The Black Hart

She sat up and cast a critical eye upon her work. "You don't owe my Uncle Mordecai, or my family, anything. We owe you."

He looked up at her, the raging ache in his side all but forgotten. "Why... Why would you tell me this? Now? I could... I could simply throw you to the crew and get on with my life. This entire... escapade is based on... not a lie, but a misunderstanding!"

"You're not doing this because you owe anyone anything, master. You're doing this because you're a hero," she said.

John stared at her, his eyes as wide as they could get. Then he burst into laughter. Her eyes grew wide and then she hit him, slapping his shoulder hard.

"Stop it," she ordered. Then she hit him in the gut with a fist and he doubled over and winced and the laughter stopped.

"I've never actually been the one in control, have I?" he asked.

"In a manner of speaking," she admitted. "But I'm still your slave, master. Until you get me to Southport."

"We won't live to see Southport," he reminded her.

"Then I'm your slave for the rest of our lives, master," she whispered, leaning over and letting her breasts fall against his arm.

"My willing slave?" he asked.

"Your obedient slave," she allowed.

"We shall see the truth of that," he stated. "Later. My leg next. Just a wash and a salve. And then I need to dress, the officers will be here soon."

****************

The officers were about evenly divided on the wisdom of John's plan. Privately John decided that broke them into two groups: the stupid and the smart. The smart ones were against his plan. But John had spent five years being the first man into the fight and that gave him a tremendous amount of reputational credit to draw upon. And he was using it all for this.

"The tide should be high and going out at 2am. But the winds will be from the East. So we can sail in at full speed, drop both anchors and two sea anchors to avoid ramming Mazares' vessel. Then we board her. Every swinging dick on the ship but for a few men to set off the cannons. We get her underway, cut the anchors loose and make a little sail, and let the wind and the tide take her out. It's audacious, yes, but it will work. And the entire payroll will be ours," he concluded.

"They'll follow," McGurk, the new Sailing Master, predicted. "They'll have to. They want to get paid."

"Aye, but look you, they'll only have half their fleet because the Hart will be a flameship drifting into the rest. And they'll not be sailing warships. And if they do manage to catch up to the warship then they'll have to brave our fire to close with us."

McGurk nodded slowly. He was one of the smart ones.

"And then what, Gentleman? Mazares won't stop until he hunts us down."

"Mazares will be far too busy running for his life. Our lady bitch's family works for Turos. When he hears the news of what Mazares attempted..."

There was chorus of chuckles from around the table. Everyone here knew what Turos was like and shared the sort of rough humor that found a man fleeing for his life hilarious.

"We might even get pardons from Turos," John laughed. "Can your family get us pardons, my lady?" John asked with a tug on the leash. She'd hated the leash. More than she'd hated the collar. But less than she'd hated having her hands bound behind her.

"Yes, master," she replied.

The chuckles turned into guffaws. A lady brought low? That was funnier still.

"Can you manage the timing?" John asked the Sailing Master.

"Aye, Captain. I can do that," he replied. He was still doubtful about the plan, but Gentleman Jack had the baraka.

"Good. Feed the men up on the good food tonight and tomorrow. An extra ration of rum for each man, as well," he ordered. "After all, we can't take it with us tomorrow night."

The meeting broke up with the officers nodding, and leering openly at Cassandra. When they were gone John sat down at the table with a wince.

"Come here," he said. When Cassandra approached he turned her about and untied her hands. "Have a seat."

"Thank you. I understand the necessity of being paraded about like a prize cow to bolster your standing with your men, but I still hate having my hands tied behind me," she said.

"It lifts your breasts," he said and pulled his shoulders back to emphasize his point.

"It leaves me helpless," she countered.

"That too," he said taking her con for a pro.

"You're a pig sometimes," she informed him.

He oinked and she gave up the fight.

"We'll eat a bit and then I'll put you to bed. I need to look about the ship and be seen," he said.

"Can you pass a message to my crew?"

He thought about it. "I hadn't thought of that. We'll need to get them aboard as well."

"I'll do that," she said. "It will keep me out of the way," she continued, overriding the objection she saw him framing. "Lock me up with them tomorrow night and leave me a key. When the fighting starts I'll release them and we'll make our way to Mazares' ship."

"It's an idea with merit," he reluctantly admitted.

"I'm a little surprised you'd admit that, master," she replied.

He laughed. "Very well. Materials are in the desk, or should be."

"Thank you," Cassandra rose and walked halfway to the desk before she stopped and looked back. The Gentleman was watching her ass with a broad grin on his face. Her annoyance was tempered, lightly, by a degree of flattery. He was, without question, a pig. But his earnest appreciation of, and desire for, her was admittedly flattering.

****************

It was dark before John returned to the cabin. He'd had to go over the cargo with the quartermaster to ensure the proper distribution of goods. The master gunner had questions about the cannons. His killers needed instruction on the plan. The officers of the Fortune needed their message delivered. And everyone wanted reassurance.

The lady was still asleep on the bed. The ladies' garments deGruyt had in his wardrobe had been decorative rather than functional, well, except for the leather items. Those were decidedly functional. She had eschewed the available choices and remained nude. In the warm weather and the confines of the cabin that made sense. She was curled up on her side, legs drawn up, hands beneath her pillow. Snoring. He'd always found that somewhat endearing. Every woman claimed she didn't snore, and every woman did.

He was unsurprised that she didn't stir upon his arrival. After the events of the past two days anyone would have slept like the dead. She'd been yawning broadly as she wrote her message and had barely glanced at the items in the wardrobe before collapsing into the bed.

He'd ensured she wouldn't fall out, dressed himself, and gone about the business at hand. Now? Now he was dead on his feet. He sat down on the bed opposite her and admired the lines of her body. Her breasts, covered by her arms, were nice, but her hips and her ass were spectacular. Broad and very, very feminine. He looked at her face, nearly hidden beneath a fall of her hair and marveled that she could look so peaceful in such dire straits.

He leaned forward and made an attempt to remove his jacket. But he'd sat upon the tail and was going to have to stand. He sighed in frustration, leaning his head back against the headboard. He needed to gather his strength.

******************

He awoke to the sensation of his cock being stroked. Faintly brushed, really. He blinked his eyes open and found he was sitting back on the bed. His member was exposed and she was lying on her belly, head propped on her hands, and occasionally reaching out to stroke him with a fingertip.

"It moves," she said by way of greeting. "I hypothesize that the flow of blood is irregular and that causes it to move from side to side and shrink and grow. It responds to stimulus almost like a creature, however."

"Good morning," he mumbled.

"Closer to noon, I think," she replied. "I confess I've only left the bed for the call of nature, though."

He rubbed at his eyes, they felt as though someone had poured sand into them. There was something nagging at him, something that he had wanted... Oh.

"What is your name?"

She laughed. "I thought my name was slave," she teased him.

"Your function," he corrected her. "But what is your name?"

"Cassandra," she said.

"Cassandra," he repeated. He closed his eyes. "His favorite. Oh, my. He would feed me my own dick. I'm very glad I'm not going to live through this."

"I'll speak up on your behalf," she said.

He opened his eyes and tried to focus on her. "And why on earth would you do that?"

"For your help. You didn't have to try to save me. You didn't have to agree to help me. You didn't have to keep your word. But you have."

"So far," he warned her.

"You'll keep your word. You're a hero. And you want me."

He gaped. "The two are mutually contradictory, Cassandra. And there's going to be damn all time for my lusts now."

"Truly?" she asked. He knew he'd imagined the hint of disappointment.

"Truly. This crew's like a bunch of old ladies before action. They need constant hand-holding. They'll be swarming in the door. We'd best get you dressed, now that I think upon it."

She laughed. "And here I thought you were going to force me to remain unclothed until the attack."

"Cassandra," he said in a serious tone, "I would keep you naked all your days so that I might bask in your beauty, taunt other men with my fortune, and shame other women that they do not dare to reveal their lesser charms in such a fashion. It is with the greatest reluctance that I contemplate covering you and you have my oath that only the most dire of circumstances forces me to this extreme."

She drew back from him, eyes wide. "Well," she managed.

"Yes, I'm a brute. Let's dress you before I come to my senses."

deGruyt's resources proved useless in regard to practical clothing so John sent out for some. Cassandra ended up dressing in pantaloons and an undershirt too large for her. She bound her breasts with a strip of silk, deGruyt had plenty of that, and fitted the shirt by winding another strip about her waist. There were no spare shoes to be had because more than half the crew was barefoot.

Jack had put the collar and leash back on her, apparently willing to go only so far when it came to her apparel. She could, still, see the benefits her humiliation and display brought to his moral authority over the crew. But she felt that making her hold the end to the leash between her teeth was excessive and intended to have sharp words with him later. If there was a later.

He was organizing the ship for the coming action and what Cassandra could see of his preparations was impressive. He'd organized his picked boarders to drive for the anchor chain of Mazares' ship. He'd assigned topmen to swarm the rigging and put the ship under sail. He'd designated men who would seize the helm. He'd found a couple of volunteers to discharge the cannons at the fleet before abandoning the Black Hart.

And during it all he'd joked with the crew and promised them treasure beyond their belief. And she'd followed along behind as part of the show, proof of his power. The crew had whistled and booed and chided Jack for hiding her body from them and he'd countered by telling them they wouldn't be able to work if she wasn't clothed and that they'd have to fight the women off once they got their share of the treasure. But for the constant display she'd have enjoyed watching him work.

The mood on the ship grew more somber as darkness fell. All lights were extinguished and noise discipline was enforced. The ship sailed in silence under the full moon and each man contemplated the future in the solitude of his own mind.

"You'll be more comfortable with your crew, my lady," Jack said, pushing her into the cage. She stumbled in the bilge water but two of the Fortune's officers helped stabilize her.

"I turn her over to your safekeeping, Captain," he said. Then he paused. "My lady. Those lessons. How much did you already know?" he asked.

Cassandra smiled at him. "Most of them," she confessed.

He smiled. "Well played, my lady." And then he turned and walked away. Without a look.

"Are you well, my lady?" the Captain of the Fortune asked.

"Well enough, Captain. Well enough. We'll be departing the Black Hart this evening. They sail into the anchorage at Goatsisle to steal Mazares' ship and the pay for the invading army."

"That's suicide!" blurted the First Lieutenant.

"Perhaps, but it's the only way we might prevent or delay the invasion."

"Well done, my lady," the Captain said quietly. "We'll need to see to our own escape?"

"Yes, though it should be easier with this," she produced a key from within her shirt.

"God's Blood," the Captain muttered.

Cassandra smiled.

*******************

John stood by the helmsmen with the Sailing Master and the Quartermaster and damn near every man who could contrive a reason to be on the poop deck. But not the bugler. John had thrown the bugle overboard himself and threatened to do the same to the man. Confusion would be their best ally in the coming fight and the longer it took the rest of the fleet to know that something was amiss, the better.

"Two ships," the Sailing Master announced.

"Only two? Is the fleet not here?" the Quartermaster asked.

"Two warships," the Sailing Master clarified. "And an invasion fleet. I count at least twenty cargo vessels." He handed the ship's glass to Jack.

John put the telescope to his eye and swept the anchorage. Two warships. Anchored close to each other. Very close. And not a difference between them that he could see. Not a flag. Not an ornament. Not a light. Not a fucking clue.

"Can you put us between them?" he asked quietly.

The Sailing Master took the glass back and studied the scene before him.

"Aye, Captain."

"Do it," he ordered. "The ship to port is Mazares'," he lied. "We'll take that one. Master Gunner, lay a trail of pitch to the powder locker. We'll see how eager they are to pursue after the Hart tears the heart out of them."

There was a pause.

"Do you plan to trail past two royal warships and hope they don't pursue?" he asked.

A reluctant growl indicated general agreement and the men began to move to carry out their orders. John held himself back, habitually checking the straps on his scarlet jack. They were loose, again, and he tightened them, again. And the anchorage grew larger before him as the Black Hart drove on with the wind towards the gap between the two ships.

The Sailing Master knocked a helmsman aside and seized the wheel, hauling on it hard, steering a course that appeared to John no different than the course they had been on.

There was a shout from ahead of them, some sleepy lookout finally noticing them, but it was too late to do any good. The Hart closed the last two hundred yards in no time at all and then all was confusion as the anchors let loosed and the sea-anchors were tossed behind the ship and boarders roared and jumped to their feet and then to the targeted ship. The starboard guns cut loose, one by one as the single scratch crew ran to each and fired it, pointblank, into the ship to starboard.

John took a minute to scan the anchorage. There were at least forty vessels anchored close to shore and dozens of large fires on the beach where the troops had apparently been offloaded. Everyone was waking up to the fact that something was wrong and, clearly, the problem lay with the warships, but the bulk of the starboard ship screen the Hart and the ship to port from the view of most of them.

He took a shuttered lantern from a hook by the wheel and headed down to the main deck. The crew there were already tossing similar lanterns onto the deck of the starboard ship in an attempt to fire her. Movement by the main passageway caught his eye and he saw Cassandra and the officers from the Fortune coming up on deck.

He drew himself up and saluted the Captain. Cassandra waved at him. He laughed. And then the ship to starboard exploded, a blast of white and orange rising into the sky and scattering pieces of itself about the anchorage. Only a portion of the blast swept the deck of the Hart, but it was enough to throw John against the far bulwark and knock him senseless.

He came to his senses as the water lapped at his body. He could hear nothing but the darkness was alive with fires and activity. Habitual fear drove his hands to the straps of his jack. They were loose, again, and he thanked God for this as his hands loosened them further still and he dragged the garment over his head and dropped it to the side.

The stricken ship was below the water and dragging the Hart with her. He rose unsteadily to his feet and looked to port. The other ship was already a few hundred yards away, the anchors cut and a little sail showing on the topmost masts. Explosions showed the crews were still fighting for control of the vessel, but she was also showing at least two fires. If someone didn't get those under control soon the ship would be doomed.

He was struck by a sense of elation. The plan had actually worked. He'd never really thought it would. Cassandra would be so pleased. Cassandra.

He looked over to where he'd last seen her and saw no sign. Carefully he made his way over the listing deck and through the lap of the waves.

"Cassandra!" he called. "Cassandra!"

There was a cracking sound and the deck beneath his feet sank several feet before stopping. He cursed and splashed through the water to the port side and looked out over the water. There were bodies and timber and a few swimmers.

"Cassandra!" he called again, but there was no response. He cursed and stripped off his boots before carefully jumping into the water. When his head cleared the surface he took a moment to orient himself and began swimming towards the nearest person he saw.

"Cassandra?"

********************

"...and then you came here," Mortimer Howell concluded.

John nodded. An uncomfortable silence followed.

"He's under sentence of death," Mortimer said to his brother Mordecai.

Mordecai nodded. "But we should talk about this. Privately. John will wait for us."

John rattled the manacles and chains that held him in his chair in agreement.

The two Howells left the room and John sighed. Not just an exhalation of breath but a complete release of tension from his entire body. He'd kept his word. The hard part was over. They were going to kill him, of course, but that was no work at all and would be its own sort of release.

"You couldn't just send a letter?" Cassandra asked.

John's eyes snapped open in disbelief. She was standing in the doorway. Her hair was perfectly arranged, her gown was elegant and modest, her face... Ghosts didn't have bandages.

"You're hurt," he blurted.

"And you choose my disfigurement for our first topic of conversation," she chided.

"You're hurt," he repeated.

"Yes, John, I was injured. A timber in the water. I'm told it will leave a scar," she said.

"But you're alive!"

"Well done, you. Yes."

"I looked for you," he said. "Christ's blood, it felt like hours. In the water. On the beach. I thought you'd drowned."

"Nearly. I managed to hold onto the timber and forced it to save my life," she explained.

He laughed. Too loud and too long but he couldn't help it.

"I didn't find it so amusing," she commented.

"It tried to kill you and you forced it to save your life," he explained. The laughter took him again for several minutes.

Cassandra smiled. "I see the humor. But back to matters of sense. You couldn't just send a letter? You had to come here in person? To tell my father you raped his dead daughter?" She was clearly exasperated.

John tilted his head back, letting the tears run down his cheeks. "I thought he deserved more than a letter. I thought he deserved to hear how extraordinary his daughter was."