Chapter 244: And the Counterargument Overruled

Not one of the poor bastards dared to move first.

James let the silence sit for another beat, his boots planted in blood, then figured he might as well be the one to ruin it.

"Which of ye fine gentlemen’s got the misfortune of commandin’ this leaky old lass, then?"

The two marines beside the officer shifted their weight. Their muskets were still raised and their hangers still bare, and neither seemed eager to be the first to cross the distance between them.

The officer straightened at the question, looking offended by having been asked it. His gorget caught what little sunlight made it through the smoke and flashed at James’s throat.

James shrugged. "Save us all a deal o’ftrouble and speak plain, now. I’d sooner know whether I’m lookin’ at a hostage or just one more corpse waitin’ to fall over."

This seemed to offend him considerably more than the five dead marines lying around his boots.

"I am not, sir, the captain of this vessel, and I shall thank you to withdraw that most unwarranted insult forthwith."

The words came out clipped and furious, as if each one had been dressed for parade. "I hold His Majesty’s commission as Lieutenant Frederick Stanhope of the Royal Navy. Four generations of my family have borne the red coat in loyal service to the Crown..."

Stanhope drew himself up, one hand stiffly behind his back. "... and I shall not have that distinction cheapened by comparing me to some common tarpaulin merely because he has contrived to plant his boots upon a quarterdeck."

James let him finish.

He even managed to look interested all the way through it, as if that was better entertainment than he expected to find aboard a captured ship.

"Christ, ain’t that a fine bit of soldierin’."

James rolled his shoulder loose. "Fine, then. Are you the highest-ranked soul left breathin’ aboard this wreck, or am I to keep bowin’ and askin’ polite till I’ve worked my way through the corpses?"

Stanhope’s expression flickered. "HMS Winchelsea’s captain was struck down by your broadside, God rest his soul. Command therefore devolved upon Captain Radcliffe, senior officer of the squadron, who is, I have every confidence, presently engaged in putting the scum below to the very devil."

James’s eyebrows went up.

Stanhope only raised his chin proudly. "His Majesty’s Navy does not quail before dockside rumor and colonial rabble, whatever vulgar tales may have crossed the ocean concerning the name of some colonial cutthroat."

James laughed outright at that, loud enough to make one of the marines flinch. "Reckon you oughta have mentioned that to the poor fellow that wrote up this assault orders, might’ve spared His Majesty the ships."

Whatever pride Stanhope had kept on his face went rotten at that. He drew his hanger with a scrape of steel that ended the conversion for everybody involved.

"For the honor of the service, then. If a gentleman must die, he may as well do so properly."

He brought both marines forward with him, not about to let a common soldier claim a pirate’s head while an officer was still standing there to do it himself.

James popped his tongue with a smile. "Come along, then, you fine little pack of redcoats, and see how far the three of you get together."

All three came at once.

Stanhope’s hanger swept down in a clean overhead cut, so neatly drilled it might have been practiced that very morning. James caught it on [Verdict] with a crack of steel, turning the blade aside so hard the impact jarred his whole arm.

He dipped beneath the next threat almost without pause. A bayonet thrust from his left hissed past close enough to part the threads of his coat, and the marine’s momentum brought him half a step beyond his mark.

The third man’s slash came low for his ribs and found [Verdict]’s edge instead. The blades struck with a hard clang, the force twisting James around as he let the blow carry past him. He came out of the turn with [Verdict] rising.

"Christ’s teeth, is this what His Majesty’s teachin’ you now?"

James ducked under a wild backhand from Stanhope and came up laughing.

"Might as well be dancin’, lads."

He drove his boot into the overextended bayonet marine’s hip, the kick folding his advance and sending him stumbling clear.

Stanhope’s slash came immediately after. James caught it on a rising parry that nearly tore the hanger from the officer hand, as the shock ran up Stanhope’s arm, and for a heartbeat the blade was knocked wide.

The third marine lunged into that chance, but his blade flashed past James’s ribs close enough for him to feel the wind of it. He twisted away and the hanger missed him by inches.

The marine recovered and came in harder, encouraged, perhaps, by the fact that he was still alive.

His hanger caught James across the ribs, but the blade screeched flat off [Discretion] instead of biting home. The fabric skipped across the blade with a shower of sparks, scraping hard against the coat before sliding away.

The marine flinched from his own weapon, staring at it as though the sword had betrayed him.

"King’s tailor does finer work than his gunsmith, it seems."

James put a boot square into the marine’s knee and sent him staggering sideways into the bayonet man.

The two crashed and tangled together for half a step, which was all the help required.

James’s next parry rode upward and became a thrust before the bayonet marine could bring his hanger back to guard. [Verdict] drove into his chest with enough force to lift him onto his toes and the point punched out between his shoulder blades, blood bursting across the front of his coat before he sagged around the blade.

He folded hard, the crimson liquid pumping thick from the wound before his heart had quite finished its business.

"One down."

James pulled the blade free with unhurried ease, letting the blood drip from [Verdict]’s point and pattered onto the planks.

"Better odds for the pair o’ ye now."

The bayonet man snapped instead of waiting his turn.

He charged with his musket lowered, desperate to get close enough to use it.

[Counterargument] answered before he had crossed half the distance.

The pistol cracked, the shot struck him square in the chest and tore through, opening his coat in a burst of blood. He stumbled on for one blind step before the strength went out of him and he crashed backward onto the planking.

One shot left in her now, and James reckoned he’d keep it for a man who had earned it proper.

That left Stanhope alone.

This time the officer showed that all the drilling hadn’t been entirely wasted. He met James with his blade held high and close to his body, turning aside each clean stroke with precision.

James cut high and Stanhope caught it.

Then James cut low and Stanhope turned the hanger aside again, steel scraping against steel.

Even then, James pressed him backward all the same, high, then low, until Stanhope’s guard began to thin and a chance appeared.

One more cut came high and Stanhope parried.

The next stroke came low and forced him back against the rail. The officer tried to recover his guard, but James was already inside it.

Cornered, Stanhope straightened one last time, clinging to whatever dignity the circumstances had left him.

"You may cut me down, sir, but you’ll not erase four generations of the Stanhope name from His Majesty’s serv..."

He never finished.

[Verdict] slipped beneath his guard and drove up below the ribs. The steel punched deep, and Stanhope jerked against it as blood spilled dark across his coat.

Whatever else Stanhope had intended to say died behind his teeth with the rest of him.

James looked down at the body for a moment, almost disappointed that he hadn’t been allowed to hear the end of the speech. "Should’ve kept it shorter, mate. My sword’s a rude little thing, never had much patience for words."

Eight men lay dead across the quarterdeck.

He let himself one breath, then turned his attention outward, down toward the wreck of Winchelsea’s main deck below.

The frigate had brought more sailors into the fight than the Rose ever needed, and it hadn’t changed a thing. The broadside had done its share, plain skill had done more, and the rest had been finished by a crew whose spirit never stood much chance against pirates famous across the Caribbean for worse fights than this one.

Only a knot of redcoats remained on her deck now, smaller by the moment.

At the center of it, still standing and still swinging, was the very man Stanhope had died so proud of, trading blow for blow against the steady rattle of Kwaku’s chain.

James grinned through the blood on his own face.

Whatever answers he had come aboard looking for, he was going to get them from a man far too busy fighting to provide them politely.