The Swashbuckling Yarn of Milady Vixen (5 page)

Vixen kicked a stout-bellied Marine betwixt the legs and deliberately ran him through the heart. She spun in place, dodged another bayonet and dropped her spent weapon. Stabbing her attacker in the shoulder, she drew her other pistol and shot him point blank between the eyes. This empty firearm joined its brother on the deck, and Vixen spun a whirlwind of death with her sword. Hate sang in her heart, men died with a quiver on her blade, and with each spurt of blood, just a little more vengeance washed at the edges of her family’s dishonor.

Wild fury took hold. Thrust, parry and dodge, she dropped three more men before her compatriots could gain a foothold on the now slippery deck. Awash with blood, the footing became treacherous, but her wide hips and perfect balance never failed her. Rushing up the stairs to the poop deck, she ducked just as the vessel’s captain aimed a pistol at her. There was a woofing crack and shriek as the shot missed the top of her head by two inches. Slashing with her narrow blade, she parted his hose just above the knee, turning the lily-white material crimson. Jabbing out with all the might of her shoulders, she pierced his groin and twisted.

“Son of a dog!” she screamed. “Take that!”

Tearing the point of her rapier out of his crotch, she stabbed him in both shoulders, rendering them numb and useless. Vixen kicked away his remaining pistol and laughed heartily in his stricken, red face.

“Mercy!” he blubbered past trembling lips.

“Never!” she shrieked.

A quick flick of her wrist and he sported a scarlet parody of a grin just below his chin.

Yes, I know, Violet had some issues she really needed to work out. Therapy hadn’t been invented yet, so this was the best she could do. So don’t judge her. Okay?

“We yield!” the first mate said, dropping his cutlass and raising his hands.

Ginger Tom soon joined her on the poop; the Marines now lay dead and staring at the sky with unblinking eyes. She noted with a brief moment of sorrow that five of her mates were similarly stretched out upon the gory boards.

“Nice fight, aye, Vixen?” Tom chuckled.

“Not bad, but the cowards surrendered too quickly for my taste,” she commented with a snarl.

“You are quite a mistress of battle—like some pagan goddess.”

“M-Milady Vixen?” the captive said in astonishment.

“What did you call me?” she growled.

“He said,” Tom repeated, “Milady Vixen. By the blood spilt, no better nickname could you own.”

“Milady Vixen,” she said with a smile. “I could take to the sound of that.”

That was how she got her infamous moniker. Soon the seafaring world would tremble at the very mention of her name. On that bloody deck a legend was born.

Standing at the wheel, she took a lungful of air; savoring the salty sweetness of it, she watched the ship sail past the dock. Just beyond where the hawsers had been tied, her mother waved goodbye, arm-in-arm with the former master of the vessel. As she pulled her gaze back to the horizon, the newly rechristened vessel—and its renamed captain—headed back out to sea. The brigantine sported a new flag flying atop her tallest mast, a red fox’s head with its jaws agape biting into a crown. Along the prow of the eight-foot privateer, the crew had lovingly carved the name
The Sea Fox
, and this same crew had sworn upon their sword hilts to serve her faithfully. Or at least until she proved unfit for command, whichever came first.

“’Tis a fine day, is it not?” Her new first mate grinned.

“Why, Ginger Tom, I cannot find it in my heart to disagree with ye.” She smirked. “I have a lusty crew, a wind at my back and a good ship under my boots. What more can a girl ask for?”

“Where are we headed?”

“I have business with the King of Effingham. I feel we should tug his whiskers a bit by sinking a few of his smaller vessels. I heard the fluets are running this time of year betwixt Gaston and Effingham.”

“No doubt escorted by a schooner or two.”

“Aye, but where be the fun without the risk, Tom?”

The redhead just laughed.

Just a brief note, so you understand a bit of this nautical jargon. A fluet isn’t something you play with a drum accompaniment. It’s a ship, a three-hundred-ton cargo vessel with two masts. It was a cheap vessel to build and often carried a crew of twelve or more. A schooner, however, held up to seventy-five men and carried cannons, and was a typical fast prowler of the waves. But back to our tale, before I bore you with such technical details and you lose interest.

“I don’t mind tugging Effingham’s beard, but there’s a prize on your head already. Or have you forgotten?”

“I aim to get it raised to some indecent amount ere they catch me.”

“You’re dicing with the Devil, you know. We make one slight mistake and we’ll all be fitted for hempen halters.”

That means a hangman’s noose; just thought you’d like to know.

“We can outmaneuver the schooners or just pour enough shot into them to send them to the briny deep,” Milady Vixen said. “Nothing worth having isn’t worth a little trouble, aye?”

“Trouble can be avoided, Vixen. Seeking it out is a foolhardy enterprise.”

“You never stop worrying about me, do you?”

“Of course not; I owe you my life, don’t I? A poor coin I’d repay you in if I didn’t try to bash some sense into that thick skull ye have.”

“You say the sweetest things.”

He blushed to the roots of his already red hair, and this made Vixen laugh even harder. Laying a hand upon his shoulder, the new privateer commander eased some of his discomfort.

“Come, let us not tarry, for booty awaits us.” Milady Vixen laughed.

* * * *

I will not bother to tell you the red-handed deeds and rude battles that occurred during the next six months. However, suffice it to say the newly christened vessel quickly became the scourge of the seas. In a scant half year, the very name and flag of the
Sea Fox
struck bone-rattling fear in every honest sailor’s heart. The tales told by the survivors—for Milady Vixen left enough to do exactly this—made the blood run cold in the telling. Most captains, seeing the red fox’s head upon the snapping banner atop the main mast, simply struck their colors and gave up their cargos. Stories of the commander of the
Sea Fox
never failed to exclude the hatred she bore toward those who sailed under the Effingham flag.

“She is cruel as she is beautiful,” one mariner stated. “A bit of poisoned chocolate you cannot resist.”

Vengeance is a fine thing, but often those gripped by it will take it too far. The red mist of righteous indignation can cloud the vision like the blinders on a horse. Too often men and women ride willy-nilly down this cruel road only to find there is nothing but death awaiting them at the end.

Foreplay on the Forecastle!

The two ships rocked and rolled against one another like two lovers embracing at the height of passion. The creaking of the wood, the thudding of their sides against one another and the snapping of their sails sounding across the water were like the cries of a lovemaking couple. Above this all, overpowering this lovely sound, the rude din of battle was roaring.

Upon the forecastle two pirates stood back-to-back, locked in mortal combat, keeping at bay the dozen determined red-coated soldier-mariners armed with cutlasses, sabers and bayonets. Their opponents were not so obliging. Muskets roared, spitting out smoke and lead. The screams of the dying and the hoarse shouts of the victors rang out everywhere. The dark-skinned woman’s rapier flashed like lightning, while her companion’s cutlass crashed like thunder. Bright blood flew through the air to splatter hotly onto the deck.

“One more prize,” Ginger Tom yelled without looking. “What harm can it do?”

“Shut up and fight,” Milady Vixen snarled at his sarcasm.

Flicking the tip of her blade through the eye of a lunging Marine, she grinned in a feral manner. Her foeman hit the deck hard with a thump, and blood splashed onto her black boots. She was in her element.

“I told you this was a trap!” the first mate stated.

“Can we pick a better moment for this conversation?” she answered tightly.

The pirate craft had spotted a fat prize from the ports of Gaston wallowing through the waves and pounced upon it like a cat does a mouse. However, once bitten into, the taste wasn’t to the eater’s liking. Like Queen Anne’s cherries, what had squirted forth from the cargo hold wasn’t what the pirates had expected. Rather than a terrified and craven crew, the
Sea Fox
’s
hardies had discovered the ship, like the aforementioned candies, held a hidden surprise. This cargo ship was overflowing with seamen.

Are you blushing? Dear me, child, it’s an expression—what a dirty little mind you have! I pray you to quell your reaction. All better? Very good; let us continue.

Two secreted squads of Gastonian Marines quickly laid low a goodly portion of milady’s cutthroats, and now the struggle was both epic and desperate. The rapid boarding and even quicker fight that had been at the forefront of the pirates’ minds had turned into a grisly reality. In short, Milady Vixen’s reputation had bitten her on the hindquarters. Whether or not they would survive the injury had yet to be seen.

The red-coated soldiers had them hemmed in good and proper when monkey cannon upon the poop deck shocked all into silence and statue-like poses. Beside that small weapon a dandy stood, stroking a long, curling mustache like he was surveying some grand ball at court.

“Hold, all of ye!” he sang out in a manly tone. “Put up your arms!”

Lowering her needle-like sword, Milady Vixen stared at this strange being as if he were some sort of mythical mermaid. Her rogues moved like sleepwalkers toward the forecastle while the red-jacketed Marines picked up, loaded and trained their black powder weapons upon the stumbling lot. Wiping her rapier on a dead man’s coat, Vixen rammed the weapon home in its sheath.

“I do say we have caught a princely prize,” the man shouted. “Setting our trap, I would never have thought our bait would attract the most bloodthirsty of buccaneers.”

He strode off the poop, down the stairs and toward Vixen’s position. Graceful, he walked as if he had not a care in the world, safely waltzing in his stronghold.

A floppy hat sat at a comical manner upon the deep black curls of his head. A pair of long, strange feathers trailed behind it. His long, sharp face was white, not from a lack of sunshine, but a thick powdered dusting only broken by a pair of red-rouged cheeks. On either side of his abnormally long nose peered a pair of crystal blue eyes that twinkled with a strange amusement. His frilly white shirt, deep blue captain’s coat and shining brass buttons looked as prim and well kept as ever a dandy’s would. His long legs were encased in golden knee-length breeches with a pair of silver buttons marching down the sides. White hose and polished black buckled shoes completed his ensemble. A slender and overly ornate blade rode on his left, while a silver chased flintlock pistol was stuffed into a red sash that squeezed his middle.

“Who is this strutting peacock?” Ginger Tom inquired.

“By the mother who bore me, I know not,” she replied.

“By Aphrodite’s rosy cheeks, I do believe we have ensnared none other than Milady Vixen.” He chuckled.

“And who would you be?” she queried.

“Me? I am the Marquis de Poste.” Saying so, he gifted her with a mocking little bow.

“A Gaston noble?”

“Quite so.”

“Why would you bring such a sudden halt to our enjoyment?”

“We had hoped to capture another member of your brotherhood, but instead find ourselves with a more interesting catch.”

“You have a proposition for me, I take it?”

“Hah!” The Marquis de Poste laughed merrily. “You see to the quick of things, milady.”

“Divulge your mind to us, and I will see if we can strike up an accord.” Vixen smirked.

“Vixen, are you mad?” Tom hissed at her.

“Crazy like a fox.”

“Would the lady and her accomplice join me in my stateroom for a brandy?” the gentry-mannered man asked.

“Lead on, Marquis,” she said with her own bow.

If Vixen thought the Gastonian nobleman was overly decorated, his attire paled in comparison to the splendor of his cabin. Ermine-draped chairs, ornate crystal decanters and bottles of expensive vintages were contained within. Taking a seat in front of the pair of privateers, the white-faced man stuffed snuff-laden fingers under each nostril and gave a deep sniff. Vixen put her boots up on the table, just to see if she could annoy the pampered gentlemen. He ignored her.

“It has come to the attention of His Majesty, Louis IV, the monarch of Gaston that our biggest competitor on these seven seas would be most vexed by a further loss of cargo from their vessels. Since His Majesty wishes to gain supremacy in the marketplaces across the world, he has endowed me with the power to provide certain documents to sea-wolves like yourself,” Marquis de Poste stated in a lofty tone.

“Ye be offering the likes of us Letters of Marque?” Ginger Tom gasped out.

“Of course. A more likely ship than the
Sea Fox
could not be found, for I hear yon Milady Vixen is gripped by a particular and violent humor when it comes to those flying the banner of Effingham.”