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The Sultan's Captive

By Elva Cobb Martin

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Prologue
Charles Town 1755
“Will you kiss me if I win the race?”
Twelve-year-old Georgia Ann Cooper stopped dead in her trek across the plantation’s wide, verdant lawn. She cast a look at the grinning fifteen-year-old Samuel Valentin Vargas striding beside her.
The children following them halted, and a collective gasp washed through them. Some of the girls pressed their hands across their mouths and squealed at Samuel, while several boys forced out their breath in shrill whistles.
Georgia Ann studied Samuel from under her long blond lashes. With his windswept black hair, tanned face, and scent of sea and leather, he looked every bit the sailor he had become sailing on his stepfather’s former ship, the Dryade.
Samuel twirled his green tricorn in his hand, awaiting her response. His tiger green eyes, bright and mysterious, met hers as he swiped a thick lock of dark hair from his forehead.
Who did he think he was? Besides being a late arrival, as usual. Whatever he was after with his scandalous words didn’t matter. She would win the foot race, hands down, just like she’d won over every other guest at her birthday party.
Joshua Becket, the oldest of her guests, frowned and stomped up in front of Samuel, his step-brother. His dark eyes flashed and his lip curled in his pale face. Two years older, but an inch shorter, he stretched to his full height. “Samuel Vargas, that is no request to make of a young lady, sir.” He emphasized the last word with a heavy dose of scorn.
Samuel cocked his chin in response but didn’t take his eyes from Georgia. A slow grin spread across his mouth. “Let her decide.”
His voice, warm and deep, sent a ripple of awareness through her.
Joshua uttered a hissing sound.
Georgia tossed her curls and looked over at her guests, then back to Samuel. “Maybe I would, maybe I wouldn’t, but what does that signify, Mister Vargas? You will not win.” She straightened herself with as much dignity as she could muster.
A hush fell on the group.
Joshua glowered at Samuel. “I refuse to have a part in this kind of race.”
Georgia’s twin cousins stepped forward. “We’ll take care of it,” John offered. “I’ll drop the starter stick and Moses can be at the finish to declare the winner.”
Georgia moved to the starting point and lifted her skirts in preparation. When John swung the stick to the ground, she sprinted forward, as fast as a doe. Her yellow satin birthday dress ballooned behind her like a daffodil waving in the wind. Matching silk shoes skimmed the tops of the grass.
But Samuel won the race.
All the children ran across the lawn to join Georgia as she stood catching her breath a few yards apart from Samuel. She glanced at Joshua, hanging back, his brow black as a thundercloud.
Georgia’s best friend, Abigail, flew to her side and whispered, “Are you going to let him kiss you?” She glared at Samuel, and said in a louder voice, “If he’s a gentleman, he won’t dare require this.”
Samuel strode to stand in front of Georgia. “Why don’t you let her make up her own mind? And I doubt I am a gentleman.” His husky voice sounded deeper than usual.
She looked up into his face. Before she knew what was happening, he bent and brushed her lips with his own. Her eyelids closed of their own accord and stars exploded beneath them. A shock traveled the length of her frame.
The birthday guests burst into whoops and clapping.
All except Joshua Becket. He kicked a rock several yards into the grass.
“Georgia Ann Cooper, what are you doing, young lady?” Her governess’s sharp voice brought Georgia Ann back from the starry place she visited. The woman marched across the lawn toward them, her face an angry mask.
Georgia blinked. Then she lifted her hand and slapped Samuel Vargas right across his hard, tanned jaw.
 
Chapter 1
Charles Town 1760
Georgia Ann Cooper stood on the Charles Town dock in the early morning light and blinked back tears. She clutched the ruffled brim of her white hat to keep it from blowing away, and drank in the handsome figure of Samuel Vargas as he spoke to his step-brother Joshua. Samuel’s newly outfitted brigantine, the Eagle, bobbed in the Atlantic behind them with its fresh paint and rigging.
She and her father had come with Samuel’s family to bid him Godspeed on his coming voyage to the Spice Islands in the East Indies.
A venture she had tried her best to discourage.
Joshua clapped Samuel on the shoulder and laughed. “Brother, if you get arrested for piracy, I’ll do my lawyer best to keep you from hanging.”
Georgia frowned. Not a possibility she wanted to consider.
Samuel shrugged and moved on to his mother and Reverend Ethan Becket, his stepfather.
Marisol Becket took one of his large hands in hers and pressed it to her cheek. She looked up into his animated face. “Son, you will be careful? Not take unnecessary risks?”
He bent down and hugged her. “You know I will, Mother. And I’ll bring back spices for you and Mrs. Piper like you’ve never seen.” He kissed her cheek, and then looked back at Joshua with a smile. “And I won’t be needing any lawyers to get me out of trouble, either.”
Rev. Becket cleared his throat. “Samuel, I never dreamed letting you spend so much time on the Dryade with Tim Cullen these past years would go this far, definitely not to the far reaches of the of the globe.” He grinned and gave Samuel a hug, and then shook his hand. “Our prayers will go up daily for your safety and success. Write when you can.”
Traffic had increased on the dock with so many ships planning to sail with the morning tide. Animal odors and sounds floated across the water as slaves pushed carts of squawking chickens, squealing pigs, and other goods toward multiple gangplanks. Well-frocked ship owners strode by their group, nodded, and proceeded to their own vessels, their voices giving final orders to their captains filled the air.
But Georgia Ann pushed the background noise away and focused on Samuel.
Dressed in his privateer outfit of a crisp white shirt, blue breeches, and plumed tricorn, Captain Vargas made quite a picture of manly strength. His rough, virile attractiveness always made her heart quicken and her palms sweat. And today, her breath caught, her head swam, and her stomach clenched at the thought of him sailing to the other side of the world. Would he miss her during the two years his journey might take? His three-masted Eagle bobbed in the dark water, ready to sail. The Talon, his partner ship, rose and fell with the tide farther down the row of vessels. Georgia’s father had mentioned that sailing preparation for it, too, had been completed the day before sailing. Samuel had always been a careful planner.
As if he felt her gaze, Samuel turned and strode toward her. “You look like an English rose waving in this fine Atlantic breeze, Georgia.” He took her hand, kissed it, and turned her chin up with a thumb. His keen, sea green eyes searched her face, making her heart race. He flicked away a tear escaping down her cheek and grinned the familiar grin he’d used on her since they were children. “I’ll be back before you know it. Two years is not that long.”
He took off his tricorn and ran his fingers through the top of his dark hair. “And you’ll be busy with all the usual balls and soirees of your coming out.” He looked deep into her eyes. “You’ll probably forget me before the summer is over. Will you?”
She turned her head to swipe the wetness from her face. “Samuel, I could never forget you. Why won’t you listen to reason and forget those Spice Islands?”
His lips tightened as he looked toward his ship crew standing ready, and then back to her. “We’ve gone over that, sweet one, several times.” He put his hands on her shoulders and smiled.
She breathed in his scent of sea, new rigging, and leather.
“Do you think I might get a smile to remember? I promise to bring you and Mammy June spices and silk like you’ve never seen.”
Her father, Alistair Cooper, walked down the gangplank of the Eagle toward them.
Samuel dropped his hands and turned toward him.
“Son, I did a quick inspection, as you requested, and your ship passes muster. But you be careful, especially around the Canary Islands. I’ve had more than one of my ships come under attack there by the Spanish, but you have to restock on one of the islands.”
“Yes, sir. That’s our plan, and I’ve got a good crew I can depend on whatever turns up, as well as a great partner ship.”
The man glanced at his daughter and then proffered his hand. “Our prayers go with you.”
Samuel shook his hand. “That’s what we need, sir. Goodbye to you both.” He slid his gaze to Georgia.
She managed to give him a smile, maybe not the one he wanted, but the best she could do with misery so acute a physical pain pressed her chest.
As Samuel turned and strode up the gangplank to his ship, the piercing notes of pipes announcing the captain boarding sang across the Charles Town Harbor.
The lonely sound only accented the sadness choking her. She swallowed to steady her voice and turned to her father. “Why are they piping him aboard? His ship is a merchantman not a British vessel.”
“To honor him, I’m sure. Shows they think a lot of him.” Her father took a deep breath and scratched his bearded chin. “If I was about twenty years younger, I swear, I’d love to go with him.”
Georgia tapped her slippered foot and muttered, “You men.”
Father patted her arm. “Daughter, he’ll be fine, if I know Samuel Vargas. I’ll see you this evening.” He turned and headed back to his merchant’s office above the dock.
Georgia grasped the side of her trailing gown and marched back to their family carriage.
Joshua hurried to her side and helped her climb in. He leaned toward her. “Will you give me a little time, Georgia, now that my sea-roaming step-brother is back to his sailing?”
She ignored his question and watched the Eagle’s sails unfurl, then snap and swell as the strong morning breeze filled them. Sailors ran up and down the rigging.
Samuel stood on the quarterdeck and threw up his hand in a wave as the ship moved out of the harbor.
An acute sense of loss flooded her, and she bit her lip until it throbbed like her pulse.
When it became a distant speck on the horizon, Georgia swallowed the despair in her throat and glared at Joshua, still standing beside the carriage. “Why did you have to mention pirating? Samuel is a privateer.” She could not bridle the annoyance in her voice.
He grinned. “Sweet Georgia, you know, under the law, there’s hardly a hair’s breadth of difference.”
She shook her head and called to her driver. “Home, Solomon.”
Joshua moved aside and crossed his arms.
The servant clapped the reins across the backs of the matched bays and the horses headed back toward Windemere Plantation at a rapid pace, but not fast enough for Georgia Ann. Once they passed through the harbor area and the cobbled streets to the open road, she let her pent-up tears fall unheeded. Would she ever see Samuel Vargas again?
***
The Spice Islands
One Year Later

Standing on the quarterdeck of the sun-drenched Eagle, Samuel breathed in the tantalizing fragrance of cloves permeating the sea breeze. Finally, they’d arrived in the southern Indonesian archipelago, home of the fabled Spice Islands. He swung his arms out as if to embrace the wonderful scent and whispered a prayer. Thank you, Father God, for bringing us here through all the dangers.
The elder man who stood beside him grinned. “Didn’t I tell ye we would smell the spices ten miles out from them islands?”
“You did, sir, but I didn’t believe you. Finally arriving here is a dream come true.” He turned to look into the gray-bearded, leathery face of Luis da Gama, a Portuguese sailor he had run across at the Charles Town dock many months earlier. The seasoned sailor had taken some ribbing from the Eagle’s crew after he joined at Samuel’s invitation. Some of them persisted in calling him Vasco da Gama, after the Portuguese explorer who, over two centuries earlier, found a new route to India and the spice trade by sailing around Africa’s Cape of Good Hope.
Finding Luis had been an answer to Samuel’s prayers for this risky trip to seek the Spice Islands. The man’s knowledge had proved invaluable from day one.
“Captain, sir.” Luis da Gama leaned closer. “You do remember the dangers I shared of landing on these islands?”
“Yes, I do, my man.” Samuel leaned over the deck railing and shouted, “All hands on deck.”
Shawn Edwards, his First Lieutenant, and Moses, boatswain, repeated his order over the ship. In two minutes, all the stalwart Charles Town mariners who had survived the long dangerous crossing gathered in front of the quarterdeck.
“Men, we are about to arrive at our destination, the fabled Spice Islands. I’m real sorry for those we lost on our way due to storms and sickness. And the Talon being blown off course. Hopefully, they made it back to port. But finally we are here.”
Cheers erupted from the men, as well as a “Thank God, we’uns made it.”
“Captain, what is that blessed scent we be smelling?” A tough, old sailor from the back yelled, and other voices rose in assent.
“It’s cloves, my man, and we hope to fill our hold with them. If we do and make it back to Charles Town, all of you will have some gold to jingle in your pockets.”
Cheers and stamping boots filled the hot midday air.
Samuel projected his voice so every man could hear. “Men we are now heading toward a landing on one of the Maluku Islands. We’re told by Luis, here”—he gestured to the Portuguese beside him—“that all these islands are really volcanic atolls, and most of their harbors are ringed by sunken reefs. I don’t need to tell you many a vessel has been dashed to pieces on the razor-sharp coral, so we must be careful as we try to sail in closer.”
Samuel didn’t mention another aspect of the danger Luis has shared with him—that some of the isles were inhabited by head-hunters and cannibals, who were feared and distrusted throughout the East Indies.
The cook, Hobbit, who boasted a wooden leg, shouted, “Well, who’s gonna help git us through without wrecking?”
“Luis has sailed here before. He will direct the Eagle where to drop anchor, then we’ll go ashore in the longboats. Not every one can go. But after the officers, we’ll draw lots for who will set out with us. Those who go or stay aboard will share equally in the cargo we carry home. Does everyone understand? We have covered this before and all of you signed articles.”
“Aye, aye, Captain,” filtered through the gathering.
~ ~ ~
Through the night and the following morning, they took constant soundings of the depth, and finally, the Eagle anchored safely some distance from the shore. Samuel lowered and entered a longboat, with a crew selected by lot, and rowed toward the verdant island and its strip of tan beach. Rice, cloth, and tools for trading floated behind them in the second longboat with its two oarsmen.
“Captain,” one of the oarsmen called, “Do we all disembark or wait at the shore for you to return?”
Samuel clicked his tongue. The man had already forgotten the instructions. “You stay with the boats, as will all the crew, until Luis and I decide what we should do.”
As soon as their boats touched the rocky beach, two tall dark-skinned natives, clothed only in loincloths, arose from the bushes and strode forward, holding large spears. But they made no aggressive movements, and kept the weapons pointed downward instead of toward their visitors.
Samuel’s gut tightened, but he forced his face to keep a friendly expression. He spoke before his crew could draw their pistols. “I’m sure they’ve watched us since we left the ship. Stay calm—we outnumber them if it comes to a confrontation.” He disembarked and bowed to the young men now standing a few yards away. Luis did the same. What next? A sudden idea came. The cloth he’d brought would gain the natives quick attention. He pulled a bolt of the red fabric from the longboat and held it out for the natives to see. Luis did likewise.
The two men stepped forward, touched the bright material, and conversed with each other in excited words Samuel didn’t understand.
“Please, take us to your chief.” Luis spoke slowly and pointed behind the natives.
The strangers tipped their heads as if not sure they understood, so Luis repeated the words. The two nodded and turned back the way they had come. Samuel and Luis followed, swiping sweat from their foreheads at the fast pace. He could only pray they weren’t being led into a trap.
They soon arrived at the edge of a village of small thatched-roofed dwellings. The two men shouted something to the women and children who gathered in their doorways as the group proceeded down the shell-strewn street. Finally, the guides stopped at a larger hut.
A lighter-skinned man with a mane of gray hair and a long beard sat on large rock beside the door, smoking a long-stemmed pipe. He wore faded, ragged breeches, but no shirt or shoes. From the way the two men spoke to him, he must be the chieftain of this village.
Samuel laid the bolts of cloth at his feet and bowed to the man. Two women peeking from inside the dwelling spoke in excited, unknown words, and pointed to the red fabric.
The man pulled the pipe from between his teeth. “Saw your ship enter the bay. Who are you and where are you from?”
Samuel did his best to contain his surprise as he moved forward. Not only did the man speak English, but he had blue eyes. “I am Captain Samuel Vargas. We sailed from Charles Town and have come to trade for cloves.”
“Charles Town?” The man looked at him blankly. “Not England?”
“It’s a colony of England in the New World. Are you English?”
“Aye, arrived here as a boy after the Portuguese ship that took our British vessel captive wrecked on the reef more years ago than I remember. I alone survived.” He placed the pipe back between his lips and puffed.
Samuel sent Louis a glance to see if he was feeling the same wonder flooding Samuel’s chest. Only God could bring them to an island with an English-speaking chief. Thank You, Father.
***
After a week or so, the villagers seemed to lose their awe for their island visitors. One hot afternoon, Samuel found himself surrounded by a group of them who kept pointing at him and jabbering to each other in their language he couldn’t understand.
The chieftain approached. “They have never seen anyone with green eyes like yours, Captain.”
Samuel laughed and backed away, shaking his head.
During the following two weeks, Samuel worked hard to keep the crew out of too much trouble, especially with the friendly island girls. He had his own work to do to keep several of the women from following him around the island.
The natives traded many hemp-woven bags of dried cloves for the rice, cloth, and tools Samuel brought from the Eagle. They restocked the ship with fruit, dried meat, salt, and water for the long trip home.
The day came when all trading was finished and Samuel gave the order for the Eagle to set sail with its fragrant cargo, minus the goods it had brought with which to barter. Every man, woman, boy, and girl from the village stood on the beach with their chieftain waving goodbye. Samuel had expected the white chieftain to return to Charles Town with them, but the man elected to stay on the island.
***
Two months later Samuel stood on the quarterdeck watching the blue-white water sheet off the hull below as they headed north up the coast of Africa toward the Canary Islands. The storm they’d weathered rounding Africa’s Cape of Good Hope seemed like a nightmare that might not have happened. But his vessel’s hold now minus half the cloves confirmed the reality of the battle they’d fought to lighten the ship and keep it from sinking. He regretted losing the spices but was grateful they’d all escaped with their lives. Georgia Ann flowed strong into his mind—her azure blue eyes and golden curls, her soft lips, her tears at their parting. Had she forgotten him during the year and half he’d already been gone?
A cry came from the lookout high in the shrouds. “A sail, a sail to starboard.”
Samuel whipped out his eyeglass. As the vessel bobbed up and down on the waves, he recognized the flag flying from her mast and noted her size. A Spanish mercenary, most likely. He scoured the horizon for other ships that might accompany her, but she seemed to be alone, perhaps lost from the squadron that might have travelled with her. She was heading back toward Spain and maybe loaded with West Indies treasure to make her nobles wealthy and fund their war against humanity with their presumed blessing from God.
As always, his gut clenched as he thought of the Spanish Inquisition destroying lives daily in the name of heresy—maybe even the life of his own grandmother years before. His mother, Marisol Valentin Beckett, had told him she believed her English mother had become the victim of the Inquisition judges when she disappeared from their Cadiz estate when his mother was twelve. To Samuel’s thinking, any Spanish ship attacked and plundered was one less enemy ship against England, and less money and manpower for the Inquisition horrors against mankind.
Shawn Edwards scrambled up to the quarterdeck from below, and Samuel handed the eyepiece to him.
“Sir, it’s a Spanish ship for sure. It’s flying the Cadiz flag of arms. Wonder if they are on their way back to Spain from the West Indies?”
Samuel snapped the spyglass closed and pocketed it. His thin lips spread in a slow grin. “My thinking exactly. Wherever they’re headed, they’re fair game.” He leaned over the quarterdeck railing and shouted, “Make clear and ready for engagement.”
Amid whoops and jostling, crew members scrambled to their assigned tasks. They stowed hammocks and sea chests at the bulwarks to help stop shot and splinters. Scurrying musketeers brought up small chests of muskets, pistols, and cutlasses. Men quartered at the guns knocked gun ports loose from the caulking that kept out seawater, and they rigged the train tackles. The gunner checked the charges in each cannon to make sure they were dry, and laid out loading materials and ammunition. Jim White, the gunner, had been with Samuel several years, but the first time the ship went to battle, he forgot to check to make sure the charges were dry. He’d never make that mistake again.
Aloft, the boatswain had his crew adjust the sails to fighting sail so the vessel could be managed with only a few men.
A loud cannon blast from the approaching ship shattered across the water, and a shot splashed less than a hundred yards from the Eagle’s bow—a warning to show colors.
“Post colors,” Samuel trumpeted across the deck.
“Which flag, Cap’n?” a sailor yelled.
“The Spanish, of course.”
Blood surged through Samuel’s veins. They would let the coming ship think they were friendly until the Eagle drew close enough to make every shot of their cannons count.

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