"My men, sir?"
"De Ville has assured me they will be treated hospitably until such time as we return for them."
"Yes, sir."
"Now if you will excuse me, I'm told Glasse has been asking for me again. Poor man. The doctor tells me the muscles on his back have been completely shredded and he may not live out the night." Bennett paused at the door and cast a mildly disdainful look back. "You should clean yourself up, Captain. Have that arm treated properly...and do see the ships' barber for a shave. You are still an officer in His Majesty's Royal Navy. Look like one."
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
An urgent clanging of the ship's bell brought Morgan bolt upright in bed, instantly awake. Summer took a moment to rub the sleep from her eyes, and in that moment Wade had pulled on his breeches and stamped his feet into his boots and was out the cabin door. Summer dressed quickly and was not far behind, amazed at how easily her stomach churned with fresh panic.
The gunports were opened as she reached the deck, the lashings were off the cannon and the cork tompions were removed from the iron muzzles. The bright sunlight revealed the scars from the battle with the Northgate , and Summer could not help but wonder if the Chimera would ever regain her beauty and polished grace.
She ran along the quarterdeck toward the bridge, searching for signs of what had caused the alarm, but saw nothing beyond blue sky and dazzlingly clear water. Mr. Monday was talking to Morgan in a rapid undertone; Morgan in turn was staring along the brass spyglass, holding it steady on some point in the distance. From the look on his face, Summer knew it had to be the Caledonia. Mr. Monday fell silent beside him, and Mr. Phillips clenched his fists and leaned on the rail.
It was not until she heard the faint, muffled pounding that she whirled around quickly and understood the grimness on the men's faces.
"Michael...is it the Gyrfalcon?"
Her brother tore his eyes away from the two small sets of sails on the horizon. "She fell back during the night. Captain Bull kept lighting signals that he was all right, that the sea was clear behind him, and then...he just turned away suddenly and..."
Summer felt the deck tilt and realized, with a second jolt. that the Chimera was tacking sharply about. On Morgan's order, Mr. Phillips shouted for more sail, and Summer was pressed back against the bulkhead as men clambered past her and swarmed up into the rigging. She was close enough to overhear what was being said on the half-deck above her.
"It will take an hour, maybe more, to reach her, even with the wind in our favor," Morgan cursed.
"Why didn't Captain Treloggan signal, sir?"
"I don't know, Mr. Phillips. But you can be sure I intend to find out. Can we work up any more speed?"
"We're fully rigged as it is, sir. We haven't an empty yard anywhere."
"Then we'll have to lighten her. Put some strong backs on the winch and off-load those bloody crates of copper. Get men in the stern and do the same with the barrels of drinking water. I want three more knots by the end of the hour."
"Aye, sir!" Phillips turned and vaulted down the ladder.
"Dammit, Monday, Jamie had a good question. I'll kill Bull myself when I lay my hands on him if he doesn't have a damned good explanation."
"mebbe he t'ink he givin' us a chance to get away," Mr. Monday said. "Mebbe he know two ships woan make it."
"Morgan's jaw tensed and he raised the glass, sweeping it across the horizon. "Where the devil are we, anyway?"
"Bird Island over there," Monday grunted, pointing westward.
Morgan took a deep breath and cursed again. Bird Island was a favorite rendezvous point for smugglers and privateers, and the chances of stumbling across a British revenue ship were excellent.
Mr. Monday only grinned and shrugged.
Morgan lowered the glass and looked down, seeing Michael standing in the shadow of the bridge, and beside him, Summer.
"You'd better go below," he ordered harshly. "Both of you."
"Sir?" Michael frowned and turned away from the deck rail. "You said I was part of the crew now."
"We're headed into a fight, boy. This is no time for games."
Michael's cheeks flushed angrily. "I know it's not a game, sir. But I recall you saying once that every man on board your ship had to pull his own weight; there could be no special treatment for anyone—including a governor's son. Well, sir, I am not the governor's son any longer. I am a full member of your crew. As such I... I demand to be treated the s-same way. I am not afraid to fight the Caledonia. You won't regret having hired me on."
Morgan's eyes had narrowed during the breathless speech, and now they widened in an expression intimating he was dangerously close to the edge of his patience. "Hired you?"
"Yes, sir. I should expect to share in the prize when we take her."
The dark blue eyes flicked to Summer. Instead of finding support, he was met by a proud smile and a similar calm defiance.
"Mr. Monday," he growled, "take your new powderboy down and explain what his duties will be."
M. Monday chuckled dryly and left the deck.
"Thank you, sir," Michael cried. "You won't be sorry."
"Mr. Cambridge, we put men to death for even looking pale on board this ship. You may be sure I'll not be sorry about anything. Do we understand one another?"
Michael returned the penetrating gaze for a moment, then swallowed hard. "Aye, sir."
"As for you—" Morgan's attention shifted to Summer after Michael had been led away. "I will deal with your obstinacy once and for all when this is over."
"Yes, Captain. Is that a promise?"
"It is, by God."
"Then I look forward to it, sir," she said. "Eagerly."
The Gyrfalcon was reeling under the amount of shot raking across her hull. The upper deck was caught in a terrible deluge that rained iron and fragments of lead from exploding canisters of grapeshot. The dead and dying were strewn about the bloody planking, and the defenders had withdrawn to the shielded lower gun deck, where incredibly enough, the gunners were still maintaining a steady reply to the Caledonia's onslaught. The battle was forty minutes old, already twice as long as Commodore Winfield had confidently predicted it would take to destroy the privateer.
Bull Treloggan refused to leave the bridge of his ship. He roared as many oaths across the span of ocean dividing the two ships as his cannon roared with shot. Twice he had to drag bodies away from the wildly spinning wheel and guide the helm himself until a replacement appeared. Five, six, seven shots from the Royal Marine sharpshooters zinged close to his head, and three times his body staggered as eighteen pounds of iron gouged through the deck within arm's reach. He merely threw his head back and bellowed louder for the insult, cursing the Briton's aim, cursing their training, cursing their lack of nerve to come too close to the Gyrfalcon. He was bare chested, and his skin shone from the rivulets of blood where flying fragments had sliced into him. His face streamed sweat, his beard glittered; both hands were burned raw from loading and firing hot cannon.
He blessed Stuart Roarke each time he heard the deep-bellied explosions from the four sixty-four-pound carronades his son-in-law had mounted on the lower deck. They had already worn a dent in the Caledonia's arrogant striped hull and had slashed through masts and rigging so that the panther's maneuverability had been vastly reduced. Like the bird of prey she was named after, the Gyrfalcon made use of her lightness and greater speed to attack, fall back, attack, circle around and attack again. Bull did not stay in position long enough for the Caledonia's gunners to aim with any kind of accuracy. Their frustration was showing in their poor marksmanship, and in the haste with which they attempted to reload and fire, sometimes sending the shots arcing well overhead or past the privateer, missing the target completely.
Unlike the decking Roarke had specially reinforced to withstand a pounding, the black panther was catching each heavy shell the Gyrfalcon spat at her and was suffering damage on all decks. Several times the shots blew through her ports and the c
annon tipped out and into the sea. It did nothing to impede the deadly eruptions from the three full decks of guns, but it struck a proud chord in Bull's heart to see the mighty giant feeling more than just the annoying bite and scratch her captain had expected.
The Chimera came in fast before the wind and reduced to fighting sail as she slid into position. Bull's crew cheered feverishly as she commenced heavy fire from all of her guns, earning the panther's attention. The white-and-navy clad officers on the Caledonia's bridge could be seen redirecting the helmsman to bring the ship about and line her guns on the new arrival, giving Bull's men a much-needed respite.
Wade's big twenty-fours were aimed and fired without a visible break in the clouds of smoke. The Caledonia responded vigorously with her thirty-two-pounders, heavier guns, but not as accurate against a fast-moving target. The Chimera cut in swiftly, moving out again too quickly for the British gun-layers to compensate. Even so, she caught more than a fair share of direct hits, and Winfield praised his men as he saw Wade's foresails hanging in tatters. He pursued the privateer, hoping for an opportunity to cross Wade's bow and deliver a broadside similar to the one that had so unnerved the gunners of the Northgate. Wade saw what the commodore was about and pulled sharply up into the wind, ordering his headsails backed so that his ship glided almost to a dead halt in the water. Instead of ending up in front of the Chimera as planned, Winfield found his broader, slower ship head-on to Wade's port battery. The Yankee gunners blasted away at the Caledonia, managing five scorching rounds before Winfield could correct his fatal miscalculation.
Both ships veered onto parallel courses, firing as fast as their guns could be swabbed, loaded, and discharged. Wade sheered off again and crossed behind the panther's stern, this time ordering double shot against the masts and rigging. The Gyrfalcon, meanwhile, had limped up on the far side of the Caledonia and had resumed pounding her with the carronades.
Two shots arced simultaneously at the British ship's stern gallery windows, shattering the carved trim and sending a spray of exploding glass out into the sea. Moments later yellow tongues of fire snaked from the gaping wound, along with clouds of black smoke.
Wade and Treloggan managed to take the Caledonia in two more devastating cross-fires, turning her decks into shambles and blowing away the braces that held her remaining steering sails aloft. The yards fell like axed trees, dropping men and canvas into the ocean. One of the light carronades was blasted from the quarterdeck and flew across the breadth of the ship, carrying the bloody pieces of three crewmen with it.
The Chimera sheered away to give her crew a chance to clear the smoke and debris. The Gyrfalcon followed Wade's lead, peeling away from the Caledonia's wake and plowing drunkenly back across her own trail of drifting debris. The British ship maintained a steady crawl forward while her officers screamed for makeshift repairs.
In the sudden lull of battle, all that could be heard was the hiss of fires, the cries and groans of the wounded.
Commodore Winfield walked the length of the main deck, kicking and berating his gunners, shrieking at the men lying dazed against the rails, barking hoarse curses at his midshipmen, and ordering them to whip the crews into fighting form again.
The officers were appalled by the staggering losses they had sustained so far. Eighty of the five hundred man crew were wounded or dead. They had expected to blow apart a pair of crippled privateers and instead were hard-pressed to hold their own against two brilliantly commanded fighting machines.
The Gyrfalcon, sorely damaged, looked as unready to haul down her color as she had when she first thundered in on the attack.
The Chimera, the sleek and graceful twin, could already be seen hoisting new sail and preparing to bring the battle home again.
For the first time, the Caledonia's crew believed the story of the Northgate's demise. Worse, they began to believe their own black panther could be beaten next.
Bennett Winfield's jaw was set. His face was shiny with sweat, and his eyes were alive with an unnatural gleam as he presided over a hasty council of war on the afterdeck.
"Sir, the wounded—"
"The wounded will be seen to in due time. Another hour, no more, and they will have a brace of prize ships in their possession to take the sting of their cuts away."
Bennett's artillery officer stepped forward. "Sir, the crews on my eighteens are being decimated. Another crossfire like the last one and you'll have no upper battery to speak of. There is simply no protection. They're too exposed. The rails are gone; most of the carriages are either dangerously loose or knocked clean away."
"Sir, the rigging lines are hopelessly snarled."
"Fix them," Bennett snarled. "Or replace them."
"Yes, sir, but the rudder has taken damage—"
"I need steerage, Mr. Turner, and I need it now! Without it we might as well sit here and invite their shells aboard!"
"The men are working on a repair, but I need time."
"How much time?"
"Sir, the fires—"
Winfield balled his fists and turned to the new interruption. "What about the fires, Mr. Halpern? Are you going to tell me we have run short of water or buckets?"
The young midshipman stammered as he looked around the circle of gritty faces. "N-no, sir. But your cabin is ablaze. I need more men to keep the flames from spreading. The last rounds they put to us carried some incendiaries."
"Have we nothing similar to respond with?"
"We have explosive shot, yes, sir, but the mortars are gone."
"All of them?"
The gun captain broke in again. "Whoever is directing their fire knows the layout of our decks and the placement of our weapons. He's firing on us by divisions and aiming for our close-range weapons. He hits and runs, sir. He comes in too close and moves too fast for our thirty-twos to be of much use. There is no question we are repaying them with as much damage, but it still remains that both privateers are managing five rounds to every two or three of ours."
"Excuses!" Winfield screamed. "Do you hear what you are giving me? Nothing but excuses! I want us in close. I want us to take the battle to him now."
Captain Emory Ashton-Smythe saw the horror of the Northgate's last half hour replaying itself before his eyes.
"Wade cannot afford to let you take the battle to him, and he knows it. He'll keep you tight, he'll keep you sailing in circles, and as long as you keep trying to use his own tactics against him, he will be able to anticipate and cut you down."
Bennett whirled on him. "Explain that remark, sir. I am in command of this ship. The tactics I employ are my own!"
Ashton-Smythe pushed himself painfully to his feet. "Your panther is on fire, Commodore. Half your guns are useless. Your wounded are drunk and pleading for quarter. To continue the battle will mean risking another third of your crew—are you certain it is worth it? Neither of Wade's ships are in condition to give chase. Perhaps we would be wiser to—"
"To what? To run away? To concede another victory to that...that..." Winfield's face was mottled with rage and his voice grew hoarse with contempt. "By God, Glasse was right. You are a coward. A gutless, spineless coward, and a disgrace to the uniform you wear."
Ashton-Smythe looked down at his filthy uniform, at the bandages on his hand and thigh, then at the bloody shambles of the deck stretched out before them. "Call it cowardice if you will, Commodore. I simply consider the lives I save are worth far more than a gold stripe and an admiral's berth."
Winfield's eyes flashed their hatred. He reached down suddenly, grabbing at the hilt of his saber and withdrawing from its sheath. He lunged forward, but one of the junior officers jumped out and pushed Smythe clear as the point of the sword was driven deep into the wood of the bulkhead. Two more officers placed themselves protectively between the enraged commodore and the stunned captain.
"Get out of my way," Winfield ordered, his face livid with fury. "Get out of my way or I'll have you all stripped of rank before the day is done."
His officers stared at one another aghast, none of them certain of what to do next. To disobey was to mutiny; to step aside was to invite murder. They all shared a deep respect for Ashton-Smythe, for he was a fine officer. But they also shared a deep-rooted fear of the naval judicial system. Mutiny resulted in hanging, regardless of the provocation.
"My God, sir...look there!"
The Chimera and the Gyrfalcon were gathering headway, coming in fast behind the British warship and starting to draw apart so that the Caledonia would be trapped between them.
One by one the anxious faces turned to Bennett Winfield.
"Your orders, sir?"
Bennett's fists clenched and unclenched as he glared at each taut face in turn, promising the incident would not be forgotten. "Mr. Turner, how long will you need to give me steerage?"
"An hour, sir. I can jury-rig a new rudder in an hour."
"Get your crews on it now. Scavenge if you must, but give me steerage! Mr. Cornish, since you are so eager to test the generosity of your enemy, you may have the privilege of lowering the colors to half-mast. We'll call for a parlay and see exactly how warm the water is."
Mr. Monday was set to unleash another round of broadsides when he saw the Union Jack flutter halfway down the mainmast. He spun on his heel and cupped his hands around a shout to Morgan Wade, who had replaced a fallen gunner at one of the carronades. Wade fed the forty-two pound shot into the muzzle of the iron beast, tamped it flush against the wadding, and gave the powderman the thumbs-up sign before he went over to join Monday by the rail.
"What do you suppose he is up to?"
Mr. Monday wiped impatiently at a gash on his forehead that was sheeting blood down his temple onto his neck. His hands were burned and scraped, as were Wade's, and one of the gleaming white teeth that created his fearsome grin had been broken off at the gums. He grinned to display the gap and shook his head.
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