Chapter 5: An Inspection of Enemy Leadership
The fighting around James showed no sign of slowing. He hadn’t expected it to.
He pushed through the upper deck, keeping his cutlass low and ready. Rain ran down the back of his neck where his hair had come loose. His shoulder still throbbed from the axe blow that had dropped him earlier and his jaw pulsed with its own steady ache. Neither injury offered anything beyond a reminder that he was still alive.
Ahead, through drifting smoke and tangled rigging, the quarterdeck windows glowed warm gold against the storm. It was the only part of the ship that looked untouched by the battle.
A few yards ahead, one of his crewmen had gotten himself trapped against a coil of rope. An eye-patched sailor was fending off two Frenchmen at once. They were shockingly smart enough to understand two against one improved their odds.
The sailor was holding his ground, but not by much.
James saw the problem, judged the distance, and moved before the thought had fully formed.
His cutlass came in low from behind.
Steel bit through wet cloth, flesh, and muscle. The Frenchman screamed as his leg gave way beneath him. Blood sprayed across the rain-dark planks while he crashed into the rope coil he had been using for cover.
He hit hard and stayed down, clutching at the ruined limb.
"Watch your corners, lad. Hard to see trouble comin’ with only the one eye for it."
James was already on the move again.
"Kiss my arse!" the crewman shouted as he fought the remaining Frenchman.
James grinned. The man sounded angry, which meant he was probably fine.
Around him, the deck had become pure chaos. Men shouted in multiple languages. Neither side appeared interested in listening.
It was the sort of scene that looked glorious from a distance. Up close, it mostly looked like a bloody mess.
Farther on, a crewman with more missing teeth than remaining ones was fighting a French sailor with one hand while waving frantically with the other. His warning came out as a wet jumble that barely qualified as speech.
"Cap’n! Mine de ’atch! Mo’ comin’ up de ’atch!"
James only needed to catch the important part.
More enemies were coming through the hatch.
He spotted a loose barrel nearby, kicked it hard, and sent it rolling into the back of the Frenchman’s knees.
The impact folded the sailor forward. He crashed onto the planks with a grunt.
The toothless crewman needed no further encouragement. He buried his blade in the man’s side and ripped it free again. Blood spread quickly through the rainwater running across the deck.
Whatever fight the Frenchman had left ended there.
"Aye, mind the hatch, got it."
James stepped around the body. "Ye’re doin’ grand, by the way. Very clear."
The smile showed quite a lot of windows.
More French voices rose from below deck.
The tone had changed.
One shouted orders. Others answered. Boots pounded as men rushed toward the fighting.
The confusion was ending.
Cudjoe was somewhere down there in the middle of it all.
James assumed he was preparing a parting gift for the French. The fact that such gifts generally exploded, burned, or otherwise violated the spirit of gift-giving was beside the point.
Either way, the narrow window they had created was closing fast.
Near the base of the quarterdeck steps, the boy had finally encountered someone competent. A French officer had him retreating for the first time that night.
The grin was still there, though it had lost some confidence.
James saw the officer’s blade coming down toward the boy’s shoulder and stepped in before it could land.
Steel rang through the storm. The officer’s attack was parried harmlessly away, carrying him off balance.
The boy reacted instantly.
His cutlass shot forward and buried itself deep in the officer’s side. Blood burst from the wound as the steel drove through flesh and muscle.
The officer’s eyes went wide. He doubled over with a strangled cry and crashed onto the deck before he could recover.
"How many you at?" James called as he headed for the steps.
"Seven!"
The boy yanked the cutlass free with a wet sound and grinned again.
"Eight if that one counts double for tryin’!"
"It doesn’t. Keep your head down, lad."
The quarterdeck steps were only a few yards away now.
From this position, James could see most of the ship. The battle looked exactly like what it was. Two crews had come into the night expecting an easy victory. Neither had found one.
The result was impressive, foolish, and entirely predictable.
At the top of the steps, two French marines blocked the cabin entrance. Muskets hung unused across their backs. Both men had drawn blades.
They stood their ground. Whatever orders they had been given, they meant to carry them out.
The first marine lunged.
James knocked the thrust aside. The blade hissed past his ribs close enough that he felt it tug at his coat.
The second marine tried to circle around, but the narrow stairs worked against him. There wasn’t enough room for both men to attack properly. His partner blocked the way.
James stepped forward.
His shoulder crashed into the first marine’s chest. The man stumbled backward, heels slipping on the rain-slick steps.
James’s cutlass drove up beneath the ribs.
The marine’s breath burst from him in a strangled gasp. Blood spilled across his coat as the blade punched deep. He folded around the wound and toppled backward before James ripped the steel free.
The second man reacted faster.
His sword slashed across James’s forearm as he turned. Cloth split. Skin was cut. Hot blood followed instantly.
James spared the wound a glance and kept moving. If he stopped for every injury tonight, he would never reach the cabin.
The marine lunged again.
James caught his wrist, twisted hard, and yanked him forward. The man lost his footing on the cramped stairway.
James turned with the motion and buried his cutlass in the marine’s side as he stumbled past. The blade bit deep between the ribs.
Blood sprayed across the rail.
The marine staggered two steps, struck the railing, and slumped against it. He never got back up.
James reached the top of the steps and paused long enough to breathe. Blood ran warmly down his forearm before mixing with the rain.
The wound could wait.
The real objective lay ahead.
Only one door remained between him and whoever commanded this ship.
He shoved it open.
The roar of battle vanished behind him as suddenly as if someone had closed a window.
The cabin was warm.
Candlelight filled the room with a steady golden glow. It was the sort of space a captain built when he expected guests. Fine wooden paneling lined the walls. Charts covered a large table. Papers lay scattered across a broad desk.
And standing behind that desk was the French captain.
James had expected many things. A desperate defense. A pistol shot. Perhaps an attempted surrender.
Instead, he found a man who had apparently decided that the boarding action was someone else’s responsibility.
The captain was completely naked.
The fact that he appeared to be pitching a remarkably sturdy tent did nothing to improve the situation.
And there was a woman bent over the desk in front of him.
Her wrists were bound to the desk legs. Her backside was raised toward the captain, angry red welts already crossing pale skin from earlier strikes.
James immediately wished several details of the scene had remained unknown to him.
The captain held a whip in his hand.
It remained raised.
James stopped in the doorway.
Rain dripped from his coat onto what looked like an expensive rug.
For several seconds, he failed to say a single word.
The captain stared back at him.
His expression was frozen somewhere between outrage, confusion, and the desperate hope that if he remained perfectly still the pirate might go away.
It was not a successful strategy.
Experiment log updated. I have identified a flaw in my predictive model. Specifically, it assumed the people involved possessed survival instincts. The revised hypothesis is that human sexual desire can temporarily disable threat priorities, basic thinking, and the desire to remain alive. Additional testing is regrettably unnecessary.
