Harry Turtledove - Opening Atlantis

"Yes." William nodded. And had his unloved and unloving cousin counted on that, too? William didn't know exactly how smart Red Rodney was. Tough and hard? Yes, no doubt. Smart? It wasn't so obvious. Or it hadn't been so obvious, not till now. The pirate chief knew what he was doing, all right.

Again, Elijah Walton thought along with him: "This must be why the bugger accepted battle with us to begin with. He wanted to hold us in place whilst launching his incendiaries at us."

"That seems much too likely," William said unhappily. He too peered west. Now the plumes of smoke from the burning vessels were plain to see, befouling a sky that should have been pristine. Also plain to see was his fleet's disorder. His ships steered every which way, trying to escape those flaming harbingers of doom.

The pirates had nerve. They hadn't just launched their fireships and then abandoned them to wind and wave. The weapons would have been much less dangerous if they had. Instead, men stayed on the burning vessels as long as they could, steering them toward ships in William's fleet. Only at the last possible moment did the skeleton crews dive into the Hesperian Gulf and swim toward boats the fireships towed.

And it worked, damn them. One of the Dutch ships of the line burst into flame, and a horrible beauty was born. The sails caught first, the sails and the rigging and then the yards and the mast. Flaming canvas and tarred rope fell to the upper deck, starting fresh fire there. The Dutchmen forgot their gunnery in the frantic quest to save themselves.

They might forget, but their foes didn't. Pirate ships, tenacious as terriers, went right on shooting at them. Before long, despairing sailors started jumping into the sea. Some struck out for the closest friendly ships. Others simply sank. Not all men who went to sea could swim-far from it. The ones who couldn't decided drowning made an easier, faster death than roasting. If that choice came to him, William Radcliff decided he would make it the same way.

Crash! Another cannon ball thudded into and through the Royal Sovereign's planking. The man-of-war's gunnery had fallen off, while the pirates fought harder than ever. And, with the ship of the line doing all she could to escape the freebooters' fireships, the enemy vessels could position themselves as they pleased and give her broadsides she couldn't answer.

"What do we do, Admiral?" Elijah Walton asked hoarsely. "What can we do?"

Before, he'd always sounded sardonic when he used William's title. No longer. Radcliff was the man who had the authority to save the fleet…if he could.

He opened his mouth to speak. Before he could, a thunderous blast staggered him. Sure as hell, one of the fireships had blown up alongside a British man-of-war. William was amazed the explosion didn't take the British ship straight to the bottom. It did take down two of the man-of-war's three masts, set her afire, and leave her helpless in the water. Maybe some men would get off her, but she was ruined.

"What do we do?" Walton asked again, desperation in his voice.

William Radcliff looked at the fight. He looked at the sun, which almost kissed the smoke-stained horizon. Whatever they did, they would have to do it soon. "We pull back," he said, and shouted for a midshipman to relay the message to the signal officer.

"Sail for Stuart?" Walton sounded as if that was exactly what he hoped to hear.

But William shook his head. "No, by God. They've slowed us up. They did something we didn't look for, and they caught us flatfooted. They hurt us. But we aren't beaten unless we own ourselves beaten. We'll fix ourselves up as best we can and get on with the fight."

"Upon my soul," Elijah Walton said.

Bodies wrapped in sailcloth slid into the sea, a round shot or two at the feet making sure they would sink. Fresh blood stained the Black Hand's deck and splashed the masts and rigging. Soon enough, it would go dark. The stains would seem inoffensive enough then…unless you knew the story behind them.

The corsairs aboard-those who lived-were in a festive mood. After the fireships did their fearsome work, the men had watched the fleet that seemed invincible turn away and say it had done all the fighting it cared to do. Some of the pirates even wanted to go after their retreating foes.

Red Rodney Radcliffe said, "No." Something in the way he said it persuaded even his crew of cutthroats not to press him any further. He wasn't sure whether he would have reached for his cutlass or for his pistol if the pirates had pushed, but he was ready to kill to keep from fighting any more today.

With a creak and a groan, the pumps started up again. A stream of water poured over the side. As far as he knew, the Black Hand had taken only one hit at the waterline, and that one was patched now…after a fashion. All the same, the leak continued. It didn't seem to be getting any worse. He was no praying man, but he thanked God for that.

"Well, we beat 'em back," Ben Jackson said. The mate had a new bandage on his left calf, and walked with a limp.

"Damned if we didn't." Red Rodney wished he didn't sound so surprised. He tried to hide it with gruff kindness: "How are you doing, Ben?"

"It's a fucking scratch, that's all. Nothing but a fucking scratch." Jackson spat scornfully. "I got tickled by a flying toothpick. Higgins cut it out of me. I would've taken care of it myself, but it always hurts worse when you do your own."

Rodney Radcliffe nodded; he'd seen that, too. Wounds were accidents. You were always startled when you got hurt. Repairing them sometimes required deliberate damage to your own precious flesh. He'd known many otherwise ferocious men who couldn't face that.

"What do we do now?" the mate asked.

"I think all the great captains had better hash that out." Red Rodney shouted to the signalman: "Send up repair aboard the admiral's ship while there's still light enough for the rest to read it."

"Repair aboard the admiral's ship," the Royal Navy renegade echoed. "Aye aye, skipper."

How many of the great captains still lived? As far as Radcliffe knew, all their ships but one still floated. But the number of dead and wounded on the battered Black Hand warned that not all of them would have dodged bad luck.

Splash! Another body swathed in bloody canvas went into the drink. Red Rodney scowled. "If we win another fight like this, we're bloody well ruined."

Ben Jackson shrugged broad shoulders. "Well, skipper, we're bloody well buggered if we lose, too. So where does that leave us?"

In trouble, Radcliffe thought. You didn't want to believe what a man-of-war's broadside could do to a ship. And the Black Hand was lucky. That leak wasn't…too bad. She still had both masts and most of her yards and rigging. Men were aloft, patching the sails. She could go where she needed to go. She could fight again…if she had to.

The boat ride over to Michel de Grammont's ship was a relief. While his men rowed him from one brigantine to the other, Radcliffe didn't have to think about anything. The Aigle d'Argent had taken less damage than the Black Hand. Rodney Radcliffe supposed that was because de Grammont hadn't wanted to close with the enemy, and so fewer cannon balls had come her way. At another time, he would have something to say to the Frenchman. For now, it could wait.

He clambered up over the side. "Is it that we are victorious?" de Grammont asked in accented English.

"For now, anyway," Red Rodney said. "Let's go back to your cabin. What have you got to drink?"

"Wine," the admiral answered. Rodney Radcliffe hid a sigh. He wanted whiskey or rum. But wine would do if he drank enough of it.

It was red and sweet and strong-strong for wine, anyhow. A couple of mugs began to build a wall between him and what had happened earlier in the afternoon. One by one, the other leading captains came aboard. Bertrand Caradeuc's earring was missing. So was his right ear; a marksman on one of William Radcliff's armed merchantmen had shot it off. Had the ball flown a couple of inches to the left, Caradeuc wouldn't have been there. Goldbeard Walter Kennedy wasn't. He'd lost a leg above the knee, and probably wouldn't live out the night. His younger brother, a massive man who carried the nickname Brickyard, came in his place.