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T he two ships were less than a mile apart.

Hunter and the hunted were light frigates mounting three masts, both driven by tall pyramids of canvas stretched into hard curves to catch the wind.

The Hyperion flew the Union Jack from the topmast, her officers visible on the fo’c’s’le in all their gold-braided finery.

While the navy’s determination to cripple the rebels’ war effort could boast modest success in stopping ships and supplies moving in and out of ports along the American eastern seaboard, it was the privateers who proved to be stubbornly effective in breaking through the lines.

The Hyperion had one such rogue within cannon range now.

In the two years since war had been declared, the Cygnet had run the blockade into Savannah three times.

This last endeavor had caught the attention of the British frigate which had been carrying cargo bound for Florida.

It had veered off course in order to give chase to the privateer, but the arrogance of the British was such that her captain seemed not to take into account the Cygnet carried thirty-two guns compared to the Hyperion’s twenty.

Or that the privateer’s lines were sleek and trim, making her faster and quicker to respond to the helm.

He would soon discover that her gunners were well-trained and confident. So confident they barely flinched when a warning salvo from the Hyperion whistled by overhead.

Apart from that deadly shriek there was total silence on board the Cygnet .

The gun crews crouched alongside their iron monsters, lit fuses glowing red in the hands of the lead gunners.

Their attention was fixed on the quarterdeck, where the ship’s captain stood watching the British ship through a leather-sleeved long-glass.

Concentration was broken briefly to glance at the ineffectual waterspout that erupted off the stern, but the glass soon went up again, and on a quiet command, the sailing master was ordered to trim sail and come about.

When they completed the wide turn and were beam-on, the glass came down once more. “Have your crews blow up their matches, Billy. Ten guineas to the crew who takes out her main mast.”

The gun captain grinned and vaulted over the rail to land on the main deck.

The British, meanwhile, heeled up into the wind, boldly presenting her broadside.

Her thunderous volley was impressive, but most of the shots fell wide or short.

A full two minutes passed before a second broadside was unleashed, spitting red flames and raising clouds of drifting smoke.

This time one lucky ball punched through the Cygnet’s upper topsail, another bounced off the hull tearing away a splintered chunk of wood.

Only then did a gloved hand go up in a spinning motion. On a shouted command, the crews on both decks gave a rousing cheer and let loose with all guns.

The tremendous force of the blasts rocked the Cygnet , but even before she settled back, the guns were reloaded, primed, and firing again.

Not a single shot appeared to miss. The Hyperion staggered under the barrage of round and grapeshot.

Smashed wood and bodies flew everywhere.

Men screamed, cut in half where they stood.

On the third broadside, delivered almost within the same minute, the Hyperion’s main mast took several direct hits and cracked in half before slowly crashing over the side, taking cables and rat lines with it.

With the weight of sails and rigging dragging in the water, the ship’s ability to maneuver was severely hampered, leaving her exposed to more deadly volleys.

The fo’c’s’le exploded, sending the officers in their smart braided uniforms somersaulting into the air and landing in a tangle of splintered rails and boards.

By the time a fifth round was loaded and ready to fire, the British flag was being hastily hauled down into the wreckage of the main deck.

The order to cease fire was quickly relayed to the Cygnet’s gun crews, giving the men the opportunity to rub the burning smoke out of their eyes and to assess any damage.

There was very little to report.

One man had dropped a twenty-four-pound ball on his foot. Another had burned his hand on a smoking fuse. The ship itself suffered hardly more than a few scratches.

“Well done, Billy, well done,” the captain said, clapping a hand to the shoulder of the gun captain. By their side, the tall black ship’s master roared the order to “Bring us around! Make ready to board.”

With no one easing their vigilance, the Cygnet glided gracefully through the oyster-colored water until the men were able to throw a score of grappling hooks across the gap to lock the two ships together.

Planks were thrown over the rails and the crew cheered again, waving their cutlasses as they poured across and swarmed the deck of the Hyperion .

They spread out like an army of ants, dividing and streaming down the hatchways.

The planking was red, slippery with blood, littered with bodies and wreckage. The captain was dead, as were several of his officers.

Formal surrender was offered by the last remaining figure of authority, a junior midshipman too young to have fuzz showing on his chin, or to bear such a burden as he held his sword out in shaking hands.

“How old are you, boy?” asked the captain of the Cygnet .

“F-fourteen, sir.” Watery brown eyes looked quickly up. “I mean…ma’am.”

The captain smiled. She was wearing a wide brimmed hat cocked up on one side, pinned by an emerald broach holding twin ostrich feathers.

She reached up and took off the hat, offering a formal bow to the young man as her long red hair tumbled forward.

“You fought bravely today, young sir. You may keep your sword.”

“B-be advised, I shall use it to slit your throat should the opportunity present itself.”

Pale silvery-blue eyes regarded the lad for a long, solemn moment before she snugged the hat back on her head and nodded.

“I would expect nothing less from a fine British officer. We will, however, attempt to avoid such an occasion if at all possible, for I am certain Duardo, here, would take offence and peel the skin from your body.”

The lad looked owl-eyed at the ship’s sailing master.

His head was as bald as a melon, his skin smooth and shone like oiled ebony in the waning afternoon light.

His chest was an armored wall of sculpted muscle clad only in a sleeveless leather vest with two wide cross-belts that held an assortment of knives and pistols.

His face and arms were heavily tattooed with tribal symbols that bespoke his African heritage.

He stood a good three heads taller than the lad and carried easily three times the amount of bulk across his shoulders and chest. His dark eyes looked the boy up and down and he grinned, baring huge white teeth, some of which looked strong enough to crack bones.

“Aye, Captain. I might even carve a little flesh for the stew pot.”

The lad’s bravado drained into his toes and his legs crumpled. When he regained consciousness, he had been flung, like a sack of flour, over the giant’s shoulder and was being carried on board the Cygnet .