acquired the name ‘Drum’ while serving in the King’s army as a drummer during the Civil War. He was Nathaniel Wylde’s most faithful and trusted friend, and he had been by his side for twenty years. Forced to leave England after King Charles’s defeat at Worcester, they had both been captured and served as galley slaves together, but Drum had not been on board the Dolphin, Nat’s ship, when she had been captured, owing to the fact that he had been on the Cape Verde Islands off the coast of West Africa visiting his Portuguese wife.
A line of suffering appeared around Cassandra’s mouth and Drum was touched by the grief he saw in her eyes, which were so like Nat’s. Execution Dock was not a place he had brought her to without qualms.
‘Don’t worry, Drum. He will not know I’m here.’
Cassandra was insensible to the bitterly cold November day and the stink of foul odours coming from the river as she strained her ears and eyes, searching the road for the cart that would bring the condemned man to this awful place of execution, until, at last, she heard the hollow rumble of wheels and it came into view.
It had crossed London Bridge from Marshalsea Prison on the south bank where, after Nat had been intercepted off the coast of West Africa by an English privateer, a heavily armed vessel licensed by the Admiralty to attack and seize the Dolphin, he had been confined for the past three months. Having been tried and convicted of piracy at the Old Bailey Sessions Court, and unprepared to confess to his crimes, Nat had been sentenced to hang.
The cart was in a procession led by the Admiralty Marshal on horseback. Cassandra had not laid eyes on her father for nigh on fifteen months, but she recognised him immediately. His familiar mane of silvery blond hair was like blazing sunlight on this dismally cold November day. A heavy growth of beard covered his usually clean-shaven face, and his skin, turned golden brown by many years at sea and hardened to the texture of leather, had paled after his long weeks of incarceration.
Cassandra pulled the hood of her cape further over her face and gripped it together across her mouth and nose so he would not recognise her when the cart came close, for he would not want her to witness his final degradation and humiliation. When she looked on his beloved face, scalding tears burned the backs of her eyes and she almost choked on a lump in her throat which she swallowed down, angered by her own weakness, for it was not in her nature to cry.
When the cart reached the river side he climbed out, followed by the prison chaplain who had accompanied him, hoping the prisoner would see the error of his ways and repent of his sins before the end. He was given the chance to address the crowd but refused. Fixing his eyes on the gallows he strode forward, giving everyone watching the distinct impression that he was as eager to depart this world as he had been to enter it.
There was a swagger to his gait and a carefree dignity, for as he had lived his life so he would meet his death, tall and unbowed, his pale golden hair flowing free like the dancing pennant of his ship, the Dolphin, and as imposing as a tall poplar clothed in shimmering leaves of summer glory. Villain and blackguard he might be, but at his moment of death he exuded an air of panache which could bring a macabre smile to the lips of even the most hardened, sanctimonious spectator.
A cold fury washed over Cassandra as she watched the ghastly scene being played out before her eyes. She was angry and frustrated by her inability to speak to him, to say goodbye. Digging her fingers into the palms of her hands, she heard the words of the chaplain reciting the prayers as he followed her father across the mud. She was insensible to the stirrings of the crowd, which moved like a storm-tossed ocean, as she watched her father climb the ladder and the executioner place the noose around his neck. At that moment she felt as if she were dying herself. Drum stood beside her, as immobile as a figure of stone.
‘Give him courage to show no fear,’ Cassandra whispered, her life and soul concentrated in her eyes as they remained fixed on the condemned man. ‘Let this soon be over.’
Nathaniel Wylde seemed not to hear the chaplain asking him to repent of his sins as his eyes did a broad sweep of the crowd, suddenly becoming fixed and intent on someone standing apart. His expression froze, but then his eyes narrowed and a slow smile curved his lips as he raised his hand in a courtly flourish of a salute.
Curiously Cassandra turned and followed the line of his gaze, wondering what it could be that had caught his attention and caused him to smile at the moment of death. She saw a man who stood alone, away from the crowd, shrouded in a black cloak and wearing a tall crowned hat. She could not make out his features, but she could see he was as dark as her father was fair. She felt a strange, slithering unease. The man had an air of command she had never encountered before, not even in her father. Everything about his manner warned her that he was an adventurer.
As if the man sensed she was staring at him, he twisted his head towards her. The meeting of their eyes was fleeting, and before Cassandra could take stock of his features he turned quickly and walked away with long ground-devouring strides. The man’s self-assurance was infuriating. Feeling the tensing of Drum’s figure beside her, she tore her eyes away from the man’s departing figure and faced the gallows—just in time to see her father swing to his death.
A violent pain shot through her and she turned away. ‘It is done,’ she said through her breath to her companion, whose pain was as great as her own. ‘This is the darkest day of my life. Come. Let us be gone from here. I have seen enough.’
Together they walked away from the river, away from the crowd, and, although her body still functioned automatically Cassandra walked with blind steps, for her father’s death hung all about her.
Drum broke the silence. ‘I must return you to Chelsea.’
‘No.’ The strangling tension in Cassandra’s chest began to dissolve, and she drew a long, full breath.
Drum halted his stride and looked at her sharply, warily, waiting for her to continue, sensing she had something other than the execution on her mind.
‘I don’t want Nat to remain hanging on that rope for the tide to wash over him,’ Cassandra said, her voice quivering with deep, angry emotion, ‘for the crabs to eat at his flesh, and then to be hung in a metal cage at some point in the estuary for the crows to pick at. When the water covers him I would jump into the Thames and cut him loose myself if I could.’
Drum paused and looked at the lovely, spirited, unhappy girl. There was such a fierceness about her that he didn’t doubt her words. ‘There’s nothing you or anyone can do for Nat now.’
‘Yes, there is, Drum,’ she said, turning to look at him, her features swept clean of sorrow and a decisive hard gleam in her eyes. ‘There is one last thing. There is still his ship—the Dolphin.’
‘The Dolphin has been impounded and is moored further up river awaiting her fate.’
‘Then you must be the decider of what her fate will be, Drum. Get her back—and then she is yours. Does that not appeal to you?’ she said forcefully, trying to infuse some of her enthusiasm into the lofty pirate. ‘Imagine it! That is what Nat would have wanted.’
Drum stared at her incredulously. ‘Forget it. It’s not possible.’
‘Not possible?’ Cassandra argued heatedly. ‘Why, Drum, I’m disappointed in you. Since when has anything been impossible for you? Come, now. Do not tell me your spirit of adventure has deserted you,’ she mocked, with a smile to take the sting from her words.
‘Me and my spirit of adventure departed company when I heard Nat had been taken,’ Drum grumbled. ‘Besides, where will we find the men to sail her? Half the crew who were captured along with Nat have
