Beloved Warrior Read Online Free PDF Page B

fog? He barely allowed himself that hope.
    Minutes went by, then more. It had never been as quiet on the rowing deck. No movement. No rattling of chains. No snores of exhausted men.
    Then he heard the familiar question at the grate. “All well?”
    He nodded to Diego, who called out in his native tongue, “ Si. All is well.”
    Patrick’s shoulders tensed in anticipation. He heard a key turn in the lock on the grate and the loud groan as it opened.
    He should be nothing but a shadow. The blacksmith was just out of sight, behind the ladder. Diego stood next to the blacksmith. MacDonald was in the aisle seat on the last bench, which was adjacent to the ladder. His head was bowed as if he slept.
    There should be four guards. Patrick, Diego, MacDonald and the blacksmith would each take one. And they would have to do it without making a sound.
    The thud of heavy footsteps indicated the approach of the relief guards coming down the ladder. “Where’s the lantern?” asked one of the guards as he reached the bottom of the ladder.
    “Just went out,” Diego replied softly as he grabbed the first guard around the neck, cutting off any outcry, and pulling him into the dark.
    The next was handled by the blacksmith, who broke the guard’s neck with a twist of his massive hands before he dragged him away from the ladder. The third guard came down, unaware of the fate of those who had gone before him. His loud grunt was unexpectedly covered by a loud makeshift coughing fit from an oarsman on the bench. The last was halfway down when he apparently realized something was wrong. He had started to call out when Patrick seized him and wrapped the chain binding his wrists around the guard’s neck. A quick twist and the man was dead.
    He felt nothing for the guards, and for the first time real hope stirred in him. Before he had nothing to lose. Now he had everything to gain.
    In any event, there was no going back now. Not for any of them. In the dim light of the one lantern, the other oarsmen realized it, too. Those who had agreed to fight were already on their feet, but now others were standing as well, grabbing anything they could to defend themselves.
    Patrick donned the cap of a Spanish guard and poked his head out of the grate. Elation filled him. Fog eclipsed most of the ship. A few oil lamps cast enough light to see forms moving, and he could hear the routine shouts of orders.
    Maybe there was a God after all. He’d just been hiding these past eight years.
    He could not see the helm from his position. Probably the first or second officer was at the wheel. Whoever it was should be weary now.
    His leg irons had been struck but others had wrapped theirs with fabric ripped from the shirts of the slain guards and worn blankets, hoping—nay, praying—it would quiet the sound of iron clanking on the wood deck.
    He gave a sign with his hand then moved out onto the deck. He waited in the shadows until the Scot and Spaniard were behind him, then each moved after their predetermined targets. Patrick would work his way forward. Diego would go to the right, and MacDonald to where he was needed.
    Patrick had tied the cutlass from one of the dead guards to his waist with a piece of a worn blanket. He held a dagger and moved with the shadows toward a sailor who was working on a knot in the lines. Again he used the chain that linked his wrists to break the man’s neck.
    He heard the start of a cry to his left, but it was cut off, and he hoped the wind carried it back toward the sea rather than toward the helm. Then he heard a whistle from the Spaniard. Another sailor down.
    Two other shapes materialized in the fog. One sailor had obviously heard something and turned toward Patrick, a dagger in his hand. He was ready to throw it when he was taken from behind. In another second, he died, stabbed by his own weapon. To Patrick’s astonishment, Denny stood over him, a smile on his face.
    Another movement. Peering through the fog, he saw a sailor