Beloved Warrior Read online

  He tried to banish the image. The devil knew it would do him no good. Still, he ached at the sight of her. Six years now in the galleys, longer than any man here. The painful swelling under the loincloth, though, told him he hadn’t entirely forgotten some things.

  He felt a touch at his shoulder and he swung around. Manuel was two rows back with a bucket of beans and an armful of tin plates. Plates were always collected after the meal because the guards were fearful of them being used as weapons.

  Patrick glanced around. The eyes of the oarsmen were fixed on the slow progress Manuel made down the aisle. Patrick studied the fixed gaze in the lad’s eyes, the bruises on his arms.

  His body tensed as Manuel drew nearer, moving slowly and cautiously. There were a hundred oarsmen, and he had to be careful not to spill a drop, lest he incur a beating.

  Finally Manuel reached him. Patrick took a plate while Manuel filled it and passed it down the bench. Then a second.

  Manuel lowered his head as he cautiously filled Patrick’s plate. “I have it,” he whispered in Spanish. “A la noche.”

  Tonight!

  He nodded slightly.

  “Sleep,” Manuel said in broken English. “Guards sleep.” With his hand he gestured placing something into a cup. If Patrick understood correctly, Manuel had drugged the wine.

  Even better. Apparently he’d been able to steal some opium from the surgeon. Manuel had told him the surgeon used the drug on occasion.

  “Gracias,” Patrick said, his eyes indicating the plate.

  Manuel moved on, his back obviously tense. He also moved as if in pain.

  Patrick swore to himself. Manuel was a handsome lad with black hair and lively dark eyes. At least they had been lively when he’d first come on board. The last six months had taken their toll on him.

  He busied himself with the beans. To do anything else would invite unwanted attention. But he glanced at the guards who were drinking wine. Their heads were nodding, and they would not be relieved until shortly before dawn. God bless Manuel, but Patrick flinched knowing what the lad must have suffered to get the key and the opium.

  After gulping the beans and handing his tin plate back to Manuel, he leaned against Denny, who leaned against the next man, who leaned against the side of ship for sleep, but Patrick’s eyes never left the guards.

  Eventually, he noticed the guards’ eyes were closed. Manuel quietly approached the sleeping guards. One sprawled against a wall, his eyes shut. Two others rolled over. The fourth, obviously aware that something was amiss, tried to rouse his companions. He had just opened his mouth to speak when Manuel quickly slit his throat, then calmly slit the throats of the others.

  Patrick felt no regret. Those particular guards had wielded their whips with pleasure and had tormented Manuel. But he found himself aching for a lad who committed the acts so coldly.

  Then Manuel was next to him, unlocking the chain that anchored the men to the bench. Denny stared at him, puzzlement in his eyes. But the Moor next to him, Kilil, had seen what had happened and was instantly on his feet.

  Patrick had learned Spanish in the past eight years. He’d had to in order to survive. He also spoke English, Gaelic and French. He’d learned a few Arabic words from Kilil.

  He left the bench and went down the aisle with Manuel, unlocking each chain, whispering to each man on the aisle, asking for silence. As stunned as they were at their new circumstances, they complied. Mayhap part of it was stark terror. They all knew the price of mutiny.

  Patrick went to the dead guards and checked for keys to the grate that covered the entrance to the hold. Their freedom depended on getting that grate open. But as he feared, there were no keys. He relieved them, though, of their daggers and a cutlass one wore. After a second’s thought, he added the bloodied whip to his cache of weapons, along with the short sticks the guards had used to beat the prisoners.

  Two men appeared at his side. He knew neither of them well, though he thought they had been oarsmen for at least two years. But they had been at opposite ends of the ship and talking was not permitted.

  He recognized from their manner that they were natural leaders. Good or bad, he didn’t know, but he wanted them on his side. Needed them. He handed each man one of the daggers he had taken. He kept the cutlass for himself.

  “We have to wait until the guard changes,” Patrick explained. “They will open the grate then.”

  “Nae if they dinna hear the ones they replace. And those seem well dead, the devil take their black souls.”

  Patrick recognized the thick brogue of Highlands from the taller man.

  “I am Spanish,” said the other in accented English. “I can mimic the guards. The devil knows I have heard them too many times.”

  “Good,” Patrick said. “We will prop the dead guards up where they are barely visible, just enough to fool their replacements.” In the dim light, he studied the man’s face. “Try the answer now.”

  The Spaniard did, almost a perfect mimic of the captain of the night guard.

  “You will do,” Patrick said in English.

  “Gracias,” the Spaniard said in a voice laced with irony.

  Patrick wasn’t sure how much time they had before the relief guards descended. He helped the Scot and the Spaniard drag the bodies to the bottom of the stairs leading to the locked grate above; together they positioned the guards to make them look as if they were engaged in a game of chance.

  The other oarsmen remained on their benches, either in fear or confusion. The hold was utterly silent, as if every oarsman recognized the stakes. Not even the sound of a chain link hitting the floor. Thank God for that.

  The ship was moving rapidly, meaning a number of sailors were probably working the deck above, tending the sails. He prayed the movement above would mask their voices.

  “’Tis risky,” whispered the Scot.

  “’Tis death if we do not try.”

  The Spaniard stood there, listening, then spoke in Spanish, “Better to die as a man than a dog.” He bowed to Patrick in a gesture ludicrous at the moment. “What more can I do?”

  “Tell the oarsmen to stay in their places. If anyone glances down . . .” He didn’t have to finish. He saw understanding on their faces.

  “Dios, but we need good fortune,” the Spaniard said in his cultivated voice.

  “We need a bloody miracle,” the Scot corrected.

  “Both would do, but right now we make our own luck. Can you two communicate with the oarsmen?” Patrick said.

  “I speak Gaelic and bloody Sassenach,” said the Scot.

  “Spanish, French. Some Arabic,” said the obvious aristocrat among them.

  Patrick wondered fleetingly what misfortune had brought him among them. But that was for later. “Talk to as many as you can, but you”—he gestured to the Spaniard—“stay near the ladder. I will let you know if the guards approach. Tell the oarsmen to be silent and sit in their usual places. Find the warriors among them. A blacksmith if there is one.”

  He paused, then added, “If we . . . are taken or killed, tell them to run the chain back through their rings and lock it. Mayhap they will not be blamed.”

  The Spaniard with the fine manners but the same tattered loincloth and filthy skin that made them all one nodded. “I am Diego,” he said. “No longer a number tonight.”

  “I’m Hugh MacDonald,” said the other one. He clasped Patrick’s hand. “I will die before returning to that bench. I wouldna’ let them defeat me by dying.’Twould be no defeat to die killing them.”

  A surge of hope ran through Patrick. He had always been good at sizing up men. He had not hoped to find two like these. He prayed there would be more, that the Spaniard’s voice could imitate the dead guards, that surprise would help them overtake exhausted sailors. “I’m Patrick,” he replied.

  His glance went to the dead bodies. His throat constricted with hate. He remembered the number of bodies stacked in the aisle, waiting to be thrown overboard like so much refuse. The
cries of pain, the daily struggle against thirst and hunger and exhaustion.

  The guards should not have died so easily. He wished instead they could have taken their places on the benches.

  He looked up to the grate. Occasionally he saw shadows from the men above. He wanted to climb the ladder and determine how many sailors were on deck, but that would have to wait. They had to organize below. He had to be sure no one would yell a warning in hopes of being pardoned.

  He joined Diego, who was talking to a newcomer to the benches. He was recognizable as such because of his size. In a month he would be half the man he was now.

  Tonight, though, his fists were huge. Patrick saw his naked back was crossed by new whip marks.

  “He says he’s a blacksmith,” Diego said. “He’s a French-man, a Huguenot,” he added dismissively.

  A Protestant. That explained his presence.

  “Can you break our shackles with a dagger?” he asked, stretching out his hands.

  “Oui, but it will take time. A hammer would be better.”

  Wrists or ankles? He could use the manacles on his wrists as weapons, whereby he needed the use of his legs to mount the ladder and pull up others.

  “Are you with us?” he asked, watching the man’s eyes.

  “Oui,” he said. “But then where do we go?”

  “Scotland,” Patrick said in French. “I will help any man who joins us. I will kill any who betrays us.”

  Patrick and the blacksmith moved to where they would be out of sight of the grate. Patrick sat as the blacksmith looked about for more tools and chose the hammer—the one used to beat the drum that signaled the speed of the oar strokes—and a thick stick.

  “The leg irons first,” Patrick said. “We need to climb the ladder. Break as many leg irons as possible. We can use the wrist irons as weapons.”

  “There will be noise,” the blacksmith warned.

  “We will have to risk it,” Patrick replied. The blacksmith examined the leg fetters for any weak link, then settled on the bolt and started pounding with the hammer. Every stoke jarred Patrick’s leg, but he scarcely felt it. The exhaustion of his body was eclipsed by newfound hope, even though he knew the odds were terrible. A few manacled, emaciated men against a crew of healthy sailors.

  As Diego said, ’twas better to die a man than whipped to death as a dog.

  Chapter 4

  HE night seemed endless as the blacksmith pounded at the chains, using a rag to try to muffle the sounds. Patrick felt a drop of sweat as the man worked diligently to break the shackles.

  The blacksmith did not mention his name, and Patrick did not need to know. It was enough that the man was uncanny at finding weak spots in the chains. It took him a short time to loose the bolts on Patrick’s leg manacles.

  Patrick chose the Scot—MacDonald—as the next one to be freed. He was fairly new to the ship and stronger than most. Then the blacksmith worked on the Spaniard’s legs, then his own.

  The other oarsmen were still and silent, but he knew from their bodies that they were watching every movement. He had feared one might cry out. Unfortunately, he was forced to silence one who did.

  At that moment the other oarsmen were more afraid of Patrick and his small band than of the Spanish above. They watched as the leg irons were removed one by one.

  Then Patrick and the Spaniard went from row to row whispering, sometimes in different languages or by sign language, that they must work together.

  “Those who can fight will have their leg irons released first,” Patrick or Diego explained. “Diego will answer when the relief guards come to the grate, and they should open it. We will kill them one by one as they come down. We will take what weapons they have and go on deck.

  “Pray as you have never prayed before to whatever God you serve.” he added. “Pray for fog. We have had it the past two nights. Pray for it tonight.”

  Heads nodded. Some left their benches to stand in line before the blacksmith. Others stayed seated, their eyes fearful. To Patrick’s surprise, Denny was among the twenty who stood.

  The number was greater than he’d hoped, and yet there were at least sixty sailors above, maybe even more. The element of surprise would be in the oarsmen’s favor, although most of the prisoners would be hampered by wrist manacles and some by leg irons. He darted a glance to assess the blacksmith’s progress.

  Fog. Fog would make the impossible possible. The air had been moist in the past few hours. If fog enclosed the ship, mayhap they could go about their business without notice until it was too late.

  He tried to judge the time. How long did they have before the fresh guards appeared at the grate? He moved over to where the blacksmith still worked steadily.

  They had to have enough oarsmen able to mount the steps. Once several were on the deck, they could pull others up as sailors were taken above. MacDonald and the Spaniard were working through the benches of oarsmen, instilling the courage to fight.

  Patrick wondered how many sailors were on duty before dawn. Not many, he hoped. The wind was strong and steady now. Hopefully the effort required in raising the sails would have exhausted the crew.

  He went back to the blacksmith. “Time to stop. I think the change of guard will come shortly.”

  Patrick quenched one of the two oil lamps that gave dim light to the interior. Then they waited. The air felt moist as it drifted through the grate. The beginning of rain? Or fog? He barely allowed himself that hope.

  Minutes went by, then more. It had never been as quiet on the rowing deck. No movement. No rattling of chains. No snores of exhausted men.

  Then he heard the familiar question at the grate. “All well?”

  He nodded to Diego, who called out in his native tongue, “Si. All is well.”

  Patrick’s shoulders tensed in anticipation. He heard a key turn in the lock on the grate and the loud groan as it opened.

  He should be nothing but a shadow. The blacksmith was just out of sight, behind the ladder. Diego stood next to the blacksmith. MacDonald was in the aisle seat on the last bench, which was adjacent to the ladder. His head was bowed as if he slept.

  There should be four guards. Patrick, Diego, MacDonald and the blacksmith would each take one. And they would have to do it without making a sound.

  The thud of heavy footsteps indicated the approach of the relief guards coming down the ladder. “Where’s the lantern?” asked one of the guards as he reached the bottom of the ladder.

  “Just went out,” Diego replied softly as he grabbed the first guard around the neck, cutting off any outcry, and pulling him into the dark.

  The next was handled by the blacksmith, who broke the guard’s neck with a twist of his massive hands before he dragged him away from the ladder. The third guard came down, unaware of the fate of those who had gone before him. His loud grunt was unexpectedly covered by a loud makeshift coughing fit from an oarsman on the bench. The last was halfway down when he apparently realized something was wrong. He had started to call out when Patrick seized him and wrapped the chain binding his wrists around the guard’s neck. A quick twist and the man was dead.

  He felt nothing for the guards, and for the first time real hope stirred in him. Before he had nothing to lose. Now he had everything to gain.

  In any event, there was no going back now. Not for any of them. In the dim light of the one lantern, the other oarsmen realized it, too. Those who had agreed to fight were already on their feet, but now others were standing as well, grabbing anything they could to defend themselves.

  Patrick donned the cap of a Spanish guard and poked his head out of the grate. Elation filled him. Fog eclipsed most of the ship. A few oil lamps cast enough light to see forms moving, and he could hear the routine shouts of orders.

  Maybe there was a God after all. He’d just been hiding these past eight years.

  He could not see the helm from his position. Probably the first or second officer was at the wheel. Whoever it was should be weary now.

&nb
sp; His leg irons had been struck but others had wrapped theirs with fabric ripped from the shirts of the slain guards and worn blankets, hoping—nay, praying—it would quiet the sound of iron clanking on the wood deck.

  He gave a sign with his hand then moved out onto the deck. He waited in the shadows until the Scot and Spaniard were behind him, then each moved after their predetermined targets. Patrick would work his way forward. Diego would go to the right, and MacDonald to where he was needed.

  Patrick had tied the cutlass from one of the dead guards to his waist with a piece of a worn blanket. He held a dagger and moved with the shadows toward a sailor who was working on a knot in the lines. Again he used the chain that linked his wrists to break the man’s neck.

  He heard the start of a cry to his left, but it was cut off, and he hoped the wind carried it back toward the sea rather than toward the helm. Then he heard a whistle from the Spaniard. Another sailor down.

  Two other shapes materialized in the fog. One sailor had obviously heard something and turned toward Patrick, a dagger in his hand. He was ready to throw it when he was taken from behind. In another second, he died, stabbed by his own weapon. To Patrick’s astonishment, Denny stood over him, a smile on his face.

  Another movement. Peering through the fog, he saw a sailor blinking in surprise at the sight of what must have looked like a demon in front of him. MacDonald threw the sailor overboard.

  Several more went down without more than a low moan. Patrick did a quick tally in his head. Fifteen of the crew dead and no alarm raised. Now to get their own motley crew organized.

  Patrick, the MacDonald and the Spaniard would make their way forward, taking care of anyone they encountered as quietly as possible. Other prisoners, waiting for their chains to be struck, were assigned to watch the various hatches and kill anyone who came on deck. If and when there was an alarm, they were to join the battle.

  They now had the daggers and cutlasses of fifteen Spaniards. Other oarsmen found makeshift weapons in addition to those taken from the guards. Ropes were cut to be used as lashes or garrotes. Oars from the long boat could be used, even with the manacles. A quick-thinking oarsman managed to break the end off a broom and then partly split the handle to make a spear. The odds, though heavily against the oarsmen, were fast getting better.