Riding the Tempest

By Catherine Johnson

Polly Fairchild has just turned twenty-one. To say that she celebrated her birthday would have been to suppose that anybody had remembered or cared that the event had taken place. In the eyes of our modern world, she’s a young woman with her life before her. In her world - post Civil War London, thriving and reborn following civil war, plague, and fire - she’s an old maid who will likely spend her life as a spinster. She is stuck in the boarding school that has been her home for the past thirteen years. Her father, a respected judge and attorney at law in the New World, dispatched her to the other side of the world following the death of her mother. Five thousand miles away from her father, she has found, at least, respect for her own merits, rather than a life lived under the sad cloud of grief and disappointment.

Polly has long since come to terms with the notion that she isn't wanted, but then a letter arrives which contradicts her assumptions. She is given an opportunity to undertake a journey that will change her life.

Nathanial Weston's life was tied to the sea before he left his mother's womb, but it hasn’t turned out quite as he expected. As the son of a fisherman, he always knew his life lay out on the waves, but being press-ganged into the Navy changed the path of his future. Now he is Captain Nate West, a mutineer turned pirate. He owns a fearsome reputation and commands a skilled and vicious crew. He is further away from his first life than he has ever been.

Nate is chasing a valuable prize in order to pay a debt, but when he captures it, he finds a treasure beyond anything he ever expected or even dreamed; one that might prove life-changing…

• Language: English
• Publisher: Freak Circle Press
• Release date: Mar 30, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386946663

Catherine Johnson

Catherine Johnson, PhD, is a writer specializing in neuropsychiatry and the brain and is the author of three previous books, including Shadow Syndromes with John J. Ratey. She lives with her husband and three sons in New York. Two of her sons have autism.

Book preview

Chapter One

There was life beyond the window of her room. Although she rarely had time to be still and observe the comings and goings of London, the activity continued without cease. Even in the dark hours, shadows went about their business. In a rare moment of solitude, Polly had found herself distracted by the common and mundane scenes of other lives being played out in the streets below. The rabble of chatter and shouts and animals and carts was a perfect din and always seemed to be one unfortunate incident away from devolving into a complete riot.

The stench of city’s streets crawled through the open window of Polly’s room and clung to every surface like a film of rancid pork grease. The change of season, the tipping of winter into spring, had arrived suddenly and with unusually high temperatures. The chill drizzle and depressing fog had been replaced one morning by welcome rays of warm, golden sunshine. Now, however, that heat had baked the refuse, offal, and excrement that coated the streets into an unholy substance, the dust of which drifted on the breezes, rendering the stink inescapable.

Those of a fashionable nature had departed the fetid city for the countryside, but Polly was neither fashionable nor rich enough to be unfashionable by choice. She was stuck in London, in the same boarding school in which her father had deposited her thirteen years previously. At twenty-one years of age, she had long since passed the point at which she might have left the school, except that there had been no word from her father and nowhere for her to go. As the only living child of Amanda and George Fairchild - born on the tropical island of Jamaica and then roughly transplanted to the hard soil of England - she had no living relatives in London, in England, or in Europe, that she was aware of. With no word from her father or her own means of returning to a home she barely remembered, without family or prospects to accommodate her, she had stayed within the walls of the school and turned teacher to earn her keep.

A knock at her door diverted her attention. She answered it promptly since she had not been engaged in anything more pressing than daydreaming about green fields and cool country air. She found one of the younger girls, of an age often employed by the staff as messengers, looking expectantly up at her.

If you please, Miss Fairchild, you’re to attend the headmistress in her study, directly.

Thank you, Sarah. Polly fished in her pocket for a farthing for the girl, not a usual custom among the staff, but one that ensured that she always received messages promptly and had them delivered quickly in return.

Polly took a moment to straighten her dress, and checked her hair in the tarnished sliver of mirror, about half the size of her palm, which she kept in her bureau. Feeling that she was neat enough, she closed the door to her room and hurried along the corridors, which were no less warm for all their shadows and lack of windows. She was conscious of the need to maintain decorum, but she would not chance Mistress Miller’s wrath by being tardy.

She arrived at her destination and tapped her knuckles on the polished oak, in a space between the studded iron nails. She received the command to enter in return, which she swiftly obeyed.

The outer room of the suite that had been given over to the headmistress’ use was a sombre cave, panelled fully in dark wood. The scant light from the latticed windows reflected on the sheen of liberally applied beeswax on every surface. Mistress Miller was seated behind her desk, peering at a letter, aided by the light of several candles. The school building was old, and the small windows - designed for a time when keeping the elements out was more important than letting light in - were simply incapable of admitting adequate sunlight, despite the bright aspect of the day. Polly positioned herself behind the chair that was provided for visitors and tried not to peer too hard at the swirls of black ink visible on one of the folds of the parchment that had tipped backwards under the weight of half of the broken glossy red wax seal.

Still apparently engrossed in the contents of the letter, Mistress Miller did little more than flick her fingers to indicate that Polly was required to take a seat. Polly obeyed the silent instruction and tried not to shift in the chair in too visible a fashion. The cushion was deliberately under-stuffed to discourage visitors from lingering. Even with the padding of her skirts and petticoats, she felt the want of straw.

The mistress of the school was generally thought of as fair, but firm, genial, but not be trifled with. She was the most influential person that had ever taken a part in Polly’s life, but had never exhibited the degree of loose familiarity which might have been required to be known as a ‘mother figure’. For the past thirteen years, she had been Polly’s tutor and mentor; for the past five, she had also been her supervisor. As something of a ward of the institution, Polly had applied her mind and talents in return for food and board; for equivalent or lesser effort her peers received a salary. She could never hope to be treated as a true equal or even as a subordinate, and she felt the prickle of unfairness that she could not surpass that distinction.

Polly watched Mistress Miller’s astute grey eyes cross again and again over the page before her. The silver-haired woman re-folded the parchment and placed it atop her copy of the Bible, which was always on her desk at her right hand.

Those grey eyes narrowed in the dim light as they regarded Polly. Miss Fairchild. Are you well?

It was not the headmistress’ usual habit to extend such courtesy to her charges, so Polly paused for an unacceptable second before answering. She noted the crinkle of impatience on Mistress Miller’s brow. Yes. Her answer owed more to haste than to truth. I am quite well.

Mistress Miller rested her elbows on the carved edge of the immense desk and folded her blue-veined hands one over the other. This establishment has served you well, I believe, and you, in turn, have made use of the advantages it has offered and have served it in return.

Momentarily, Polly was confused. Yes, she answered hesitantly. I have received the best education I could hope for, given my circumstances. I have received more regard from all the people here, of every station, than any girl in my circumstance had a right to expect. I hope I have not disappointed you in any way by my conduct. I have tried to represent the school, in your image, in all ways.

Indeed. Mistress Miller gave a sharp nod and leaned back in her chair; her spine remained straight and her hands did not unclasp, although they moved to her lap. You have admirably modelled the sentiments of the Thorpe Foundation for Young Ladies.

Thank you, Mistress.

The headmistress unclasped her hands to wave dismissive fingers at the piece of parchment she had discarded atop the good book. I have received word from your father.

The words stunned Polly. She had received no confirmation that her father was alive, let alone had any remaining sentiment for her, for many years. She had believed him to be dead. Although her theory had never been confirmed, it was the least painful of her imaginings to cling to. Her voice was strained when she found it. He is alive?

Yes, very much so, and he has risen in station and rank since you last saw him.

Polly didn’t much care for the progression of her father’s career at that present moment. She was unsure if she cared for him at all, but the news so long in coming had thwarted any notion of nonchalance. She was momentarily the terrified eight-year-old arriving in a strange and dreary city.

Her father had been an attorney at law and a judge, that much she could remember, that was all she knew. Lacking utterly in any real knowledge or understanding of how she had come to be as she was, she had to rely on scant titbits gleaned from those in any position to have knowledge. Polly was the only surviving child from a series of miscarriages, her mother had died shortly after giving birth to her, apparently exhausted by the effort of finally bringing a child into the world. She remembered heat and bright colours, but little else of Jamaica. Her father had sent her away so that he could move on from his grief, and to forget about her, and he had done an admirable job, in Polly’s estimation.

Mistress Miller did not mistake Polly’s silence for anything other than what it was, a struggle to understand the pieces of her life, but she indulged no sentiment and instead continued. He now occupies the position of Governor of Port Antonio on the island of Jamaica.

The name of the town was familiar to Polly; she had been born there and had lived the first eight years of her life there. That her father had advanced to Governor was a logical progression for an ambitious and talented man unencumbered by child or wife, and not surprising in itself.

That news does not please you? Mistress Miller asked.

Polly managed the most honest response she could think of. My father’s achievements are to be admired.

The headmistress blew out a breath between her thin, pursed lips which spoke of her understanding for Polly’s position. He has achieved much in your absence. Polly supposed that was as much condemnation for her father’s lack of correspondence or interest that she could hope to hear from anyone. Regardless, he has sent for you.

Polly rocked forward in her seat, almost to her feet. Beg pardon?

Mistress Miller picked up the letter and then dropped it again, as if it were infected with cholera. He has sent for you. He is of the opinion that you are of an age to marry. He purports to have found an agreeable suitor. He wishes you to claim a place in his household until your wedding.

Polly’s first thoughts were all rage at the audacity of the man who claimed the title of father. He had required no dealings with her, had expressed no love or affection in any manner, no matter the distance. He did not even know her. He had deposited her in this jail of a school rather than endure her company and now he wanted to deposit her in another jail, that of marriage. He did not want her, that much was obvious, he only wanted to ensure that he did not have to deal with her. Whatever his reasons for deciding she should not stay at the school, he had found someone else to be her warder.

However, presented before her was an opportunity for an escape, of sorts.

If she refused the summons, the school might well keep her on - her labour was substantially cheaper than that of the salaried teachers - and her father would be forced to come for her, or send someone to fetch her if he truly wanted her. But to stay was to choose to remain imprisoned in the Foundation. She could leave for Jamaica - to reconcile with a father she did not know and had long since closed her heart to - to begin a life with a stranger who was to be her husband, or she could remain trapped in reeking streets of London, to instruct endless numbers of girls, trapped like herself, in the arts of public comportment and private intelligence.

I hardly know... Polly stammered. In the absence of an anchor to her shifting world, she gripped handfuls of her skirt, just to feel the reality of the rough cotton.

I understand. Mistress Miller nodded. This is quite unexpected. On the rare occasions that we receive such communications, they usually arrive much sooner.

Might I think on the matter? Polly asked. I mean to say, this school has been my home and my family these many years. It is no idle consideration to abandon it on a whim for the unknown.

Child, others have been called home on less notice.

Less? How much time do I have?

The headmistress cast her eyes to the letter, but made no other movement towards it. "Your father expresses a wish that you will be aboard The Albany which leaves Plymouth on the last day of next month. He means for you to sail as soon as the weather can accommodate a safe crossing for passengers.

She had been granted some small courtesy, but given how long it would have taken the letter to reach her from the instant that her father’s quill had returned to the inkpot, it was likely that he might already be growing impatient for her affirmative response.

I should like to offer my answer in the morning, if I may.

I think such a delay might only to be expected and would be acceptable. Mistress Miller nodded in agreement. Please attend me at the same time tomorrow, and we will fashion your response.

I shall. Polly was rising before she remembered propriety; her head was such a whirl of thoughts. Might I take my leave, headmistress?

Mistress Miller gave her assent and Polly escaped into the corridor, which was still as quiet and dim as it had been when she had entered the headmistress’ office, but which now seemed entirely strange, as if somehow the day had passed and begun anew without her knowing.

Chapter Two

Nate had his own cabin, but he was not in the mood for solitude. He was a captain, chosen by his crew to lead them, and respected - so much as any leader of such men could be. They trusted him, enough that they didn’t need to call a vote on every decision that he made. He’d failed them occasionally, but he’d had more successes than regrets, and after all, like them, he was just a man. His office provided him with a private space at the stern, free from the muck of the animals and the stink of too many unwashed people crammed together for too long. Some captains styled themselves as lords and tricked their cabins out with crystal and gilt, not him. A few books, a bed, his sea chest, there wasn’t much else to keep there. His life was his crew and his ship and the sea. He did not find peace in loneliness, so rather than sit at a desk and study charts that he already knew like the back of his hand, he was meandering around the crew deck, watching rather than joining, but feeling a part of the joviality all the same.

Laughter, chatter, and the lively notes of Careful Jack’s fiddle filled the cluttered quarters. Every now and then a few voices would lift in a vague tune when the ditty turned into one the men knew. The sounds were pleasant to Nate; they were the sounds of a contented crew, a crew at rest. The sounds of the sea beyond the wooden hull were so ingrained into his consciousness that he barely recognised them. Salt water had been in his blood since long before his physical birth. The creak of wood and rope matched the waves slapping against the hull with soothing regularity. The crew’s quarters stank, no doubt, but each part of the ship had its own particular stench, and they all blended together after a while. Nate preferred to concentrate on the warm aroma of pitch and tar on lumber and the rancidly sweet smell of the tallow candles.

Jack stopped to wet his throat. Without the tuneful whine of the bow against the strings, the voices all about seemed louder. A disturbance interrupted the chatter, the smack of flesh hitting flesh rebounded, but when Nate’s eyes found the source of the scuffle, he saw it was only Black Matt and Smiler arguing again. The two men were inseparable, despite their constant fighting. Nate wasn’t sure he’d ever heard a good word said between them, but woe betides the man who thought he could fling an insult at one without reprise from the other. Call Black Matt out on his powder-stained hands and you’d find yourself on your arse courtesy of Smiler’s fist. Likewise, if someone were fool enough to comment on Smiler’s stumps of rotten teeth and fetid breath, they’d soon have Black Matt’s boot in their bollocks. The argument was abruptly ended when Careful Jack struck another tune, a shanty with a bawdy chorus. A hearty chuckle and the slap of palms against leather jerkins signalled a return to friendship, before the crew turned to singing as one, although not quite in tune.

As used as he was to the sound of water, it was the wind that caught Nate’s attention; that was the sound to listen for, the sound that could cost a man his life or save it. The sea did as it would; it did as the wind told it to. The tallest waves could break a mast, but they didn’t often appear by magic; the wind would tell you they were coming.

This ship - his ship, the Tempest - was easily making its way through the waters of the North Atlantic, making good time against the prize they sought. The weather that day had been everything a sailor could wish for; a strong wind in the direction they needed it to be blowing, bright, and only a few puffy clouds in the sky. He’d seen the clouds increase in number, banding together on the horizon against the amber glow of the sunset, but the stars had shown themselves clearly enough in the following dark. As the crew had retired below decks for the night at Lights Out, he’d seen no reason to be concerned. But now the pitch of wind tilted higher and higher again. An ominous whistling accompanied each gust.

The guts of the ship creaked more loudly than before, a sign that the waves had changed. The crew began to fall silent, once voice after another dropping off from their song. Even Careful Jack fumbled a few notes and then came to a halt. Nate was already making his way up to the deck before the last man was done singing.

He met Chaucer at the wheel, the stamp of their boots drumming out their haste. His stocky Quartermaster hadn’t been below with the crew; likely he had been finishing his checks of the provisions, the majority of which were stored on the deck below the living quarters.

Billy Moon had the wheel and was staring over the spokes with narrowed eyes, searching for something to see in the black night.

The waves pitched again. Nate didn’t stumble, he was more sure-footed on the Tempest than he was on land, but he felt the severe change in the angle of the deck. The sea was lively and the wind was up, whipping the untidy plaits in his hair against his cheek like the tails of a cat. A storm was brewing. Without light, there was no way of telling how fierce it was likely to become, or in which direction they might best outrun it.

What say you, Bill? Chaucer demanded.

Billy scratched at his greasy mop of black hair. She was picking up at sundown, but this has come on sudden, like. Stars are gone. Not much to tell anything by.

Sudden storms were more prevalent in the latter part of the year, when the heat of the summer sun, having sucked the energy from the ocean, gave it back in crashing waves and thunderous winds. Springtime was calmer, usually, but sometimes the sea resisted the change of seasons. The ocean was a capricious mistress.

Send word below decks, Nate instructed Chaucer. I want these sails trimmed and the hatches battened. Get the trysail and jib up. We’ve no way of telling how bad this will be.

Aye, Captain, Chaucer nodded and jogged over to the hatch that Nate had emerged from.

The first drops of rain caught Nate’s cheek. He looked to the sky, as if he would be able to see the offending clouds. More icy stabs pricked at his skin. He turned back to Billy. My gut says this’ll be bad.

Mine too. Billy was still peering past the main mast, out over the bow, as if he expected to see some sort of sign or signal. Without the starlight or the glow of the moon, the white caps of the waves - whipped into a frenzy by the wind - were only visible because everything else, the sea and the sky, was so black. The darkness seemed to swallow the paltry glow of the few lanterns that had not been doused at the end of their working day.

A wicked fork of lightning ripped through the night as the first men spilled up onto the deck; as if the storm had been waiting for its audience before it could properly begin. The heavens opened and the freezing rain began to fall in blinding sheets. A roll of thunder began as a low grumble, but was soon booming across the waves with deafening force. The deck began to pitch wildly. The canvas began to snap and smack against the gusts. The men yelled to each other as they scrambled up the rigging, desperate to furl the sails before the wind tore them to shreds. Chaucer had planted himself near the capstan, the very middle of the deck, as good a place as any to direct the work.

A wave crested the bulwark, dumping gallons of salt water on to the deck and washing men away in its path. Most righted themselves soon enough and carried on. Another wouldn’t be far behind and they had work to do. Peg stumped over; he handed the length of hemp rope that he was carrying to Nate.

Get below. Nate had to yell over the howling wind. Peg had lost his foot years previously when a cannon ball had blown splinters into his leg. He’d been lucky not to lose the whole limb, although the infection had taken a fair portion of it. He could move around without a crutch most of the time, but he didn’t have the surety on a wet deck that the other hands did. Make sure the fire’s out in the galley and get the animals hitched tight.

Peg gave a semblance of a salute and alternately stumped and slid over to the hatch. Nate knew he hated being made to feel that he couldn’t keep up with the others, but there was valid work the man could do that wouldn’t put his life, and the lives of others, at risk.

Nate started lashing Billy to the wheel by his waist and his hands; the crew couldn’t afford to lose such an experienced pilot to a wave, and the Lord knew that the waves could top the main mast if the storm were bad enough. Billy said not one word, keeping all his strength and concentration for steering the ship by the feel of the wind and the waves, without any light to guide him. The lanterns that normally illuminated the deck with some feeble glow after dark had mostly been extinguished by the wave. The men were working by not much more than memory, but the Tempest was as familiar to them as their own bodies.

As Nate secured the knots around Billy’s hands, he looked up and saw Chaucer making his way over. Both men stopped and looked at the seas as lightning flashed once more. The troughs and peaks of the waves, revealed for mere seconds, made Nate’s heart skip. This storm would not be over quickly. He started using the remaining length of rope to secure himself to the wheel alongside Billy. He would not hide below and leave any man to fight this monster alone.

Get the men below and batten the hatches, Nate yelled as Chaucer drew close. His words were almost obliterated by the roll of thunder that seemed to swallow the world.

Captain...? Chaucer was eyeing the rope as though it were a hangman’s noose.

As soon as the sails are furled!

Chaucer would argue that, as Captain, he should have a thought for his own safety, but his friend knew him well enough to know that no argument would sway him.

Aye. Chaucer’s mouth was set in a grim line, but he said no more.

Another wave crashed down over the deck, this one large enough to send men screaming and sliding into the rails.

Now! I’ll not lose one man to this. The howling gales slapped the salt water around like buckets of grit. Even though his skin was weathered and hardened from years of salt, wind, and sun, Nate still felt the sting.

Neither will I, Chaucer shouted back. He checked and tightened the knots at Nate’s waist before stalking away to account for the men and to organise them to safety.

Nate placed himself firmly at Billy’s side and gripped two of the wheel spokes. The wood, polished smooth by years of hands guiding the ship to and fro, was slick with water. The rudder was fighting the choppy waters and the wheel was fighting the hands that held it steady. It would take the strength of at least two men to keep the frigate upright. That would have to be enough. Nate was not prepared to willingly sacrifice any other lives this night.

~o0o~

The gentle, soothing motion of the swells had woken Nate from unconsciousness just before dawn. Billy had woken at the movement of Nate’s body, but had soon succumbed again. Both men were exhausted. Nate’s most pressing problem now that the storm was over, was that he was still tied fast to the wheel and his cold-numbed fingers were too clumsy to undo any of the salt-swollen knots that held him and Billy captive to the ship.

In the absence of the thrashing gales, the world was silent. Nate felt deafened, wrung out from the assault by a wrathful Mother Nature. As the sky lightened to shades of silver and rose, he began to realise the extent of the damage that the Tempest had suffered.

His legs were almost folding under the weight of his body when Chaucer’s head appeared through a hatch. From the pallor of his checks and the dark circles under his eyes, it didn’t look as though his Quartermaster had achieved any rest, but he still hurried on nimble feet across a deck cluttered with detritus to help his captain.

How is it below? Nate grunted as Chaucer began to fumble with the ropes that bound him.

She’s tight and dry. We’ve lost no provisions, although I doubt the hens will lay again until they’re back on dry land.

And the men?

We lost two last night, blown right off the rigging. Trapper and Gilly.

We’ll get the deck cleared then we’ll roll out the rum and toast them, give them a send-off.

Chaucer finally managed to untangle the soggy hemp. Nate hadn’t realised how much weight he’d been resting on the ropes until he stumbled when they gave way. Chaucer gripped his shoulder. Although shorter than Nate by more than a foot, he was built like a bull and there was no doubting the strength that his friend freely lent.

Nate managed a smile, but even that small expression faded when he looked up at the main mast. As with the mizzen and the foremast, the rigging was swinging freely, knotted and tangled and cut adrift from its stays. The main sails were still furled tight, but the smaller masts had broken spars and the canvas hung in limp rags. Nate remembered how they had tossed and twisted in the wind throughout the night, like spirits from hell.

The water was calm now, rolling in a lazy fashion. The sun was fast breaching the horizon, showing a cloudless sky that would likely blaze blue as a sapphire before a candle within the hour. The Tempest was simply rocking on the waves; without the benefit of her sails she could only follow the lazy motion of the water.

We need to get back to Liburda. Nate watched as the men, groggy with lack of sleep, stumbled across the deck. Without direction, they began to work to put the ship to rights. Clearing away the broken pieces of wood and the smashed remnants of anything else that had come loose beneath the pounding waves would be the first order, then they could be organised to make the ruined masts tidy. We can’t chance another storm, and there’s no way we can catch La Duquesa now.

They had been chasing a Spanish merchant ship, a cargo that promised plentiful riches for the crew. Now, they would have to relinquish their prize and limp back to the port they had sailed from; there was none closer with the provisions needed to refit the Tempest.

We’ll need to get back out again fast; the men won’t stand to be skint, Chaucer observed.

Nate could only grunt his agreement with Chaucer. The crew were loyal, but they were pirates, every last man of them. Their loyalty was to their brothers on this ship, but if this ship could not sail, they would find another.

Taw, one of the dark-skinned Strikers in the crew, had untied Billy. He hefted the pilot over his shoulder and made for the crew’s quarters to dump the still insensible man in his hammock. For all that he looked like a demon from hell - with his filed teeth, bloodshot eyes and scarred face - Taw was carrying Billy as gently as a babe.

We’ve not much scratch, the whoring bastards spent the last take on rum and women, Nate commented.

I’m sure you saved every last farthing of your portion. Chaucer raised a wry eyebrow.

Some, not all. Not enough that we won’t have to beg Paddy Axe for credit, Nate spat. I fucking hate begging.

You’re just not very good at it, Chaucer chuckled. Let’s start by asking him nicely.

I ain’t very good at that either, Nate grumbled.

We’ll not get far if you hold a pistol to his head straight out of the gate. Chaucer clapped him on the shoulder; the gesture of affection almost sent Nate flying across the deck. How about you let me do the talking. You just stand there and look threatening.

I can do that. Nate coughed. His throat was parched. He needed rum and his bed before his legs gave way for good. He would have been completely justified in simply passing out, but he was a captain, and captains did not pass out in front of their crew.

It’s what you’re good at. Chaucer slapped him again, and this time Nate did bump a step forward under the weight of his friend’s lively good nature. Now, fuck off to your bed before you fall down. The Tempest’s only here at all thanks to you and Billy. I’ll send Jimmy along with some rum and pork.

Don’t forget the rum for the men, Nate said as he turned to the door at the stern of the quarter deck which led to his cabin. They’ll need some grog in them before we tell them what’s to happen.

That they will, Chaucer agreed. Might as well stay in your bed if you hear fighting. They may need to punch their frustrations out before we can get underway.

Just as long as no one punches anyone overboard, Nate grumbled. We’re going to need all the hands we’ve got.

He shut the door and dropped the latch, thankful for the illusion of privacy that shut him away from the devastation of his ship. The charts that had lain across the great table in the centre of his cabin were now in a tumbled heap on the floor. A few books had come loose from the shelves and were strewn about. Some of the candles that he’d snuffed before leaving this space the night before were free from their holders and rolling around with the motion of the hull. Nate ignored those, too. He toed his boots off and sank down onto the straw mattress, grateful for a measure of peace, and hopeful that his crew wouldn’t mutiny or abandon the Tempest before he could make them rich again.

Chapter Three

Polly had been overwhelmed by a sense of urgency from the moment that she had informed Mistress Miller that she wished to accept her father’s offer. The note informing her father of her