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On board both gunboats, masts were blown apart and came crashing down, sections of rail were torn away and decks erupted in splinters and shattered boards.

Guns were blown off their carriages, crushing men beneath them.

Some of the shots hit stores of powder and exploded in flames, while other volleys of chain shot spun across the deck like scything dervishes.

The damage from such point-blank barrages was deadly and horrifying and at least one of the gunboats started to fall away, shattered and broken, letting the current carry them back around the safety of the river bend.

Mercado worked the helm like a madman, forcing the Cygnet into a tight, sweeping turn, hoping to carry her momentum through to a second pass between the gunboats.

If the crews needed incentive, they had only to look further up the river, where the Carolina was battered and on fire.

Her masts were gone, her yards and rigging chopped and dragging in the water.

Her guns were silenced under boiling clouds of black smoke and scorching flames.

Billy’s guns took lethal revenge. By the time the Cygnet made her second pass, one of the gunboats had taken a direct hit on the armory and erupted in a two-hundred-foot pillar of flame.

Their forward progress slowed now by the river current, the crew of the Cygnet managed three more full broadsides off both beams, leaving the second gunboat in shambles.

Most of the crew either jumped overboard or ran below to escape the carnage.

Billy’s crews reloaded, eager to carry on the fight, but what little remained of the British attacking mettle was already staggering away back down the river.

On board the burning hulk of the Carolina , the body of Captain Kelly and most of his officers lay crushed under the trunk of the broken main mast where it had smashed through the foredeck.

Rose ordered her crew to lower away the longboats to pick up survivors, then, seeing Louisiana drifting rudderless downriver, sent more boats with heavy cables to tow her to safety on the opposite shore.

By then, having heard the gun battle on the river, a regiment of Jackson’s militia had come pouring down the canal road. They swarmed onto the field and through the charred remains of the trees to overrun the British artillery position and scatter what was left of the British offense.

Rose tipped her head from one side to the other, hearing the crackle of tiny bones grating in her neck.

Billy, Duardo, Mercado, and Stubb were in her cabin and they all seemed to be talking, but their voices sounded like they came through a tunnel of water.

Judging by the hand gestures that accompanied the conversations, they were as deafened as Rose but still determined to discuss the day’s events.

The normal twists of linen stuck in their ears had been scant protection against the incredible concussive boom of the Beast and because the five of them had been standing closest, it would likely be several hours, even days before they could hear clearly again.

Billy’s arse was bruised purple and yellow from when she was thrown back onto the deck.

Stubb’s eyes could not seem to hold their focus, they kept rolling up and down, side to side.

Mercado looked like he was reciting the whole of Dante’s Inferno—in Spanish—with flying hands and broad gestures.

Only the stoic Duardo seemed unaffected, but then he was not one for lengthy conversations at the best of times. Rose did notice a small trickle of blood that leaked from one of his ears, but that was not uncommon after a pitched battle.

Looking around, her cabin had not escaped unscathed.

Most of the glass panes in the gallery windows had been shattered, the broken bits scattered like diamonds across the floor.

During battle, her berth had been raised and hooked on chains to the wall to give access to the cannon beneath, but it had taken a hit and the gun port had been blasted off, leaving a gaping hole.

Damage to the rest of the Cygnet was remarkably minimal.

Eighteen of the crew were wounded, three dead, a few dozen more with minor scratches and scrapes.

Two of the heavy twenty-four-pounders had been blown apart but Billy assured her by hand gestures that they could be repaired.

The Louisiana was beached on the west bank of the river.

She’d suffered a good deal of damage, but her guns would still be a threat to anyone attempting to breach the canal road.

Fort St. Philip had stood strong against the British assault, proving the Americans could maintain control over the river as well as the west bank.

Rose sighed …she could hear that rush inside her head well enough … and refilled her cup to the brim with rum, then pushed the bottle down the table for the others to help themselves. She’d already had two refills, but it didn’t appear to be having an effect.

There had been intense fighting on shore between Lamb’s militia and the British soldiers.

Neither the Louisiana nor the Cygnet could fire in support for fear of hitting the American forces.

At one point, it looked as though the British might have been able to push on up the road to breach Lamb’s defenses, but the effort failed and the drummers had to beat a retreat.

She felt someone tag her arm and looked up at Billy.

She was gesturing that she needed to go and check on her crews and Rose nodded.

Stubb and Mercado scraped to their feet as well and followed her out the door, leaving just Rose and Duardo sitting at the table.

The liquid brown eyes were intent on her face and she attempted a small smile.

“I’m fine, really. Apart from this—” her hand made a whirly motion around her ear—“I’m fine.”

He grunted and pushed to his feet. There were cuts and bruises on his bare torso and arms, and a gash on his thigh that had bled through his breeches.

Rose knew better than to ask or express concern.

Warriors of his tribe, he had told her once, consider all wounds won in battle well earned and should never be boasted or complained about.

She suspected he would tell her the same thing if his leg was hanging off by a few bloody veins.

Having seen Fonteyne brush away any questions about the myriad scars on his body, she was fairly certain he shared Duardo’s disdain for showing any weakness and, if not for Archie Penman, he likely would have bled to death long ago.

Rose had not seen Fonteyne since the afternoon on the rampart.

She received reports almost daily on how the fortifications were progressing, but they always came from General Jackson.

Having all but confessed her feelings for the bastard, he might have at least had the grace to send her a personal note. Or a cherry pie on Christmas Day.

“Lucky for him, I hate cherries,” she muttered.

Duardo looked over but she waved her hand. He apparently heard a knocking on the cabin door and when he opened it, a boy was standing there balancing a large tin platter in his hands. On it were thick slices of mutton, a round of bread, cheese, and some sugared figs.

Rose lost interest right away and turned to stare out the broken gallery windows again, so she did not see the shadowed figure standing in the corridor behind the boy.

He ducked through the doorway and removed his battered leather hat, then stood with his arms crossed over his chest, content to simply watch her for the longest thirty seconds of his life.

Fonteyne had heard and read the reports of the battle on the river.

He knew the part the Cygnet had played in helping to win the day both on the river and on shore.

If the artillery guns had not been silenced and the British had not fled the canal road in a panic, Lamb’s militia might well have been driven back to Line Jackson.

As it was, Packenham had attempted a frontal attack on the earthworks, probing for a weakness in their defenses, but the Line had held … barely … and the English had withdrawn.

No one doubted they would be back and in greater force than before as more and more troops were ferried across the lake every day.

Rose felt a tingle across the back of her neck and glanced over her shoulder. When she saw Fonteyne standing there, her breath escaped her lips in a rush and she was on her feet in a heartbeat.

“You’re alive!”

He glanced down the length of his body. “I believe so, yes. As are you, I see.”

“I sent messages.”

“I did receive them.”

“Then why did you not answer?”

His mouth stretched to a crooked smile. “Why, Captain St. Clare, you were not worried, were you?”

She glared. “No, of course not. But it would have been the polite thing to do.”

“Polite?” His amber eyes narrowed. “Of the many things I have been called, polite has never been one of them.”

“Informative, then. I believe I asked several times how the work on the Line was progressing.”

He seemed to remember he was holding his hat and tossed it aside. He glanced at the berth, chained up against the wall, then at the desk.

“And I will tell you, in the most polite, informative terms I know. But first …” in a soft, husky, meaningful voice he advised, “you might want to move the inkwell.”

Duardo, standing by the open door, looked from one to the other then quickly walked out of the cabin and pulled the door closed behind him. Standing out in the corridor were Billy, Stubb, and Archie Penman, all with questioning expressions on their faces.

“Well?” Stubb asked. “Did she rip him top to tail?”

“They are …discussing manners,” Duardo said.

“Manners! What d’ye mean manners?”

“Since you have none, and are likely not to acquire any, you would not know.” Duardo snatched the little man up by the scruff of the neck and carried him back down the corridor. “Come. All of you. Leave them. They have much to discuss.”