“Five points t’starboard, sir,” came the reply.
Harley reached for the telescope that a lad conjured into his hand. Leaning over the bulwark, he searched the area. Not satisfied, he ran to the nearby rigging. Stripping off his jacket, he started up the ropes like a monkey.
FitzHenry lazily climbed the ladder to the forecastle deck. He cocked his head up at the rigging. “Company?”
Harley held the telescope to his eye and replied, “Aye, too far away yet to make her out, though.”
FitzHenry dropped his coat on top of the captain’s and followed him up the rigging. Chiara watched him, open-mouthed.
Behind her, Mr. Pearce spoke, sotto voce, “Don’t look so surprised, m’um. The two o’ em be more like cats den bloody captains. Yer pardon, m’um. In d’old days, they’d be up the ropes almost afore the lookout’d finish his hail.”
“I believe you, Mr. Pearce, but the Lord FitzHenry I know would no more climb a rigging than…than put on a dress.” Pearce smiled, showing his entire picket fence of teeth, but said nothing. Chiara leaned forward to watch the men on the riggings.
Harley handed the telescope over. FitzHenry studied the oncoming ship for a few moments. The breeze teased his black hair, and he pushed it out of his face. Finally, he snapped the instrument closed and handed it back then started down. He jumped to the deck, followed by Harley, and reached for his coat. As he shrugged it on, he said, “It’s French, I’ll wager. Probably one of the green-wood frigates they’ve been building since Trafalgar to replace their fleet. With any luck, her captain is just as green as his ship. Going to take her on?”
Captain Harley leaned against a nearby stanchion. “God’s head!” He scratched his chin. “This is an embarrassment of riches. I’ve a lovely lady on board and a French ship just right for the pickings. What to do?” He tapped the telescope on his chin. “What to do?” He looked at his friend. “You’re not urging me to run, old man?” FitzHenry snorted and jerked his head toward the damaged mast.
Chiara could just see the tiny dot to the south of them.
“I don’t know of any English ships slated to be in this part of the Mediterranean now,” Harley mused, “but that storm could have blown it off course.”
“Could be.” FitzHenry’s tone expressed his lack of concurrence with the captain’s words. “We should know soon enough.”
“Umm, Mr. Grenfell,” Harley’s voice rose suddenly. “Speed up that work. We’re having company, and I want the parlor ready!”
“Yes, sir! Martin, Smiley, get your carcasses…”
Harley studied the broken mast. “God’s blood! Without the driver, we’ve lost a lot of maneuverability. It’s not too likely that the repairs will be done in time to do us much good. It looks like I’ll have to stand and mayhap fight, whether I wish to or not.”
FitzHenry nodded. He turned to Chiara, his face grave. “You’re to go to the lady’s hole at the bottom of the ship as soon as we’re sure of his flag.”
“I have no intention of doing anything of the sort.”
“Rafe’s right, ma’am. It’s the safest place for you. I’ll have Pearce escort you.” Harley’s face no longer sported its easy-going grin. He was all business now, and his business was war.
“Thank you, captain, I don’t need an escort.” She turned and retreated towards her quarters. She’d be dead and buried before she ran from a fight, but now was not the time to tell that to the captain or to question his instructions.
The trick would be to keep out of the way until she could be sure of the situation. A drum beat the call for the crew to take their stations. She would, also, if needed.
From the bowels of her trunk, Chiara pulled out a draw-stringed blouse of the cheapest muslin. It had long, gathered sleeves typical of a peasant blouse, but with one extra feature. Next she retrieved a low-necked vest in dark green, followed by a mustard yellow kerchief. Finally she lifted out a pair of black knee-britches wrapped around a pair of striped stockings.
Quickly she divested herself of her more conventional garments and donned the new styles. She braided her hair and pinned it up into a secure knot on her head. The kerchief went over it. A little more digging in the trunk produced a knife in a sheath attached to a leather strap. This she buckled on just inside the special slit in the right sleeve of the blouse. Once adjusted, she pulled the knife from its sheath, readjusted the fit, and tested the blade before returning it.
Rooting in the truck again, she found a sheathed sword, shorter than usual, but perfectly sized for her, particularly when used in combination with the knife, in what used to be known as the Italian style of sword fighting.
She sifted through her papers, trying to think of any incriminating documents she or FitzHenry carried. She’d committed nothing to paper, and Uncle Geoffrey had given them nothing, as usual.
Now she waited. That was the worst part.
Feet stomped on the deck above her. Muffled orders bellowed up and down and through the ship. Some of the sounds, she couldn’t identify; in concert, she knew them as a symphony of war.
If the battle was fought with only cannon, she would remain cloistered in her cabin. If they were boarded, she would be up on deck fighting with the rest of the crew. There would be some shock at the sight of a woman in men’s clothing, and censure perhaps (particularly from Lord Self-Righteous), but she was not going to sit and cower from a fight. They’d all get used to the idea quickly enough when French swords pricked at their bellies. And be glad of it.
The waiting, she thought, the interminable waiting. She didn’t fear the fight. Combat she knew, both in practice and the real thing. She’d proven her mettle before. But to have to wait and not even be able to help with the preparations or see the field of combat! She began to pace, listening for the small sounds, and larger ones, that would signify the beginning of battle, assuming, of course, it was a French ship.
She looked out the transom window: nothing but blue ocean and bluer sky.
She checked the release of her own blade when a far-away boom heralded the beginning of battle. Looking out the window, she saw the ocean explode upwards several hundred yards short of and behind the Swiftsure. The battle begins, she thought.
An answering cannonade shook the ship, but Chiara could tell if it was their cannons doing the firing. Soon, the starboard half of their 90 guns were firing almost rhythmically. Now and again a French ball provided a counterpoint. For the moment, she could only trust in the British gunners’ well-celebrated skill.
The time interval between the cannon shots and strikes grew shorter and shorter. The French ship closed on its intercept course.
Soon, she would know. She patted her sleeve sheath when an unseen hand threw her toward the portside wall. Staggering, she regained her balance. What happened? Right on the heels of the question came the answer. The two ships had collided! Time to grab her sword and go topside.
The passageway stood deserted, but the sounds of boarding and combat filled the top deck. She ran up the stairs, but found the hatchway locked; it was probably the captain’s misguided attempt to keep her safe.
The next hatch, with sounds of battle coming through it clearly, proved more fruitful. She stuck her head out to get an idea of the situation. It looked like the gates of hell. Clouds of smoke obscured most of the ship and stung her nose. Ghostly British marines flowed over the gunwales to the French frigate. An almost equal number of French sought to board the Swiftsure. Yelling filled her ears, punctuated by the occasional scream.
In an eye blink, hand to hand combat broke out on the deck in front of her. Chiara pushed her way up. A French sailor charged across an undefended area of the deck, waving his cudgel and yelling, “Victoire!” She scrambled to meet him, sword held unobtrusively at her side. He slid to a stop on the sanded deck, goggling at a seemingly unarmed woman in men’s clothing. His weapon dropped. It was the advantage she’d hoped for. Her blade flew up, catching him in the neck. Blood spurted and his eyes opened wid
e before he fell. The sand he slipped on absorbed his blood.
Her stomach clenched. Blood and death—her doing! She controlled the impulse to gag, telling herself that this was war, and she had engaged. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the man’s body roll; she searched for a fresh target. The next one would probably not be as easy.
The tang of fresh-spilled blood joined the gunpowder. Smoke clouds ebbed and flowed around the masts and equipment. The familiar structures turned into a dark, menacing forest. The small clearing she stood in, empty save for the Frenchman’s body, erupted into movement. On her right, Sam Goode fought a burly, bearded man. Chiara saw the Frenchman slash out with more force than finesse. None the less, it caught Goode across the left upper arm. Blood spurted, and Sam stumbled, falling against the main mast. The Frenchman moved in for the kill. Chiara screamed, and he looked up in surprise. A big grin split his bearded face. His rotten teeth made Pearce’s look like a solid wall. He caught sight of the bloody sword in her hand. The grin transmuted into a snarl. He started towards her, lumbering, but with a sailor’s characteristic sure-footedness.
Chiara regripped her sword and reached into her sleeve for the knife hilt, but she didn’t draw it.
The man raised his sword to strike. She began her rush. As she raised her sword to parry, she drew the sleeve blade. Their swords met. She deflected the blow, rather than trying to stop it. The force of the blow rattled her arm. Rank breath flowed from the man’s renewed grin. She knew he thought he’d overpowered her.
She allowed the last of her charge to bring her close. The small, deadly blade slid up and under his ribs. It went through his soft belly and up into his heart. The man’s grin disappeared into a moue. She felt his weight on the knife and pulled it out. A fleeting thought marveled at how hard it always was to pull the blade out, as opposed to going in. Slipping around the falling corpse, she knelt by Sam Goode. His face was pale, the gash was deep, and he was losing blood. His new “Italian” neck cloth was already around his neck. She smiled at his small vanity but untied it and wrapped it tightly around the wound.
“God save ye, m’lady, and ye have m’lasting thanks.”
She pressed a quieting finger to his lips. “Get over under cover.” He nodded and began to crawl under the rail with the main mast’s belaying pins.
She went on in search of a fresh—she took a deep breath—kill.
Randomly, she moved forward through the clouds of smoke. The riggings formed giant spider webs around her. She coughed in the gunpowder clouds. Cannon fired; she couldn’t tell if it was coming or going, but it threw her off balance for a moment. A barrel rolled across the deck to her left.
The smoke ebbed, and two men fought a vicious battle, surprisingly close to her. She recognized FitzHenry with his back to her just as a second Frenchman, with a pistol, sighted at him from the left. He saw her and changed targets.
She threw her knife just as he aimed at her with the gun. Damn, she was never very good with her left hand. The knife hit high in the man’s right shoulder instead of his chest. He pulled his shot wide, but not quite enough, and she felt the burn of the bullet as it grazed her left arm.
FitzHenry turned and saw. “God damn you!” He broke off and danced out of the way of a saber slash. His opponent, tall and blond, knew what he was doing. FitzHenry had a fight on his hands.
“Look out!” she snapped. “And you’re welcome.” The knifed man pulled the blade out, drew his sword, and charged her with a snarl.
Without her knife, Chiara switched to a two-handed grip and parried his first strike. Less than it might have been, the shock still reverberated up her arms. Her left hand faltered, so she tightened her grip. She kept his blade engaged by rolling the locked steel up and over their heads. He pushed her away. His stance told her that this opponent knew more about sword-fighting than her first two opponents. He twirled his blade in a slow circle to distract her. She’d used that trick before, herself, and kept her eyes on his. The circle ran clockwise, which said he would strike from---the left, a whipping slash at her mid-section. Her sword caught the edge of his. She pushed it away as she danced right. That wasn’t the contact she wanted. He backed off a step, whirled the blade over his shoulder. Stepping up, he put his weight into the down stroke.
This was what she wanted. Catching the blade near the hilt of her sword, she stepped close to him, close enough to see the mole on his neck. Shifting her weight to her left leg, she kicked out with her right. She hit him inside his kneecap. His leg buckled, and he went down. She pulled her sword back, twisted it slightly, and plunged the blade in, parallel to the floor. It caught briefly on a rib and then slid smoothly into the man’s chest as the strike was designed to do. His last sight was her cold steel blossoming in his chest.
She scrambled for her knife, slipping on some dry sand. Jumping to her feet, she looked around through the miasma for FitzHenry. His opponent still drove hard at FitzHenry’s able defense. Another Frenchman--young, awkward, foolhardy--charged at him, sword flying, whooping. He focused on getting his share of the English aristocrat. She intercepted him, and he danced back to the gunwale. For several minutes they played cat and mouse among the deck’s obstacles.
A shout came over the din, “They’ve struck! The Frenchie’s ‘ave struck!”
Her foe didn’t seem to notice. His eyes had mutated from predator’s to prey at her first strike. He focused on her and her sword swaying like a deadly cobra. He hadn’t heard, hadn’t understood, the surrender. All his attention centered on her, centered on his own upcoming death. And he was so young.
“C’est fini!” She tried to gentle her voice, but the smoke had turned it raspy. No matter, he didn’t hear her. His sword stuttered after hers, and she knew better than to let her guard down.
She attacked. Catching his blade, she wrenched it up and to the side, but failed to break his panicky grip.
“C’est fini!” she yelled in his face. “Votre capitaine est capitulé!”
Hearing of his captain’s surrender broke his trance. “Non!”
The denial punctuated a frantic squirm, but she braced her leg and pushed harder. “Ecoutez!” He stared at her and listened. The sounds of battle were fading quickly. English orders replaced French or English battle cries. She shoved at him. “C’est fini!”
His lower lip quivered, and a great sob welled from his chest.
Merciful Lord, she thought, he’s just a baby.
His fingers unclenched, and he dropped his sword, the clatter loud in this suddenly-still field of carnage.
She gestured him around toward the center of the ship. FitzHenry and his foe were nowhere to be found, but other Englishmen had French prisoners. Now that the battle ended, the victors didn’t quite know what to do.
She took a deep breath. “Attention!” she yelled, “Prisonniers francaişes assiez ici!” She pointed to a clear area. After the briefest of hesitations, the French sat in a rough circle. “Mettez vos mains sûr votre tête.” Hands obediently grasped their heads.
“Blimey,” one of the sailors breathed respectfully. Chiara grinned. Mr. Grenfell barreled through the slowly-lifting smoke. He skidded to a stop, nearly stumbling over a French prisoner. He looked over the scene, his mouth working like a landed fish’s.
Chiara lowered her sword-point to the deck and leaned on the handle. It helped to keep her upright, but she wasn’t about to tell them that. She looked at Grenfell through her lashes, “Your prisoners, Lieutenant.”
“Um, yes, well…”
Chiara said. “Prisonniers, levez vous. Laissez vos mains sûr votre tête. Suivez le officier.” After all the French were on their feet with their hands on their heads, she drawled, “All yours, Mr. Grenfell.” With that, she went off in search of Sam Goode.
She found him trying, rather unsuccessfully, to crawl out of his hidey-hole. The blood on his sleeve had increased alarmingly since she tied the scarf around his arm. Gently, she pushed him back to a sitting position. She ripped hi
s shirt, and he grimaced. “Sorry about that.”
“No fault to ye, m’um.”
She untied the blood-soaked kerchief to examine the wound. It still bled sluggishly, but she figured that was an improvement, given the blood already on him. “We need to get you to the surgeon, Mr. Goode and get this stitched up.” She started to retie the kerchief.
He lifted his good hand to stop her. “M’lady, Ah don’t want them damn saw-bone butchers to touch me. They’ll just lop off me arm and have done with it. Ah knows Ah ain’t got no right to asks ye, seein’ as Ah was so pissy to ye afore, but could ye sews me up yerself. Ye’ve a gentle touch.” She went very still, and he continued as he moved to rise, “Ah knows Ah ain’t got no right. But help me to the saw-bones, iffin ye please.”
She pushed him back again. “It’s not the usual material I sew on, but I’ll try by best. Stay here.”
She hurried off to her cabin, twice interrupting her progress to direct French prisoners aft toward the holding area. With needle, thread, soap, water, and cloths secured, she went in search of some strong spirits, to be used inside and outside the patient. Supplies in hand, she started back to the main deck. She had one foot on the first stair riser when a voice rasped in her ear.
“God damn you for a two-penny whore.”
She stopped and whirled. FitzHenry crowded her. She could see the grains of soot embedded in his skin. He smelled of blood, sweat, and gunpowder. A fleeting thought grew in the midst of the outrage. She probably smelled just as sweet.
“Indeed, my lord, if I am a whore for defending my country and myself at need, then what does that make you?” She started back up the stairs, but he grabbed her arm before she got two steps.
“Don’t you dare go back up there!”
Wrestling away, Chiara put another stair’s breath between them. She bent so that she faced him at eye level. “Don’t question my ability to serve my country, ever,” she snarled, “again.” She turned back and stomped up the stairs, unmolested.
Sitting next to Goode, she took a long breath. Someday she would rip that man’s foul tongue out of his mouth, but now she had a job to do. She needed steady, not furious, hands.
When she finished with Goode, several other sailors requested similar services. Mr. Pearce came by, and she requested fresh supplies. The men, preferring her “gentle touch” to that of the surgeons, kept her busy through most of the day.