The Prize. Brenda Joyce

gunners. Several cannons now fired again from the Defiance, but not in unison. Virginia didn’t hesitate. Lifting her skirts, she raced to the fallen men. Three were crushed and alive, one was apparently dead. She tried to heave the mast, but it was useless. She grabbed a pistol from the murdered sailor and ran back to the hatch that led below.

      She could not breathe. She scrambled down and into the tiny cabin that she shared with the merchantman’s only passengers, a middle-aged couple. In the small, cramped and dark space below, Mrs. Davis was clutching her Bible, muttering soundlessly, her face stark with terror. Virginia had glimpsed Mr. Davis on deck, trying to help the wounded.

      Virginia gripped her arm. “Are you all right?” she demanded.

      The woman gazed at her with wild terror, clearly unable to hear her or respond.

      More cannons boomed and Virginia heard wood being ripped apart as they were clearly hit again. Virginia leapt onto her narrow berth, grabbing a hanging strap for balance, and stared at the attacking ship through the porthole. The Americana lurched wildly, and she was almost tossed from the bunk.

      How could this be happening? she wondered wildly, aghast. Who would attack an innocent, barely armed and neutral ship?

      Mrs. Davis began to sob. Virginia listened to familiar prayers and wished the woman had remained silent.

      What would happen next? What did that terrible captain want? Did he intend to sink the ship? But that would not make sense!

      Her gaze moved instinctively back to the quarterdeck where he stood so motionlessly that he could have been a statue. He was staring, she knew, at the Americana, as intent as a hawk. What kind of man could be so merciless, so ruthless? Virginia shivered. Officer Grier had referred to him as the scourge of the seas.

      Then she stiffened with real fear. The Defiance’s decks, a moment ago, had been frenzied with activity. Now the gunners at the cannons and the men in the masts were still. The only activity was a number of sailors climbing down into two rowboats that were tied to the frigate’s hull. Her gaze flew back to the captain with real horror; he was sending a boarding party.

      Now the Americana had become eerily quiet. Virginia already thought that Captain Horatio would not surrender, and nor would she, if she were in command. She checked the pistol to find it primed and loaded.

      “Dear Father who art in Heaven,” Mrs. Davis suddenly cried. “Have mercy on us all!”

      Virginia could not stand it. She turned and seized the other woman’s arm savagely, shaking her hard. “God isn’t here today,” she cried. “And he sure as hell isn’t going to help us! We’re being boarded. They must be pirates. We are losing this battle, Mrs. Davis, and we had better hide.”

      Mrs. Davis clutched her Bible to her bosom, clearly paralyzed with fear. Her mouth moved wildly now, forming words, but no sounds came.

      “Come,” Virginia said more kindly. “We’ll hide down below.” She knew there were lower decks and hoped they could find some small cranny to hide in. She tugged on the other woman. But it was useless.

      Virginia gave up. Pistol in hand, she climbed back to the main deck and saw the first of the rowboats approaching. O’Neill stood in the bow behind his men, his legs widely braced against the seas. Virginia hesitated. Why the hell wasn’t anyone shooting at him?

      If she had a musket, he’d now be dead.

      Her fingers itched, her palms grew clammy. She didn’t know what range the pistol she held carried, but she did know it wasn’t much. Still, he was getting closer and closer and why wasn’t Horatio firing upon him?

      Virginia could not stand it. She rushed to the rail and very carefully, very deliberately, took aim.

      With some finely honed instinct, perhaps, he turned his head and looked right at her.

      Good, she thought savagely, and she fired.

      The shot fell short, plopping into the sea directly before the rowboat’s hull. And she realized had she waited another minute or two for him to travel closer, she would have got him after all.

      He stared at her.

      Virginia turned and ran around the first hatch to the one that the seamen used. She scrambled down the ladder, realized she was in the sailors’ cramped, malodorous quarters—she was briefly appalled at how horrid they were—when she saw another hatch at the far end of the space. She lifted that and found herself descending even lower below the sea.

      She didn’t like being below the ocean. Virginia couldn’t breathe and panic began, but she fought it and she fought for air. Not far from the bottom of this ladder was an open doorway, through which was utter darkness. Virginia wished she’d had the wit to bring a candle. She went cautiously forward and found herself in a small hold filled with crates and barrels. Virginia crouched down at the far end and realized she still held her pistol, now useless, because in the midst of battle she hadn’t thought to grab any powder and shot.

      She didn’t toss it aside. Her eyes adjusting to the darkness, she reversed it, holding the barrel now in her right hand.

      Then her knees gave way. He had seen her take a shot at him.

      She felt certain of it. She felt certain that the expression on his face had been one of utter surprise.

      Of course, she hadn’t been able to make out his features, so she was guessing as to his reaction to her sniper attempt, and if she were very lucky, he hadn’t seen that miserable shot.

      What would happen now?

      Just as Virginia realized that the puddle of water she had been standing in was slightly higher—and she prayed it was her imagination—she heard shots begin: musket fire. Swords also clashed and rang. Her gut churned. The pirates had clearly boarded. Were they now murdering the crew?

      And what was her fate to be?

      She was seized with fear. Her first thought was that she might be raped.

      She knew what the act entailed. She’d seen horses bred, she’d seen slaves naked as children, and she could imagine the gruesome act. She shivered and realized the water was ankle deep.

      Then she stiffened. The gunfire and sound of swords had stopped. The decks above were eerily silent now. Good God, could the battle already be over? Could his men so quickly subdue the American ship? Virginia estimated the Americana held about a hundred sailors. The deathly silence continued.

      If he hadn’t seen her, maybe he would loot the ship and sail straight back to the hellish place he had come from.

      But what would he do if he had seen her attempt to shoot him?

      Virginia realized she was trembling, but she told herself it was from the frigidly cold water, which was almost calf deep.

      Would he kill her?

      She told herself that murdering an innocent eighteen-year-old woman made no sense, although if one were a ruthless, mercenary pirate, she supposed that attacking a trading ship that was carrying cotton, rice and other merchandise was rational, indeed. So maybe there was hope.

      For once, Virginia gloried in the fact that she was so skinny she was often mistaken for someone about fourteen, and that her face was too small, too pale, her hair utterly unruly. Thank God she did not look like Sarah Lewis.

      Virginia froze.

      Footsteps sounded directly above and to the right of her head. Virginia began to shake. Someone was traversing the hold where the sailors slept, just as she had in order to find her hiding place. Trembling again, unable to stop it, she glanced at the hatch she had come through. Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness, but still there was nothing she could see on the other side where the ladder from the upper deck was.

      Wood creaked.

      Virginia closed her eyes. After all the days she had been at sea, Virginia had become accustomed to the sounds of the ship—its moans and groans, the soft sigh and slap of the sea. She did not have to debate