Like so many of his comrades, Dominique marveled at his courage. She eased him back down. “Nonsense, Mr. Chauncey. You need to rest.”
“We need the surgeon. Clear the way!” John Sullivan burst into the sick berth with one of the ship’s boys in his arms—Acting Midshipman Eric Long. “Where’s Ethan?”
Ethan Auldon looked up from changing a patient’s bandage. “Put him on the table.” He pointed to the slab of wood, stained with blood. Dominique had amassed a pile of gory rags trying to keep it clean.
“Please, Ethan, you have to help him.” John laid the boy on the surgical table. Long’s eyes were vacant and sunken. A piece of twisted iron impaled his stomach. Blood welled up around the shrapnel.
Dominique stood across the table from Ethan and John. The distraught look in Sully’s eyes left her speechless. His mates wouldn’t recognize the signs, but she knew when he was under more strain than he could bear. A rare sight.
“I’ll do everything I can, John.” Ethan flipped open his leather case of instruments.
Dominique touched John’s elbow. “It’ll be all right, Sully.” She held a lantern above the wound as Ethan went to work. The ship rocked and trembled with the blasting of guns.
“I’m sorry, sir,” murmured Eric Long. Tears ran from the corners of his eyes. “I failed you, Mr. Sullivan.”
“No, you didn’t fail me.” John touched Long’s forehead, his thumb leaving a red smudge. “You showed great courage. I’m very proud.”
Long’s eyes began to droop. “Tell my mum I’m sorry I ran away. Tell her…I made midshipman.”
“I’ll tell her, lad.” Water gathered at the edges of John’s eyes. “I’ll tell her.”
Long’s eyes grew distant. His arm dangled from the table edge. And he was still.
Ethan lifted his hands from the wound. “I’m sorry, John. The shrapnel penetrated his organs. There was nothing to be done.”
“No, that’s not true,” John said. “You can’t give up, Ethan. You have to do something. I order you to save this boy’s life!”
“Sully…” Dominique took John’s hand. “He’s gone.”
John stared into the boy’s absent eyes. Then he snatched his hand away and stumbled back against the bulkhead. He clawed through his hair, staring at the corpse. “That’s not my name. That’s not what they call me.” He held up his hands, red from Long’s wound. “Bloody Sully. That’s my name.”
John stormed out of the surgery. Dominique started after him, but Ethan’s voice stopped her.
“Let him go,” Ethan said. “When he’s like this, he’s best left alone.”
Dominique wanted to ignore Ethan. She couldn’t bear to see John in such pain, but she knew his friend was right. For some reason, she thought of Seaman Chauncey. When she looked over at his hammock, she found it empty.
Chapter 63
Near the Baths of Antoninus
Ruins of Ancient Carthage
Wednesday, September 14th, 1803
Day 5, Afternoon
“Ain’t that the prettiest sight you ever saw?” Melisande stood with hands on knees, breathing hard as she looked at the Mediterranean sea. “And I don’t even like the ocean.”
Kaitlin stood beside her, still catching her own breath. She inhaled the scent of briny depths and Tunisian coastal grass. They were standing in the long hallway of an ancient Carthaginian building, flanked by multiple rows of columns. Much of the vaulted ceilings were intact, but the rest the building—whatever it had been—was long gone. The walls were a series of interconnected arches open to the north and south, which threw long afternoon shadows. Ahead of them to the west, two marble columns framed a doorway, along with the pearl-white sand and turquoise waves beyond. Kaitlin had never been so relieved to see the ocean.
“Those steps lead down to the shore.” Kaitlin gestured through the marble portal to a flight of stone steps leading down to the beach. “I’ve hidden a boat nearby. We can wait for Johnny offshore.”
“Good thinkin’, Lil Red.” Melisande massaged the small of her back, stretching noisily.
Kelham, Anderson, and Poole jogged up behind the two women. The body of Private Miller was across Big Paw Kelham’s shoulders. They had all agreed to take the fallen Marine back to the ship for a burial at sea.
Kaitlin said to the men, “I’m sorry about your friend. He was brave—you all were. I never would have escaped if you hadn’t come.”
Anderson gave Kaitlin a somber look. “Thank you, young lady. The least we could do for you and your brother. We all knew the risks. You’re one of our own.”
“Hear, hear,” said Melisande. Then she gave Kaitlin a scolding look. “But don’t you ever do that to me again. Pigheaded as Sully, you are.”
Kaitlin nodded and looked at her feet. “I’m sorry,” she murmured.
“Ah, shucks Lil Red, don’t be glum. I couldn’t take that.” She coaxed Kaitlin with pouty eyes.
Kaitlin smiled faintly in spite of herself.
“That’s better,” said Melisande. “Time to move. Marines, fall in. Kelham, cover our arse.”
“Okay, Dufort,” said Kelham.
The party was soon heading down the steps, which hugged the building. A landing halfway down wrapped around the corner.
“The first thing I’m going to do when we get back to the fleet,” said Melisande as she descended the steps, “is trade my rum ration for a whole pot of galley beans.”
“You actually like that slop?” Poole scoffed.
“I love beans,” Melisande said. “They warm you up, they’re salty, and there’s always more!”
“You must be the first sailor in the Navy to say that,” said Anderson.
“I think I’m going to take sick,” said Poole.
“My mam had an Irish rhyme about beans,” said Kaitlin. “I think it went, ‘At supper beans are the jolliest part, for all who eat them frolic and—’”
There was a twang. They barely noticed the whistle of air. A black shaft of wood appeared in Poole’s throat, and the private tumbled down the steps. Varlick Naim came around the corner at the middle landing, ten paces below, repeating crossbow in hand. His steps were calm, his eyes deliberate. The Chronicler aimed straight at Melisande.
Kaitlin felt a strange silence fall over the world. Time seemed to freeze every detail of that single second—the blood on Naim’s white collar, the sea breeze whispering through his grey-streaked hair, the glint of the steel bolt tips pointing from the crossbow magazine. Like a girl trapped in a nightmare, Kaitlin couldn’t move. In the next second, Melisande Dufort was going to die.
Melisande raised her war club in one hand, her copper knife in the other, poised to charge against death itself. Naim’s lip had a wry bend. Melisande launched. Naim squeezed the lever.
And Kelham was there. The entire bulk of the sailor appeared in front of Melisande like a great bulwark, catching her mid-leap. His big arms carried Melisande back up the steps. There was a wet thud as Naim’s bolt struck his back. The young man grimaced with the impact.
“No!” Melisande thrashed to get loose. “Let me go! Let me go!”
Twang-thwip. Twang-thiwp. Bolt after bolt flew. Kelham’s cheeks twitched with every hit.
“Fall back!” Sergeant Anderson set down Miller’s body and tugged Kaitlin up the stairs.
Kelham carried Melisande close behind.
Melisande’s voice was choked with sobs. “Big Paw! Stop this!”
Soon, they were all back in the long corridor. Anderson ushered Kaitlin behind a column and drew his pistol. Kelham still had Melisande in his arms, thrashing like a wild animal. The big lad’s back was covered in bolts like a cushion full of pins. Kelham wheezed as he lay Melisande on the floor.
“Big Paw!” Tears streamed down Melisande’s face as she sat on the floor, Kelham on hands and knees beside her. “Why did you do that? Why?”
“I’m Nyah Gwaheh.” Kelham sank onto his stomach as if drowsy. “I’m your…friend.”
Melis
ande stared at him, cheeks streaked with wet. Kelham took another rattling breath and then was still.
Naim’s malevolent visage appeared above the steps. He moved with no hurry. His eyes pointed through relaxed brows. To him, slaughter barely registered above a Sunday stroll.
“Dufort!” said Anderson. “We have to move!”
“I’m not going anywhere.” Melisande’s eyes narrowed to slits. She yanked the pistol from her bandolier and marched toward the Ottoman assassin ascending the steps.
With sudden speed, Naim darted through the door. Melisande’s pistol spit smoke and fire, but Naim was already behind a column. The ball shattered on the marble pillar. The crossbow flashed out of cover and twanged. Melisande capered right, tumbling behind another pillar. The bolt missed her by inches, skipping on the floor tiles. Melisande pressed her shoulder to the column and pulled her second pistol.
A crossfire erupted. Kaitlin throwing her valaris. Naim firing bolts, darting from column to column. Melisande and Anderson firing their pistols. The projectiles zipped by, clattering or exploding on stone, each combatant making careful use of the ancient supports as cover.
Anderson blasted his musket, but the Chronicler was in constant motion, weaving through the colonnade. Naim dropped into a graceful genuflect. A ball hissed an inch above the Chronicler’s head and carved a divot in one of the arches. Naim pumped the crossbow, but the Marine ably darted behind the pillar. The last two bolts ricocheted off the marble. The guns and crossbow were spent.
Melisande charged for Naim at a dead run. He tossed the crossbow aside. The elegant kilij soared out of the sheath with a crystal tone. Melisande struck, war club and knife twanging off the sword. Naim’s sword flowed like water as he parried her blows. His eyes were the implacable gaze of an immortal. Melisande jumped back from a side-swipe that would have gutted her, her back slamming into a pillar. Naim followed with a backhand stroke. She tumbled under the blow, and his blade struck sparks on stone.
Sergeant Anderson roared into the fray, chopping with his cutlass. The crude steel glanced off the graceful curve of Naim’s kilij. Melisande scraped onto her feet and chased after the combatants. Naim sliced open Anderson’s sword arm with a light swish. The Marine cried out, his cutlass clattering on the flagstones. Kaitlin sent a valari spinning toward Naim. The assassin raised his free arm, grimacing as it smacked his bicep. Melisande lunged, war club swinging. Naim’s boot heel hit her square in the stomach. He struck her cheekbone with the pommel of his sword, and she pitched on her back.
Anderson charged again. Naim’s kaftan flared like the robes of a dancer as he skirted the clumsy blows. A knife curved like a tusk appeared in his free hand, and Anderson’s cutlass banked off the dagger. Naim thrust his sword. Anderson’s eyes bulged. The Marine looked down to find his belly impaled on the kilij. Naim pulled his sword and sauntered away, leaving the Marine to topple to the floor.
“No!” cried Kaitlin. She dashed toward the Chronicler, determined to tackle the legs out from under him. Naim spun and cuffed her face with the crosspiece of his sword. Kaitlin sprawled across the floor, head buzzing with pain. She fought to get up, but vertigo dragged her down.
Melisande was on her feet, squaring up to Naim.
“You fought bravely, girl,” said Naim to the Tuscarora warrior. “Dominique and your Indian kin would be proud.”
“Go to Hell, Scruffy.” Melisande twirled her war club as she and Naim circled each other. Blood ran out of the cut on her cheek. “You ain’t getting Lil Red. Not on my watch.”
“What on Earth have the Sullivans done that you lay down your life for two of them?”
“Easy.” Melisande hawked blood at Naim’s feet. “They stand up to bullying assholes like you.”
Melisande charged at Naim, her club and knife a blur of motion. Naim bobbed and parried with sword and dagger. She ducked a blow aimed for her throat, and Naim surged forward. His sword came straight down on Melisande. She blocked with the haft of her war club. The blade cut through the polished wood with a crisp snap. The raven head bounced across the floor, beak pecking the flagstones. The next stroke smacked the copper dagger out of Melisande’s hand. A flick of Naim’s wrist and his sword stabbed her shoulder.
Melisande cried out as Naim drove her back like a fish on a spear. He backed her against a column, the point of his blade bursting through her shoulder and striking the stone. Melisande fought to get free, but a twist of Naim’s hand and her strength melted. She groaned in agony.
Kaitlin slowly crawled forward. She wanted to help Melisande, but she could barely stay on her hands and knees.
Naim smiled at Melisande like a cat with a mouse under his paw.
Melisande grabbed at the blade pinning her to the pillar, but it was no use. “If you’re going to do it…do it.”
“Melly…” mumbled Kaitlin.
“You think I’m going to kill you?” Naim replied. He looked over his shoulder at Kaitlin. A smile tugged at his eyes. He turned back to Melisande. “Oh no. You must live.” He ground the blade deeper.
“Nyaaagh,” Melisande squirmed like a worm on a hook. A sheen of blood coated her right arm.
Naim drew close to Melisande. “For you must deliver my chronicle.”
Chapter 64
The Independence
On the Channel
Wednesday, September 14th, 1803
Day 5, Afternoon
Gabriel Sawyer surveyed a scene from the end of days. The Independence sailed through a channel filled with burning wrecks. To port, the bow of a burning gunboat bobbed like a cork. To starboard, a ketch drifted as flames licked red-striped sails. Directly astern, a one-masted sloop was a brazier of fire. Ash rained down from the air. The black clouds given off from the fires turned the sun into an angry red eye. He wiped his nose and found his hand streaked with black snot.
Buford, the bestial mountain man, had known where to aim every heated shot. He now admired the various conflagrations with his dead-eyed stare. Most of the gunboats were still afloat, however, and they fired at Independence as she passed. In the twilight haze, their shots were poorly aimed and rarely struck. The American brig still had a small supply of gunpowder but no more cannon shot left to fire. But with the three largest ships in the blockade rapidly sinking, many of the gunboats were in retreat. And so, Ryland kept the ship on a course through the channel.
Sawyer stood near the ship’s wheel, watching the man he loved command the helm. Ryland’s white Navy breeches were soaked red from a bullet graze to his thigh. A gash from a splinter cut through a swatch of his blonde hair. Sawyer’s heart swelled with admiration for Ryland, who commanded the deck with true courage. For his part, Sawyer spent every minute praying to stay alive. He didn’t care about victory or defeat anymore. All he wanted was for this terrible day to end.
“Look there, Sawyer.” Meadows pointed twenty yards ahead, where the smoke parted and revealed a sliver of glistening sea. “We’re almost home. Mr. Ryland has done it.”
“Right,” Sawyer agreed. But a feeling of dread churned in his stomach.
“Mr. Sawyer,” said Ryland loud enough for all to hear.
Roused from his thoughts, Sawyer said, “Hmm?”
“Take the wheel and keep our course dead ahead.”
There were a few exhausted cheers from the sweaty, shirtless, soot-stained crew. The ship emerged from the thickest region of smoke and the afternoon brightened again. They were surrounded by the placid water of the channel and the grassy banks of the isthmus. No Barbary vessels blocked their path to the Mediterranean. Sawyer did as ordered and took the helm.
Ryland looked dashing as ever in his buttoned Navy coat, blue eyes sharp and focused on the horizon. Exhausted and emotionally drained, Sawyer wanted desperately to fall asleep in Ryland’s arms. One day, perhaps.
“We won,” said Sawyer.
“We won,” Ryland smiled. He lowered his voice to a whisper. “And I promise, when we reach Gibraltar, you and I will find a quiet inn.”
Sawyer’s heart fluttered at the thought. “You promise?”
“On my honor. I shall worship you like a prince.”
Sawyer shared a smile with Ryland, his mind racing with romantic thoughts.
“Avast!” cried the lookout in the maintops. “Enemy ship, dead astern.”
The eyes of every man aboard flashed to the south and the columns of smoke rising off the canal. The dirty cloud hung like a great curtain, blotting out the view of the lake and the city skyline. A bowsprit emerged from the brume, followed by a spear figurehead. Banks of oars chopped through the ash-covered water, slapping aside bits of burned rope and charred deck planks. The Blooded Spear plowed toward the Independence.
The crew swapped murmurs of panic.
“They outnumber us two to one!” said a sailor on a shroud.
“We can’t escape them,” added a crewman at an aft gun.
“We haven’t the shot…”
“Stand fast, men!” said Ryland, quickly regaining his air of command. “You have all done the impossible: You are a frigate that’s beaten a fleet. Don’t lose heart now!”
“We have no shot!” hollered a man on the gangway. “How can we defeat that ship?”
Mutters of agreement rippled through the crew.
“We’ll…” Ryland hesitated for only the briefest instant, but it was enough to betray his doubt. “We’ll carry them by boarding. We can—”
The crew cut Ryland off with their protests.
“Listen to me, now,” continued Ryland. “We have our pistols, our rifles, and our cutlasses. We have our skill at arms. We need only cling to our courage—”
A louder round of boos. Among the protestations, Sawyer could pick out the odd “abandon ship” or “time to surrender.” There was talk of rowing for the isthmus and fleeing overland. In a matter of moments, it would be every man for himself.
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