The "Mourning Dove" sailed bravely ahead of the gale, her canvas stripped to the main staysails and the spritsail to keep her before the wind. She labored up the rise of one mountainous wave to plunge heavily into the trough with a sickening screech as her timber bones flexed inside her oak planked skin. The loose ends of cables and sheets whipped against the masts and yards as the wind shrieked through the tattered rigging, the combined sounds the screams of a strong ship in her death throes. No man stood on the deck save two helmsmen and one mate, all tied to the mizzen with lines around their waists, and all three barely able to see the compass floating in the binnacle for the sheets of rain and spray that coursed the length of the ship. The rest of the crew huddled in the leaking foc'sle while the officers and passengers clung to life in the aft cabins of the vessel. Suddenly, with the sound of a musket blast, the fore-top mast was carried away, and as the main top stay grew taught, that mast too was consigned to the sea.
How the brave ship survived that night, no one of the crew could say, or would say. Each had prayed, repented, and promised his vision of the Allmighty that if allowed to live, he would begin life again in a more penitant manner, but none wished to display this weakness before his shipmates. She did survive, all the same, and daybreak found her floating on a calm sea, and the morning watch slowly making repairs. Thankfully, the spare spars had remained lashed to the channels, and new masts would be fashioned from these. The second watch was turned out shortly after breakfast, and clambered over the rigging. The Mourning Dove would win no race on this voyage, but she would make safe harbour on Tortola, and take time for permanent repairs there.
Morgan McGreggor had spent the hellish night huddled with Penelope in their small cabin. In her nineteen short years, Morgan had not experienced such fear as on that night, nor such excitement. While she knew the probable outcome of the storm, and had resigned herself to ending life as the virgin daughter of a Tortola sugar planter, she found she was alive with the storm, as if she could hear the laughter of nature at the pitiful ship that dared to challenge this, her most intimate of domains. She had heard the Captain say at dinner one night that the sea is a fine but dangerous mistress, and when one becomes lulled with her charms, she often strikes out in rage at this indifference to her. Last night, Morgan had heard the sea's song of rage, became one with it, and despite her terror, admired the sea for her strength.
Morgan was the daughter of a moderately successful businessman in Greencastle, and a beautiful, auburn haired maid from Dublin. Morgan knew her mother only from the description given her by her father, for Brenna McGreggor had given up her life to give life to her daughter; Brenna died of childbed fever a few days after Morgan's birth. John Morgan had often described his beautiful wife to Morgan, always saying that Brenna had been reborn in her, and indeed, Morgan wore the same shining, auburn tresses. Morgan had also matured with the same slender, feminine body John had loved, although he was too proper to reveal this to his daughter. With soft curves at hips and bosom that spoke of ripe womanhood and promised embraces of passion, Morgan would have been a prize indeed for any man fortunate enough to win her favor.
Penelope was a large breasted, full hipped woman of forty-odd years who had been employed as first a wet nurse for Morgan, and then as her permanent nanny. Penelope had been there when Morgan took her first steps, when she wept at the loss of her puppy, and when Morgan had become a woman. Penelope taught Morgan the ways of a proper lady, but unfortunately, had a taste for the grape, and in her less sober moments, also taught Morgan the ways of men and women in a manner not to be confused with the somber bed manners prevalent in 1666 England. Morgan did not ask the source of Penelope's knowledge, for a lady would not ask such a thing, but she was intrigued with the mental pictures painted by Penelope's wine-freed words and gestures.
Morgan's father had a penchant for investments considered by others of his profession to be less than adviseable and when offerred a small plantation on Tortola, he quickly purchased the property. John.left England in 1667, bound for the Virgin Islands of the New World. His fortune would be found in sugar and rum, and he left Morgan in the able care of Penelope with a promise to send for them as soon as the plantation was established. His plan was not to be realized. The letter she received in May of 1669 informed Morgan of her father's death, and her subsequent inheiritance of the plantation. With nothing to hold her longer to England, she made arrangements to sail in September. Penelope would accompany her as guardian and companion.
The Mourning Dove was a three-masted English merchant ship of thirteen-hundred tons burthen, and carried a cargo of supplies and trade goods for the planters of this latest British conquest in the New World. The weather had been good, both for sailing and for Morgan's daily walk around the deck. Penelope had been stricken from the first wave with an unsettled stomach, and spent the days in their small cabin, but she always admonished Morgan to cover her bosom with a handkerchief before venturing on deck.
"Morgan, my child, no man wants a woman with a freckled chest. They want a woman with a white bosom, pure as the snow in the mountains. Take care to cover yourself, dear."
The voyage had been enjoyable as Morgan watched dolphins race the Mourning Dove, riding her bow wave in obvious pleasure, and on one day, whales surfaced on the port side and kept pace for most of the morning. Morgan inhaled the sights, the sounds, and the smell of the sea as if breathing for the first time, and spent hours just watching the even swell of the surface. Then, ten days out of Tortola, the storm front was seen approaching, the Captain lowered sail in preparation, and the hellish night began.
When Morgan walked up the companionway into the sun, the ship was as busy with activity, both on deck and aloft, at least as busy as the weather-worn sailors could manage. Sailors above rove new rigging to replace that swept away by the fierce winds and hoisted spars to the mastheads and lashed them into place, while others on deck opened lockers and retrieved the massive sheets of snow-white cotton canvas in preparation for getting underway. By noon, the temporary rigging was in place, the mains hoisted to the jacks, and sailors were busily lashing them to the irons. In a few hours, the Mourning Dove would fly again.
The cry came from the main top.
"Sail Ho, off the port beam."
The mate on deck fetched the long brass telescope and trained it on the tiny speck of white that stood above the horizon. Morgan strained to see the colors, but the distance was too far without the aid of the glass. Still, she stayed at the rail, watching the white dot rapidly grow larger. Suddenly, the mate lowered the glass, turned, and walked quickly to the companionway. He was gone for only a minute and then reappeared, trailing the Captain. The Captain motioned for the glass, stared at the sail for a few minutes and then asked the mate to call all hands.
"The sail to port is a brig flying the black flag of a pirate. We can not outrun her with our temporary rigging, but we are more heavily armed, and can send her to the bottom if our resolve is firm and our aim is true". Then to the First Mate, "Mr. Lewis, get enough sail aloft to allow us to maneuver, then loose the gun tackles and prepare to fire."
