Title: Victory's Thrill (chapter 3)
Author: Leah Jenner
Fandom: Yu-Gi-Oh
Rating: PG for now, but probably will go up in later chapters. I'll switch the rating if that happens.
Disclaimer: I don't own Yu-Gi-Oh, I swear.
Notes: Very, very obviously AU of the Napoleonic Wars kind. And eventual chaseshipping. Doon't read if it's not your thing. This all was inspired by a MSN roleplay done with bardicsidhe :3
Thanks for the reviews, guys I really appreciate it. :3
By the time young Mutou reached the main deck, the crew had already begun to beat to quarters. Gunmen hurried down the stairs to ready their own cannons, the young seamen scurrying to bring more gunpowder to the gunmen.
Mutou turned around to see if he could spot the frigate that had apparently fired shots. He located it out about a half a mile on the starboard side of the ship, and he didn't need a looking glass to see the French flag swooshing in the breeze on one of the ship's masts. Without another word, Mutou hurried below decks to command his squad of seamen.
But above decks, the remainder of the officers stood directing orders and formulating a strategy. The guns that had been fired before were just from two lone cannons at the front of the ship; the cannons on the side of the frigate were not in range to hit Victory.
"She's not the ship we're looking for, captain," Wheeler informed Taylor, looking through the spyglass as he stood near the wheel. "But… it looks like she has forty-eight guns, sir."
Taylor, standing beside his companion and hands crossed behind his back, nodded approvingly, and answered, "She may out-gun us, but the wind is on our side." And sure enough, that was true; the wind was strong, blowing north, in the direction the ship was headed. The French frigate, stern facing Victory, was no more than a sitting duck if she didn't turn and run now.
Victory was in truth the smaller frigate, thirteen cannons and two swivel guns on each side. Thirty marines, in their signature red uniforms, were aboard Victory, and would aid the attack with musket fire when the other ship's crewmembers were in range. The leader of the marines was Major Kaiba, a rather stern, serious man who was fully content on sticking to business only. One wouldn't call him pleasant company, but in battle, his leadership of the marines was second to none. They stood, muskets ready, along the edges of the boat, ready for the upcoming battle.
But sure enough, as Taylor had expected, this new French frigate turned then, changing its course to flee in the opposite direction. Now that the ship was turned, Wheeler, still gazing through the spyglass, could see the name of the frigate: Elysium. "She's running, sir!" the blond informed the captain, though Taylor, of course, could easily see that without the glass. The lieutenant looked away from the ship, and instead turned to the captain, waiting for orders.
"Raise all sails," Taylor replied evenly, not taking his eyes off the ship in the distance. "We'll catch her – Victory is the faster ship." That was true as well. Even from here, the captain could see the bulkiness of the enemy frigate.
"Aye, sir," Wheeler answered, then turned to shout to all the seamen on board. "Raise all sails!"
The midshipmen in turn, shouted to each of their squads, "Raise all sails, men! We're heading for that frigate!"
It didn't take long for the Victory to catch up. She was a light and quick frigate, a fine ship of the line. Orders were shouted once the boats were alongside each other for the cannon fire to begin. Each midshipman below deck yelled the fierce order to their squads: "FIRE!"
Victory's cannons sounded loud in the seamen's ears, and all but two shots hit the Elysium directly, one in her main mast, four on the main deck, hitting unfortunate sailors, and the remaining six hit the broadside of the ship, above the waterline. The marines, led by Major Kaiba, aided the attack with the swivel guns and musket fire, their sharp-shooting ability making them able to strike seamen above deck on the enemy ship.
However, Elysium did not simply lay in wait, accepting the attack. She countered with cannon fire of her own, several shots striking into Victory's broadside, and one striking two marines on the main deck. But the crew of the enemy ship was panicked, moving too hastily and too carelessly, so few shots made contact with anything substantial. Their greatest feat was a strike to the base of Victory's main mast, nearly crippling it; if the blast had been any more powerful, the mast would have fallen in a broken heap onto the deck.
Within minutes, Victory's swiftness in battle had overpowered the French frigate, and it was safe for a crew of men, along with Captain Taylor and Lieutenant Wheeler, to board the ship to obtain a surrender from the ship's captain and to detain the prisoners of war. Pistols cocked and swords unsheathed, the British sailors crossed from one boat to the next via several wooden planks set out to join the two ships.
Most of the enemy sailors on deck were dead, several still wounded. Wordlessly, French soldiers carried the bodies of their wounded comrades to the infirmary below deck. Taylor walked the length of the ship, still cautious for any signs of further attack. But he found none, only the stench of defeat – blood, and gunpowder from inefficient cannons.
One of his own sailors spotted the body of Elysium's captain, sprawled in a bloody, mangled heap near the stairs that lead below deck. It was clear that no life was left in the man. Taylor bent to take his sword, as was the custom for surrender: a captain giving his defeater his sword.
"Do a search of the ship," Taylor instructed his crewmembers. "Lock the prisoners below. Lower the French flag and raise our colors." After a quick salute, the men hustled off to obey.
After once again surveying the damage, the captain led his first lieutenant back to the enemy captain's empty cabin to search the other's desk for any useful information, and to give Wheeler his orders. Taylor sat at the French captain's desk and sifted through the papers in the drawers, none of which amounted to any significance.
"I want you to take command of this ship," he said to Wheeler, after giving up on his search of the desk. "Victory will travel alongside to escort you into the first English port we come to. Victory's main mast needs to be repaired, at any rate, and by time we reach the port, we'll need to pick up more provisions as well. I don't know how long we'll have this wind… But I suspect we'll reach the coast in several days if it holds."
The blond nodded, having remained silent until now, taking in all of the instructions. "What about those civilians? The ones we picked up earlier today?"
The captain sighed, and rubbed the back of his neck, brow furrowed a little as he considered the course of action. He wouldn't act so casual around any naval officer besides his first lieutenant. "We'll leave the women there to the local authority for further questioning… then they'll be sent back to France if nothing suspicious arises. After we land, they aren't our concern anymore."
"…what about the captain, then?" Wheeler asked, and grimaced a little as he remembered his earlier encounter with Devlin. "That noble Frenchie we picked up?"
Taylor paused, and looked to the ground, pondering for a moment before replying. "…I don't trust him. I want him aboard until we're able to return to bring him before the admiralty. But… we don't have time to keep stalling in England. If I hesitate any further, the consequences of losing the French frigate will be over my head. We have to keep him with us until we capture the Éternité."
"Good," the other boy replied, crossing his arms with an air of satisfaction. "'Glad I'm not the only one that doesn't trust that frog."
"But the crew must not know of our suspicion," Taylor added quickly in warning. "I don't want a scene to arise because of the Frenchman."
Wheeler nodded again, a silent promise not to say anything to the other officers about it. "…what d'you suppose he's up to all the way out here? He can't just be having a friendly boat ride out to sea during wartime."
The other shook his head, not knowing. He could only guess. "Maybe he was supposed to rendezvous with a French frigate to hand over supplies. I've no idea. But I hardly believe he's just a civilian." Taylor stood, then, and circled back around the desk. "We haven't the time to discuss this now. I must return to Victory. Set a course north by north west. I'll be right there beside you."
The lieutenant smiled, and saluted. "I'll see you in a few days, Tristan." At that, he took his leave, exiting the captain's chamber to go gather a crew to man the enemy ship to England.
Taylor, on the other hand, returned back to his own ship. No whistles sounded, as was the typical custom when a captain was boarding his own ship. There was no time for it, for the crewmen were still clearing away wreckage, sewing ripped sails, and rinsing their comrades' blood from the wooden planks underfoot.
Once both ships were prepared, they both set sail, a little slower than they might have had they been fully repaired. Victory, more of her sails up now, trailed slightly in front of the other ship, as if guiding it to the port. Captain Taylor had been correct in his estimation – Both ships arrived within three days at Plymouth Port.