Quietly, Jack called Tan and Fin away from the line.
“We’re safe for the night, but come morning the sun’s gonna betray us and we’ll have a fight. Need you to talk to that Armand Defain bugger and find out what he knows about the ship’s arms. I been poking around below, and we got twenty good cannons but no powder or ball that I can see.”
Tan nodded and Jack turned back to the line. Fin called over Armand Defain.
“Is there any powder aboard? Any cannonshot?” she asked him.
“We’re going to fight them then?” he said, chuckling. “I cannot say I think we have much chance, but it will certainly be . . . invigorating.” Fin didn’t think dying sounded particularly invigorating at all.
“Is there gunpowder aboard or not?”
“Powder, oui. A reserve magazine. Follow me.” Defain led them down to the gundeck and along a narrow corridor to a large set of double doors that were chained and locked. Tan retrieved a hatchet from stowage and hacked at the door. He cut away enough to peer inside and saw half a dozen powder kegs sitting peacefully in the dark, waiting patiently for their hour of waking. On the floor beside the kegs lay crates of nine-inch cannonballs, and on the walls hung a complement of muskets and sabers.
“Got plenty of powder and small arms for the crew. Only about twenty cannonshot though. That’s enough for one volley,” reported Tan.
They finished tearing the door away from its frame and rolled the powder kegs out into the main room. Tan was happy to find the crew’s confiscated weapons in the closet, and his rapier was among them. He strapped it on and looked instantly more hopeful. He and Fin picked up what knives and gear they recognized as the crew’s and went up on deck to return it. The effect upon the sailors was much the same as on Tan. Having their own weapons at their sides gave them all a bit more hope than they’d had without. Fin thought of Betsy and longed to feel the weight of the old thunder-gun tucked away in her belt, but it was aboard the Rattlesnake, along with her fiddle. No comfort for her. She put it out of her mind.
They reported what they’d found to Jack. He’d hoped for enough ammunition to muster a good fight, but there was little to do about it so he ordered them to get some sleep before the sun came up. They’d need all their strength when it did.
Fin crawled wearily into a corner. She curled up on a pile of mouldy rope and tried to sleep but it was long in coming; there was much trouble on her mind. She might not live through the coming morning, but it wasn’t the dying she minded. It was the things dying took away. If she died she’d never get the satisfaction of seeing Tiberius Creache dead for his crimes. She’d never get the chance to stop him before he could plunder her home, kill the people she loved, and steal Bartimaeus’s treasure. She’d never see Peter again. That aching thought hurt her the most. She wouldn’t mind dying if she could see Peter again. If she could tell him how sorry she was for leaving, for all the mistakes she’d made. Did he even care? It had been over two years since she’d seen him. Suddenly, she was sure that all hope of him patiently farming their land and waiting for his lost girl to come home was nothing more than a silly dream in a dim reality. Tears came, and she sobbed quietly into her arm, hoping no one could hear. She wept herself into sleep and dreamed.
She saw a misty wood of pecan and pine that broke suddenly onto a wide green field surrounding a peaceful cabin. Children ran and laughed across the grass, and in the shade of the house was a man tapping the arms of a rocking chair into place with a carpenter’s mallet. His face was lost in the shadows. He laid the mallet down and, like a lover, gently traced the lines of the chair with his finger. Then he set himself to rest in his finished piece, and though the shadows hid his face, Fin knew he was smiling. He produced a pipe from his pocket and stoked it to life like an old memory as he rocked in the chair.
Then Fin saw a second chair, in the shadows, more slender and more delicate than the one he sat upon. He reached over and drew it into the light at his side. He looked across the grass at Fin and motioned her to sit beside him. She wanted nothing so much as to join him and sit. She took a timorous step forward, but as soon as her foot touched the grass, the world erupted in thunder. She looked to the sky and saw a great black ship, its sides ablaze with cannon fire. Cannonballs crashed into the cabin, sending splinters across the field. Thunder again, and the children were dying. Thunder again, and all was in ruin. The ship floated off behind a darker cloud, and she fell to her knees weeping. She looked up, and amid the wreck of the scene, the carpenter sat silent and still as an oak, smoking his pipe; beside him still the empty chair waited.
“Fin, come,” he said.
“I can’t,” cried Fin. One step upon that grass had brought ruin and death. How could she bear the many steps to cross the distance?
“Fin, come,” he said again and she wailed.
“Fin, come on!” said a voice above her, and she opened her eyes. Knut was shaking her shoulder and shouting at her to wake up. Cannons fired in the distance. “Fin, get up!”
All at once, she leapt awake. The sun was rising.
CHAPTER XXII
Fin ran out of her cabin and jerked to a stop. In the dim glimmer-light of dawn she felt immediately that the sea was too near. At first she thought it was a trick of the light, but it wasn’t; the Justice was riding perilously low in the water. The sea was patiently rising to consume them. Like a great behemoth, it stretched its maw wide beneath the ship and awaited the fall of its prey.
A flash from the north caught her eye, and seconds later, the report of distant cannons broke the morning. Behind her, she heard a ball splash into the sea. The British were in range. The light didn’t permit a good shot yet, but it was only a matter of time.
Fin frowned to herself and felt a pang of guilt that she’d slept so long while others worked through the night baling water to keep them afloat. She rushed toward the chain of men where, despite the encroaching water and cannonfire, the crew still sang and passed the buckets in time. If the sound was merry however, the faces of those singing were less so. They turned and greeted her with mock cheer and the resolution of men marching toward their own deaths. She shouldn’t have slept so long.
From down the hatch, raised voices floated up to her: angry, fearful. She lit down into the hold and picked Tan’s voice out of the clamor, then Jack’s. They were arguing amid many voices.
“Let them rot, Jack!” shouted Tan over the din. He was standing knee deep in water at the top of the steps leading down to the bilge. From behind the locked door, from Armand Defain’s lair, came the snarls and yelps of those filthy and barely human creatures that had meant to have their way with her. Fin shuddered at the noise and clamor from behind the door and felt a shameful relief that those dregs were locked away behind it. They would surely drown within the hour.
Jack stood at the door, perplexed, arguing to free the prisoners locked within. Tan was firmly against it. Armand Defain stood to the side observing the discourse with twisted amusement. A few days ago, he’d called those men his crew, but now he was utterly indifferent to their fate.
Jack turned to Defain. “Can you keep these buggers under your thumb?” he asked.
Defain held up his hands, palms outward, and grinned. “They have been kept long, and much abused. They may act . . . unpredictably.” The notion seemed to amuse him, and he continued with a smile, “They could be most ferocious if loosed upon the English.”
Jack pondered him a moment then turned to Tan, still undecided.
“They’re black-hearted murderers, Jack, evil to the marrow. Leave ’em be.”
“Don’t do it, Jack, don’t let them out. I don’t trust him,” said Fin, her eyes fixed firmly on Defain.
“All right, the door stays locked—for now. But I don’t aim to let men drown, no matter what they’ve done. Before that room fills to the top, the door opens and we’ll deal with the devil that comes of it.” He didn’t wait for protest; he turned and climbed the steps back onto the deck. Fin and Tan exchanged
a worried look. Then Tan, quick as a cat, grabbed Armand Defain by the shirt and hoisted his small frame against the bulkhead.
“If your dogs get out, I expect you to tend them. If they so much as touch one of my mates, you’ll answer with blood.”
“But of course,” nodded Defain with the slightest smirk. Tan pushed him away and disappeared down the hall to the gun deck. Defain didn’t appear shaken by Tan’s threats. His eyes followed Tan as he departed, then he turned them on the half-submerged door and grinned at the voices thundering through it. The hairs on Fin’s neck rose. She turned away to chase after Jack.
The sun was spilling fire into the sky, burning away the last remnants of safety that the darkness had provided. The British ships in chase were within half a mile. A white cloud erupted from the bow of the nearest ship and eclipsed all but the top-most sails. Seconds later, the rumble of cannons rasped across the Justice. Two balls splashed into the water less than twenty paces off the starboard. It was only a matter of time before they found their mark and battered the Justice into the sea.
Jack belched orders to any man not bailing water. Topper stood at the helm visibly exhausted. He’d been at the wheel since they fled, and he looked like he might collapse if he let go of it. There was no jest left in him; his spirit was consumed by wind and wave, tack and time. Fin ran to the end of the bailing line and relieved a bedraggled looking man dressed in rags, a former prisoner of the Justice. The buckets came steadily. She heaved the water overboard and hurried the bucket back up the line for more. Within minutes, her arms ached from the work—work that others had been at for hours.
Again came the sharp crack and rumble of cannonfire, and a ball crashed into the deck, splintering a hole the size of a wine-cask just aft of the mainmast. The song of the bailing line faltered. Shouts of fear and shock arose. Then Topper began yelling. He was pointing across the bow. Away to the southwest rose the sails of two tall ships, heavily armed and apt to war. The men on deck saw them and began to wail.
“We’ll be splintered and sunk!” they cried. Another cannonball crashed onto the deck as if in punctuation. Now they were running from danger into despair. Hope of reaching Savannah was gone, and all eyes turned to Jack with angry shouts and fearful pleas.
“Run up the white flag,” cried some.
“Damn ’em to fire and the devil’s mercy,” cried others.
Above the cries Jack shouted, “Beat to arms! We’ll not drink the brine before we’re drunk on English blood!” Men rushed below and found Tan on the gundeck already passing out what weaponry he’d scrounged. He tossed Fin a cutlass and he was smiling his blood smile. The promise of battle was thick about him, and Tan breathed it like air. Fin had no reason to smile, but danger was afoot and Tan was in his element. She tucked the cutlass into her belt and snatched a battered old pistol off the wall. She wondered momentarily where Knut had got off to and plucked a second pistol off the wall to give to him when he turned up. Tan tossed her a powder horn and a pouch of musket ball before the men behind muscled her out the door, anxious to arm their own defense.
She darted back up on deck and joined Topper at the helm. He looked like the walking dead, like a withered and bloated corpse strapped to the wheel, defiant unto death. The sun had burned his face and chapped his lips. His eyes shone despair like cold moonlight, betraying none of the good nature she’d come to love.
“We’ll be all right, Topper. We always have been,” she said and smiled at him. He didn’t seem to hear her.
Jack’s voice boomed across the deck, “Get them cannons loaded, boys!” Then bending low to shout down the hatch, “Tan! See to it!” From below came the dull rumble of cannons hauled into place. “Topper, bring her ’round, and keep her straight down their throats ’til I give the word. Don’t give ’em any more target than we got to.” Topper didn’t move. Jack stepped in front of him and roared into his face, “Topper, I’ll box your ears and smack you clean if you can’t follow an order and answer an aye!” Jack meant no ill will but he had no choice; he had to lean hard. Topper was a master at the wheel, and Jack couldn’t afford to lose him. He needed to push him. Topper blinked and clenched his jaw.
“Aye, Jack. I’m all right.”
Jack lingered, appraising his condition. Topper hauled the wheel over, and the ship lurched to port. The Justice came around and drove straight into the English cannonfire that they’d eluded all night.
Tan appeared from below and reported the cannons ready to fire. “One volley is all we got, Jack.”
“Best make it a good one,” he muttered.
Ahead of them, white smoke billowed from the bows of both English ships and cannonshot splashed water onto the deck—near misses. The wind was from the northwest and, unable to tack for want of presenting a broadside target, they all but crawled through the water, sails flapping with slack. Then the ships ahead of them split, one turned west, one east. They were forcing Jack to choose. Whichever he turned to follow, the Justice would present her broadside to the other. Jack spat a curse and ordered Topper to keep dead bearing on the easternmost ship. Behind them, the two ships coming up from Savannah were still at a distance but approaching quickly. Fin tried not to consider what would happen when they also came within firing range.
“Tan, get over here,” called Jack. “Unload the cannons on the port gunwale. We need two full volley off the starboard.” Tan nodded and hurried to make it so. “Every man not on a cannon, get your boots on deck, and make ready to grapple and board.” Men lined the rails, loaded their muskets, and brought out hooks and line.
“What are you going to do, Jack?” asked Fin.
Jack didn’t answer. He looked as if he were debating whether or not he should reply. After a few tense moments, he looked at her and spoke in a hushed voice. “Make sure you hold on tight, and stay clear of the bow.” Fin had no idea what to make of that information, and the look on her face told Jack as much. “Get to the rail, Button.” He would say no more.
Fin hurried away to find Knut. He was at the stern peering intently at the ships bearing up from Savannah. She held the extra pistol out in front of him. “Take this.” Knut lifted his arm and pointed at the ships behind them. “I know, Knut. Now take the pistol.” He didn’t seem to hear her. He simply stared south toward the ships as they approached. Cannonshot split the air and the ship shuddered. They’d been hit again. Fin flinched and swore under her breath. She didn’t have time or patience for Knut’s games. “Fine, suit yourself,” she said and rushed away to find a spot along the portside rail.
The two ships in front of them were some four hundred yards apart. Topper steered straight toward one, its masts bloomed with sail, its bowsprit stabbed toward them anxious and saber-sharp, and from her mizzen flapped a massive Union Jack beating the wind like a drummer. The other ship was directly off their starboard; her gunwales were opening up, her cannons running out.
“Tan, as soon as the volley is away I want them cannons reloaded—fast,” bellowed Jack down the hatch. Tan’s muffled voice shouted back assent. The crew had arrayed themselves along the rails of the ship, a few still packing their muskets. Fin plucked her pistol from her belt and packed the barrel, then readied the one she’d gotten for Knut as well. Two shots, no more, then blades.
“Listen up!” roared Jack over the wind. “We got two full load of cannon to throw at that bastard yonder,” he pointed off the starboard side toward the English warship that was now almost within a stone’s throw. “Then we ram this tub of rotten timber into the other. We leave the rest to the Lord above and devil below.” Around the deck, eyes widened and the collective intake of breath seemed to out-whistle the wind. “Be ready on your hooks. Be quick to board. Give hell with your guns, redden wet your knives, and we’ll sing of it when I see ye again on the Fiddler’s Green.”
He paused and took a deep breath, filling his barrel-chest with the cool air so that when he spoke again his voice exploded horn-like and deep. “We ready, boys?” shouted Jack with a defi
ant howl.
Sam Catcher raised his cutlass into the air and cursed ruin upon the king and all his men. One after another, the men on deck took to shouting defiance and waving their weapons until the whole ship was a din of hatred raised.
Then the ship off the starboard rail loosed her broadside cannons, and the world exploded in a fury of splinter and scream. Cannonballs punched through the gunwales and deck of the Justice with terrifying force, sending men and debris hurtling through the air, landing broken on deck or plunged into the dark Atlantic. In seconds, the Justice was riddled with the bloodied and dead.
“Now, Tan!” cried Jack, and the guns of the Justice answered. Her starboard broadsides detonated and the ship shuddered and groaned under the power of the report. Vast white clouds of gunsmoke billowed from the iron throats of her cannons. The smell of powder woke in Fin’s nostrils and stung her eyes. Jack shouted for the reload, and in moments Tan called up the all-ready.
“Fire!” cried Jack without waiting for the air to clear, and the guns bellowed again. Through the smoke they heard the impact of ball upon wood and knew the mark was struck.
The men sent up a cheer but in the midst of it came Topper’s warning from the helm, “HOLD FAST!”
Every head spun around, and for a splinter of time all was silent and still. The ship in front of them was mere feet away, its deck crowded with red-coated British soldiers. An ocean swell heaved the prow of the Justice up so that in that moment it seemed they towered over the British warship, descending like a thunderbird from airy heights, talons thrust forth, wreathed in the ancient, red aura of war.
For that singular second, the men aboard both vessels peered across the gulf at one another, rigid with fear and frozen by memories of home, and of women loved and children born, and of all others they might never see again. And in response they called out of the dark reaches of man’s collective nightmare that beast that stirs and quickens to violence, that savors the taste of the enemy’s throat, the bloodthirst that blinds reason and makes of men a berzerking force of rage with curled lips and bared, animal teeth. Then, like a thunderclap, the ships smashed one upon the other. The aged and rotted timbers of the Justice crumpled against the gunwales of the warship like paper. The decks rolled and trembled and heaved and the stacatto popping of wood rattled the air as elemental forces of gravity and inertia and the hoary sea itself took hold of the Justice and twisted the ship apart.
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