Beloved Warrior by PATRICIA POTTER

the mutineers know how to sail the ship? Would it shatter on rocks, or would they sail until all aboard died of thirst? Would she and Carmita die far sooner? Or would they suffer an even worse fate at the hands of desperate men?
    Juliana sat down on the edge of the bed and tried to think. Carmita would not eat unless she did. Perhaps an ordinary activity like eating would calm the young girl.
    “You sit as well,” she instructed Carmita. “You must eat with me.”
    “I cannot, senorita,” Carmita said in a horrified voice.
    “We are here together,” Juliana said. “We must both be strong if we are to survive.” The boy had brought them a jug of wine as well as cheese, fruit and bread that had not yet acquired mold. It had acquired some bugs.
    Juliana pushed aside the bread and took a piece of cheese. She nibbled on a small piece while thinking about what could be done. There was always a chance that when they did not arrive on schedule, the Earl of Chadwick would alert outgoing ships to look for the Sofia.
    “What will they do to us?” the girl asked, as if reading her mind.
    “If they meant harm they would already have done it,” she tried to assure her young companion.
    “The tall man frightens me,” Carmita said.
    “El diablo,” Juliana whispered. He had frightened her, too, although he had protected her when the ship was first taken. He had killed her uncle without any regret.
    “The Spaniard . . . he did not seem too . . . fierce,” Carmita ventured hopefully.
    Juliana wished she could agree. Despite his indifferent courtesy, she sensed the same barely restrained violence in him as she saw in the fearsome Scot. There was something about the Spaniard’s control that frightened her even more than the Scot.
    And could anyone really control the crew? There were many barrels of fine wine aboard as cargo, along with a cheap wine for the crew. She shuddered. She and Carmita were the only two living witnesses aboard a ship full of drunken mutineers.
    THE wind increased through the late afternoon. By evening they were caught by a gale. The ship rose and fell as the untrained sailors tried to strike the topsails and raise the storm jib.
    Controlling the ship was becoming more and more difficult. Diego returned to the helm and took over. “Do you know how to handle the sheets?”
    “Aye, I used to,” Patrick replied.
    “I know this sea and its weather,” he said. “I smuggled wine from France and lace from Spain.” He paused, then added with a slight smile, “French wine is far better than that Spanish swill. Apparently, the English are just as uncivilized in their tastes if they are buying from Spain.”
    Just a bit more information than Diego had offered earlier. Patrick knew enough about trading to agree, but he was far more interested in the fact that Diego probably knew these waters better than he did.
    A blast of wind hit the sails and the ship listed before Diego was able to right it.
    Patrick looked upward. Bulbous clouds sped across the heavens, eclipsing the stars. A squall of rain struck several furlongs off the bow, and they were running toward it.
    He felt the first drops of rain, then the water came down in torrents. One sail tore partly loose and flapped in the wind.
    He had to tie it down before they lost it. That meant climbing the mast.
    He’d hated climbing into the crow’s nest when he served aboard one of his father’s ships. It was the first time he’d been terrified. But he had to do it to prove to the rest of the crew that he was not just the owner’s son.
    It had been calm that day.
    Now the ship tossed violently, lurching from one side to the other as the sails swung out of control. He could well be flung into the sea.
    He started climbing, never looking down. He clung to the rope, ducking once as the sail swung against the mast, nearly toppling him. He continued to climb.
    Rain and wind whipped at him. The ship heeled to port. He hugged the mast with both arms to keep from