The Prize by Brenda Joyce Read Free Book Online Page B

attendance, muskets in their arms,
as the frigate cruised toward its berth. Other sailors stood with them, eager
for the liberty he would soon grant. Forecastle men readied the ship's huge
anchors. All in all, three hundred men stood upon the frigate's decks. Beyond
the docks, where two state-of-the-line three deckers, several sloops, a
schooner and two gunships were at birth, the spires and rooftops of London gleamed in the bright blue sky.
    The past year had
been a very lucrative one. A year of cruising from the Strait of Gibraltar to Algiers , from the Bay of Biscayne to the Portuguese coast. There'd been
forty-eight prizes and more than five hundred captured crewmen.
    His duties had been
routine—escorting supply convoys, patrolling coastal shorelines, enforcing the
blockade of France . Nights had been spent swooping
upon unsuspecting French privateers, days lolling upon the high seas. He had
been rather wealthy before this past year, but now, with this last prize, an
American ship loaded with gold bullion, he was a very wealthy man, indeed.
    And finally, a smile
touched his lips.
    But the boy
trembled and remained afraid. The boy refused to go away. No amount of wealth,
no amount of power, could be enough. And the boy had only to close his eyes to
see his father's eyes, enraged and sightless in his severed head, there upon
the Irish ground in a pool of his own blood.
    Devlin had gone to
sea three years after the Wexford uprising, with the Earl of Adare's
permission and patronage. Adare had married his mother within the year,
although his baby sister, Meg, had never been found. The earl had fabricated a
naval history for Devlin, enabling him to start his career as a midshipman and
not as the lowliest sailor far below decks. Devlin had quickly risen to the
rank of lieutenant. Briefly he'd served on Nelson's flagship. At the Battle of
Trafalgar, the captain of the sloop he was serving on had taken an unlucky hit
and been killed instantly; Devlin had as quickly assumed command. The small
vessel had only had ten guns, but she was terribly quick, and Devlin had snuck
the Gazelle in under the leeward hull of a French frigate. With the
French ship sitting so high above them, her every broadside had sailed right
over the Gazelle. His own guns, at point blank range, had torn apart the
decks and rigging, crippling the bigger, faster ship immediately. He'd towed
his prize proudly into Leghorn and shortly after had received a promotion to
captain, his own command and a fast schooner, the Loretta.
    He had only been
eighteen.
    There had been so
many battles and so many prizes since then. But the biggest prize of all yet
remained to be taken, and it did not exist upon the high seas of the world.
    The heat of highly
controlled rage, always broiling deep within him, simmered a bit more. Devlin
ignored it. Instead of thinking of the future reckoning that would one day come
with Harold Hughes, now the Earl of Eastleigh, he watched as the Defiance eased
into its berth between a schooner and a gunship. Devlin nodded at his second in
command, a brawny red-haired Scot, Lieutenant MacDonnell. Mac used the horn to
announce a week's liberty. Devlin smiled a little as his men cheered and
hollered, then watched his decks clear as if the signal to jump ship had been
given. He didn't mind. His crew was top-notch. Some fifty of his men had been
with him since he'd been given his first ship; half of his crew had been with
him since the collapse of the Treaty of Tilsit. They were good men, brave and
daring. His crew was so well-honed that no one hesitated even when his commands
seemed suicidal. The Defiance had become the scourge of the seas because
of their loyalty, faith and discipline.
    He was proud of his
crew.
    Mac fell into step
with him, looking uncomfortable in his naval uniform, which he seemed to have
outgrown. Mac was Devlin's own age, twenty-four, and this past year he had
bulked out. Devlin thought they made an odd duo—the short, broad