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The iron Beast crouched ominously by the rail.

Along with the gun, Rose’s father had provided six hollow iron shots filled with scrap metal and explosives but since there were no other guns of its size or purpose to be found this side of the ocean, Billy knew that when the six shots were gone, that would be the end of it until she could locate a foundry capable of making more.

She wanted desperately to fire the gun, to see what it could do, but she was also reluctant to do so because of the size, the unknown recoil, and the uncertainty of any damage the blast might cause the Cygnet .

“A shame to have it just sitting here,” she said to Rose, her voice barely above a whisper. “If ships were meant to sail, guns were made to be fired.”

“Aye, an’ women were made to bake bread an’ hatch babies.”

Both women looked down at Stubb, who raised his pudgy hands in self defense. “N’owt my sentiments, o’ course. But mark my words, that be where the pair o’ ye will end up if ye keep moonin’ over them two piraticals.”

“No one here is mooning over anyone,” Billy said.

Stubb raised his voice to a falsetto. “Oh, doctor, doctor, can I come catch bugs wi’ ye? Can I play wi’ that big snake in yer trousers?”

Stubb laughed and was quick to duck away, but Billy was quicker as she reached out and grabbed a fistful of his leather vest. She hauled him back and raised him into the air, then watched him flail his arms and legs for a moment before swinging him around until he was directly above the gaping maw of the Beast. From there, it was a simple matter to drop him into the wide mouth of the barrel, cover it with the wooden lid, then hop up and sit on top of it.

“If I can’t fire it,” she said, “at least I can put it to good use.”

Rose tried not to laugh when the muffled protests began. But a glance over Billy’s shoulder quickly stifled the urge. A light appeared on shore, a single lantern light swinging back and forth. Billy followed her gaze and grinned.

“Blow up your fuses, boys, we’re about to have some fun.”

The whispered order was passed along the line and at every gun placement, the crews jumped up to take their positions.

Gun ports were opened and the cannon were hauled forward by thick cables until the black snouts protruded from the ports.

Men with wooden mallets knocked chocks out from behind the wheels and to a man, each member of each crew touched a hand to a cold iron barrel and murmured the motto of the Dante family, the same motto that had been whispered, cried, shouted, and cheered in victory for over two hundred years.

“De sanguine, ferro et honore!” With blood, steel, and honor!

A lad with a shielded lantern went down the line so the gun captains could light the wicks in their linstocks. Wads of cotton were twisted and stuffed into ears, shirts were stripped off and bandanas tied around the foreheads to soak up the sweat.

In a final act, Rose ordered the Dutch flag hauled in and the stars and stripes raised up the main mast.

Despite his size and bulk, Fonteyne moved with the grace of a big cat.

He led his contingent of Baratarians through the woods, using hand signals to spread them out like a carpet of black beetles.

They came close enough to the edge of the British camp to taste the bite of smoke from their fires and count the neat rows of tents pitched across the green.

Jackson and his frontiersmen had claimed the center; Rodney Lamb’s militia was on the right flank.

Somewhere in the rear, one of the Choctaw Indians lit the tip of an arrow dipped in oil and shot the flaming missile in a bright arc overhead.

Rose and Kelly saw the signal and commenced firing.

Almost instantly the fields on the right erupted with explosions of earth, followed a heartbeat later by the thunderous booms rolling over the plantation grounds and vibrating through the tents.

Soldiers, half dressed, stumbled out into the night, confused and disorientated, scrambling for the neat pyramids of rifles that were stacked outside the tents.

Once armed, they ran in circles diving behind wood piles and wagons, anything that might offer protection as all three prongs of Jackson’s army started firing out of the darkness.

Continuous volleys of shot came from the two ships on the river, tearing up the ground, deliberately creating chaos and panic. Jackson’s men charged forward across the field and out from behind the verge of trees, the three-pronged attack catching the British in a brutal crossfire.

Taken completely by surprise, the British retreated behind the manor house and outbuildings. There, discipline and experience overcame confusion and the soldiers regrouped to begin battling back.

From his position on the left flank, Fonteyne spied the small clearing where four big artillery guns had been brought across the lake and left there.

“Sheridan!” He called out to his fellow privateer captain and pointed. “We need to get to those guns.”

“Aye, I’m right with you.”

They culled half a dozen men from their company and, keeping low to avoid the zinging shots that were flying overhead, crab-walked through the fringe of long grasses at the edge of the trees, then ran across the open space two by two until they reached the clearing.

If there had been a guard placed with the guns, he was gone now to fight alongside his comrades. With fires burning behind them, the two captains were exposed, but they ran up close to the guns, keeping their pistols in hand.

Fonteyne realized the problem the same time as Sheridan.

“Temporary caissons. They’ve taken the guns off their carriages for easier transport.”

“Not even bolted down,” Sheridan said with disdain, checking the barrels. “We can’t move them.”

Fonteyne reached into his belt and drew a knife. “I was hoping not to have to do this, but it would appear we have no choice.”

He went to the gun closest to him and pushed the blade of the knife into the priming hole, jamming it in as far as it would go. He then picked up a rock and smashed the handle of the blade hard enough to snap it off, leaving the length of broken steel wedged tightly into the gun.

Sheridan nodded and ran for the two guns on their left. While Sebastien stood watch, Sheridan spiked them both using the blades off two bayonets. He picked up a third discarded musket, but Sebastien took it from him and waved him back toward the cover of the trees.

Fonteyne drove the bayonet blade into the touchhole and snapped it in half, but as he was about to turn and follow Sheridan to the safety of the woods, he saw something else in the shadows behind the artillery pieces. Something no sailor would ever want to see.

He started to walk toward it when he felt a tug on his coat sleeve and a burning slash across his upper arm.

A soldier had been crouched behind the caisson, and as Fonteyne turned to see where the shot had come from, the shooter stepped out from cover and took a hobbled step back.

He was young, not yet twenty, fresh-faced and owl-eyed as Fonteyne’s arm came up, strong and steady, his thumb poised on the hammer of his pistol.

The lad licked his lips and started trembling as he stared into the black hole of the barrel.

“What is your regiment, boy?”

“T-Twenty-first Foot, Sir.”

After a long, tense silence, Sebastien waved the nose of the gun. “Get the hell out of here and at least find some boots to put on.”

The soldier looked down at his bare feet, turned and stumbled away.

Too late, Fonteyne heard running steps from another direction and a few seconds later, a hail of bullets struck the side of the caisson, sending splinters of wood flying into the air.

There were four soldiers coming toward him, all of whom had fired at the same time.

Fonteyne ducked down and estimated the time it would take them to reload, then ran back into the trees and caught up to Sheridan.

The two joined the rest of the Baratarians and spearheaded another attack on the British camp.