When Claxton fell silent, Linnet continued, pausing every now and then for Griffiths and Claxton to relay her words. “There’s three enemy ships out there—all frigates and as quick as frigates can be. No flags, so we can’t know how experienced they are in these waters. Regardless, two are circling to come up astern, to get within arrow-range and take out our sails, then presumably they think to flank us, and wedge us between for boarding. Of course, we’re not going to let that happen. As they pull close, we’re going to put on all sail—as they’ll expect us to do, as if we think to outrun them. They’ll chase, and put on all sail, too, to run us down. But we’re not going to run—at just the right moment, we’re going to veer hard port, and cut across the bow of the ship on that side, raking her with our guns as we go. Our sail changes are going to have to be slick, we’ll be at full speed, so be ready.
“Once we’re past her, we’ll be in position to go after the third ship, the one presently hanging well off to starboard—most likely the one with their senior commander aboard. If they give us the chance, we’ll board his ship and capture him, but meanwhile, we’ll need to keep an eye on the other ship, the one we’ll have left to come around. By the time she does, we need to be clear of the commander’s ship, so if we do board, we keep it fast. This will be a raid—we go in, we do what we came to do, and we get out tout de suite —do you hear me?”
An instant later, when the question was relayed, a resounding “Aye!” rose from the decks.
“Good.” Linnet kept speaking, her words fed down the line. “The instant we’re all back, we pile on sail for Plymouth and race the bastards there. I don’t think they’ll give chase, but who knows? If they do, we might turn and savage them, but”—she slid her gaze to Logan—“today our duty is to get Major Monteith into Plymouth, so as far as possible, we’ll stick to our course.”
Logan stepped closer. “Tell them that if they come up against dark-skinned men with black scarves about their heads, they’ll be Indian cultists, and they shouldn’t hold back. The cultists won’t. They’ll be eager to kill anyone any way they can.”
Linnet glanced at Griffiths, nodded. The first mate relayed Logan’s words.
“Good luck,” Linnet called. “Now stand ready!”
The crew shifted again, some going below to the guns, others taking up fresh positions, waiting for Linnet’s order to change sail as, far to the rear, the two unflagged frigates completed their circling manuever and fell in on either side of the Esperance ’s wake.
As she’d intimated, Linnet called for all sail. Overhead, canvas was released; it billowed for a few seconds, then the wind rushed in and filled it—and the Esperance leapt.
The pursuing frigates at first fell behind, but then fresh sails blossomed in their rigging, pulled taut, and they came on.
Pushing, pushing, surging to get nearer, they reminded Logan of pursuing hounds. Further back, the third frigate was forced to set all sail to keep up.
“Bosun—message to the gun captain.” Linnet held the wheel lightly, steady on her course. “He can fire the port guns at will after we start the turn.”
“Aye, ma’am.” Claxton pointed at Jimmy, who raced off below to deliver the order.
An odd silence fell, broken only by the waves splashing against the hull, the caw of an inopportune wheeling gull.
Logan recognized the lull, the universal nerve-racking hiatus before battle was joined—that moment when no one wasted even a breath.
“They’ve taken up our challenge and are coming up fast.” Linnet glanced at Griffiths; he relayed her words. “They won’t be able to change direction as fast as we can. You know what to do, which sails to furl, which to trim. Which angle we need to catch the wind. We’ve drilled often enough, so stand ready now . . . on my word when I give it, hard to port.”
They waited. The entire crew held still, expectant and ready, barely breathing. To Logan, it was exactly like waiting for the order to charge. Battle-ready tension sang in the air, yet every man stood reined, poised, all but quivering.
He waited, too, fist resting on the hilt of his saber as he stood beside Linnet, facing astern, watching the ships draw nearer and nearer—and still nearer. And still Linnet held to her course. She glanced over her shoulder, once, twice, gauging distance, but still she held the wheel steady.
Jaw clenched, he swore behind his teeth. He was about to appeal to her—if she didn’t move now, surely the ship on their portside would cleave the Esperance in two—
“ Now! ” Linnet swung the wheel hard.
Griffiths helped her haul and haul.
The ship heeled to the left so violently Logan had to grab the rail to keep from being thrown. The instant the turn, a tight one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turn, was commenced, sailors aloft were hooking and trimming sails, hauling in others, changing angles of spars as the ship swung around.
Logan held his breath, hand fisting on the stern rail as he felt the changes take hold, felt the force of the wind in the sails combine with the pressure on the rudder to push the Esperance smoothly through the turn at maximum speed.
He saw how close Linnet had judged things, and wondered how she’d dared. From his position in the stern, he could clearly see shocked faces on the sailors and, yes, the cultists crowded on the frigate’s deck.
Then the Esperance ’s stern slipped past the oncoming frigate’s bow, and he—along with many others, he was sure—exhaled.
Then the Esperance ’s port guns boomed, once, twice, a raking, staggered volley that ripped a long, jagged hole right on the waterline of the frigate.
Pandemonium erupted on the frigate’s deck. If they’d had guns prepared, they would have been on the wrong side. Their archers with their pitch-arrows and braziers were also facing the wrong way, and with the cultists milling in the middle of the ship, they couldn’t reposition—not in time. The Esperance ’s speed and the frigate’s even greater speed combined to rapidly widen the distance between the ships.
Then Linnet and Griffiths fully righted the wheel and the Esperance straightened. “Full sail!” Linnet yelled.
Even as the order was relayed, sails were being unfurled and reset. In seconds, the Esperance leapt forward again—streaking away from the stricken frigate.
Logan looked back. A few burning arrows came belatedly whistling their way, but fell well short, fizzling out in their wake.
Linnet had just sunk an enemy frigate without sustaining so much as a scratch, not to her crew or her ship. The realization was stunning.
He dragged in a breath, felt a sense of exhilaration streak through him. Turning away from the crippled frigate, he looked at Linnet.
Her eyes locked on the sails above, her hands steady on the wheel, she called orders, Griffiths and Claxton relayed them, and sailors leapt to obey.
Most of the sailors were grinning. Logan realized he was grinning, too. The speed and power of the Esperance under full fighting rig—under an expert captain’s hands—was breathtaking.
Even if those hands were delicate.
He had no experience of naval battles, but having a captain who knew precisely which sail needed to be where at any time, to the square inch, was clearly a significant advantage—and Linnet, with her years of experience from childhood on, knew this ship, and these waters, these winds, as few others could. Her knowledge was all but instinctive.
It was no longer any wonder that she was so widely accepted as Captain Trevission, that even the old fogeys in the Admiralty turned a blind eye to her gender. Underneath their gold braid, they were sailors to a man, and Linnet was a sailor of the most exhilarating sort.
But their battle wasn’t over.
With the disabled frigate slowly sinking behind them, Linnet exchanged the wheel for Griffiths’s spyglass. The second frigate, the one that with the first had tried to come up on the Esperance ’s stern, had started to follow when she’d turned hard port, but the cannon volley had sent it shying away. Now its captain seemed to be dithering, probably signaling
to the third frigate, the one she assumed was the command ship, for direction.
The command ship itself seemed unsure what to do. Her unconventional manuever appeared to have given the captain second, even third, thoughts. As the situation stood, both frigates were still heading toward Plymouth, although they’d trimmed their speed, while the Esperance was heading the other way, picking up speed as it passed the command ship at a safe distance.
With their original attack plan in tatters, the frigates were waiting to see what she would do.
Closing the glass, she returned to take the wheel. “We’ll turn to port and come about again—let’s get back on course for Plymouth, then see what these idiots do.”
She rapped out orders, and the crew responded as she steered the Esperance through another turn, this one much wider than the last, coming full circle. When they were once more on line for Plymouth Sound, all three ships were sailing in more or less the same direction. The second frigate was well off to port and a good way ahead, too distant to pose any immediate threat, but the command ship, also now off the port side but much nearer, was scrambling, angling as if to intercept the Esperance rather than slink away.
“They can’t be serious.” Linnet shook her head. “We’re coming up astern and they’ve just seen what our guns can do.”
“The other frigate’s turning.” Griffiths had the glass to his eye.
Lifting her gaze, Linnet watched, then frowned. “That’s too big a turn to come directly at us—looks like he plans to circle and come up astern again.”
Slowly, Griffiths nodded. “Looks that way. They don’t want to come broadside and risk our guns.”
“The command ship’s running.” Linnet watched as the command frigate suddenly angled away and put on more sail, drawing ahead and apart. She watched for a moment, then snorted. “What does he think I am? Blind?”
The Esperance was still traveling faster than either of the frigates. Linnet called for sails to be trimmed, slowing the Esperance , and, as if helpfully falling in with the command ship captain’s plan, turned slightly off course as if to follow.
When Griffiths glanced inquiringly at her, she smiled tightly. “He wants to engage, and assumes, after our last manuever, that I want to, too, but he wants to lead me a dance until the other frigate can come around and assist. I can’t just leave him and run for Plymouth; we’re still too far out—they’d catch us again, try coming up astern again, but I won’t be able to play the same trick twice. I suspect their new plan is for me to get distracted chasing the command ship, then suddenly discover the other frigate coming up hard astern and to starboard. When I react and try to run, the command ship will spill wind enough to swing close alongside the port bow. While we’re distracted at the stern, they’ll send men over the bow.”
Logan asked Griffiths for the glass, trained it on the command ship. What he saw made his blood run cold. Lowering the glass, he caught Linnet’s eye. “I’d say your reading is correct. There are cult assassins on board the command ship. They’ll be the ones wanting to come over your bow.”
Linnet nodded. He stood beside her as she continued to follow the command ship as it tacked this way and that, much like a fox before a hound.
“He keeps trying to slow us,” Linnet said, “but has to, at least at the moment, stay far enough ahead so I don’t simply overrun him.”
Logan looked up, trying to judge how much sail she’d had taken in. “Could you overrun him?”
“At his current speed, easily, but I don’t think he realizes that. The Esperance is significantly faster than other ships of her class. In these conditions, the speed we’re doing now is more typical.”
“Which suggests the captain doesn’t know the Esperance , which means he’s from further afield—not these waters.”
“It certainly seems that way.”
Logan watched as she called another set of sail changes; he couldn’t follow the purpose behind them all, but assumed she was setting the stage for the upcoming engagement.
Sure enough, once the Esperance was riding steady again, going nowhere near as fast as it could, she left the wheel to Griffiths, took the spyglass from Logan, and trained it on the other frigate, now attempting to sneak up on their rear.
Those on the frigate saw her looking. The captain immediately put on all sail and came on as fast as the wind allowed.
Linnet smiled. Lowering the glass, she gauged the distance between the ships, then strode to the forward railing and leaned over to yell, “Tommy, Burton, Calloway! Get your bows, arrows, and a brazier, and get up here—but keep everything hidden from the ship in front, and below the rail up here.”
“Aye, Capt’n!”
Two minutes later, three young sailors came clambering up the ladder. Logan helped the first lift a brazier of glowing coals up, carefully setting it near the stern rail. The three slid long bows across the deck, then climbed up, each carrying arrows with ragged heads dipped in pitch in one hand.
Leaving the arrows with their bows, the lads looked at Linnet. She joined them, her gaze on the frigate coming up hard on their stern. “They have arbalests standing ready to light our sails, but your bows have greater range. How soon before you can take out most of their sails? Doesn’t have to be all, but we need the main sails alight.”
With the Esperance slowed, the frigate was closing the distance quickly.
The lads narrowed their eyes, pursed their lips.
“Just a little more . . . ,” one of them said.
“As soon as you’re ready, then—fire at will.” Linnet turned and walked back to the helm.
Resuming his position more or less at her back, Logan watched as, with no further instruction, the youngsters waited, muttering between themselves about distance and wind, then as one they bent and, screened by the high side of the stern deck, fanned the brazier. With one eye on the frigate, each found his bow, notched an arrow and lit it, then, in perfect concert, the trio stood, smoothly drawing back the long bows, and let fly.
They didn’t even wait to see fire blossom on the sails, but bent again. In less than a minute they sent another three arrows flying. They were fast and accurate. Using just nine arrows in all, they set nearly all of the rear frigate’s sails ablaze, sending the frigate crew frantically scrambling.
All but instantly, the frigate fell away.
Linnet returned to clap the three lads on their shoulders. “Perfect!” Behind them, the frigate was all but becalmed. “Excellent work—now get below. We’ve one more frigate to fry.”
Logan looked back at the frigate rapidly falling behind. They hadn’t enough sail to even limp along, yet how soon before the cultists on board reached shore? And which shore?
And while the first frigate they’d engaged had almost certainly sunk, it had gone down slowly; plenty of time for all those aboard to abandon ship.
“Full sail again!”
Linnet’s call had him putting such concerns aside. Beneath his feet, the Esperance leapt like a hound unleashed. What would she do with the third frigate, the one carrying assassins? Returning to his position beside her as she stood alongside Griffiths, presently managing the helm, he followed both their gazes to the last frigate—and saw it swing very definitely away.
Linnet watched, eyes narrow, lips thin, then humphed. “Ten points starboard.” Griffiths obeyed, and the Esperance ’s bow swung elegantly north. Linnet called several sail changes, then regauged the distance to the frigate, still some way ahead to port. “That will take us past at a safe distance. If they’ve finally come to their senses and want to scrurry out of our way, we’ll let them go.”
The sails caught more wind on the new heading; the Esperance picked up speed, swiftly moving away from the last frigate.
Logan watched, inwardly cursing, yet . . . “A magnanimous gesture.”
Linnet shrugged. “That misbegotten captain must by now realize that taking the Esperance is beyond him.”
She’d turned to look at Logan as she spoke.
Griffiths’s shout had her turning back. “Blimey! Will you look at that.”
The three of them stared. Most of the crew stopped what they were doing and stared, too.
Rather than slink away, as it had definitely and sensibly started to do, the frigate abruptly changed course again, as if to engage—but then the masts dipped wildly and the ship nearly keeled.
“What the devil’s going on there?” Linnet grabbed the spyglass she’d set down and refocused on the frigate’s deck.
A second passed, then, her tone disbelieving, she reported, “There’s fighting on board. Some men—men with dark skins and black scarves about their heads—are fighting the captain and his mate, and the rest of the crew, too. They’ve seized the wheel and are trying to steer the ship our way . . . but the idiots are simply forcing the wheel over without changing sails. In this wind, they’ll capsize the ship.”
Grimly Logan stared at the frigate. To his admittedly inexperienced eye, the space between it and the Esperance was already great enough to ensure the frigate wouldn’t be able to come up with them, certainly not if manned by cultists and not sailors. “All we can do is hope the captain and his crew win the battle.”
And toss the cultists, especially the assassins, into the briny deep .
Linnet lowered the glass. “Indeed.” She looked at Griffiths. “Keep all sail on. Let’s leave them to it and race for Plymouth.”
Setting the glass back in its holder beside the wheel, she headed down the ladder to talk to her men.
Logan watched her go, then picked up the spyglass, walked to the stern rail, and trained it on the frigate, now dwindling to their rear.
He’d been prepared for a battle, but his saber hadn’t even cleared its sheath. He felt frustrated and stymied, especially over having to leave cultists, and even more assassins, alive to tell their tales. To report to their superiors, as they inevitably would.
Yet there’d been no help for it, no legitimate way around it. The battle had been Linnet’s to command; she’d made her calls and got them clean away, crippling the opposition while her own men remained unscathed.
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