William scanned the dark waters with his spyglass. Miles farther south than where he should have found Audacious, fear gripped his innards that Ned had skirmished with Shaw and the ship had been damaged…or worse. He reminded himself that they could have passed each other in the dark. But the echo of the ships’ bells carried far distances over open water—and he’d set Ned’s course himself. If Ned had obeyed his orders, they should have come bow to bow hours ago.
To his left the sky began to lighten. Dawn would bring with it a better chance at finding Ned and reassurance that he would not be sacrificing Charlotte by going after Shaw to rescue Julia.
Activity in the forecastle drew William’s attention away from the horizon. A midshipman ran aft, skidding to a stop near William’s position on the quarterdeck. “Lieutenant Gibson’s compliments, sir. The forecastle lookout spotted something, sir.”
William barreled past the lad. He composed himself before speaking to the junior-most lieutenant. “Report.”
“Sir, the topman reported seeing masts over that ridge.”
William eyed the cliffs off the larboard bow. Their height blocked him from seeing anything from the deck. He tucked his spyglass under his belt and heaved himself onto the shroud. Halfway up he remembered it had been many years since he’d been in the practice of climbing the shrouds regularly. But he plucked up his reserve strength and made it to the platform at the mast top. He gathered up as much air in his burning lungs as he could when he gained his feet. “Where away?”
The sailor pointed just beyond the foremost peak of the ridge. William raised his glass. There, against the dusky sky, three upright beams. Masts or something built atop the cliff?
The three upright structures moved. Yes, indeed. Masts. But whose?
William descended the shroud as fast as he dared and then made his way astern to the wheelhouse. “What is our position, Mr. Ingleby?”
The sailing master held his lantern over the chart on his table. “Near Negril, sir.”
Negril. A town reported to be one of Shaw’s favorite haunts.
“Commodore Ransome, the other ship is setting sheets and braces.”
Whoever they were, they were preparing to sail. “Hold position here. Let us find who they are before engaging.” The last thing he wanted was to open fire on Sister Elizabeth, Shaw’s flagship, and have Julia injured during the battle.
The eastern horizon burned with light beyond the tops of the craggy cliffs before the unknown ship sailed out of the inlet beyond. With Alexandra’s sails fully furled, William prayed the still-dark sky behind them would provide a measure of camouflage and hide them from the view of the unknown ship.
Their position put them at such a distance away that William needed his largest telescope to make out the lettering on the back end of the frigate. Sister Mary. Shaw’s secondary vessel. Not the one carrying Julia.
“Loose sheets and set course to intercept.”
The officers relayed his commands and the crew of Alexandra leaped into action. Moments later she caught the wind and lurched forward.
William kept half of his attention on the smaller ship ahead and the rest split between the wheelhouse and the leadsman measuring the depth of the water below them.
“By the mark, twenty,” the leadsman called, indicating the sea’s depth to be twenty fathoms, more than one hundred feet. Comfortably deep for Alexandra’s twenty-two feet of draught, but that could change quickly this close to land.
“Commodore, she knows we’re following,” called Lieutenant Blakeley. “She’s loosed all sail.”
“Then I suggest we do the same, gentlemen. Clear for action and run out the guns.”
His lieutenants showed their agreement by going to their areas to relay the necessary command. With the topgallant canvas spread, Alexandra leaned into her course like a thoroughbred racing for the next fence in a steeplechase.
“By the mark, seventeen.”
William returned to the wheelhouse and leaned over the chart where the sailing master and his mates marked the ship’s position.
“Shallow shoals coming up quick, Commodore. Frigate has a shallower draught than we do.”
“I am aware of that, Master Ingleby.” William traced his finger around the deep water at the edge of the shoals. Though Alexandra currently gained on the frigate, Sister Mary could put an insurmountable distance between them if she entered the shoals.
William returned to the quarterdeck. “Lieutenant Campbell, are we in firing range?”
“No, sir. A while longer yet.”
A while longer and Alexandra faced running aground. William’s body vibrated with anxiety, making it almost impossible for him to stay in one position.
The sun had risen several degrees above the horizon before Campbell called, “In range, sir!”
“By the mark, eight.”
William turned to face the wheelhouse. “Hard to starboard.” He spun around to face the left side of the ship as Alexandra careened to the right, angling her larboard armament toward the pirate vessel’s stern.
“Fire as you bear!”
With Sister Mary’s back to Alexandra, William had the advantage. The two long-nines mounted on the lead ship’s back end could do little damage to Alexandra’s thick hull.
Alexandra shuddered with the recoil of dozens of thirty-two pound cannons firing together. Sister Mary heeled as it too turned to starboard. Smoke billowed from the aft section where many of Alexandra’s cannon had struck, but rather than running for open water, with the advantage of a faster ship and a slight lead on Alexandra, the pirate ship turned completely about, coming back toward them, all the guns on its single gun deck run out and ready.
“Starboard battery, fire as you bear. Take cover!” William ducked behind the gunwale bulwark as grapeshot showered the quarterdeck. Below his feet, Alexandra rumbled with the firing of her cannons. He ventured a look over the side. Cannonballs from Alexandra’s much larger cannons pounded into Sister Mary’s hull.
Crouching, William made his way to the starboard carronade cannon on the forecastle. He leaned over and sighted along it. “Chain shot. Raise her ten degrees.”
“Aye, aye, Commodore.” The gun crew hastened to obey, loading the two cannonballs linked by a chain and working to raise the barrel.
“Gun ready, Commodore!”
“Run ’er out.” William sighted along it again and then took the gun lock’s lanyard in his hand and moved back, to be out of the way of the cannon’s recoil. He pulled the cord and the cannon bellowed, spitting its double shot toward the enemy.
He straightened, watching the shot arc over the water between the two ships. The chain shot found its mark, crashing into Sister Mary’s mainmast. With a horrifying crack louder than any cannon blast, the fractured mast snapped under its own weight, heaving the frigate almost onto its side before the mast broke in two.
William’s crew cheered.
“Commodore, another ship, coming up fast!” Midshipman Kennedy bolted up the steps to the forecastle.
“Where away?”
“Six points off the larboard bow. Their guns are run out.”
“Commodore!” Lieutenant Jackson waved his hat as he ran along the quarterdeck. “Another ship bearing down on us. Four points off the starboard stern. They’re cleared for action.”
With Sister Mary crippled, he could have taken on one additional ship. But two? His pleasure in what looked to be a certain victory sank. The pirate ship blocked Alexandra from tacking for open water, and they could not turn back to larboard for fear of the shoals.
“Make the guns ready. We will give them all we have.” His officers scattered to follow his command, formerly smiling faces now set in grim lines.
The smoke from the cannon fire began to clear, allowing William a view of the ship approaching off their bow. He blinked to clear his eyes and ensure he’d seen clearly.
A British ensign was flying from the rear.
He did not have time to ponder the meaning before Sister Mary’s cannons opened on them again. Hot pain seared his right cheek and left shoulder. He ducked behind the carronade to avoid being grazed—or hit—by any more grapeshot.
William’s crew returned fire, the larger cannonballs ripping into the frigate’s sides and decks, smoke once again obscuring the scene.
More cannon fire boomed. From the other British ship?
“By the mark, eight,” the leadsman’s voice pierced the sounds of battle.
Doubled over, William made his way back toward the wheelhouse. Changing course while being fired upon condemned the men aloft to almost certain death or injury. But he could not allow his ship to run aground.
Jackson met him on the quarterdeck. “Sir, the ship approaching from behind—”
“And shallows ahead, Lieutenant. We stand a better chance against that ship than the shoals.”
“Aye, sir.”
In twenty-two years of service, William had never lost a battle. He gazed around Alexandra’s deck, thinking about the more than seven hundred men whose lives depended on the decisions he made now.
He needed to capture the captain of the pirate ship to question him about Shaw’s plans. He needed to rescue Julia.
But in this moment, he needed to protect the lives of his crew. “Cease firing. All hands aloft to take the sails aback. Move us away from the enemy ships.”
Audacious rattled and rocked from the enemy fire. Charlotte tucked a white shirt into tan pants and pulled the belt as tight as it would go. She didn’t bother with anything other than a simple knot for the neckcloth, thrust her arms through the holes in the waistcoat, and threw a coat on over it without bothering to button either.
She could tell by the men’s yells that many were injured, and being severely short on officers and midshipmen to oversee the gun crews, Charlotte knew what she needed to do.
With a dirk in its sheath at her side, she exited through the steward’s cabin and took the protected companionway in the wheelhouse down to the main gun deck. Though her crew was on the starboard side, currently facing the open sea and not the enemy, Charlotte scanned the crews manning the larboard cannon and saw young Isaac McLellan trying to command five gun crews by himself.
“Reload, quickly now,” she yelled, taking a position behind the three cannons closest to her.
The young midshipman turned around, mouth dropped in a shocked O. “Ch-Charlie?”
“Mind your gun crews, Isaac.”
A cheeky grin replaced the expression of surprise. “Aye, sir!”
The acrid smoke, deafening booms that thundered through her chest and rattled her bones, and yells of “Gun ready, Mr. Lott!” followed by her own yell of “Fire!” resonated in Charlotte’s heart like a symphony.
After several rounds Lieutenant Duncan’s voice echoed through the deck. “Cease firing. Prepare to board enemy vessel.”
Charlotte’s pulse pounded. She should return to the cabin. But…Ned. What if he was hurt? She ran up the stairs with everyone else, dirk in hand. The gun crews on the quarterdeck used grappling hooks and lines to reduce the distance between the two vessels, and as soon as they were close enough, lines were readied for the boarders to cross over.
She couldn’t see him, couldn’t find him. No, wait—Ned’s golden hair flashed in the sun on the deck of the other ship. Charlotte sheathed her weapon, grabbed a line, and with a running leap swung over onto the other ship’s deck. She landed off balance and fell, but she rolled onto her side to keep from hurting herself. Gaining her feet, she grabbed her dirk, ready to defend herself.
“You, there. Get below and search for prisoners.” Declan fought two pirates on his own with seemingly little effort.
Prisoners. Gardiner and Jamison and…Kent. Yes, they might all be here. “Isaac and you two”—she motioned to a pair of burly men from the gun crew she’d commanded moments before—“come with me.”
She turned and gasped. Several feet away a pirate leveled a pistol at her. But before he could get off his shot he went down, a red stain blossoming across his dingy shirt. Swallowing against the bile rising in the back of her throat, Charlotte moved forward and forced herself to lean over the dead man and retrieve his pistol. She’d never fired one before, but she might be better with it than with the long knife she carried.
“With me, men.” She forged ahead. Fortunately, the smaller ship had a similar design to Vengeance. She paused and peered around every corner before venturing forward as they reached the lower levels of the ship. More fighting happening on the main gun deck. No prisoners.
Down to the orlop, then.
She tucked the gun under her belt at the small of her back and grabbed a lantern from a nearby post before continuing down one more level. A stench unlike anything she’d ever breathed met her when she reached the bottom of the companionway. This boat needed a good cleaning.
Everything on this, the ship’s lowest level, seemed to be abandoned. The storage area for lines and cables, the food repository, a few dank cabins, the hold for the water barrels. Water swirled around her ankles. One of the ships firing upon Sister Mary had damaged her below the waterline. The thick oaken decking blocked out most of the noise of the continuing fight above.
So where was the sound of yelling coming from? Charlotte paused to listen. “Forward. Someone’s there.” She splashed through the rising water toward the bow of the ship.
“We’re here! In the bilge! Officers of His Majesty’s Ship Audacious.”
“Lieutenant Gardiner?” Charlotte used what remained of her voice to respond to the disembodied and familiar voice.
“Yes! Please hurry. The water is rising. He’s drowning.”
“Keep calling out so we can find you.”
“Lieutenant Gardiner, HMS Audacious, commission date 16 March 1809. Born in Shropshire, 22 June 1790. First ship, Hampstead, served as a volunteer. Second ship, Valmont, served as a midshipman…”
Charlotte followed the sound of Gardiner’s voice as he continued naming all the ships on which he’d served. She rounded piles of broken down barrels and—
“Oh, thank the Lord.”
If it hadn’t been for his voice, Charlotte would not have known Gardiner. Both eyes were swollen and his face bore the cuts and bruises of a severe beating. Jamison was in much the same condition, though his red hair glowed in the candlelight. She handed the lantern to Isaac and used her dirk to cut through the ropes binding Gardiner to an upright support beam of the grating holding the scrap wood and metal in place.
“No, help him first.” Gardiner nodded toward another support beam. Charlotte took the lantern back from Isaac and raised it. His face half in the rising water, Kent lay slumped over, held partially upright only by the rope binding his hands to the beam. He looked dead, but then the swirling water splashed over his mouth and nose and he sputtered and coughed.
Charlotte motioned to the two sailors who had come with her. She handed the light to one and motioned the other to crouch down beside her. “Hold his head up.”
Kent, who had dried blood tracks from his temple and nose, opened his eyes. He blinked several times. “Lott? Am I dead?”
“No, you’re not dead. Not yet, anyway.” She sawed at the rope.
“But you’re dead.”
“Not quite.” The fibers gave way under the blade, and she reached up to uncoil the rest of the length.
“You’re a girl.” Kent closed his eyes again.
Isaac and the two sailors stilled and stared at her. Gardiner and Jamison, who probably could not see much through their blackened eyes, turned their faces toward her. “Don’t try to speak, Mr. Kent.” She glanced over her shoulder, continuing to work at loosening Kent’s rope. “Lieutenant Gardiner, where are the rest of the men?”
“The rest?”
“Aye, sir. The other midshipmen and sailors who were with you on the launch.”
Gardiner shook his head. “It’s my fault. Only a few of us survived the initial assault. They fished us out of the water. I refused to answer the pirate’s questions, and he dragged me out on deck where he shot the other four men—two midshipmen, two sailors—right in front of me.”
The last loop of rope holding Kent captive came loose. He flung his arm free and knocked Charlotte back. She lost her balance and landed hard on her backside in the water, at least two feet deep now.
“I won’t be saved by a girl!” Kent flailed his arms.
Charlotte crab-crawled backward to stay out of the range of Kent’s fists. Though still eyeing her suspiciously, the sailor who had held Kent’s head up and kept him from drowning subdued him.
She returned to help Isaac finish freeing Gardiner and Jamison.
“Mr. Kent, sir, if you don’t be still, I’m going to have to cuff you one to make you still…sir.” The big fellow’s threat finally quelled Kent.
The second sailor handed the lantern back to Charlotte and then looped Lieutenant Gardiner’s arm around his shoulders.
Charlotte and Isaac, both smaller than Jamison, did their best to support him. Thankfully, of the three, Jamison seemed the most ambulatory. By the time they reached the companionway, the water was up to Isaac’s chin and Charlotte’s chest, making it easier for them to support Jamison but harder to move forward.
“Anyone below?” Wallis’s voice ricocheted off the rising water.
“Yes, sir. Coming up with rescued prisoners,” Charlotte yelled. “We’ll need help getting them up to you.”
Wallis, Duncan, and four others appeared through the opening at the top of the stairs. Charlotte, whose arm shook from holding the lantern high enough to keep the water from dousing the candles inside it, gladly relinquished Jamison to one of the sailors.
Duncan held his hand out for her, but as soon as she came into the half light of the gun deck, he loosened his hold on her forearm and she started slipping backward, her hat falling off and floating away in the roiling flood.
He rectified the mistake quickly and hauled her up. He pulled her away from the others, leaning over her, studying her face. “I don’t believe it. It isn’t possible.”
“Please, Lieutenant. No one knows.”
“Mrs. Cochrane, why are you here, dressed like this—like Charles Lott? That’s why the pirate ship signaled us with that name. You’re Charles Lott. But you’re the captain’s wife.”
She clapped her hand over his mouth. “Please, don’t say anything. Charles Lott is dead. He died at Barbados of yellow fever.”
He pulled her hand away but lowered his voice, leaning toward her. “Then how will you explain your presence here? How will you explain to the three men you rescued, and the three who helped, that the person who saved them is dead?”
She shrugged. “A ghost? I’ve heard stories—”
Duncan snorted. “You know those stories aren’t true. And the men aren’t stupid.” He straightened. “I will take you to Captain Cochrane.”
“I’d rather return to Audacious.”
Duncan pressed his lips together, but before he could respond another yell came from above.
“Alexandra is cleared for action and looks to broadside Vengeance. All hands, return to Audacious and prepare to intercept HMS Alexandra!”
In the melee of getting back to Audacious, Charlotte managed to lose herself in the crowd. She could not get back into the cabin through the main door. The marine guard would not let her pass unless she identified herself—not a good idea dressed as Charles Lott, soaking wet, and smelling like something left to rot in the gutter from the filthy water in Sister Mary’s orlop. She would have to enter the same way she exited.
She sneaked through the milling crew to the door into Ned’s steward’s cabin. She cracked the door open and peeked in. Empty. With a sigh of relief, she slipped in and cut through the small captain’s galley to the door of the sleeping cabin.
Pulling off her sodden coat and waistcoat, she pushed the door open—and yelped.
Ned stood in the sleeping cabin, dressed in nothing but his trousers and boots. His shirt and waistcoat, both bloodstained, lay crumpled at his feet. His surprise quickly gave way to suspicion and anger once he realized what she was wearing.
She started to apologize, but he stopped her with a raised hand.
“We shall speak of this later. Right now, I have more pressing issues.” He pulled a voluminous shirt over his head. “Clean yourself up, put on something more appropriate, and, above all else, do not leave this cabin again.” He stomped through the door into the day cabin, calling for his steward.
Charlotte pantomimed touching the brim of her hat, now lost. “Aye, aye, Captain.”
But even through her bravado, shame gnawed at her. Not only had she put herself in jeopardy, she had revealed herself to several officers and crewmen. If word got out about Charles Lott’s being a woman, Ned’s knowing and then marrying her, and then Charlotte’s dressing like a midshipman again to participate in an action, Ned could be court-martialed. He could lose his commission or even be discharged from the Royal Navy.
She dropped the coat and waistcoat atop his ruined clothes. Ruined. Yes, she had ruined her reputation by rash and foolish actions. Now she might have ruined Ned’s career, his life.
Why couldn’t she learn to think before she acted?