pirate here,” Charity replied.
Lacey and Durham exchanged telling glances, then they approached her slowly. “Then I'd watch my mouth from now on if I were you,” Lacey growled with menace in his voice. “I've no truck with a woman puttin' on airs.”
The bos'n moved quickly to place himself between her and them, a belaying pin gripped hard in his hand. His face meant business, and he was big enough to follow it up with action. “You're courtin' a lashin',” he said with a strong voice. “Stand down, you two, or I'll drop you where you stand.”
The two men looked around at the dour, somber expressions on the sailor's faces. “Is that the way of it?” Lacey said. “You'd fight for her? You'd side with a woman instead of one of your own?”
Captain Rakham's strong warm voice sounded from the doorway to the galley. “You'd best not lay a hand on my daughter, or it'll be a hangin' for the both of you.” He stood there with his hands on his hips, his expression dark and angry. His right hand strayed toward the pistol tucked in his belt, and he was wearing a cutlass beside. Charity had never seen him so fully armed before, but she was relieved to see him that way.
She fairly ran to him and said, “I'm sorry, papa --”
“Captain, if you please, Master Rakham,” he said, cutting her off. He kept his eyes firmly rooted on the two seamen, whose eyes were challenging and scornful but rapidly growing uncertain about their place in the scheme of things. “You are still a part of my crew, and I'll entertain no arguments about it.”
A small flush of pride surged through her. “Captain, sir,” she said. “I stand corrected. These men stood between me and my destination, and did say unseemly things to me. I beg leave to return to my cabin.”
“Permission granted,” he said, though his eyes remained fixed on the two men. “To your cabin at once.”
Quietly, Charity chose a more circuitous route among the crew and then ran the rest of the way toward the captain's quarters, where she closed the door part way and leaned against the lintel, listening to her father's voice issuing orders.
“My daughter is to be treated with respect from now on,” he said to them. “If any of you so much as look at her in a way not meet to her station I'll take a cat to you myself. Have I made myself clear?”
“Aye!” the men said readily enough, but Lacey and Durham merely glared at Rakham with murderous eyes.
“Now, back to work!” he barked. “And you two, get below decks and check the bilge for leaks. That ought to make time for you to reconsider your worth on this ship. And don't even think of touching the kegs. If you want drink, Master Cantwell is already in the hold and will serve you water. Mister Cook, you are in charge of seein' to it. That is all.” Rakham placed his hands behind his back and marched away from them toward the cabin.
The bos'n's eyes acquired a wicked gleam as he shoved the two men toward the hatch amidships, brandishing the club in his hand. “Move, ye dogs. Ye heard the captain.”
But when he entered the ready room the captain closed the door quickly and turned the key in the lock, then leaned his forehead against it and blew out pent up breath. He noticed Charity standing next to him and said, “Aye, those two are nought but trouble. I've got to be rid of them before things grow worse. We've both got to be careful of them, Charity. They were Teach's men before they signed on with me, and now I regret every God-cursed minute since I allowed them aboard.”