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The Sugar Baron's Governess

By Elva Cobb Martin

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"If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness."
I John 1:9 the Holy Bible, New King James version.

CHAPTER 1

1785
BETWEEN CHARLESTON AND JAMAICA

Abigail Welch awoke in her cabin and sat up, her body stiff, her heart pounding. A cannon blast rocked the ship again.
Shouts, stomping boots, and the screeching sound of cannons rolled to gun ports on the deck above sent shivers down her spine. Was the Marigold under attack? She rose and gathered her robe about her, unable to control the fitful trembling shaking her. Plunging through the shadows toward the ray of dawn streaming from the porthole, she searched across the white-capped sea. A low sloop, flying the skull and crossbones, pursued them over purple waves. Pirates. She gasped, and her nails dug into her clenched palms.
How could this be happening? Was this to be the end of her dream of a new beginning, love, and security she sought in Jamaica? The Marigold left Charleston over a week earlier. Captain Donavan had told her last night at dinner they’d soon see evidence of the island. He assured her the British militia governing the area kept the Caribbean guarded against French and Spanish pirates. Where was the mighty British navy?

The thump of heavy boot steps in the corridor followed by a wallop on her cabin door jerked a knot in her empty stomach. She pulled her robe tight over her chemise, pushed her long tresses back on her shoulders, then called out. “Who is it?”
“I’m from the Capt’n, ma’am. We’re under attack by pirates.”
She hurried forward and unbolted the door. A crewman she recognized stood there, the whites of his eyes blazing in his stiff, bearded face.
He doffed his hat and reached a gun toward her. “Ma’am, the Capt’n wants you to have this to defend yo’self, in case them scoundrels board us, but we’ll fight them to the death.”
The flintlock pistol resembled the ones her father had kept in his collection. He taught her how to use the gun when she was fifteen. She reached for the weapon and, forgetful of its weight, almost dropped it.
The sailor steadied her grasp. “It’s a wee bit heavy, but it’ll sho’ stop anyone you want it to, ma’am.”
“I am familiar with this gun, sir, and know how to use it.”
He nodded. “Thank God for that ’cause I sho don’t have time to show you.” He pulled a bag of shot and powder from his pocket, thrust it to her, and scrambled back up the passage.
Abigail sucked in a ragged breath, then closed and bolted the door. She loaded the pistol, laid it on her cot, then dressed as fast as she could make her fingers move over the many fasteners of her frock. Shouts, curses, and the deafening blasts of cannons ripped through the air, making her tremble. She could not escape the smell of burning wicks and shot. Whispering a prayer, she dropped onto the side of the bed and pulled the loaded gun into her lap.
Smoke seeped into her cabin and brought on a fit of coughing. Boarding picks crashed on the deck above, and then swords clashing, guns firing, and death cries filled the air. She tried to muffle the formidable sounds with her hands over her ears and bit her lip to keep from fainting. Who was dying? The horrid pirates or the Marigold crew?

The ship listed with the waves. Water swished about her feet, and sheer, black fright swept through her. Was the vessel sinking?
Heavy footsteps crashed down the corridor outside her cabin. She stood and wrapped one arm around the bedpost, then gripped the pistol in both hands and aimed at the heavy door.
Father God, help me.


Captain Joshua Becket pushed his plumed hat back on his forehead and frowned as he trained his eyepiece on two ships some distance away in the Caribbean. Cannon shots echoed across the waves, and pungent smoke laced the morning breeze. “Lambert, I see an American ship under attack by pirates.” He handed the piece to his lieutenant and partner in adventures.
“I think you’re right, Capt’n Jay. I see the other flag. The attacker is Spanish.” The man returned the instrument.
Joshua strode to the quarterdeck railing and shouted below to his crew, “All hands on deck! Drag on every rag of canvas the sails will hold, lads. Let’s help the American vessel.”
A swarthy sailor stood forward below and blew a bugle alert.
Shouts and mass movement spread across the Eagle.
Turning the eyepiece back to the battle, Joshua tightened his lips. Scurrying pirates fled the besieged ship. “They’ve spotted us, Lambert. Hope we’re not too late.”
The attacking sloop ripped away their boarding hooks, pulled anchor, and sailed southeast with full sails catching the dawn breeze. Their curses filled the air.
His lieutenant turned to him. “Will we chase them, Capt’n Jay?”
Joshua gazed at the ship with Marigold emblazoned on its damaged side. Nothing moved on the deck. “No, let’s check on the wounded.”
When they drew beside the craft, he and his crew threw hooks and boarded. Fallen sailors littered every space, and blood seeped in rivulets from one side of the ship to the other as the vessel tilted with the waves. His men stamped out the fires as best they could and checked bodies for any sign of life. Joshua found the captain thrust through with a sword and all his crew around him dead.
Lambert strode up. “Capt’n, this ship’s been hit below the water‐line, and she’s taking on water fast. We can’t tarry here.”
Joshua wiped smoke from his eyes. “Yes, I know.” He walked to the entrance and shouted down the cabin hatchway. “We’re here to help. Is anyone alive down there?” Was that coughing below or the creaking of the ship’s soaked timbers?
He slid down the steps to the second deck into sloshing water and banged on doors, then kicked them open, one by one. Except for the foul-smelling liquid skidding back and forth with the roll of the ship, the deathly silence of the interior made his skin crawl. Perhaps he’d imagined the coughing.
Coming to a larger cabin entrance at the end of the corridor, he pounded on it and kicked, but it didn’t budge.
Lambert’s heavy tread sounded behind him. “Found one double bolted, huh? Here, let me help.” The man slogged back a few steps and rushed at the entrance with his full weight and bull-like strength.
The oak wood split into pieces. Joshua barreled into the room beside his lieutenant.


Abigail’s cabin door shattered from its hinges, and two burly forms armed with pistols and swords charged into her cabin.
Pirates. She struggled to breathe and tightened both hands on the gun.
Lord, steady my aim.
She fired the pistol. The ear-splitting charge shook her from head to toe, and acrid gunpowder stung her nose.
One of the men collapsed into the ankle-deep water. His hat flew from his dark hair into the liquid on the floor. The other, of stouter body and boasting a thick red beard, cursed, strode forward, and knocked the weapon from her hands. It landed at her feet and splashed dirty brine over Abigail’s skirt. Then the pirate stepped over and knelt beside the injured one. “Capt’n, you hit?” His cold, gruff voice and blazing look he cast back at Abigail sent a chill up her spine.
The fallen intruder sat up, holding his arm. “Just nicked.” He pulled a handkerchief from his person and pressed it into his shirt where a red stain spread. Groping for his plumed hat, he clutched it, shook droplets away, plunked it on his head, and stood. Muscles rippled across his shoulders and tall, lank form. The gray at his temples showed some age, but the agile movements bespoke a younger man.
Abigail blinked and swallowed. “You are...English pirates?”
The two exchanged glances, and the injured one grinned at her. “No. Privateers. We just saw your ship under attack and came to help.” Something she couldn’t discern laced his deep voice. Was he telling the truth? She stared at him and tried not to be swayed by his handsome face and dark, bold eyes that tripped her heartbeat and made breathing difficult. All her senses flashed an alert. She looked him straight in the eye. “I don’t believe you.”


Joshua regarded the striking woman standing stiff and defiant before him, her lovely face pale as alabaster. Fire blazed from eyes the color of the sea in sunlight—a dignified female, the like of which he’d seldom seen since he’d left Charles‐ ton. He suppressed a chuckle. If he had to be shot, at least it wasn’t by an island doxy.
He gave her a brief bow. “Please come. I’ll show you, but we have little time.” He indicated the porthole and offered his arm to assist her movement in the unsteady cabin and sloshing seawater.
She refused his gentlemanly gesture, picked up her dripping skirt, and stepped with care to the small window.
He strode behind her and the ship tilted. She fell against him, and he breathed in her womanly violet scent.
She turned, and for a moment, only inches separated their faces. Wide, startled, emerald eyes rose to his and seemed to look into his soul. Pink flooded her pale cheeks, then she reached for the cot post to steady herself, regained her footing, and stretched the space between them.
He pointed out the porthole. “Now, madam or miss, do you see my clipper ship flying the French flag? We’re privateers sailing under a letter of marque from His Majesty, King Louis XVI of France.” He grinned, when the frown knitting her brows deepened. “We are, however, Americans, sailing from the island of Jamaica. I am Captain Jay. My lieutenant, Lambert, is with me.”
She lifted her chin, and her lovely lips softened. “I am Abigail Welch. Can you help me get to Spanish Town?”
“I’ll be glad to take you to that port, but we must abandon the Marigold before she sinks. Will you come with us?”
The woman took a deep breath and pointed. “My trunk—the large brown one there in the corner—can you please have two of Captain Donavan’s crew fetch it?” She moved toward the destroyed entrance.
Joshua caught a worried look from his lieutenant standing in the corridor outside.
He turned to the woman. “Ma’am, you must prepare yourself. The deck is not a pretty sight. Captain Donavan and all his crew, I’m afraid, are...no longer.”


When Abigail came up on deck in front of the two men, she gasped and her hand flew to her mouth. Tears welled in her eyes and tumbled down her cheeks. Poor Captain Donavan and his men lay strewn about where they’d fallen. Blood streaked the tilting deck, and a terrible coppery odor permeated the air. Unable to catch her breath, she stumbled.
The man behind her who called himself Captain Jay grabbed her elbow in a firm grasp. She resisted to no avail. Was he a British privateer or a murdering pirate like those who’d attacked the Marigold? She meant to remove her arm from his forceful grip, but her knees trembled and gave way.
He caught her and lifted her as if she were fluff. Her cheek fell
against his solid shoulder, and she breathed in the man’s scent of sea and spice. A frenzied thought skittered across her stunned mind. God help her if she’d fallen into the hands of a murdering pirate.
Then blackness enveloped her like the heavy widow’s weeds she’d discarded before leaving Charleston.

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