by C. B. Ash
Anthony’s mouth turned into an hard flat line. “For lack of a better word, it’ll do,” he replied uncomfortably. “Though, even if I’m hard pressed to admit it, you’ve got a fair point.” The captain took a deep breath, starting again, “So, the ‘pirates’ hit the Fair Winds, kill her crew, presumably raid her stores, and make away with some or all of the passengers.”
The quartermaster nodded once in agreement, “all in under a wee hour, with time to get gone ‘afore we arrive. Efficient.”
“Too bloody damn efficient,” Hunter replied with a sour tone. “Something doesn’t fit here. I just can’t put my finger on it yet.”
The pair spun around as a sharp yell came from the officer cabins. Before they could move, Moira came running out. In her hands lay the broken clockwork and leather body of a damaged owl servitor. The lady blacksmith had a grin of triumph as she waved the ruined machine at the two men.
“Found it!” She said exuberantly, “somebody tossed it into a corner. I got the windin’ key and mainsprings in my pouch. Give me a little time, and I can be makin’ this little bird sing again, Cap’n.”
Conrad looked the device over. The owl was ten inches long, with a wide wingspan of over thirty inches. Brass plates were riveted at the joints, backed by a soft gray leather that served as the machine’s ‘skin’. A healthy set of plumage had been painstaking attached to the outside of the machine, giving it a more natural appearance. That is if the presence of metal plates riveted to the hollow metal skeleton at the shoulders, legs and on the feet were in any way ‘natural’.
Unlike the typical owl servitor, this one had wires and bent springs protruding from holes torn in the leather skin and ripped metal plates. It looked the farthest anyone could get from ‘functional’.
The quartermaster gave Captain Hunter a dubious glance. “Cap’n, last time Ah ever be seein’ a servitor torn this bad was when one got itself accidentally shot up by artillery. But, it could be holdin’ the ship’s logs, or even what it saw durin’ the attack.”
He gingerly lifted a framed wing, partially devoid of feathers, that had been twisted in a painful-looking right angle. A parallel set of marks were scored into the metal. “Looks like somethin’ took out after the wee thing with a set of claws.”
“Angela, ya think?” Moira offered. “When she’s got the wolf upon her, she can do some awful damage with her claws.”
Hunter lifted one of the shredded strips of leather for a moment, then let it fall back. “Possibly. Despite being a young werewolf, you’re quite right, she is very strong. Especially when she’s set her mind to a task at hand. But why would she bother? Moira, how long till you could get something useful from the servitor?”
Moira turned the disemboweled metal bird over in her hands, considering the damage. “Oh, half-hour maybe. Won’t fly, but it might could speak.”
“Make it fifteen minutes, and I’ll seriously consider that large cargo haul to Boston in the Americas, along with some of that down time you’ve been after me about,” Hunter replied with a faint smirk.
The young woman’s features lit with excitement, “Really? I’m on it, Cap’n!” Moira raced off across the deck, machinery in hand, heading for the first place she could cross over to her workshop aboard the Brass Griffin.
O’Fallon and Hunter both chuckled. The captain grinned at Moira’s retreating figure. “She’s been eager to see Boston. Always has since she’s been aboard.”
“Ah remember once she be sayin’ that it’s the ‘height of culture and art’,” O’Fallon folded his arms over his chest. “Probably hopin’ to get to wear that fancy dress she keeps stashed away. Probably off to be seein’ the theater.”
Hunter looked at O’Fallon in surprise, “Moira?” The captain looked back towards where Moira left. “Hm, really? Well, the shipping to Boston is quite lucrative right now, and while we’re there, she could get a recording of a performance or something.” Hunters words faded as he snapped his fingers at the flash of inspiration. “A recording … of course.”
“Eh?” O’Fallon asked, “Ah don’t follow.”
“The ship’s opti,” Hunter explained. “It’s a quite a long shot, but if they saw the pirates coming, they may have tried to contact them.”
The quartermaster nodded, “And if they answered, we’d be gettin’ their opti series number, which could lead us right to ’em, or nearly so.”
“Exactly,” Hunter replied.
“Lot of ‘ifs’ there, Cap’n,” O’Fallon said dubiously, “even if that be only two of ’em. They’re a might large.”
“It’s a good place to start, though,” Hunter replied.
“I think you’ll want these, then, Captain,” Krumer Whitehorse said, his deep voice echoing through the smoke. From the ladder to below decks, Krumer emerged holding a pair of black, wax-coated cylinders in his right hand.
“Lucas found them below,” the first mate explained while walking over to Conrad and Captain Hunter. “Someone moved the ship’s opti-telegraphic below-decks and hid it in the engine room.”
Hunter nodded knowingly, “which would be where the antennae leads hook into the ship’s generators.”
“Quite right, “ Krumer replied. “Clever hiding place, too – stuffed between two boilers. Lucas would’ve missed it, but the cotton insulation on the wires had started to blacken and smoke from the heat of the boilers. Once he dug it out, he brought it to me straight away.”
The captain looked around behind Krumer at the silent deck. “Just where are the lads, anyway?”
“Cargo hold,” Krumer said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder at the dark hatch behind him. “Thought there might be a hint of what was taken down there. My thinking was that if we could find out what the pirates took, and what they left behind, it might give us an idea as to where they’d stop to sell the goods.”
“Indeed,” Anthony said, “good thinking.”
“One thing be eatin’ at me here,” Conrad said thoughtfully, finally speaking up, “these pirates run the Fair Winds down, beat her bloody, board her, then be makin’ off with crew, cargo and more’n a few passengers.” He glanced between the captain and the first mate with a dark, suspicious look. “Why not scuttle her? Why be leavin’ her up flyin’ where she’d be found? If ye took all ye want from her, one quick broadside would’ve sunk her quick.”
Hunter’s mind turned that over once, then twice in rapid succession. “You’re right … why leave her intact? We’re only a few hours’ sail from Scotland’s coast. Any number of Royal cutters on patrol could happen upon the Fair Winds … “ The captain’s voice trailed off, an ugly thought materializing fully formed in his mind. “Except … to kill off anyone who heard the distress and came flying in to help!”
Krumer Whitehorse and O’Fallon exchanged a sharp glance, realizing the imminent danger.
“It’d distract the navy, and confuse pursuit. Spirits take us, she’s trapped,” Krumer said in a hoarse voice. “But where?”
“Bloody hell! It’d have to be near the magazines below decks!” Hunter exclaimed while he ran for the open hatch nearby, followed by Krumer and Conrad. “We’ve got to get the lads from below and abandon ship!”
At that moment, William Falke burst into view from out of the hatch. He scrambled up the ladder, followed closely by Lucas Gregory, the pilot’s apprentice. Both young men stumbled forward in their haste tumbling to the deck, white as sheets and visibly terrified.
“Cap’n! She’s gonna blow! The cargo hold! Powder’s everywhere and it’s burnin!” William shouted, climbing to his feet. “We accidentally set it off when we shoved the door open!”
“Back to the Griffin!” Hunter ordered. The captain raised his voice, grabbing William by one arm, hauling him quickly to his feet. “Ahoy, Griffin! Cut the lines! Now!” The captain yelled, “the Fair Winds’ powder is set to blow!”
Shouts in the smoke relayed the command. The dull thud of axe blades hammered in rapid succession, as one rope, then another was abr
uptly severed. Meanwhile, Krumer and O’Fallon led the others in a mad race across the ruined deck of the Fair Winds.
The first mate reached the railing first, leaping across to the Brass Griffin. Conrad O’Fallon came next, hesitating a moment as the ship shuddered beneath his hands from a small explosion. The Scotsman reached out and grabbed a loose tether to the Griffin, throwing the harness on.
“Toss three more tethers!” He yelled.
Hunter skidded to a stop at the rail next to O’Fallon. The captain glanced over at the Griffin, then to where O’Fallon had stood a moment ago. William and Lucas should have been right behind Hunter. He spun around, a cold chill racing along his spine.
“Damnation,” Anthony said bitterly.
The wooden deck planks, already savaged by fire and artillery shot, had given way beneath the two young men. William had managed to leap to safety. Lucas, dangling like fishing bait on a hook, had not.
At the moment the wood had shattered, then collapsed beneath the young pilot’s right foot, it had sent the young man plunging downward. Before Lucas had vanished beneath the deck, he had managed to grab onto a length of rope still tied to where a mast twenty feet away was bolted to the main deck. While the young man clutched at the rope with sweat-slick hands, beneath his feet, he could feel the rising heat of a fire below.
Next to Lucas, William frantically yanked on the wood, breaking off small splinters and fragments at a time – nothing large enough to free the young pilot from his death trap.
Anthony raced across the deck, helping to move the wood with which William struggled. It did little good. Even with both men pulling, the planks remained resolutely in place. Through gaps in the hole, Hunter could see where the wooden edge had sliced both Lucas’ pants and leg like a torrent of knives, leaving long, bloody gashes. Lucas needed to be bandaged, and soon.
Without warning, the ship shuddered violently, knocking William and Hunter off their feet as a muffled explosion erupted somewhere below decks.
“Go on!” Lucas yelled, tears streaming from his eyes from pain and terror, “I’m done for!”
“Not on my watch, lad!” Hunter replied sharply, looking around for anything close at hand. Grabbing a length of bent pipe, the captain slammed one end down into a small gap in the wood like a crack of thunder. “Pull, Will! Put your back into it!”
“Aye, Cap’n!” William Falke replied, grabbing hold of the pipe and pulling with every fiber of his being.
Wood protested, splintered, then snapped, flying out in all directions as William and Hunter fell backwards to the deck. William rolled over, clutching Lucas by his left arm before he could fall farther. The captain grabbed onto the young man’s right a moment later. Together they hauled the wounded apprentice up, then half-carried him across the deck.
O’Fallon quickly wrapped a tether around Lucas. “Haul away!” He shouted.
Aboard the Brass Griffin, two crewmen pulled hard, the leather going abruptly taught. Lucas gasped in surprise and pain, swinging up into the air, then away from the Fair Winds. Once the wounded young man was safely on the other ship, O’Fallon tossed a tether to William, then another to Captain Hunter.
No sooner had the pair strapped in, a belch of white-orange flame erupted like a geyser through the Fair Winds’ deck. Wooden shards exploded up and out, showering everything in their path with hundreds of steaming hot needles. The three men were summarily tossed into the air, then slammed to the Fair Winds’ main deck.
Dying, the Fair Winds pitched sideways, listing as the gas bag above them caught fire, and scorched rigging snapped like twine. On the vessel’s main deck, Hunter blinked his eyes, then shook his head, clearing the fog from his mind. Next to him, William was out cold, having struck his head against the deck. Already, a bruise was starting to form on the young man’s forehead.
O’Fallon, who had grabbed a broken piece of deck, let go his grip and slid down to where William’s body rolled loose. The Scotsman dug in his heels, slowing himself to a stop to grab William by his left arm to steady him. The tight leather straps of the tethers creaked, preventing all three men from falling into the flames.
Hunter glared defiantly at the blaze, then up at the railing. Their tethers twitched but nothing more. With a stomach-churning drop, the Fair Winds tossed again, giving Hunter a brief glimpse aboard the Brass Griffin. Their tethers still stretched between the ships, but were caught up in a knot at the pulley!
“The tethers are fouled at the main pulley,” Hunter shouted out over the roar of the flames.
O’Fallon squinted from the soot and heat, “the old girl here’s dyin’ Cap’n! Near as Ah see it, she’s givin’ it all she’s got to keep us alive for now. She won’t hold much longer! If they’re not pullin’ us aboard now, we’ll not make it!”
The captain looked over at O’Fallon and yelled out as more explosions started to shake the mortally wounded vessel in rapid succession, “then there’s only one place to go! Follow me!”
With a tight grip on William’s right arm, Hunter staggered to his feet alongside O’Fallon. The pair exchanged a glance, then looked toward the railing not far ahead of them. They were easily three miles above the cold, dark waters of the North Sea.
Yelling as if charging into battle, Hunter and O’Fallon raced up the sloping deck towards the rail, with William’s unconscious form being carried between them. Immediately behind the trio, the deck erupted in rapid succession with each step. Orange balls of fire vomited skyward, and wood shattered into thousands of jagged teeth scattered across the wind. Heat clawed at their lungs, and fire clutched at their boot heels, as if the flames themselves had taken life and were hungry for prey.
The men reached the rail at a dead run, the deck dissolving in the flaming purgatory fast chasing them. They leaped up, stepping off from the rail, throwing themselves outward into the smoky, empty space of air growing between the two ships.
Suddenly the Fair Winds shattered in a savage fireball, exploding like a bomb. The sky roared behind them, screaming with the fury of hell itself.
Chapter 3
Flames consumed the sky, with acrid black smoke choking out the sun. The heat blistered the air around Anthony Hunter, and everywhere he looked flared the dusky orange blaze of hell struggling to swallow him whole. Heat gripped his lungs, and fire lashed at his arms, searing his skin to the breaking point.
With a wordless shout of pain, he jerked upright in his bunk. Instinctively, the captain rolled to one side, coming to his feet with a pistol clutched tight in his right hand. Panting, his wits slowly returned as he recognized the familiar surroundings of his cabin.
An abrupt break from the hellish landscape of his nightmares, warm sunlight streamed through the dusty cabin windows, gracing the old wood of his desk and the smooth planks of the deck beneath his feet. Hunter sighed heavily as the nightmare slowly evaporated in his mind, retreating like fog from the morning sun.
Suddenly, the door to his cabin flew open. Krumer Whitehorse rushed inside, followed by Dr. Thorias Llwellyn. His nerves still on edge, Hunter spun immediately, pistol at the ready. Seeing their disheveled captain standing there in trousers, soot-stained shirt, wool socks, and brandishing a loaded gun and a angry snarl, the pair immediately threw themselves to either side of the door.
“Captain, wait! Hold fire!” Krumer said quickly.
Captain Hunter blinked twice, looking past the lingering vision of flames and imagined scores of pirates bearing down on him to finally see Krumer and Thorias. Anthony glanced down, considering the pistol a moment, then dropped it into the holster next to his bunk.
“My apologies,” The captain said, slightly distracted by the last fleeting memories of the nightmare.
Krumer looked around the cabin in alarm, “Captain, what is it? Why the shout?”
“The ship?” Hunter asked, ignoring the first mate’s question, “how is she?”
Seeing the captain was in no danger, the first mate relaxed. “Fine enough, for the most part. We�
�re a bit singed, but nothing that can’t be patched as we go.” Krumer gave Hunter a suspicious glance, “Captain, are you certain there isn’t anything wrong?”
“Nothing,” Hunter said wearily, “it’s nothing.”
“Nothing doesn’t inspire one to grab a firearm, and wave it about while half-dressed,” Thorias quipped, giving his old friend an amused look.
The captain rubbed his left shoulder, suddenly realizing that it ached just slightly. Crossing the room to a washbasin on the far side from his bunk, he stripped off his torn, soot-stained shirt, and turned a spigot to fill it with a little water pumped up from below decks. Shutting off the spigot, he splashed some of water on his face.
“Just reliving the leap from the Fair Winds,” Anthony finally admitted, turning the crank that drained the water from the basin towards the ship’s water purification distillery next to the engine room. Turning away from the water cabinet, he crossed to a small wardrobe to retrieve a clean, blue cotton shirt. “How long have I been out of commission?”
“Before you do that, let me check your shoulder,” Thorias said quickly before the captain could pull on the fresh shirt, “best check now to see if anything new has developed.”
Hunter waited impatiently. “Very well. It’s only a mild ache. I’m right as rain, all things considered.”
“I’ll be the judge of that. Also, given how you came back aboard with O’Fallon and William, I’m surprised it’s only just an ache,” Thorias said wryly. “You’ve been here for four hours at the least, old man. The blast took a good bit out of you, and naturally William, too, as he’s not fully recovered from his own adventure in Edinburgh with that murderer. O’Fallon is, well, as he always is.”
Krumer chuckled, his deep voice rumbling with humor. “Which means if he felt any of it, who’d notice? He’s scaling rigging now, doing some patch work on the gas bag.”
“Bruised but not broken, which is good, considering you partially landed on that shoulder when you rolled across the deck.” Thorias said, stepping back from the captain.