Chapter 58 #2
Jack had fired the first cannon. She cursed, lunging forward, searching through the spare weapons stacked beside the grindstone.
A sawed-off musket. A long-abandoned pistol.
An armful of cutlasses and three grenades.
She flung open the lid of the storage keg and shoveled black gunpowder into silk cartridge bags before stuffing them into her pockets.
Another boom from above flung her into the cask, leaving her shaking.
She took everything, absolutely everything, she could carry.
On the main deck, Anne sprinted through the madness and clouds of smoke. She found Mary at the swivel cannons. Clearly, not a single one of the balls had met its target. Two of the recruits openly cried, curled up against the wall. No one had bothered with the long nines.
Mary had a set chin, that look of battle in the glint of her eyes. Her protests had vanished, accepting the new, bleak conditions. She took the extra weapons from Anne’s arms, distributing them to anyone able to stand. She ran fore and aft, desperately trying to rally the men.
No turning back, that steely gaze said. All thanks to their captain.
Jack.
Anne spotted him, and her heart lurched. He gripped the rail, glazed eyes bulging as he steadied himself and leered at the nearing ships. He was so beautiful, even now. After everything.
Damn him.
A shout from the closest ship sounded in their ears. “Strike immediately to the King of England’s colors!”
No one spoke, and Thomas vomited on the deck planks.
“We will ‘strike’ no strikes!” Jack bellowed back, refusing to retreat. He gestured for Howell to light another swivel, but Howell couldn’t move his fingers fast enough to light the slow match.
“Fire another warning shot,” Jack roared at the crew. Another man crawled forward, attempting to clutch the flint and steel.
Anne pushed him out of the way, then struck, lighting the slow match fuse and lowering it to the cannon’s touchhole. She dove onto her side to protect her stomach and covered her ears as the crack sang out. She felt the reverberations through her teeth.
Pulling herself up using the rail, she saw one of the sloops turn, its gunports open.
She closed her eyes, unable to watch.
A deafening crash ripped through the bulwark, tossing her several feet. She braced her fall with her elbows, still protecting her belly. Screams turned to wails. She heard someone fall overboard, their cry swallowed up in the sea.
“To the hold!” Jack yelled, his voice suddenly shaky. “Everyone, to the hold!”
“The hold?” Anne shouted, her voice hoarse. “I’ve already emptied the weapons from the armory.”
“To the hold! Take cover!” He staggered past without seeing her, then clumsily hurtled toward the hatch.
He was … hiding?
As men scrambled for the hatch, falling over each other in a drunken stupor, Anne couldn’t breathe.
A hand pulled her from the wreckage. “Anne, are you hurt?”
She pressed her eyes closed, wishing it was Jack. But grateful—so grateful—that it was Mary instead.
“Jack ordered—”
“I know,” Mary said, pulling Anne to her feet. A new slash cut across Mary’s cheek. Her mahogany eyes grew, seeing something from behind. “Incoming!” She threw Anne back down again, the two women taking cover.
The whistle tore through the broadside. The sound of shredding wood, the ship screaming in protest as deadly splinters flew. More shrieks from the men.
Through the smoke, Anne saw a line of longboats making their way for the Revenge. They paddled hard under the crescent moon. Her eyes burned, but she couldn’t—wouldn’t—blink.
“If Rackham chose to take a stand, then he bloody well better take a stand,” Mary growled, boots hammering as she raced after the retreating crew.
Had Anne ever heard her swear? She shook her head, chasing after Mary and catching up with her just in time to see her throw open the hatch.
“Is there a man left among you?” she yelled below. “Come out here and fight!”
Behind her, Anne heard the sound of boarding pikes making contact. Feet on the ladders and the shout of orders. She gaped into the hold, at the bile on the top step. She heard the crew wallowing in terror, but no one emerged.
“Jack!” Anne yelled, the word—his name on her tongue—splintering. “Please, Jack. They’re boarding. They’re here.”
“Bon?” he slurred. “Bon, get down here!”
Mary took aim with her pistol, firing into the dark. The lock on the door burst open, along with the renewed sound of the crew.
“Fight like the men you pretend to be!” Mary shouted. “This sniveling won’t save you now.”
Over her shoulder, Anne heard the invaders storming the main deck. They had no more time …
Mary stood, stretching her neck. She pulled out her braid, letting her hair loose just below her shoulders. She grabbed a fresh pistol, then unsheathed her cutlass. It was a battle stance Anne had come to know well.
Anne’s fingers shook as she untied the ribbon from her tresses and removed her own weapons from the belt on her waist.
“I’d rather die as a soldier than be skewered like a suckling pig as I grovel on my knees,” Mary said with chilly calm.
“Or hang at the end of a rope,” Anne said, swallowing. She knew, oh she knew how this story ended. Queen Maeve. Grace O’Malley. Joan of Arc. Their gruesome ends.
No turning back. They’d meet their death head-on. The gory, merciless death Jack had invited in like an expected houseguest.
Her eyes burned, thinking of the child she’d never meet. It was never supposed to be like this. Nothing like this. The wings of her erratic heart flapped against her ribs. She gripped her pistol.
The voices of strange men neared. Then, with a nod of shared understanding, Mary and Anne tore open their shirts and hurtled forward, blades raised.
A pair of hands pushed Anne down as another tied her hands behind her back.
She stared through the strands of her hair at the ruined main deck of the Revenge.
Her whole body heaved. Someone flung Mary down beside her, disarming her of her remaining weapons and binding her hands.
Anne caught her eye, rage simmering in her pupils, battle still pumping through her veins.
They’d fought like fiends out of hell, the furious clanking of steel until they were totally surrounded and tackled to the ground.
“What do we do with them, Captain Barnet?” one of their captors said. It was the first anyone had spoken in several minutes.
Barnet? Another famed privateer. Mother of God, him too? Everyone worth half their salt had heard of Jonathan Barnet. A merciless bastard.
Anne lifted her chin, observing the men’s faces. They couldn’t tear their attention away. Mouths hung open. Some with revulsion. A few with pity.
But others?
Unmistakable awe.
“While Captain Bondavais empties the Mary and Sarah, we’ll finish flushing out the hold.”
To her right, Anne watched as a dozen men ushered her crew off the Revenge. Most were so drunk they had to be dragged. Few put up a struggle. Howell openly wailed. Thomas didn’t take his eyes from his boots.
Anne’s chest tightened as three men pulled Jack through the hatch. He threw his large shoulders into them, despairing sounds bubbling from his throat. The captors shoved him toward the gangplank.
His wild eyes found Anne’s, the brown of them glazed almost beyond recognition.
She gritted her teeth, wishing it could stop the tears.
You betrayed me.
Your foolishness betrayed us all.
Barnet’s men brought Anne and Mary to their feet, and someone closed the front of their shirts, his cheeks crimson as he did so. He took the dirk from the sheath on Anne’s thigh, her final weapon. Her bound hands squirmed, aching to take it back. She’d miss that little dagger.
Captain Barnet then stepped in front of them, his blue waistcoat trim and stiff. He surveyed Anne, then Mary, with something that almost resembled approval.
“Take them back to my ship. Treat them with care.”
“Captain?”
Barnet paused, his polished boots blacker than gunpowder, the aftermath still scorching the air.
“These women tried to kill us, sir. They’re lethal.”
Anne clamped her mouth tighter, suppressing an unexpected smile.
Barnet straightened. “I didn’t say to behave as imbeciles.
I said to treat them with care. And well, if you can manage that.
We make for Port Royal to collect our reward.
There, I assure you, Major Richard James and the local militia will see that their crimes are taken up with the Admiralty Court with due haste. ”