The Captain of All Pleasures (Sutherland Brothers 1)

But Chancey heard her, and frowned. "Don't ye mean, 'Now we sprint for the Southern Cross'?"

Chapter 13

A s Nicole raised her spyglass to view the stern of the Southern Cross, she felt a welling of relief that they had finally caught him. She bit back a smile.

And now we'll overtake him.

Though it didn't appear that Sutherland would cooperate. When they neared him enough to pass, he consistently stayed in front, preventing them from getting clean air.

She watched in incomprehension as he outsailed their faster, more agile ship. She whirled toward Chancey, opened her mouth to speak, then closed it.

"To answer yer question," he began with a chuckle, "Sutherland can do this because he's good and he's cold. Straight, methodical sailin'."

"You sound like you admire him," she said in disbelief.

"Don't have to like him to admire his sailin'."

She couldn't take it anymore. "Chancey, head north-northwest," she directed between clenched teeth.

He scowled at her. "Oh, no. Ye'll not increase our distance just to get in front o' him," he said in a low voice so the crew near them couldn't hear. "We've got thousands o' miles--ye've got to be patient."

"But I know he's got that gloating smirk on his face right now. And I know just how to wipe it off," she said in a nasty voice.

Chancey looked around him at the waves and then the sky. "The winds'll change soon; then we can cover him."

She yanked down her cap and said nothing. Chancey was right, of course. If the winds changed, the Bella Nicola would be between them and the Southern Cross. Sutherland wouldn't be able to get the full benefits. But she couldn't help thinking that her father would've done just as she'd suggested.

Half an hour later, the winds did in fact change to their customary eastward sweep, and they found themselves with the advantage.

"If we're swift, we can pass him before the straits," Nicole said. They were approaching the notorious rocky outcroppings that greeted ships following the great circle route just as they turned east away from South America. She'd always imagined that they acted as a gate that separated the lucky and the knowledgeable from the new dross at the bottom of their cold sea.

Chancey shook his head. "We'll never make that. We'll be right up beside him and have to draw back." He caught her gaze. "Sutherland isn't a man to share his sea room, Nicole."

"If we could get past, it would be us catching Tallywood instead of being jammed up behind Sutherland." She slapped the back of her hand against her opposite palm to make her point. "Calculated risks, Chancey. That's what racing is! The crew will love it. You know it'd be talked about for years if we could slingshot past him."

"There's a storm comin' soon," he grumbled. "This move might put us right in the straits with the gale on top o' us."

Nicole smiled, knowing it looked ruthless. "Then we'd better hurry."

He glowered at her. But after a muttered curse, he bellowed, "All right, men, nor'-nor'west, every stitch o' canvas set!"

"Cap'n, ship ahoy!" Derek's watch sang out.

"Where away?" he called in answer.

"Astern--I just caught sight of a ship due south of us at full sail! Looking at her flags, I'd say it's that Yankee clipper."

Derek pulled out his own spyglass to confirm that it was Lassiter's ship. His eyes narrowed at the familiar sails and pennants of the Bella Nicola, and he snapped the spyglass closed.

He wasn't surprised they'd caught up with him. No ship was faster than theirs in fair weather and light gales. But they had a lot of nerve to follow so closely. Nicole had most likely stolen his navigation plans even before she'd nearly unmanned him in a Brazilian brothel, and yet they sailed as though they intended to run him down. He'd never wanted a voyage to end as much as he did this one....

Derek's head whipped up, his thoughts quelled, when a distant boom of thunder resounded. The storm he'd seen brewing to the south was gaining strength. Disquieting in itself. And then occasionally he could see the waves break over a previously hidden fracture of rock.

"I'm never easy in the Forties," said a voice behind him. He turned to see Jebediah approaching the rail.

"Nor am I," Derek admitted as they both looked out over the sea. He wondered if Jeb was there to assure himself that his captain was sober, and said reassuringly, "We'll get more sea room before the storm hits."

"Just don't want to join the litter of poor wrecks beneath us even now," Jeb said as he cracked his gnarled knuckles.

"What? You doubt my experience?"

"Not likely. But then, you know experience isn't a guarantee down 'ere. 'Ell, you probably like it down 'ere in the Forties since you love storms," the old man added before he shuffled off toward the galley.

What Derek considered secret was known to this man. He did love storms. Probably because they were the only things that made him feel alive. But here in the Forties, even he was anxious.

He thought of how the Bella Nicola would fare in this storm. The Irisher sailing her had probably handled a thousand gales. He'd be aware of the dicey channels that ran through these underwater ridges, as well as the power of the storms in this latitude.

Derek had also heard in Brazil that he was proving to be a very conscientious captain, not an unpredictable sail jockey like Lassiter. Even so, Derek thought of the jagged shoals they were even now skimming, coupled with the coming storm, and became distinctly uneasy about Nicole.

Damn it, he didn't care what happened to that ship or anything on board it, including her. She'd spied on him, lied to him, had Chancey try to brain him, not to mention her latest assault on his...person.

And then there were the agonizing dreams she was responsible for.

I'm only worried because I haven't had her yet, Derek coldly assured himself.

His regular musings on just what that would be like were interrupted when Bigsby, the ship's surgeon, called up from the stairs.

"Captain, a word with you, please." An anxious look pinched the man's chapped face.

Derek, seeing the doctor's worry, thought of the peculiar fever affecting some of his crew. Surely Bigsby had made certain none of the sick had worsened. Derek put his spyglass back in his coat pocket; at his nod, the first mate took over the bridge.

He followed the brisk surgeon into the chart room, waiting impatiently as Bigsby closed the door behind him. "Captain, I don't want to cause a panic among the men," he said, visibly fighting for a neutral expression, "but...two more galley hands and the cabin boy have come down with the sickness."

An invisible foe continued to harm his men. One Derek couldn't defend them against. "That makes eleven total." Derek scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck. "I hired you because you're the best. So why the bloody hell haven't you been able to figure out what they've come down with?"

Bigsby, his face flushing a mottled red in his nervousness, muttered uncomfortably, "I believe I have." He paused before he looked up, face somber, as though delivering a death sentence.

"The water on this ship has been...poisoned."

Derek couldn't believe it--but, God help them all, it made sense. He thought of the men lying in the 'tween decks, violently ill, biting back their moans of pain. He'd written it off as merely a shipboard fever, hardly uncommon as it passed among crews. But he'd never witnessed this level of gut-wrenching pain accompanying such a fever. His instincts warned him that the doctor was dead-on in his assessment.

Poison. His mind couldn't seem to get past his disbelief, but acting immediately was essential. "Are all the remaining barrels contaminated?" he asked, already knowing from the doctor's face the answer to his question.

"Yes, I'm afraid so. I opened them myself and fed a bit of water to a couple of the chickens." Bigsby frowned and looked down at the hat he'd been unconsciously mangling in his hands. "From what happened to the animals, I'm positive it is the water, and that all the water is affected."

No water? It would take them at least a week to reach th

e Cape of Good Hope--if his men were all able. He had a hard time making and shortening sail now, much less battling through the Forties to get to the Cape, with only a handful of sailors. And if any more of his crew got sick?

A sailor's cry broke in on his thoughts. "Look, that little ship's making full sail and closing in fast." So the Bella Nicola was close. He had little hope of aid from them.