Devil In Tartan. Julia London
as if he’d never seen one.
A lady? It was not unheard of for one to be on the high seas; wives of captains sometimes sailed with them. If it were anyone else, a lady of importance, she’d not be sailing on a rickety boat like that.
“In a proper gown and everything,” Iain said, his voice full of awe.
Aulay didn’t know what a proper gown meant to Iain, so he motioned for the spyglass to have a look. He could scarcely make her out, but it was definitely a woman standing at the railing, holding a white flag that almost matched the color of the hair that whipped long and unbound about her face. There were a few men beside her, all of them clinging to the railing, all of them looking rather desperately in the direction of his ship.
Aulay instructed Beaty to maneuver closer, and when there was nothing but a small bit of sea between the two ships, the men’s frantic attention to the sail on the other ship was forgotten in favor of lowering a jolly boat down the hull. There was more chaotic shoving among them until four men scrambled down a rope ladder into the boat and began to row with abandon toward the Reulag Balhaire. The woman remained behind on the ship’s deck with a few men, including one that was the size of a small mountain, towering a head above all the others.
When the smaller boat reached them, one of the men grabbed on to the rope ladder to steady them, and one rose to standing, bracing his legs apart to keep his balance. “Madainn mhath,” he called up, and with an affected swirl of his hand, he bowed low. And very nearly tipped over the side when a swell caught him unawares.
“Scots, then,” Beaty said. “That’s something, at least.”
“We are in need of your help, kind sirs!” the man called up, having managed to right himself. “We’ve been set upon by pirates, aye?” He spoke with a strange cadence, as if he were a town crier delivering this news to a crowded venue.
The men did not carry swords or guns that Aulay could see. It seemed all they could do to keep the jolly from tipping too far to one side. “That ship flew the colors of the king,” he called down.
The spokesman looked startled. He squatted down to consult the other men in his small boat. A flurry of shaking heads and talking over one another ensued, until the man stood up again and said, “She flew no such flag when she fired, on me word, sir! She fired with no provocation from us!” He pressed his hand to his chest quite earnestly.
“No’ bloody likely,” Iain muttered.
“Why do I feel as if I am watching a theatrical performance?” Aulay asked idly. “What do you think, then, Beaty? Could a freebooter put his hands on a royal flag?”
“More likely a privateer,” Beaty said, referring to those private ships holding a royal commission. “They’re no’ above a bit of pirating, are they? Might have nicked a flag, I suppose.”
Perhaps. It was hard to argue who’d advanced on whom when they’d not witnessed it. But it seemed unlikely that a privateer or pirate would have engaged this ship. It was too small to hold anything of quantity or value.
Aulay leaned over the railing. “What have you on board that invited attack?”
“Naugh’ but a lady, Captain!”
“Who is the lady, then?”
That question prompted more spirited discussion on the jolly boat.
“What, then, they donna know the lady?” Iain snorted.
Once again, the man straightened up, put his fist to his waist and called out, “Our Lady Larsen, sir! We are carrying her home to her ailing grandmamma!” He paused, put a hand to his throat and said, “’Tis a journey of great and intolerable sadness, as the lady’s grandmamma is no’ expected to live!”
Larson. Aulay did not know the name.
“An ailing grandmamma my arse,” Beaty muttered.
Aulay was likewise suspicious. These men seemed to have no idea what they were doing, who was on board, or even how to mount a sail and sally forth to dear old Grandmamma. Moreover, the man had the peculiar habit of speaking as if he were acting in a play. “Where is your destination?” Aulay called.
“Denmark, Captain. Her grandmamma is a Dane, she is, but we are Scots, like you.”
“Never knew a clever Dane,” Iain mused. “No’ a single one.”
“Aye, she has the look of an heiress,” said one of the crew, holding the spyglass to his eye. The man next to him punched him in the arm and grabbed the spyglass as if he’d been waiting too long for his turn and was cross about it.
Apparently, the men had been passing it around to view the woman while Aulay, Beaty and Iain focused on the men below.
“Been sailing long?” Beaty called down.
“A day,” the man said.
“No, lad, I mean, what sort of seaman are you, then?”
“Well that’s the interesting thing, sir, aye? We are no’ seaman. No’ a one of us a sailor, save our captain. We’re but Christian soldiers on an errand of mercy. Able-bodied, aye, willing to try. But no’, as such, sailors.”
“Bloody damn curious,” Beaty muttered, his thick brow furrowed.
“Agreed,” Aulay said.
Billy Botly, the youngest and smallest of the crew, was the last to receive the spyglass, and he had to fight for it. He was so slight that a good, strong wind would knock him overboard if he weren’t careful, and as he swung one leg over the edge of the hull to have a look, Aulay feared precisely that. “Aye, an heiress,” the lad said, a wee bit dreamily.
Aulay reached over Billy’s shoulder, took the spyglass from him and had a look himself. The lady was still standing there, still clutching the white flag against her chest, her hands crossed over it as if she feared she would lose it.
He lowered the spyglass again and peered down at the man. “Aye, and what do you want from me, then? I’ve no time to ferry anyone to her ailing grandmamma.”
His crew chuckled derisively in agreement.
“The ship, sir, she’s taking on water, that she is. We’ll no’ last through the night.”
“Should no’ have sailed in a ship no’ meant for open water, then,” Beaty called down. Apparently, Beaty was the only man aboard who was not moved by the sight of a comely lady in dire circumstances.
“Aye, but we’ve the miss and her father, wounded in the fight, he was. She’s no one to look after her.”
“You expect me to do the looking after?” Aulay asked and laughed roundly with his crew. He was bound for Amsterdam, and he’d not be late. This voyage was crucial for his family, and he firmly believed it had the potential to grow into something quite lucrative for the Mackenzies, in spite of his father’s misgivings. After years of scraping by, Aulay was resolved to prove they could restore their trade.
“Just need a port, sir, that’s it,” the man called up as he gripped the hem of his waistcoat in a nervous manner. They all seemed slightly agitated, each of them stealing looks at their damaged ship, as if they expected her to slip under the water while they had their backs turned.
“You’ll make landfall by night,” he called to them. “Go back the way you’ve come, aye? That’s what your attacker has done. You’ve two good sails yet and the wind will carry you if you trim them properly. Gun déid leat,” he said, wishing them the best of luck, and turned away from the railing, his intent to be done with this unusual event at sea.
“Captain, sir!” the man shouted frantically. “She’s taking on water too fast, can you no’ see with your own eyes? It’s a miracle of heaven that you’ve come at all, and we rejoice in our fortune! We were drawing straws to see who would take the lady and her father in the jolly and who among us would be doomed to drown! Will you turn your back