Page 10 of Stealing the Merman

“Grenades!” Conall ordered. The men picked up the hollowed cannonballs filled with gunpowder, set them alight and hauled them over to the flute’s deck where they exploded. The goal was to clear the enemy’s deck of men, board, grab anything of value and run. The flute wouldn’t surrender, at least not yet, leaving Conall no choice but to spearhead an attack.

“Prepare to board,” Conall yelled, his shout repeated by his men to ensure it reached everyone aboard.

The flute returned fire, hittingThe Pillaging Seas’ starboard. Men ran, some seeking shelter from the debris, others dashing for weapons. Chaos reigned. The smoke of the cannons bit Conall’s eyes, making it hard to see. But the sharp outline of the flute’s railing higher up was impossible to miss. He picked up a grappling hook and swung it over to the other ship. It found purchase on the balustrade. Conall tugged at the rope with all his might to ensure the hook would carry his weight. When it didn’t budge, it was good to use.

Hanging on with hands and feet, Conall climbed the rope, its coarse fibers cutting into his skin. His weight pulled him toward the sea, but he held on. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a mop of red hair—Darin. He was climbing a different rope ahead of Conall, right into the arms of the enemy.

Conall redoubled his efforts, arms and legs pumping as he shinnied up. He caught up with Darin the second he hoisted himself over the balustrade. Behind them, a dozen pirates followed, their roar as deafening as that of the cannons.

The grenades had forced the sailors below deck, but now that the pirates were boarding, they came out of the woodwork. Conall drew his cutlass. The sailors, armed to the teeth with rapiers, swords and daggers, closed in on them.

More pirates poured in, swinging fromThe Pillaging Seas’ mast on ropes. They forced the sailors back. Conall pushed into the space their retreat created, cutlass at the ready. The sailors stormed forward. Conall engaged a young officer, slashing at him. The man was trained in sword fighting, parrying Conall’s advance with ease. The ring of metal hitting metal resounded around the ship. Conall moved fast, attacking mercilessly until he pushed the man right up against the balustrade. One hard shove and the man toppled over the railing, falling into the sea.

Conall whipped around, fending off the next assailant. Their blades met, screeching as the soldier’s rapier slid down Conall’s cutlass. Conall spun to the side and kicked the man’s weapon out of his hand. He had no time to recover as he was immediately attacked by two sailors.

Around them, the battle raged. Conall staggered as he slipped on the fresh blood covering the deck, catching his fall at the last moment. It gave his opponents an opening. They stabbed their swords at him, and Conall was losing ground as they backed him toward the railing.

He defended against one of the men swinging his sword, and with a swift turn, avoided getting impaled by the other’s weapon by a hairbreadth.

“Conall!” somebody cried out, and it was the last thing he heard before the thunder of a gunshot rendered him deaf. His ears rang as the man in front of him crumbled, a dark red spot blossoming over his heart. He collapsed to the floor, and behind him, halfway across the ship stood Darin, smoking flintlock in one hand, bloodied saber in the other. The boy was anexcellentshot. But his face was pale, and his hands shook. Conall’s hearing returned in a rush. He disposed of the other soldier with a slash of his cutlass. It gave him two seconds to take in the deck—blood splattered every surface, bodies piled up on the floor. It was a nightmare.

He had been in enough battles to know he was losing this one. If they continued fighting, more men would die.

“Retreat!” he shouted over the roar of battle. To his utter horror, there was no reaction from his men.

One of the flute’s officers whipped his sword at Darin, who parried it too close to his body. Three more strikes and the man would kill him. Fear shot into Conall. Heart pounding, he ran to Darin’s side and reached him not a moment too early. He defended the sailor’s assault. One second later and the man would’ve sliced Darin open.

“Retreat! Retreat!” Conall roared, and this time his shout was repeated all over the ship. Darin stared at him, eyes wide. Conall grabbed him by the elbow and ushered him to the railing. They had to get on board their ship. “Retreat!” Pirates stumbled backward. Bloody and beaten they swung ontoThe Pillaging Seas.

In frenzied action, they cut all ropes connecting their ship to the flute and turned the sails into the wind. The flute’s cannons fired more rounds at them but missed. As a sloop,The Pillaging Seaswas among the fastest ships in the Caribbean. It was small and light but had a long bowsprit, which meant more sails, which in turn equaled greater speed. The flute had no means to pursue them, unable to match a sloop’s speed. The incoming weather blew wind into the pirates’ sails, pushing them west, away from the flute.

As they sailed away, the quartermaster passed Conall, who grabbed him by the lapel. “Perform a headcount,” Conall ordered. “I want to know how many men we’ve lost. Then assess the damage to the ship.”

“Aye, sir.”

Conall let the man go. After he’d unfurled his fingers, he noticed how stiff they were and how tight he’d gripped the man’s jacket.

Next, he sought out the navigator and steersman and had them set course for the shallow waters west of Eleuthera. It was a safe place to hide from larger ships, which couldn’t approach as close to shore as a sloop could. They’d run aground, butThe Pillaging Seaswith its shallow draft wouldn’t. A night or two in hiding would give them time for makeshift repairs. It would also grant them a chance to regroup, lick their wounds and drink themselves into oblivion. Alcohol was the pirate’s favorite way to deal when the world went south. Well, alcohol and sex.

The sun was setting when they dropped anchor further south along the coast of Eleuthera. The damage to the ship was superficial, and the carpenter had nailed shut the holes the cannonballs had torn intoThe Pillaging Seas’ starboard side.

Later that evening, rum flowed freely on deck where the men sat on wooden crates, overturned barrels and the floor. A handful of oil lamps provided dull lighting and cast long shadows. The first mate played a weirdly cheerful requiem for the lost comrades on his fiddle while the rest swayed to the tune. Someone passed around a plate of dried meat and stale bread, but Conall wasn’t hungry. After pirating for years, he was used to losing mates on the regular. They died in raids, disease knocked them off, the empire hanged them. Conall had seen it all and had become callous and unfeeling over the years. What he wasn’t used to was the worry. Darin had been in danger. Yes, he’d helped Conall by shooting one of his assailants, but Conall could’ve dealt with them had it come to it. Darin, on the other hand, had been in mortal peril when the sailor engaged him in sword fighting. The boy had a sure hand when it came to pistols, but he wasn’t skilled with the sword.

Conall watched him from across the deck as the evening turned into night. Darin was remarkably sober for having downed half a bottle of rum. He played games of cards with the other crew, winning most. Was he smart, cheating or lucky? Conall couldn’t tell and took another swig from his bottle.

He didn’t like that Darin had been in danger. Conall didn’t want to grow attached, which was why he never fucked anyone more than once or twice. With Darin, he was breaking his own rules. It messed with his mind. He shouldn’t worry about Darin—he didn’t worry about any other of the crew. All pirates died sooner or later. Conall had cheated death too many times. His luck would run out.

The second mate sat down on the crate next to Darin, leaning in to look at the cards he held. They shared a conspiratorial glance, and the second mate laughed, pointing at one of Darin’s cards. That earned him an elbow to the ribs. Good. Darin drank from his bottle, then passed it to the second mate, who took a sip and skidded closer until his side was pressed against Darin’s. A smile passed between them. Conall’s head throbbed. A hand on Darin’s shoulder, then on his thigh.

The bottle in Conall’s hand shattered. He paid it no mind, and neither did he care about the looks the crew threw him. Anger consumed him. Gritting his teeth, he strode over to Darin and placed a heavy hand on his shoulder from behind. The boy turned, and they exchanged a long look. Conall didn’t order Darin back to his cabin. He didn’t need to. Darin excused himself, passed his cards to the second mate and followed Conall below deck.

Bristling, Conall stomped to his cabin, though he wasn’t sure why he was vexed. He pushed through the door, letting it swing wide open. Darin caught and closed it instead of letting it slam shut. Conall spun around to face him, chest rising and falling as if he’d sprinted to his quarters. The cabin was dark except for the light of the full moon shining through the tall windows at the stern and a lamp that had been left burning.

“Sir…” Darin said and stepped closer, shoulders tense, the palms of his hands facing out—as if he was approaching a dangerous animal. Maybe he was.

Conall wasn’t going to play the jealous lover. They weren’t lovers. But a whole day of violence and fear came crashing down on him, and he needed an outlet.

“Next time,” Conall ground out, “you will not participate in battle.”

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