Michael Aye - The Reaper

Buck volunteered again, seeing the concern on Anthony’s face. “The brig’s not flying a flag, sir, so she may be a ‘took’ ship.”

“Took or not, Mr. Buck, she’s crewed by a band of cutthroats that’ll know how to use her better than the crew she sailed with most likely.”

Reaper was at that moment passing to windward of where Drakkar lay in wait. Anthony felt a queasy sensation in his stomach. He felt almost naked watching as Reaper passed. A lookout called down in a voice just loud enough to he heard: “She got a vice admiral’s flag flying, sir.”

“Damned cheekish if you ask me,” Buck declared, looking through a ship’s glass. Anthony took his own glass and peered. Sure enough, a vice admiral’s flag flew at the foremast.

“Bloody ass,” Peckham chimed in. “It’s no small wonder ‘e ain’t flying an admiral of the fleet’s flag.”

“Impertinent, he may be,” Anthony said. “But he’d already partially succeeded in his goal for flying that rag.”

Buck and Peckham gave Anthony a questioning look. “He’s already got your British blood boiling. You’re stirred up and angry.”

“Angry men rush in where wise ones would tread softly, gentlemen. We are outmanned and outgunned. To see this day through we must keep our wits about us.”

Turning back toward Reaper , Anthony couldn’t help but admire her. Foe she may be, but she presented a proud sight. Proud and deadly. Anthony could still envision her swift attack on Rascal . He would never forget Merle Pitts’ words, “I wanted you to be proud.” Reaper remained close-hauled on her present tack.

“She taking in her main course, sir,” Peckham said. “Looks like top gallant’s already brailed up.”

“Think they’ve already sighted Scythe, sir?” Buck asked.

“If not, they’re blind or drunk,” Anthony replied. Anthony had not misjudged his timing, but how long would it be before that son-o-Satan realized something was amiss? Anchored as she was, Scythe was a sitting duck. Anthony could only imagine what a state of nerves Pope and Scythe ’s crew must be under. Most would remember what happened to Rascal .

“Cast off our disguise if you will Mr. Buck, and prepare to get underway. I don’t want to be late for this engagement.”

“Aye, sir. Mr. McMorgan, if you’d be so kind as to get these laggards busy I’d appreciate it. It’s time to show that snail eating sodomite that Drakkar’ s a warship and not a fucking jungle!”

McMorgan smiled to himself as he got the men busy with the help of some of his mates. Mr. Buck was getting his dander up.

Anthony found himself pacing the quarterdeck. Buck didn’t need him interfering with getting the ship underway.

Pope, on board the Scythe, was to let loose a broadside into the Reaper at the most opportune time. But when exactly was that? He was confident Pope would judge it right. He had commanded a brig before becoming First Lieutenant in a first rate flag ship. He had the experience, but that didn’t curtail Anthony’s anxiety.

If they fired too soon Reaper would stand off and let loose her own devastating broadside that would end the show before it began. If they waited too late then they’d be overrun before Drakkar and the schooners could assist.

The big question right now was the brig. How was she armed and how many men did she have on board? Were there any prisoners on board that could be freed and help in the fight? Anthony gazed about him. Mr. Davy stood by the main mast laying a hand to discarding Drakkar’ s camouflage. He still looked youthful, but different than the snit that had faced Witzenfeld with such tenacity. Seasoned. That was the difference. He was now a seasoned veteran who had seen more action than some sitting behind a desk at Whitehall. Would he still look youthful tomorrow? Would he even he alive tomorrow? Anthony couldn’t help but feel the burden as he placed young Davy and all the others in his flotilla in harm’s way. Duty! Damme if that wasn’t a fine word at White Hall. But most of these men could care less than a fiddler’s fart about duty. It was their mates and the ship, and to hell with the rest of it.

“We’re ready to get underway, sir. The anchors hove short.”

“Very well, Mr. Buck. Proceed, but do it quietly. I feel the trap is already set, but let us not tip our hand till Pope has had his say.”

“Aye, sir,” Buck replied, grinning at Anthony’s word. “Pope will let his cannons do his talking, and by gawd I hope he kills that Frenchman with his first words.”

Anthony could feel Drakkar come alive and make headway. Picking up a breeze, her sails filled and grew taut.

“Mr. Peckham!”

“Aye, sir!”

“Lay us alongside that French bastard yonder, and let’s hope Scythe has left a piece of dessert for our troubles.”

“Aye, sir. Dessert we’ll have if I’m any judge.”

“Deck there. Looks like Reaper’s dropping her anchor, sir.” No sooner had the lookout hailed down when the sound of thunder filled the air. Scythe had let loose her broadside. Each cannon was loaded with grape on top of ball.

“Cut it close he did,” Peckham remarked.

“Well ‘hit, don’t matter much now iffen ‘e sees us do it cap’n, the sods bound to know sumthin’s amiss.”

“Well, Bart,” Anthony said. “Where did you come from? I’d begun to wonder if you’d taken leg bail.’“

“Leg bail, why no sirree. Iffen I was to do that, who’d see to getting my betters outta the trouble they’s always getting into?”

Bart was right. However, rushing down under full sail only a blind man would miss Drakkar with her dragon figurehead looking defiant and warning all.

Pope had let loose another broadside. Mr. Davy had climbed up on the bulwark for a better view.

“Caught him flat-footed, sir. That damned pirate ain’t even fired a musket in return yet.”

“Taken to cussin a wee bit, have we, young sir?” Bart asked Davy.

“Er-sorry sir. I was just caught up in the excitement.”

“Apology accepted, Mr. Davy,” Anthony replied, trying to hide his smile.

“Deck there!” hailed the masthead lookout. The brig is tacking and opening her gun ports, sir.” Scythe’s broadside had created so much smoke the brig’s actions were obscured from Drakkar’s quarterdeck.

“Does that answer your questions about the brig, Mr. Buck?”

“Aye, it does, sir. I bet the frog thinks he’s outta deep shat now but he’s in error, I’m thinking.”

The wind had cleared most of the smoke, and the brig was visible again. “She’s shakin out her topsails,” Peckham said. “Looks like she intends to cross Scythe’s stern and lay a broadside up her arse end.”

Anthony could only clench and unclench his fists. The lookout called down again, “ Shark and Rascal’s beating down on the brig, sir.”

“Damme, if I don’t feel like climbing up there with him. He’s got the best view,” Anthony said.

“Careful now, sir,” Bart replied. “Yew ain’t as used to them heights as yew used to be. Better to let the yonkers like Mr. Davy do the skylarkin’.”

“Damn you, Bart,” Anthony replied. “You go too far at times.”

“Mr. Buck!”

“Aye, sir!”

“I’d be obliged if after we’re finished with this frog you’d be kind enough to explain proper etiquette to Bart before you keelhaul him. Then find me a suitable cox’n-one that will mind his betters and his manners.”

“Aye, sir. I’ll take care of it directly.” Buck had been with Anthony long enough to know the banter between him and the cox’n was to keep the men’s mind on them and off the impending battle. It would do no good for the men to get a case of nerves at this point in the game.