“Bring her around, Mr. Aykroyd. Prepare to fire.” La Crosse’s eyes never left the forecastle of the Cadiz. A tall man paced there, dressed in a flamboyant scarlet coat and yellow breeches, a cutlass in one hand and a short knife in the other. A stream of Spanish oaths drifted the distance, spit from a mouth hidden beneath a shaggy black beard.
Mr. Aykroyd’s face opened in relief and joy. His voice rang across the silent ship, heightening the tension. “Prepare to fire!” The Challenger swung into position, presenting her guns full front, leveling a broadside toward the Cadiz.
But before the Challenger could fire, a shower of balls whistled overhead, two striking the main deck in jarring explosions of flying splinters. Immediately, half a dozen men ran to douse the smoking holes before surfaces thick with pitch and tar could burst into flame.
Bristol’s eyes flared, and the salty taste of blood seeped from beneath her teeth. Inside, her stomach churned in sick dread. Why didn’t La Crosse fire? In the name of God, why didn’t he fire? Would he wait until the Challenger erupted into a ball of flame? She stared toward the Cadiz, watching a drift of smoke clear to reveal the concentrated faces of the men working the cannon. Bristol’s heart rolled in her chest. They were so close! So close!
Jane’s fingers clawed into Bristol’s arm, but Bristol felt nothing. Her ears pounded with the drum sound of her pulse, and a wall of dark fear closed on her mind. Her knees turned to water, and she sagged against the pile of canvas like a sack of wet straw. For the first time in her life, it occurred to her that she could die. They could all die.
“... And the one who is not, shall stand in dark flames,” a phantom voice whispered in her head. Unbidden, the words rose, to hang like an omen in her thoughts. Was this the meaning of Tituba’s prediction? Would the Challenger sink in tarry flame? Bristol’s breath tore past sandy lips, and her fingers whitened on the edges of canvas.
“Fire!”
Thunder and flame erupted from the Challenger’s leeward deck. Thick clouds of acrid white smoke enveloped the deck and gunners. Choking, their eyes streaming, the men leaped to reload and aim.
Bristol staggered backward, clutching at the stiff canvas for balance. She blinked through the smoke, scrubbing her eyes and peering frantically toward the Cadiz.
As the smoke floated clear, a massive cheer burst from the decks of the Challenger. The gunners had scored a direct hit on the mizzenmast of the Cadiz. The tall mast rocked and wobbled, then crashed amid snapping strands of hemp tearing free as the mast fell. It smashed across the stern, trailing rope and wood into the waves.
The scarlet figure on the forecastle screamed outrage, and the Cadiz answered. A rain of shot and ball whistled toward the Challenger, and the top third of the foremast ripped away, falling to the deck with a crash that sent a shudder throughout the entire ship. Beneath the heavy mast top, two men lay in a red pool, crushed beyond recognition.
Bristol bit back a scream. Wherever she looked, devastation met her eyes. Before her horrified gaze, a man spun and clutched his cheek, covering a gaping hole where a musket ball had torn a path. He choked and coughed, spitting blood and teeth across the front of his shirt.
Bristol covered her mouth and turned away, only to see another man shriek and bend to his ankle. A flying splinter had sheared into flesh, ripping it away and piercing bone, exposing a gleam of white and red.
Across the ship, flowers of red blossomed on men’s clothing. A loud splintering screech sounded above the din, and all eyes swung upward. Another piece of the foremast tottered and crashed down, landing near the first and bringing a flying trail of rope and splinters. The mast piece crushed down across the thighs of a fallen man. The man struggled to sit up, staring in horror at the red pulp that once had been his legs. His screams faded in the splintering crashes jarring the ship, but someone heard.
The man wearing the black eye patch ran forward, kneeling beside the shrieking creature whose life soaked into wet sand. He shouted something in the man’s ear and touched his hair. Then the man in the eye patch lifted his musket and neatly blew away his friend’s head. The torso rocked forward, then fell to the deck, and the man in the eye patch raced back to the rail.
Bristol gagged and pressed her hands to her lips, not seeing La Crosse dash forward to the foredeck. But she heard his shouts cutting above the smoke and confusion and saw men leap in response to quickly throw tubs of water on flickering smoky holes. Under La Crosse’s relentlessly driving voice, the Challenger swung in front of the Cadiz, moving across her bow and away from the murderous pirate cannon.
“Fire!” La Crosse screamed, and the Challenger’s cannon spit flame and smoke before she moved out of position. When the smoke lifted, the Cadiz’ sail hung in shreds, her foremast neatly halved, with only snapping rigging holding the mast to the deck. The Cadiz was mortally wounded.
On the Challenger, raw throats cheered and the men crowded the rails, sweeping the decks of the Cadiz with musket shot, reloading as fast as humanly possible, and aiming again.
“Fire!” La Crosse shouted, his voice hoarse. “Fire!”
The cannon roared, and when the white cloud of stinging smoke drifted free, a jagged hole appeared, piercing the hull of the Cadiz. On her decks, men lay dead and dying. Those able, fired their muskets blindly through wisps of smoke.
Safe now from the aim of the pirate cannon, the Challenger rocked closer to the Cadiz, men standing ready with grapnel and boarding hooks. Mr. Aykroyd ran the length of the decks, shouting, his hands waving. “The bowsprit!” he screamed against the shriek of splintering wood, popping rope, and musket fire. Men on both ships staggered and fell, others taking their place. “The bowsprit!”
Twenty men sprang to help Mr. Aykroyd capture the sprit of the Cadiz as it passed along the Challenger’s starboard. With frantic haste they lashed the bow fast to the mizzenmast of the Challenger, coupling the two ships. Turning, the men scooped up knives and cutlasses; grapnel and hooks flew to sink into the pirate ship’s deck.
With screams of triumph the Challenger’s men swarmed down the bowsprit and dropped to the decks of the Cadiz. Instantly the air vibrated with a clang and whistle of meeting swords.
Bristol watched with heart in mouth as the battle surged back and forth. The bowsprit connecting the ships served as a bridge, and grim, shouting men fought across the sprit and spilled onto the Challenger’s decks. They raged across both ships, the decks running red with blood, the air ringing to the sound of clanging metal. Every space Bristol’s wide gaze touched churned with spinning, thrashing fighting men.
She looked down in horror as a hand, lopped at the wrist, spun across the sanded planks, coming to rest inches from her hem. Gasping, worrying her bleeding lip, Bristol squeezed her eyes shut, opening them to fix anxiously on the two men battling back and forth across the forecastle of the Cadiz.
Staring intently, her breath burning in her lungs, Bristol imagined she could hear the ring of those two particular swords. She followed the parries and thrusts, staring sickly at the flashing arms and glittering metal. This was the only fight that mattered. If La Crosse fell, Bristol sensed, superstition and fear would turn the tide of battle. Even though each man fought fiercely with his own opponent, she understood that the men on both ships all tuned an acute awareness to the duel on the Cadiz’ forecastle.
Both captains fought with deadly concentration, as if unaware of the thrashing mob around them. They were well-matched. Sanchez, fierce and powerfully large, met the skilled thrusts of La Crosse with weighty expertise. La Crosse, lean and agile, countered Sanchez with polished lightning thrusts. Their arms rose and fell, slashing, plunging, and they fought with fury up and down the forecastle deck.
Sanchez’ scarlet arm lifted and dropped, the power in each stroke driving La Crosse back, back against the railing. The black beard split in a hideous grin of determination and triumph. Straining against the rail, his spine arching, La Crosse moved his sword in swift defensive arcs. The two swords met and held; t
hen La Crosse twisted deftly and spun free of the rail, having turned Sanchez’ point from his throat. Gracefully La Crosse whirled and faced Sanchez, cutlass swinging in one hand, his dagger threatening with the other.
Sanchez met the blow with furious effort, his face murderous. But slowly Sanchez appeared to give way, driven backward by the frenzied skill of La Crosse. The swords whistled and quivered at impact.
And held. Both men leaned their weight against the straining metal, the cutlasses tight. Above the swords their eyes met in blistering hatred. Then Sanchez screamed and wrenched the hilt of his cutlass, heaving La Crosse’s sword from his hand. The cutlass flew up and over the railing into the waves below.
Bristol shrieked, her scream lost in the cacophony of sound. Faint with dread, she gripped the canvas edges until her fingers ached. Sick inside, she saw the pirate leader smile.
A lazy, evil smile, pink in the midst of shaggy black. Sanchez lifted his arm, slow and deliberate in victory.
Seizing the split second available to him, La Crosse lunged forward, under Sanchez’ arm. He gripped Sanchez in tight embrace, allowing no space to maneuver. La Crosse’s left hand shoved deep forward, then ripped upward, and a look of vast surprise filled the pirate’s eyes. They swayed together, locked in a waltz of death. Black eyes stared deeply into gray eyes. Then La Crosse pushed away, glaring at the dagger hilt protruding from Sanchez’ scarlet coat.
The pirate lowered his bearded face, growling and roaring at a deepening wet spreading across his scarlet coat. He blinked and raised cloudy eyes to La Crosse. Then his arm flicked, and the tip of his cutlass slid lightly across La Crosse’s chest, opening a pink trail through the flowing white of La Crosse’s shirt. Slowly, moving in twitching jerks, Sanchez brought his sword to his forehead in a mocking salute. Then he crumpled to the planks, and a gush of dark blood spurted between his lips.
Bristol fell weakly against the canvas pile, her breath releasing in a dry rush. Thank God! Surely it would end now. The men of the Challenger cheered, imbued with fresh spirit, and their yells and cutlasses sounded across the decks of both ships. Wearily Bristol lifted her head.
Instantly a fiery sting gazed her cheek, and her hood blew back from her hair, tearing her dust cap away. Brilliant curls spilled past Bristol’s shoulders, catching the slanting rays of a late sun. A shaky hand leaped to her face, then lowered, and Bristol caught her breath at the smear of blood staining her fingers. Dear God! She pressed the torn hood to her cheek, a surge of nausea flooding her mouth. Another fraction of an inch and the musket ball would have ripped open her face instead of merely grazing her cheek.
Stunned, she turned to Jane. “Jane! Did you see...?” Bristol’s words died in a strangled gasp. Jane Able sprawled half on the sanded planks and half against the pile of canvas. A wedge-shaped splinter gouged the hollow of Jane’s throat, her white collar slowly soaking red. A look of fear and distaste froze Jane’s round face. Her empty eyes bulged outrage.
Bristol retched and clutched her stomach, vomiting until her throat burned and rasped. Jane. Jane Able dead? She stared at Jane’s limp body in horror, her hand pressing her mouth, When? Bristol had seen nothing, heard nothing. Yet a three-inch splinter had punctured the throat of the woman standing not a foot away.
Trembling violently, Bristol bent and closed Jane’s staring eyes, her fingers moving stiffly. She didn’t sense the figure behind her until a powerful arm circled her waist with bruising force, dragging her up. A wave of fetid breath blew against her cheek as the man jerked her hard against his chest, holding her like a shield.
For an instant Bristol was paralyzed with shock and fear; then she screamed and beat at the circling arm with her fists, kicking backward as hard as she could. Blood roared in her temples, and her body quivered.
“Help!” Bristol screamed. She couldn’t see the pirate’s face, only a tar-blacked hand waving a cutlass in front of her body. The man dragged her toward the bowsprit as if she weighed nothing, her thrashing struggle slowing but not stopping him. Above her flying hair he yelled a stream of Spanish boasts, calling attention to his prize.
“No!” Furiously Bristol scratched and struck the rock-hard arm crossing her waist. Through a gap in the fighting she saw Mr. Aykroyd start toward her; then a grinning bloody Spaniard leaped in his path with flashing sword. Desperately Bristol searched the sea of shifting men, looking for La Crosse, anyone to help her. She saw no one.
Above her soared the bowsprit, and she recognized the scent of victory in the man’s sour breath and triumphant muttering. Dear God, Bristol prayed, does my path lead to a pirate ship? Her eyes closed in terror, imagining what the Spaniards would do to her. Increasing her struggles, she lashed out, kicking and clawing, thrashing violently against the man’s hard body.
Without warning, a hissing whisper sliced past her ear, then a dark head fell against her shoulder, dropped to her breast, and bounced onto the deck, rolling to rest against the mast. A fountain of blood pulsed over Bristol’s back, wetting her hair and gown and the side of her face. The arm at her waist fell away, and the pirate’s headless torso slid to the deck.
Screaming, both hands pressed to her bloodless lips, Bristol ran to the rail and spun to stare at the jerking body draining into the sand. “Oh, God,” she panted. “Oh, my God!” Over and over. She lifted an ashen face and met Jean Pierre La Crosse’s steady gray eyes. He saluted her with the bloodied tip of his sword, grinned, and dashed past. Immediately he hurled himself into battle.
Bristol passed a shaking hand across her forehead. Gasping and panting, Bristol leaned her weight against the rail. Small fires flickered on the decks of both ships; rigging dangled, wooden splinters littered the planks. And above everything rang the clang and clash of grinding metal, above the moans of wounded men, above the shrieking of splintered ships. Both ships swarmed with a fighting mob. And the smell of powder and sweat hung thick in the air.
Bristol couldn’t guess how long she clung to the rail, but when her mind began to thaw, she understood the pirates had been driven back across the bowsprit and the Cadiz had been thoroughly looted.
As the last collection of booty came aboard the Challenger, Mr. Aykroyd rushed to the mizzenmast and lifted a bleeding arm. “Cut her away!” he shouted.
Stained swords hacked the ropes, and the ruined Cadiz began a slow drift from the Challenger. Men sprawled on her decks, growing fires gnawed her wood, and the jagged hole in the hull yawned black and wet.
Bristol watched with dull eyes. It was over... finally over. The sun rested like an orange ball just above the waves. Blinking in amazement, Bristol stared at the dying sun and realized the battle had raged for hours.
But it was not over. Not yet. “Load!” La Crosse’s hard voice roared from the forecastle, and the gun masters hastened to rally their men at the cannon. Tired, bleeding bodies grunted, hauling in the big guns.
La Crosse’s voice floated to the Cadiz, and the pirates waved frantically. Assessing their situation, they sprang to the rail, screaming an outburst of Spanish pleas and curses.
“Aim!” La Crosse shouted.
The remaining pirates rushed to the longboats, wounding each other in a frenzied attempt to lower the boats.
“Fire!” La Crosse screamed.
A wall of flame and smoke erupted from the deck of the Challenger, rocking the ship in the water. Streaming eyes stared through a drift of smoke and evening gloom; then every raw throat on board the Challenger opened in hoarse victory.
The enemy mainmast cracked, swayed, and toppled with a deafening crash. Fire raced along the decks of the crippled ship, moving closer to the powder magazine, with its store of ammunition and powder and guns.
Every able hand hauled at the Challenger’s sail, widening the distance between the two ships. Overhead, a crisp wind fluttered, then caught at the canvas, and the Challenger cut through the sea.
Suddenly a tremendous explosion blew up from the Cadiz, sending waves of scorching heat to wash the Challenger’s d
ecks. Wood and canvas and writhing figures lifted into the air, dark against roaring orange flame, then fell into the water like hailstones.
Bristol leaned against the railing, watching with a dull face. The bow of the Cadiz dipped lower and lower. Slowly at first, then gaining speed, the Cadiz sank into the water, her stern rising. At the last moment, another explosion belched from the rear decks, lighting a night sky; then the Cadiz slipped beneath the waves in a roaring sizzle of flame.
And now it was over. Bristol pried her hands from the railing and turned slowly to survey the wreckage along the Challenger’s decks. Trembling fingers reached to touch the scrape along her cheek and felt a line of dried blood. That she had survived with only this minor scratch seemed a miracle; so many lay dead or wounded.
On all decks, men moved slowly, quietly, binding bloodied limbs, dousing the remaining deck fires, taking count of dead and injured. The ship surgeon moved rapidly from man to man, doing what he could, then moving on.
Bristol stepped forward aimlessly, her eyes sickened at the torn cheeks, the missing limbs, the slashed faces and bodies.
Her feet slipped in red sand, and her nostrils choked on a thick smell of powder, blood, and fear. “Oh, my God,” she whispered, appalled at the utter devastation. “Oh, dear God!”
Stumbling past the pulpy horror beneath the mast top, she stopped to catch a gulping breath. She glanced down, her teeth grinding as she met the gaze of young Master Boyd. The boy’s eyes strained from the sockets, and he’d bitten through his lower lip. A thin mewling sound hummed in his throat. Bristol staggered backward, her fists pressed to her mouth. She choked, then screamed, “Doctor! Doctor! Over here!”
An expressionless man smelling of liquor and old sweat rushed forward, his expert eyes sweeping Master Boyd. “Pitch!” he shouted. Someone ran toward them with a boiling pot and set it beside the boy. The boy’s wide eyes swung to the doctor, and a thread of spittle leaked from the corner of his mouth.
Salem's Daughter Page 13
