Under the cover of darkness, the Lovely made her final preparations, ones which couldn’t be made in daylight and under the Gosport’s watchful eye.
Thomas paced the decks, passing the calming or encouraging word to his crew. Patience had never been his virtue; his mother and grandmother had lectured him long and often on that short – coming in his character. Curse and seize his soul, he dared them to bear up to this.
His men knew a battle was to hand, but only Al-Nejem had been trusted with the when and where of the Morganse’s arrival. The crew knew the plan was to rake the Gosport if at all possible, haul up and then board, and prepared as if it would be them and them alone. Out – manned and out-gunned: that small point seemed of minor consequence. If anything, it rendered them more determined. They had overcome worse odds many and many a time. He had bid the men to take a caulk, but precious few had. He couldn’t blame them, for neither could he sleep. His blood was already pulsing with the prospect of battle. Instead, he honed his blades, large and small. A scimitar replaced his long sword, a curved, brutish weapon meant for close battle, designed to gut one’s opponent with a single swipe. Pistol flints were reset and barrels cleaned for the loop of pistols he meant to wear around his neck.
For the hundredth time, he checked the wind, glass and sky in hope of change.
Nothing.
Still, as it stood, there was a vague hope that when the time came the aft mizzen might catch enough to swing the Lovely about, allowing her guns to rake the Gosport’s bow. Otherwise, as it stood now, only the bow chasers loaded with canister would answer. There would be nothing to be gained in trying to take out her rigging, nor drilling her hull full of holes. Chaos, blood and death were his goals.
“Aim for the decks. If we get the shot, make it a full broadside,” he told the Master-of-the – Guns.
When no one was near, Thomas patted the rail. “Just this once, ol’ gal.”
The Lovely’s knees were new; she could take it.
Timing was everything; he couldn’t show his hand until the Morganse was fully engaged. Any shots from the Lovely at that point would be thought as in support of the Gosport. The first few landing on the Gosport would be dismissed as wild shots; it wouldn’t be the first time a consort took friendly fire. By the time the Gosport grew the wiser, it would be too late: the Lovelies would have already boarded in the smoke.
In spite of the perfection of his plan, any fool knew things could always go wrong: errant wind, rogue wave, rigging giving way or crew going faint-hearted. There was little chance of the latter two; the Morganse was tight and weatherly as was her crew. As for the other matters, he wouldn’t put it past Nathan to somehow control that. His greatest worry was if something prevented the Lovelies from boarding. Unsupported, Nathan and his men could be walking into a slaughter. Cate would never forgive him on that one.
Thomas stood next to the foremast so as not to stick out like a sore thumb. Surely, the Gosport had an anchor watch and sentries posted, but it sure as hell didn’t sound like it. There was no need for a glass for there would be nothing to see in the pass, until the Morganse popped out from behind the headland, he thought, grinning into the growing dawn.
He looked off to the east where the Morganse would be making her approach. In the night’s stillness, he could hear the surf’s fury on the passage’s rocks and reefs.
God preserve him! The balls it took to sail that!
The thought of navigating that in broad daylight let alone in darkness, as the Morganse would be doing right then, made Thomas half-ill. Nathan always was the master navigator. He cast a glance skyward. The gods had been generous there, as always when it came to Nathan: clear skies, fair moon and even fairer winds. Still, he couldn’t help but worry: every sailor’s luck ran out sometime or another. All things considered, one might think Nathan had used up his good fortunes and a score of others long since.
Dawn was but a faint glow on the horizon when the match tubs were lit. Kept low and out of sight, the wind blew the sulfurous smell away from the unsuspecting Gosport. Cartridges were ready, the shot racks filled to overflowing. The decks were sanded, the fire barrels filled and splinter-netting rigged. Thomas went back to his cabin for his final preparations: the loop of pistols about his neck; an extra knife at his back; powder horns and shot bags slung over his shoulder. He paused to take a final look around as he always did. He might never see it again; life changed with the rapidity of a flint’s strike.
Maram’s puppy-like face loomed at the doorway.
“It’ll be well,” Thomas said in Arabic, as he always did before an engagement. He felt a twinge of regret at seeing the lad’s solemn nod, emphatic in his faith that it would be as his captain said. He tousled the curly black head as he passed, a good luck charm of his own.
Armed and arm-banded, Thomas stood among the boarding party gathered aft of the mainmast and out of sight. The air was thick with the stink of sweat, not of fear, but with the anxiousness of getting on with it. Waiting was the sailor’s lot: waiting for the wind to rise or waiting for it to abate; waiting to sleep; waiting to rise; waiting to eat, drink, piss… and fight. Now, they waited for the sun to rise and a ship to appear. The first was a certainty; the second was a wonder. No ship, and they stood down, to wait and fight another day.
The sunrise went through its phases as they had all seen it do since time out of mind. That day was unique, however, for rarely had it been this keenly observed and by so many. The sky went through a palette of colors which only an artist could have named, reflecting on their upturned faces, grim and somber. At last, the sun pulled free of the shimmering line of where sea and sky met, hot and bright, making them turn their heads a fraction against the glare. Shoulder – to-shoulder they waited with nothing but the occasional cough or shuffling of feet.
Squinting into the brilliance, it took Thomas a moment to realize what he saw, thinking he had been wishing for it for so long, his imagination had finally obliged him. The relieved sighs and low-voiced prayers from all around told him that, indeed, a bowsprit poked from behind the headland. He knew it as well as he knew his own face. The figurehead, bow, f’c’stle: each part of her which showed confirmed what he already knew:
The Ciara Morganse had arrived.
He choked back the cheer that rose in his throat. High celebration was for later.
In the blinding blaze of the rising sun behind her, the Morganse would be no more than a black silhouette to the Gosport’s guncrews. The sun gleaming through her sails made the red crowns pulse, the red edging looking like blood running from her decks. In spite of knowing the ship and her intent, his men still quailed at the sight.
Damnation, Nathan knew what he was doing when he added that!
The Morganse’s banner flew high on her backstay. Two red flags flapped below it as if one were insufficient to make the message eloquently clear: No quarter! If the Gosport had any notion of surrender, it was already too late.
The Gosport began to stir; word was passing. Apparently, at least one of her sentries had been awake. It was too little, too late. The guns flashed at the Morganse’s side as bright and hot as the sun. A fraction of a second later, the guttural retort echoed off the hillside.
A nod sent the boarding party forward and the sharpshooters aloft. Deep in the mass of men surging for the bow, Thomas stopped short of the foremast and lifted his face. He waited, just to confirm and then smiled. Good fortunes had chosen to be generous: the breeze had shifted, ever so slight, perhaps only a back draft off the hillside, but it was enough…
“On the mizzen, haul!”
The mizzen-jacks clapped onto the halyard, the sail up and catching before it was sheeted home. The Lovely stirred. Quick and handy she was; she’d sail on a handkerchief rigged on a shroud. He didn’t yet know her like he had known the Griselle, but he knew enough to trust her on this. One would be disappointed if they looked for her to run with the wind, but on this narrow beam, she could spin like a coin on a hogshead as pretty and graceful as her namesake.
The Gunmaster was an old salt; he’d felt the wind shift, too. His crews were at the ready, slow-match and swabs in hand. His eye fixed on the Gosport’s bluff bows, Thomas stood at the mainchains, waiting, waiting for the Lovely’s guns to come to bear.
“At your discretion, Gunner!” he called.
“Fire!”
Thomas waited for the smoke to clear, but he didn’t really need to see. The screams were enough to tell him the canister answered. The Morganse’s guns were already having their way with the Gosport’s stern. When her guns were silent, that would be his cue that her people had boarded.
The Lovely’s gun crews were fast. A second barrage was off before Thomas yelled “Capstan haul!”
The rhythmic stamp of feet of the men at the bars vibrated the deck under his feet. The kedge hawse rose from the water and tightened, the mizzen slipped to help push the ship’s dead weight forward.
Closer, closer, the Lovely’s bow inched toward the Gosport’s.
Thomas raced to the f’c’stle, ducking and darting through the men. A captain had the privilege of standing above the fray, if he so desired.
Not bloody likely.
This had been too long in coming. A great wrong in the world was about to be righted. He dodged an errant ball whistling over his head, shielding an arm against the spray of wood from a shattered rail. On the f’c’stle, he pushed his way to the rail. There he stood as the Lovely advanced at what seemed a turtle’s pace, gripping and re-gripping his sword until he could have well-worn a blister. The Morganse’s guns were still hammering away. There was still plenty of time.
The Gosport’s bow came closer and closer, the tip of her jib-boom reaching high overhead. The figurehead looked rounded-eyed and startled at the oncoming ship. The Gosport finally figured out what the Lovely was about. Her gunports opened and her guns ran out, but to little effect; the angle was too severe. Her bow chasers fired, instead. Grunts and screams came from around with the balls finding flesh, the air thickening with the smell of blood and death. Musketballs from the Gosport’s tops peppered the boarding party; an answering barrage from the Lovely’s tops sent them scrambling.
“On the next round, men! In the smoke!”
He braced against the collision, the two hulls coming together in a rumbling grind. Grappling hooks whirred, and the two vessels were bound together, until the death of one forced the other away. The Lovely’s bow chasers and fowardmost guns went off in a final salvo, and they were up and over the rail.
Thomas poised on the Gosport’s rail and then dropped down into the heaving melee of fighting men. Christ, there was barely room to raise a weapon. The Lovely’s canister had done its task; the deck was a butchery, strewn with bodies, limbs and shattered wood, blood already filling the scuppers. The smoke hung thick enough to render it nearer to night rather than day. Peering through the wafts, past the mainchains, he could see the Morganse grappled alongside. It looked like her guns had beaten the Great Cabin to wreckage. Heaven help whoever had been in there. It would be too cruel if Creswicke were dead already.
Thomas blocked a charging pike with an arm, a slash with his scimitar finishing the cove. Slipping in the blood, Thomas rode the surge of his men pressing aft. The roar of the great guns had given way to the screams and bellows of hand-to-hand fighting.
Carve. Cut. Slash.
Somewhere near amidships, amid the heaving mass of fighting, he spotted Nathan, wielding a hatchet in one hand and cutlass in the other. Like Thomas, he was surrounded by his men. Defend, attack, advance a few strides, then defend and attack again: Thomas made slow but steady progress toward him. Nathan gave the slightest of nods in acknowledgment when Thomas was finally near enough. He wore that fierce and fixed mask he always wore when in battle. Lithe and lethal as a cat, he made Thomas feel like a lumbering oaf next to him. Together they fought, Thomas engaging a man high, while Nathan cut him from below. Thomas emptied one pistol into the face of a Gosport. A second pistol from the loop was discharged into a belly, pistol-whipping the next with the butt. He tossed it aside and drew a third pistol in time to shoot another bearing down on Nathan.
He felt the rumble through the soles of his feet, then heard the whoosh! a fraction of a second before a wave of heat struck him. Fire, somewhere astern.
A blur of familiar color—like dark cherrywood—and a swirl of skirts caught Thomas’ eye.
Hell and corruption, it was Cate!
She raced toward the bow, two—Damn! No, three men chasing her, Creswicke close behind.
Nathan saw her at the same time and whirled around on Thomas, hatchet poised. “What the fucking hell is she doing here?”
Thomas fended off a bayonet swipe. “Goddamned, if I know!” For the first time, since he had vaulted to the deck, he was filled with unspeakable fear, not for himself, but for Cate.
Growling malignantly, Nathan altered his path, making his way after her, applying the hatchet and cutlass with savage efficiency. Both of them called to her, but to no avail. From the corner of his eye, Thomas saw Cate being caught by one of the trio chasing her. Those damned eyes gleaming as bright and fierce as a tigress, she whipped an elbow into his jaw and kept running. A few more strides and another snagged her by the skirts. Snatching up an arm-thick shard of wood, she sent the hapless cove sprawling.
Damn, who the hell taught that woman to fight? Forward, for the bow. That’s my girl!
To the Lovely was Cate’s the better route; a run for the Morganse would have meant pushing through the thickest fighting and directly into the flames. Hell, a deck battle could confuse even the heartiest; there was the chance she thought she was running for the Morganse.
Side-by-side and with singular purpose, Thomas and Nathan worked their way through the mass of men toward Cate: slash, punch, take a punch, stab, kick the body free of the blade, and move on to the next. Sweat and smoke stung his eyes. Seeing the armband on the next victim made him pull up short, a fraction before he bashed in a Morganser’s skull. A piece of Nathan’s braid flew past. All the while, in the back of his mind, Thomas wondered how in the hell Cate had wound up there.
The Morganse’s rallying call for retreat sounded. Shortly after, he felt the thunk! of axes severing the Morganse’s grappling lines. Fire was every sailor’s horror. This retreat wasn’t out of cowardice, however. So near to the burning stern, the Morganse had to break off or go up in flames herself.
Thomas clubbed one Gosport and then fired a pistol into the back of one grappling with Nathan. The pair drew up before a group of green-jacketed Companymen. They formed a defense ring around Creswicke, sword in hand, and another of his minions. Cate lay on the deck before him, his minion’s foot planted on her neck and a pistol aimed at her head. She looked half-dazed, cradling her arm, as if it might be broken.
Cursing, Nathan’s hatchet split the first green-jacket’s head, an upper cut severing the arm of the next. Thomas served out one, taking a blow to the head in the process. Enraged, he blocked the next strike and brought his scimitar down hard, almost cleaving the bastard at the shoulder. The rest of Creswicke’s defensive ring cut and run, leaving only him and his minion. Sweating and breathing hard, Thomas and Nathan drew up before them. Cate had taken her toll. The bastard holding her had a broken nose and bleeding claw marks down his cheek. Blood streaked Creswicke’s chin, and his sleeve was slit, the lace edging of his cuff dripping red.
“Any closer and she’s dead,” Creswicke shouted, raising his sword.
“You fucking bastard!” Nathan bellowed. “Step away and let’s have this out, once and for all.”
“Why? So, I might watch you snivel like a woman, as you did before?” Creswicke sneered.
Nathan’s mouth drew back in a snarl. “Shackles and a buggering will do that to a man. We’ll see what you do, when it’s your turn.”
The planks shook with another fire erupting. Powderhorns and unfired weapons went off like Chinese crackers as the fire reached them.
Thomas chuckled dryly as he glanced toward the flames. “You’re in no position to quibble, Creswicke. You’ll notice your options are about to burn out from under you.”
“I demand a boat and passage,” Creswicke said coolly.
“A passage to Hell is all you’re gonna get,” Nathan said in a haggard rasp. His chest heaved, whether from exertion or rage, Thomas couldn’t tell.
Thomas coughed and swiped the sweat from his eyes on his sleeve, vaguely noticing the blood on it. “Ha! To where? That island? We’d hunt you down within the day, if the wild pigs don’t get you first.”
Cate stirred at the sound of Nathan’s voice. She moved her head ever so slightly, in order to see him. She’d taken her hits, as well. Hair wilder than ever, her lip was split and a nasty scrape ran up her cheek. Her earlier fierceness was now dulled by pain. He could see now that the arm she held wasn’t broken, but out of joint. Her face was crumpled with worry, but damn the woman, she worried for Nathan. Her brows drew down, pleading for him to go away. The woman sure as hell didn’t know Nathan well, if she thought that would answer.
It was difficult to not stare. How long Creswicke had had her? How much time he would have had to do God knew what to her? Her skirts were torn, but that could have been from being captured or—?
Thomas cut off the thought. Later. He needed a clear head. He shook it, trying to clear his vision.
Seizing Nathan, Thomas gave him a solid shake.
“Here!” he shouted over the chaos. He gave Nathan a hard shove forward. “Our deal was him for her, unharmed. I’ll tie him up in a bow, if you wish. The Morganse has already pushed away. My ship is your only hope, Creswicke. I promise safe passage, so long as you’re aboard.”
I won’t vouch for once you’re aboard the Morganse, you treacherous shit, he thought grimly.
Nathan pitched aside the hatchet and flung down his cutlass at Creswicke’s feet. Then he spread his arms. “Here I am. ‘Tis always been your wish. Me for her.”
“Nathan, no!” Cate shrieked. “No! Don’t you dare—” The foot on her neck pressed harder, cutting her off.
“Lies. Always lies,” Creswicke shouted.
“Tach! We’ve no secrets. ‘Tis me you want, not her.”
With each exchange, Nathan inched forward, first a half step, then another. A flourish of his hand hid another increment. The fervor of battle had dissolved into a look Thomas knew all too well: Nathan on the verge of a black fury.
“Him for her. That was the deal, Breston. Upon my word, you’ll have safe passage.” Another push from Thomas brought Nathan nearer yet. Another fraction, and he would have the bastard.
The general battle had shifted. Now, the Gosports fought to abandon ship, scrambling for the boats or diving over the rails. Rats deserting a sinking ship, most of which couldn’t swim. Too scared to do else, most raced forward, the worst fighting now on the f’c’stle: Gosports scrambling to jump for the Lovely and the Lovelies fighting them off.
“My word, as well. I promise: complete surrender. You and me, together, as you’ve always wished it.” In spite of having to shout, Nathan managed a seductive purr. At the sound of it, Creswicke was overtaken with such tenderness and longing, Thomas damned near wretched. How the hell Nathan knew it would have such an effect on Creswicke was anyone’s guess.
Thomas eyed the lout holding Cate. Sweat pouring down his face, eyes fixed on the flames, he was like a rabbit ready to bolt. His leather palm sodden with sweat, Thomas re-gripped his weapon, hoping his hand wouldn’t slip during what was to come next.
He squinted one eye against the increasing smoke. “Now, Bres—” He was cut off by the rumbling whoosh! of a sail catching fire, the flames shooting skyward. “Those are the flames of Hell licking at your heels. I promise: safe passage.”
Thomas could feel Nathan coiled next to him, ready to strike. The only thing which held either of them back was Creswicke. He was a treacherous animal; cornered and wounded only rendered him all the more dangerous. The heat worsened, the sizzle of the tar coming from all around, the deck growing sticky from it bubbling up from the seams.
Thomas glanced toward the bow and then Cate. Every second delay reduced the chance of getting off this hulk alive. One spark through the dreadnaught screening is all it would take to touch off the powder-room, and they would all be cinders.
“I’ll never have what I want,” Crewsicke choked bitterly. “But neither shall either of you…!”
Creswicke’s fist tightening on his sword was the cue for Nathan to lunge for his cutlass. Rolling sideways, Nathan carved up, expecting Creswicke’s attack. Instead, Creswicke pivoted and, with a two-fisted grasp, plunged the sword into Cate’s middle, pinning her to the deck. The bastard holding her did what he had been longing to do and ran.
Bellowing, Nathan swiped his blade across the back of Creswicke’s legs, sending him staggering to his knees. Rising up, another savage swipe by Nathan gutted him, his innards spilling out like a butchered pig’s. The cutlass’ heel came down hard, shattering both nose and jaw.
Nathan rose over Creswicke’s slumped body, chest heaving. “Damn you all to hell!”
Face contorted, Nathan let out a murderous growl and slashed Creswicke’s throat hard enough to nearly severe his head. Blood streaming, Creswicke’s smashed face drew back into an odd, half-smile, and then he toppled over, dead.
The sword impaling Cate quivered in the dancing light of the flames. Nathan jerked it free, flung it aside and then sank to his knees next to her. With the blade gone, the blood flowed freely, pooling around them. Her gaze fixed on Nathan’s face, Cate writhed and then stilled, with the calmness of one resigned to dying.
Thomas stood frozen by helplessness. There was not a goddamned, fucking thing to be done. He’d seen enough wounds like this, as had Nathan: a few moments, perhaps an hour of unspeakable pain, until the inevitable came. With a choked sob, Nathan picked up Cate’s hand from at her side and clasped it to his chest. Tiny bubbles of red mottled her lips as she spoke, too low for Thomas to hear.
Through the black smoke of tar-soaked wood burning, Thomas glanced to the f’c’stle, once more. The Gosports were still fighting to jump ship, the Lovelies fighting them off; the bodies were piling up. The two ships were still gaffed together, but moving Cate would mean manhandling her through that mess, up over that f’c’stle and across to the Lovely. The mere act of moving her could be her death. In cold analysis, to what end? She might last a bit— in agony he wouldn’t wish upon his worst enemy—but the Gosport wouldn’t.
“For the love of God, finish her,” Thomas hissed. The side of his face pricked with the fire’s heat, his lungs burning at every breath. “The ship only has a few minutes, at best. Finish her, man, before she burns to death.”
Thomas was cut short by another explosion, and he braced against a furnace-like burst of heat. The Lovely’s sheep’s horn sounded, calling her men to retreat. The cries of the scared and the dying rose higher than the roar of the fire. Flames raced up the rigging, the riflemen trapped in the tops screaming, and damning them all to hell. The rigging pinged and popped as it gave way, the yards crashing down.
Still clutching Cate’s hand, Nathan stirred enough to look up, tears streaking his soot-blackened face.
“This thing is going to blow any minute. You mean to allow her to burn?” Thomas shouted.
Nathan blinked stupidly. Then he looked down at Cate and frowned. “No… not… burn…”
Dammit, I’ll do it myself!
Thomas looked down at the scimitar in his fist and the knife now in the other. God help him, he didn’t have the guts to do it, not with a blade. He groped for a pistol at the loop around his neck, but to no avail. It was empty. He scanned the deck for a pistol, a musket… anything amid the shattered rigging and gore. Finally, he spotted a pistol, the hammer still cocked. In a few strides, he had it, flinging aside the severed hand that still clutched it.
Checking to make sure it was loaded, he spun around to find Nathan had risen to his feet. His gaze fixed on Cate, he extended his forearm and drew his cutlass hard across it. Blood streaming down his arm, he pitched the weapon aside and bent to gather Cate up, as a child would clutch a treasured doll to its chest. Her head lolling on his shoulder, toes dragging a trail of red, he carried her toward a hole blasted in the bulwark. He bent his head over hers and murmured something. Pressing his lips to the top of her head, he stepped over the side.
“Noooo!!” Thomas raced forward. Slipping in their blood, he went down on one knee. Scrambling to his feet, he reached the space in the bulwark, but they were already gone. He mentally ticked off the seconds as he watched for Nathan’s head to bob to the surface; the man had always been half fish.
He tore off his weapons and boots, and was poised to jump, when a pair of arms came around him and lifted him away. Bellowing in protest, he drove an elbow into the one holding him, groping for a knife that was no longer there. A hiss in his ear and an admonishing shake brought him to look up into the face of Al-Nejem. The man’s bear-like arms tight around him, his first mate gave a significant nod over the side, bidding Thomas to take a more rational look. The water at the Gosport’s side was a tangled wreckage of yards and rigging, torsos, arms and legs. The water churned with black fins, the sharks already harvesting the bounty. Great floating patches of flames dotted the water, patches of burning tar engulfing those thrashing about.
Still, Thomas watched the water. If a head popped up, he would be there, Al-Nejem be damned… but nothing showed.
Finally, conceding it was finished, conceding there was nothing to be done, Thomas jerked free.
“Damn you! Damn you, Nathan!” He pounded his fist on the rail, choking back a sob. Chest heaving, he dashed away the tears, wild to do something.
Creswicke’s body lay nearby. The head canted at an off-angle, the lifeless eyes stared up, mocking as ever. Thomas snatched up a sword and finished what Nathan had started. Hacking off the head, he picked it up and kicked it over the rail.
“Now, Captain! Now!” Al-Nejem tugged his arm. Two more of his men soon joined in, urging and prodding him forward.
With the smell of the singeing hair sharp in his nose, Thomas allowed himself to be led away. His ship… He had to get her away. Had to…
He paused atop the rail, in a desperate hope that Nathan had somehow swum under the forefoot, and now bobbed between the ships. He angled his head to listen for Nathan’s ragged voice, cursing and bellowing for someone to hand him up. But in vain. He looked back at the trail of Nathan and Cate’s blood intermingled on the deck, the flame’s dancing in the wetness.
They were gone… together.