“Away!” Juliet shouted. “All hands up and over!”
The men of the Iron Rose needed no prompting. As soon as the muskets were silenced, they were swarming over the rails, their knives in their teeth, their cutlasses and pikes raised to meet the sea of soldiers flowing across the Valour’s deck toward them. They clawed their way over the bloody remains of shattered crewmen, cutting down others who were still alive and screaming to be freed. Those who had their bonds slashed joined the fray with rage in their hearts and eyes, joining the charge against the Spaniards with anything they could grasp to use as a weapon, even with bare fists if nothing else was at hand.
Juliet emptied the four pistols she wore in her belts, then flung them aside and fought through the crush of helmeted soldiers with her sword in her right hand, a dagger in her left. Arrows continued to fly overhead and bodies fell screaming from the yards into the mêlée below. The gunners on board the Iron Rose fired another raking broadside into the Valour’s belly, sending chunks of planking and hot cinders rising on explosive forks of orange flame. Rigging lines were cut along with the freed crewmen, and yards swung loose, hurling more Spaniards off balance. As soon as the Valour’s crewmen were freed from the rigging, the Rose’s bowchasers began firing up into the tops, earning the alternate name they bore with bloody justification: murderers.
Water began to pour through the holes in the Valour’s belly. Smoke and steam choked the passages and ladderways. Seamen who had thought to remain below were forced up on deck, where they were cut down by privateers or shot by their own soldiers in the confusion.
Juliet fought her way to the quarterdeck, where she had seen the greatest concentration of scarlet doublets and steel breastplates. It was also where she had last seen her brother, his body jerking and twisting in outrage against his bonds. He had been shouting encouragement, cheering on the men of the Iron Rose as they attacked his ship, at the same time screaming for someone to cut him loose so he could join the fight. Juliet was almost there when she found herself cornered against the bulkhead below the quarterdeck, fending off attacks from a clutch of Spaniards armed with heavy cutlasses.
Nathan was on her left. He lunged at one of the soldiers to block a thrust, deflecting it with a powerful strike from his own blade. The steel snapped at the hilt but the Spaniard had a dagger in his other hand, which he drove forward and plunged hilt-deep in Nathan’s shoulder. He jerked it back and would have stabbed again but the intent was foiled as a thin slash of steel came out of seemingly nowhere and sent the Spaniard’s dagger spinning across the deck, the fist still clenched around the hilt.
“We’re going to have to stop meeting like this, my love,” Varian said, pausing to flash a grin before he moved to stand beside her, shoulder to shoulder, facing their attackers. His face was bloody, his ruff was gone, and a sleeve of his doublet was parted at the shoulder, revealing a deep gash in his upper arm. He was bleeding from another cut on his thigh, but it did not seem to hamper his strides as he helped her clear a path to the ladderway.
With her back amply defended, Juliet vaulted up the steps to the quarterdeck. Crewmen from the Rose had swung across on cables and were engaging an enormous giant of a man in one corner, while on the opposite side of the deck, a Spaniard wearing the steel breastplate of an officer fumbled with something at the rail. At first she could not see what he was doing, but then he turned, his hand gripping the long brass monkey-tail of a loaded falconet, swiveling the iron barrel around to aim the muzzle into the shrouds where Gabriel was tied.
Juliet saw the spitting linstock. She saw the officer’s mouth draw back in a grin, heard something that sounded like a deep, slow distortion of a curse. She saw the flat black eyes staring out at her from beneath the curved sweep of his helmet and recognized Cristóbal Recalde at once. The shock halted her a moment, long enough for him to show her the glowing fuse he was lowering toward the touch hole of the bowchaser.
Juliet heard herself scream. She was aware of her feet carrying her forward, but her steps seemed to drag and her legs were so heavy it felt as if she were slogging through waist-deep quicksand. Gabriel turned, again so slowly the beads of sweat on his brow looked like droplets of syrup glistening where they fanned through the air. Their gazes met, for just an instant, but it was an instant that lasted an eternity, filled with broken images of every smile, every laugh, every childhood prank they had happily suffered at each other’s hands. His battered lips were moving, he was saying something she could not hear, but by then she was reaching out, she was leaping into the air, she was smashing into Recalde’s chest and shoulder just as he touched the hissing fuse to the powder hole.
Juliet seemed to hang there in midair as the powder sparked and flared. The delay was just long enough for her to know she had knocked Recalde’s hands away from the barrel, but then she heard the louder boom as the main charge exploded. She saw the gleaming iron beads of grapeshot bursting out from the flared maw of the gun, but instead of spraying the shrouds where Gabriel was tied, they were now aimed straight at her chest …
Immediately after the Iron Rose opened fire, all three Spanish galleons put on sail and started forward to join the attack. The first to reach the battling ships was swinging into position to unleash a full broadside when Isabeau brought the Avenger cutting across her path. Gunners on both vessels were ready, but the privateer was lighter, faster, bolder than the Spaniard, and the Avenger’s cannon made short work of the rails and ports on the larboard side, blasting great holes in the decking and unseating whole gun carriages, sending them rearing back on cracked timbers. The Spaniard retaliated by tearing holes in the Avenger’s tops, but she was already trimmed to fighting sail and merely shook off the affront, coming hard about and firing a hot round straight down the bows, blasting the tall forecastle with a series of broadsides that enveloped both ships in clouds of smoke.
Breaking free of the sulfurous yellow fog, Isabeau ordered more sail and brought the helm about again, closing the circle tighter this time, knowing the greater threat was not from the galleon’s fixed batteries, which were ineffective at less than three hundred yards, but from the scores of marksmen that lined her yards and rails like fire ants. If allowed to get close enough, they would slaughter the valiant fighters on board the Iron Rose and the Valour. With Lucifer at the helm, she brought the Avenger in again on a swath of curling blue water, this time sweeping the Spaniard’s upper decks and tops with a barrage of chain and sangrenel.
The remnants of the tall forecastle were obliterated. Bits of planking and somersaulting bodies flew through the air, blown there by a series of domino-like explosions that erupted in bursts of orange flame along the deck. It was a spectacular amount of damage from one cannonade and while Isabeau knew her husband’s crew was efficient, she did not think they were capable of striking the galleon on both sides at once.
It took nearly half a minute for the second ship to come streaming out of the smoke and reveal herself, and when she did, Isabeau’s eyes widened in surprise again, for it was not the Dove as she had expected. It was the bristling and battle-damaged Tribute, with its red-haired captain standing before the mast, his raised fist coming down hard as he called for another round of incendiary shot.
“It’s Master Jonas,” Lucifer said, grinning ear to ear. “And lookee what he brought wid him!”
The big black Cimaroon grinned and stabbed a finger north, pointing through the haze of smoke. Geoffrey Pitt’s ship, the Christiana, with Spit McCutcheon at the helm, was bearing down from the north leading a squad of three privateers, while a second brace of ships, obviously in Jonas’s company, broke away from the Tribute and raced after the remaining two Spanish galleons, both of whom were attempting to turn and retreat back to the fleet.
Isabeau heard the swish of another keel and saw the Dove coming up fast on their stern. She could see Simon standing on the quarterdeck, his hands on his hips, his long black hair streaming out in the wind. He signaled Lucifer his intentions, then started to peel aw
ay in the direction of the Iron Rose, but not before he gave Isabeau a very different kind of signal, one that put a flush in her cheeks and a revitalized edge of defiance in her voice as she turned to relay new orders to the helm.
* * *
Varian was a step behind Juliet up the ladderway. He absorbed the scene on the quarterdeck in one glance but was too late to stop her from taking the wild leap across the path of the falconet. Everything happened so damned fast it was reduced to a blur of motion! She was there one moment, in the air the next, slamming into Recalde, knocking him hard into the rail. The gun exploded, but without Recalde’s hand to steady it, the recoil swung the barrel sideways, so that it discharged its load of grapeshot in a wide spray. Some went wild, whistling through the air so close to Varian’s head that he felt his hair move. Most of it spattered like a hail of pebbles into the back of the huge giant who was fending off the efforts of half a dozen seamen with swords and cutlasses. He staggered with the impact, driving himself forward onto the outthrust blades of the Rose’s crewmen. Even so, they had to skewer him several times until he finally gave one last bellow of rage and crashed facedown on the deck.
Varian ran to Juliet’s side. She wasn’t moving and when he grasped her shoulders to lift her off Recalde, he could see the side of her face was covered in blood. The Spaniard, meanwhile, struggled to his feet and drew his sword from its sheath.
Varian’s rapier blocked a slash intended to cut across Juliet’s throat. The blades met and slid together, locking for as long as it took Varian to leap to his feet and break Recalde’s hold. Their swords parted and slashed together again, touching, clashing, striking in a series of quick, lethal ripostes that drove the two men forward and back across the width of quarterdeck.
If Juliet’s prowess with a blade had startled him, Recalde’s skill was at least expected, for the Spanish were without equal as swordsmen. It took all of Varian’s considerable dexterity just to parry each stroke, to keep from being driven into the binnacle or over the rail. Like a shark scenting fresh blood, Recalde aimed for the torn shoulder, the wounded thigh; he kept his strokes coming fast and clean, never taking two steps where one was sufficient, rarely executing a feint, preferring to wear his opponent down with cool, slashing precision.
Gabriel, meanwhile, had been cut down from the shrouds and helped to the deck. His feet were still too swollen to support him but he crawled on his knees to where Juliet lay slumped against the bulkhead. His hands were stinging like the fires of Hades and although he had regained some movement, they were clumsy and it was all he could do to cradle her against his chest and probe beneath the blue bandana for the source of all the blood flowing down her face.
Varian made the classic mistake of taking his eyes off Recalde for a split second. He had seen Gabriel moving over by his sister, gathering her into his arms, but she had seemed so limp, the need to know if half her head had been blown away overcame Varian’s instincts to keep all of his attention fixed on Recalde’s blade.
The glance cost him dearly. He felt the steel punch into his rib cage and start to plunge inward. He jerked back before the thrust could be completed, but the blood began to pour from his side, soaking through his doublet and leaking down onto his breeches. When he backed away, Recalde pursued. When he stumbled over the body of the giant Spaniard and nearly lost his balance, Recalde did not give him a chance to regain his balance, but battered him into the corner with a deadly offensive that sent him crashing down hard on one knee and left his head and shoulders exposed.
Standing over him, Recalde raised his rapier, the point angled down on a slant that would carry it down through Varian’s spine for the coup de grace.
“It would seem, after all, that you were the one who blinked first, señor.”
“Not this time, he bloody well didn’t,” Juliet hissed.
Recalde whirled around. Juliet was behind him, swaying on her feet. He saw her sword slash out like a dart of silver blue light, the tip seeking the gap beneath his arm where the armor met his sleeve. At the same time, Varian retrieved the knife that was sheathed between his shoulder blades, while Gabriel found he had recovered enough dexterity in his finger to wrap it around the trigger of a pistol he grabbed off one of his crewmen.
Recalde’s body shuddered with the three strikes as the dagger pierced his belly, the shot tore through his neck, and Juliet’s blade pushed clear through his chest. He staggered back and came up sharp against a broken section of the rail. The wood gave with a loud cra-a-a-ck and he fell backward over the deck, dead before he splashed into the churning water below.
For several moments, no one moved. There was still fighting going on in the waist of the ship, but the Spaniards were beginning to throw down their arms. The men from the crew of the Iron Rose and the Valour were cheering, watching the Tribute, the Avenger, and the Dove lead their small fleet against the three warships, cutting off their retreat, crowding in with all guns blazing.
Juliet’s knees wavered and Varian was by her side in a stride to support her. There was a deep gash on her temple where she had sliced it on the edge of Recalde’s helmet, but as bad as it looked, she was smiling. She threw one arm around Varian, another around Gabriel, who tolerated her sisterly affection despite the squeezing pressure on his wounds.
Varian was hardly better off. There was a hole in his side, a slash in his arm, a stab in his thigh, and someone would have to stitch his head again. For a man who had arrived in the Caribbean with one small scar from a childhood mishap, he was charting quite a few new lines and welts.
Gabriel eased himself out of Juliet’s arms and hobbled to the rail to look down over the ruins of the gun deck.
“My ship!” he cried softly. “Look what you’ve done to my ship!”
But Juliet did not respond to his battered grin when he turned around. Her arms were around Varian’s neck and their mouths were firmly locked together. Clutched in her right hand was her sword, in her left the crushed folds of the Spanish flag that had, until a moment ago, flown on the Valour’s masthead.
Chapter Twenty-Five
On board the Iron Rose, Simon Dante walked from one side of the great cabin to the other. His steps were slow and measured, and when he reached the far side, he turned and paced back. His hands were clasped behind his back, and his head was bowed. Now and then he looked over at the berth where Nog Kelly was in the process of knotting the last stitch in his daughter’s temple.
“Skull might be cracked,” Nog declared solemnly. “At the least, she’ll be hearing bells and walkin’ into walls for the next few days—longer if she tries to get up to do more than piss in the pot. Her shoulder will hurt like a bastard, too—she’s lucky it’s only black an’ blue an’ swole up an’ it isn’t broke—but if she’s not plannin’ on throwing herself at any more Spaniards wearin’ steel breastplates, it’ll heal up fast enough. Other than that … few cuts, few scrapes.”
“She will have plenty of time to heal back at Pigeon Cay,” Simon Dante said evenly. He saw Juliet’s eyes swim open and narrowed his own in a warning. “There will be no arguments either. Nathan has a hole in his shoulder, half your crew is licking wounds, Gabriel’s ship is at the bottom of the ocean, and between the pair of you, we couldn’t manage one captain with enough common sense to know when to run and when to fight. Which brings me to the other addle-witted female in this family.”
He turned the full power of his glare on Isabeau, who was sitting on the corner of Juliet’s desk winding a clean strip of bandaging around a wound on her stump.
“That I, of all people, should have been cursed with two women who—”
“Love you dearly,” Beau said sweetly, “and tolerate your bouts of ill temper with enduring patience.”
“My ill temper? Your patience! Madam! You took my ship into battle! You risked your life, the lives of my crew, the well-being of my vessel—”
“To go to the rescue of your daughter and son …”
“To go to the … ?” He stopped and c
lamped his lips shut. “I should send you back to Pigeon Cay as well.”
She smiled. “You could try.”
He muttered a curse and aimed his stare at the next victim. The cabin on board the Iron Rose was crowded. Gabriel and Jonas stood in one corner slouched against the wall, the former almost unrecognizable beneath a swollen, closed eye, multiple bruises, and lips that looked like two slabs of raw meat. Jonas, who had shadowed the convoy all the way from Havana hoping for some opportunity to cut in and regain his brother’s ship, had a gash down his cheek, another on his arm, and a grin a mile wide splitting the red fuzz of his beard. He had his good arm draped around Gabriel’s shoulder and every now and then ruffled his brother’s hair as if he still could not believe the Hell Twins were together again and both alive.
“You find something amusing?” Simon asked.
“Aye, Father, I do,” Jonas boomed. “A brother who smells like a vat of pickled herring, for one thing. For another, a sister who has ballocks the size of Gibraltar, inherited from a mother who can outsail, outshoot any bloody papist on the water. Add to that three fat galleons loaded to the gunwalls with treasure, and I’d say we have a fair bit to put a smile on our faces. Oh, and did I mention a father smart enough to find the wife to give him the sons and daughters of whom I speak?”
Dante glared at him a moment, then looked at Geoffrey Pitt. “Am I mad, or are they?”
Pitt shrugged. “A little of both.”
The silvery eyes narrowed. “I knew I could count on you, my oldest and wisest friend, for a definitive answer.”
“Come and sit here,” Isabeau said, patting an empty corner of the desk. “Let Nog have at you with his needle and thread.”
“See to the duke first. By the look of it he has more leaks.”
Varian had been standing quietly by the berth, his wounded arm cradled across his midsection. He had shed his doublet when Juliet had insisted she would not allow anyone to touch her until Nog checked his ribs. But the bleeding had stopped and the pain was manageable, and one look from the midnight eyes had sent the carpenter back to Juliet’s bedside. She was stitched now and so was Gabriel. Nathan’s shoulder had been cauterized and, together with Spit McCutcheon, he was organizing the prisoners and assigning crews to sail the prize ships back to Pigeon Cay.
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