Meeker, of the Morning Watch, found Nathan dozing on the stowed mizzen stays’l. The vibrations of shroud and mast at his back announced Meeker’s approach well in advance, but Nathan jerked and rumbled at being disturbed, nonetheless.
“This better be good,” he said, darkly.
Meeker poked his head up over his canvas nest with the timidity of a dormouse. “Mr. Harrier’s compliments and duty, sir. Sail, larboard bow,” he added with a hesitant gesture.
Nathan rolled a fraction to peer over his shoulder. They had been running under courses, jibs and stays’ls these days to keep pace with the Griselle—following and watching, following and watching—so he had an unobstructed view. He grunted in consent. There was indeed a ship, hull up, its sails glowing pink in the first rays of daylight. It stood between the Morganse and the Griselle, the latter’s spars no more than pricks on the horizon.
“Crossed us in the night, eh? Seems I’m to assume it was only the blind members of the Watch what weren’t sleeping?” Nathan said with a malignant eye at Meeker.
It was an unfair criticism. Had every man on duty had the vision of Artemis, the ship’s resident owl, they mightn’t have seen the vessel; lamps doused and under the cover of darkness, with a skulker’s moon to boot. In all likelihood, the interloper hadn’t seen the Morganse, either, for she traveled under the same condition. That a good number of those on duty had been taking a caulk would have come as no surprise either, for there had been blessed little else to do. Neither sheet nor canvas had been touched for nigh on to three days.
“Very well, away with you then,” Nathan said, flapping a hand. He was keenly aware why the lad had been sent to fetch him. The name said it all. To curse out that innocent was to curse a kitten.
Nathan slid down a backstay, landing on the quarterdeck a little heavier than he would have wished. From the corner of his eye he saw the afterguard sidle away, the helmsman leaning. His mouth twitched. There was the possibility—a vague one, mind, but rumblings had been overheard—that he mightn’t have presented himself in the best light these days since Cate’s abrupt and unseemly departure.
Aye, well, misery appreciates company.
From the leeward taffrail, he fixed his attention on the distant ship, still hull up from the deck, but barely. “Fall off another point, helm. Let’s keep her as cozy in our lee as you were as a babe at your mum’s tit.”
The directive required the hands at the waist be stirred from their lassitude common with that hour of the day. Harrier, the Master-of-the-Watch, herded and goaded them to the tacks and braces in a night-watch voice.
As Nathan considered the interloper, Kirkland, the ship’s cook, brought coffee, the steam curling in the cool morning air. It had been days since he had ate or drank at the cabin’s table. It was damned difficult to go in there long enough to prick the charts. Cold and as uninviting as a crypt it was. Though increasingly nearer, the vessel was yet too far to see much. A brig—no mistaking those fore-and-aft sails—a large one, long, low and heavy. Not a merchant, nor packet, he thought as he sipped. It sailed with too much intent, too much purpose.
Mr. Pryce, still frumpish with sleep, appeared at his elbow. They watched as the brig finally spotted them. With her topmasts swayed down, the Morganse’s reduced profile had allowed her to see the brig before she was seeable. The brig wavered and then settled on a course for the Griselle.
“If I were that fine specimen of a captain, Mr. Pryce, I would choose the lesser of two evils: attack the one I out-gunned and out-manned, strike hard, put a prize crew aboard, and then with my now doubled force, attack the other.”
Pryce, nodded. “‘Tis a fair assessment.” With that West Country rumble of his, he sounded like a half-drunken bullfrog of a morning.
Nathan closed one eye in further consideration. “The fly we might toss on that ointment is to hit him while he is first engaged. We might could turn the tables, making it two against his one.”
Pryce glanced skyward, measuring wind, water and distance, as Nathan had been doing since Meeker had wakened him. “Tis a long shot.”
A long shot, indeed, but therein laid the flaw in the brig’s plan. The brig might gain the weather gauge on the Griselle, but with every chain length the Morganse drew nearer, the brig would be further in her lee. Every tar worth his salt knew nothing good happened in the lee.
Opting to take the Griselle first meant surrendering the advantage. Apparently the brig’s captain planned his ability to out-sail and out-maneuver the Morganse.
“Not bloody likely,” Nathan said aloud. “Sway up the topmasts. No sense to be had in ducking our heads now. Let fly all she’ll bear. Clear for action!”
A rousing “Huzzah!” broke from the crew. Hodder bellowed down the hatches with a fervor which probably woke Neptune himself. Three bells sounded. Nathan glanced at the sky and winced. ‘Twas an ill omen to send men into battle on empty bellies.
“Bid the men they’ve two bells in which to breakfast or it will be hot broth else,” he called to the bosun.
As the crew scurried, Nathan stared at the brig and smiled faintly. They had closed enough to see her flag. Most vessels reserve their bunting, flying only when the occasion allowed, but this one flew the blue and white flag with the abandon of knowing if hard use destroyed it, another would be readily available. She flew her colors for all to see… and know… and fear. The ensign was a veritable calling card: Breaston Creswicke, Governor, Royal West Indies Mercantile Company.
Nathan’s smile tightened as he scratched the brand on his palm. It was a parasitic itch as if Creswicke had wormed under his skin. Being killed by a stranger was a disquieting thought. It doomed a man’s soul to be haunted for all eternity to wonder. There was a certain comfort in knowing your enemy. The brigantine’s captain was but a tool, an extension of Creswicke’s arm, a falcon sent by its master to kill. The Griselle, Thomas and all aboard were about to be swept up for no other reason than to become another tool.
“I’m over here, you sodding bastard.”
“Beg, pardon, sir?” said Somers from the helm, startled by his vehemence.
“Nothing. Nothing,” Nathan said under his breath, but then shouted, “On the foreroyal, look alive, you ill-begotten arse-pimple! Mr. Harrier, hoist the colors! Let’s allow yon creaking hulk ponder on the hell about to be bestowed upon her.”
Another cheer erupted, this one throaty with blood-lust, as the Morganse’s black and white flag bearing its winged skull broke from the backstay. Nathan watched the brig as the Morganse shook off her lethargy, the water soon racing down her sides.
We’re coming, Thomas. Just hold fast.
Running like a war steed with the bit in her teeth, the Morganse ate the waves, while her people made ready for battle. The bells sounded, but to little effect, for it was all-hands. It was a familiar drill, one performed seemingly time out of mind: clearing the decks, readying the guns and preparing the ship.
Arms chests were roused up. The boarding party selected their weapons, as per each man’s preference: cutlass, hatchet, boarding axe, pike, billhook, hilbred, poleax, or hook. The high screech of metal against a grindstone filled the air as Petrov and his mates set to work, for every edge required brightening.
Cate would have been in her glory.
Looking aft, Nathan could see her sitting on her little stool, a basket of honing oil and stones at her feet, the men gathered round, waiting their turn. He closed his eyes and shook his head.
No time for that now.
In the meantime, muskets were oiled, flints reset, and then bundled and swayed up to the sharpshooter posts in the rigging, along with powder horns, shot bags and cartouche boxes. When the sparks of the grindstone were no longer present, the powder room was unlocked. The powdermonkey march with cartridge cases began, MacQuarrie and his eight-man crews attending their guns. A prickling in Nathan’s palm had foretold of trouble. In light of that, he kept the armorer’s mates and any other spare hand busy these days past at rolling cartridges until a good stock was to hand, every cartouche box filled. Still, too many was never enough. Those from the binnacle list who were able enough sat under a sun dodger rolling more.
The pumps wheezed as the hogsheads lashed between the guns were filled with water. The decks were being wetted, for fire was an omnipresent worry, especially with all the gunpowder being toted about. Water splashed Nathan’s legs as he paced. Every grain of sand sifting through the glass grated his flesh as if it were a holystone. Finally, he shot up the shrouds to the foretop. There he eyed the chase, measuring, looking for a tendency of mind or hesitancy in seamanship, that small edge or weakness which might tip the scale.
“She’s the Bristol,” Bandai finally said from his post on the maintop when the finer details of bow and stern could be seen.
“Aye, ‘tis how I make her, too.” Nathan didn’t need to see a sternplate to know her. Said to be fresh off the stocks, she was new to these waters, but he had seen her a few times.
“French-built?”
“Too damn right, with those lines,” Nathan mused.
The French did love a design. Their vessels were always lovely to behold; weatherly and fleet as a gazelle on a bowline. Good guns too, though the French were never ones to worry their crews with drills. However, today would find an English captain on her quarterdeck, for Creswicke could never abide a foreigner in his flock. The cocked-hat would bring different standards, different appreciation of the value of drills. The question was whether said captain had the stomach for blood and the heart to sacrifice his ship in order to gain it.
The capering for an advantage over the Griselle had cost the Bristol dearly, for the Morganse was closing fast. The question was if she would arrive in time to rescue the Griselle. The Griselle ducked and darted, but her square-rigging was no match against the brig’s handiness. She was under-gunned and under-manned, too. If word-of-mouth was accurate, the Bristol boasted only twenty-four guns, not counting her chasers, but they were twenty-eight pounders, compared to the Griselle’s sixteens, the Morganse’s too, for that matter. The Bristol’s timbers had to have been at their breaking point to carry such weight, let alone withstand the shock of firing over three hundred pounds of iron per salvo. But then, a vessel’s longevity wasn’t Creswicke’s worry. Still, the difference wasn’t only in poundage, but distance, too, the range of the Bristol’s guns was half again of either pirate vessel.
The smell of burning tubs of slowmatch curled up from the deck. Like an intoxicant, it filled Nathan’s head and rendered him drunk with eagerness to be in the fray. MacQuarrie’s crews stood at the ready, shirts off and sweatbands tied around their heads.
“At your pleasure, Master MacQuarrie,” Nathan leaned to call down. “Let’s give ‘er a couple calling cards, lest she forget who’s bearing down on her.”
The Morganse was still too far for her guns to have an impact, but a bit of smoke-and-bang would hearten the crews and warm the barrels.
“If she gives us her stern one more time, we can send a little present to that captain,” Nathan said to anyone listening.
It was no sooner said than it came to pass. The chase’s stern didn’t present itself square on, but it was enough of a target to suit MacQuarrie’s fancy. The bowchasers fired. Both shots found their mark, the first directly through the stern gallery. The second bounced off the water and angled through the curved glass.
Slipping ever further downwind, the Griselle yawed time and again, angling her chasers and aftmost guns. Her shots found their mark—Nathan and Thomas had always believed in a hundred weight of powder well worth the price for a well-drilled crew which could fire with frequency and accuracy in any conditions—but missed the Bristol’s vitals. Finally, the Griselle clewed up, squared like a boxer in a ring, and let fly her broadside.
The gunsmoke enshrouded the two ships until only their spars showed. As the Morganse raced toward them, the two hammered away point blank, yard-to-yard, the gun flames of one nearly licking the hull of the other. Being to leeward, the wind carried most of the sound of the battle away, but Nathan could still catch the occasional cheer of gun crews, at seeing their charge hit home or cries of the wounded. Seeing the flash of flame licking the smoke pricked his senses, the thud of the guns reverberating in his chest. His blood began to race, for he knew the hell being visited upon those decks. Flesh and bone were no match against iron and shattered wood.
Goddamn it to hell, Cate was over there, in the thick of it, ducking ball and sliver, whilst he sat on his arse watching. Surely, Thomas would have had the sense of a goose and sent her to the hold.
But she doesn’t listen, does she?
The Griselle took her hits, but dished them out in equal fashion. At length, the Griselle’s foremast went by-the-board. It toppled onto the Bristol’s foredeck, draping it in canvas and blocking the guns there. Water, tinged pink with the blood running her decks, gushed from the Griselle’s scuppers. She was pumping hard, taking on water fast, laying at least a strake, perhaps two, lower in the water. It was only Thomas’ sheer will power which kept her afloat.
Suffering Jesus on the cross, this sitting and watching helpless was insufferable!
Her foremast gone, taking on water fast, the Griselle grew heavier and more lethargic. Her sails sagging and then backing, the Bristol drew alongside and the boarding parties were away. Nathan swore under his breath, for now the Morganse was handcuffed. He had meant to send canister down the Bristol’s decks; hundreds upon hundreds of musket balls and langrage tearing through canvas, wood and flesh could be quite demoralizing. To do so now, however, would mean shooting into Thomas and his men.
The Morganse’s helm was to bring her up on the Bristol’s stern quarter, yawing now and again for a broadside, sending chain at the tops, and double-loaded and low for the hull. It was a delicate maneuver. If, due to wind, slippage or the random wave, she was to come in too low, she would miss the Bristol altogether, the lee was the only thing waiting for her there. If the Morganse came in too high, near amidships, she opened herself to the full effect of those 28-pounders.
The Bristol operated under none of the Morganse’s constraints. She opened her larboard port lids and fired at the Morganse, the guns sharply angled in their ports. The broadside had to have been more to impress and dishearten rather than damage, for the Morganse was still too far astern for effect. The shots splashed well ahead, one skipping off the water and careening out of sight. The pursuant salvos from the Bristol were sporadic after that. The Morganse still had her teeth, however. She aimed high for the Bristol’s rigging and low at the waterline, while her sharpshooters beat the crews from her guns.
Nathan’s fist curled until the cords in his arm burned. It would be hand-to-hand combat on the Bristol and Griselle now: hacking at the enemy before he did it to you; slogging through blood and severed limbs; the air too thick to breathe with smoke and the stink of pierced gut, and men shitting themselves.
He grabbed a shroud and shot down to the deck.
Almost time.
A dram was passed for each man in the boarding party. Brave they might be, but every spirit could use that bit more heartening. On the Morganse, however, there was no lashing of hatches, scuttles or grates, as many a ship did, for no man dared break and run under fire. The wrath of his deserted mates made facing the hell of battle far more agreeable.
Nathan lifted his own drink to his lips, but lowered it, untouched. Rum hadn’t answered these days since; ‘twas little reason to believe it would do so now.
To the zing! of pellets ripping past, the crack of wood, the twang! of cables parting, Nathan went to his cabin to reload a brace of pistols and slip an extra knife at his back. His sword was flung aside, for it would be of blessed little use in close fighting, and slipped a dirk nearly as long as his forearm into his baldric. Snatching a cutlass from the urn by the door, he went out.
It was going to be a bloody day.
As Nathan made his way forward once more, he felt the Morganse shudder at the Bristol’s abuse. He paused to grasp a shroud.
Have heart, darling. It shan’t last long. We’ll deal those bastard’s a final blow and have done with this.
On the f’c’stle, the boarding party clustered. Against the crackle of sharpshooters and the bark of the bow’s swivel guns, Nathan elbowed his way through the nigh on to a hundred men to the rail to where Pryce stood.
“You can stand down, Mr. Pryce. I’ll be leading this one.”
Pryce swung around, his gargoyle-like mouth gaping. “But, Cap’n, this isn’t…”
His voice faded at seeing the strip of black cloth tied about Nathan’s upper arm, as did all the boarding party. No further words were passed, but the looks from the boarding party said it all. He was the captain; he needn’t join in this. It was his privilege to remain aboard his ship.
He returned their grave gazes with one of his own. He didn’t need to tell them Mr. Cate was somewhere over there. He didn’t need to tell them what was to be done about it.
This was personal.
He felt more than heard a piece of flying metal zip past. Within an arm’s reach away, he heard a gasp, and a man fell. Shortly after, a passing splinter took his hat. He gripped and re-gripped the cutlass, heavy in his fist, vibrating with the need to be away, the need for action, the need to kill. Filled with a morbid dread which threatened to turn his bowels to water, he shifted his feet to be sure they weren’t glued to the deck, for they certainly felt that way.
Dammit to hell! He was no virgin. He had boarded ships before hair sprouted on his balls.
He considered it might have been wiser to drink the dram of rum he tossed by the board. A cold sweat trickled between his shoulder blades, not in fear for himself, but fear of what he might find on the Griselle. Had the Bristol taken her? Or had Thomas prevailed? He wasn’t sure if it was wishful thinking or reality which prompted him to fancy the latter. When his blood was up, Thomas could make a bull seem genial.
The bosun’s mates stood with grappling hooks and lines at the ready. The Morganse’s elevated forecastle served as it was intended: a raised platform for sharpshooters and swivel gun to beat the Bristol’s gun crews from their posts. The brig’s low profile allowed a fair view of her deck. Thomas’ men were still clustered along the far rail, their blue armbands separating them from the Bristols. Squinting against the bits of wood peppering his face, Nathan strained to see to the Griselle, but smoke and dangling wreckage blocked his view.
Nathan’s heart hammered like a beat-to-quarters drum as the Bristol’s stern neared. He checked the pistols at his waist once more and then braced for the lurch, for a hard landing it would be. A sixth sense, earned through years of fighting, told everyone on the forecastle to duck behind the rolled hammocks wedged in the quarter netting. The canister pellets still murderously plucked the air when Nathan sprang up on the rail and cried “Away!”
With a shrieking roar, known to cause many an enemy to instantly give over, the Morgansers leapt the gap to the brig’s taffrail. They burst from the smoke of the simultaneous musket barrage onto the quarterdeck. Some boarders swung over from the yards, while others poured across the sprits’l yard. In a clash of steel, Morgansers and Bristol’s met.
Slash. Gouge. Kick. Hack.
Nathan gave himself over the Red-Eyed Beast: kill or be killed. It was like stepping aside and watching through another pair of eyes. A single swipe took a man’s arm, a hand from the next. He pulled off at the last minute at seeing a blue streamer on the arm of the next, one of Thomas’ men. Spinning on his heel, he nearly cleaved the next in half. Each one was just one less obstacle between him and the Griselle.
The roar of combat reached a new pitch as did the shrill cries of the injured and dying. From all around came the meaty slap of blade—cutlass, ax, hatchet or knife—finding flesh. He heard the bass-voice of a blunderbuss firing and the staccato crackle of muskets. A ball tugged his shirt as he slipped time and again in the blood, now running out the scuppers.
He was nearly halfway across the deck, scrambling over a tangle of wrecked rigging, when he felt the tide of battle shift. In the face of a two-sided assault, the Bristols fell back to the bow and stern, or skulked below hatches. Not every man had a heart for blood and thunder. Every battle had its ebbs and flows, but this one had the feel of being in its dying throes.
“The Captain’s down!” The cry came from somewhere on the Griselle.
Spurred with new urgency, Nathan murderously dispatched the next hapless soul which got in his way. At some point he had drawn his dirk, defending high with his cutlass, then cutting low with the smaller blade, gutting his opponent.
Sweat stung his eyes, half-blinding him. As he swiped it away, he was grabbed from behind. An iron-like hand seized his chin and savagely twisted it aside in preparation to slit his throat. The body against him jerked and fell away. Nathan spun to find Maori grinning as he braced a foot on the brute’s body to jerk his blade free. Chin stood a few strides away. Nathan signaled them to follow and leapt to the rail, grabbed a sheet and swung to the Griselle’s deck.
He landed lightly, cutlass poised. What fighting remained there was on the forecastle and afterdeck, Bristols who refused to give over, either out of pride or being too caught up in the fighting to realize else. From the moment his feet touched the deck, he was aware of the ship’s unnatural feel, heavy and lifeless. The planks under his feet twitched like a horse’s skin at a fly.
Not much time.
The gunsmoke had dissipated, hanging in isolated wisps in protected nooks. For seemingly time out of mind, he had seen the aftermath of battle, but on a doomed ship, it was particularly grisly. The Griselle’s people streamed toward the rails, making shift to unship either their wounded mates or whatever else they could seize. He pushed his way through the shattered rigging, snarled shrouds and tackle, and past blank-eyed stares of the dead, demanding “Where is she?” of every man he met. Time and again, he received no more than shrugs and uncomprehending grunts, most apparently having no English.
“Tach!!” he growled with a frustrated swipe and pressed on to demand of the next “Where is she?”
A bellow caught his attention. Distorted with agony as it was, he would know Thomas anywhere. Nathan found him, swearing vehemently as he was hoisted up to a sitting position. Thomas looked well enough; the front of his shirt bloomed red, but he hadn’t been knocked in the head, and his limbs were intact, aside from one leg dragging oddly. Pale and sweating as he might have been, Thomas was far from Death’s door.
“Where is she?” Nathan demanded.
Jaws locked against the pain, Thomas could only jerk his head toward the companionway below. Nathan eyed the inadequate-looking souls trying to hoist him onto their shoulders and bid Chin and Maori to give a hand.
Nathan raced below, plunging into water nearly to his knees at the bottom of the steps. He started for the companionway to the hold, but drew up sharp at seeing the passage filled with roiling water. He slapped down a surge of panic. Even if Thomas had failed to get Cate on deck, as soon as the water reached her knees, she would have had the same sense as the rats to get out of there, he thought, watching a flotilla of red furry backs swim past.
Unless…?
He slashed at a rat with his cutlass.
Unless not a goddamned thing!
A niggling voice in his head taunted him with the possibility he had been too hasty. Cate might have already been seized and taken to the Bristol; he’d passed her by. The calmer voice pointed out Thomas just indicated she was below, there… somewhere.
Light streamed through two gunports now blown to double their size. Thank the gods, for it would have been as dark as inside Jonah’s whale else. Trapped ‘tween decks, the smoke swirled like the fogs of London. Where it hung high, headless men milled about. The lower down was even more nightmarish, the heads moving without the benefit of bodies.
He ducked his head under the low beams and slogged through the churning stew of buckets, trenchers, empty bottles, shattered wood, with a scum of blood, innards and bilge filth floating on top. He felt like a fish swimming upstream against the flow of men making for the companionway behind him. He clambered over a gun which had broken its tackles and lay amidship. Another, completely off its carriage, lay half-submerged, looking like a slumbering whale’s calf.
Imprinted in his mind was the vision of the Griselle, riding low and slightly rolled, the bow slightly elevated. A bubble of air might be trapped there.
Trapped…
He choked off the images which came with that. Cate could swim, aye, but to what end…?
Can’t be too late. Not yet, not now, not… like that.
He knew he was calling for her, for his chest constricted, his throat raw. The blood pounding and the desperate rattle of his own breath deafened him. It was just as well, his demands of each one were only met with a mute shake of their heads. Finally, so faint he almost missed it, a haggard man half-dragging another angled his head forward. Only then did Nathan notice the stream of men pushing past him, limping or staggering under the weight of their wounded mates. His heart strengthened. The dead, dying and pustulant was where Cate would be. She was like a fly to a dung heap.
Heart in his throat, he pressed on.
From forward, through the smoke, came the sound of Cate’s voice, ringing like a ship’s bell. There were no other women aboard, and he would know that voice anywhere, but he wouldn’t allow himself to believe it until he laid eyes on her. He sagged at seeing her, standing in the checkered light of a hatch grate. Her sodden skirts swirling about her legs, she was like a field general directing a campaign as she organized moving the injured.
Relief gave way to anger. Nathan slogged forward and snatched her by the arm. He was two or three strides dragging her with him before she dug in her heels and tried to jerk free.
“I… them!” Her mouth moved, but he only heard bits and bursts. Her meaning was clear enough though. She winced, and he felt the bones of her wrists grinding in his grasp. Damn right! He’d break her arm, if it would get her away any faster.
“They have their mates,” he shouted and pulled her along.
She dug in and yanked back with surprising strength. “…need help!”
“I’ll come back—!”
“No! I…!”
The ship groaned and shuddered, the water at their knees rippling. He squinted through the smoke toward the ports. When the sea reached the sills, there would be a torrent of water from which not even the rats could escape.
“Tach! Bloody hell!” He ducked down and heaved Cate up onto his shoulder.
Cate squealed in protest, kicking and cursing. Unsure if there was another companionway forward, Nathan opted to take the path he already knew, slogging half-squatted to clear the low overhead. He felt rather than heard the hollow thunk! of Cate’s head hitting a beam.
“Goddammit, get your head down or be knocked senseless,” he bellowed. At the same time, he considered how much easier it might be if she was. Dead weight, aye, but…
He slapped the sodden skirt from his face. The added weight of the wet fabric made it feel like he had a full-grown ox on his shoulders.
Christ, she would have never managed on her own, he thought as he pushed past a half – floating body.
Squealing, Cate struggled, pounding his back and kicking. Her elbow caught him in the ear hard enough to send pricks of light dancing around his vision.
“Belay that caterwauling!” He paused to slap her bum, regretting he hadn’t turned her skirts up first.
She squeaked in protest and her curses shifted to a more personal level. He’d seen his family tree. None of the creatures mentioned were on it.
Over the human shouting, Nathan heard a low rumble and felt the timbers groan. A dying ship gasping for breath. At last, a band of sunlight sliced through the smoke, marking the companion way. By the time he reached it, the water was over his knees. His legs and lungs burning as he climbed, he gasped in relief at spotting Maori and Chin waiting at the top.
“Get her to Thomas,” he said and dropped Cate into their arms.
Nathan stood long enough to make sure they were almost to the rail before he went back below. For the next while, he couldn’t vouch for exactly what he did. Time pressed, running out like sand through a glass. He was at every corner of the Griselle, making a final sweep of cabins, and above and below decks to assure every last man was away. Feeling the ship’s liveliness draining from her, he cajoled the scared and cursed the sluggardly, for one man’s dawdle could be another’s death. “Abandon ship!” caused a man’s mind to work in strange ways. Some thought only for themselves; a greater number put friends, pets—monkeys, birds, goat—or the ship before them.
The deck shook, nearly knocking him off his feet.
He thought it a wasted effort, but he bellowed down the hatches and companionways, nonetheless, cocking his ear after.
Nothing.
Nathan cruised the deck a final time, toeing bodies to assure none still lived. At the windward rail, he seized a sheet, but paused for a final look. God knew it wasn’t the first ship he had seen sink, but that made it no less heart-wrenching. There was nothing bleaker than a deserted deck, for a ship was no more than an empty hulk without her people. He felt Thomas’ anguish. He knew the pain of seeing his heart’s love perish, doomed to lie at the bottom of the sea for all eternity.
He touched his forehead in a final salute. “Use her well, Jones.”
And then he swung up and away to the Bristol.
On the Bristol, the battle was over. Thomas’ men were already setting the ship to rights, knotting and splicing, bending sails, and cutting away that which was beyond salvation. Most of the bulwarks looked like a bevy of enraged woodpeckers had their way with them. The carpenter and his mates would have little worry in matching the spindle and fret work, for there was precious little left to compare.
The lines grappling the Bristol and Griselle together were cast off and the sea room between them grew, first a biscuit toss, then a cable length, and then a speaking-trumpet shout. Nathan remained on deck to give the Griselle the final respects she deserved. Most of the hands stopped in their grim task, throwing the Bristol’s dead or unrecognizable over the side, and squaring things away—to do the same. Some doffed their hats, whilst others bent their heads or went through whatever motions their God required when asking for blessings to be bestowed. Whether those blessings were for the ship or the men she took with her, he couldn’t tell. When he returned to the Morganse, they would be sending their share of souls to join them.
It had been a bloody day.
There was no thrash or struggle. The Griselle went down with dignity. With a sigh of air through her seams, her forecastle and afterdeck disappeared. It was quick business after that. Her stump of a foremast dipped out of sight, then her mizzen. Her topmast, and then she was gone, with no more than a still patch in the waves and some floating bits to mark her grave.
Nathan found Thomas below in the captain’s cabin, or rather what was left of it. The crunch of shattered glass under his feet as he stepped over the coaming was a caution to have a care. The deck was a treachery of splintered wood, torn metal, furniture stuffing, scattered paper, and broken pottery. By some miracle, the chart table and the swinging lamp over it remained intact, although one would be pressed to find a chair in which to sit. Thomas was laid out on the table, his legs dangling over the edge, his feet nearly touching the floor. The width of his shoulders barely allowed room for a lamp at each side. Cate and an odious, Arabic Lascar-looking cove Nathan guessed to be what served as the Griselle’s sawbones stood over him. He was yet to meet a chirrugeon who looked worthy of working in anything the knacker’s yard.
A palpable chill in the room and Cate’s pointed disinterest told Nathan he could die of old age, before she was to acknowledge him. He did, however, catch her snatching glances toward him from the corner of her eye. A circle of wetness darkened the deck at her feet; she was soaked to the skin, but she was safe.
“My compliments to your gun master. He did a fine job of raking the place,” said Thomas, seeing Nathan eye the wreckage.
For Thomas’ benefit, he curbed his pride at MacQuarries’ handiwork, for his guns had done an admirable job of reducing the space to something which resembled a cooper’s shop as opposed to a Great Cabin. There were perhaps a half dozen intact panes of glass remaining out of its original triple score of the stern gallery, pieces of sash swinging with the motion of the swell. He had cheered when the cannonball had gone through the starboard quarter; a perfect hole marked the spot. Judging by the damage, it had ricocheted about, before coming to rest in the door of the convenience. A glance overhead showed the charts still cozily stowed between the beams. The gods of the sea had smiled there, to be sure. Chairs and windows could be rebuilt, but a good chart was irreplaceable.
Dashing the sweat from his eyes with a soggy sleeve, Nathan smiled grimly. “The captain here was so taken up with ending you, the cod-headed blighter forgot to give us a care. I could have saved your sorry arse sooner had you not taken him on such a merry chase half way to Campeche Bay.”
Thomas closed his eyes, his face contorting with pain. “’Twas allowing you time. I know how sluggardly that hulk of yours can be.” One eye opened. “The bastard seemed fixed on seeing us dead.”
“Old enemy,” Nathan said, looking to the floor.
A non-committal grunt was Thomas’ only response.
Nathan was wet as a whale himself, water pattering from every aspect. He needed a drink badly. Sadly, at first look, there was none to be had. Then he spotted a miraculous survivor sitting in what was left of a cabinet. He snatched up the bottle and took a long pull. It was Madeira or had been in an earlier life. Now, it was swill—the two or three trips around the Horn having done it no favors—and he drank it as if it were God’s milk. He handed it off to Thomas, who took an equal pull and grimaced, not from the pain. As Thomas handed it back, the doctor looked hopefully up from Thomas’ bloody chest.
Damn sawbones were always drunkards.
“You need a steady hand,” Nathan told him sternly and took another drink for himself.
The man blinked, uncomprehending. Apparently, he had no English, either.
Thomas lay rolling his eyes at the ceiling, considering his new vessel. “She’ll be a wreck, but at least she swims, allowing the pumps don’t give out. Always meant to have a go at these fore-and-afters.”
“Do you know how to sail one of these things?”
The corner of Thomas’ mouth quirked. He grunted at the needle plucking his skin. “Something about canvas and wind isn’t it?” he said dryly.
Thomas sighed, resigned. “Something smaller and quicker, and can point like a demon will be a welcomed change. The Griselle was past her prime, but the sod shot the heart out of her. May she rest in peace.”
Nathan lifted the bottle in salute and took a drink. Cate glared as Nathan allowed Thomas another, but said nothing.
Highly uncharacteristic.
All the while, Nathan played eye tag with Cate, now the width of the table away. Nearer and seen in the light, he could see she had shifted the new clothes seen on Nevis to her old ones, in anticipation of the blood and filth of battle, no doubt. From the corner of his eye, Nathan thought he saw something. His eye narrowed as he glanced… and again.
She was shaking. Nothing violent, mind, a slight tremor more like.
Cate clutched her fist in the folds of her skirt, hoping no one would see. She stiffened at feeling his gaze and glared defiantly back.
“Might you two turn each other to stone on another day?”
The sound of Thomas’ voice yanked Nathan’s attention away. He looked down to find Thomas lying on his back, eyeing the two of them. Cate bent to tenderly cup Thomas’ cheek and cooed some bit of nonsense in his ear. With a final cutting look at Nathan, she fixed with renewed determination on her task.
Thomas ground out another curse, far more vehement than a few stitches should prompt. He snorted at Nathan’s scowl. “It’s not the damn stitches.” He lifted his head to peer down his chest at the several inch gash there. “Hell, I could damn near do that myself. It’s my back. Something hit me; knocked me clean off my feet. Just breathing sets it off. It hurts like a sonoffa….!” His words squeezed as another spasm took him.
Nathan was in complete sympathy. He’d thrown his back out himself a time or two. A blade to the gut was more pleasant. It rendered one afraid they mightn’t die. Much to Cate’s displeasure, he handed the bottle to Thomas, bidding him to finish it.
“How does it look out there?” Thomas asked.
Nathan squinted one eye with the effort of recalling what he had observed on deck. “‘Peared to have sufficient rigging left standing to at least limp to that island to lew’ard. Tis a good place to lie to and repair.”
Thomas’ expression was more grimace than smile. “I’ll pass the word.”
The headiness of battle was wearing off. Exhaustion settled in, dragging at Nathan like the Griselle going to Jones’ Locker. His neck stung like a demon; the brute who tried to slit it must have come closer to success than credited. He flexed his right hand; it still ached after hard use. The Madeira eased the weariness, but had also left a small fire of false courage in his gut. Caution advised he’d best take his leave, before something untoward was said.
“Very well.” Nathan clapped Thomas on the shoulder. “The swell is rising, so we’d best break up this little tête-à-tête.”
Broken pottery grinding under his heel, Nathan turned to leave. A low-voiced, urging hiss from the table and the crunch of footsteps coming up behind him drew him to a halt short of the door. He turned to find Cate there. She retreated as if he had some dread disease.
“I’m not so much of an unthinking ingrate as to not realize that you saved my life and Thomas’,” she stammered. It was obvious she would far rather have hugged a snake than make that admission. She tugged at the side of her skirt to sketch a curtsey. “Thank you.”
Nathan waved her away, finding a smile somewhere in his weariness. “Self-preservation, luv. A captain has to be the last away. The sooner you were off, the sooner I could.”
She leaned a fraction forward, eyes sharpening on his neck. “You’re hurt.” It came more as a statement than inquiry.
He looked down at his shirt, smeared and spattered with blood, and shrugged. “‘Tis someone else’s.”
“You’re bleeding.”
She reached for his neck and he grabbed her arm, stopping her. He felt the fine subterranean tremors which coursed through her then.
Tension? Exhaustion? Fear?
Tach! Never saw the woman afraid of anything… or something else?
“I’m fine,” came through teeth bared a little more than he intended.
Cate jerked free and retreated a step. “It needs tending.”
By the coldness in her voice, he judged it would be the Lascar who’d do it.
“Rum will do nicely,” he said, equaling her lack of warmth.
She stiffened, her eyes hardening to the color of jade. “Yes, of course, how could I have been so forgetful? Rum is all you ever need. You’ll excuse me, Thomas needs me.”
She spun away in a whirl of sodden cloth.
Nathan’s knees began to shake. He’d best take his leave, or he’d soon be lying next to Thomas. He ducked a bow and headed down the passage, his legs wobbling to the point he wasn’t sure he could manage the ladder up.
As Nathan stepped on deck, a cheer went up. Flames engulfed the blue and white of the Royal West Indies Mercantile Company’s ensign going over the side. That would be his own men’s doing, he thought with a touch of pride, men what knew their captain and his wishes. Someone had the forethought to secure the Griselle’s red-and-black before she sank. It flew from the Bristol’s backstay now. Ordinarily, bunting would be saved from the elements, but the flag was a rallying call. The Grisellers were a crew broken but not dominated; they would rise to strike again. Any soul faltering could be seen glancing up, like a patriot with a wavering heart. The Bristol’s men, now prisoners, were poked in the ribs and bid to give the ensign its proper due, for it was either join the pirates or be cast adrift in the gig now riding alongside.
“Where be the ex-captain of this fine vessel?” Nathan asked.
“Dead thir,” reported Hallchurch through his bucked teeth. “Found ‘im below hatches. He’th over there, if you desire proof a’fore he goeth over the thide.”
Nathan grunted. ‘Twas a sad state of affairs. Ordinarily a captain could expect a less ignominious send-off to Davy Jones, but no help for it. A small voice told him he should go pay his respects, one captain to another. On the other hand, if the tables were turned, and it was himself lying there, he would have been hacked to pieces and fed to the sharks.
Running a tired hand down his face, instead he went back to his ship, where his attention was in sad need.