Blood on the Water

The Catherine’s Fancy had been at sea for barely half a day when Jack Stirling spotted the sails.

William was standing near the quarterdeck, studying the coastline as it dwindled behind them. The wind was fair, carrying them steadily away from Løvenskiold and towards the distant waters that would eventually take them to Tabakkust. He had been thinking about Johannes Chatham’s journals, Abigail, and the unpleasant prospect of seeking out the Umthakathi when Jack’s voice cut across the deck.

“Captain!”

William looked up.

Jack stood by the rail, one hand shading his eyes as he peered towards the horizon. “Three sails, off the stern. Closing fast.”

William crossed the deck and took the spyglass Jack offered him. He raised it to his eye and studied the distant vessels.

Three ships.

Small ones, all of them. Their hulls rode low in the water, their sails narrow and their profiles built for speed rather than endurance. They were spread in a loose formation, two ships holding back while the third edged further out to the side.

William lowered the glass. “Damn.”

Jack glanced at him. “Know them?”

“No. But I know what they are.”

He raised the spyglass again. The ships were closing at an uncomfortable pace. They were not merchantmen. Their decks were crowded with armed men, and William could just make out the dark mouths of their cannons along the gunwales.

“Rourke!” William shouted.

The bosun appeared almost immediately.

“Three ships astern. Beat to quarters.”

Timothy Rourke's expression hardened. “Aye, Captain.”

He turned and bellowed across the deck.

“ALL HANDS! BEAT TO QUARTERS! ALL HANDS!”

The Fancy erupted into motion.

Men abandoned their work and hurried towards their stations. The gun crews moved below, dragging powder and shot into position. Jack began issuing orders to the hands on deck, while Kenneth Dallan made his way towards the quarterdeck, his wooden peg clacking against the planks with every step.

Kitty Malloy emerged from the companionway, wiping her hands on her apron. “What's happening?”

“Company,” William replied.

She followed his gaze towards the approaching ships. “Friends?”

“Not likely.”

Kitty muttered something impolite about men who couldn't leave a hard-working ship alone and disappeared below to secure the galley.

William turned to Jack. “Keep us between them and the coast. I don't want them driving us towards the shallows.”

“Aye, Captain.”

“And make sure the guns are run out as soon as we have range. These little bastards might be quicker than us, but they won't stand up to a broadside.”

Jack grinned. “That's what I was hoping you'd say.”

William looked towards the approaching ships one final time. They were coming for him. Ravenhill had found his trail sooner than he had hoped.

“Let them come.”

Oliver Kelham was having a miserable morning. He had been feeling increasingly unwell since breakfast, and the sudden rush of men racing around the ship had done nothing to settle his stomach. He had spent much of the crossing to Løvenskiold trying to persuade his body that the sea was not, in fact, attempting to kill him. His body remained unconvinced.

He gripped the rail as another wave rolled beneath the Fancy, squeezing his eyes shut and breathing through his mouth. “Not now,” he muttered.

His stomach lurched. He barely managed to lean over the side before he vomited into the sea.

“Oh, for the love of—” He retched again, his eyes watering. Behind him, boots hammered across the deck, and someone shouted an order about the starboard guns.

Oliver wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

He was dimly aware of a shadow falling across him. “Feeling better, Master Kelham?”

Oliver looked up. William stood beside him, one hand resting on the rail. “No,” Oliver admitted miserably. “Not particularly.”

William glanced at the water below. “Good. At least you've got the sense to do that over the side.”

Oliver gave him a weak, humourless smile. “I'm sorry, Captain. I'm not being much use.”

“You'll be of more use keeping your breakfast out of the gunpowder.”

Oliver looked towards the stern, where the three ships were now plainly visible. “Are we going to fight them?”

“That's generally what happens when three armed ships chase you across open water.”

Oliver swallowed. “Do you think they're after us?”

William looked at him. “Oliver, three ships are pursuing us with cannons run out and armed men on their decks. Unless they've come to invite us to supper, I'd say that's a reasonable assumption.”

Oliver tried to laugh. It came out sounding rather strangled.

William's expression softened slightly. “Listen to me. If you're frightened, that's perfectly sensible. A fool is a man who feels no fear when other people are trying to put holes in him.”

Oliver stared at the approaching ships. “I'm terrified.”

“Good.”

“Good?”

William clapped him on the shoulder. “Seasickness, Master Kelham. That's what we'll call it. You're pale, you're sweating, and you've just emptied your stomach over the side. If anyone asks, it's the bloody sea making you miserable, not the prospect of a fight.”

Oliver looked at him incredulously. “You expect me to tell them that?”

“I expect you to do your duty. What you tell them afterwards is your business.”

William began to turn away, then stopped. “One more thing.”

Oliver looked up.

“Stay alive. I have no desire to explain to Restan that I brought his favourite aide halfway across the world only to have him killed on his first proper voyage.”

Before Oliver could reply, William was already striding towards the quarterdeck. Oliver turned back to the water. He swallowed hard. Then he straightened his coat, wiped his mouth once more and went to find Kenneth Dallan. He was frightened. But he was not going to hide below decks while everyone else fought.

“Range?”

Kenneth peered through the open gunport, one hand braced against the deck as the ship rolled. “Closing, Captain. They're trying to get around our stern.”

William stood above him, watching the enemy formation through his spyglass.

The three vessels were spreading out now. One had swung to port, another to starboard, while the third continued directly towards the Fancy. They intended to attack from several angles, forcing William to divide his guns and prevent him from bringing his full broadside to bear on any one target. It was a sensible enough plan. Unfortunately for them, it relied upon the assumption that the Fancy's crew would panic.

William knew better. “Jack!”

“Captain?”

“Bring her round to starboard. I want the lead ship crossing our guns.”

Jack studied the formation. “That'll give the other two our stern.”

“For a moment.”

“And if they fire?”

“Then I shall be disappointed if we don't return the favour.”

Jack flashed a grin. “You heard the captain! Bring her round!”

The wheel turned. The Fancy began to swing, her sails straining as the crew worked to bring her onto the new course.

Below decks, Kenneth and Timothy had already prepared the guns. The men serving them were not inexperienced merchant sailors who had been handed muskets and told to do their best. Many had served in the Ithican Navy or aboard privateers. They understood the rhythm of a gun deck: the disciplined handling of powder, the loading and ramming of shot, the timing required to fire together rather than waste ammunition in a panic.

William had spent fifteen years sailing under the Ithican Crown. He had made sure his crew knew their business.

“Starboard battery!” Kenneth shouted. “Stand by!”

The lead enemy vessel continued its approach.

It was a lean, ugly little ship, with a narrow bow and a single mainmast. Her crew had painted dark stripes along her hull, and men were already gathering along her railings with muskets and boarding weapons.

William raised his glass. “Hold.”

The range narrowed. “Hold…”

The enemy captain appeared to realise what was happening. His ship began to turn, attempting to slip across the Fancy's bow before William could bring his guns to bear.

“Now!”

The Fancy fired.

The broadside erupted with a thunderous roar. Flames flashed along the gunports. Smoke billowed across the deck, and the ship shuddered as the guns discharged almost together. The cannonballs struck the enemy vessel amidships. Her hull burst apart in a shower of splinters. One shot tore through her gun deck, while another struck near the waterline. A third smashed through the base of her mast, sending rigging and timber crashing across the deck. Men disappeared beneath the wreckage. A gun overturned, crushing its crew beneath it. The ship lurched violently.

William watched through the smoke as she began to lose way.

“Reload!” Kenneth shouted from below. “Keep those guns moving!”

The enemy vessel tried to turn away, but water was already pouring through the shattered hull. Her crew scrambled desperately to plug the damage, while others abandoned their stations and rushed towards the boats. She did not have long. Another wave rolled over her damaged side, and the ship began to list. Within minutes, she was sinking.

William lowered his spyglass. “One down.”

Jack looked towards the remaining ships. “They'll think twice now.”

“Perhaps,” William said. “Or perhaps they'll be angry enough to make another mistake.”

A moment later, the second enemy ship opened fire. Her guns were lighter than those of the Fancy, but the vessel was quick and well positioned. Cannonballs struck the sea around them, throwing up columns of water. One smashed into the Fancy's upper works, sending splinters flying across the deck. A sailor cried out and fell, clutching his shoulder.

“Sawbones!” someone shouted.

“Keep your heads down!” Jack bellowed.

The third ship was moving around their port side, trying to find an angle for a boarding attack.

William swore. “She's trying to split us.”

“Can we bring the port guns around?” Jack asked.

“Not quickly enough. Let the first ship worry about us.”

William turned towards the second vessel. “Bring us across her bow. I want another broadside before she can escape.”

The Fancy turned into the wind, her sails snapping as she changed course. The enemy ship tried to slip away, but she had misjudged the speed with which William could manoeuvre his larger vessel.

“Starboard guns!” Kenneth called.

The crews below were already reloading. “Ready!”

William watched the enemy ship's position. “Fire!”

The second broadside struck hard. Cannonballs tore through the enemy's rigging and shattered her foremast. One of her guns exploded in a burst of smoke and flame, throwing men across the deck. Another shot struck her stern, smashing the steering gear. The little ship veered sharply off course. Her sails hung in tangled sheets, and her deck was littered with wreckage.

“She'll not be chasing us now,” Jack observed.

William nodded. “No. But she might still try to escape.”

The crippled vessel began to fall behind, turning away from the fight.

“Let her go for the moment,” William ordered. “We have another problem.”

He pointed towards the third ship. She was already closing. The final enemy vessel was the smallest of the three, but she was also the fastest. She came in from the Fancy's port quarter, using the smoke and confusion to close the distance. Her crew were shouting and waving weapons, while men at the bow prepared grappling hooks.

“They mean to board!” Jack shouted.

William drew his cutlass. “Then let's make them regret it.”

He turned to the crew.

“Guns hold! I don't want to blow holes in our own hull. Small arms ready! Keep them off the deck as long as you can!”

The enemy ship struck alongside with a jarring crash.