Chapter 59: The Eagle’s Path
James raised his hands without thinking, palms open and empty. His shoulders relaxed into an easy slouch, as if knew he’d wandered somewhere he shouldn’t have and wasn’t about to argue about it.
"Easy now, friend." He kept his voice low and steady. "No need for all that. Just havin’ a look at the water."
The musket stayed right where it was. If anything, the soldier gripped it even tighter.
Still, there was hesitation in the man’s stance. He barked the challenge again, louder this time, stepping closer instead of backing away.
"Qui êtes-vous? Répondez, ou je tire!"
"Bonsoir. Eh... beau soir, ça."
He waved a hand vaguely between them, as though that explained anything. "Très... yeux. Ami. Bon ami, aye?"
Whatever he’d intended to say, it clearly wasn’t what came out.
The soldier frowned. His musket lowered half an inch as confusion appeared past discipline.
James took the chance.
One easy step.
Then another.
He walked forward like he was genuinely just trying to explain himself.
The last step came fast.
Both hands caught the musket’s barrel and shoved it down and aside in one sharp motion. The shot that should have followed never came. His grip, and the heartbeat of hesitation he’d bought with awful French and a friendly smile, stole the chance away.
His free hand clamped over the soldier’s jaw before the man could draw enough breath to shout. James squeezed hard, crushing the cry into a wet, useless noise against his palm.
The soldier thrashed, managing to force out a single muffled word.
"Lâche-moi!"
James didn’t let go.
"Aye, in a minute."
It wasn’t the friendliest way he’d ever introduced himself to someone.
It wasn’t the worst, either.
The musket clattered into the darkness beside the dock.
After that, there were no tricks left. Just two men fighting, each determined not to yield a single foot.
The soldier slammed a shoulder into James’s ribs, breaking his grip. The shout he’d been trying to force out finally escaped, only for James’s forearm to crash across his throat and choke it off.
Their boots slipped across damp planks slick with harbor moisture. An elbow smashed into James’s cheekbone hard enough to flood one side of his vision with white for a heartbeat.
"Bâtard! Je vais te tuer!"
"You and every other Frenchman I’ve met this month."
James drove a knee into the man’s stomach and felt the breath leave him in one sharp rush. "Get in line."
The soldier’s hand found something lying on the dock. A length of chain, maybe a coil of iron. James never got a clear look before it whipped across his shoulder.
Pain exploded through the blow. His arm went numb all the way to his fingertips.
Instead of resisting, he rolled with the strike. He came back inside the man’s reach before a second swing could land and buried a fist deep in his gut. The soldier folded over.
"Christ, what’ve they been feedin’ ye?"
James hauled him upright by the collar, breathing just as hard now. "You hit like a man with somethin’ to prove."
The answer was a headbutt.
James twisted aside, but not far enough. The soldier’s forehead clipped his brow, filling his vision with stars. Copper spread across his tongue as his teeth bit into the inside of his cheek.
They kept wrestling, boots slipping across the wet dock. Their breathing turned harsh and ragged. Whatever plan either of them might have started with had disappeared long ago.
Then the soldier’s grip slipped as he tried to wrench free for another attack.
That had been enough enough.
James found a second of open space. His hand reached his belt on pure instinct, closing around the knife that had ridden there this whole time.
He drove the blade upward beneath the man’s ribs.
It found the heart.
The soldier went rigid against him.
Then every bit of strength vanished from his legs.
James held him upright through the collapse, more because momentum carried him than out of mercy. Slowly, he lowered the man onto the dock as the last breath left him in one long, uneven exhale.
For a few moments, neither of them moved.
Then James hooked his hands beneath the dead man’s arms and dragged him toward the edge of the dock. The corpse fought him harder than the soldier had while alive. At the edge, James tipped him over without ceremony.
The water swallowed the splash almost at once.
No one came running.
Clean work, all things considered. He’d have to remember to feel guilty about it later, assuming later ever gave him the chance.
He stood, wiped the knife clean on his own coat and worked through the situation in his head. Bodies never stayed underwater forever. Some fella would find this one drifting against the pilings by morning. Maybe the morning after.
By then, James intended for himself and his merry band of traders to be far from this harbor and even farther from this miserable town.
He’d worked with worse odds than a floating corpse and a few hours’ lead.
Compared to some jobs, this was almost comfortable.
His attention returned to the ships in the water.
James moved on with more caution now, keeping to the deepest shadows. He lingered longer at every opening between stacks of crates and barrels.
A man who’d just killed a soldier without raising an alarm had earned exactly one mistake’s worth of luck for the rest of the night.
He intended to save it.
Past the last merchant vessel, closer to the fort’s wall overlooking the harbor, he finally found what he’d come to see.
Two ships rested beneath the palisade.
They rode lower than the merchantmen behind him, their hulls long and fine, built to carry canvas and guns instead of cargo. Three masts rose above each deck, every yard braced for a full spread of sail when needed. Even at anchor they looked eager to move.
James counted the gunports in the weak moonlight. Lost track once. Started over.
Eight a side.
French Corvettes.
Against an ordinary brigantine, either one would have been a nightmare. The Rose was one of the largest of her kind and stout enough to meet them on more than even terms.
Even so, James had no desire to check that advantage in a fair fight.
Beyond them, the palisade ran on along the shoreline until the lanterns gave out. No patrols crossed that stretch as far as James could see, and weather and years had left the timber stakes bowed and uneven, with narrow gaps where they had pulled apart.
Near the water, a handful of old pilings leaned against the wall. Most were little more than rotting timber now, but together they offered something far more interesting.
A way up.
He hadn’t crossed the harbor to admire the view.
James looked up the wall one last time.
Then a crooked grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.
It wasn’t the first wall that had tried to keep him out.
As a boy, he’d spent enough afternoons scrambling over Arthur’s Seat to learn that stone and timber both gave way if you knew where to put your hands.
This one wouldn’t be any different.
He found a narrow hold where two weathered stakes had warped apart. It held beneath his weight.
Good enough.
James climbed.
Slowly, carefully, never hurrying, until the top of the wall was close enough to reach.
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