"FIRE!"

The bellow of the command was nearly drowned out by the sound of the resulting cannon-fire. Smoke filled the gun-deck, but Percy was hardly paying attention.

"Reload and fire again!" Percy commanded, marching up and down the gun-deck, cuffing a man on the back of the head as he peered his head out through the gun-port.

"Their sails are still standing!" Barked Percy. "MacNamara! Horris! Load up additional chain-shots! Jenkins, Smith, Barnaby! Round-shot! Williams, Hornby! Grape-shot! Clear those fucking decks!"

Percy continued his parade up and down the deck, supervising the cannon-fire. Up until the entire ship suddenly and violently shook. There were screams of surprise and horrified pain and agony. The gun-port where Horris and his team had been in the process of loading another round of chain-shot had been blown to pieces. Percy, who had been thrown to the floor by the impact of the canons, looked over to where Horris was prone on the floor. His arm had been shredded to bits, and pieces of grape-shot had blown through his chest and face, giving him the horrifying appearance of a man who had been stabbed dozens of times over again. Blood trickled down and congealed on the floor where it began to commingle with sea-spray and foam from the thrashing waves.

Another man was screaming, gasping in horror and agony at the stump that had become his left leg. A powder rat, a boy of no older than ten, was curled up on the ground clutching at his hand, where Percy could see he was missing several digits.

His mind was swimming, and he felt torn between screaming and vomiting, but his instincts were screaming even louder.

"Don't just stand there!" He roared, stumbling over to the gun that had been abandoned and checking to see if it was still useful. "Keep fucking firing!"

Another volley of shots answered his order. The gun, miraculously, was still working, and so Percy set about priming it for another round of chain-shot. The main topsail was still intact, and Percy had his heart set on blowing the bastard to smithereens and crushing any unfortunate soul unlucky enough to have been caught underneath.

Grabbing the sponge, Percy shoved it down the barrel of the cannon. Pulling the sponge free, he shoved the primer down, ramming it into place. Following the primer, he shoved the chain-shot into the barrel, and grabbed the fuse before jamming that into place as well. Using his enhanced strength, he pushed the gun back into place in the port, and took careful aim. Satisfied with the shot, he pressed the lighter down on the fuse and the cannon roared. Peering through the smoke, Percy grinned viscously as he watched the chain-shot smash through the center of the topsail. It splintered, before falling with a tremendous crash to the deck.

He heard a cry of victory from the upper deck, and midshipman Markstrom appeared down the ladder. His face was ashen white, and he was trembling somewhat,

"Percy!" He gasped, soot and sweat staining his youthful face. "Prepare for a boarding party, I'll take over down here!"

"Aye!" Percy called back, before charging up the ladder.

The upper deck was every bit of a mess of chaos as the lower decks. There was a crack of controlled muzzle-fire, and Percy watched as the detachment of Royal Marines on the ship launched a volley across the bow at the other vessel. The ships were very nearly on top of one another.

From somewhere off to his left, Percy heard the call for hooks, and he watched as several large hooks were thrown high into the night air, wrapping into the torn and shattered rigging of the sails. The hooks acted to keep the ships secure to one another as the boarding action commenced. At the same time, the boarding planks were embarked, and Percy joined the cue, taking the time to put his red bandana around his arm. He didn't know how useful it would be in the night, but any advantage to be identified as British would be preferable to being cut down by one of his own.

Everything seemed to be happening incredibly quickly, as Percy was shunted across the plank, and suddenly found himself in the midst of an all-out melee. It couldn't be described as a fight. A fight implied a sense of order, of control. This was not a fight; it was a brawl. A man with a blue ribbon tied around his forearm tripped over the body of a fallen comrade, and was quickly trampled under the feet of a group of charging and stomping sailors. A man in a midshipman's uniform had been raising his dirk to cut down on a man, only to stumble forward, a breaching axe buried in the back of his head. A man with lieutenant lapels whipped out a smooth-bore pistol and blew a hole through the chest of a charging man, before drawing his saber and parrying the blow of another man.

He watched in muted horror and interest as Wilks' head was bludgeoned by a man with a hammer, turning the man's bald head into a bloody smear on the ground. Then Lieutenant Erichson let out a shrill screech of horror as he was mobbed by a group of men, and a jagged knife was shoved roughly into the poor man's eye. Bastard he might have been, but that was no way to die.

Percy was pressed forward into the brawl. He didn't know when he'd done it, but he'd suddenly found himself with his dirk clutched tightly in his hand. A man with a club was charging at him. He didn't think. He didn't consider his options, there was simply no time. His body simply moved, as though of its own accord. Ducking under the blow, Percy brought his blade up and buried it into the chest of the man.

The man jerked along the blade, letting out a strangled and gurgling gasp of surprise, before falling down the length of the blade and onto Percy. Bodily shoving the body from him, Percy didn't have time to reflect on what had just happened, as he was suddenly swarmed by a flurry of other combatants.

His mind was blank, and he was only peripherally aware of what was happening around him. It was as though he were a secondary observer, watching idly through the eyes of another as he ducked, dodged, cut, and slashed his way across the deck of the ship. Percy was no slouch with a blade, he had learned long ago that he had a talent with the weapon, and had trained long and hard to hone this talent, just for such situations.

A boarding action was no time for thinking. There was a time and place for considering the actions of the enemy, and in the midst of combat, pressed on all sides by friend and foe, was not such a time. A boarding action was a time for acting on instinct, for allowing training and work to override sense and reason, and Percy allowed himself to be lost to the sensation.

Through the haze of the battle, he realized that the lieutenant he had watched before, had turned his sights on Percy. He just managed to raise his dirk in time to parry the quick slash from the large man. Percy was not small for a boy his age, but he was still a good head shorter than the fully grown lieutenant, who's superior age and body tried to overwhelm Percy with sheer strength. But Percy was stronger. Pushing back, the French Lieutenant was forced to retreat from his attack, as Percy threw him off-balance. Pressing the advantage, Percy stepped into the man's guard with a lightning quick slash of his own, which the lieutenant only just managed to parry. But Percy was fast as well as strong.

Changing his angle of attack, Percy parried a blow and got within the man's guard again. Using the pommel of the dirk, Percy smacked the lieutenant in the jaw, and he stumbled back stunned. Darting forward, Percy brought the edge of his blade up in a slash across the lieutenant's chest. The lieutenant gasped as blood bubbled up around the whites of his uniform. His attention went from Percy to his wound, as his hand clawed at the wound in a desperate and vain attempt to keep his life's blood in his body. Stepping forward, Percy brought the blade up and stabbed the lieutenant through the throat. The lieutenant gasped, blood bubbling around the corner of his lips and dripping from his mouth. His eyes met Percy's, a horrified, terrified, expression on his fine features. Then his eyes became loose and unfocused, and he went limp against Percy's blade.

Breathing heavily, Percy withdrew his blade from the man's neck, and was about to charge back into the melee when a call of his name drew his attention,

"Mr. Jackson!" Whirling around, Percy met the wild-eyed and disheveled face of Lieutenant Forrestor. His face was caked with soot and blood, and his eyes were wide with the manic look of a man possessed by the thrills of combat.

"Mr. Jackson!" He cried out again. "With me! The bastards have holed themselves up with the powder!"

Unable to speak, Percy nodded his understanding and followed him. He realized a moment later that he was also surrounded by the Redcoats of the Royal Marines as they dashed down into the bowels of the ship. They were mere feet into the lower deck, when Percy saw a flash of steel. Reaching an arm out, he grabbed the back of Forrestor's coat and bodily pulled the man out of the way, just in time to avoid the volley of musket fire from the end of the corridor.

"Bloody fucking Mary!" Spluttered Forrestor, as the Marine that had been behind Percy collapsed in a spasming heap on the ground, blood pooling from the hole in the poor creature's neck. The marine behind the killed man raised his own musket, and soon smoke had filled the room as shots were exchanged.

"C'mon Mr. Jackson," gasped Forrestor. "Not going to accomplish anything just standing around." Drawing his blade, Forrestor took a moment to compose himself, and was just about to charge out when Percy shot a hand out to stop him.

"Wait!" Percy hissed, and then motioned at the marines that were hunkered down around the ladder. They paused for a moment, and then when the marines raised their rifles and let loose a volley, Percy tapped Forrestor on the back. Forrestor, to his credit, understood what Percy was saying, and then charged forward. Using the volley from the marines as cover to force the French privateers to hide behind the doors at the end of the hall. In a wall of strength, Percy and Forrestor slammed into the door. The wood of the door buckled, and there was a surprised cry from the other side as they forced the door off its hinges and pushed their way inside.

There were at least a dozen men in the room, all in various states of both dress and armament. The man nearest Percy was reaching for his own scabbard, and in a flash of steel, Percy cut the man down where he was standing. A marine charged through the door, and slammed the pointed bayonet on the front of his musket into a second man as Forrestor cut down a third. There was a clattering of metal and Percy looked up to see the remaining men had thrown their weapons down to the ground, and were holding their hands high into the air in surrender.

"Well played, Mr. Jackson," gasped Forrestor, his chest heaving with the exertion of the fight. His blade was still held high, pointing at the surrendering men, though there was a noticeable quiver to the tip of the blade.

It took some time for the high of the fight to leave Percy. He did not begin to feel the excursion of the fight until some hours later, after he'd helped with the arrest and accounting of the prisoners.

The fight had been nothing short of a massacre. While there had been damage to the Heritage, it had been moderately minimal in comparison. It would only take a few hours of labor to get the vessel back up and running, while it would take significantly longer to restore the prize that they had taken.

"You did well today, Jackson," Forrestor commented later the following day, as they made their way back to the bowels of the ship for rest and recovery. "Today was your first fight, aye?"

"Aye sir," said Percy, and Forrestor nodded.

"You handled yourself well. Moreover, you came out the other side alive. Can't be said for most." It went unsaid that more than a couple of their fellow men had lost their lives in the fighting. To have lost a lieutenant of all people to the melee was a devastating blow, and the efforts were already being made to set the men who had lost their lives to rest.

"Thank you, sir," said Percy somberly.

"Now go and get yourself cleaned up; you look as though you've been wrestling in a butcher's shop."

Startled, Percy looked down at himself. He'd yet to even take the time to truly consider the way he must have looked. He had been in the midst of the melee, and had shed his share of blood. His hands were caked black with dried blood, as though he had dipped his hand in paint. His clothing was in no better condition. The front of his waist coat was stained so thoroughly, that he would have no alternative but to rid himself of the offending clothing. Even standing, he could feel blood congealing and swishing around the soles of his boots, though he was certain he had not been wounded himself.

A strange heaviness settled around his throat, and he found himself unable to speak. With a knowing look on his face, Lieutenant Forrestor nodded at him, clapping Percy on the shoulder before dismissing him.

Percy's entire body shook as he shed himself of his stained and grotesque garments. His stomach was tight, and could feel his mouth begin to water. Knowing what was coming, Percy darted over to a bucket in the corner of his room, he promptly vomited, expunging all of the contents of his stomach. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hands, he stumbled as he caught sight of the blood-soaked digits.

Dashing half-clothed from the room, Percy reached the water bucket and tried desperately to cleanse his skin of the foul stains. He scrubbed, and scratched, and ripped until he wasn't certain what blood belonged to him, and what belonged to his fallen enemies.

It was sometime later that he collapsed in his hammock, his chest heaving and his eyes stinging. He had taken lives today. Had butchered men like common cattle. The face of the French lieutenant, his eyes frozen in that haunted look men gained when they knew their life was at an end.

Was it true then? Had his worst and greatest fears come to fruition? Was he truly a child of the devil himself, a son of Satan who existed only to murder and cause mayhem? No, that could not be true. Percy refused to believe it. Would a demon truly feel these kinds of feelings? Would a demon weep as he was, over men who had been trying to kill him? Percy did not believe so, but it was difficult to discern.

Oh, what would his mother think of him now. Would she still be proud of him, after he had stained his hands with blood and tainted his soul with murder?

Percy curled into a tight ball in his hammock, and allowed his exhausted body to drift off into a fitful rest.

As always shoutout to Double0Sxvxn for being an awesome Beta and dealing with my bullshit and as always if you enjoyed this but haven't checked out my other work, give them a try you never know you might find something else you like. I'm also on discord now, where I and a bunch of other writers hang out, chat and brainstorm ideas, you just have to copy the link that's in my profile bio if you want to come and hang out with us. Stay safe, stay healthy and have an awesome week.

All My Love and see you next week,

LilDB