Page 33 of The Black Lion
Drew hadn’t realized how badly he’d wanted a real fight until now. Their foray into Falmouth had been ridiculously easy, something he could have accomplished in his sleep. Now, a prime opportunity for carnage and bloodshed had presented itself, and Drew was ready to face it head-on.
Padre appeared at his side, offering the brass speaking trumpet to help amplify his voice. Raising it to his lips, Drew turned to look past his crew, who scrambled about to arm themselves, to where Rory stood at the quarterdeck, legs braced wide as he gripped the wheel.
“Hard-a-larboard, Mr. Walsh!” he bellowed, before turning to address his master gunner. “Mr. Steel, ready on the starboard guns with chainshot!”
The voice of the master gunner carried over the pounding of boots and the roll of wheels as the cannons were pushed into position.The Sea Liongroaned and swung about to shouts of ‘helms-a-lee!’, her black and gold banners snapping and fluttering on the wind as they presented her broadside to the approaching enemy.Jupiterhad now drawn close enough to have identified them—which was proven when their bow began to swivel east, rows of gunports going up on their hinges.
“Looks likeJupiteris flirtin’ with us, cap’n!” crowed one of the gunners. “She’s a right tease, she is!”
“She wants to dance wi’ us afore she lets us fuck her!” added MacTire, the Scottish gunner with a bald, tattooed head, who was known for his deadly precision.
Taking the forecastle stairs down to midship, Drew retrieved his cutlass and pointed it at their prey.
“Then we’ll indulge her like the gentlemen we are,” Drew replied amid a chorus of laughter. “Mr. Steele, give her a taste of the rogering she’ll soon get, aye?”
“Aye, Cap’n!” Steel replied aiming a kick at MacTire’s backside. “Run a shot across her bow ye useless lobcock.”
“Bugger yer maw,” MacTire fired back, though he was quick to follow the master gunner’s order.
Hunched over his gun, he squinted while inching the cannon in increments to align with his target, tongue clenched between his teeth. The large Scot was jolted, but kept his bearings when the gun kicked and went off with loud boom. His aim was perfect, as always, sending a single cannonball careening within inches ofJupiter’sforecastle deck.
Drew bared his teeth in a feral grin as the enemy ship opened fire, lobbing several shots over the water. The cannonballs either fell ridiculously short, or whistled pastThe Sea Lionwithout leaving a scratch on her hull.
Now close enough to see the scurry of the slaver’s crew aboutJupiter’sdeck, Drew bellowed into the trumpet. “That’ll be the only warning you receive. Strike your colors and throw down your arms, and I’ll make your deaths quick. Fight me and know what it is to stare the devil in the face before I turn you into shark bait!”
Despite his warning, Drew did not expect surrender. While his men rallied behind the gunners on the starboard side, weapons raised and their animalistic battle cries splitting the air, the captain ofJupiterraised his arm and curled his hand into a fist, before extending his middle finger for Drew to see.
A volley of epithets and the sounds of his men spitting over the rail nearly drowned out Drew’s laughter at the impudent gesture.
“Have it your way,” he muttered, lowering the trumpet and nodding to Steele. He didn’t have the patience to waste time trying to talk a suicidal captain into surrender.
Steele’s gravelly voice echoed over the glittering surface of the ocean, and with a wave of his arm, the gunners let loose with volleys of chainshot. Cannonballs tethered together by iron chains spun through the air in twos, aimed to tear through sails and rigging and incapacitate the ship without harming its prisoners in the hull. The splinter of wood and rip of canvas was like music to Drew’s ears, the crack of the mainmast sending up a howl of victory from his men. He ordered another round of chainshot for good measure, not caring if every mast ofJupiterwas reduced to kindling. He’d taken many a ship for his own, but had long waited to send this one to the bottom of the ocean.
“Hard-a-starboard, Mr. Walsh! She’s ready to be boarded.”
Caesar’s furious pounding on the war drum increased in its rhythm as Rory rolled the wheel to aim their bowsprit atJupiter, who had nowhere to run without a single mast or sail left to propel them. Drew pulled one of the pistols from his gunbelt, pacing up and down the row of starboard guns, anxious for his time to act and lead his men in the charge.
“Take no quarter!” he commanded them as Rory swung them abreast of the enemy ship. Grappling hooks were retrieved, several men already leaping onto the rail, ready to boardJupiter. “These sons of whores would sooner clap you in irons than deal you a fair turn. And what do we say to that?”
“Bugger them!” Rory bellowed as he left the quarterdeck, a blunderbuss held over one shoulder and a cutlass clenched in the other. “We are free men!”
“Aye, and when we’re done, so will those poor souls below her decks be!” Drew replied before stepping up onto the railing between Padre and Big Jack. “I wantJupiter’sdecks painted red by sunset.”
Followed by a rousing chorus of ‘Aye, Cap’n’, Drew jumped the tiny space between ships before the grappling hooks had even been set. He didn’t look back to ensure he was followed, trusting his crew to have his back. Rory’s lilting brogue came from somewhere at his left, taunting the enemy crew. All fell into chaos—the clash of steel, crack of muskets and flintlocks, and the gurgling cries of men being cut down.
Drew engaged the enemy by rote, trained by years of fighting to survive. His cutlass slashed across a throat here, his pistol cracked a shot into an eye there. His men fought like savages, snarling and cursingJupiter’screw to hell. In these men, Drew was certain they all saw those who had once tread upon them in the faces of these slavers. For his part, the faces swimming around him in a sea of blood were all-too familiar. His brother, Archibald, the officers of theHMS Hannibalwho had whipped him and kicked him as he crawled across bloodied decks to escape their abuse. He killed them over and over again, his lust for their blood never satisfied, his hatred of men who put their boots upon the necks of the oppressed a never-ending well.
At the end of it all, he stood amid a haphazard assortment of dismembered body parts with blood staining his face and hands, the white linen of his shirt now turned crimson. Bits of gore clung to the blade of his cutlass, and someone’s innards squished beneath his boots as he made his way toJupiter’scaptain, who had been stripped of his finery and made to kneel between Rory and Big Jack.
The man had balls, Drew had to admit. He didn’t so much as flinch when Drew stood over him, the bloody cutlass leveled at his face.
“I want you to remember that you were warned, Captain,” he growled, wiping his blade clean on the other man’s shoulder. “Had you lain down your arms, I might have slit your throat and simply thrown you overboard. Now … I think I’d rather let my men have a little fun with you. After the fight you put up, I think they deserve it. What say you, Mr. Walsh?”
Rory’s blue eyes glittered with a frightening amount of excited glee. “Oh, aye, Cap’n. I propose one lick of Big Jack’s cat o’nines for every soul found in the hold.”
For the first time, a crack appeared in the other captain’s demeanor, his eyes widening as he seemed to mentally count the number of slaves hidden below. That reaction told Drew all he needed to know. He wouldn’t live long enough to endure every lash.
“See it done,” he ground out, before sheathing his cutlass. “One lick for every body … dead or alive. And I want a full accounting of those rescued. Have them safely stowed wherever there’s space. Officers quarters go to the old and infirm, and women with the youngest children. The rest of the crew are to surrender their hammocks to any leftover women or children in need of a place to sleep. Improvise bedrolls for the men. Have the surgeon tend the wounded.”
