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Title: The Dogwatches
Rating: M (Suitable for ages 16 and above)
Disclaimers: None.
Original pen-date: 22 September 2008
Summary: Discontent and mutiny aboard a Royal Navy frigate. American Revolution, 1780.
Author's Note: There are probably some historical/ship goofs in here and I beg forgiveness for them.


The storm had blown in fast and fierce. White-capped waves, at first barely meriting notice, now washed dangerously over the rails. Falcon rode the heaving sea almost carelessly, her twin masts seeming to lean over drunkenly with each great roll. Her captain had given the order to proceed under reefed topsails only, so she made little headway except for that given by chance. Below decks, her crew huddled miserably together, most soaked through from spray washing down the companionways. Many of the less seasoned men were actively sick, using their hats or the nearest empty mess kid to help contain it.

Arthur Cartwright kept his gaze on the deck above him and felt strangely comforted by the wild pitching of the sloop around him. There was something soothing about it to him. He had retired early, excusing himself from the strained dinner in the cramped wardroom so he could strip off his coat and take refuge in his cot. Somehow, having no direct physical contact with the deck made the constant lurching motions easier to bear. It was almost like being weightless.

There were raised voices in the wardroom, on the other side of the thin screen of his cabin. The sea officers were arguing. Again. They bickered and debated and shouted as they had the past two evenings, since giving up the pursuit of Cornwall. Cartwright himself had done his best to avoid participation, preferring to keep his own counsel about what little they knew of the frigate's strange conduct. He knew next to nothing about her, save that her former Captain of Marines now served in Defiant. All the same, there was an undertone to the heated discussions between Falcon's officers that he disliked.

So he lay safely ensconced in his cot, a thin blanket tucked around him, listening to the clash of voices outside his cabin. It was the same old thing. What was Cornwall likely up to, had she been captured, why hadn't she signalled her distress... Cartwright closed his eyes. If they had been a larger ship, they might have dared to pursue her more closely. But a sloop was badly outmatched against a frigate. Never mind a sloop against a frigate with two brigs in company with her.

Something slammed down, hard, against the table and he heard the first luff bellow, "You shall not say that word again this mess, sir!"

An instant, frosty silence fell over the wardroom. Despite himself, Cartwright was all attention. What word had been spoken that Mister Davidge found so offensive? The silence stretched for what seemed like minutes, then Cartwright heard the surgeon, a phlegmatic man called Burrows, say, "I mean no offence, sir. I simply wonder if - "

Davidge's voice was hard as flint. "You may wonder all you wish, sir, but you shall not speak of that in my wardroom!"

There was a note of surliness in Burrows' tone when he replied, "There is little call to speak so roughly, sir. I am not one of your sailors." A clink, not unlike a bottle coming against tin, was barely audible. "My original question still stands."

"If," said the second lieutenant in his usual slow drawl, "she is indeed in that suspected state, we have little choice but to pursue her. With," he added sharply, no doubt to interrupt Burrows before the surgeon could thrust in a question. "Suitable reinforcements. I have every confidence in Falcon's crew but we cannot stand against a frigate unsupported."

"So we do nothing save run."

"Quite to the contrary," Davidge remarked. "Our course is for English Harbour, but we are not the only patrols out here. Should we meet with another ship, we may be able to go about and take up the chase again."

Cartwright's interest began to wane. The discussion was straying back to that same well-worn course. Certainly there were other things worth talking about? He shifted slightly in his hammock and sighed. It was almost more enlightening to listen to the irregular rush of waves sluicing along on the other side of the hull. The ebb and flow of voices outside his cabin gradually faded, losing volume and individual distinction. His ears were surrounded instead by the angry gurgling slap of water against wood, just inches from his head. In a way, that was much more soothing.

Above him, on the unprotected weather deck, the few men responsible for keeping the sloop on course huddled in their oilskins and constantly struggled to keep their footing. It required three men merely to hold the wheel steady. There were four holding tight to the helm's spokes, all standing straddle-legged for balance. The Marine sentry standing close by the wheel hunched his shoulders and tried vainly to protect his face from the driving rain. This wasn't quite how he'd imagined he'd spend his time at sea, but he supposed it was inevitable. The West Indies were not known for kind weather.

"Hold fast, lads!" The thoroughly-soaked master's mate of the watch bellowed, half an instant before a great wave peaked and crashed over the larboard side. Somebody thundered an oath and there was the familiar sound of a body hitting the deck. Littlefield, the sentry, braced himself up with his musket as best he could and cringed at the slap of seawater against his legs. He could not think what had sent them running so fast from their assigned patrol. It was unlike the sloop's officers to flee from anything.

A call shrilled from somewhere up forrard and seamen swarmed around the deck, apparently heedless of the steady powerful wash of waves over the waist. Much more of this and Littlefield thought sure the sloop would broach-to and go diving. Was this one of those hurricanes the older Marines talked of? It was hard to imagine anything worse.

"Littlefield!"

He barely heard the shout and turned in time to see a sopping wet midshipman sliding over the deck past him. The Marine grabbed for the boy, before the unfortunate lad could be washed to the taffrail and over. His fingers closed on the midshipman's collar, barely, and the boy's weight, combined with the rush of water and the cant of the deck, nearly pulled Littlefield off his feet. As it was, he dropped his musket in his instinctive reaching for the midshipman's coat with both hands. The firelock was gone in an instant, rattling over the deck toward the rail as the sloop recovered from its severe heeling over. Littlefield lost his footing when Falcon tipped down into another deep trough, unable to compensate for the abrupt change in deck angle with a flailing midshipman weighing him down like a kedge anchor.

Marine and midshipman tumbled gracelessly toward the leeward rail, one holding fast to the other with grim determination. Somebody shouted somewhere above them, just before another drenching wave crashed over the ship. Littlefield's feet scrabbled for any sort of purchase on the water-slick deck, his shoes thumping and scraping against the planks. He almost managed to flop onto his side, which might have allowed him to get his knees under him, but the flood of water carrying him along gave him no reprieve. The midshipman he clung desperately to wasn't helping at all. If anything, it seemed the lad had gone limp. All the more reason not to let go of him. There was a crack from high above his head, it seemed, and an instant later Littlefield's back struck the wheel of one of the guns tightly lashed down at the larboard rail.

His surprised howl of pain earned him a mouthful of foaming salt water. He gagged and tried to spit the water out again, only to draw in more when he gasped for air. Another wave, another sharp shift in the deck's angle. The ungainly pair of bodies started sliding across the full width of the poop, only to stopped by a stout pair of legs.

"No lounging!"

Strong hands seized hold of Littlefield's collar and sleeve, and he found himself effortlessly hauled upright. Corporal Johnson. It would be. He was grateful for the intervention, all the same. His back was afire with pain and his throat burned from inadvertently swallowing seawater. It took some effort to prise his fingers free from the midshipman's coat. They felt icy and stiff, not at all willing to uncurl from their firm grip of the sodden wool.

"Where's your musket?"

His musket? Littlefield sucked in a mouthful of blessedly saltwater-free air and braced his legs wide. He still had a grip on the half-conscious midshipman. "I... dropped it, Corporal."

Johnson's face was difficult to see in the darkness. His tone, however, gave away what his expression might have conveyed. "Course you did. I'll sort you later. Get off below. Can't stand sentry without a bleedin' musket!" The corporal turned away, already preoccupied with other things. The useless fool couldn't even keep his footing, never mind a grip on his musket! Hopeless. These Marines were all hopeless. Johnson touched his hat to the officer of the watch, who was just barely keeping a bemused expression from his face. Funny how that lieutenant hadn't lifted a finger to help either the midshipman or Littlefield when both had gone tumbling. Bloody officers.

While Littlefield staggered toward the ladder, dragging that damn midshipman with him, Johnson made his way forrard. He'd send a man up to replace the young idiot shortly enough, after he was finished checking the other sentries. The irregular wash of waves and the wind-driven rain didn't bother him in the least. He had walked the decks of ships in more storms than he could recall. This was nothing. If anything, this squall was a lark. A little wind, a little rain, and a few waves. Nothing more.

The boatswain and his mates were standing near the hatchways, their calls shrieking. "All hands! All hands! Take in sail!"

Johnson stood out of the way and shook his head. It never ended.

~

Many miles away, caught up in the same howling storm, Defiant ploughed almost carelessly through the deep troughs. She was bearing the heaving sea much better than the little Falcon. Her course was carrying her toward the sloop, though with the weather being so foul it would be another day at least before each masthead lookout could spot the other. Both crews were as yet unaware of their converging course or of their separate, similar missions. Few, if any of them, could have cared that night. Surviving the storm and seeing dawn were more pressing concerns. In Defiant, there was also the brooding unhappiness in the wardroom, as bad feelings between officers festered.

Alfred Hardy kept his feet braced wide as he stood behind his captain's chair, too experienced at waiting table to let something as trifling as a storm disrupt his balance or routine. He had only spilled a few drops of wine once, when a rogue wave had canted the ship sharply. Other than that, his service was flawless. The same could also be said of some of the other messmen, of course, but they each had the sailor's natural steadiness of hand. Aside from the nervous soldier standing behind Mister Pettiton, none of the messmen had spilled anything on the officers they were serving.

Thus far, the dinner had gone fairly well. The conversation had been light, if perhaps a little restrained by a couple officers, and there had been no sharp words exchanged. That alone ranked the meal as a success in Hardy's mind. His captain had spoken only sparingly, but he was a wise one, for the most part. In this company, it was better to hold one's silence when possible. Of course, if the smells alone were anything to judge by, the meal was one that demanded the fullest possible attention. Hardy's stomach growled, very quietly, at the aroma of fresh roasted pork. Maybe later he could sneak some scraps.

"By God, sir, I've not had such a remarkable meal in some time!" Major Brent burst out, setting his fork down onto his plate with an audible clash. "Capital, I say. Capital!"

The wardroom steward, standing near the head of the table, inclined his head slightly but said nothing. For his part, Hardy hid a smile. It was readily apparent that Brent was hopelessly drunk. Ironically, such a state made him more tolerable. It was almost a shame he didn't make a habit of this. Seated next at Brent's left, the flagship's second lieutenant offered a mildly strained smile.

"Indeed, Flynn. We are all most obliged."

Brent had fumbled his glass into hand and lifted it up to his lips. "What shall there be for dessert, eh? Something equally enticing?"

"Pudding, sir," Flynn replied. "Treacle pudding."

A light grimace flickered across the face of the soldier standing behind Lieutenant Pettiton, almost directly opposite the table from Hardy. The brief show of expression caught Hardy's interest instantly, before he leaned forward to refill Collins' glass. Did Pettiton's steward think something untoward was to happen with the pudding?

"Pudding," Mister Pettiton said, sounding doubtful. His face was only slightly less green than the facings on his coat. Of all the officers around the table, he had eaten the least and Hardy guessed that the prospect of pudding after such a full meal, in such rising seas, didn't appeal to him at all. Hardy might have pitied him had Mister Pettiton been any other officer.

"Aye, pudding." The second luff was nodding. "Flynn makes a marvellous treacle pudding. He's done his table proud, as ever. No finer wardroom man in the region, I daresay."

"I say," Brent went on, amid the murmurs of assent to Mister Harte's declaration. "How are you faring in this mild weather, Mister Pettiton?"

The army officer's voice betrayed his state of nerves. "It is only a passing unsteadiness, sir, I assure you."

Chuckles rolled around the table. The heaving sea made it difficult to keep one's chair still, never mind anything on the table and Pettiton was plainly unused to such rough conditions. There were several distinct stains on the long napkin he'd tucked into his cravat. More than once, he'd also nearly overturned his wine glass. Stupid land-crawling sod, Hardy thought.

"Of course, of course. How do your men fare, as well? It is undoubtedly less pleasant on the gundecks, I should think."

"They are getting on very well, thank you," was Pettiton's reply.

What a load of rubbish, Hardy thought derisively. The soldiers were huddled in the scuppers, as moaning and ill as the worst lubbers imagineable. Getting on very well. Certainly they were! They were the objects of steady amusement for the Marines aboard at any rate.

"The best training a soldier may get is gotten at sea, you know. Dashes up the rigging, cutlass drill, the afterguard. Keeps a man nimble and sharp! Nothing like it to be had on land. Nothing t'all." Brent pointed blithely at Pettiton's steward. "You must send your lads on deck tomorrow to join the morning drill. Do 'em good. Help 'em keep their heads about 'em when we run down this pack of cutthroats, eh?"

There was the barest stiffening in Captain Collins' shoulders at this, but only Hardy, standing behind his chair, was able to see it. Stupid sot, the steward thought scathingly. Major Brent didn't know the first bloody thing about the men he was so blandly dismissive of. Cutthroats. There were those of that sort about, but they weren't half as far away as Brent tbought. The fop he was talking to fell easily into that class, didn't he?

"I shall certainly confer with my sergeant about it, sir," Pettiton was saying, his voice mildly strained. He had attempted to lift his glass to his lips, but the uneven rocking of the ship made the movement difficult. It was clear he did not possess a quarter of the ease the others had in unsettled seas. "They should no doubt be glad for a little exercise."

Major Brent fairly beamed. "Capital! See to the arrangements, would you, Kelly? There's a good fellow."

The long-faced Marine lieutenant, Kelly, nodded his greying head wordlessly. He had more sense than Brent in some respects. A steady enough sort, in Hardy's estimation, even though it nettled badly to have his own officer so blatantly overlooked in any matter of command. And in a public manner, no less. Worse was the fact that Brent himself would have no involvement at all with the exercise he was so outwardly enthusiastic about.

"I must confess ignorance, sir," Defiant's first luff said, after moistening his tongue with some wine. "Is there a very great difference between a Marine's drill and a soldier's?"

"Indeed there is, sir. We follow the Manual of Arms, of course, but much less rigidly. Not much use training the men to face an enemy drawn in line when they're not ever bound to meet one, eh?" Brent set his newly-emptied glass down again. Again Hardy felt his contempt simmering. He remembered the fighting on Sullivan's Island, which had been just what Brent described. Two lines facing each other, duelling it out with volleys. Perhaps the major had been at sea too long.

"A soldier trains constantly, sir, so he may not falter when battle is joined," Pettiton added, sounding a little annoyed. "Discipline is the heart of it. Certainly a soldier has no worth who cannot hold his place in his rank and fight on while others around him fall."

"Quite so, quite so. Without discipline no fighting man has worth," Brent agreed. "Certainly your men have proven theirs, as I have heard it. Do tell us, sir, again perhaps, how they got on against those damned Yankees, eh?"

Hardy reached for the wine decanter with the aim of refilling his captain's glass, an action which helped him smother a sneer. He had seen quite clearly the discipline of Lieutenant Pettiton's soldiers under fire, when the skirmishers had made the initial attack on Fort Moultrie. It had been Marines who held their places while the soldiers fled. The army officer's ideals of discipline had not been shared by his men.

"I should be glad to, sir." Mister Pettiton flicked a glance toward Collins, who made no move or speech to indicate he was even listening. After a short, almost awkward, pause, the army officer went on, "My company and I were delivered on shore by the fine fellows of the Dart, under cover of darkness. It required two journeys through that treacherous surf to safely land all the men. Once the last boat departerd, the force was divided in two, and I took command of the main body of men. We waited on the beach until the advance guard had gone before getting under march ourselves. It was a rather precarious business, gentlemen, for the island's defenders had successfully resisted a similar attack earlier that very day."

The druinken Brent seemed entranced. His noise of glib encouragement was interrupted by the surgeon, who pointedly asked, "What do you know of that earlier attack, sir?"

"Why, nothing," Mister Pettiton admitted. "I was not there, sir. From what I understand, however, it had gone very badly indeed."

"Major Collins," the surgeon said. "You were in command of that first assault party, I believe? How did it fare?"

'How did it fare' indeed. It had very nearly been a disaster. Less than a full section of Marines facing a regiment of infantry. Hardy was still unable to fully understand how they had survived. He tucked his hands behind his back, underneath his coat-tails, and silently stifled the memory. His captain did not so much as twitch, however, as he replied, "It fared well as a reconnaissance party, but as a dedicated attacking force, yes, it was not equal to the task required of it. I firmly believe this initial failure contributed directly to the success of the second attempt."

That had a pronounced effect on the men around the table. Mister Harte, the second luff, seemed intrigued, while his senior, Mister Shaw, looked bemused. The surgeon's expression was one of faint triumph. The sailing master and Kelly, the junior Marine officer, both seemed bored. Most notably, Mister Pettiton appeared scornful. But he would, wouldn't he? "As I was saying," he said, a little too shortly. "It was a rather precarious business. Certainly the march to the fort was a tense one. There was a small ambush made on the advance guard but it did not slow our march."

What perfect rubbish, Hardy thought. That small ambush had sent most of the soldiers in the skirmish party running. A little unexpected outbreak of fighting and they turned tail. Oh let Mister Pettiton move along to the moment when his column formed into line opposite the Yankees. Hardy dearly wanted to hear how he would describe his own conduct during that fight. But it was not to be. Captain Collins lifted a finger, just slightly, and the steward bent toward his officer.

"That'll do for me, Hardy," the captain said in an undertone. "Prepare my cot, would you?"

"Aye sir." Damn it. Maybe another time. There would undoubtedly be another time, too. The army officer had proven to be fond of self-promotion, even through the telling of blatant falsehoods. Ignoring the wary, suspicious glare briefly directed his way by Mister Pettiton, Hardy withdrew from the table. His departure did nothing to stop the army lieutenant from his story, anyway.

His steward's exit produced just the reaction Collins expected. Pettiton paused momentarily in his ridiculous tale and glanced in the direction Hardy had gone. It was difficult to tell if the army officer's expression was wary or resentful, but it probably didn't matter. What mattered was removing himself from the table before this woefully exaggerated account stirred up Collins' temper any further. He had already allowed himself to be goaded into one duel. There would not be a second.

"Allow me to interrupt again, sir," the surgeon cut in, disrupting Pettiton in mid-sentence. "You say there was some unsteadiness amongst the men in your column. Who by, if I may ask? As I was given to understand, the Dart sloop was firing on the fort to distract its defenders. Certainly that sort of unrelated attack, occurring quite away from land, should not be sufficient to discomfit well-disciplined men such as your own."

Now this was interesting. Dart's bombardment of Fort Moultrie had hardly passed unnoticed by Collins and his skirmishers, but he had not noticed any great faltering in those soldiers who'd remained with him. He'd not given much thought to any difficulty Pettiton might have experienced.

"Certainly not, sir," Pettiton stated firmly.

"Then who, may I ask, was so unnerved by some harmless bombardment to nearly break away from the ranks?"

The question was met with silence and Collins knew Pettiton had been caught. It was an excellent piece of manouevring by the surgeon. The very thing which Collins himself might have done, had he not wished to avoid further confrontation of any sort with this braggart. In any case, he was not to remain any longer at the table to hear the reply.

"Cot's ready, sir," Hardy reported in a whisper meant only for his ear, as he soundlessly reappeared. "Shall I - ?"

Collins shook his head once. "No. I'll see to it. Thank you." With that, he glanced across the table toward Lieutenant Kelly. In the older Marine, he sensed something of a kindred spirit. Or, if nothing else, Kelly was a man who understand the worth of attending one's duty over the distraction of petty prejudices. An exchange of nods was all it took.

"I beg you gentlemen will excuse me. There is some work yet to attend to that I should like to complete. I bid you a good evening." With that, he stepped away from the table and moved as steadily as he could toward his cabin. Behind him, he heard another chair scrape over the deck, then came Kelly's lilting voice. Kelly too was taking his leave, but as officer of the guard, his excuse was a far more valid one than Collins'.

The soft Irish drawl reminded him suddenly that three of the four ranking Marines in Cornwall were Irishmen. His thoughts in particular lingered on Colin Forsythe, who but for him would not be in such a precarious position. What had become of him, if indeed Cornwall had been lost to mutiny? Better, perhaps, not to think too deeply about it until they knew for sure that the frigate had been taken. It might not have been. Even as he told himself this, he knew it was a lie.

With an irritated scowl now darkening his face at this sharp down-turn of his thoughts, Collins eased the thin door of his cabin closed behind him. Instead of making a futile attempt to look over the detachment's books as he'd professed, however, he set about undressing. In his present mood, retiring to his cot was indeed the wisest action to take.

Hardy was not available to attend him yet, being busy clearing away his abandoned place at the table, so he undertook the task himself. It was far from the first time Collins had seen to his own dressing or undressing. On the other side of the cabin screen, he could hear the steady drone of Pettiton's voice. He had recovered, somehow, from the surgeon's uncomfortable questioning. God but that man loved to hear himself talk. That quality was almost more irksome than the lieutenant's arrogance.

"Now what's this nonsense, sir?" Hardy chided quietly as he slipped into the cabin. "Can't wait more'n a second... dunno what I'll do with you, sir, honest to the Lord I don't."

A bemused smile came onto Collins' face as he gave up his attempts to unknot the sash from about his waist. It was no easy task with the deck rolling constantly beneath his feet. "My apologies. I'll ever be in wonder of how you manage, Hardy."

"Oh it's a natural talent, sir," his steward answered, having unknotted and removed the sash. He moved on to the gleaming gorget hanging from Collins' neck, which he carefully slid up over the officer's head. It was an easier method than attempting to knot and unknot the thin silk ribbon that held the gorget in place. "Shame we're missin' out on Mister Pettiton's yarn, sir. It seemed a rare good one."

Collins shook his head as he slipped out of his coat. "That'll do, Hardy. Tidy up in here and you may retire yourself."

His steward gave no sign of disappointment at the sharp ending of conversation, but instead took the coat and carefully folded it before stowing it away. "Aye sir. Mind your shoes, there. Right. Good night, sir." Hardy withdrew from the little cabin, after arranging the shoes neatly underneath the hanging cot. It was left to Collins to finish preparing himself for turning in, but he hardly minded. Once his waistcoat and shirt were peeled off and discarded - Hardy would put them away properly in the morning - he levered himself up into the swaying cot. There was no guarantee of sleep, however. Not with his mind packed near to bursting with questions and thoughts.

Damn that man Pettiton.

~

Bad feeling was also rife on a little island far in Falcon's wake. The storm had been predicted by one of the master's mates but no effort was made by their rebel captors to provide them any shelter. They were kept confined to the long pit they'd dug, watched over by sentries wearing oilskins. When the rain began pouring down heavily, the coats and shirts of the luckless prisoners were immediately saturated. The dirt beneath their shoes turned quickly to thick mud. Then the sharp edge of the wind slashed down on them, cutting effortlessly through their sodden clothes. The best the shivering, drenched prisoners could do was huddle together and try to keep each other warm.

It was not, however, good enough for Corporal McIntyre. He nudged a shivering Tom Carter with his shoe to get his attention, then whispered directions into the junior Marine's ear. With a jerky nod, Carter shifted away from the marginally-warm huddle he'd been in with Mayden, Smith, and Ware. His outlined task was simple enough. Find Matheson the boatswain and get him roused out. McInytre's few words had imparted a definite sense of urgency. They were not going to suffer through this night. They were instead going to take full advantage of the storm and attack their captors under cover of rain and darkness. It was a decision that Carter agreed with completely.

Picking his way through the dark lumps of shadow crowding together wasn't easy. More than once, Carter inadvertantly stepped on somebody's foot or hand. He managed to find the boatswain after several long minutes and passed along McIntyre's message. With Matheson in tow, Carter picked his way carefully back toward his corporal. Their passage excited a little interest from some shivering men, but most of the crew paid them no mind. It was probably just as well.

"What's this about, Mackie?" Matheson wanted to know, settling down awkwardly near the corporal.

McIntyre's face was impossible to see clearly through the haze of rain. "We're goin' tonight. Now. I ain't waitin'."

"I'm listenin'," Matheson said. It was the only thing he needed to say and Carter suspected he wouldn't have objected anyway. The older Marine knelt down in the mud and listened too. Since McIntyre had picked him out to fetch Matheson, he reckoned he was meant to be part of the final planning. Kit Davenport and Mikey Quintin were already close by and he guessed that Higgins was crouching by the edge of the water-filled pit, his senses alert for approaching sentries.

"Right. I want the lads split by divisions, then by gun crews. Gun captains in charge of their crews, and petty officers in charge of the idlers. Quartermasters for divisions. You and Mister Colburn will command overall. I want you lot to go straight for them huts the rebels are holed up in. We'll deal with the sentries. Their muskets ain't gonna fire in this." The Irishman's voice was firm and confident, which was indicative of his overall personality. He knew his business. The men gathered closely around him listened intently as he went on to describe the finer details of the intended attack. It was clear McIntyre had thought this through.

"They got muskets in one of them huts, too," Davenport added when his corporal had finished. "Dunno if they're guarded. Get them into your hands an' it'll be a lot better for us."

Matheson grunted quietly. "That's sure. Anythin' else? I'll have t'round up my lads so they'll be ready."

The meeting dissolved as silently as it had come together, with Matheson drifting back toward the opposite end of the pit to gather the necessary sailors. Carter swiped rainwater from his face and shuddered. It was bloody cold with that wind cutting through the heavy, soaked wool of his coat. Hopefully they'd be up and moving soon. The longer they waited, the more chance the rebel sentries had of suspecting something was being planned.

"We're goin'," McIntyre said quietly, coming over to crouch near Carter. He had a short-hafted hoe in his fist. It was one of the tools they were given to work with to break up the ground for the stores pit, during the day. Somehow, the Irishman had hidden this valuable little tool. Carter grinned. It gave them one weapon to use against their captors before they began. Any advantage was welcome.

"Followin' on, Corp'ral," Carter muttered.

McIntyre nodded. "You and Higgins gotta deal with the sentry nearest the huts before we goes anywhere. If he gives the alarm, we're scuppered."

"Aye aye, Corporal." It was a straightforward enough task. Carter accepted the offered hoe and crept off into the rain-soaked darkness. Higgins was kneeling at the edge of the muddy pit, his gaze turned outward. "Sentry there's our'n," he whispered, his face close to Higgins' ear.

The former gamekeeper nodded once and took the hoe from Carter. "Get yer arm 'round 'is neck," was the murmurred order. "Stop 'im callin' out."

Right. Carter nodded and followed Higgins silently forward, taking care to keep within arm's reach of the other Marine. In present circumstances, being separated could mean disaster. It was fortunate that the noise of wind and rain covered the light squelch of their shoes in the mud as they picked their way carefully over the edge of the pit. The Yankee sentry, marginally more comfortable than they in his long oilskin, never saw them coming.

Carter was the first to strike, landing a short punch to the sentry's jaw before slipping his arm around the man's neck. With the inside of his elbow forming a tight V around the sentry's throat, there was no chance for the man to cry out. An instant after Carter had brought his left hand up to grab hold of the sentry's musket to keep it still, Higgins moved in for the kill. The flat-bladed hoe in the Somersetman's hand sank into the sentry's stomach with a sickening slap. The unlucky man's response the blow was immediate and violent. Carter was obliged to drop the musket in order to keep his choke hold on the man's neck from being broken by the powerful thrashings.

There was the barest of grunts from Higgins as he struck the dying rebel again. He was blind to the convulsions that threatened to drag Carter from his feet. The rebel was not about to die easily, was he? It took a third blow from the now-bloody hoe before the sentry's attempts to knock Carter aside lessened. Finally. He kept his grip on the sentry's neck for several seconds after the man had gone still, in part disgusted by the way it had played out. This was not how he cared to fight. He did understand the need to subdue the sentries, but Higgins' method of going about it sickened him.

"Get 'is cartridge box," Higgins hissed, already kneeling to retrieve the discarded musket. "Oilskin, too. Keep the box dry!"

Of course. Carter carefully lowered the body to the ground and wasted no time unfastening the buff leather belt that ran across the dead Yankee's chest. He used the oilskin to keep the driving rain off the precious cartridge box, and shortly had the crossbelt fastened again and slung from his own shoulder. It was safely kept underneath the shielding leather of the long oilskin, which he now wore as well. Higgins passed him the musket, then headed off without a word to report their success to Corporal McIntyre. Carter waved briefly at a couple men hovering at the edge of their miserable open prison, and within seconds the dead sentry had been dragged out of sight. That left Carter to stand where the sentry had been only moments before, acting as if nothing had happened.

It seemed only a second after Higgins had gone that the whole of the captured crew were filing past Carter, their faces nothing but dim blobs through the haze of rain. They were indeed divided up by gun crews and divisions, by the look of it. Good on McIntyre knowing that smaller groups were better for this. While the Marines were trained to follow orders no matter what was going on, the sailors were not so conditioned. It was clever to organise them in a way that made sense to them.

"Stand fast 'til I send for you." McIntyre paused as he got close. "Might be a check on sentries while we're about our bus'ness."

Carter nodded. He understood. The appearance of nothing being wrong had to be maintained. He only hoped he could affect an appropriate Yankee drawl should he be pressed to speak. If not, he would have to be very quick in dispatching whoever had come to challenge him. McIntyre had gone, disappearing into the darkness to rejoin the others. Humming to himself, Carter slung his musket, muzzle down, from one shoulder and paced slowly toward the very edge of the now-empty pit. Once there, he turned and paced back. It was something he had seen previous sentries do.

There was nothing for sound but the steady lash of rain and the squish of mud beneath his feet. Had the others succeeded? Had they been taken? There wasn't even the faintest shout to indicate any reaction to their intended assault. No shots either. Nothing to suggest success, failure, or stalemate. He paced back toward the pit, where he did his best not to look down at the ugly crumpled heap that was the sentry he'd helped kill. Give him an enemy formed up in line any bloody day, over this.

Suddenly, the air was split by an ear-rattling boom. A gun had fired. Carter would know that sound anywhere. It was a light gun, judging by the pitch. A warning shot, perhaps? It hardly mattered. The shot would have alarmed the vessels in the bay. Good or ill, their plot would be known very shortly. Unslinging his musket, Carter headed over the crest of the low hill and stumbled down the sandy bank overlooking the beach. He wasn't about to let his mates run headlong into trouble without throwing in to help.

~

Things had begun to go wrong almost immediately. The party of sailors he'd sent to free the officers had been spotted and attacked. Despite their swift subduing of the sentries, that group of seamen found themselves faced with opposition from their officers when they secured the occupied hut. McIntyre was aware of this only after a second party of sailors, charged with finding the hut in which the muskets were kept, found themselves instead blundering straight into a hut filled with sleeping rebels. Sleeping, utterly sober rebels. Mister Thurlow had failed them.

The ensuing hand-to-hand fighting had quickly required him devoting most of his forces to eliminate the threat. It had almost begun to improve when a Yankee sentry at the far end of the beach - somehow having eluded detection by McIntyre's scouts - ran for a canvas-covered heap near the two beached barges. It was a light gun, no more powerful than a nine-pounder, but it was the most dangerous thing on the island. The rebels had clearly kept it in a state of readiness.

None of the Marines were able to get to the man before he jammed the tip of some slow-match into the touch-hole. The resulting report as the gun fired shattered any hope of the Cornwalls making an unseen boat attack. On the other hand, that gun gave them an unexpected tool to use against their enemy. McIntyre was the first to reach the swift-footed sentry and he dropped the man with a fist to the ear. An instant later, he had gotten hold of the sentry's bayonet. The struggle was over before the sentry had a chance to defend himself, but the damage was done. The three ships in the bay would no doubt be preparing to suppress whatever escape the Cornwalls were making.

That left only one option. "Mister Matheson!" McIntyre bellowed, relieving the dead sentry of his crossbelts and oilskin. "Two sections to find those firelocks! Jonesy! Your squad to secure those prisoners! Davies! John Davies! Your gun crew, here!"

Men moved with the speed of desperation. John Davies and his gun crew appeared and made quick work of first rigging up the canvas as an awning to keep the gun dry. They would know better than McIntyre how to fight the nine-pounder. He need not give them further orders. Instead, he grabbed up the dead sentry's musket and dashed up the beach toward the line of huts. There was a lot of work to be done in a very short span of time.

"Where's them muskets? Here, Davenport, get those diggin' tools issued out. Every man gets a spade, axe, or whatever else's there. Boat crews! Two boat crews, at the double!" In this rain, any attempt to fire a musket in the open would meet with utter failure. It was impossible to keep the pans dry. The digging tools, on the other hand, had no limitations. Neither did bayonets or swords, for that matter. It was important to get their hands on every weapon they could, and fast. The sporadic firing from the single light gun on the beach wouldn't be enough to support them at all, once they got underway.

"Muskets!" It was Matheson the boatswain, employing his trademark bellow. "Small arms, too! C'mon, you lubbers, take a piece an' move along!"

Dark blots of movement dominated the upper part of the beach. However many muskets there were had been handed out and there were the men with various digging tools in hand as well. Several had what looked like swords. McIntyre made a count of every armed man he could see and groaned inwardly. Scarcely more than twenty. Not nearly enough. They'd have to make a go of it all the same and hope that sheer numbers would see them through.

"Boat crews, here!" McIntyre waved his sodden hat, heedless of the rain. "Boardin' parties! Ahoay, boardin' parties! Muster here!"

There was a rush toward him as men moved to answer his summons. More men than he needed, in fact. He might have expected it. "Mister Colburn! Bos'un's mate, there. You'll command the boardin' parties. Take that brig nearest the beach. Do whatever you got to but bloody take her."

The rough-faced boatswain's mate grinned broadly, an unusual gesture for him. "Gladly," he rasped, then turned to the close gathering of men around him. "Right, m'loves. Man yer boats!"

McIntyre turned away from the orderly flurry of moment that swarmed toward the boats. Another thing he didn't need to be directly worried about any longer. All that remained was to concentrate on the preparation of defences on the beach. Assuming, of course, that he could avoid interference from the indignant, shouting distraction that was Captain Leaford. He was perhaps the one person who could ruin everything.

" - get your hands off me, damn your eyes! You are my crew and by God I shall command any attempt to retake my ship!"

It was unfortunate, McIntyre thought, that Leaford was correct. Up to this point, the breakout had been made entirely at the Irishman's direction. But now that they had freed their officers, the burden of command returned to them. For good or ill. Shifting his musket to the trail, McIntyre trotted up the beach toward where two seamen were trying to keep their captain contained.

"Boardin' parties away, sir," the corporal reported, rendering a salute. "We've taken a nine-pounder gun just down the beach as well. God willin' we'll have one of their brigs under our flag 'fore a full bell."

"No!" The bellow made McIntyre's ears ring. "No effort shall be wasted on those damned brigs. Recall those boats, Corporal! We will concentrate our efforts on recapturing Cornwall. She is my ship and I shall not settle for less than her safe reclaiming!"

Christ. How hadn't he known Leaford would say something like that? "But sir - "

"Now, Corporal!" Leaford stepped close and grabbed hold of McIntyre's coat front. "Or I shall have you shot for mutiny!"

It was all McIntyre could do to keep his hands at his sides. Following this order would cost them precious time. But he had no choice. It was, after all, an order. "Aye aye, sir," he said through gritted teeth.

Leaford appeared wholly disinclined to reliquinsh his grip as he gave the appropriate orders at top volume, neither giving the Marine the opportunity to do the same nor sparing him in the slightest. "Mister Matheson! Recall the boats! Now, damn you! Lieutenant Simcoe. Put this man under guard. Lieutenant Alderbury. Muster the hands by divisions. And for God's sake stop that gun firing! We will do this properly."

A pair of seamen appeared at Mister Simcoe's beckoning and relieved McIntyre of his musket. Leaford had at last shoved the stiff-faced corporal away. It was just as well. The two sailors offered quick mutterings of apology as they used a length of rough cordage to bind the Marine's wrists. With Mister Simcoe watching them closely, they could do nothing else.

"Boats returning, sir!"

Mister Alderbury had managed to arrange the crew as directed and stood by to receive further orders. Orders that Leaford waited until the two boats had scraped up onto the beach again before giving. They were to be loaded with extra men at once, he barked. But the delay was costly. The two rebel brigs had opened fire, somehow having warped themselves around so one full broaside apiece came to bear on the beach. McIntyre hit his knees when the first scattering of roundshot whistled by dangerously close overhead. They could have taken one of those brigs by now if it hadn't been for Captain Leaford!

"Man your boats!" The captain was moving briskly toward the nearest barge. "Lively now, you lads! To our ship! To our ship!"

McIntyre's two guards guided him forward and he noticed as he moved that the rope around his wrists was loose. He smothered a grin. Those clever lads. When the time came to fight, he could do so without serious impediment. He allowed himself to be bundled into the nearest boat and found himself just behind a midshipman. One of the good midshipmen at that.

"Mister Quinn."

The middie twisted on his thwart and grinned broadly. "Why, Corporal. Hullo indeed. Glad of you to join us in our merry wee outing!"

There were low chuckles amongst the men crowded into the longboat as it was shoved into the surf. Once afloat, it was marginally safer. Certainly they were no longer stationary targets. Roundshot slapped into the water or skipped over the sloping beach, and there were a couple screams as men were felled. All the same, Quinn's well-timed jibe was just what they needed. A little bit of humour amidst such pressing danger seldom went awry.

"Free me hands up, mate?" McIntyre muttered to the seaman sitting beside him. "Lad can't fight for his ship bound up, can he?"

In a moment, the cordage bonds were gone. One less thing to worry about. McIntyre accepted his musket back with a nod and checked that the muzzle was still stoppered. Now all they had to worry about was the long, hard pull to reach their ship. Cornwall's defenders would have plenty of time to prepare their resistance. Boarding nets, small arms, perhaps even grenades. It would be half a miracle if they could make it up onto her weather deck once they reached her. If they reached her. McIntyre glanced at the men crammed into the boat and had to smile. They'd make their own bloody miracle.

Quinn's lighthearted quip came back to mind. A merry wee outing indeed!

~

The first shot from the gun on the beach roused George Swift with a start. He had been standing sentry by the bell and, despite the drowning downpour and heaving sea, had nearly fallen asleep. Upon hearing that distinctive bang, however, he was brought fully awake. There weren't many reasons for that shore gun to be firing. Movement from aft meant that others had been awakened as well, but as the only man officially on duty topside, it fell to Swift to give the necessary command.

"Fetch a drum!" He called aft. "Beat to quarters!"

It was something he had to do, but not something he liked doing. Ever since leaving Edgar Tomilson ashore early that morning, Swift had been thinking hard about his own loyalties. The mistake of joining the mutineers was one he had no hope of recovering from, but he could perhaps help tip the balance in favour of the lads ashore, if he was careful. Very careful, he amended when he saw Dan Wiles come bursting on deck as the drum's unsteady rattling began. If there was one man aboard who needed sorting, it was Dan Wiles

"Larboard battery, cast loose your guns! Light along! You idlers there! To the arms locker, take your muskets!" Wiles had taken only a few seconds to study the beach through a night-glass before rapping out his own orders. This was something he'd planned for. Boarding nets had been rigged earlier in the day, before the storm, and small arms tubs at the base of the mainmast stocked afresh. Cornwall was ready to repel any attackers.

When those attackers would come was anyone's guess, however. There was no way of knowing what was happening on the beach. It was too dark and the weather too poor. Swift wondered how that shore gun had even managed to fire, in all this rain. He shivered beneath his oilskin and glanced down at the half-hour glass. It needed turning. He tapped a finger against the water-dappled glass then turned it over. The brass bell pealed three times. Two paired rings and a single. Three bells.

It seemed that he'd scarcely released the bellrope when the shore gun began firing again. This time, however, it was no harmless warning shot. Even through the thick curtain of rain, Swift could see the faint flicker of muzzle flash. It looked to him like the gun had been shifted to aim toward the anchored rebel brigs. He felt a quiver of elation in his heart. Certainly the Yankees wouldn't fire on their own vessels. That had to be the captured Cornwalls making a breakout attack. Good luck, you lads!

"Keep them starboard gunports closed!" Wiles bellowed down the aft ladder. "Larboard battery! Fire as you bear!"

The deck beams beneath Swift's feet trembled as the first guns belched out iron and flame. He could only wonder if the gun captains had any real idea what they were firing at. Moments later, the two Yankee brigs were likewise firing. At first, they concentrated their smaller guns on the beach, but then Swift noticed that the muzzle flashes were turning toward Cornwall herself. From overhead came the telltale whine of roundshot passing through the rigging, followed closely by the crash of iron against the frigate's hull.

"They turned on us!" Swift bellowed, unable somehow to believe it. What the hell were those beggars doing? Did they think the frigate's scattering of crew were attacking them? They must do. There was no other explanation for it. Ungrateful bastards!

Wiles was in motion, running the full length of the pitching deck toward the foc's'le. He seemed heedless of the roundshot coming at them from the two brigs. "Secure yer guns!" He was shouting. "Secure yer guns! All hands on deck for makin' sail! All hands, all hands!"

What the hell was Wiles doing? Attempting to sail in this weather? Even Swift, a hopeless lubber, knew that to be an impossible risk. They were more likely to be driven straight ashore than they were to make any clean escape from the bay's confines. Madness or not, sailors were springing aloft, what few of them there were. There was already a noticeable shift in the frigate's roll as the anchor cable, deep in the bowels of the ship, began parting. Wiles, having started them on this treacherous course, dashed aft again, where he and two sailors took hold of the wheel.

"T'gallants! Main an' fore! Main an' fore!" Rutland, the sole boatswain's mate aboard, had to cup his hands to his mouth in order to be heard over the howling wind. "Smartly now, dammit!"

Abruptly, the deck heaved and the frigate was in motion, seemingly uncontrollably. She was at the mercy of the great crashing waves. Waves that were sluicing dangerously through the empty nettings in which hammocks were normally packed. Nor was the unsettled sea their only danger. A lucky ball smashed against the side, just forrard of the quarterdeck steps, and in an instant the redcoated figure who'd been hauling on a brace there was gone.

"Cable's parted!" George Durham cried, heading aft with an axe in hand. Others were hard on his heels. They wasted no time lending their strength to the work of helping set sheets, at Wiles' urgent direction. Chances were it wouldn't be enough, for it seemed to Swift that the wind and waves were driving them toward the shoreline. They'd go aground if they were lucky. If not, they'd strike a hidden reef and founder. And for what?

"Take a reef, damn yer eyes, Rutland! We'll not lose any canvas 'cause you ain't thinkin'!"

"Reef t'gallants! Lively there! Reef t'gallants!"

It was in that moment Swift realised Wiles had no true idea of what he was doing. He couldn't. The thundering of loose canvas overhead was sign enough to him that the attempt to put to sea in this wind was a failure before it even started. There weren't enough sailors aboard to make it work. "We'll be aground in a minute!" Swift called, wishing now more than ever that he'd stayed ashore with Tomilson. "What've you got us into?"

Whether or not Wiles heard him was impossible to judge. Perhaps it didn't matter. Swift clenched his jaw in frustration. He had no doubt Wiles would see them wrecked and drowned in his foolish attempt to run. And for what end? Such was Swift's anger that he was about to quit his post and try his luck at convincing Rutland to countermand Wiles' orders. That was until there was a harsh cry from up forrard.

"Bay fallin' away off larboard!"

By God. Swift blinked and looked away to larboard, but it was impossible to see what the lookout had reported. How had they done it? The feat defied all belief. If it was true, however - this thought was interrupted suddenly by the terrible sound of wood splintering, high above. Someone shouted a wordless warning but it was too late. The sickening crunch of failing timber was accompanied by the thunderclap of parting cordage.

"Main t'gallant's carried away!"

Swift had time for no more than a sharp curse before a heavy block struck him almost squarely on the head. He was knocked sprawling, instantly unconscious. The deadly block was followed immediately by an equally-lethal snarl of torn rigging, to the end of which was attached the main t'gallant yard. Another man was crushed by the heavy yard, while two more were tangled up in the slithering ends of cordage and dragged over the side when the fallen yard went into the sea. There was a half-panicked rush to hack at the wreckage and thereby free it before it could drag the whole ship onto its beam. The safety of the ship took top priority. It would not be until some minutes after the fallen yard had been cut loose that Swift's body was discovered beneath the now-harmless maze of ruined cordage.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, it was then that Dan Wiles gave the order to drop their starboard anchor and take in the remaining sail. The brush with disaster had taken the mad will to run entirely out of him. Soaked, bruised, and weary, the crew were permitted to go below. Wiles himself remained on the quarterdeck, staring out into the stormy darkness, content at least that he had taken the frigate out of range of the brigs' guns. At length, feeling on the verge of falling asleep on his feet, he too retired to his hammock, leaving the weather deck deserted. It was wiser, he thought, to wait until the storm had blown itself out before making any further attempt to work the ship. Surely they were safe enough now, anyway.

~

They had been fighting against the unpredictable waves for what seemed like hours, struggling to keep from broaching or swamping. Progress was impossible to judge, for there were no good landmarks visible anywhere. Only the muzzle flashes away to starboard gave the gasping, cursing barge crew any indication of where they were. There had been some firing from nearly dead ahead, but that had stopped shortly after it had begun. Of course the furthest ship in the bay would have to be the one they were bound for. But in this surf, Gwynn Vaughan could only wonder if they could ever make it there. The sputtering oarsmen were hard-pressed to keep the longboat afloat, never mind propel her over every cresting wave.

Vaughan clutched at the thin haft of his spade, the only weapon he had been able to lay hands on, and wondered precisely how Captain Leaford meant to retake Cornwall with so few, poorly armed men. There was no way of even knowing if any of them could make it up the side without being washed away into the sea. For his part, Vaughan did not relish the climb up the side-ladder. This whole plan was nothing more than one hopeless fool's errand.

"Ship ahoay!" A seaman the bow cried out, his voice carrying over the incessant chant of commands from the hard-pressed coxswain. "Away there to larboard!"

The reaction from Captain Leaford, sitting impossibly upright in the sternsheets, was immediate. "How far? What is she doing?"

"Can't tell, sir," came the reply. " 'Bout five cables distant, I reckons."

"Pull for it! Bend your backs, damn you all!" It seemed that Leaford hardly cared for anything but reaching Cornwall. Not even the safety of the men who would have to fight to regain control of the frigate. The selfish fool. Vaughan stared into the water-choked darkness and thought he saw the faint outline of a ship, away slightly to larboard as the man in the bow had said.

"Hold water, all! Hold! Bailers, quit yer slackin'!" The coxswain's voice fell over their ears with the same numbing regularity as the waves themselves. The grunting, straining oarsmen braced themselves up by jamming their bare feet against the back of the man ahead of them, doing their utmost to keep their oars locked and steady in the water. Seconds later, the longboat peaked and begin a sharp descent down the wave's back. "Give way forrard, all! Mind yer stroke there! Forrard, steady! Pull together!"

The Welshman shook his head. The oarsmen were exhausted. However long a time spent clawing their way through the ever-shifting sea to get this far... it had been a miracle all its own. He could not imagine the poor lads had it in them to last another five cables. It was a tremendous distance. There was scarcely a man in the boat who wasn't working in some way. Whether the oarsmen at their looms or those with makeshift bailers, doing their best to keep the longboat from swamping. Vaughan himself employed his spade in this latter exercise. But was it enough?

"The lads are spent, sir," Mister Alderbury reported. The second luff had, unbelievably, relieved a man at his oar and now pulled at the loom himself. "They'll not hold much longer!"

Leaford glared at Mister Alderbury first, then at the panting oarsmen. "Pull, you lubbers, or be damned to you all! I shall not lose my ship again because of your weakness!"

Not for the first time, Vaughan found himself wishing Leaford would get washed overboard and drowned. The crew would be much better off without the sea officer. Of that he was sure. Leaford had certainly been no help during the initial breakout. Slave-driving bastard. Maybe one of the turncoats would do them all a favour and shoot the man when they attempted their cutting-out.

"Ship's come about, sir!" The bowman called over his shoulder. "She ain't makin' way, by look've it."

"Pull!" If he could have, Leaford might have ordered the boat to grow wings. "Pull for all you're worth!"

To Vaughan's surprise, Mister Alderbury laughed. "Every man aboard here'll have a drink paid from my own pocket when we're back in English Harbour! Now pull, you devils, if you got the heart!"

The men in the boat, Vaughan included, raised a thin cheer. Mister Alderbury's promise was a far more motivating thing than Captain Leaford's recriminations. Could they do it? Could they reach Cornwall? Vaughan set to work again bailing water from the bottomboards as best he could with his spade, determined to do his best to help the longboat's chances.

Up the backside of one wave, then down into the trough at the base of another. It was a constant, dizzying, disorienting cycle. But the bowman had been able to see that the ship ahead of them was not underway. That meant they were closer. Didn't it? Vaughan flung another spadeful of water over the side, only to find more still sloshing about his legs. If they didn't finally swamp, he would be eternally grateful - for, like most of the men in the crew, he could not swim.

"Back - " the coxswain began to shout, but was cut off mid-sentence. Someone else cried out in alarm when the longboat's larboard bow and several oars smashed flush into the sturdy hull of the ship they had been pulling toward. How had the bowman not seen how near they were? Vaughan had no time to think on it. The impact sent the longboat tipping away, helped along by a rising wave.

"Jump for it!" A third voice called.

There weren't many other options. Vaughan did not jump so much as he was thrown over the gunwale. He was not the only one. Most of the longboat's crew were similarly dunked. Several were carried away by the tossing waves, while others were dashed up against the frigate's hull. The longboat itself had turned turtle and was borne away from the ship, with two men clinging desperately to the ridge of keel. There was no helping them.

"Man-ropes!" Mister Alderbury's voice carried over the choking wails for help, somehow. "Paddle for the side, there are man-ropes!"

Vaughan was dunked under and swallowed a mouthful of stinging sea-water before he was able to right himself. He'd kept his grip on the spade and now used it as an oar, propelling himself toward the ship's side. There were indeed man-ropes trailing down the side. Man-ropes and boarding nets, but the former dangled all the way into the water. It was possible to pull one's self up without being overly impeded by the nets.

It was better not to think too hard about the possible reasons for the man-ropes being out. Anything to get himself safely back onto the solid deck of a ship was a good thing. He let the spade go and began hauling himself up the side, hand over hand, nearly sobbing from a mixture of relief and nerves. Hands grabbed hold of the back of his coat when at last he dragged himself over the rail and sank to the deck in a heap.

"C'mon," a rough voice hissed in his ear. "They ain't nobody else on deck. Fetch a sword from yon tub an' let's get these buggers!"

Sword. Right. Vaughan coughed on some lingering sea-water in his throat and let himself be hauled to his feet. He needed no urging to stagger toward the mainmast, where small arms tubs were indeed lashed down. This was becoming more and more strange. Kit Davenport was waving urgently from near the aft companionway. Strange or not, they had to get below and subdue the turncoats, before any concerted resistance could be made.

Three sailors and another Marine were ahead of Vaughan in the hurry to follow Davenport below. They could not leave him without help. Mister Alderbury had gathered a couple men at the forrard ladder. Of Captain Leaford, nothing was immediately seen. Not that Vaughan was of any mind to be concerned with the sea officer's whereabouts. Gripping his sword and stealing himself for a very hard fight, he headed quickly down the ladder after his mates.

The first turncoat he saw when he reached the messdeck was a dead one. Just as well. Sparing the man no second glance, Vaughan pressed forward into the panicked crush of bodies. Several of the traitors had thrown their hands into the air, pleading for quarter. Others were struggling to free themselves from their hammocks in order to fight. Davenport took a slash from a short knife and fell, tripping up the sailors following hard on his heels. The second Marine - young Mattie Barrett - was quick to hack the knife-wielding turncoat down with a boarding axe.

Vengeful challenges dominated the shouting. Now that they were crossing blades with the men who'd betrayed them, the boarders were determined to get some of their own back. And why wouldn't they, Vaughan thought fiercely, as he kicked a whimpering, surrendering sailor aside. This lot couldn't expect to get away without some form of retribution. Certainly a sword to the guts was the least they deserved!

"Sergeant Devlin!" Someone was yelling. "Where the bleedin' hell is Sergeant Devlin?"

"C'mere, Durham, you sneakin' bastard!"

"Show a leg, Joe Cairn! Don't be hidin' like some frit wee lass! I'll not kill'ee, yet!"

A pistol barked and someone cheered. "That'll serve you, won't it? Your soul to hell, mate!"

Vaughan stumbled over the spilled contents of an overturned sea-chest and thereby avoided having his head clove in two by a wild-eyed seaman with a hanger. A Marine following close behind him swiftly applied a cutlass blade to the turncoat's midriff. By the time he recovered his footing, the melee was largely over. It didn't seem as though the mutineers had had much heart in them to resist to begin with. Overpowering them, even with only the few men who'd made it up the side, had not been the impossible task Vaughan had feared.

"Colours are struck!" It was Mister Alderbury again, forcing his way through the dwindling resistance. "The ship is ours!"

Cheers erupted. At last. Cornwall was theirs again. Vaughan threw an arm around Mattie Barrett's shoulders, grinning stupidly in his relief. It was an unexpectedly easy victory, but he was not about to care. They had secured their ship and that was the important thing. Now all they had to do was set the frigate to rights, fish out the lads in the water if they could, retrieve their mates ashore, then send those damned rebel brigs to the bottom.

"Good to be home, ain't it?"

Barrett huffed wearily, then managed a faltering smile. "Shame we left such bloody bad housekeepers behind, though. Lookit the mess they given us!"

"Clear away these prisoners. Secure 'em in the middies' berth. Not him, though. He's for the irons. Cut along now, you lot. Plenny of work to be doin'." Mister Colburn was making his way along the messdeck, surveying the damage with a critical eye. "This is a King's ship, not a stinkin' Yankee trawler. Lively there, Murray!"

Vaughan and Barrett exchanged bemused grins before setting their weapons aside so they could help. There was indeed plenty of work to be doing, as the boatswain's mate had termed it. Work that somehow seemed far from the usual drudgery. For once, even Vaughan didn't mind it. Why should he? Cornwall was a King's ship again.