The Pirate Ruse Read online

  Copyright © 2010, 2013

  The Pirate Ruse by Marcia Lynn McClure

  www.marcialynnmcclure.com

  All rights reserved.

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the US Copyright Act of 1976, the contents of this book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or distributed in any part or by any means without the prior written consent of the author and/or publisher.

  Published by Distractions Ink

  P.O. Box 15971

  Rio Rancho, NM 87174

  Published by Distractions Ink

  ©Copyright 2013 by M. Meyers

  A.K.A. Marcia Lynn McClure

  Cover Photography by ©Maryna Halton/Dreamstime.com and ©James Steidl/Dreamstime.com

  Cover Design and Interior Graphics by Sandy Ann Allred/Timeless Allure

  First Printed Edition: November 2010

  Second Printed Edition: March 2013

  All character names and personalities in this work of fiction are entirely fictional,

  created solely in the imagination of the author.

  Any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.

  McClure, Marcia Lynn, 1965—

  The Pirate Ruse: a novel/by Marcia Lynn McClure.

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2010936924

  ISBN 978-0-9827826-4-4

  To Sheri,

  Good times ever seem so good with you!

  Thank you for motivational counsel, hysterical witticisms,

  And for leading me on the archeological dig to rediscover me.

  Thank you…my cherry, cherry friend!

  (I could go on and on…but there are only a few hundred pages in this book!)

  1814 Pirate Glossary

  Bring ’em Near—A telescope.

  Jolly Roger—A pirate flag with a black field emblazoned with emblems of death.

  Bloody Banner—A plain red pirate flag, signaling death would come to all who saw it. The flying of the bloody banner meant pirates would offer no mercy in the ensuing battle.

  Bloody—A mild, nonvulgar slang term used as an intensifier.

  Chemise—A woman’s undergarment, loose-fitting and fashioned as a long shirt or dress, worn against the skin and beneath a corset.

  Corset—A woman’s undergarment, close-fitting and stiffened with whalebone or similar material. The corset was worn about a woman’s torso and often tightened by laced stays.

  Schooner—American privateers often favored topsail schooners. They were fast, fairly small ships and quick sailers.

  La Petite Grenouille—French for “The Little Frog.”

  The Cat or Cat-o’-Nine-Tails—The traditional maritime whip. Often a sailor to be whipped made his own cat-o’-nine-tails by unwinding a rope into its three strands, then further unwinding and knotting each strand. Each cat was used only once, for if used repeatedly, its bloody cords would infect the wounds it inflicted.

  Pieces of Eight—The Spanish silver coin (dollar), minted by the Spanish Empire following a Spanish currency reform in 1497.

  Gold Doubloon—A Spanish coin used from the mid-sixteenth to mid-nineteenth centuries. It was stamped from gold and commonly referred to as a gold piece. It weighed just less than one ounce and was made from 22-karat (almost pure) gold.

  Chapter One

  “The bring ’em near, Cap’n,” Baskerville said, handing the telescope to his captain. “What do you see? Who be the two tangled ships?”

  The infamous pirate, Navarrone the Blue Blade, stretched the telescope to its length—peered through it to the ships battling on the horizon. He felt a pleased grin tug at one corner of his mouth as he recognized the pirate ship broad aside a British frigate.

  “Hmm,” Captain Navarrone mumbled. “It’s the Screaming Witch. Her crew is swarming the deck of the Brit’s Chichester.” Navarrone lowered his telescope a moment. As the right corner of his mouth quirked into a pleased half smile, he nodded. “Looks to be Captain Bully Booth means to plunder British spoils before we do.” Glancing to Baskerville, he allowed his smile to broaden. “Booth always has been the biggest imbecile to sail the seas.”

  “Aye, Cap’n,” Baskerville chuckled in agreement.

  Navarrone raised the telescope once more. “Still…Captain Booth is flying his bloody banner. He means to give no mercy.”

  “Ain’t the Chichester the ship they was speaking of in New Orleans, Cap’n?”

  “Aye,” Navarrone confirmed. “And if any pirate is to have her bounty, it be us, Baskerville…not that fool Booth.”

  “Aye, Cap’n.”

  Again Navarrone lowered the telescope.

  “We’ve carried false colors long enough,” he said. “The Chichester will think a sister ship is coming to her rescue. Let’s not give hope where there is none.” Navarrone chuckled. “When Booth sees the figurehead of the Merry Wench bearing aft at him…well, another Brit vessel wouldn’t strike him near as threatening as we will. Eh, Baskerville?”

  Baskerville smiled. “Aye, Cap’n.”

  Navarrone nodded—collapsed the telescope, handing it back to Baskerville. “Hoist the Jolly Roger, lads!” he roared. “We be plundering the bloody British and Captain Bully Booth today!”

  He laughed as the crew shouted with approval and anticipation of battle. His own excitement mounted as he watched the men begin to race over the deck of his ship, the Merry Wench. He saw the false colors of the British Empire being lowered—watched the skull, crossed bones, and winged hourglass on black rise, unfurl, and begin thrashing in the breeze. He inhaled a deep breath of sea air tinged with the barely discernable scent of cannon smoke. Battle was upon them! The bloody British would lose another ship, and Bully Booth would lose whatever booty was cached in its hold. Navarrone the Blue Blade would see to that!

  “We’ll put the Wench starboard of the Chichester’s port…board her and beat down both Booth’s crew and the Chichester’s on her own deck.”

  “Aye, Cap’n,” Baskerville said. With a nod of understanding, Baskerville began to shout out orders.

  Captain Navarrone’s dark eyes narrowed as he listened to his quartermaster barking orders to the crew with the skill, ease, and respect of the crew afforded any quartermaster or first mate in the regular navy. Baskerville was not only a true friend but also an accomplished sailor. Navarrone admired his quartermaster—knew that if Flynn Baskerville had had the choice given him of life in the navy as opposed to that of piracy, he would have made a fine and valuable naval officer—a one-day captain of his own ship, no doubt.

  “Bully Booth will spill blood more willingly than he would a crock of grog!” Navarrone shouted to his men as he took hold of the ship’s helm. “Let’s make certain the right blood is spilled, lads!”

  “Aye, Cap’n!” the men shouted.

  Navarrone the Blue Blade laughed as he headed the Merry Wench to battle. The balmy sea breeze billowed the sleeves of his shirt, and he was glad he wore only his long vest, for its brother frock coat would not have afforded such a sense of freedom.

  Baskerville continued to bark orders to the crew, and Navarrone’s heart began to pound with excitement as the Merry Wench closed the distance to the battle between the bloody British and the pirate Bully Booth. He could see the British sailors on the Chichester’s deck fighting to defend against the swarm of pirates boarding her from Booth’s Screaming Witch. He knew Bully Booth; the bloodthirsty barbarian would take no prisoners, leave no man alive. Booth was a murderous blackguard, and Navarrone was glad to finally have reason to match blades with such a devil.

  The breeze blew Navarrone’s dark hair across his face, momentarily distracting him. Frowning, he paused at the helm to pull a blue length of cloth from his baldric. Stretching it over his forehead, he tied it
at the back of his head, thinking he should have had Baskerville crop his hair shorter than merely at his jawline. Almost unconsciously he felt for the cutlass he knew hung at his hip. There would be brutal cutlass play with Booth’s men and the Brits, and though he knew the weapon was with him, he felt more readily assured in having tangible proof. The pirate Navarrone’s skill with a cutlass had well earned him the sobriquet the Blue Blade. Yet battle was always wild and fast—chaotic and wrought with peril. Best to know his cutlass was within reach rather than to assume it.

  Wielding the helm, Navarrone wondered that Lafitte had not happened upon the Chichester and taken her already. Still, word was Jean Lafitte was too busy smuggling goods into New Orleans to be having adventures at sea. He smiled. With Lafitte otherwise engaged, all the more triumph and booty for the crew of the Merry Wench.

  As the Merry Wench drew alongside the Chichester, Navarrone could see that her crew was indeed being slaughtered by Booth’s men. If any Brits hoped to escape with their lives, they had best surrender to Navarrone and let the Merry Wench’s crew best Booth’s.

  He had been clever to bring his Wench to the Chichester’s port, for their port guns were unmanned—already occupied by the Screaming Witch to her starboard.

  “Board that bloody British boat, lads!” Navarrone shouted as Baskerville hurried to his side once more. Drawing his cutlass, Navarrone nodded to his quartermaster. “Keep her steady, and kill anyone who tries to harm her!”

  “Aye, Cap’n!” Baskerville assured him over the roar of the battle.

  Navarrone watched as his men swarmed onto the deck of the Chichester via planks and ropes. The crash of cutlass steel rang out like an eerie bell-song, and Navarrone the Blue Blade felt his heart hammering with mingled excitement and dread.

  He swung from a yardarm rope to the deck of the Chichester, fought off three sailors of the Royal Empire, and then spied Bully Booth across the way—on the deck of the Screaming Witch.

  “Coward,” Navarrone grumbled in disgust. Taking the stairs leading to the Chichester’s quarterdeck two at a time, Navarrone wounded two rival pirates, pausing to shout to Bully Booth, “As ever the coward, Booth!” Deftly crossing a boarding plank to the deck of the Screaming Witch, he added, “Too afraid to fight for your own plunder…too much a coward to join your men in battle?”

  “I’m surprised to see ya with yar cutlass drawn, Navarrone!” Bully Booth shouted in return. “I never thought to see ya risking that pretty face of yars!”

  Two of Booth’s men advanced on Navarrone—and he easily cut them down.

  “I’d rather have a pretty face on the front of my head than a dog’s arse the likes you’ve got on yours, Bully,” Navarrone countered, smiling. Navarrone sneered, disgusted by Bully Booth’s appearance. Long red hair, curly and somewhat matted, hung well to his waist. His eyes were small, green, and bulbous—like those of a toad. His beard was wrought into long twisted lengths, and Navarrone fancied he caught the stench of his rotting, yellow teeth upon the very air.

  Booth chuckled. “Pretty face or none, I’ve already been aboard the Chichester,” he said. “And I’ve already discovered the richest of her spoils.”

  Navarrone frowned as the vile, repulsive pirate Bully Booth reached down and drew a young woman to her feet. Navarrone had not noticed the woman before, for his attention had been fully arrested by Bully Booth. The Blue Blade felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle as Booth wrapped one hand in the young woman’s dark hair and pushed her to stand in front of him—between himself and Navarrone.

  Navarrone’s frown deepened, for he had not expected to find a woman aboard either the Chichester or the Screaming Witch. Tears were streaming over the woman’s reddened cheeks, yet her mouth was set in a pose of defiance and bravery. As the question briefly flitted through his mind as to what a woman was doing aboard a British merchant vessel, the damnable streak of chivalry that was Navarrone’s father’s gift to his character was summoned.

  Navarrone would not leave a woman—any woman. No woman on earth deserved to be sacrificed to the heinous torture Captain Bully Booth would exact. He had planned to take the Chichester, to raid her hold, to save her crew from the merciless pirates of the Screaming Witch and send them sobbing back to New Orleans as prisoners. He took no prisoners otherwise—not sailor, pirate, or civilian. He never did. Yet he could not leave a woman to be defiled by Bully Booth and his men. He scowled—growled with the vexation of owning a conscience. His men would have to battle on the Chichester’s deck without him—at least for a time.

  Navarrone ground his teeth as another of Booth’s men advanced. Without so much as a flinch or blink, the Blue Blade ran his cutlass through the man’s midsection. He looked back to Booth—watched as the vile pirate put his lips to the woman’s ear, kissing her temple once before licking her cheek.

  “She tastes as sweet as well-ripened fruit, Navarrone,” Bully Booth chuckled. “Ya keep that Empire’s gold…and I’ll keep the wench.”

  “I’ll take the bloody British gold and the girl, Booth,” Navarrone said, smiling. “And I’ll run you through too…just for my own amusement!” Bully Booth was notorious for murder—for spilling the blood of women and children as well as sailors and pirates. Thus, Navarrone owned no hesitation in ridding the world of such a monster.

  Suddenly, Booth pushed the girl aside, lunging at Navarrone. Navarrone easily evaded the strike, however.

  “Oh, Bully,” he goaded. “Tsk-tsk. Have you not heard of the Blue Blade Navarrone?”

  Again Bully struck; again Navarrone easily evaded. He let his cutlass slice the air—offered a simple strike he knew Booth could defend. The clash of steel heightened his determination, and the swordplay began.

  Navarrone had meant to give Booth false hope—to toy with the scoundrel and let him think he might triumph over the famed Blue Blade. Yet as he saw two of Booth’s men swing from the Chichester’s deck back to the Screaming Witch to attend their captain, he knew time could not be spent in tarrying.

  Quickly he ran his cutlass through Booth’s plump midsection. “My apologies, Booth,” he said as the man’s eyes widened. “But I have no time to waste on you. May your foul deeds on the sea find your corpse forever rotting with the fish in Davy Jones’s locker.” He glanced to the Chichester to see Booth’s men abandoning its deck, the crew of the Merry Wench having quickly diminished their numbers and fortitude.

  Placing a red-cuffed boot to Booth’s thigh, Navarrone pulled his cutlass from Booth’s belly and let the dying man slip to the deck. Reaching down, he took hold of the young woman’s arm.

  Instantly, the pretty wench began to struggle.

  “Let me go!” she demanded. “Unhand me, you filthy pirate!”

  Placing the tip of his cutlass, still smeared with Bully Booth’s blood, to the soft hollow of her throat, he growled, “Come with me, wench, and you might live.” He glanced to the advancing crewmen of the Screaming Witch, adding, “Or you may remain here and surely die…but only after Bully Booth’s men have punished you for the death of their captain.” She glared at him, and he admired her for her defiance. “Of course they may take pity on you and merely flog you with the cat-o’-nine-tails first. Yet I think not. Moreover, you will wish for death after they—”

  Navarrone flinched as the woman’s expectorated saliva met with his chin. He chuckled slightly, for he admired her for having mustered the courage to spit on him.

  “Think carefully, wench,” he warned her, wiping her spittle from his face with the back of one hand. “Would you truly prefer a mob of angry pirates ruin, torture, and kill you when the dashing and merciful Captain Navarrone is offering to have you instead?”

  Though he thought it impossible, the young woman’s expression of determined boldness increased. “I see no difference in the vileness of pirates,” she said.

  Navarrone laughed—ran his cutlass through the throat of one of Bully Booth’s men as he advanced.

  “Oh, my sweet little pomegranate,” he s
aid as he took hold of her shoulders, “how naive you women are in your knowledge of men.” Turning her from him, he tore open the back of her dress. She screamed and tried to run from him, but he easily caught her. He could see Booth’s men advancing and quickly stripped the dress from her body.

  Securing his cutlass at his hip, he pulled the young woman back against him, wrapping his arms tightly about her waist.

  “Let me go! Let me go!” she screamed as she struggled. Navarrone was surprised at her strength, yet he held tight as he backed toward the edge of the ship.

  “Oh, but you’ll thank me one day, love,” he laughed as he hurled them both over the side of the Screaming Witch and into the sea.

  An instant before the sea swallowed her, Cristabel Albay gasped her last breath. She was certain it would truly be her last breath, and as the water consumed her, she thought of her mother—prayed she would somehow be made happy. Yet mere moments later, her head broke the surface of the sea, and she exhaled the breath she had been holding—the one that had not been her last—gasping for another.

  “Do you swim, woman?” the pirate Navarrone angrily inquired.

  “Y-yes,” Cristabel stammered. Her thoughts were muddled, for panic was her only ally. Yet she was cognizant enough to know that her life was still in danger—not from pirates perhaps but from the sea.

  “Then swim!” the pirate growled. “If you want to live to see another sunrise, then swim for the Merry Wench.”

  Cristabel had only an instant to think—to consider. She glanced up to the Chichester, where pirates and British sailors yet battled. The Screaming Witch was already sailing, and Cristabel would rather have died than be the victim of the atrocities that would have met her aboard it.

  Yet to abandon one pirate ship for another? It was madness! Still, she could not fathom drowning, for drowning terrified her more than any other fate of death. Her only hope in surviving was to do as the pirate ordered. Perhaps she could beg mercy from the captain of the Merry Wench. She had heard tales of Navarrone the Blue Blade—tales of mercy. It was said the Blue Blade often showed clemency where other pirates showed none. Perhaps he would take pity on her—even return her to her home. Thus, with no other venue to follow, Cristabel began to swim—to swim for the Merry Wench and whatever fate awaited her there.