Heather Graham - Ghost Memories (Bone Island)

Life

Surrender, y scurvy bastard! Bartholomew Miller cried harshly.

There was no hope for the wounded Hellion , a ship captained by Pie-Eyed Wallace, one of the pirates who had been plaguing ships bound for Key West, Florida. Bartholomew, captain of the eight-gun sloop Bessie Blue , was working per request of Craig Beckett, one of the most respected civilians in Key West who had cast his lot with David Porter, commander of the Mosquito Squadron, a naval assignment group sworn to rid the south Florida waters of the dreaded scourge of piracy.

Bartholomew knew the waters, the depths and shallows and reefs, as few men did. He had chased the Hellion to a reef, and there pounded her with his guns. The Hellion was sinking. Half her crew floated dead in the water, and others moaned on a deck that was flooding with the sea.

Just as he knew the reefs, Bartholomew knew sea battles, and he knew pirates. He had never been a pirate, he had been a privateer. He had taken ships by license of the Crown, until he had become a citizen of the United States. Then, he had fought the Crown of England, as he would fight anyone now who brought death, danger and mayhem to his new country.

No surrender! Pie-Eyed Wallace called, looking him in the eye across the expanse of water that separated them. Bartholomew had carefully maintained his shallow-drafted sloop in the deeper waters off the reef. His men would prepare the longboats to collect survivorsthose who wished to be taken to town for trialwhen the inevitable happened and the Hellion went down to her watery grave.

Theres a chance for life! Bartholomew shouted. What of your men?

Me men will swing from the hanging tree neath the merciless order of the tyrant Porter. Trial! Tis a travestythere is no hope for justice. We will die at sea! Yell grant me that! Wallace cried.

Nay, Capn, theres hope! one of his men shouted from the deck. We could find mercy!

Wallace turned to eye the wounded man on deck. He pulled one of several pistols from the long holster across his chestand shot him.

There, there is the only mercy to be found! Wallace said.

Wallace was right; David Porter was merciless when it came to piratesdespite all the good he had done, it was true that the man was a tyrant, keeping Key West under stringent military rule.

Those who were esteemed in Key West lived well and nicely. And in certain fine homes, hastily furnished by trade or through salvage, one could pretend to be in one of the finest drawing rooms in Richmond, New York or even New Orleans.

Those who broke the law discovered that Porters justice was harsh.

Wallace stared at Bartholomew. Will you have mercy, sir? he asked as he drew out another gun that was long enough to cover the many yards of distance between them. He took aim at Bartholomew.

No choice. Bartholomew quickly drew his own rifle, Bess, and fired in return. The sound of the bullets from both of their guns was explosive; the air filled with black powder again where it had just begun to settle.

Wallaces bullet crashed into the mast; Bartholomews aim was true, and the pirate Pie-Eyed Wallace dropped dead where he stood.

Mercy.

A pirates mercy. A quick bullet, rather than the slow death of the hangmans noose and a slow strangulation with the body flailing, kicking and writhingand finally, failing.

Bartholomew turned away and spoke to his first mate, Jim Torn. We must collect the survivors and bring them to the law.

He was weary as he gave the order and returned to his cabin, anxious to return to port.

He had seen many a hanging, and he had to wonder if they should leave the men to drown. But he had discovered that he admired Craig Beckett, the man who had befriended him in New Orleans and who had encouraged him to bring his ship to Key West. The Island was raw and young, but it was a place where a young man, once a Brit, once a privateer, once a rover of the world, might find a future. He would still find his fortune at sea, but as a merchant. He would be able to build himself a fine house soon enough and lead the life of a gentleman.

He had but one dream. And a fine house would be part of that dream.

They returned to port where Jim Torn and his men saw to the three half-dead prisoners they had taken from the sea. One, Scurvy Pete, had a horror of drowning; he would take the noose. Two others had simply not managed to die.

Mariahs Bar, a popular place for seamen, stood near the deep water docks, and Bartholomew headed in for a pint. He was especially weary though, and after the pint, he left, intending to seek a long nights rest in his rental rooms. But, as he left the bar, he saw her.

His dream.

He saw that she had come to the docks to collect a purchase, and it appeared that the purchase was heavy or awkward as she seemed to have some trouble gathering the long package.

Mistress, I implore you, do allow me to help you with that! Bartholomew said, hurrying to her where she stood by the merchants carts.

Victoria Wyeth looked up at him with blue eyesno, violet eyes, like huge pools of wonder. They were set in a face of absolute and stunning perfection, perfectly sculpted cheekbones, a fine chin, small nose and a high forehead. Her hair was like the proverbial ravens wing, sleek and coifed. A large straw hat shadowed her features to save her porcelain skin from the merciless heat of the sun; her day gown was sewn from the most delicately fashioned cotton, cool despite its cumbersome skirts and form-hugging bodice.

In the midst of the rough town that was Key West, she was a breath of freshness, cool air and society, all that was right and structured and noble in the world. When she moved, it was with grace, and when she spoke it was a fluid melody.

They had met briefly upon many an occasion, though he had not been invited into her homenor was such an event likely to come about.

Not until he had proven himself a good and responsible citizen, worthy of such a prize. Not until he had managed a real income at trade, and had built a fine house. Not until he had earned the respect of her father, who wanted far more for her than an ex-privateer, a man without familyor prospects of any great inheritance.

Captain Miller! she said. And the melody of her voice touched him as the seductive hand of many another had never done. In his time he had known many a tavern wench, and many a whore. Hed slept with fine ladies as welldivorced or widowed and, because the poor woman had been so mistreated by her husband that it had seemed a mercy to show her tender love, one who was married. He had felt desire, and he had known amusement and laughter, but in his life he had not known this feeling, this deep ache inside, to have and to hold and protect against all odds.

She smiled, and he, who had survived many a sea battle, fought the Spanish and the British on land and sea, felt as if all strength deserted him, as if knees became the very substance of salt water.

He helped her with the parcel she had acquired from the ship that had just docked, the Langley, out of Norfolk, Virginia. The well-wrapped package read Timmons of London, and he knew that it must contain some of the finest crafted fabric to be had. She never appeared to be overly interested in clothing or decoration; she just had the ability to make simple elegant. Despite her high role in the social strata of a country where every man was born equal, she was kind and gentle, never affected. He had seen her handing out coins to the little children of Caribbean fishermen, and tossing a ball to them in play.