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PART I

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FEBRUARY, 1780
CHESAPEAKE, VIRGINIA

“CELIA, MY LOVE, what troubles you so? You have been out of sorts since we left Sint Eustatius.”

Celia did not want to think about Sint Eustatius and all the things that had happened in the fortnight they had spent there, so she settled on the least concerning thing.

“Having my figurehead stolen by a pirate might be a good enough reason, don’t you think?”

Mary chuckled as she braided Celia’s hair. “What I am thinking is that you are restless over what that pirate didn’t steal.”

Oh, aye, and Celia was still famished, but now she had her mouth set for him. She harrumphed.

“I think it’s a good sign. Especially after the last row between you and that … person.”

“Mama, please. You have made your opinion of Rafael perfectly clear. So has everyone else.”

Mary made no answer.

“’Tis the war,” she burst out. “Rather, my competing tasks, all of which are urgent and none of which I can complete with efficiency. I cannot be in three places at once and time spent on any one of them comes at the cost of the other two. And then Dunham sought to add to my list.”

There was a moment of silence, though her mother never slowed in her task, her hands deft in the weaving of Celia’s hair. It was a ritual they indulged in often, Celia seated on the floor between her mother’s knees, being cherished by the only parent she had never disappointed.

Mary had taken a fancy to use seven strands this time and Celia could only imagine the braid’s intricacy. ’Twas a shame to waste it on a crew intent only on getting to London without dying.

“What did he want?” Mary asked low.

Celia had hoped Dunham had simply missed her, but no. His true purpose for crossing the Atlantic had little enough to do with her and everything to do with him. She swallowed hard and pressed a closed fist to her breast. “’Tis of no matter, as I refused him. In truth, I am weary. Bored. I have more money than I can spend in three lifetimes. I’ve accomplished things I never set out to accomplish. I do not now, nor have I ever had a goal.” She shuddered. “I wish to—”

“Wish to what, love?”

“Sleep!” But then Celia sighed. “Truly, I do not know. Something … anything else. Preferably something I have not yet done. I am … empty.”

“Babes. That is what you lack.”

“I have no wish for babes, Mother,” Celia said wryly. Rather, they had no wish for her.

“Not now,” her mother countered with a jerk of her scalp. “But when ’tis too late, you will, mark my words. And I want grandchildren. You will have them because you do not deny me anything.”

“There are one or two things I would refuse you, Mother.”

The door to Celia’s cabin flew open and banged on the wall. Christopher was out of breath and panting. “Line’s changing, Cap’n.”

Celia had no need to move. It was the very thing they had been awaiting.

“The Mad Hangman?”

“Sent the signal.”

“Aye. The black sails?”

“Ready, Sir.”

“Braziers?”

“Being prepared.”

“Good, Kit. Dismissed.”

The door slammed closed behind him and his feet pounded toward the hatch, and then above. Indeed, the ship was vibrating from the men and women running hither and thither to prepare for their night’s work.

“Allow me topside, Captain,” Mary said, mocking the whine Celia had used to get her way when she was small. “Please?”

“Learn to wield a sword properly and I may consider it. I cannot keep watch over you and ’twould only take one small mistake to send us all to the judgment seat.”

“I would rather meet God by way of a fire fight on a ship captained by my daughter than waste away alone.”

“You are alone by your choice.”

“Celia,” she warned.

“Do not speak to me of your loneliness,” Celia snapped. “I’ll not tolerate it. After what happened in Sint Eustatius, you cannot now cry ‘Lonely!’ at me nor instruct me on how to conduct my affaires.”

Mary sighed and did not press. In silence, she finished the braid and tied it off. “I am so proud of you, my love,” she murmured finally, her hands resting on Celia’s shoulders. “I cannot imagine that such a brave girl came from my body.”

Celia stood and twisted to look down at the woman before her. She was smiling, enhancing her beauty to that of the angels’. Celia had gotten none of that beauty. “Perhaps I was a changeling,” she muttered.

A dimple appeared in her cheek as her smile deepened. “Then the fae granted me a great boon.”

“A devil changeling, I meant.”

“CAPTAIN!”

“Go,” Mary said. “Would that I could watch my daughter command during battle.”

Celia’s mouth twisted into a reluctant smile. She would grant most all her mother’s wishes if she could, but that was not one of them. She bent and brushed her mouth with a kiss. “I shall see you tomorrow, Mama.”

No strategic planning for the evening’s adventure was necessary other than a slight recount of the drill and which ships were positioned where in the blockade, which were new, and who captained what.

“Bancroft and Rathbone,” Bridge reported to her. “Commanding His Majesty’s Ships Grace and Purity, respectively.”

That did not bode well.

“Which Bancroft?”

“Lucien.”

“Bugger. Mind you do not let his name slip to my mother.”

“Oh, never fear,” he said fervently. “We know. Speaking of captains awaiting your pleasure—”

“Do not, or I shall have Solomon transform you from a bass to a contralto.”

“Not a soprano?”

“Nay. I’ll not have my second mate singing fairer than I.”

His grin flashed in the meager celestial light of night. “The Silver Shilling’s rumored to be a few miles out, to the south.”

“Ah, so I was right. He did follow us here.”

“’Tis a rumor.”

“As good as fact in this harbor.”

“Perhaps the figurehead is too much for him and wants a smaller portion.”

“More likely because it has no convenient holes in which to stuff his yard.” Bridge barked a laugh and Celia sniffed. “God knows he cannot catch us with that poor excuse of a boat, so he is deprived of both the figurehead and my person.”

“And a Spanish vessel called the Indigo IV is a few miles to the north.”

She started. “Another one?”

Bridge simply shrugged. “’Twould seem he might learn from his misadven­tures as any rational man would.”

“He did not tell me about this.”

“As I recall, you two were not speaking when we set him down in Portugal.”

“That was only four months ago and he is here with a full hold?”

“He had to have left soon after we did.”

Celia sneered at no one in particular—or at least, no one who was present. “His family must need more funds. They would drive him to the ocean floor for their greed, then spit upon his memory for being so careless as to leave them without income.”

“You also have difficulty denying your parents anything,” Bridge pointed out.

“I forget: Are you under my command or not?”

He laughed and disappeared into the darkness to direct the rest of their preparations while Celia headed up to the quarterdeck to take the wheel.

Solomon was ghostly in his black tunic and trousers as he bent and checked his work. She saw the faint glow of lit coals in twelve copper braziers tucked solidly in weighted lead boxes along the wale of the main deck, six to a side and spaced evenly along the deck’s length.

An unfamiliar flash between two hatches caught her eye and she squinted through the darkness, as if she could see better doing so.

“Jack,” Bataar said from her right. “We’re ready.”

Celia ignored that and gestured toward the crewman she did not know and said, “Who is that?”

“He came on board two days ago wanting to roust the British. He said he was sent by the General. Marcus Zimmerman.”

Celia looked at her officer, her eyebrow raised.

She shrugged.

Well, if General Washington sent him … Celia’s lips tightened. “I do not like not knowing my entire crew. There are few enough of us.”

“I had need of a large man willing to work.”

She watched the stranger a bit longer and saw that he was indeed an ox of a man working with an enthusiasm that was not misplaced. “Aye, then. How far is the blockade?”

“Within the hour.”

“Good. ’Tis time.” She took a deep breath. “Fore course!”

A lone black canvas rose low against the night, and blocked nothing but a few stars, then filled. It would be enough to get them to the mouth of the Chesapeake Bay and give them some momentum, but not enough to outrun the patrol vessels.

“Weigh anchor!”

Soon the Thunderstorm was under way, and Celia put everything out of her mind to maneuver the sloop through the shoals. From where she stood, she could barely see her crew, outfitted all in black, any exposed white skin covered with kohl.

Her own snug black breeches, black stockings, and tar-soled deerskin moccasins were invisible in the darkness, as was her black shirt. Her head was covered with a long black silk scarf that hung down her back and camouflaged her mother’s braid work.

Her face, she knew, shone like a beacon in the night. Solomon would arrive—

“Your face can be seen from England,” he murmured before she felt his fingers rubbing kohl over her cheeks and nose.

“’Tis my misfortune to glow,” Celia replied. The only sounds were the wind in sails drawn tight and the slosh of a ship carving its way through a calm harbor.

Celia spent the next forty-five minutes alone at the wheel in utter concentration, refusing to think about what they had planned. The sea was calm, the wind favorable and loud, and the constellations twinkled helpfully. If all went aright, they would slip through the British blockade without being noticed.

If all went awry …

She supposed she would have no more reason to worry about boredom or babes.

After another quarter hour had passed, Celia took out her spyglass and peered through the darkness until she could barely make out the silhouette of the warships blocking the harbor. A smile slowly stretched her face. It wouldn’t be too much a challenge, after all. The ships lay at anchor far enough apart to allow the sloop’s passage.

Rear-Admiral Lord Rathbone on the starboard side.

Captain Lucien Bancroft on the larboard.

Her mouth went dry at what they were about to attempt.

It had been Rafael’s idea, sparked after a long night of heavy drinking and fucking. Yet even soused, Rafael’s calculations were precise and his judgment on probabilities above reproach.

The plan was as dangerous to the Thunderstorm as it would be to the ships they targeted, and Celia would never have done such a thing under normal circumstances. Not even Dunham, who despised Dr. Rafael Covarrubias, could come up with an alternative plan should they be caught in Chesapeake Bay, and agreed that eventually they would be caught.

Maarten had been enthusiastic about the plan, but then, the Hollander was inordinately cruel to those he considered to have wronged him, and what King George had done to him embodied in the person of Lord Rathbone …

Even though she and Maarten had known they would have to blow the blockade, they had not anticipated they would need to do it so soon.

As the vessel slowly approached the line of battleships, all noise on the already quiet ship ceased completely. The wind was up, making the lone sail snap, so it was tightened further. Among the noise of the wind, the ocean, and the creaking of the two British vessels, the Thunderstorm would—hopefully—pass silently, invisibly.

Every man in her crew crouched in the shadows, waiting. Celia steered the ship by degrees toward the sea and death.

Another ten minutes passed, a tense ten minutes, before the Thunderstorm slid through the calm night within shouting distance of the British frigates. Still no alarm was raised on the dark vessels—most likely the result of bitter sailors impressed into service and unwilling to aid their captains in any way.

According to the plan, the Hollander was to slip through a gap two ships up the line. Were Maarten and Celia sailing alone, their only goal would be to slip the line, but with six more privateer vessels following them, all with less experi­enced captains, a path would have to be cleared. The Thunderstorm and the Mad Hangman would slip the line and then attempt to sink four British frigates of war and outrun five patrol ships with one suicidal maneuver.

Dear Lord. Eight crews and vessels hung in the balance of her and Maarten’s lunacy—and she could not but help the smile that stretched her face.

Closer and closer she steered the ship until they were sliding through the corridor. Sweat rolled down her back and dotted her brow. There was only enough room on either side of her ship for her yards and rigging not to catch with those of the warships.

“Ahoy, lads! Mind the grappling hooks! Ship off the stern and she’s tryin’ to run the blockade. Step lively!”

Celia and her crew whipped into action. Once they had sunk these two ships, they would have to outrun the patrol ships that would give chase. Timing was crucial.

“Hoist the mains’l!” Celia bellowed over the sudden din. “Ready the topsails and jibs. Kit! Run up Congress’s colors!”

“Avast, Thunderstorm! In the name of His Royal Highness, King George, we order you to stand down or we will fire upon you!”

“Lord Rathbone!” she called, and stepped away from the wheel long enough to drop a quick but elegant curtsey. “You would waste shot on me? You flatter me.”

“You’re outgunned, Fury! Stand down!”

“You know me better than that.”

She might have laughed when she heard his order to ready the cannon being given, but they were far more efficient than she hoped they would be. “Bugger,” she hissed, her plan set awry by enough moments to put them in even more danger than they had been before.

With a wave of her hand, twelve small—but deadly—flames burst on the tips of arrows held by archers and aimed at the frigates on each side of them.

“By God, woman, are you mad?!” Rathbone bellowed. “You’ll die with us!”

“You stand down, Marquess!” she roared back. “You too, Bancroft! You both have more to lose than I do!” Both captains gave the orders, but it was a faithless gesture. This was war and she was tired of it. She was in no mood to honor an expedient.

“FIRE!”

The arrows were loosed into the rigging and slack sails of the British ships. The next volley went directly into the open ports of the gun deck.

Fire on the ships erupted immediately, and Celia simply knew their magazines would blow before the Thunderstorm was clear.

“Smitty! Bridge! Bataar! For the love of God! Get—us—out of here!”

At that, every sail on the Thunderstorm immediately unfurled and filled to capacity. The night, formerly impenetrable black, was lit bright as day as the two ships blazed on either side of the Thunderstorm. The wind was up, feeding the fire, and blew the sloop quite clear of burning frigates.

The crew raced to douse the coals in the braziers, and Celia nearly allowed her heartbeat to slow when—

“FIRE AFT!” Smitty roared.

“Mother of God,” Celia gritted, as a score of crewmen raced passed her and up to the poopdeck with buckets of water and sand, then formed a line. The Thunderstorm rocked with a gust of wind, and all of Celia’s concentration and strength were again taken with the steering of the ship.

If that fire were not extinguished …

Death screams from the British frigates followed them, cutting through the sound of flames, wind, and water. She could hear men diving overboard to the relative safety of the water, for a watery death was imminently preferable to a fiery one, and most of the men who could swim would survive.

“Please God, let Bancroft survive,” she whispered fervently.

“Fourth-rates off the stern, larboard and starboard, three points each, Cap’n!”

She did not need to turn around to see the two ships burning; they lit the night and the water reflected the carnage. What she did not know was how much of that fire was coming from the Thunderstorm’s stern.

She did not dare attempt to assess the situation.

Behind her, the two blazing ships finally exploded, sending debris raining down on her and her men. She looked up, terrified a spark would touch her tarred rigging and masts, and send them down with the Grace and Purity.

But no. The cadre of young sailors who regularly plied the rigging raced in the ropes to douse each stray ember they could find.

“Fire is OUT!” came Smitty’s voice, and Celia allowed her head to drop back as she partook in a brief moment of relief.

That was all the time she could afford.

Another two explosions, but those far enough from them so as to make no difference. The Hollander had done his job well, from the sound of it.

“Step lively, lads!” Celia shouted as she turned her mind fully to evading capture. “Hangman’s on our tail!”

“Aye, she is, Cap’n!” Kit called from on high. “One … Two … Three priva­teers clear.” Celia held her breath. “Four … ” Another, smaller, explosion. “That was number four, Cap’n.”

“Damn.”

“The Mad Hangman’s turning! Engaging a patrol.” Pause. “Five, six. They’re all through but the one. I don’t know which.” Another explosion. “Mad Hangman set upon another frigate, Cap’n.”

“Lord, Maarten,” she gritted. “Enough is as good as a feast.”

“Three fourth-rates after us now, Cap’n.”

“BY GOD!” Bridge thundered. “Off the starboard stern! Kit! Report!”

“The Silver Shilling, Sir!”

Celia’s heart stopped.

The roar of cannon fire.

“She’s opened fire on the patrol vessels! The third one is turning back … Now the second. The first is sinking.”

“Where’s Rafael?”

“Sails up, and gaining speed. Tacking into the breach of the Mad Hangman’s last frigate.”

Maarten wouldn’t be happy about having aided the Indigo in any way. Celia snorted. The Indigo FOUR.

“Our fleet’s pulling up closer, Cap’n. Silver Shilling’s sailing in to the rest of the line and giving cover to the Mad Hangman.”

“How many guns does that man have, anyway?”

“At least sixty, Sir. Maybe more. The Silver Shilling looks like a third-rate.”

“A third-rate pirate ship?” she demanded in utter disbelief.

“Aye, Cap’n. She’s a biggun. Brit-built.”

“But he still cannot take on the rest of the line himself.”

No answer while Celia steered and barked orders to gain as much speed as possible.

“He is!” Kit cried. “He’s breaking through the line. Heading into the Bay.”

Celia’s head whipped around and saw a third-rate frigate with guns blazing. “What in blazes for?”

“She’s heavy in the water, Cap’n.”

Ah. The Silver Shilling would not have been able to breach the blockade alone, but with four burning frigates, six patrol sloops occupied with eight privateer vessels, at least two of which could and would engage in battle, the Silver Shilling could assist them and take advantage of the opportunity to unload her cargo.

“The Mad Hangman’s headed out to sea, and the Indigo’s through the line.”

“Good,” Celia whispered with much relief.

“We’re clear, Cap’n!” Kit called after a tense fifteen minutes of reports on the activity behind them. “No sign of pursuit.”

Another explosion. God help her, if that was the Silver Shilling …

“Hollander’s last frigate, sir. Five ships o’ the line down.”

“And Judas?”

“Clear, also, with three fourth-rates to his credit.”

“Now will you forgive him?” Celia bellowed.

A collective roar arose from the Thunderstorm’s decks: “AYE!”

“It’ll take a mite for the Royal Navy to replace a fleet that big, what with the occupations north and south,” Smitty observed from somewhere overhead. “The harbor should be free for some time to come.”

Celia breathed a long sigh of relief. “That was a satisfactory way to get my undivided attention. I shall fuck him as soon as ’tis convenient for me to do so.”

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If you don’t want to wait 2 years to get to the end, you can buy it here.

Pirates!