by Peter Greene
“Fire!” yelled Aggar.
The signal was heard, and the English gun crews rose and charged their captors.
The fighting was ferocious. There were pistols being discharged, hand-to-hand struggles, men using ball, wooden clubs fashioned from spare lumber, gaffs, poles, and bare fists. The guards were certainly caught by surprise, though they quickly rebounded.
Aggar watched this eruption and turned to Jonathan with a questioning look on his face. Realizing what had happened, the Russian immediately exposed his pistol.
“You,” said Aggar. “This is your doing!”
Jonathan and his blade were in the en garde position. He smiled. “Yes, Aggar. I suggest you surrender before your men suffer serious injury.”
Aggar laughed.
“Ha! I do love your boldness, my little powder monkey!” he said, raising the gun. “But you have brought a blade to a gun fight!”
“No, he brought a friend!” said Graham as he swung a six-foot gaffing pole at Aggar’s right arm, knocking his pistol from his grip and sending it skidding across the deck. Jonathan added a slight kick to the gun, forcing it out a scupper and into the sea.
“He is all yours, Mister Moore! And don’t go easy on him this time!” With that, Graham ran to assist his mates, leaving Jonathan to deal with Nikomed Aggar.
“I will have to kill you,” said Aggar as he produced his sword. “And I will regret it.”
“Then surrender,” said Jonathan. “Both of us may live.”
“I cannot do that, Mister Moore. I answer to Commodore Kharitonov.”
Aggar lunged at Jonathan with a surprising power and speed, driving the boy backward. Jonathan’s nimble feet and excellent reflexes allowed him to remain upright and in fighting position. With a few retreats, he soon was able to parry Aggar’s strong but brutish lunges and to counter with quick and accurate thrusts. The opponents continued their dance about the stern, into the lower ratlines, and across the main deck.
Aboard the Turks, the captains observed the action on the decks of the Russian ships, and though puzzled, rejoiced and fled into the night. With the smoke clouding the vision of their enemies, their escape seemed imminent.
On the Echo, as Cherepanyanko fell, Jenkins immediately grabbed the wheel of the ship. The Echoes were infused with a deadly potion: power and anger, born out of revenge for their murdered brothers and for their lost captain. They fought with such vigor that they screamed like wild animals and stunned their enemy. Within moments, they were well on their way to controlling the ship, tossing Russians overboard and unfortunately killing a number of them.
Jenkins, now at the wheel, and secure that victory was only minutes away, maneuvered the Echo toward the Paladin.
“Jenkins!” said Cardew as he approached the helm. “Why do you turn? We are to flee! That is the plan!”
But Jenkins shook his head in disagreement. He remembered his promise to Admiral Moore that morning in London, which seemed so long ago. I promised to keep an eye on Jonathan, I did, he said to himself, and aid him if I can! I will not run to safety. I will run into battle and be by his side!
Aboard the Navarkhia, Kharitonov was bearing down on the two Turks who had headed north. He would have to come about quickly or lose them in the darkness.
“Run if you can!” Kharitonov said, laughing. “One of you will be my dinner this evening! The other I will save for another day!”
“Sir!” came a call from the crow’s nest. “Aggar and Cherepanyanko! They are not engaging! Their Turks are fleeing!”
“What?” yelled Kharitonov. “Not engaging? The cowards! The imbeciles!”
He took up his telescope and glanced back at the Echo and then the Paladin. Silhouetted by the fading glow from the setting sun, he saw them fighting—but not the Turks. They looked, at first, as if they were fighting each other. The longer Kharitonov watched, the clearer it became. Men were being tossed overboard, and on the Echo, the fighting had almost stopped altogether, yet men were still being pushed into the sea.
“Mutiny?” he said aloud. “Mutiny!”
“Technically, sir,” said Morozov at the wheel, “they are recapturing their own ship. It can’t be mutiny.”
“Shut up, idiot!” yelled the commodore.
As he continued to watch, Kharitonov saw a flag being hoisted to the mainmast of the Echo. It was the Union Jack and cross of the British Royal Navy. Kharitonov yelled in despair. He turned his gaze to the Paladin. There, fighting was still in earnest.
“Morozov!” Kharitonov bellowed, “Take us to the Paladin! Directly! She is closest, and not yet taken!”
Still in battle, and with no one at the wheel, the Paladin drifted south. The Englishmen fought for their lives, and it seemed to some that they would soon be triumphant. For Jonathan, however, Aggar was not quite ready to surrender, and their swords continued to clash as they fought on deck.
At times, it seemed Jonathan had the upper hand, his agility and precise technique having a distinct advantage over his larger opponent. He set his point to Aggar more than once, and blood flowed from the man’s body in several places, yet none were lethal—at least not yet.
Aggar also had an advantage: he could press Jonathan in close quarters with his weight and strength, but up close, his arms were too long to do any damage; in fact, he was at the mercy of the boy’s quick ripostes and counterattacks. He then moved to keep Jonathan at a sword’s length away and stretched with his longer reach to attack the boy from a safe distance. During one such attack, he was able to slash at Jonathan’s right leg. The boy cried in pain, his limb hot with blood from the sting.
“Ah!” said Aggar with a laugh. “This is not all fun and games, my boy! This is real life—and real death!”
“And this,” said Jonathan, not missing a beat as he executed his most lethal maneuver, a double-advance lunge that kept him airborne, covering the distance between them in a flash of a second, “is a real lunge!”
His point pierced Aggar’s shoulder, deeply. Shocked, Aggar staggered backward. Jonathan, still in agony from the slash to his leg, retreated.
Unexpectedly, the Paladin lurched violently, as if she had run aground. The sound of deep scraping and cracking boards could be heard. The Echo had come alongside.
Aggar had been thrown to the deck by the force of the collision, dropping his blade. Jonathan was also thrown, and he landed against the starboard rail. He quickly regained his sword as it slid across the deck, and he stood quickly. He rushed toward Aggar, flicked the man’s blade over the side, and placed his tip against his enemy’s neck.
Aggar looked up to Jonathan, and the familiar emotion of defeat washed across the man’s face.
Again, I am close to victory, he thought. But now, as always, my sad life has no hope. I will never see my family again. And I am tired. Tired of it all.
“Kill me, Mister Moore,” he said, exhausted. “I will be in the wrath of Kharitonov if you don’t. Knowing him, it would be better to die at your hand.”
Jonathan now regarded Aggar and remembered a similar situation he’d faced a year ago, on the island of Ribeira Grande. Then, it had been Midshipman Wayne Spears begging for death. Jonathan could only feel for that boy, a victim of misguided advice, regret, and blame. He could have killed Spears, though he chose not to. Aggar, however, was a different story. He was responsible for the deaths of many Englishmen aboard the Echo and the Paladin. He certainly deserved death. He would have killed Jonathan if he’d discovered his identity any earlier than he had.
However, wasn’t Aggar also a victim of cruelty being forced into his position by a devil incarnate? Kharitonov had murdered his father and his son and, for all practical purposes, destroyed Aggar’s family and enslaved the man. Wouldn’t Jonathan do anything to return to his family? In a way, he had.
“Stand up!” yelled Jonathan. “Stand up now, Captain Aggar!”
Aggar did so, trying to avoid the blade Jonathan had pressed to his throat. The man’s arm was still bleeding
. Soon, he would become light-headed.
“Move to the rail!” Jonathan said sternly.
Aggar complied. Once he reached the rail, he believed that Jonathan meant to kill him and toss his body overboard. He closed his eyes.
“Finish it, Mister Moore. Go home to your family before Kharitonov arrives.”
Jonathan looked to the sea astern, and there he saw his bane: the Navarkhia was approaching, the wind at her back.
“The commodore,” said Jonathan, motioning with a nod of his head. “We will not make our escape.”
Aggar looked to see the Navarkhia moving steadily on a course to intercept the Paladin. He did not smile—quite the contrary. He looked even more defeated and spent.
“Then run to the Echo,” said Aggar. “Jenkins has taken her back. Sail away. Be free, powder monkey, and with your blade, release me from this hell we call earth.”
“No,” said Jonathan. “I know some would say that you must answer for the men you killed aboard the Echo and the ones who died when you attacked the Paladin. But you were being used by Kharitonov. If he did not command you, if he did not hold your family prisoner, none of this would have happened…to either of us. I will send you back to your family.”
Jonathan stepped back and quickly slashed at the rope that had been towing the small skiff, Alexandria, behind them.
“Jump, Aggar. There are a few of your men who have been tossed overboard. They have made their way to the skiff. They will help you. Go and find your wife and daughters.”
“Kharitonov will find me,” said Aggar as he glanced aft and saw the Alexandria slowly drifting away.
“He may,” said Jonathan. “But first, he will have to deal with me.”
Aggar smiled, nodding. He looked back at the small skiff. The men aboard struggled with the sail. He turned back toward Jonathan.
“Mister Moore,” he said, solemnly. “As I was proud of my son, surely your father is likewise proud. I am indebted to you. May we meet again someday. Good-bye, powder monkey!”
With a quick salute, Aggar turned and leapt into the sea.
31
Paladin’s Fate
Though Jonathan could see that his friends were fighting bravely, there were still enough Russians resisting to make the outcome of the mutiny uncertain. He hadn’t the time to wait. The Navarkhia was almost upon them. His only hope of returning home and saving the crew was to board the Echo. She was ready to sail, after suffering only minor battle damage.
“Mister Moore!” came the call from the Echo. It was Jenkins. “The Navarkhia is almost upon us! Your orders!”
The Navarkhia, though slow and cumbersome, had something the Paladin and the Echo had in short supply: men. Jonathan knew that a ship of that size, almost the size of HMS Poseidon, his original assignment, carried two hundred men or more. He could not fight them off. They would take the Paladin within minutes.
“Your orders, Mister Moore!” called Jenkins.
One in the hand is worth two in the bush, he thought. “Paladins! Abandon ship!” he called, fighting back a cry of despair. “A-Abandon ship! To the Echo!”
Men immediately repeated the order, spreading the word. Some looked about in wonder, as they knew the ship was almost won. Then others saw the Navarkhia and realized they now had only precious moments to withdraw to the safety of their sister ship.
Immediately, the English sailors began to literally jump ship. The few Russians who were left seemed confused and, not understanding what was happening, surrendered. The brothers Stredney escorted them to the Echo.
Jonathan watched them all and then realized his mistake. Immediately, he ran to the bow and opened the box by the Stowaway.
“Mister Moore!” yelled Jenkins. “Now would be a good time to leave!”
“On my way,” Jonathan said, as he grabbed an incendiary shell from the box.
Kharitonov was now gaining on the two English ships, the Navarkhia still moving with greater speed; however, that advantage would disappear in a wink of an eye when the sails of the Echo were let down. Though she was fast, at this moment, the English ships were effectively standing still.
The Echo seemed to be ahead in its preparation, the commodore observed, the Paladin not so. In fact, Kharitonov could see men abandoning the ship. The easier prey would be the Paladin. This he accepted, and he somewhat relished the fact that he could personally address Aggar, who had disappointed him yet again. Possibly he had outlived his usefulness. It was time to be rid of the Romanian.
“We will board the Paladin!” he called as he maneuvered his ship into position. “Do not fire! I want that ship in condition to sail! Prepare a boat! The large skiff! We will come alongside her! Be ready to board!”
The Navarkhia closed to within fifty yards.
“Skryrabin!” called the commodore to his lieutenant. “Take a party in the skiff and regain the Paladin. Make her ready to sail! I will continue after the Echo!”
Jonathan was the last to leave the Paladin. Reluctant to depart, he searched his mind one last time. Was there anything else he could do? Was there any way to save both ships?
“Mister Moore!” called Jenkins. “Hurry! We are adding sail!”
The Echo almost lurched as the wind caught the mainsail and the topgallants. Jonathan turned to the Navarkhia. She was less than twenty yards away. He could see the boarding party ready to attack. Some fired rounds, hitting the deck and the spars above him.
“Hurry, Mister Moore!” called Jenkins.
“Jump, Jonathan! Jump!” yelled Garvey.
Jonathan ran to the port rail and leapt across the waves. Jenkins and Garvey caught him as the foremast sails let out. They wrestled him over the rail and onto the deck as the Echo pulled away.
Jenkins and Garvey helped Jonathan up to his feet as they looked astern. The Navarkhia had come alongside the Paladin, and not stopping, the skiff with Skryrabin’s party inside were dropped into the sea. As Kharitonov continued onward, heading toward the Echo, only fifty yards to her stern and gaining, Skryrabin rowed to the Paladin.
“We might outrun the Navarkhia,” added Jenkins, “though the Paladin will certainly catch us. We must make haste!”
“But with Paladin’s foremast damaged we should have an advantage?” suggested Jonathan.
“Echo has taken some damage to the hull, and a few sails are burned beyond repair,” said Jenkins. “Some are afire in the tops. We will not have the speed we require to outrun Paladin.”
They could now see the Russians cheering as they began to swarm over the deck of their sister ship and climbed the lines to let down sails on the main and spanker.
“Garvey! Get the men to those fires! Cut the sails and rigging if need be,” commanded Jonathan. “Let out all available sail!”
“Yes, sir!” replied Garvey.
“She will still catch us, Mister Moore,” said Jenkins.
“I will not let them take the pride of the British Navy!” said Jonathan. “Nor will I let them take us again!”
“Jonathan!” said Jenkins. “We cannot take her back!”
“Graham! Stredney!” Jonathan called. “Find an Echo who knows the stern chaser and have him join me there! Jenkins! Get us out of here. Head due south, as the wind will be at our backs.”
“What are you doing, if I may ask, sir?” said Jenkins.
“Cashing in my insurance!” said Jonathan as he ran aft past Jenkins and the wheel.
Cardew joined Jonathan at the stern chaser and assisted him in preparing the gun to fire. Jonathan calculated that the Paladin was several minutes away from pursuit, but the Navarkhia was moving into position between them—almost directly behind.
Cardew now rammed a wad down the barrel.
Jonathan took the shell from his pocket and loaded it into the breech.
“She will block my shot!” he said aloud and bent down to take aim. “I hope this fires true!”
“She is as true as a first love, sir!” said Cardew.
“Is all sail
out?” called Jonathan.
“As much as we have left, sir!” called Garvey from the tops.
On the Navarkhia, Kharitonov watched as the men on the stern of the Echo readied the chaser. He laughed heartily.
“Ridiculous!” he said aloud. “That little piper couldn’t damage us! Like a fly it is! Send a volley to their deck! Muskets! To the bow!”
A group of men with long guns appeared and took firing positions about the bow of the Russian cruiser.
“They are only a few yards ahead!” said the commodore. “Aim for their officers! It is our only chance before they are gone!”
“The smoke from the Paladin!” said Jonathan. “It is in my view! I cannot aim!”
“At what are you firing?” asked Jenkins.
“Come to port, two points! I need a clear shot at her stern!” called Jonathan.
Jenkins complied with the order. He then turned the wheel over to Graham and ran to the stern rail to watch the positions of the ships.
Through the smoke and haze, in the failing light, Jonathan could see the Navarkhia entering his view. It would be blocking the Paladin completely in a matter of seconds. He reached to his neck, and from there grasped the silver star-and-moon compass.
“A little luck, Miss Dowdeswell,” he said and kissed the charm.
“All sail is out!” called Garvey as the Echo caught the wind and leapt forward.
In an instant the breeze came across the stern, giving Jonathan a clear view of the powder kegs he had positioned on the main deck of the Paladin.
“Forgive me, Mister Harrison!” yelled Jonathan.
He pulled the chain of the chaser.
The gun exploded, sending the hot shell, the explosive round, racing toward Harrison’s love.
Kharitonov glanced to his side and witnessed Skryrabin and his crew boarding the Paladin. Smiling, he called to his men, “Fire!”
The muskets erupted.