Free Beloved Warrior by PATRICIA POTTER Page B

said another.
    “You will have to take my word,” Patrick said simply. “It is all I have.”
    More translation. More mumbling among the crew.
    “We will have to work together,” Patrick said. “You will have to learn to sail. You will learn skills. There could be places on our ships if you need work.” He prayed silently that the Macleans still had ships. Or that the family, as he knew it, even still existed. He was making promises he might not be able to keep.
    He would solve that problem when he returned home. If he returned home.
    “I say we follow the man that freed us,” someone said in French.
    A translation, then a chorus of agreement.
    Felix was silent but Patrick saw the displeased expression on his face.
    “It will mean discipline,” he said. “I expect orders to be obeyed.”
    Heads nodded.
    “The first is to ration the food and wine. Some of you who ate too much are probably feeling sick now. Eat small amounts until your stomachs are used to food again. You can eat all you want the rest of your life, but you must be careful now.”
    A few reluctant nods of agreement.
    “You will often work as hard as you did on the benches. You may have to row again if we lose the wind.”
    He heard grumbling. “There is no other choice,” he continued. “I promise you that you will not row as slaves. There will be no whip. You will not be chained or forced. And, if we make it . . . you will be free.”
    The grumbling subsided and Patrick saw grudging acceptance.
    “Diego,” he said, indicating the man next to him, “will be my first mate. He looked at Felix.“The MacDonald will be quartermaster. Felix will be second mate.”
    Felix’s scowl gave way to a surprised grin.
    “Does anyone here know about stores?”
    A hand went up when the translation was made. It was a man of obviously Moorish descent. He was a man who had every reason to hate not only Mendoza, but every other man aboard the ship.
    “Choose someone and ration the food.”
    Felix stepped forward. “What do I do as second mate?”
    “Enlist those willing to work on the sails. We need men healthy enough to climb the rigging.”
    A few moments later, the men dispersed to perform various tasks. Diego glanced at Patrick. “Felix?”
    “He’s a leader. Better to have him on our side than his own.”
    Diego smiled. “This will be an interesting voyage, senor.”
     
AFTER Patrick satisfied himself that Diego could keep the ship steady and on the course he’d plotted, he went below.
    The women would be terrified. The older one was defiant but she hadn’t been able to hide her fear. The other, little more than a child, had obviously been struck speechless with fear.
    He told Diego to ring the ship’s bell if he was needed, then hurried down to the captain’s cabin. He found a bottle of wine miraculously overlooked during those first moments when the oarsmen entered. Clutching it in one hand, he went to the cabin that housed the women. Manuel and two other men sat cross-legged, playing dice.
    Manuel scrambled up.
    “Sit back down, lad,” Patrick said in Spanish.
    He knocked, then turned the knob and entered without awaiting an invitation.
    Mendoza’s niece—Juliana, according to Diego—stood defiantly. She had changed from the nightclothes she’d worn earlier. The gown was an elaborate one, a royal blue that made the most of her eyes. Another act of bravado. Of defiance. He saw the battle in her eyes now, making the violet rings even more startling.
    “Juliana Mendoza?” he asked the woman.
    “Si,” she said. “Carmita is only a child. I beg mercy for her.”
    He thought immediately that she had probably never begged before. “None for yourself?” he asked.
    “Would it do any good?” she asked in Spanish.
    “It might,” he replied in the same language.
    “You speak Spanish,” she observed.
    “Not by choice.”
    He saw by the way she flinched that she heard the bitterness in his voice.
    He saw himself in her eyes. Though he