Rascal’s Edge, Part 3

Posted by Cynthia on August 13, 2009

Part 3

The Rascal’s Edge

By Cynthia Rodiana

Copyright: August, 2006

The wind howled outside the stout walls of the Merry Reaver’s Tavern. Rainwater blew under the doors and through cracks in the shuttered windows. In the harbor mighty ships, privateer and Navy Fortson alike, clung to their moorings as the raging storm threatened to send them to the bottom of the bay.

Given the sudden onset and intensity of the storm, sailors of every sort were driven inside the first dry place they could find. The privateer crews dressed in their wildly colored clothes sitting next to Navy Fortson sailors in their trim blue uniforms and gold buttons made a garish contrast. Rough talk blended with the disdainful tones of those who thought their lot better.

“Durin, hey, Durin! You or Reese need to help me,” said a thin, wiry man as he squeezed himself on the bench between them. His eyes darted nervously.

“How many times d’ we have t’ tell ye, Ponti,” Durin said, shoving an elbow into his back and sprawling him on the floor. “Ye’re an idiot. Drink, have at the wenches, but leave off w’ the gamblin’.”

“Why are you asking us anyway?” Reese said, throwing a handful of chewed bones at him.

“I cannot find anyone else,” Ponti answered. The tavern dogs slid, growling and snapping, toward his crotch, their paws scrabbling for the bones. “You did that on purpose!” Ponti shouted, his hand suddenly protecting his privates.

Durin and Reese laughed as the dogs left with their treats and caught sight of Brogan heading up the stairs with a wench under each arm.

“To be that young again,” Reese said, lifting a cup to him.

“Aye, but back t’ the point.” Durin turned to look at Ponti. “Ye’ve lost all the coin Brogan gave ye, didn’t ye? An’ I recall him sayin’ no more fer a fortnight or he’d pound ye through the deck. Ye’re pushin’ him t’ fer, scrawny rat.”

“Just one copper from each of you. They are looking for me.” Ponti squeezed himself mostly under the bench.

“We will give Brogan the good news,” Reese said, patting him on the shoulder. “One less barnacle stuck to his keel.”

Durin laughed and they went back to their cups as Ponti was hauled away by sailors from another vessel.

At the top of the stairs, Brogan let the women lead him down the hall to a secluded room at the end.

“This is where we part company for a while, ladies,” he said, pushing them into the room. He handed each of them a coin and put his fingers over their lips. “Come out and I will tie you up and put a gag across your pretty little mouths. Humor me and I will make it worth your while.” He gave them a wink and pulled the door shut. The ferocity of the storm would keep them from escaping out the window.

Brogan pulled a dagger from his boot and knelt in the darkness feeling for the edge of the worn carpet. Finding it, he pulled it back then let his fingers rub along the sandy planks beneath feeling for a knot or other flaw in the wood. He smiled feeling an oblong shape with its edges crumbling away with age. It was that luck the other sailors said he had. He stuck the dagger’s point into the crack and gently pried the knot out of the plank hoping splinters and dirt would not fall on the table he hoped to see below.

The knot came up with a few quick pries and a pale light glowed through the hole. Careful to keep his face away from the opening, he looked down, but no one seemed to have noticed anything. He knelt closer and put his ear to the opening.

Sitting at a table partially secluded from the main floor, was a navy captain, another Harwood fleet captain that Brogan did not recognize and the current captain of the Rascal’s Edge. Brogan did not trust this new Captain Dodd, who had taken command a little over a winter ago when the former captain, Captain Perris, was mortally wounded in a particularly hard-fought battle with a pirate crew from the Bit Isles.

Dodd brought with him new men, new rules and had managed to alienate nearly all of the old crew. Even Durin and Reese were forced to give up their former roles as first officer and accountant for the goods they recovered. And if Brogan didn’t trust Dodd, the original Rascal’s Edge crew trusted him even less. Plots of mutiny whispered through the fabric and rigging of the ship, but Brogan opposed and halted them knowing well the letter of the law governing privateer operations, a legacy of Rafe Harwood’s education. To appease the old crew, Dodd had appointed Brogan to a position nearly equal that of the new first officer owing to that knowledge, but Durin suspected Dodd wanted to use Brogan’s youth and relative inexperience against him and them.

Still, the old crew was wary and this night found Brogan even more so.

Captain Dodd often spoke in unflattering terms about Navy Fortson and Brogan was more than a little surprised to find him cozening up to just such a man; maybe even an admiral given the number of chevrons on his sash.

Leaning closer to the hole, Brogan could barely hear them. There was talk of money and a new command. Navy Fortson would see to the transfer and take care of the details. Brogan barely heard the inflection on the word ‘details’. He knew who the details were. It was the how he had missed. Coordinates. That would put the ships five days out to sea and north of Fen Way. Right in the middle of the House Fortson coast. The talk drifted to women and the fact that they had just finished the last of the Orto wine the tavern had.

Brogan carefully put the chip back into the hole and rolled back the carpet. The information would have to be passed carefully. There were only about eight men he trusted completely. The others could be bought on any day for extra pay or rations and it did not matter who was holding the purse. Damned pirates, he thought, getting to his feet.

He stepped across the hall and opened the door. “Now, about that unfinished business,” he said, a twinkle in his eye and closed the door.

* * *

 “Fer the love o’ Deauxama!” Durin exclaimed as he opened the door of the room in the direction Brogan had gone the night before. On the large bed were so many twined limbs, twists of fabric and manes of hair that he could not make sense of it all. “Brogan! Brogan, ye ruttin’ hound, find yer pants and git out here.” Nothing on the bed moved. “Brogan!” A moment later a pile of discarded gowns lying on the floor began to shift. Durin’s brow creased in puzzlement as Brogan sat up in the midst of them. He rubbed a hand across his eyes trying to focus on Durin.

“What?” he said, groggily.

“What are ye doin’ on the floor?”

“Couldn’t breathe.”

“How many are there?”

Brogan looked at the bed and shrugged. Durin eyed him.

“Did ye…all o’ them?”

Brogan laughed quietly and shrugged again as he crawled out of the pile and bent to look for his shirt.

“Don’t know. Sorta remember one or two…I think. Drank too much,” he said, pulling his shirt on and pushed Durin back into the hall before closing the door. “I will wait for you and Reese to gossip and hear the tale in a week or two. It ought to be good by then.” His eyes twinkled and he elbowed Durin’s ribs.

* * *

The prow of the Rascal’s Edge sent up sprays of white as she cut through the water, her sails full and a steady hand on the rudder. Her keel, having been careened a month before, gave her an easy swiftness and maneuverability.

Brogan, his morning duties complete, stood on the quarterdeck’s port side, scanning the horizons and thought back to the night five days ago. Captain Dodd had indeed taken them in the direction he had heard, but to what end, he still could not figure. They were too far from shore for Navy Fortson to take care of the ‘details’ that nagged at him. Any details concerning them ought to be dealt with by an officer of the admiralty, but he knew that was not the answer. He glanced to starboard and saw Captain Dodd come on deck to talk to a group of his own men. The wind took their voices, leaving him with no hearing of their discussion. After a while, Dodd excused himself and approached Brogan.

“Captain,” Brogan said, giving him his due. “Your orders for the rest of the day?”

“None, unless you can find me a pirate ship,” Dodd answered.

“At this speed and heading, we will be near the Bit Isles in about three days. Plenty to find there.”

“Ever on the mark, aren’t you?” Dodd observed. “If I did not know better, I would say you were after my job.”

“Don’t want to lose mine.”

“Really? Or just biding your time. I have heard tell recently that the lion on your arm is more than a tattoo. I have heard the Brannocks are born craving power.”

Brogan shrugged. “Maybe they are. Wouldn’t know. The Lancer Archipelago is a long way from Deaxa. It is just a tattoo. Durin and Reese helped put it there, ask them.”

Captain Dodd eyed him.

“I have sailed the seas longer than you have been alive. I have seen plenty of men with ambition, but hard living, wine, and the slow corruption of the crews’ influence has ruined them all, but not you. I wonder why that is?” Dodd mused.

“Rafe Harwood was a hard master, but the better job done for him, the more profit for me and the men. Good wine and fine women are not cheap.”

“He is long dead, what three winters now, and still you owe your allegiance to him over me and this crew?”

“No, but his estate is still unsettled and we still sail under his charter. Until that changes, and in my position, it is my duty to see that it is carried out correctly,” Brogan said, wondering what information Dodd was after.

“I could remove you from this duty,” Dodd said.

“You could,” Brogan agreed. He was starting to feel uneasy and wondered if somehow the mutiny plot had reached his ears. “However, there must still be an annual accounting of operations.” He looked Dodd in the eye and knew something was about to change.

Dodd turned and motioned for the other officers to approach. “Assemble the men. I have an announcement to make.”

The clanging ship’s bell assembled most of the crew in a matter of minutes. Captain Dodd stood at the top of the steps flanked by Brogan and the other officers.

“Quiet down, rats!” shouted the other first officer as Dodd held up his hand for silence.

“I have made some decisions about how this ship will be run as it seems the complaining continues and the combination of the crews is never going to be satisfactorily achieved. As of this moment, the original crew of the Rascal’s Edge, including your first officer, Brogan Laroult, is officially relieved of all duties. I need men I can trust and you will all be reassigned to those men.” Dodd turned to sign the papers proffered by one of his men. A murmur of surprise with overtones of anger rippled through the men. “That being said, and with the preliminary approval of a Navy Fortson admiral, this ship is no longer affiliated with the line of Rafe Harwood. Those who object will be given opportunity to seek employment elsewhere once we reach our next destination. I will accept no complaints from any quarter. Dismissed.”

Captain Dodd went down the steps and taking no questions went into his quarters and shut the door.

“You are mine, Laroult,” said the now fully commissioned first officer. Brogan resisted the urge to put a fist into his smug face. “After all this sun topside, I am thinking the bilge pumps are calling you.” The other officers, who had slowly gathered around, suddenly grabbed him and shoved him from the quarterdeck in a show of stripping him of command.

Once the tumbling mass of five pairs of arms and legs hit the main deck, Brogan was the first to gain his feet. In the melee, Brogan knelt, his body shielding his actions as he grabbed the first officer by the hair and slammed his face into the deck. “Do not come into the dark alone.”

Brogan walked to the ship’s aft, climbed the tower and put his back to the rail so he could watch and determine the mood of the crew. After a while, Durin, then Reese joined him.

“Just as we fell, I saw a ship on the horizon. Probably an hour until we close on it,” Brogan said. “Then we will find out what this is all about.”

“Maybe this was it,” Reese suggested. “Maybe that paperwork is the extent of Navy Fortson’s involvement.”

“Not that easy, especially with that ship out there. We have been five days at sea and we are dead on the coordinates I overheard,” Brogan said. “I have prepared everything I could think of. What about you?”

“Done,” Reese said.

“Mine too,” Durin said. “This is a huge risk yer a takin’.”

“I know, but if nothing happens, no one will know,” Brogan said. “Will they follow?”

“Yes,” Reese answered, “but you are going to have to think fast and push them hard. Can you do it?”

“Yes, as long as I know you two are behind me,” Brogan said.

“No, ye cannot think like that no more. It is done,” Durin said, shaking his head. “Ye have t’ think as that capt’n ye always played at as a boy. He was a demandin’ but good capt’n, that one.”

Brogan raised a brow to him. Durin and Reese laughed.

“We saw ye right enough,” Durin laughed. His eyes twinkled.

“Durin is right,” Reese agreed. “We know you have never forgiven Harwood for what he did, but do not cast it all away as you have tried hard to do. He did teach you some fine and valuable lessons.”

“As did yer mama,” Durin added. “We keep tellin’ ye, Brogan, we are gettin’ old, damned old fer privateers. We don’t move s’ well either. Ye have t’ step up an’ take the wheel fer yerself, not us handin’ it t’ ye. Ye might be an upstart whelp t’ some, but it is the insides that counts, not age. An’ I don’t mean that blood stuff Harwood was always on about. A capt’n only trusts his gut an’ he commands the crew by his will alone, right or wrong, an’ don’t ask by their leave. Yer gut is tellin’ ye we are in trouble, trust it.”

Brogan looked to each of them with uncertainty. He knew every inch of the Rascal’s Edge and knew her men. He had spent four winters watching and learning from Captain Perris. There was not much to be learned from Dodd, except how to divide a crew.

“Harwood was much like a good captain before his mind twisted,” Reese said after a while. “Give praise and reward to one, then punish another in a heartbeat. You may have to put a bolt through some of these wretches in the hours to come, but for those who serve well your acknowledgement will secure their trust.”

“Then I better be at it. I just thought of a few more tasks needing done if we are to keep the upper hand,” Brogan said and left them to go in search of Ponti.

“What do you think?” Reese asked.

“I am thinkin’ we couldn’ta raised a better son if we tried,” Durin said with a broad smile.

“Relieved of duty does not mean time for games,” Brogan said, annoyed, just as a handful of dice left Ponti’s hand. “Get up!” Brogan kicked at Ponti’s backside and Ponti scrambled to his feet as Brogan’s hand grabbed his collar and dragged him along. “Who is in the tops?”

“Should be Vern.”

“Here, take this and get rid of him, now. No blood. No body. You understand?” Brogan handed him a garrote. Ponti looked puzzled. “Dodd is up to something. The ship we are approaching is likely trouble. If you see anything, give warning. Who do you trust to put on the fore?”

“Bart.”

“Agreed. Find him and get rid of his red shirt. I do not want Dodd knowing he is up there. Take your crossbow, as many quarrels as you can and not a word to anyone,” Brogan ordered, then went below to his quarters.

Making sure no one was around, he stripped off his shirt and from the bottom of his sea chest, pulled out the chain maille tunic and let the cold links slide down his torso. Not ideal armor for a sailor, but he was sure Dodd would target him. He quickly put his shirt back on and secured it in place by strapping on a pair of crisscrossed bandoliers that held seven throwing daggers each. His sword was already hidden on the aft deck near the huge double ballistas. He only rarely wore a bandana to cover his head, but today, needing anonymity, he borrowed a black one from a neighboring bunk having noted earlier that it seemed to be the color of the day.

Returning to the main deck, he kept himself as much out of sight as possible. He knew Dodd and the others would not think his absence odd owing to their recent treatment of him, thinking that he had gone below to lick his wounds.

Glancing up, he saw Ponti seated a little higher than usual in the crow’s nest and Bart, hanging like a spider, nearly hidden in the rigging.

The unknown ship was clearly visible and near to foundering as she ran on one untrimmed foresail. Her flags signaled a Harwood ship from the mainland as well as a red flag with a white star indicating ship in distress. That is odd, Brogan thought, even in distress someone should have the sense to sail north to the Bit Isles or east to the mainland. Instead, their heading was due west where they would have to cross eight hundred miles of ocean before the coast of the foreign lands came into view. His sense of wrongness intensified.

The Rascal’s Edge heaved to and came along side, but, and Brogan smiled, facing the opposite direction. The ship, Crescent Cove as painted on the side, would lose precious time tacking the turn to give chase. The sea is calm. Do me the favor of grappling ropes rather than chain, Brogan thought and as if they had heard him, grappling hooks with thick rope trailing shot from the arbalests mounted to the railing. Several men shambling along the Crescent Cove’s deck secured the hooks where they could do no damage.

Ropes secured, Dodd and his officers walked to port and hailed the distressed ship as her captain appeared, looking harried and unkempt, except, Brogan noted, for his fresh-shaven face. The privateer captain at the tavern had a full beard, but the hair color was the same.

“What ails you, Captain?” Dodd shouted to him.

“Bad drinking water. Lost more than half the crew to dysentery. Most of the others are not well enough, including myself, to keep us on course. Can you spare a few men?” the captain answered.

“We can. Give me a few minutes to round up a crew and I will be over myself,” Captain Dodd answered. Seeing most of the Rascal’s Edge crew assembled out of curiosity, he gave orders. “Old crew, you will stay aboard under the command of the junior officers. The rest are with me. You will sail north to the Bit Isles. We are closer to ports there than to the mainland. For safety and provisioning, both ships will stay close enough to read the flags. Now, get water and food ported across.”

Brogan watched the activities feeling nervous tension rise and fall in the pit of his stomach. Barrels, bundles and men moved back and forth carefully across a connecting ramp. One barrel dropped into the ocean, but Dodd ordered it left. Glancing up again, Brogan saw Ponti and Bart still watching intently. The last of Dodd’s men crossed over and the ramp was pulled back. Men of the Rascal’s Edge waited to pull back the ropes, but no one came forward to release the grapples. Get back, you idiots! Brogan’s right hand fingered cold metal in one bandolier.

“Archers in the hold!” Ponti suddenly shouted down. His voice shrieking and shrill like a carrion-eating bird. “Archers in the hold!”

“Bart! Raise the fore! Raise the fore!” Brogan roared, coming out of his hiding place. “Drop the tops!” He raced to the side and pulled an axe out of a weapons box. The first rope was cleaved by a heavy stroke.

The men at the edge fell back in confusion, but not before two of them were suddenly gutted by the junior officers. Brogan drew a dagger. A clear line opened. No time for aim, he threw the weapon. It struck the officer’s shoulder joint and his sword fell to the deck. Another man grabbed it and buried it in the officer’s belly before he was cut down from behind. The second and third ropes were hacked free. As Brogan crawled to the last rope, he heard the ripple of canvas as the large foresail went aloft as well as the whistle of bolts flying overhead and the screams of men hit by them.

“Take cover! Arm yourselves!” Brogan shouted, seeing confusion in the men that they could not entirely trust and forewarn. “Take cover! Dodd wants you dead!”

“Not as much as you,” the first officer’s voice said suddenly from behind.

Brogan rolled away from the side as the crossbow fired. The bolt was deflected by the rolling metal rings beneath his shirt. Men from the Crescent Cove were swinging over on rat lines as the Rascal’s Edge began to move, her sailors hauling on the sheets. Brogan saw Reese and his men engage them. Brogan grabbed another dagger as the first officer drew his sword. A bolt, as if out of the sky, slammed down into the officer’s chest knocking him backwards. Ponti grinned and Brogan scrambled forward and hacked the last line that strained to hold the two ships close.

Durin was suddenly beside him with a bucket of glowing coals brought from the galley.

“Are ye sure this crazy idea is goin’ t’ work?” he asked, putting his back against the side and acted as lookout.

“No, but it was all I could think of,” Brogan said, opening another weapons box that should have contained hollow short spears, but instead held oily smelling coconuts turned black from being soaked in naphtha. “I could only prepare about a dozen iron fireballs without raising suspicion. But they see me carve lots of things, why not these? Now if it does not explode on lighting and the plug releases on impact, it should work.”

“Nice knowin’ ye,” Durin said and Brogan grinned.

Picking up a coconut by the long tail-end of a wire wrapped loosely around the hollow, fuel-filled fruit, Brogan touched the bottom to the coals and it burst into hot flame. Immediately he spun it around twice overhead and released it. The makeshift fireball hit the edge of the hold’s opening, cracked open and exploded as fire ignited the spilling fuel.

“It worked,” Brogan half-laughed as men caught in the explosion screamed in panic. They tried to put out the burning flames, but only succeeded in smearing oily fire to more of themselves. In quick succession, Brogan lobbed two more fireballs at them, creating havoc on deck and momentarily lessened the number of bolts being fired at them.

“Take over. Try for the sail. Our springals should have fired by now and we are not moving fast enough. Damn them!” Brogan swore as a volley of crossbow bolts finally flew in a more organized fashion from his side. “Their firing ports are coming open and their vinegar buckets are working. Good places to aim.” Brogan slapped Durin on the back and ran to a cluster of barrels. Opening one near the back he lifted out a heavy canvas bundle reeking of naphtha.

“Rom! Dirk!” Brogan called to two men struggling to reload the multitude of crossbows suddenly littering the deck. “Get on your catapults. Where is your crew?”

“I will get them,” Dirk said as if suddenly remembering his job.

“Here, take this.” Brogan handed Rom the bundle. “There are only twelve fireballs prepared. The rest are soaked rags. Mind your aim and take out their aft ballistas.”

“Aye, sir,” Rom said and climbed up to the foredeck where medium-load catapults were bolted to the planking.

Ponti’s aim was sure and relatively quick Brogan noted as men lying on deck were skewered at an odd, vertical angle.

“Bart, loft the jib! You two, get the aft and raise it halfway. No more target than we have to give them, but get us moving. All of you get the speed up!” Brogan shouted at them. A flight of fire spears hammered the port side with some going through the Rascal’s Edge ports as shouts and screams echoed up from below. “Van! Let them cover you. Mind the rudder. Get us out of here!”

Idiots! If we survive, it is surprise drills for the lot of them. Brogan slid down the ladder to the firing deck just below the main.

“They have fired two rounds to our none!” he shouted down the line of disarrayed springal crews. “What is the matter with you? Load and fire!”

“We cannot, sir. The fire spears have been taken from the crates and we cannot find them,” one man said.

Brogan kicked open another crate filled with solid-shaft projectiles.

“Anti-personnel. Target the ports, or aim higher. You two, here!” Brogan tossed a pair of javelin-length poles with hooked ends at them. “Get those flaming heads out of the side.”

“But, sir, we have never – ”

“Then learn. Get on it!” He gave them a shove and wondered where the crew captains were. Maybe cut down in the first wave of bolts.

“Brogan! Captain…sir…Brogan?” a voice shouted down from above.

“What?” Brogan said, scrambling back up the ladder to the deck.

“We have fire and no way to put it out,” the man said.

“We just took on new vinegar barrels. Saw to it myself.”

“The barrels have been drained.”

“Then get the heads out. Do what you can for now,” Brogan said. How? We had someone on deck every night…

Brogan looked to the Crescent Cove. She was out of range for men swinging across, but not too far for the ballista range of the Rascal’s Edge. Those of the Crescent Cove were burning nicely. At least one thing has gone right, Brogan thought.

“She is coming around too fast,” Brogan muttered. “Bart! Full sail! Keep’em trimmed!” Bart waved and ordered his men.

Brogan wondered where Durin was. He had another job for him. He climbed up the ladder to the aft tower deck where a single man was trying to load one of the ballistas.

“Kaleb, what is the delay up here?” he asked, grabbing hold of the windlass and put more muscle into the task.

“Half my crew went down in the first volley and the rest won’t help,” Kaleb answered, relieved for extra hands.

“Why not?”

“Said Dodd is their captain and won’t fire on him.”

“Is that so?”

“That’s so,” a voice sneered from behind and a spear shank was shoved into the winding mechanism jamming it.

“Your captain abandoned you then fired on you first,” Brogan said. His hidden sword was within reach.

“Yeah, well, he will call off the attack once we hang you by the neck off the aft railing,” the man said, joined by two more sword-bearing men. “We should have killed the lot of you months ago.”

Brogan took a step backward, ducked under the man’s swing and reached for his sword. Both hands closing around the hilt, he lunged onto his right knee driving the blade forward into flesh and ripping upward. Intestines coiled out as the man staggered backwards and toppled off the deck.

A dagger pulled from the bandolier flew into the second man’s throat nearly coming out the back. His knees buckled as he clutched at the hilt unable to get a hold of it. Kaleb kicked him off the deck. The third man, terror in his eyes, sword trembling, glanced back and forth between Brogan and Kaleb, who now hefted a short spear. His tactic was decided for him as a quarrel struck between his shoulder blades, arching him backwards. As he sank to the deck with a long moan, Brogan’s sword slashed across his neck finishing him. Up the ladder came Reese, bare-chested with a bloody strip wrapped around his ribs.

“What happened?” Brogan hurried to help him.

“No talk. Just do.” Reese wheezed, his lung punctured. “Help if I can.”

Another sailor called Wren appeared behind Reese pushing him up then helped him to sit against the railing.

“I will crank it back. You pull out the shaft,” Brogan said, straining against the windlass. Three more revolutions cocked the weapon.

“We need another man up here,” Wren said.

“We will make do,” Brogan said as they lifted the giant ordnance; a hollow, steel arrowhead nearly as big as an anchor with a hollow shaft attached. The shaft was loosely packed with naphtha-soaked chafe generously sprinkled with sulphur. The hollow head was filled with fluid. Secured and ready to fire, Wren brought out a burning wick and ignited the payload.

“Reese, can you aim this thing?” Brogan asked.

Reese shook his head no.

“The time is behind you, Captain.”

Brogan nodded that he understood and concentrated on the site. Their lack of speed had allowed the Crescent Cove to complete her turn and was close in direct pursuit. Wren and Kaleb held their breath. The prow of the ship was the hardest to hit; smaller target area appearing and disappearing with the chop of the water. Too high, the other crew could eventually pull it out. Too low and the water would catch it dragging the weight to the bottom.

Brogan hit the release. The great machine shuddered; the coil spun out and launched the hellish payload. The projectile flared brighter, burned hotter, scorching the air as wind filled the open holes in the shaft acting like a bellows and creating a screeching flame. The arrowhead smashed into the prow just above the water line. The hot fuel in the head burst into a raging fireball. Wren and Kaleb let out a whoop that caught the attention of those below.

“Direct hit!” Wren shouted and the men cheered, emboldened in their tasks.

“Reload!” Brogan took up the windlass once again. From below, out of the three aft firing ports, a volley of solid spears flew, arcing high, forcing back the men on the Crescent Cove’s deck. Most spears dove into the water, but they kept the men away from their weapons and from trying to dislodge the fire in their keel.

“Brogan!” Ponti shouted down, still in the nest. “They are loading the catapult with fireballs and they are pulling a huge springal toward the bow.”

“Faster,” Brogan said. “Next shot we aim for the deck.” Anti-personnel projectiles fired again with better results. “They are getting the idea, finally.”

Wren suddenly lost his grip on his side of the windlass. The unexpected force resistance wrenched the crank out of Brogan’s hands; the spinning handle slammed the underside of his left forearm. He grimaced and silenced a curse as pain shot through the limb. The men held their breath. More than one arm had been broken that way.

“Get on it.” Brogan stepped aside to let Kaleb at the crank.

“Broke?” Reese wheezed.

“Don’t think so, but it hurts like hell.” Blood already flowed into the flesh making a nasty bruise.

“Fireballs lit!” Ponti shouted.

“Van, hard to port! Heads up!” Brogan shouted as the ship changed direction.

The fireballs launched. Half hissed and sank, swallowed by the sea, and half impaled themselves all over the Rascal’s Edge, their sharp spikes digging into the wood. Fire poured from the holes as fuel spilled over the wood. Ponti pried a ball loose from the side of the nest. Durin appeared with an armload of fork-like scoops and handed them to anyone not doing something. Men ran over the ship dislodging burning balls and hurling them into the sea. Bart suddenly left his post and ran aft.

“They missed draining two barrels. The shrouds were coving them,” he reported.

“Use it sparingly then. Deck only for now,” Brogan said. The Crescent Cove had come about to their heading. He looked up to Ponti. “Are they loaded yet?”

“Not yet, but it is a big one. Looks like a double row of ten each,” he answered.

“We are loaded and ready,” Kaleb said, breathing hard, and holding the wick. “Cannot believe they are willing to take another on the nose.”

“I cannot get both weapons and there is no direct line to the springal. It is sitting too low,” Brogan said, working the site.

“Try going across deck leaving a trail and into the mast,” Wren suggested.

“He is good, but he is not that good,” Kaleb snorted. “Lucky shot last time.”

“You have experience. You take the shot,” Brogan suggested.

“He cannot see more than ten feet clear,” Wren said. “Go on, see if the luck holds. If not, we will load faster.”

Taking aim once more, Brogan hit the release. The huge arrow took flight and the Crescent Cove tacked hard to starboard. The projectile tore through the portside railing sending up a spray of sharp, splintery projectiles, sheared men in half and knocked others into the sea before lodging and exploding in the aft deck tower. Flames shot up the sides.

“Guess the fire will keep them busy,” Brogan said, glancing up to Ponti then taking a second glance on deck. “Durin, what in Deauxama are you doing?” Reese started to laugh and cough at the same time.

“Piss works good as vinegar. Just show’n ‘em how t’ do it,” Durin answered, grinning up at him.

“Did we never tell you that?” Reese laughed. He wheezed harder. Tears of laughter filled his eyes as Brogan watched perplexed at what seemed like half the crew peeing all over the ship.

“Cannot say you did… Van, get ready. On my mark, hard to port again,” Brogan ordered, looking to Reese, who nodded agreement.

“They will not expect that of you.”

“Dodd would not, but what about the other?”

“In the end, it all comes down to who has the more clever ideas, who can keep most of his men alive, and who has the lucky wind riding with him,” Reese said. He coughed and spat out a mouthful of blood. “Do not look at me like that.”

“Like what?” Brogan asked then realized his face was pinched with concern. “But I – ”

“No! You leave that pain alone! Think we do not remember the wee cub and want life for him?” Reese said, harshly. Pain etched his face. He wheezed louder and coughed again. His face paled. “No, you leave it be for a time of quiet, a place of solitude. Command!”

Brogan looked back at the enemy pursuing them, course readjusted. There was distance, but still they came, the flame in their prow continuing to burn fiercely.

“Button those breeches! They are coming again! Take cover!” Brogan shouted to the crew.

“Spears lit!” Ponti shouted. “They are hesitating!”

“They cannot for long,” Brogan muttered, clenching his fists, letting his gut feel for the moment. “Mark!”

“Incoming!”

Ponti dove for cover as the tops swayed with the sudden directional change. A flight of twenty blazing spears trailing black smoke came at them. Brogan and the men dove for cover behind the aft wall. The tip of one spear punched through a crack between planks opening a flaming hole. Wren hammered it back out with a mallet, but the hole continued to burn. They heard impact explosions all over the ship.

Brogan got quickly to his feet to survey the damage. Bart was climbing a rat line to fetch a spear caught in the canvas of the aft sail. Everyone looked on amazed that the firecloth Captain Perris had spent one of their fortunes on really worked and barely burned. A cloth brought from the foreign lands that was woven with a strange rock-like substance they called nonpyroscia. “We cannot take another hit like this. Wind the ballista.” At least twelve projectiles spewed fire and smoke mostly on the starboard side. Men hurried to pry them out and cast them overboard, all except one, Brogan realized suddenly. It had impaled Durin through the chest and pinned him to a barrel. Fire flared engulfing his body, the wood and was quickly spreading to the other barrels tied together. Brogan was stunned.

“Command…” Reese urged with the last of his strength.

“Get them off the ship! Port side!” He pointed and half a dozen men grabbed the ropes that tied the barrels and started to drag them away. “You will see that I have the better idea.” He reached down and gave Reese a squeeze on the shoulder. The ashen-faced man gave a little smile. Brogan knew he would be dead by the time he got back.

Down the ladder and across the deck he ran. “Put us on a heading due east. Keep her steady.” He disappeared down to the firing deck. The reek of oily smoke was everywhere. “All of you, with me,” he commanded as he continued to the aft. “Save two barrels of naphtha, the rest I want poured out the back. Try not to coat us at the same time. And do not pour too fast. I do not want them seeing this if it can be helped. You two, keep firing at them for distraction.”

“But all of it, sir?”

“All but two. Hurry up.” Through the portal, Brogan saw the fiery mass of Durin and the barrels drifting away from them. He watched until they floated out of view, then turned away and went halfway back on deck. “Ponti, can you see the oil on the water? We have about six barrels out there.”

“It is here and there.”

“Is it adding to the fire on bow?”

“Not really. The water has nearly beat that out, but it is giving them a good coating.”

“Do they have the ballista ready yet?”

“Looks like it.”

“Tell them to go for the sails.”

Ponti relayed the orders. Brogan waited.

“Got the fore! The mast is broken, but not fallen. They have lost the wind, but still coming this way. We are pulling away.”

Brogan hurried back to the aft.

“Stop firing and pour out of all three ports. Faster now, they have other problems.” As fast as he could roll in a new barrel, he was rolling an empty away. “That is all of them. Now, we will see how this works.”

“You have a big slick now and they are almost to the middle of it,” Ponti called down as Brogan reappeared.

“Good!” Brogan said, running to and climbing back up to the ballista platform. “Come on, one more.” He encouraged as Wren and Kaleb were near the end of their strength, doing a job that usually took four to six men. He helped them set the arrow. Kaleb lit and Brogan fired a straight skimming shot. The length of the burning payload hit the water, bounced and hit again. The hollow ordnance floated in a sheen of fuel. A nearly invisible flame raced along the surface of the water that grew into a field of fire surrounding the Crescent Cove. Black smoke started to rise and in a matter of minutes an oily roiling blackness tinged with red engulfed the ship. A choking cloud so thick the men of the Rascal’s Edge couldn’t see it.

A cheer of relief, a cheer of hope rose up on the Rascal’s Edge as Van, Bart and his sailors kept their course swift and steady and real distance came between the two ships.

Before coming down, Brogan surveyed the ship. Most of the smaller fires were being contained as best they could, but the port side mid to aft was burning more steadily. He hoped the barrels of vinegar, used sparingly and poured accurately, could buy them some precious time. They were at least five days out from the Fortson coast. With luck, no one had damaged the starboard side launch. They were going to need it.

Brogan headed to Captain Dodd’s former quarters followed by Kaleb, Wren and most of the men. Some slapped his back or shook his hand, while others looked decidedly sullen. Ponti had come down from his perch and walked beside him cradling his crossbow.

“You think you are the Captain now or something?” said a big man called Red, because of a discolored patch on his cheek and neck. He blocked Brogan’s entry into Dodd’s quarters. “Your old nursemaids are dead. You answer to me now.”

“Yeah, and what did you do for us?” Ponti asked. “Not much from what I saw. Saved your own skin and to hell with the rest of us.”

“This vessel answers to the law, and to its charter,” Brogan said.

“Ain’t no law out here but us. I am your law.”

“Law over nothing, Red,” Kaleb said. “This ship is going down.”

“He got us through Dodd’s treachery and Navy Fortson is in collusion. Let him be,” Wren added.

“If Navy Fortson catches us with no papers and no captain, they will call it mutiny and hang the lot of us for pirates,” Brogan said, angrily. Precious time was being lost. “If we have papers, we head three days to the Bit Isles and take our chances with Navy Fortson finding us. If not, it is five days to the Fortson coast and you better hope there is enough piss in all of you to put those fires out. Step aside.”

“Upstart bastard. Think you are better than us. Piss on you!” Red said, throwing a punch. Brogan dodged. The voices of men loyal to Red murmured agreement and were answered with punches from those loyal to Brogan. Fighting broke out.

“This ship runs by Freehold law!” Brogan shouted furiously. He grabbed Ponti’s arm and crossbow in one quick motion and pulled the trigger. At point blank range, the bolt ripped through Red’s chest piercing his heart and pinning him to the door. The quarrel embedded so deeply in the wood that it supported Red’s weight. A visage of surprise became Red’s death mask. Brogan took the crossbow away from Ponti and spun around. Stunned, wide-eyed silence greeted him. “Does anyone else have a problem with the order of this ship?” he demanded, glaring at them one by one, the crossbow raised defiantly in challenge. In his mind, he saw Rafe Harwood’s angry, sneering face that fateful afternoon as Harwood clenched his fist, the fist of dominion over all, the brutal hand of absolute power, raised against him. That same fist he now raised against his crew. Brogan had hoped to find in himself a better man. He threw the bow at Ponti and pulled Red off of the door letting him fall as he would. “Get rid of this.”

*   *   *

For two long, grueling days and nights the Rascal’s Edge sailed on toward the Fortson coast, with round the clock crews fighting the fires that threatened to consume them. The firecloth sails proved over and over to have been worth the treasure paid for them. Their slow burn allowed the men to climb the rigging and put out tiny fires sparked by cinders coming off of the burning port side. With no papers to be found, and Brogan’s anger abated, the men agreed it was better to take their chances sailing east than to meet up with a Navy Fortson ship that likely lay in wait for them as a result of Dodd’s betrayal. On the first day, more men had fallen to factional violence, but by noon on the third day, those with quieter dissention finally had to admit they were being led by a fair and capable captain, who was not afraid to bend his back to the work he assigned.

“Yo, Brogan,” Kaleb called, seeing him standing, but slumped against the forecastle railing. “Brogan?” He nudged him on the shoulder.

Brogan startled, his hand going for his sword as he spun around.

“Whoa, slow down,” Kaleb said with a chuckle. “Finally fell asleep, did you?”

“Must have,” Brogan said, rubbing his hands over his face and stretching the knots from his back. “I thought I would see if there was land in sight as we have not slowed for darkness. Just put my head down for a minute.”

“More like an hour or two. Anyway, the haul raft is just about finished.”

“I better get back down – ”

“No worry. You have already seen to the important parts of it. They can finish it. But, the side has burned down low enough that we are starting to take on water. Still think part of that fire was rekindled by someone,” Kaleb said.

“At this point, nothing would surprise me,” Brogan said, turning again to look for the coast on the horizon. “About as stupid as the arson in the hold. Figured that would go through the bottom before the side gave way. Idiots! Why vexing me is more important than reaching land I will never understand.”

Kaleb laughed.

“That would be why you are the Captain.”

“And a fine legacy mine will be. A Captain, unsanctioned at that, for three pitiful days before losing his ship,” Brogan said, with a grin.

“Ahh, but a fine and courageous tale it is, honor says,” Kaleb said, and followed Brogan back down to the main deck. “Van and Bart are also saying she is not handling well.”

“Then it is time we let her go to her fate. Ring the bell, assemble the crew and get them ready to abandon ship,” Brogan ordered.

The peal of the bell called all hands to the foot of the quarterdeck for orders from Kaleb, while Brogan walked the perimeter of the Rascal’s Edge, his home for nearly six winters. She was a valiant ship and had won many victories. Their victory, such as it was, not the least of them. Brogan knew Dodd had underestimated the crew and perhaps him most of all. Preparations were in order. The launch had not been sabotaged, and while seating would be cramped, there was space for all who lived. Crates and barrels of provisions had been lashed together and were ready to offload onto the raft they would pull behind them. Van held them steady, while Bart’s crew dropped sail.

Accept the pain in a moment of quiet, a place of solitude, Brogan thought recalling Reese’s words. The time is not yet. There is still work to be done. Yet in the quiet of the moment, with the knowledge that the time for all had passed, memories of Durin, Reese and other lost members of the oldest of the old crew swamped him. His person already loaded down with the items he would take from the ship, his hands drifted to his belt where the favored daggers of both men now hung. His jaw clenched as he stared into the depths of the sea then up to the broad sweep of the clear, azure sky. Command. The word seemed to drift on the wind.

Behind him the shouts and sounds of organized chaos filled the air as men and supplies began to leave the slowly sinking ship.

“Land! I see land!” Ponti’s voice rang out from the scorched crow’s nest.

Brogan ran to the base of the mast.

“What are you doing up there? Come down! You will be left,” Brogan shouted up to him.

Ponti scrambled out of his perch and slid down a line.

“Are you sure?” Brogan asked.

“Yes, I am sure. Look!” He pointed as suddenly a land-based seabird came wheeling out of the sun.

“Then let’s be at it,” Brogan said, pushing Ponti to starboard; the last to board the launch.

“No, no, your place would be there, Captain,” Wren said, pointing to the bow of the launch, when Brogan tried to take a place at the oars. The men squeezed apart to let him through.

“Shove off!” Brogan ordered, sitting down on the small triangular bench. “And put your backs into it. We need to be close enough to possibly see firelight. It will not do to drift in circles come dark.”

“Then how about some encouragement,” Kaleb said, dropping his oar into the water.

“Aye, a rousing shanty to pass the time,” another voice said as more oars splashed down into the water.

“Why look at me?” Ponti asked. “You have the biggest mouth of all of us.”

Brogan scowled at him

“That would be most resonant voice – as we have heard many a starry night,” Wren said, with a grin.

“What will it be?” Brogan asked.

“The one about Lanai, the sloe-eyed wench,” someone shouted.

“All right. But, honor says, anyone caught pissing in the boat, swims!”