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Dante’s second-in-command—Geoffrey Pitt—stood amidships, his feet braced wide apart to counter the increasing roll of the deck.
His tawny hair was lashed in a tail at his nape and his face, beneath the weathering effects of the sun, was nearly as green as his eyes.
He was not a sailor by profession, nor even by choice, and was still battling the galling effects of the week-long storm.
But he knew guns and was in charge of the Virago’s teeth: ten bronze demi-cannon capable of firing thirty-two-pound lead balls a distance of three hundred yards and more, supplemented by fourteen cast-iron culverins that fed on seventeen-pound shot.
There were also the falconets at the bow and stern, long elegant guns of a smaller caliber reserved for special surprises at close range.
Pitt’s chief gunner was almost as awesome as the guns he fired.
Nearly seven feet tall, black as ebony, the former slave was possibly the only man on board the Virago more feared than the captain himself.
The Cimaroon’s first greeting to the enemy had become traditional.
Wearing only a loincloth and a leer of impending pleasure, he climbed barefoot into the shrouds and sent a hot yellow stream of contempt in the direction of the approaching vessels.
The men on deck and in the yards cheered, waving their fists and hurling insults even as an answering puff of smoke erupted from the guns of the forerunning galleon.
Although smaller than the Virago and not as heavily armed, the galleons had the wind to their advantage, and bearing down like vultures, they formed a fighting crescent and trimmed sail.
The ship that had fired the opening salvo commanded the starboard point of the crescent.
Seeing that the Virago seemed willing—and foolhardy enough— to turn and put up a fight, he pulled arrogantly ahead of the others and opened the attack.
“He thinks we are so bad off, he can take us single handed!” Dante shouted. “Shall we correct his impression, Mister Pitt?”
“Ready on your command, Captain!”
“On my command.” Dante nodded and turned to the helmsman. “Bring her hard to larboard and keep her as tight as you can.”
“Aye, sir!” The helmsman positioned himself at the makeshift tiller and swore. “I can’t say how long this bloody oar will hold, but she has spirit in her yards and she’ll take it up with the wind, sure enough.”
“Just give me one long, smooth pass, Mister Brighton. She’ll take it up with her guns.”
“Aye, sir! That she will, sir!”
Dante felt the blood surging through his veins.
The Spaniard was closing fast, full sailed and hull up, carving through the iron-gray swells like a cleaver.
The Virago was still feigning unsteady knees and with only a third of her gunports open, she lured the Spaniard into a show of bravado.
The zabra fired another salvo from her two bow guns, one ball spouting harmlessly in the privateer’s wake, the other bouncing insolently off her three-foot-thick hull.
At less than a quarter mile, Dante could see men on the Spaniard’s deck, clustered on the stubby forecastle, fingers pointing at the Virago as if they were already arguing over the division of spoils.
His wide, sensuous mouth spread in a slow grin.
“Mister Brighton—”
The helmsman’s lips parted, his fist clenched on the tiller.
“—Now! Bring her hard about!”
Tackle clattered and rigging lines sang as cables were loosened and reset to turn the sails. Canvas boomed overhead and the towering masts heeled far out over the rising sea as the Virago slewed into the wind, throwing up long plumes of spray in her wake.
“Mister Pitt! Guns away! Open us up and show all of our fine teeth. Fire when ready!”
On deck, Pitt’s crews opened the remaining gunports and hauled the cannon into position for firing.
Pitt raised his arm, waiting for the initial roll to subside as the Virago completed her turn.
The Spaniard was directly on their beam, cleanly in the sights of all twelve heavy guns that comprised their larboard battery.
Gunners stood with wicks soaked in saltpeter and spirits of wine, the fuses glowing red hot.
Others stood at the ready with wadding, shot, and powder, ready to reload the instant the gun was discharged.
“Now!” Pitt brought his hand down with a vengeful roar.
The wicks were lowered to the touchholes and ignited the charge of powder in the cannon breeches.
An instant later the guns erupted almost simultaneously, the deck juddering underfoot from the tremendous impact of the carriages jumping back with the recoil.
A cloud of gray, acrid smoke creamed back over the deck, engulfing the men as they scrambled to haul the guns inboard for reloading.
Two hundred yards away, gouts of splintered wood exploded from smashed rails and bulkheads.
Men screamed and died where they stood or were thrown in bloody fragments as high as the topsails.
A second salvo from the Virago struck before the crew of the stunned galleon could loose a single shot, and now the added chaos of falling shrouds and blasted spars created bedlam on the shattered deck.
The Virago raced past, reloading as she ran.
An order to the helm had her sheering hard to larboard again, cutting around behind the burning galleon while at the same time bringing all of her heavy, and now double-shotted, guns on the starboard battery to bear on the five remaining ships in the crescent.
The five had already begun to fall out of their orderly formation, but the Virago managed four hot rounds before the closest galleon could gain position to return fire.
The zabra’s guns erupted in fiery rosettes, clouding the sea in boils of smoke, sending a volley of shot across the Virago’s beam.
Canvas screamed overhead as it was gashed and torn from its spars, but even as the sails collapsed, men swarmed aloft to cut away the damage.
A second volley exploded deck rails and cracked the bowsprit, a third swept two men over the side and blew half a dozen more out of the smashed tops.
Simon Dante paced the afterdeck, shouting orders and encouragement.
His cheek was bloodied from a flying fragment but it was nothing more than a scratch.
His ship had taken some hits, more than he had anticipated, but not nearly as devastating as the damage his Virago had wrought.
One Spaniard already sat low and broken on the churning sea, her decks enveloped in flames, her masts and rigging dragging behind her like drooping wings.
Two more showed damage in their tops; another had had one of its guns blown from its carriage and it hung over the smashed remains of the gunport, the snout pointing straight down to the sea.
But the zabras were regrouping. They would know what to expect this time and not stay so obligingly clumped together. Moreover, they would load with chain and aim high for the sails, hoping to cut the Virago’s speed and maneuverability.
Dante’s pale blue eyes scanned the clouds of smoke that still obscured the tiny island they had left behind. The Talon should have emerged from cover by now and with the wind in her favor, would be racing up on the Spaniards with swift, lethal surprise.
A warning shout from Pitt drew Dante’s attention back to the Spaniards. The two largest galleons were closing fast, coming up on either side of the Virago , clearly intending to take her in a crossfire.
“Mister Brighton, bring her about! Hard to starboard. Hard to starboard now!”
The helmsman had anticipated the order and was already straining against the tiller, throwing all of his weight into turning the arm that controlled the rudder.
A loud crack and tearing of timber sent the tiller swinging hard against the bulkhead, the sudden freedom throwing Brighton with it.
He fell hard onto his knees and scraped a layer of skin off his chin as it made contact with the planking, but he was on his feet an instant later, cursing orders to the topmen to correct their trim to compensate for the lost rudder.
The Virago faltered briefly off her course, allowing one of the galleons to gain way.
“Mister Brighton—!”
The banshee scream of chain shot cut through Dante’s orders, cut through the helmsman himself in a fanning red spray.
Dante was knocked to the deck by a section of rail and lay there, stunned, for almost a full minute.
Lines and rigging were torn from their stays and the screams of his men echoed the shrill tearing of canvas overhead.
Dante fought to regain control of his senses and his body, struggling to his feet as another wailing salvo struck his ship.
He limped to the rail, his left leg numb from the knee down and awash in blood.
Pitt was below, struggling to clear bodies and debris away from the guns.
The deck was littered with wreckage. Cables swung free and sails hung in shreds from yards that were broken and dangling free of their braces.
Blood ran from one side of the planking to the other following the roll of the ship, tracing spidery patterns on the sun-bleached oak.
Cold, silent rage filled Dante’s soul and he whirled, shouting orders aloft.
If he could coax one more pass out of the Virago , surely the Talon would be there, beating in to support them.
And wounded though she was, the valiant privateer responded, tacking with a graceful slide against the wind, taking herself away from the one vulture who had found his range and throwing herself under the guns of another who had not.
Pitt fired his cannon, kept his crews swabbing, reloading, tamping, and firing until their hands blistered from the heat.
Dante made his way to the bow and manned one of the falconets, swiveling it on its mount and taking aim on the target, now less than a hundred yards off the larboard side.
His eyes were burning from the smoke but it was his ears that brought him the vindictive satisfaction of broken timbers and dying men.
He breathed through clenched teeth and watched as the Spaniard returned fire.
His eyes narrowed and he wiped at them savagely to clear them of sweat and blood, and when he looked again, such a roar came out of his throat, even Pitt heard it over the thunder of the guns and came running up onto the foredeck in panic
“The bastard! The filthy yellow bleeding bastard!”
It took a moment for Pitt to see what was causing such rage in Dante’s face, and when he did, he stopped breathing, stopped thinking, stopped time itself from intruding between one heartbeat and the next.
Far off in the distance, the wind filling every sail she could mount on her masts and tops, the Talon was racing across the blue of the horizon.
Racing north.
Racing away from the smoke-filled arena.
She was fleeing to the safety of wide open sea, leaving the Virago and her crew to face the circle of predators alone.
Table of Contents
- Page 1
- Page 2 (Reading here)
- Page 3
- Page 4
- Page 5
- Page 6
- Page 7
- Page 8
- Page 9
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