Alexis Carew: Books 1, 2, and 3

by J. A. Sutherland

  She kept her eyes on her work and dragged the shot back to reload the second gun, then paused, breathing harsh and hand resting on the next shot, to survey the action to starboard.

  Both ships were firing as quickly as they could, sending bolt after bolt of energy into their foe’s hull, but the fire from Merlin was ragged now, no longer the controlled, intimidating broadsides they’d started with, but with each gun firing and reloading at its own pace. And men were down, some of the gun crews reduced to only two men, with bodies, either dead or unconscious scattered around the deck.

  But the fire from the pirate sloop had lessened as well, she saw, even as one of their shots found Merlin’s hull between two guns, burning through the thin material of the gundeck and striking the middle barrier. The other ship was horribly battered, its hull blackened and pitted, with, she noted, only three guns firing.

  “You have them, Merlins!” she yelled. “Don’t let up!”

  She rushed back to reload the third gun just as her crew fired the fourth and the pinnace to port, finally able to bring its guns to bear on Merlin, fired its broadside, only four guns, and those small, with little hope of breaking through Merlin’s hull, but one of them found the gunport near her and she flinched as the bright beam flashed by, then blinked rapidly to clear her vision.

  She heard distorted cheers over the static filled radio, but couldn’t see what had happened until she raised a hand to her helmet and scrubbed it across her suit’s visor. Black soot and shards of melted plastic wiped away, allowing her to see, somewhat, through a faceplate that was hazed and pitted. Alexis shuddered, realizing just how close she’d come to that bolt taking off her head. Or holing my suit, which would do the job just as well.

  Able to see again, though with difficulty, Alexis could see what the cheers were for. The pinnace’s mast had been shot through midway up its length, dousing its sails, and the other ship was rapidly falling behind the fight.

  “Back to starboard, lads!” she yelled, hoping her suit’s radio hadn’t been damaged by the blast that had burned her visor. “Do for the other one now!”

  She followed the men back to the starboard guns, adding them to the crews already there, and continuing to heft shot herself to reload the guns. Alexis found herself in a strange mix of fear and elation as the battle became a blur of carrying shot, loading guns, dragging the wounded clear of those still able to fight and screaming encouragement she was unsure the men could even hear. More and more holes appeared in the hull between gunports, the shots throwing off hot droplets of melted plastic from the hull and bulkheads.

  This was so different from working the sails during battle, where she had been helpless to fight back. Now, though she knew she could be killed or injured herself at any moment, her blackened, pitted visor a constant reminder. She could fight back, was fighting back and her crew was doing well, sending bolt after bolt of shot into the enemy ship.

  Her shoulder burned with the effort of carrying shot, sweat ran down her face, stinging her eyes and with no way to wipe it away, and her throat became raw from screaming encouragement to her crew. My crew, she realized with a start, for no orders were coming from the quarterdeck, it was only her and the men, and she felt a sudden swell of pride in herself and them. Breathing heavily, and with her mouth dry and throat burning, she caught her suit’s water nozzle between her lips, surprised to find that she’d already drained it dry. She saw that the other ship’s fire had been reduced to a single gunport, and that firing sporadically, and felt a thrill of exultation.

  “Aim for that forward port, lads! Finish the bastards!”

  Nineteen

  “Oh, quit your sniveling, will you, Carew? Comerford said he’d be all right, didn’t he?”

  Alexis glared at Roland over Philip’s still form. Merlin’s sick berth bustled with activity as the surgeon and his mates treated the wounded from the battle. Her left arm was again tightly bound to her chest, as she’d reinjured her shoulder carrying the heavy shot, and her hair and jumpsuit were still damp and limp with sweat. She squeezed Philip’s hand and looked back to his face, its right side heavily bandaged.

  “I just wish he’d wake up,” she said quietly.

  Roland leaned back in his seat, closing his eyes. “Let him sleep. Wish I could have a bit of a lie down, myself.”

  Alexis started to reply, but saw that Roland’s face had already slackened into sleep, his head falling forward. She stood and grabbed a thin blanket from the foot of Philip’s bed, then draped it gently over Roland, before returning to her seat.

  The young man had reason to be exhausted, she knew. A stray shot from the pirate sloop had smashed directly into the bowchaser he’d been manning, killing one man outright and so warping the hatchway that Roland, Breech, and another spacer had been trapped inside. They’d finally managed to free themselves by prying away the gallenium netting over the gunport itself and crawling out onto the hull in the midst of the action. Once there, they’d found the masts in complete disarray from the pirate’s relentless fire and Lieutenant Caruthers unconscious, injured by a free-swinging yard that had broken both his legs.

  Roland had taken command of the sail crews, working alongside them to clear the debris, let loose the topsails and keep the Merlin’s speed up, enabling her to remain alongside the pirate throughout the action.

  Caruthers had been treated and taken to his cabin already, and was expected to recover fully, though he’d be kept sedated for some days while his shattered legs were set to knitting.

  Just as Philip will recover, Alexis assured herself, squeezing his hand again. Philip’s helmet had been struck hard by the overturning gun, cracking the heavy plastic of his visor. The thick coatings of sealant had held, keeping air inside his suit, but a shard had sliced across his face, narrowly missing his right eye.

  The battle’s toll on Merlin had been high, with seven men dead, another three — not including Philip and Caruthers — seriously wounded. A dozen or more with lighter injuries, strains, broken fingers, and a host of burns caused by superheated droplets of plastic from the hull and bulkheads. She knew some of the dead and wounded, but not all of them, as she’d only come to know the men in her own division very well. She knew little of those in the other divisions, and she felt a sharp pang of guilt at the thought. There were not so many men aboard Merlin that she could not have found the time to meet them all.

  She’d watched Captain Grantham working his way through the sick berth, stopping to speak to each spacer in turn — seeming to know each man well, and watched their faces as he’d praised them for their efforts. She resolved to do the same with the members of her gun crews, for the memory of their efforts in the battle filled her with pride.

  Alexis saw the captain approaching her and started to stand, but he motioned her to stay seated.

  “Fine work, Mister Carew,” Grantham told her, gripping her uninjured shoulder comfortingly. “Had you not changed the targeting on that pinnace, our first shots might have been wasted and they’d have been upon us. That could have meant a very different outcome. Fine work, indeed.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Though I do suspect no Queen’s ship has ever before engaged the enemy to the battle cry of ‘bugger them straight through their knickers, boys’,” he added.

  Alexis felt her face grow hot. The action was such a blur she had no recollection of most of what she’d yelled to the men. Did I really? “I am sorry, sir.”

  Grantham’s lips twitched slightly. “Decorum, Mister Carew. Even in the face of the enemy, an officer is obliged to a certain decorum.”

  “Aye sir.”

  “Give yourself another five minutes here, Mister Carew, then bring yourself and Mister Roland to the quarterdeck, if you please.” He patted her shoulder and turned away. “We’ve prize crews yet to sort out this day.”

  “Some supper, Mister Gorbett?”

  “Thank you, Mister Carew,” the sailing master responded, taking the offered bowl.

&nbs
p; There were only six of them on board the pinnace, called Grapple by the pirates, or twelve, if you counted the six pirates kept aboard to work the sails. Alexis and the sailing master, two marines to watch over the pirates and two spacers from Merlin to work the helm — Peters and, for some reason Alexis could not understand and held suspect, Alan. If she’d known he was being sent over ahead of time, she’d have objected, but it wasn’t until they’d boarded the pinnace and removed their suit helmets that she’d seen who it was.

  They’d been four days aboard the pinnace, en route back to Eidera, and had fallen into a comfortable routine. A routine which had Alexis doing the cooking for their small crew in the cramped, dirty space of the pinnace’s galley. Alexis hadn’t wanted to trust any of the pirates, and the two marines were standing watch-and-watch to guard them. Mister Gorbett and Alan had professed to no knowledge of cooking whatsoever. And so, after a disastrous attempt by Peters — And how the man could muck up portable soup, I’ll never fathom; it’s just adding water! — the task had fallen to Alexis. Though, perhaps, the blame for that was more to the ship’s water, which Alexis suspected might be that originally put aboard when the ship was built and simply run through the recyclers for years, and not entirely to Peters.

  “This is … not too awful, Mister Carew.”

  Alexis smiled. “The result of rehydrating it with mostly wine, instead of ship’s water,” she told him. “And a bit of fresh ham added in.” And a shot or two of rum to finish each bowl — amazing what spacers will find appealing if there’s a bit of alcohol to it.

  She nodded to Alan, who left the quarterdeck for the galley to serve the others. The six pirates were at the front of the cramped compartment, backs pressed to the forward bulkhead next to the sail locker, and still dressed in their vacsuits. Alexis and Gorbett were near the navigation plot, much older and less functional than Merlin’s, while the two marines stood to either side and watched the pirates. Peters had the helm, which consisted of watching the image of Merlin ahead of them and ensuring they followed close behind. The pirate sloop, Rancor, was under the command of Roland, inordinately pleased at again being given the responsibility, and sailing ahead of Merlin.

  Alexis placed her own bowl on the signals console and seated herself there. It really wasn’t appropriate to eat on the quarterdeck, but with so small a crew and an equal number of pirates, she’d felt it best to keep everyone together. She, Gorbett, and the two marines had firearms, while the two spacers had boarding knives, and she wanted all of their weapons visible to the pirates at all times. There was something about one of them especially – the heavyset, bearded fellow called Horsfall – that set her nerves on edge.

  Alan returned with a tray of bowls, passing them out to the pirates who were then securely locked into the ship’s sail locker to eat, allowing the Merlin’s to relax for a moment. The marines carefully holstered their weapons and settled in.

  “Have you had any success at deciphering the navigation plot, Mister Gorbett?” Alexis asked quietly.

  The elderly sailing master shook his head. “Not a bit.” He frowned. “They’ve something that changes the markings every day. Without knowing the sequence —” He shrugged. “— nigh impossible to know our direction at any time.”

  “Why would they do that, I wonder?”

  “Keep the crew in line,” Gorbett told her. “If the captain’s the only one can tell where the ship is, there’s less chance of him suddenly not being captain no more. Least we’ve only to follow Merlin. She’ll lead us straight to Zariah and the Prize Court.”

  “And do you suppose we’ll see a great deal of prize money for these two, Mister Gorbett?”

  Alan let out a loud laugh and even Peters shook his head, grinning in amusement.

  “Not as such, no. Perhaps ten pounds or less for the average spacer and nigh fifty for the officers. Captain Grantham will see more, of course, as he’s three-eighths to himself.”

  “Eighths?”

  “’Tis how it’s divided, you see, by eighths. Two for the captain, and one more if he’s not part of a fleet. One for the lieutenants and the wardroom, and one for the junior warrants and mates. Then two for the crew.” He set his bowl aside and sat down at the navigation plot. “No, it’s frigates that get the prize money … a lucky cruise on a frigate’ll change a man’s life, and that’s the truth.”

  There were murmurs of agreement from the others.

  “What would that mean to you?”

  “Home to my farm.” Gorbett had a faraway look in his eyes and a sad smile as though he could see it. “Home to my Nelle and the little ones.” He laughed. “Not so little anymores, I suppose.”

  “Whyever did you leave it behind?”

  “We’re tenants, Mister Carew, so’s it’s not mine, as such. Thought to earn enough to buy it outright, leaving the boys to work it once they were big enough — have something to leave behind, you understand.”

  “And you, Peters? What would you do with a fine, frigate’s-cruise of prize money?”

  “A little pub, I think, sir,” he said, not taking his eyes from the helm. “On a station, so’s I can chat up the spacers …” He paused and nodded upward. “Or maybe planetside … someplace the sky’s not so close overhead and all.”

  “Alan?” she asked.

  “What? Me, sir?”

  “Yes, you.” She smiled gently. It was such a companionable evening, and truly, she could make no complaint about him since they’d come aboard Grapple. In fact, he seemed to be making quite an effort to be useful and unobtrusive. And I’ve seen him drink nothing but ship’s water, she realized with a start. “Surely there’s some dream you have for the future?”

  “Well …” He frowned and scratched his neck. “I’d like as not lose it all gamblin’ the next time in port.” He shrugged and began picking up the bowls to return them to the galley. “I’m in the Navy fer life, sir. Never did too well out of it, tell the truth.”

  How sad. She looked to the two marines near the sail locker hatch, but Gorbett spoke first.

  “What of yourself, Mister Carew?”

  Alexis considered for a moment. Was there some amount of money that would buy her the right to hold her lands? Challenging the law, perhaps, before a magistrate on New London. That, she knew from her grandfather, would cost a great deal — likely thousands of pounds to bring the case. No, the true obstacles were the other holders on Dalthus, those who could change the law but wouldn’t. Could they be bought? And would it be right to do so?

  “I believe, Mister Gorbett, that the obstacle to my own wish is one of men and not of money.”

  “I see. Don’t be so quick to dismiss it, though. A heavy purse can change a thing or two you’d not suspect.”

  Alan spoke from the hatchway to the gundeck, surprising her. “Point us Merlins at ‘em, Mister Carew,” he said quietly, “and they’ll be no obstacle quick enough.” He ducked through the hatch, sliding it closed behind him.

  There was a sudden ping from navigation plot and Gorbett stood to study it. He narrowed his eyes and frowned. “Merlin’ll be signaling us to reduce sail soon, I expect.” Alexis stood as well and crossed to the plot. Gorbett pointed to a blurry splotch of darkness growing across their path. “A storm’s building,” he continued. He frowned as the image grew even more. “Looks to be a bad one, if I’m any judge.”

  Just as he’d predicted, the signals console gave off a loud ping as well, and Alexis could read the flashing lights of Merlin’s image from where she stood. “As you say, Mister Gorbett. We’re to reduce sail and close with Merlin to maintain contact.” She nodded to the sail locker. “Send them out. Furl the topsail and take in two reefs of the main.”

  Alexis gripped the signals console tightly, desperately cycling through views from the external optics for any sign of Merlin’s lights, or even those of the captured Rancor, through the inky swirls of the darkspace storm that had rapidly engulfed the three ships. Grappel rocked from side to side and even slewed end to end a
s the forces outside lashed against her hull, its force overcoming the ship’s gravity generators and inertial compensators. Even the lights flickered and dimmed, along with the consoles, as wave after wave of darkspace winds crashed against the ship, the radiation affecting their electronics even through the thick hull.

  She grunted in pain as the ship jerked again, jarring her injured shoulder against the console.

  “Nothing still, Mister Gorbett.”

  “Another throw of the log would be helpful, then, Mister Carew.” The older man was barely able to maintain his balance at the navigation plot. “And the angle of drift, if they can read it in this mess.”

  Alexis keyed the order into her console and then staggered across the pitching deck to the sail locker’s hatchway to ensure the pirates had received the order and had sent one of their number out to throw the log. She’d kept them in the sail locker throughout the storm, though they’d had little to do on the hull since her last order to furl all sail and simply run with the storm. The two marines still bracketed the hatchway, but they were forced to brace themselves against the bulkhead by the violent motions. Even Peters and Alan, both of them at the helm to ensure their course, were thrown about.

  She slid back the protective covering over the hatch’s viewport and stared at the empty compartment for a moment. Had they not made it back inside after the last order to trim sails? Was it possible that they’d all been stripped off the ship’s hull by the violence of the storm? What possible reason could they have to leave the safety of the locker?

  Her blood ran cold as she realized the truth.

  “Boarders!” She slammed home the latch that would lock the hatchway to the sail locker and spun around, rushing across the lurching deck toward the hatch at the rear of the quarterdeck. If the pirates had left the sail locker, would they be able to get back into the ship elsewhere? Well, and it was their ship, wasn’t it? They’re sure to know it better than we do.