The sloop Swift is spotted by a pirate ship.
"Sail ho!"
Byrne's heavy Scottish dialect made the words difficult to understand, but his out-thrust arm directed curious stares toward a distant blob of white on the horizon. There was a brief thunder of feet across the deck as the crew scampered for the shrouds, going aloft where they could see better what had caught the ordinary seaman's eye. It was a day into their journey toward Nassau port and they had not sighted another ship since taking the sloop. A tremor of eagerness overtook the crew as they pointed at the distant ship, exchanging guesses and wagers as to what sort of vessel it was.
"What's all this about?" Slater demanded, emerging from below deck, where he had been attempting to question the smuggler captain about the man's destination. The surly smuggler had only curled his lip contemptuously at the young midshipman and stubbornly refused to answer any of the lad's queries, despite the occasional hard prompting from the marine sentry's musket butt. It had been a frustratingly useless endeavour and one that had put Slater in a foul mood.
"Ship sighted, sar, just off our aft larboard quarter. Look there, sar," Robbins told him, lifting a hand from the helm to point. "Dunno wot she is, but mebbe she's friendly?"
The midshipman lifted a telescope to his eye, peering in the direction Robbins had indicated. It looked to be another two-master, tacking about to come after Swift even as he watched. Something in his mind gave a warning tingle. Most ships wouldn't alter their course upon catching sight of another ship. His unease grew deeper when he observed the small dark blots of bodies outlined against the white of canvas sails, shaking out every scrap of sail on the other ship. Bloody damn hell. Even as young as he was, he recognised a potential threat when he laid eyes upon it.
"Make sail, everything we've got! Robbins, get us before the wind, much's you can," Slater barked, collapsing the telescope in a sharp movement. At least the men were already aloft. They set about casting loose the sails as Colburn laid his hands on the braces. Two of the three marines appeared on deck, peering only briefly around before hurrying to help Colburn. Slater opened the telescope again and looked toward the pursuing ship. A cold shiver dripped down his spine. The bloody cur had oars. They'd be on Swift by afternoon, sure!
"Mister Colburn!"
The boatswain's mate was at his side in an instant, a telescope gripped in his hands. "I seen it, sir. We ain't gonna be able to outrun her if she's got oars and sails out."
"I have little doubt of that, thank you," Slater snapped, irritated that he didn't know what else to do. He glared at the distant but slowly approaching ship and cast about frantically for some sort of plan. The crew would be wondering what he intended to do next, but he had not the slightest idea. Colburn's bewildered gaze was on his back as he turned away. What the devil should he do?
"She's got pirate's colours, sar!" The cry came from Byrne, the sharp-eyed lookout. Slater heard Robbins curse as he wheeled about to train his telescope on the distant ship. True enough, an ominously familiar black flag was dancing up the other ship's halyard, fluttering in the breeze as a warning of impending danger.
"What t'do, sir?"
"Um..." the midshipman couldn't bring himself to meet Colburn's querying gaze. Dammit, he was supposed to have an answer for everything! Desperate for a solution, Slater looked about the after deck. There had to be something... "Get those colours run up, they're Danish, I believe," he answered with no small measure of relief. It was hardly a good plan, but it was better than nothing. Colburn moved quickly to obey, leaving Slater to ponder what he could do next. The crew remained aloft, their legs dangling on either side of the yardarms, as they held their own private counsel. They would know how to act far better than he, but he couldn't ask for their advice without appearing inept.
An idea struck him suddenly and he hurried below, heading for the brig where the smuggler crew had been locked up. He needed the smug captain. "Open that, get the captain out here," he instructed the marine. The key clanked in the lock and the heavy iron door creaked as the red-coat swung it open. Surprisingly the smuggler captain emerged without prompting. Had he heard the calls from topside?
"Come topside," the midshipman directed, striding off toward the ladder. Colburn was hovering near the helm, engaged in quiet but earnest discussion with Robbins when Slater re-appeared with the smuggler captain in tow. The two sailors stared in surprise at the pair, disbelieving that the midshipman might be so stupid as to allow the smuggler to wander about without being in shackles.
"Vat is problem?" The smuggler rasped, the first discernible English sentence he had uttered since the prize-crew had come aboard.
Slater passed the man his telescope and pointed toward their pursuer. "Look there."
A long moment slipped slowly past as the smuggler peered through the telescope, then he lowered the device and burst out, "Is pirate!"
"Aye. Do you know them?"
"No, no," the smuggler shook his head vehemently, looking almost scared. He lifted his eyes to look at the sails, bellied out in the wind. "Is not good."
"Obviously not," Slater said, striving to sound more sure of himself than he felt. "We're going to fight them off, as we can't hope to outrun them."
"Madness!" The smuggler exclaimed, staring at Slater like he'd lost his mind. "You cannot vin!"
The midshipman drew himself up haughtily. "We shall fight them, sir. I daresay well-trained men of His Majesty's Navy can make more than a good showing of themselves against a rabble of pirates!"
"She'll be on us soon, sir." It was Colburn, appearing at Slater's elbow. "I think - "
"Call the men to quarters, if you please, Mister Colburn. As for you... return below and fetch your men. We shall need every hand to man the guns. Now." Slater snarled at the smuggler, who scurried toward the ladder. The boatswain's mate had already bounded down to the main deck, using his pipe to summon the crew down from the yards. Pacing on the after deck, Slater struggled to regain control of his racing thoughts. That he had to fight the approaching ship was only too obvious, but he didn't relish the prospect. He only had ten men, not counting the smuggler crew, to set against God only knew how many pirates. Despite his overconfident words, he felt small and terrified. What chance had they of defeating that ship's crew?
"Better arm y'self, sar," the marine corporal said, holding out Slater's dirk and a pistol. "The prisoners're on deck. Scairt like bunnies, they is."
"Yes, thank you, Corporal. To your post, if you please." God it was hard to sound confident and calm. Why didn't the men see through him? The corporal knuckled his brow as he returned to the main deck, joining the woefully undermanned gun divisions. There were six cannons on either side of the deck, but there were only four men manning each one. It was far from adequate. We're doomed.
A cannonball whistled past, splashing harmlessly into the white curl of wake at Swift's stern, but the meaning was all too clear. They had fallen within shot range of the other ship. Slater swallowed hard and forced himself to say, "Hard a-larboard, Robbins!"
Swift answered immediately, her bow throwing up a respectable wave as she cut about, presenting a broadside to the opposing ship. It would have worked, had Swift's rudder not been damaged. There was a brief moment of silence, then Robbins called out "Steerin' don't answer no more, sar, rudder's done fer!"
"Fire!" Slater cried, pursuing the only option he saw available. The larboard battery banged out their pitiful barrage. At least a couple of the shots struck their target, but it wasn't enough. Colburn bellowed out encouragement as the crew scrambled to reload. The pirate ship fired its first salvo, as Swift sailed past on its unchangeable course.
"Git down, lads!" Somebody cried and the men threw themselves to the deck, covering their heads. Slater pushed himself back onto his knees in time to see the enemy ship sweeping around to draw up alongside. They'd be close enough to board within minutes.
"Marines!"
"Let 'em have it, me boyos!" The corporal cried, his shout over-riding Slater's. Three muskets crackled, then there was another boom as Swift's cannons were fired again. Colburn hefted a ramrod and drew in a breath, bellowing out commands at the top of his voice. The crew abandoned the cannons and dashed to gather whatever weapons they could before the pirate vessel was upon them. Colburn's stentorian roar came then, spurring the men to quicker movements.
"Git yer paws on a cutlass or axe, an' to the side wid ya, prepare to repel boarders! Move it, damn ya lazy slackers, this's yer ship they're gonna defile! Step smartly now!"
Slater's palms felt clammy as he gripped his dirk, knowing it would hardly be any use against a cutlass. The crew had armed themselves well, with the Navy sailors having thrust pistols into their belts as well. Grappling hooks sailed through the air to clatter onto Swift's deck but were cut free as quickly as the men could put cutlass blades to the ropes. It wasn't enough. Pirates swung across the gap between the two ships and landed with thumps and crashes. Easily a dozen had come aboard and there were more still coming. Slater stared, rooted to the deck where he stood, watching the frenzied battle roiling across the main deck. His crew was horribly outnumbered but they fought anyway, managing to drive back the pirates for a moment, long enough to form a sort of battle line across the deck. What was he supposed to do now?
A dirty hand slammed into his shoulder, knocking him sideways. It was a pirate, leering at him victoriously. He had been spotted as the one in command and now they'd come to kill him. Utterly terrified, Slater did the first thing that came to mind. He lashed out with his dirk, carving a line across the pirate's chest. The man let out a howl and staggered back, allow the midshipman to escape down to the chaos that had taken over the main deck. Johnson the marine corporal spied him, just before a pirate came charging toward the midshipman. A wild yell tearing from his throat, Johnson gave his musket a heave, throwing it at the pirate like a lance. Slater found himself staring in bewildered horror as the pirate toppled, the bayonet-tipped musket impaled in his midriff. My God. This was sickening!
"Use yer blade, sar!" Johnson snarled at him, whipping his sword up in a sharp slash that nearly severed a pirate's head from his shoulders. "That's wot it's for!"
There was no point, however, as he quickly discovered. A cutlass blade bit into his leg and he screamed, dropping his dirk and falling to the deck. Johnson buried his sword into the pirate who'd felled the midshipman, but the damage was done. Standing protectively over the downed officer, the corporal shouted, "Drop yer arms, lads, it's lost!"
A cheer went up from the pirates as Swift's defenders pushed off their opponents and threw down their weapons. Colburn lurched over, bleeding freely from a long cut on his cheek. He was not as bad off as Johnson, Slater saw when the boatswain's mate had to help the marine lift the wounded Slater from the deck. "Your arm, Corporal..."
"Just a scratch, sar," Johnson interrupted roughly, looking embarrassed at the midshipman's genuine concern. It was more than just a scratch, as evidenced by the marine's arm hanging uselessly at his side, but Slater thought it wiser not to argue.
"Well well, what have we got here?" A hefty man with two pistols shoved into his belt came pushing through the jubilant crowd of boarders. "A band of foolish Navy sods, eh?"
Slater tried to stand upright, but his injured leg wouldn't allow him. He settled for accepting Colburn's supporting arm. "I am Midshipman James Slater, of His Britannic Majesty's Ship Dauntless. We are - "
The large man laid his hand across Slater's face, silencing him. "Oh please, spare me that rubbish. What you are, are my prisoners, and naught more. You would be wise to keep your gob shut, else unpleasant things'll happen."
"Yer a filthy brigand," Colburn muttered, curling his lip. The pirate captain - at least Slater assumed that's what he was - slowly turned his steely gaze to the boatswain's mate.
"You've a poor attitude, it seems. Scutten, bring your hammer."
God. Slater knew, somehow, what was about to happen and he attempted to step in front of the boatswain's mate. "Come now, we've surrendered. There are wounded here, of my men and yours. At least allow us to tend our own injured while you take whatever it is you want and be on your way."
To his surprise, the pirate boomed a laugh. "Foolish boy! You think it would be so easy, do you? You have slain pirates, here on this deck and by the gallows. Do you believe I would allow you to sail away with only the loss of your cargo? No. You shall suffer the same fate as those poor souls who met their ends by the noose. Scutten! Break that man's arm."
Colburn released his grip on Slater and planted his fist into Scutten's jaw. "Like hell some blackguard's gonna lay his murderin' hands on me. Gerroffame there!" The boatswain's mate was beset by other pirates before the unconscious Scutten slumped to the deck. Slater grabbed the pistol from his belt, only then remembering that it was there, and clicked the hammer back.
"Let him go." It amazed him how steady his voice was, when he felt on the verge of tears. The pirate captain smiled gravely as he looked down the pistol barrel that hovered an inch from his face. He appeared unafraid, which deepened Slater's own terror. Colburn struggled angrily against the restraining grips of the pirates, snarling dark oaths at them.
"Bold, Midshipman James Slater. Very well. Let that one go, boys." An awful silence came stealing over the deck as the pirates shoved Colburn away from them. The pirate captain waved a hand at Scutten and the hammer laying near the man's hand. "Fordham, up with that hammer. Midshipman James Slater has accepted punishment in that man's stead."
Hands gripped Slater's arms and shoulders, preventing him from moving. The pirate captain took the pistol from the midshipman's fingers and uncocked the weapon. Johnson and Colburn found themselves held back when they tried to spring forward in the boy's defence, forced to watch with furious glares. Slater squeezed his eyes shut as his right arm was pulled straight until his elbow locked. A harsh laugh grated in somebody's throat, half a second before the hard weight of the hammer crashed into his outstretched arm, just above his elbow.
Slater screamed and wilted as the bone gave way under the blow, sagging unsupported to the deck. The punishment having been administered, the pirate captain suddenly seemed more amiable. He swept his gaze over the rest of Swift's crew before looking down at the sobbing midshipman. "Get the lot of them down to the brig and make sure they're locked up. It's a few days' sail to Tortuga, I'd hate for them to be uncomfortable."
Someone scooped Slater up, taking care to avoid jostling his injured arm. A brief scuffle erupted nearby as Johnson resisted the loss of his cutlass, but a muffled cry announced the end of his struggling. Through tear-blurred eyes, Slater saw a pirate holding the marine by his injured arm. He dragged in a ragged breath in preparation to protest such rough treatment but Colburn's rough whisper of "Hush that, sir, it'll do no good," stilled his words in his throat. He realised after a moment that the boatswain's mate was carrying him. Despite the man's care, his arm brushed against something - probably the iron bars of the brig - and he let out a cry of pain. A pirate laughed from somewhere nearby. There was the smack of a fist against flesh and the laughter was cut short, but the gut-wrenching sound of a cutlass hilt impacting bone followed immediately after. One of the marines tumbled headlong into the brig, the side of his head gashed open and bleeding.
Colburn carefully laid the midshipman down and set about working the lad's jacket off. The door to the cage clanged shut and the pirate guard stomped away, leaving the captured crew to sort themselves out. Corporal Johnson knelt by the marine whose head had been nearly bashed in, tending the man as best he could with his one good hand. There were other wounded in the cell with them, and in the other cell across the way, being looked after as best as their mates could manage. What a sorry sight they all were, the midshipman thought, biting his lip until it bled to keep from howling in pain when Colburn tugged the linen shirt sleeve down his broken arm.
"Easy sir, yer arm's gotta be set, else it won't heal proper." Colburn's hands tightened around Slater's arm and for a moment, the midshipman thought he meant to actually saw the limb clean off. The boatswain's mate jerked his hands sharply, causing the bone's broken ends to grate back into place. Slater screamed again, his left hand balling into a fist. He swung blindly at the boatswain's mate, not caring if he struck the man's injured face or not. Colburn endured the weak pummelling until Slater's faltering energy drained fully from him.
"Wasn't so bad, was it, sir?"
The midshipman did not answer, not having the voice to speak. He slumped against the thin layer of dirty straw that lined the cell floor, cradling his arm. Colburn only shook his head and shuffled across the small cell to look after Johnson's injuries. There was nothing for them to do now but wait until they reached Tortuga.