Chapter 67: Worth Stealin’, Probably
The pirate burst back through the deck in a spray of foam, hacking up enough seawater to stock a tavern barrel. He ripped the sodden hair out of his face, spat over the side, then jabbed a dripping finger toward the smoke-shrouded guns of Fort Louis.
"Ye one-eyed sons o’ flea-bitten whores!"
He coughed again, doubled over, and spat another mouthful of seawater onto the deck. "May every bastard that ever sired ye wake up ashamed! If that was yer aim, ye couldn’t hit a church from inside the bloody pew!"
"Ezra, I think the sea’s tryin’ to steal me boots."
Ezra Hollis wrung out his sleeve. "Let it. They weren’t earnin’ their keep on yer feet."
"Heartless bastard."
"Saves wearin’ me heart out listenin’ to ye."
Near the rail, Kit still hadn’t stopped grinning, "I winked at the fort, lads. Frenchie saw this handsome face and jerked the whole bloody cannon off target. Ought to charge ’em for the lesson."
One scar-faced deckhand barked a laugh. "Keep preenin’ like that, lad, and the next ball’ll come lookin’ fer a second glance."
Besides them, one gangly deckhand still sat where the wave had left him, staring down at the water dripping from his sleeves.
"...Bloody hell."
He gave one sleeve an experimental squeeze.
"I preferred bein’ dry."
Someone caught him by the collar, hauled him effortlessly to his feet, and shoved him toward the nearest line.
"So did everybody else. Move."
James let the shouting and laughter wash around him while he watched the fort.
Fort Louis stood much as it had before, hazy in the drifting smoke. Across the harbor, La Vigilante hadn’t moved since the first exchange. The corvette was crippled, trapped where she’d drifted, and no longer his concern.
This ship was.
She’d been shot to hell, bled half her crew across the deck, and was still parked comfortably under the noses of Fort Louis.
That seemed like the sort of situation likely to shorten a man’s day.
"Right then."
He clapped his hands once. "All the idiots that’re bleedin’, kindly stop. Back to the Rose with ye. Bert, I’m lookin’ at you."
Bert straightened despite the blood soaking through the shoulder of an already ruined shirt.
"Captain, I remain capable of carrying out my duties."
"Bert."
"I assure you, these wounds are merely inconvenient."
"Off the bloody ship before I throw your hidden stash of booze away. That’s an order."
Bert inclined his head and headed for the rail without another word.
Jim intercepted him halfway there. "Took a shot through the shoulder and still throttled the man barehanded after? Bert, that’s the finest tale I’ve heard all week, and I’ve told a fair few of me own."
"I did not throttle him, Jim. I struck him once."
"Ye call it struck. I call it throttled. Story’s better my way."
"The story is not yours to improve."
"Every story’s mine to improve, Bert. That’s the whole trade."
James turned away to the deck.
"The rest of ye, quit gawkin! We stole the bloody thing, now let’s see if it’ll float."
The deck sprang back to life.
"You."
James jabbed a finger toward the helm. "Find out if she still turns, or if the French forgot to build that part."
"Aye, Captain!"
"One of ye, get aloft. Tell me whether we’ve still got sails or just expensive laundry."
A laugh went up as a pair of hands scrambled into the rigging.
"And somebody sound the well."
"Aye!"
"If she’s sinkin’, I’d sooner hear it from one of you than discover it when me boots start floatin’."
Another ripple of laughter.
James nudged a dead French sailor aside with his boot. "And for the love of God, clear this mess up. I don’t care if they’re French, English, or the Pope himself. Corpses make miserable deckmates."
He strode toward the wheel and his boots slipped once on blood that had already turned sticky across the planks.
Corbin still lay where he’d fallen, one hand wrapped around the post he’d died defending.
James hooked a boot beneath the man’s shoulder and shoved.
The body rolled aside, striking the scupper with a wet, graceless thud.
Corbin had held this wheel until his last breath.
James intended to hold it much longer.
And he intended to stay alive while doing it.
🏴 [CAPTURED CORVETTE — STATUS]
Hull Condition : Compromised, Seaworthy
Armament : 16 Broadside Cannons (10 Combat Ready)
Gunpowder Supply : Present, Beneath My Notice
Crew : 0 / 90
Morale : N/A
Loyalty : N/A
Congratulations.
Fleet size has increased by one.
Fleet quality has... not.
I trust this was intentional. It would be embarrassing otherwise.
"Aye, well."
James studied the empty crew count, the six silent guns, and the magnificent wreck she’d become. "She’ll do. I’ve seen uglier disasters."
A shout rang down from the mast almost before the latest crack had finished echoing across the harbor.
The next shot landed even closer.
Spray reached the far rail this time instead of only the near one, soaking men who had barely begun to dry from the first blast.
Nobody stopped working.
Hands moved faster, rope flew through fingers, canvas was hauled with sharp urgency.
James cupped his hands around his mouth and bellowed toward the Rose across the stretch of water.
"Cudjoe! Stop admirin’ me work and clear the range!"
Whatever reached Cudjoe through the smoke, the wind, it clearly wasn’t that.
Cudjoe didn’t bother shouting back.
He answered by raising his middle finger, then went back to work without so much as a glance in James’s direction.
James laughed despite himself.
"Fair enough."
The man certainly didn’t need advice yelled across open water by his captain standing aboard someone else’s stolen ship.
Forward, someone solved the grapple problem with an axe instead of patience.
Two clean blows cut them.
The water seized the tangled ropes and carried them away. With every moment the distance between the ships widened. Through the drifting smoke, the Rose slowly shrank into the distance.
Then a deep thunder rolled across the water.
James broke into a grin before he even looked.
"Clever bastard."
The shell climbed high above the smoke, hanging in the sky for one impossible heartbeat before beginning its lazy fall.
Every Frenchman on the fort had just enough time to notice it.
Then the mortar found them.
The blast punched straight through the palisade, flinging sharpened stakes, dirt, and very expensive engineering in every direction. A cloud of splinters swallowed the wall and men vanished into it.
For a glorious couple of seconds, nobody on the fort seemed interested in shooting at him anymore.
James watched the dust settle.
"...Bit left."
He clicked his tongue.
"Ah, well. Can’t expect miracles out of one bloody shell."
Then he turned back to the wreck beneath his boots.
"Now we sit back and cull ’em like ducks on a pond."