The Scourge - Pirates & Privateers

Chapter 11: The Scourge vs The Welsh Dragon

Before Martin had recovered his hearing, he scrambled to his feet. Though disorientated, he stumbled his way to the brass bell at the main mast and grabbed for the rope, throwing it back and forward as hard as he could.

From within his own head, he could hear his own muffled voice.

'Cannon fire! We're under attack! All hands! We're under attack!'

The hatches burst open. The crew crawling from below broke out into cold sweats at the bell's toll; they knew that the sound heralded only misfortune or doom. Captain Percival barged down the door of the cabin and lunged up the gangway to the quarterdeck. The Helmsman, the Quartermaster and the Bosun all hobbled after him.

'The Hell's going on?' the Quartermaster whimpered. 'Who's firing?'

'Who do you think, you bloody fool?!' Black Hal grabbed the Quartermaster by the scruff of his collar and dragged him to the railing, pointing out the sloop approaching fast from the starboard quarter. 'There's only one other bleeding ship in sight!' He released his grip and barked at the men scurrying about on the deck like frightened rats.

'Battle stations!' the Captain roared. For a second, everyone froze. 'All hands! Prepare to engage!'

'Hal!' the Quartermaster shook the Captain's shoulder. 'Hal, we can't call battle stations. The ship's in no condition to fight. We don't know they intended to fire. I-it could have just been an accident. They're British; they wouldn't fire on one of their own.'

The sloop, now close enough to count every man at her stations, turned to starboard. The gunports snapped open and three bronze barrels emerged before each unleashed a billow of smoke and flames with a mighty crack. Three round shot hurtled towards the Scourge, one flying between the masts, another tearing through the stern and into the Captain's cabin, and the final one striking the starboard-side hull with a terrible crash, throwing the quarterdeck.

Martin tried to help Emily up, but was thrown off his feet, falling flat on top of her. Their faces were mere inches apart, her sweet breath caressing his cheek. He could feel the beat of her heart in his chest. Her eyes sparkled, even when terrified, and when she looked up into his, he could sense that she didn't just need help; she needed him. No matter how much he wanted to stay there forever, the splinters that buried themselves in his back were enough to spur him to action.

The Captain and the Quartermaster landed square on their rumps at the roots of the Helmsman, who nearly bent double as the pair careened into his knees.

'Does that satisfy you?' the Captain groaned as he pulled himself up. 'Accident my arse.'

'B-But wh-why?' the Quartermaster babbled, white with shock.

'Captain!' the Bosun had held his footing and dashed over to offer him a hand. 'It's the Welsh Dragon, sir!'

'Leddhart?' Black Hal asked in disbelief. His face was like a devil's as the Bosun helped him to his feet. The Quartermaster batted aside the Bosun's hand as he picked himself up. 'What in Hell's name is that drunk think he's doing firing on my ship?! Oh, I'll show him. We're not to take this lying down. I'll show him what it means to square off with Black Hal. Man your station, Ulrich. Give Tyrell the order to fire at will.'

'Aye, sir,' the Bosun nodded then, plodded down the, gangway, barking orders as he went.

'Hamish!' Martin's name rolled through him like cannon fire. 'Get Miss Morton below, now!'

'A-aye, Captain!' Martin yelled through the ringing in his head.

'Ratchett, stop snivelling and get to your post!'