And the enemy came.
As always, Lank Tor saw her first. She came out of the foul weather hugging the cape. Matter of factly, he announced, "Galleon, ho. Two hundred fifty tonner, Itaskian naval ensign."
Equally calmly, Colgrave replied, "Prepare for action, bosun. Keep the repair materials on deck." He climbed to the poop. "And watch for more."
It was my turn. "Signals ashore. Mirrors, looks like." There were flashes all along the coast.
"Coast watchers. They'll be calling everything out of Portsmouth." Colgrave resumed his laborious climb.
We wasted no time trying to run. In our state it was hopeless. We had to fight, and count on our fabulous luck.
"Could be three, four hundred men on one of those," Barley muttered as he stalked past with the grog bucket. He was so damned scared I expected him to wipe them out single-handedly.
"Sail!" someone cried.
A little slooplike vessel, long, low, lateen-rigged, had put out from a masked cove. No threat.
"Messenger boat," said Fat Poppo, who had been in the Itaskian Navy at one time. "She'll log the action and carry the report to the Admiralty."
We did not like one another much, we followers of the mad captain's dream, but we were a team. We made ready with time to spare.
The Itaskian came on as if she intended ramming.
She did! She was making a suicide run with the messenger standing by, if needed, to collect survivors.
The Old Man bent on a main-topsail and a storm spritsail, just enough to give us steerage way. At precisely the appropriate instant, he dodged.
The galleon rolled past so closely we could have jumped to her decks. She was crammed with marines. The snipers in her rigging showered me with crossbow bolts.
I leaned back and roared with laughter. Their best effort had but creased my right seaboot.
Each of my shafts took out a Crown officer. Our men drew blood with a storm of javelins.
To ram had been their whole plan. Going away in failure, they seemed at a loss.
Wigwag signals came from the sloop. They were in a cipher Poppo could not read.
"They'll be back," Priest predicted. It was no great feat of divination.
Already they were taking in sail, preparing to come about. This time they would not roar past like a mad bull.
"Find me some arrows!" I demanded. "Tor..."
"On the way," the boatswain promised, gaze fixed on the Itaskian.
I touched the hilt of my cutlass. It had been a long time since I had had to use one. I expected to this time, though. We had to take that galleon so I could recover my arrows. And get at their grog. Itaskians always carried a stock.
Our luck had held that far. There was but one casualty during the first pass. The Kid. He had fallen out of the rigging again. He was just dazed and winded. He would be all right.
The crazy little bastard should have broken every bone in his body.
The moment the Itaskian was clear, Tor put everyone to work.
Colgrave was crazier than I thought. He meant to try dodging till we completed repairs.
They let us get away with it one more time. They had little choice, really. We had the wind. I put down as many officer-killing shafts as I could. But they were prepared for me. Their decision makers remained hidden while they were in range.
The repair parties succeeded in one thing: freeing most of the men from the pumps. We needed them.
Third time past, the Itaskian sent over a storm of grappling hooks. Despite flailing axes and busy swords and my carefully targeted arrows, they pulled us in, made us fast.
It began in earnest.
How long had it been since we had had to fight on our own decks? I could not remember the last time. But Itaskian marines overran the rail, swarmed aboard, coming and coming over the piles of their own dead. My god, I thought, how many of them are there? The galleon had them packed in like cattle.
I expected them to drive for our castles, to take out Colgrave and myself, but they disappointed me. The point of their assault was the mainmast.
I soon saw why. A squad of sailors with axes went to work on it.
The Old Man thundered at Barley and Priest. They went after the axmen. But the Itaskian marines kept ramparts of flesh in their path.
It was up to me. Ignoring the endless sniper fire, I sped arrow after arrow. That eventually did the trick, but not before they had injured the mainmast grievously.
A grappling hook whined past my nose. What now?
The Itaskian sailors still aboard the galleon were throwing line after line to tangle in our rigging.
It was insane. Suicidally insane. No ship, knowing us, tried to make it impossible for us to get away. No. Even the proudest, the strongest, made sure they could escape.
At least two hundred dead men littered Dragon's decks. Blood poured from our scuppers. And still the Royal Marines clambered over the hills of their fallen.
What drove them so?
The assault's direction shifted from the mainmast to the forecastle. Despite vigorous resistance, the Itaskians broke through to the ladders. I downed as many snipers as I could before, putting my bow carefully out of harm's way, I drew my cutlass and began slashing at helmeted heads.
It had been a long time, but my hand and arm still knew the rhythms. Parry, thrust, parry, cut. No fancy fencing. Riposte was for the rapier, a gentleman's weapon. There were no gentlemen on the Vengeful D. Just damned efficient killers.
The Itaskian captain sent the remnants of his sailors in after the marines. And, a grueling hour later, he came over himself, with everyone left aboard.
IX
As always, we won. As always, we left no survivors, though in the end we had to hunt a few through the bowels of their ship. An enraged Barley had charge of that detail.
The long miracle had persisted. Once those of us who were able had thrown the Itaskians to the fishes, it became apparent that not one man had perished. But several wished that they had.
I paused by Fat Poppo, who was begging for someone to kill him. There was not an inch of him that was not bloody, that had not been slashed by Itaskian blades. His guts were lying in his lap.
Instead of finishing him, I fetched him a cup of brandy. I had found Whaleboats' keg. Then, accompanied by Little Mica, who did not look much better than Poppo, I crossed to the galleon.
I wanted to find a clue to the cause of their madness. And a chance to be first at their grog.
Priest had had the same idea. He was wrecking the galley as we passed through.
Screams came from up forward. Barley had found a survivor.
We found the brig.
"Damned," said Mica. "Ain't he a tough one?"
Behind bars was the Trolledyngjan we had thrown overboard. Must be important, I thought, or he would be sleeping with the fishes. Probably some chieftain who had made himself especially obnoxious.
My banded arrow lay in his lap.
I gaped. She had found ways to come home before, but never by such an exotic route.
Mica was impressed too. He knew what that arrow meant to me. "A sign. We'd better take him to the Old Man."
The Trolledyngjan had been eying us warily. He jumped up laughing. "Yes. Let's go see the mad captain."
Colgrave listened to what I had to say, considered. "Give him Whaleboats' berth." He turned away, eye burning a hole in the southern seascape. The messenger vessel still lay there, watching.
I returned to the Itaskian for the banded arrow's sisters.