Julia London - Devil In Tartan

They made their way to the quarterdeck, where Norval Livingstone stood guard over Mr. Beaty. Even with the relentless rain, she could hear Gilroy and Beaty arguing.

“I tell you, ’tis no’ the way it’s done,” Gilroy said as Lottie and Drustan climbed the steps.

“Canna outrun a frigate without a gaff,” Beaty said gruffly.

“I beg your pardon,” Lottie said.

Both men had failed to notice her approach and jerked their gazes around to her, slinging water off their cocked hats and into her face. Lottie sputtered, wiping the rain from her face with her sleeve.

“You ought no’ to be on deck,” Gilroy said. “Look at you, soaked through.”

“Are we bound for Denmark?” she asked, ignoring Gilroy, her eyes locked on Beaty.

Beaty glowered at her. “Beggin’ your pardon, but do you think I canna find my way to Denmark?”

“Why should she trust you?” Gilroy demanded.

Beaty glared at him, too, cocked hat to cocked hat. “You’re the one who has stolen our ship, and I am no’ to be trusted, is that the way of it? I’m sailing her, am I no’? Sailing east, too, as anyone can plainly see.”

Lottie could not plainly see it. Gilroy was right—she didn’t trust Beaty. But neither did she trust her own instincts, and she was suspicious of Gilroy’s. How could he possibly know which direction he was sailing in the dark and the rain? She could only hope that she was right, and that these men would not return to Scotland with the whisky on board. They’d have nothing to show for their own cargo, and she knew very well how the crown’s authorities viewed Highlanders—all of them were suspect. They would seize them all. Privateers might do worse. If they were set upon by pirates or privateers, she’d have to give these men leave to take up their weapons, and she had no doubt what would happen to the Livingstones if it came to that.

All right, that was enough. She couldn’t bear standing in this rain another moment. She would have to trust her instincts, no matter how ignorant they were. “I’ll see to it that the men are fed,” she said, wiping rain from her face again. “After which, Mr. Beaty, your captain wishes to speak with you, aye?”

“What? Lottie, ’tis no’ wise—” Gilroy started, but she waved a hand at him.

“It’s all right, Gilroy,” she said calmly. “Come along, Dru,” she said, and left the quarterdeck.

She and Drustan went down into the hold where the Mackenzies had been forced. It was dank in the hold, and the faint smell of rotting fish assaulted her senses. It was poorly lit as well, and there didn’t appear to be any space that wasn’t taken up with salted beef, wool or casks of whisky. Lottie could hear the raised voices of men coming from the stern. They were shouting at each other, in English and Gaelic, with a bit of Danish thrown in for good measure. She followed Drustan around a stack of crates to an area they’d blocked off to hold their captives. When she stepped into the light of a single lantern, all shouting stopped. The men stared at her for a highly charged moment, and then as if signaled by some magical siren, they started shouting at once.

Lottie threw up her hands. “Uist!” she cried. “Silence!”

Duff MacGuire punctuated her shout with a sharp whistle that caused half of them to cover their ears. At least they stopped shouting.

Lottie took a breath. “We mean to feed you and give you what you need—”

“What I need is to have these binds undone!” shouted one man, lifting his hands up. “A man canna even piss!”

“By all that is holy, I’ll put me bloody fist into yer trap if you speak so in front of the lady again,” Morven threatened.

“Ye canna expect us to eat with our wrists bound,” complained another.

“You ate the bread we gave you well enough, aye?” Mr. MacLean snapped. The men began to shout again.

“Please!” Lottie cried. A sharp pain was once again throbbing at the base of her skull, but the men kept shouting and arguing with one another. Lottie took the gun from her pocket, cocked it and fired at the ceiling above them. The crack was deafening and splinters of wood and smoke rained down on them. Men ducked, their hands covering their heads.

After a moment of stunned silence, a Mackenzie said, “For the love of God, take the gun from her, ere she kills someone.”

“I’ll no’ do it,” Duff said. “She’s a better shot than any man here, she is.”

Lottie hopped up onto a crate so she could see them all. “Listen! I know you’re all verra angry, aye?” she said, breathless with anxiety. “All of us,” she said, gesturing to all the Livingstones around her, “are verra sorry for the situation that has brought us to this—”

“’Tis piracy!” The Mackenzie men began to shout again. “What have you done with Beaty? Where is Captain Mackenzie?”

“Let us see them!” someone shouted, which roused the rest of them to shout at her, too.

Duff held up both arms and whistled again. When they had quieted, he said grandly, “Say no more, miss. I’ve already told the devils what we’re about, that I have.”

“Why in the name of Hades do you speak like a king to his subjects?” groused a Mackenzie man.

“Perhaps because I’ve had the good fortune of receiving my theatrical training at the Goodman’s Fields Theatre in London!”

“The what?”

“The theatre!” Duff bellowed, always quite impatient with any poor soul who did not hold theatre in the same high regard as he.

“All right, thank you,” Lottie said, and moved in front of Duff before he commenced a sermon. “We’ll bring food to you now, and on my word, we’ll bring Beaty down so that you can look on him and know he is quite all right, aye?”

“And what of Captain Mackenzie?” someone demanded.

“Beaty will see him and he’ll vouch that he’s quite all right. But we must hold him close until we reach our destination. You’d do the same, would you no’?”

“We’d no’ steal another man’s ship!” said one crossly.

“Aye,” she said. A thought popped into her head—she’d never known a man who did not respond to money. “That’s why we mean to compensate you for your trouble.”

Duff and MacLean gasped at the same moment. “Lottie—”

“We will,” she said firmly. “’Tis only fair.”

“We lost six casks,” MacLean muttered behind her.

“Aye, and we might lose all if we donna have a care.”

“How much?” a Mackenzie asked.

“Five percent more than the wage your captain means to pay you.” Her gut dropped a wee bit the moment the words were out of her mouth. She hoped that was not extravagant. Perhaps it was, as her men were gaping at her. And the Mackenzies looked confused. She’d spoken too hastily, perhaps, but she had to make it sound worth their while. Except that she really had no idea how they would pay these men, and she could see from the concerned look on Mr. MacLean’s face that he didn’t, either. Diah, she was beginning to behave like her father, making promises she couldn’t possibly keep without thought. But the shouting had stopped and the men were looking around at each other, interested. It did seem only fair. It seemed the only way to convince the Mackenzies that they had not stolen their ship with ill intent. Well, she’d said it, and there was no pulling the words back into her mouth. If they didn’t make enough from the sale of the whisky, there was another way to compensate them. Mr. MacColl was still on Lismore, still pining for her.

Her stomach did a queer little flip, and she swallowed down that thought. She couldn’t think of that now and looked at Duff. “Have we something to feed these gentlemen?”

“Fish stew,” Duff said. “Yesterday’s catch.”