The Charlotte Series: Book 3: The Pretender's Gold

Prologue

Decks of the Charlotte, Mediterranean Ocean, 1855

The tempest roared around them and the sea tossed the Charlotte like a cork in a bathtub. Another wave swept over them. For a moment Bricker thought of just letting go. His hold on the line was precarious at best and he was tired. It would be so easy to just let go.

Before he could decide a thing, the wave was gone and he was once more gasping for breath against the icy wind and pelting icy spray from the sky and sea.

His eyes swept over the ship's deck, as they always did in a storm. They were all that stood between life, miserable though that might be, and the cold dark depths of the briny sea. He shivered, but it wasn't from the cold. He was long past feeling it. No sailor in his right mind EVER wished for death by drowning.

Tom was struggling with a line and he was about to back into a pile of debris. His lips parted in warning but the wind carried it away. Tom stumbled and the wind tipped him into the rail...and then he was gone.

"Man Overboard" Bricker shouted.

It was useless he knew. Tom was already dead, from the moment the wave swept him from the deck.

Bricker felt his heart grow a little heavier although he had no time to dwell on the way it felt to watch his friend of the past 20 years literally swept from this earth like so much dust under the rug.

The wind tugged and the lines threatened to lift him from the decks. With a grunt of weary exertion he leaned back against the line and tucked his grief away for later. If he didn't focus on these lines, he'd be just as dead as poor Tom. Bricker shuddered as another chilled winter wave swept him off his feet.

Only the line wrapped around his wrist kept him from following Tom. His frozen fingers gripped tighter on the line.

Tom. If only...

Bricker shook off the thought as the wave disappeared over the rail and the decks dropped three feet. For a second he was suspended in the air, and the next he was trying to gain his feet after landing in a heap on the deck. Once more on his feet he used the line to pull himself against the wind and rain to reach the rigging.

They were two days out of battle. The hole in their side was well above the waterline so Blakeney hadn't seen the need to rush the repair. Blakeney had not bothered to right the decks, nor had he tried to re-balance the ballast after all the spoils they had taken.

With damaged lines, torn sail, and unbalanced cargo*...and the hole in their side...

They were a mess and it was a wonder the Charlotte was still above the sea and not settling in the murky depths beneath it.

Blakeney was to blame. Captain Blakeney.

Bricker spat as a scowl carved deep lines in to his face.

Damn his black soul.

Bricker shook his head and leaned into his work. Since Blakeney captured the Charlotte a year past, there were less than a dozen men Bricker would call crew. Crew had a vested interest in the workings of the ship and the welfare of the other crewmen. Not so Blakeney's men. Although in truth, these renegades were not Blakeney's men any more than they were his crew.

They were pirates and they held loyalties to no man, least of all Blakeney. But Blakeney was the devil himself when he dealt out vengeance and retribution. That was the real reason this ship still sailed. To a man, they all feared the retribution of Blakeney, Bricker included.