They spun and they tumbled. They sliced and they stabbed. Dozens of blades trailing sparks and flying in all directions across the enemy decks. Men were impaled, thrown into the water, or maimed by spinning blades. Pirates jostled and trampled each other in a mad dash to escape their path. The menacing taunts were now a cacophony of screams. Sawyer’s rocket veered to the left and launched a pirate across the aftercastle of the Xebec. He cried in agony as he flopped about, the spike buried in his side, the fiery trail cooking his leg.
“Fire at will!” cried Ryland.
A line of Marines from stem to stern fired their rifles. The hail of bullets mowed down another wave of enemies, filling the air with burnt powder. Sharpshooters in the main and foretops picked off the most elaborately dressed pirates or Janissaries—those most likely to be officers. The charge of the pirates had been reduced to a chaotic scramble. But when the last blade-tipped rocket ceased to zip around their deck, most of the enemy crew were still standing. The pirates jumped, swung, and climbed the distance between the two ships, hauling themselves aboard Independence any way they could.
Two men came over the side near Sawyer. He pulled his pistol and fired at the first. The pirate took the shot straight through the lung. A flow of red blended into the bright crimson of his trousers. The second charged with a scimitar. Sawyer tried to draw his cutlass, but his sweaty palm slipped off the hilt. He stumbled on the corner of a gun carriage and fell backward. Sawyer’s head slammed on the deck. The pirate stood over him, nose and earlobes festooned with gold, scimitar raised. Sawyer had only one thought.
I’m going to die.
The pirate’s eyes went wide. A thin blade punched out of his stomach, blood turning the fine point to ruby. Pink foam dripped out of the pirate’s mouth, coating the ring through his lip. John Sullivan stood behind him, his rapier driven through the pirate’s back. He slit the corsair’s throat with his naval dagger, the resulting explosion of blood raining on Sawyer’s face. Sullivan tossed the corpse aside and dashed away. Sawyer scrambled to his feet, still haunted by the lieutenant’s expression.
Sullivan wore the mad grin of a skull.
###
John Sullivan felt alive as Sawyer’s would-be killer fell dead at his feet. Blood spread out from the pirate’s slashed throat. All over the spar deck, men were fighting a brutal melee. The smell of smoke and ruin, the whip and slice of blades, the roar and cry of the victorious and the dead—it sharpened John’s every instinct. He felt invincible.
John rushed through the field of battle, a deck convulsing with bodies locked in a life and death struggle. He flowed across the deck, weaving through allies and foes. He crossed swords with a pirate climbing over a bulwark. The man only had one foot on the deck, and John parried a clumsy slash to thrust Ace through his heart. Another pirate came at his side, and John ducked under the swinging scimitar and speared his opponent through the gut. He flicked Ace behind him and caught a blow meant for his back. His dagger Spade sliced open the bare torso of the charging pirate, the flesh parting like the hide of a gutted deer, the man fighting to hold in his innards as he toppled onto the deck. John was running, stabbing a pirate through the back to save a Marine, then slicing a Janissary’s legs to save a sailor.
A body barreled into John, throwing him back against the port bulwark. His dagger clattered to the deck. He swung his rapier at the bald pirate, who had muscles like an ox, but the man caught his wrist. A fist pummeled John’s abdomen. His sword fell from his grasp, and he felt the Ox Man’s hands around his throat, the iron grip squeezing his throat.
As darkness crawled into John’s vision, he felt around the deck for Spade. His hand landed on a 9-pound iron ball—a round fired by the enemy. John felt the spit from the pirate’s mouth drizzling on his face. He smiled and swung.
The round shot caved in the pirate’s cheekbone. John felt the crunch of the bone. Ox Man had a stunned look, his hands still squeezing John’s throat. John swung the shot again. And again. And again. The ball reduced the man’s face to a bloody wreck, his cheekbone crushed to fragments, and Ox Man fell off of him. John raised the cannonball as high as his arm would reach, then brought it down again with all his might. The man’s forehead caved in like an egg.
Gasping through his bruised esophagus, John crawled to his feet. He picked up his sword and dagger, eager for more.
###
Hamit had never seen the mewling Christians fight so ferociously. He watched from the high platform of his aftercastle as men tore each other apart with sword and ax, rifle and bayonet, fingernail and tooth. A man in the maintop used his musket as a club, sending two corsairs with swords plunging to their deaths. The slave called “the Mountain Man”—Al-Musa’s favorite smuggler and sin peddler—cut down one of Hamit’s best officers with a hatchet. Three of the infidels stood with backs to the bow, fighting off twice their number with naval cutlasses.
At the center of it all was John Sullivan. Hamit still remembered the day he stepped onto the Irish whelp’s ship and put his weakling brother out of his misery. He remembered the day Sullivan escaped the Bosphorus Crescent, leaving Ilyas Naim to drown. A month ago, Hamit watched Sullivan survive a suicidal assault on Re’is Harrak’s gunboat. And now, he watched Sullivan befoul the Wolf of Tunis’ decks, beating the brains out of Hamit’s quartermaster with a cannonball.
Hamit had promised to deliver Sullivan alive. He drew his broad sword, admiring the crescent blade that crowned its tip. Naim would have to settle for Sullivan’s dismembered corpse.
###
Bodies were everywhere—slumped over the rails, strewn across the deck, tangled in coils of rope. John leaned on the ship’s wheel, catching his breath. Blood ran into oakum seams. Severed limbs rolled with the listing of the ship. A Janissary corpse hung high on the main shroud, a bullet hole in his chest dripping on the deck. But for every American Marine or sailor lying dead, at least two pirates were strewn nearby. Some were fleeing amidships, scrambling to climb onto the Blooded Spear. Some jumped off the port side, straight into the channel. Nearby, Ryland and several Marines were on the quarterdeck, fighting boarders.
John raised his sword, ready to join the fray at his captain’s side. But then, he saw a ghost from the past.
A pirate in a red jerkin, arms bulging with muscles, landed on the gangway. He roared and hacked through a sailor with a massive broadsword, tearing open his stomach with the sickle-shaped tip. Blood spattered the gold spoon on his felt hat. John locked eyes with the pirate. He recognized the broad face and long goatee of Re’is Hamit. The Janissary corsair that formerly commanded the Wolf of Tunis against the Philadelphia. The first officer of Ilyas Naim aboard the stolen Wandering Hart. The man who had killed John’s brother with that very sword.
The two men stomped toward each other. John bared his hatred in a row of teeth. Hamit surged across the deck like a rampaging bull. John swung his rapier and struck Hamit’s sword with an arm-shaking clang! He ducked a decapitating return blow, the steel clipping a swatch of his hair. Hamit swung again, snot flying from his nostrils. John ducked behind the ship’s wheel, and the blade cleaved off a spoke. He pulled Spade from his back and launched with both weapons. The pirate captain whirled his sword with two hands, fending off rapier and dagger. Hamit shoulder-checked John to the deck.
John landed on his back as if kicked by a horse. Standing over him, the re’is of the Blooded Spear raised his sword for the killer blow.
“Where do you think you’re going ugly?” Lieutenant Chester Ryland charged at Hamit, saber raised high.
Hamit jumped back and caught the slash. He threw Ryland back with a palm strike to the chest. John rolled to his feet and charged Hamit’s side. The re’is swooped his blade around, the force of his block knocking John off balance. Ryland and John slashed at the same time. Hamit caught both the saber and rapier with a single stroke. The three blades met with an explosive gah-ring! The pirate captain kicked Ryland in the gut, then headbutted John.
The two Ameri
cans stumbled back. John threw a sloppy parry, deflecting the thick blade away from his collarbone by millimeters. Hamit headbutted him again. A flash blinded John’s vision, and he fell against the cabin skylight.
John floundered on the deck, his vision a blur. He could see the movement of legs as Ryland charged in, fencing with the pirate. The captain of Independence was quickly losing, his saber unable to keep up with Hamit’s savage blows. John reached for anything to climb. He grabbed onto the companionway over the captain’s cabin, his black and sweaty hands streaking the skylight glass as he pulled himself to his feet.
Ryland slashed and missed. With a clean reverse stroke, Hamit severed Ryland’s hand at the wrist. Ryland’s saber clattered to the deck, detached fingers still gripping the hilt. The acting captain stared blankly at the end of his coat sleeve. Blood spurted from sinew. His eyes widened. He let go a horrified scream.
John was on his feet, but his head still swam from Hamit’s blow. The moment he let go of the companionway, he lost his balance and flopped on the deck. The ringing of swords, pop of pistol fire, and shrieks of wounded men blended into a tinny echo. John dug his fingernails into the deck, flakes of wood and sawdust scraping his flesh. If he didn’t get on his feet, his captain was going to die.
Hamit backed Ryland against the bulwark. The stump of Ryland’s wrist spurted blood like a fountain, leaving red stripes on his white breeches. Sweat beaded on Ryland’s paling face, and he met his opponent with tired eyes.
“Flee,” taunted Hamit. “Like the feeble vermin you are.”
Ryland’s breathing was labored. He pursed his lips as if considering. “So many of your ships burned by vermin…you must be very embarrassed.”
Hamit closed a hand around the captain’s throat. He lifted Ryland off his feet, watching him choke.
Ace lay near the railing at the base of the mizzenmast. John crawled toward his rapier, eyes fixed on the silver basketwork.
“I promised I would disembowel you, Christian dog.” Hamit nodded toward Ryland’s fallen saber. “Your hand was only the first cut. I’m going to butcher you and your crew piece by piece.” Hamit pressed his sword to Ryland’s abdomen. The American lieutenant moaned as the crescent tip pressed into his flesh, threatening to open his belly from chest to hip.
John’s hand closed on the hilt of his rapier. His vision was beginning to steady.
“Unhand him!” Gabriel Sawyer charged onto the quarterdeck. The red-headed sailor raised his cutlass high in both hands, displaying no finesse.
Hamit’s sword flashed through the air and chopped straight through Sawyer’s cutlass, breaking it in two. The broadsword buried in the top of the sailor’s shoulder. A broken half of the cutlass clanged off the barrel of a long gun. Hamit cut a diagonal gash across Sawyer’s torso.
“Nooo!” wailed Ryland. He fell to his knees. “Gabriel…”
Sawyer tumbled sidelong onto the deck. Ryland’s face twisted in despair, water clinging to the edges of his eyes.
The Barbary Pirate captain flashed a cruel smile at Ryland, the crescent end of his blade hovering above Sawyer’s throat. All over the ship, men were thrusting bayonets, discharging pistols, clawing and grappling. A long stage littered with the dead. Hamit was about to add yet another corpse.
John was on his feet, Ace whistling through the air. Hamit met John’s charge with a parry. The pain of John’s failed blow rippled through his arm. Hamit followed with fast cuts, forcing the punchdrunk lieutenant back. The last impact spun John on his heels, and he landed on his stomach. Ace slid out of his hand and stopped ten paces astern, too far away to recover. John’s eyes landed on a dead Marine nearby, slumped against a port gun carriage. There was a pistol in the Marine’s hand, and a shaft of wood wedged behind him.
John crawled toward the dead Marine.
###
Killing Americans was disgustingly easy. Hamit sauntered after Sullivan, who crawled on his belly like a worm.
How had this pathetic creature managed to elude the Chronicler of Constantinople?
All this trouble. Months at sea aboard the Wolf of Tunis. Naim’s relentless pursuit. A Day of Blood in the streets of Tunis. All for this one groveling Navy whelp. Hamit was struck by how ordinary a man he was. Athletic, but not large. Strong, but not muscled. Light of foot, but not tall. A skilled fighter, but in the end, as soft and craven as all his kind.
Sullivan reached the soldier’s corpse sitting against the bulwark. The worm pried a pistol from the dead man’s hand. Hamit smiled. Moments ago, as he charged on deck, Hamit had seen the Marine fire the pistol and miss—a fatal mistake. It would be amusing to see the look on Sullivan’s face when he fired an unloaded gun.
“When I killed your brother,” Hamit said, “your father wept like a girl. Your mother howled like a whore.”
In a single fluid motion, Sullivan spun around on his haunches, raised the pistol, and pulled the trigger. The flint struck sparks, but there was no report. Only a harmless click. Sullivan’s hate-filled glare melted. Hamit smiled wider. He always loved that look—the moment just before the end, when the enemy realized all was lost.
Sullivan scrambled back against the bulwark.
Hamit extended his blade, allowing the crescent tip to hover under Sullivan’s chin. “After I slaughter you, I’m going to find that whore of yours with the yellow hair. I’m going to ride her like a mule.”
The cowering whelp flinched, hands scraping behind him, but there was no escape.
“What?” said Hamit with a wry grin. “No insults from ‘Bloody Sully?’ Where is this feared warrior I’ve heard so much about? Perhaps you can try your pistol again.”
There was a click and a hissing sound behind Sullivan’s back. The whelp ceased his cowering. Sullivan looked up with eyes sharp as spears. “I didn’t need the pistol.”
Hamit knit his brows.
“Only the flint.”
Sullivan spun a wooden shaft from behind his back, knocking Hamit’s sword away. Then he pointed a bayonet-tipped rocket at Hamit’s chest, the fuse spitting a trail of smoke. Hamit’s jaw fell open. The fuse hissed out.
The rocket fired.
###
John watched the rocket spear Re’is Hamit in the chest and throw him across the deck. It pinned the pirate to the opposite bulwark, showering the deck with sparks. Veins bulged in Hamit’s temples, his face a mask of wide-eyed surprise. The rocket emitted an ear-splitting whine as it burned the last of its fuel. Then it detonated. The pirate captain burst into a cloud of red chunks. A warm rain of offal came down on the spanker boom, the cabin skylight, and Bloody Sully. Spokes of gore radiated across the quarterdeck from a disembodied pair of legs.
The explosion drew every eye to the scene. There were a few seconds of shock. Then a sword clattered to the deck. Then another. Soon, the pirates were throwing down their weapons or fleeing back to their ship. The more pirates that fled, the more that followed. The next few moments were a one-sided slaughter, as sailors and Marines cut the pirates down or threw them overboard. When the decks were swept clean of the enemy, the American crew chopped away the grappling ropes. The two ships began to drift apart.
The sound of cheers erupted all over the ship.
John staggered to his feet and picked up his rapier. With a look at the gory remains of Hamit, he said, “That was for Isaac. And Eric Long.”
“Somebody help me over here!” cried a sailor. “The captain is hurt!”
“Stand aside, stand aside.” Ethan Auldon was charging up from the aft hatch. He was covered in blood from his apron to his face. He rushed to Ryland’s side, hurrying to tie a belt around the bleeding stump.
“Gabriel.” Ryland’s face twisted in despair as he reached for Sawyer. “Don’t worry about me—help him!”
“I will help you both, Captain.” Ethan pulled the tourniquet taut and then went to Sawyer.
Sawyer lay on the deck, making gulping sounds as blood bubbled out of his mouth. He looked up at Ryland, eyes full of fear. A r
agged gash ran down his torso, the muscle showing beneath the pooling blood.
“Gabriel, I’m sorry.” Ryland lay his surviving hand on Sawyer’s head. “I’m sorry I treated you like a stranger. I’m sorry I brought you into this life.”
“I’m…” Sawyer sputtered as he tried to talk through a mouthful of blood. “I’m not…sorry.”
Ryland’s face flushed red as he held back tears. Ethan tore away Sawyer’s shirt and fished in his medical bag.
“I got to…” Sawyer jerked as his body began to tremble. “I got to be here with you…”
There were several sailors crowding nearby. Ryland shouted, “clear back! Give him some space. Clear the quarterdeck, damn you!” The men quickly backed off, and soon only Ethan and John were close enough to hear Ryland and Sawyer’s exchange.
Ryland entwined his hand with Sawyer’s.
“Stay with me,” Sawyer whispered. His eyes glazed over, filled with the reflection of the sky. “I don’t want…to be alone.”
Ryland’s composure folded, and his tears began to fall. He nodded. “I’m right here. I’ll never leave your side again…Well, perhaps for just a brag game or two.”
Sawyer smiled at the quip. The captain smiled back. There was a final whisper of air from Sawyer’s lips, and his eyes drifted off.
“Gabriel?” said Ryland. “Gabriel? No, no, stay with me…”
“Captain,” Ethan said softly. “I’m sorry.”
The acting captain looked as though in a trance. He stared at his fallen lover, the occasional tear sliding down his cheek.
Ethan motioned to two sailors, who walked over to help up their captain. “Please, sir, let these men take you below. I need to see to your wounds.”
Blood and Oak- Wolves Will Eat Page 54
