When a Rogue Falls
Page 41
Drat! Chloe swiped hair out of her face, choking out a breath. The man was right. Apparently they were good with numbers, too. “But we are the ones with guns trained on you.”
Owens chuckled.
“Enough hen prattle,” she said. “Do as I say. Turn this boat around.”
“You didn’t think this out carefully,” Owens said without complying. “Without us, you and your maid will not make it back to the ship . . . or to shore.”
“Perhaps not.” Honesty couldn’t harm anyone now. “But it’s my turn to warn you not to underestimate me.”
“I’d never do that,” Owens said.
“Take off your weapons,” she commanded.
Trepidation coiled inside her as the three men did as she had bid them, smiling irritating smiles. They reluctantly removed their guns and lowered them gently to the bottom of the boat, eyeing her with distrust and skepticism.
“We are going the wrong way. The fight is there!” She pointed to the northwest where the Windraker and the Viper sailed into range of each other. “If we don’t turn back now, it will be too late.”
“It already is.” Owens stared each man down as if pounding home that they wouldn’t be deviating from Markwick’s orders. “This boat will never catch the Fury now. Trust the cap’n, my lady. He knows what’s best . . . for all of us.”
Madden agreed. “Aye, he does. Unlike some.” He focused on Jane’s gun. “Ye best keep a steady grip on that trigger, girl.”
“I can ’andle myself,” Jane said, leaning to steady herself in the boat.
Chloe heaved a disgruntled sigh as she flicked a quick glance at Jane. Was Owens right? Were they beyond catching the Fury as limited as they were without sails? And Madden . . . well, he wasn’t far off mark. Jane was a commendable shot—thanks to Chloe’s instruction—but her fear of the sea proved more detrimental to the men in the cutter than Chloe ordering the ship to turn back.
The boat pitched over a surprisingly big wave.
“Oh!” Jane nearly fell backward, and her arm flailed haphazardly.
Chloe feared Jane would lose her footing and the crewmen scrambled on the thwarts.
“I’ll throw ye to the fish,” Jenkins shouted, “if ye don’t put down that gun, woman!”
“Don’t listen to him, Jane. We must get back to the Fury.” Chloe’s heart hitched as the boat skimmed over another wave and Jane’s frightened eyes widened. “Steady, Jane. We can do this.”
“Do what?” Jenkins raised his arms in defeat. “Get us killed?”
“You do not know me, Jenkins,” Chloe said, her heartbeat hammering in her ears. “How can you be so certain that I don’t know what I’m doing?”
“Does a fish know how to swim?” Jenkins sat down, rubbing his neck and garnering Owens’s attention.
“Jenkins!” Owens snapped. “Do as the lady says and take up your oar!”
Jenkins cursed under his breath and begrudgingly did as he was ordered. Chloe and Jane exchanged wary glances.
“Pirates!” Chloe exclaimed. “All I want is to help the Regent save my brother’s life. Are all of you so damned stubborn?”
Madden winked. “When it comes to wenches, we are.”
“Especially,” Fiske added, “if she’s buxom and blond.”
Chloe aimed her gun at Owens. “Enough talk! You are only trying to distract us. Turn the boat around now.”
“As you wish,” Owens said, matter-of-factly turning the tiller sharply.
The boat veered leeward and then listed dangerously as a rogue wave overtook them. Chloe lost her balance, and while she struggled to stand, Jenkins snatched the gun out of her hand. Jane’s pistol fired as she flailed wildly, then slipped, nearly falling over the side of the boat.
“Jane!” Blinded by seawater, Chloe scrambled toward her maid. But she needn’t have worried. Belying his lumbering size, Madden was there in a flash and caught Jane’s arm. “She cannot swim. Help her!”
Madden set Jane back down on the thwart, grumbling something about women and their idiocy, then motioned for Chloe to sit beside her as the boat righted and he resumed his place at the oar.
“Heave!” Owens shouted in consistent spurts. “No more nonsense. Be we clear?”
Chloe nodded her acquiescence, rubbed Jane’s shoulder, then glanced behind her at the rocky shoreline drawing nearer, a mix of shale and sand that silently waited to greet them.
The long-shafted oars clanked against their collared oarlocks. Seawater jettisoned in foamy waves, ebbing and flowing, rolling in picturesque crests and receding hills about them, lifting the bow—where Chloe and Jane perched precariously—out of the water and then plunging them down as the bow dipped forward, moving them toward the jagged cliffs and the safety of shingled earth.
To their west, the Fury sailed toward danger, not from it. And in this moment of complete vulnerability, Chloe’s respect for Markwick and his crew grew by leaps and bounds.
“Do you think my brother stands a chance of surviving this?” Chloe tried again.
Madden clucked his tongue. “Carnage will not find Walsingham or the Fury an easy mark.”
A thunderous explosion erupted, seizing her heart, stopping it cold. Chloe hunched down, reaching for Jane, who still clutched Otranto to her breast.
“Do not be afraid, Jane.” There was little she could do other than ease Jane’s concerns as gunfire filled the air. Who was firing on whom, she couldn’t be sure. But what did it matter now? Men would die, regardless.
She held her breath, counting off the seconds until another volley reverberated in the sky. She believed in Markwick, knew he’d do everything in his power to save her brother. Pierce was an exceptional captain, equally respected by commoners and peers alike. He’d received numerous commendations for service beyond the call of duty. He had an exceptional eye for detail that never ceased to amaze her as he prepared for every eventuality. But he owned one fault she couldn’t ignore and prayed he wouldn’t fall victim to now—pride. Only one ship had ever eluded him, and that was the Fury. He’d made it his life’s mission to seek out the Fury and destroy it not knowing that his best friend commanded her. Oh, the irony!
“The cap’n’ll save him,” Madden assured her. “You can count on it.”
Chloe’s stomach twisted in knots. “I can only pray you are right.”
She nodded, desperate to disguise her fears. She didn’t know these men. To them, she was just a woman. They didn’t care for her like Pierce or Markwick did. Nor did they have as much to lose.
Ftoom! Ftoom! Two successive cannon volleys discharged.
Owens and the four other men glanced east to stare at the ships.
“What is ’appening?” Jane asked with steady poise. Courage in the face of adversity, the young maid had stared down her fear of drowning and come with her on this journey, exhibiting commendable bravery. “Can ye see anything?”
Owens looped a rope over the tiller and reached for his spyglass. He flicked open its length, raised it to his eye, and adjusted the lens. “Smoke spiralin’ about the Viper’s deck midway up to her masts.”
“You see, Jane. The Captain’s aim is true.”
“No,” Owens disagreed.
No? What did he mean? “I’ll have you know—”
“You are wrong, my lady. When I said I saw smoke, I meant it was coming from the Viper’s guns, not from damage she’d sustained.” He moved the telescope farther south and then flinched. “Christ!” He immediately glanced at Chloe. “Many pardons but the Windraker’s quarterdeck has been hit, my lady.”
She grabbed her chest. “How bad is it?”
He put the spyglass back to his eye. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it.
Chloe waited for what seemed like an eternity, her heart wedged in her throat, its beat drumming in her ears with a deafening potency.
“She’s still got her masts.” Owens’s hands were steady as he stood to get a better view. “She’s positioning for a raking broadside.”
Jane’s demeanor changed instantly. She released a whimper and then stiffened, squeezing Chloe’s hands. Her lips pursed. “If this is a dream, I want it to remain so. I don’t want to know this is real.”
“Nor I.” Chloe slipped her hands out of Jane’s and grabbed the maid’s shoulders, pulling her close.
Ftoom! Ftoom!
They stiffened, clutching onto each other as a violent burst of thunderous booms cut holes in the resulting silence.
“Who’s firing now?” she asked, half fearing the answer.
Oars clunked in their oarlocks as each sweating man leaned backward and forward in unison, increasing the pace as they rowed them to shore.
Owens raised his telescope, then reached back, adjusting the tiller before settling his stare on Chloe. “The tide is with us, my lady. We are lucky this day.”
They were lucky.
“What do you mean? As in my brother and Markwick are not? What has happened?” Her heart thumped wildly, warring against her ribs like the deafening cannons in the distance. She clasped Jane’s hand, waiting anxiously for Owens to speak.
Wind snapped against their clothing and seawater hissed, lapping against the hull in glistening arches. The sun began its descent on the horizon. Variegated streams of golden light stretched across the cresting, glistening whitecaps following them to shore.
“The Viper has been hit,” Owens explained, “though the damage appears minimal.”
Chloe closed her eyes, absorbing the sun’s warmth, saying another prayer for the men she loved as one volley after another pounded in the distance.
Time lost all significance as a quickening alarm took hold of her spirit. What would life be like without her brother or the man she loved? Senses intensely alert, she took in the scent of the sea, each droplet of saltwater beading on her skin. She licked her lips, tasting brine, taking in the natural beauty contrasting the man-made violence, each drumming beat of her heart answering the hammering, deadly blows of cannon fire as the swells slapped against the boat, eager to swallow it whole.
Chloe opened her eyes. From her bow perch, she listened, her heart lodged in her throat, waiting for the next breath to keep her alive.
Chapter 10
CARNAGE must be stopped! Lady O assures these offices that CAPTAIN WALSINGHAM of the WINDRAKER, the EXCISE BOARD’s famed pirate HUNTER, is just the PREVENTATIVE man to save the day.
~ Trewman’s Exeter Flying Post, 6 August 1809
The Fury’s halyard blocks protested against the wind, creaking, groaning, as Markwick sailed to Walsingham’s defense. The wind gripped her rigging, straining black sails towering above them and giving the ship life. Urgency filled Markwick as the ship beneath his feet plowed into swells and thundered through, risking everything to save one enemy and pound their common enemy into Davy Jones’s Locker, ridding the world of one less devil.
Conceived out of Blackmoor’s quest for vengeance, the Fury had been built out of oak and teak, her naval architect utilizing prolific nuances that could only be found in its sister ships—Priory, Creed, Prophet, Abbott, and Black Belle. The latter of which had been stolen by Lady Adele Seaton on a successful mission to save her brother at Abbydon Cove, making Markwick’s pride in the Fury profoundly satisfying.
He raised his spyglass, concern and desperation ratcheting his nerves. No doubt Walsingham had been hunting the Viper before and leaped at this opportunity to strike the ship when it had sailed into his path. From Markwick’s position at the bow, he adjusted the telescope to assess the damage to both ships. Orange sparks flared, then ignited from the Viper’s gundeck, flashing angry fire, followed by an ear-shattering roar. Gray smoke plumed up the Viper’s sheets, engulfing the ship and her active crew, masking the yellowish tinge of the setting sun that was reflecting off her white canvas as, one by one, her guns breeched again and fired in rapid succession.
The Windraker’s vulnerable mainmast snapped in half. Her lifeless canvas billowed, luffing in the wind and then collapsed in explosive, splintering shards spraying outward and down. It was a deadly rain meant to disable a ship and cut down anyone on the quarterdeck unless nets had been put into place to protect the crew manning the carronades.
Markwick lowered his spyglass and glanced skyward, assessing his own racing ship, her sails, and the wind, calculating how long it would take the Fury to join the fracas. The distance—two nautical miles, or half a league—could be covered within twenty minutes. He’d have to put the Viper out of commission before that, though.
Smoke plumed again as another crippling cannon blast clouded the Windraker’s deck, and several more rounds from the Viper’s smaller carronades missed, jettisoning a geyser of water over the Windraker’s rails.
“Man the braces!” he shouted. There was no time to lose.
“Aye, sir,” Quinn quickly responded from his side, turning to pass the order along to the boatswain. “Man the braces!”
The blocks creaked in protest as the extra sails were rapidly and rhythmically trimmed. More speed would be needed to make better use of his short-range firepower while defending the Windraker’s vulnerable side.
Walsingham’s ship took another hit. She listed to starboard and then automatically regained her sea legs like a bobbing buoy. Suddenly, her guns projected like a snake’s angry tongue, boring through her portals, running out, and protruding mere seconds before flashing a thunderous volley. Her guns recoiled against their breeching lines, leaping back on their carriages and encasing her decks in a smoky haze.
Markwick aimed his telescope at Carnage’s ship.
The Viper’s mizzenmast severed, pitched and then plunged toward the deck, slipping over her starboard side. Men raced to hack the mast out of the way of her guns.
“Signal the Windraker,” he told one of his men stationed nearby. “Tell her we can beat the enemy.”
The seaman fisted a hand against his forehead. “Aye, sir.”
“Hands to quarters!” he shouted.
The order was repeated across the deck. “Hands to quarters!” The boatswain’s shrill whistle alerted the gun crews down the hatch. “Ready the guns!” Displacing five hundred tons of water, the Fury raced a course between Walsingham’s smaller ship-rigged sloop and Carnage’s two-masted brig. The bold, advantageous move would cut off the Windraker, saving what was left of Walsingham’s crew. It would also put the Fury in line to rake a deadly broadside across the Viper’s decks and happily send her to the locker in pieces.
So long as Walsingham believed Markwick was coming to his aid and didn’t fire one of the Windraker’s two stern chasers at the Fury first.
“Fly the colors!” Markwick called again. He retreated from the bow and moved amidships as men scurried across the quarterdeck priming the Fury’s eight twelve-pounder carronades.
Quinn selected a boarding pike from the assorted weapons lashed to the mainmast. “Announcin’ our presence will be sure to draw fire.”
Exactly.
“I want Carnage to see who he’s dealing with and Walsingham to understand we’re here to help him, not Carnage.”
“Aye, sir.” Quinn turned and hollered, “Fly the colors!”
Markwick watched as two blue flags, followed by a blue-over-yellow flag, then a red one preceded the Fury’s black flag as they were hauled to the mainmast. “I want everyone to know the Black Regent will not sanction Carnage slaughtering ships and their crews.”
Quinn grew thoughtful. “Been at this long enough to know that no matter what we do, it’ll not be enough for the revenue man.”
“Walsingham doesn’t have a choice but to accept our help, does he?” Markwick prayed he was right. Walsingham was a dogged opponent, perhaps better suited to the Black Regent’s post than Markwick himself, a subject he planned to take up with Blackmoor at a later date.
After several nerve-racking moments, a topman called out from the main
deck. “A flag, sir! The Windraker is taking on water and sends its compliments.”
“Then move, you powder monkeys!” Markwick shouted. “Break your backs! It’s time to show the Viper what carnage really is!”
A cheer rose from the deck as Markwick slapped the telescope down to its eight-inch storage.
Ftoom!
A rumbling, explosive force erupted from the Viper’s hull. Smoke enveloped the ship. Engaged as they were, the two ships could not fire on the Fury, only at each other. Markwick’s plan to cross the divide would change that. Until then, his bow chasers had the advantage and could take out the Viper’s network of sails and masts.
“Ready as your guns bear!” Markwick shouted as the volley barreled toward Walsingham’s disabled ship. “Fire!”
* * *
* * *
Chloe studied the chalky cliffs and sandy, shingled beach as Owens and his men rowed them ashore. Waves crested, their frothy caps glistening white in the half-light, swishing around the boat’s keel, a whirl of current ebbing and flowing beneath them. Beyond the horizon, the sun began to sink, its muted radiance a flickering streak inking toward shore.
Ftoom! Ftoom!
Jane jumped. “This is madness.”
The cutter snagged the seabed, alerting them that they could float no farther.
“Boat your oars.” Owens voice sounded like a whisper. “Quietly now.”
Jenkins, Madden, Fiske, and Kelly stowed their oars in designated spots within the vessel, their actions bizarrely silent to Chloe’s ears. Had her hearing been damaged by the close proximity of Jane firing Madden’s gun or the thunderous volleys in the distance?
Madden spat tobacco over the gunwale before rising to his feet and exiting the boat to wade in the knee-deep water. Jenkins followed.
Chloe rose next, helping Jane to her feet and grimacing slightly as the poor dear stared at the water as if fearing it would consume her whole.
“Easy now,” Fiske said, recognizing Jane’s anxiety. “We’ll help you ashore.”