“Sadly true. And they can’t gain access to places like Grillon’s.” Daniel turned to Alex, smiled through the shadows. “I suspect we might have to take a hand ourselves.” His smile widened. “I know how much killing distresses you, m’dear, but you’ll simply have to grin and bear it.”
Alex laughed and reached for Daniel. “I will. For you, I will. Still, I just hope we’ve brought enough assassins to assist.”
Ten
December 16, 1822
St. Peter Port, Guernsey
T he day was overcast, dense clouds in myriad shades of gray blocking out the weak sun. A cold wind strafed low over the sea, sending whipped gray-green waves spraying in plumes over the rocky breakwater.
Standing beside Linnet at the helm, with the wind raking chill fingers through his hair, Logan watched the gun emplacements of Castle Cornet slide away to starboard as, under limited sail, the Esperance rode the tide out of the harbor.
The Channel swell lifted the prow high. Linnet held the wheel, held course, her gaze locked on the breakwater to port. The instant the stern cleared the line of tumbled rocks, she snapped out orders, relayed by her bosun down on the main deck. Sailors leapt to obey, many already hanging in the rigging above. Her gaze now following their movements, as more sails unfurled, Linnet turned the wheel, hand over hand, and steady and sure, the Esperance came around.
As the prow came onto the heading she wanted, she called out more orders, setting sail to run north along the island’s coast. Once they rounded the northern headland, she’d turn northwest for Plymouth.
Sensing the sheer power of the ship beneath his feet, of wind and waves expertly harnessed, Logan looked up, admiring the taut sails, square-rigged on the fore and main masts. At the top of the main mast, the Guernsey flag flapped and snapped in the stiff breeze.
Beside him, Linnet called out another order, and a young sailor dashed to the mizzenmast. Logan watched him operate the lines of some other flag; shading his eyes, he looked up to see . . . squinted. Blinked and looked again.
He was army, not navy, yet he recognized one of the various Royal Navy ensigns now flapping high above the Esperance ’s deck.
Stupified, he turned to Linnet, gestured. “What the devil does that mean?”
She grinned, corrected the wheel a trifle, then handed it over to Griffiths. “Straight north, then northwest. We’ll take the most direct route unless we see anything that suggests otherwise.”
Griffiths nodded and settled behind the wheel.
Turning to Logan, Linnet waved him to the starboard side of the stern deck. “That”—with her head she indicated the ensign above—“is the strongest plank in the argument that the Esperance is the best ship to carry you to Plymouth.”
Logan stared at the ensign, then looked at her. “I don’t understand. How can the Esperance still be sailing under a Letter of Marque, much less with you as captain?”
Leaning on the stern railing, looking out over their wake, Linnet smiled. “The Trevission family has held an extant Letter of Marque for literally centuries.” She cast Logan a glance. “Englishmen forget that the islanders are more allied to the English Crown than they are. We—the Channel Islands—have been part of the Duchy of Normandy for untold centuries, and still are—your King is our Duke. We’re a property of the English Crown, not of the British state. As such, we’ve fought the French for just as long, if not longer. We’ve been a bastion against the French, and the Spanish, too, in centuries past, and in more recent times through the Peninsula Wars, we played a crucial part in England’s defense, specifically in imposing naval supremacy.
“As I mentioned earlier, the Esperance —this version of her, there have been four—played a role in the evacuation of Corunna. Later we guarded your troop ships when the army returned. The Guernsey merchant fleet in particular has always provided a bulwark against direct attack on the Channel coast from any of the ports in Brittany, all the way to Cherbourg. And because we’re usually out and about, traveling the western reaches of the Channel, we’ve often provided early warning of any attack from further afield, to the west and south. Without us patrolling those waters, covering so many of the sea lanes, Plymouth and Falmouth wouldn’t have been able to concentrate their fleets on the Channel itself, on discouraging Napoleon from launching his invasion from Boulogne, and then later supplying and protecting the army when you returned for Waterloo.”
She met Logan’s eyes. “English naval dominance owes no small debt to the merchant ships of Guernsey. And the commanders at Castle Cornet, and at Plymouth and Falmouth, know it.”
“Which explains why you informed the castle before sailing—your courtesy call to Foxwood.” Logan studied her face, saw the passion behind the history. “Does the Admiralty know that Captain Trevission of the Esperance is a woman?”
Her lips twisted in a cynical smile. “They do, but you would, I suspect, never get them to admit it. Not in any way.”
He considered, then said, “What you’ve told me explains why your family held a Letter of Marque until your father died. What it doesn’t explain is why it was renewed after his death, presumably with you as holder, and why it’s still in force so long after the end of the war.” He glanced up, then looked back at her. “I’m assuming you are legally entitled to fly that?”
She chuckled and turned, leaning back against the rail to look up at the ensign. “Yes, indeed—I’m fully entitled to claim the right, might, and protection of the Royal Navy.” She met his eyes. “Which is why the Esperance sailing under marque is the perfect vessel to carry you to Plymouth. With that ensign flying up there, any captain would have to have rocks in his head to even challenge us.”
Logan shook his head. “I can’t argue that, not anymore, but you still haven’t answered my questions.”
Linnet met his eyes, then looked ahead, along the ship. “My father died in ’13. I was seventeen. You know how things were in the Peninsula at that time—you were there. The navy desperately needed the Esperance sailing, and more, sailing under marque—she was, still is, the fastest ship of her size in these waters, the best armed, most agile, and her crew the most experienced and best trained. The navy couldn’t afford to lose the Esperance , not at that juncture. The Admiralty received urgent petitions from the island, as well as the fleet commanders at Plymouth and Falmouth.
“No doubt the Admiralty sputtered and paled, but the admirals of the fleets and the then-commander at Castle Cornet all knew me. They knew I’d been trained to sail the Esperance by my father, that I could, and frequently did, take command. They knew I’d already seen more battles than most of their own captains, that I’d been sailing these waters since I could stand.” She glanced at Logan, smiled cynically again. “Basically the Admiralty had no choice. They renewed the Letter of Marque exactly as it had been for centuries—to Captain Trevission of the Esperance .
“So I took over in my father’s place, and the Esperance continued sailing, patrolling, fighting the French. Mostly to hold them at bay. Other than certain special missions, our role was to ensure no speedy French frigate tried to spy on Plymouth or Falmouth, and then race home to report. As you might imagine, the Esperance is well known. The instant any French frigate lays eyes on us, it piles on sail and flees.”
She paused, eyes instinctively checking the sails, the wind, the waves. “As to why the Letter of Marque is still in effect, the fleet commanders at Plymouth and Falmouth recommended it remain in effect permanently, essentially because they have no faith that, should their need of the Esperance ’s services arise again, they’ll be able to convince the Admiralty to issue a new letter to a female captain—at least not quickly enough.”
Pushing away from the rail, studying the sails, she strode to the forward rail of the stern deck and called a sail change. Again, the crew sprang instantly to carry out the order. After considering the result, she spoke with Griffiths, then, leaving him with the wheel, swung down the ladder to the main deck. Logan followed more slowly as she stro
lled to the prow, looking over the waves as she went, constantly checking the breeze and the sails above, reading the wind and the sky.
It was as if, now they were out on the sea, it called to her. She seemed to have some connection with the elements that commanded this sphere, some ability beyond the norm to interpret and anticipate. Even he could sense that, see it. A commander himself, he didn’t need to ask the men, her experienced and well-trained crew, what they thought of her; their respect, and more—their unshakable confidence in her to the point they would unhesitatingly obey her orders, would follow her into battle with total conviction that she would guide them in the best way—shone in every interaction.
The crew trusted her implicitly. It wasn’t hard to see why. Her competence—and that certain, almost magical ability—were constantly on show. As the deck rolled and pitched as the ship neared the northern point and Linnet called more sail changes, trapping the wind as she prepared the Esperance to come about onto a northwest heading for Plymouth, Logan felt the power beneath his feet, felt the rush of the wind, the lifting surge of the ocean, and fully understood the crew’s eagerness to sail on this ship, with her.
He watched as, satisfied for the moment, she strode swiftly back toward the helm, then followed more slowly.
This—the unrivaled, unquestioned female captain of a privateer—was another part, a large part, of who and what Linnet Trevission was.
It was, he could admit to himself, an awesome part, one that boggled his mind, yet also filled him with honest and true admiration. Not an emotion he’d expected to feel for a lover, let alone a wife. Yet she was proving a lady of many parts—and each and every one called to him.
And that, he suspected, as he climbed the ladder to the stern deck where she had once again claimed the helm, was something she didn’t yet understand.
But she would.
Smiling to himself, he settled against the stern railing to watch his lover, his sometime-soon-to-be wife, send her ship racing over the waves to Plymouth.
W ith her ship smoothly heeling around the northern tip of Guernsey, Linnet set sail to best capture the brisk breeze for a fast run to Plymouth. Setting course for Plymouth Sound was something she could do in her sleep in any weather; Plymouth was the port to which she and the Esperance most frequently sailed.
Although Cummins and his men had been on the wharf at dawn, as had a number of other merchants, even with their collective goods in her hold, the Esperance was still running light; no need for full sail to streak over the waves.
Beside her, his large hands curled about the rail, Griffiths nodded. “That’s a good pace. If the wind keeps up—and no reason it shouldn’t—we’ll be in Plymouth well before dusk.”
“That’s what I’m aiming for.” Leaving the wheel in Griffith’s capable hands, Linnet stepped down to the main deck and set out on a circuit—a habit when underway. She ambled down the deck, exchanging comments with the crew members she passed. Logan, she’d noticed, had halted in the prow. Hip against the rail, arms crossed over his powerful chest, he stood looking down into the waves.
Lifting her face to the breeze, she briefly closed her eyes, savored as always the inexpressible thrill of being at sea, of flashing over the waves, the wind tugging her hair, the salty tang of the ocean sinking to her soul. She was a child of sea and ship, of wind and wave. She loved the familiar, reassuring roll of the deck beneath her feet, the creak and snap of spar and sail. Loved the sheer exhilaration of speeding beneath the wide open sky.
Opening her eyes, she continued on, taking stock as she always did. She’d taken Logan’s warning to heart and given orders she hadn’t had to give for some years—not since the end of the war. A Royal Navy ensign might be flapping over her head, signaling to all others on the waves that any vessel seeking to impede the Esperance would, in effect, be taking on the English navy—the navy that currently ruled the seas—yet while she found it hard to believe that anyone would engage, she’d nevertheless given the order to have the crew armed, and the guns made ready. Two words from her and the cannon would roll out, primed and ready to fire.
She’d rarely uttered those two words. The Esperance ’s guns were especially deadly, and she’d never liked seeing such graceful creations as ships smashed, broken, and sent to the deep. Nature’s wrecks were bad enough; only if the opposing captain gave her no choice would she fire. She’d been forced to do so on more than one occasion, and knew she would again if that was the only way to protect her ship and her crew.
Threaten either, and she would act; safeguarding ship and crew was her paramount duty as captain.
Her circuit had led her into the prow. As she joined Logan by the rail, other ships came into view.
He nodded toward them. “Company.”
She scanned the sails, but could tell little from this distance. “Hardly surprising. This is the Channel—we’re traversing the busiest shipping lane in the world.”
Leaning on the rail, she glanced at him, realized he was looking at the gun port below.
“I went down onto your lower deck, took a look at your guns.” He met her gaze. “They’re not positioned in the usual way.”
She smiled, shook her head. “My father built this vessel, the fourth to carry the name. He was always looking to make improvements, and one he designed and implemented was a different sort of platform for cannon, at least of the caliber barques of our size carry. The platform allows a greater degree of swivel than found in other ships. Through using it, and changing the position and structure of the gun ports accordingly, the Esperance is able to fire effectively well before we’ve attained the customary broadside position, which puts us one up on the opposition from the first.”
“You can still fire fully broadside as well?”
“And even angled sternward. It gives us more freedom in any engagement, whether the other ship is coming up on us or we’re chasing them.”
“What’s the largest cannon you can carry?”
Somewhat to Logan’s surprise, she knew the answer. An almost disconcerting discussion of ordnance ensued, one he would never have imagined having with any female.
After that, a comfortable silence enveloped them. With her leaning on the railing alongside him, they looked out to sea, at the sails of the seven other ships they could see crossing the waves under the gray sky.
They’d been watching for some time when three ships changed course, some sails furling while others were released to billow and catch the wind.
Slowly, Linnet straightened.
Logan glanced at her face, saw the intentness of her expression as she tracked the three ships.
Then her lips tightened. “Damn!” She watched for a moment more, then glanced at him. “The idiots! They’re coming for us.” She glanced back at the ships, exasperation in her face. “Perhaps once they get closer they’ll remember what the ensign means . . . but they would already have seen it, and I’m not taking the chance they’ll rediscover their brains.”
Whirling, she strode, bootheels ringing, back up the ship. “All hands on deck!” Fully raised, her voice carried clearly. “All stations!”
Thunder rolled below, then erupted as men pounded up the stairs, pouring out on the deck, buckling on swords and bandoliers, checking pistols and knives, short swords and cutlasses, tying back long hair, yanking on coats. Many swung straight up into the rigging, climbing with focused attention to specific positions on the spars above.
Everywhere Logan looked, men rushed with single-minded purpose. Every man knew exactly where he needed to be, what he had to do. Not one questioned why they were summoned; like an excellently drilled company, they swung into battle-ready formation.
Following Linnet as best as he could, he caught the glance she threw over her shoulder. “You’d be best up with me at the helm.”
He knew she meant that there he’d be out of her men’s way, but he wasn’t about to argue. Catching up, he stayed on her heels as she ducked and wove unerringly through the organize
d chaos that filled the Esperance ’s main deck.
Jimmy, Linett’s cutlass and belt in his hands, popped up at the bottom of the stern ladder just as Linnet reached it. She grabbed them and went up the ladder faster than a monkey, giving Logan a glimpse of the sailing brat she’d been.
Giving thanks for the impulse that had seen him buckle on his saber before he’d come on deck, he followed. His dirk was, as usual, in his left boot.
By the time he reached Linnet, she’d buckled on her sword and reclaimed the helm. Taking up a position behind her right shoulder, Logan saw with surprise that the deck that an instant before had been a sea of rushing bodies was now the epitome of calm preparedness, all the men standing ready at their stations.
With one eye on Linnet, the crew watched the three approaching ships; that they were approaching was no longer in doubt. Griffiths, standing off to Linnet’s left, had a spyglass to his eye. “The buggers are circling to come up astern. They’ve pitch-dipped arrows ready, and braziers on deck, archers standing by—looks like they think to slink close, within range, take out our sails, slow us, then board us.”
Linnet snorted, an eloquent sound. After a moment, she said, “They’re smaller and faster than us, but they don’t have what it takes to take us. Here’s what we’ll do.”
She’d spoken in a clear, decisive, but even tone; she paused to let Griffiths repeat her words loudly, then they were bellowed by the bosun, Claxton, standing amidship, so all the crew could hear.
When Claxton fell silent, Linnet continued, pausing every now and then for Griffiths and Claxton to relay her words. “There’s three enemy ships out there—all frigates and as quick as frigates can be. No flags, so we can’t know how experienced they are in these waters. Regardless, two are circling to come up astern, to get within arrow-range and take out our sails, then presumably they think to flank us, and wedge us between for boarding. Of course, we’re not going to let that happen. As they pull close, we’re going to put on all sail—as they’ll expect us to do, as if we think to outrun them. They’ll chase, and put on all sail, too, to run us down. But we’re not going to run—at just the right moment, we’re going to veer hard port, and cut across the bow of the ship on that side, raking her with our guns as we go. Our sail changes are going to have to be slick, we’ll be at full speed, so be ready.