City of Glory (64 page)

Joyful knew the Irishman’s plan. “Can you get there in time?”

“Don’t know. And say I do, you any notion o’ what you’ll do once we have ’em trapped?” O’Toole nodded toward the deck and the open crate with the lonely three muskets and the five musket balls between them.

Joyful clutched his longest scalpel. There were two more in his pocket. “Cut out Gornt Blakeman’s heart, he said.”

The wide curve of Wallabout Bay came into sight a ways ahead to starboard. No sign of the schooner yet, but they still had a fair distance to go, and no end of trouble possible on the way. O’Toole tacked slightly to larboard to avoid the shallows, then beat upriver as near to shore as he dared. He was close-hauled now, taking full advantage of the wind, and the men pulled the sheets as taut as their strength would allow, then tauter still. O’Toole felt every muscle afire as he leaned into the wheel, willing the ship to move faster. She raced up the reach. Nearly there. He let her fall off the wind a bit so she slowed some. Not much, but enough. “North by northeast, three degrees,” O’Toole murmured.
Lisbetta
slipped into the bay.

“
Un moment,
whistler,” Tintin called softly. They were nearing the end of the inlet; Wallabout Bay was dead ahead, then it was only a short run to the Inner Harbor and beyond to the open sea. They would go someplace to regroup, Blakeman said. Hartford, or perhaps Providence. But they must get out of the harbor first. Then nothing to worry about but the small annoyance of the patrols of the
diabolique
British navy. “Soon now, whistler. Make ready to hoist the flag.”

Tompkins took hold of the line that would send the black flag to the top of the mast, and felt a cold hand in the pit o’ his stomach. Twenty years being feared to death o’ the sight o’ the Jolly Roger, it was hard to imagine he was sailing under the skull and crossbones now. He looked toward the mouth of the inlet. Jesus God Almighty! There was a ship blocking the way to the bay, come like a spirit out o’ the night. He pursed his lips to whistle the danger away, but his mouth was so dry it wasn’t possible.

At the wheel Tintin saw the sloop racing to block his exit from the inlet. He held his course, trying to force her to change tack. She didn’t waiver, just kept coming.

Blakeman, spyglass in hand, had been on deck since they left the cove. He’d thought to go below as soon as they cleared the inlet. Get the girl. Have her so she’d know there was no way—Christ! “It’s Finbar O’Toole,” he shouted at Tintin. “And Joyful Turner. We’re twice their size. Take ’em on!”

Tintin had spread only about half his available sail, waiting to hoist his jib and his top gallants until he reached the open sea. The schooner was more maneuverable this way, but considerably slower. For the moment the sloop had greater speed, and it looked as if she were prepared to enter the inlet and ram
Le Carcajou
with her extended bowsprit. The schooner, however, had to have a shallower draft, and she certainly outweighed
Lisbetta
by at least fifty tons. “Come ahead,
Irlandais!
” he shouted. “We will swallow you and shit you out our arse.”

For a time it seemed that was exactly what
Lisbetta
would do. Then, at the last possible second, O’Toole swung the wheel so he was scudding for the bay’s far shore.

“What’s he doing?” Blakeman shouted.

“He makes ready to swing back and cover the inlet’s mouth and take all our wind. He is not a fool, this
Irlandais.
He does not wish to take up such a position with his nose pointed at the lee shore.”

“Can you outrace him?”

“Regretfully,
mon ami, non.
The wind has shifted again. It favors him, not us.”

“Then what are you going to—”

Tintin ignored him, shouting instead to his crew. “
Préparez-vous monter à bord!
Prepare to board!”

Two crewman rushed a wooden catwalk into position between the bowsprit and the forecastle. Five others armed their pistols.

The wind was still from the south, but stiffer now, heralding a summer squall. “Come about!” O’Toole shouted, no longer afraid to be heard. He swung the wheel so hard to larboard the friction tore a strip of skin from his palms.
Lisbetta
responded by catching the wind and heeling hard over. Andrew and Will Farrell, who had never been aboard a ship, both lost their footing.

Joyful stopped his cousin’s slide with his foot and grabbed the lookout by the collar of his Devrey livery. “Andrew! Are you hurt?”

“No, not a bit.” Andrew seized the gunwale and hauled himself to his feet. “Look! We’re blocking them!”

Lisbetta,
her nose pointing toward the exit from the bay to the river beyond, lay across the mouth of the inlet, taking the wind of
Le Carcajou.
The sails of the pirate schooner went limp, but the open-mouthed beast that was her figurehead was not eight feet from the sloop, and the end of her bowsprit overhung
Lisbetta
’s deck. Joyful’s chest felt banded by iron and rivulets of sweat dripped down his back.

“Maintenant, mes amis!”
At Tintin’s shout the Jolly Roger was run up the mast, and a pair of men rose on the bowsprit and dropped onto the deck of the sloop. Two muskets fired. One pirate fell, his skull shattering in a spray of blood and bone.

Joyful launched himself at the second pirate. The man carried a cutlass in one hand and a pistol in the other. The cutlass dropped to the deck as Joyful’s body made contact and the pistol went off over his shoulder. He felt his scalpel bite deep into the pirate’s belly and heard the man’s scream as it ripped upward. Joyful fell back and his foot struck something lying on the deck. He looked down and saw Jesse Edwards with a bullet through the middle of his forehead. The boy had come up behind him, obviously intending to help take down the boarders. Damn you to everlasting hell, Gornt Blakeman.

Three more pirates shimmied swiftly along
Le Carcajou
’s bowsprit and dropped to the deck. Danny Parker picked up the dropped cutlass and one of the tars fired the third musket, but the ball went astray and did no good. The other two had managed to reload with the remaining two musket balls, and one ended the life of a pirate by plowing into his chest at point-blank range. The other smashed uselessly into the side of the ship.

There was no sign of Blakeman, or Manon. Two more pirates dropped to the deck of the
Lisbetta
and raced forward. Joyful heard the sounds of fighting behind him. He climbed onto the sloop’s gunwale, found his balance, then put the scalpel between his teeth. He stretched his right hand toward the bowsprit of
Le Carcajou,
and launched himself into the air, hanging on to the sturdy spar with his single hand. Praying he wouldn’t lose his grip, Joyful swung his body forward and back on his right arm, willing the momentum to increase the range of movement, forcing his strained muscles to give him enough speed to reach the bowsprit with his legs. Two attempts failed, but the third time he got one leg around the wood and was able to hoist the other to meet it. At last he could get his left arm into position to do some good. The added leverage allowed him to twist onto the topside of the spar and begin inching forward on his belly.

A pirate came toward him, so intent on maintaining his balance that he didn’t see Joyful at his feet. Joyful swung his heavy sand-stuffed glove at the pirate’s ankles, and the man fell screaming into the water.

A catwalk at the end of the bowsprit led to the forecastle. Joyful got to his feet and took another scalpel from his pocket. The first remained gripped in his teeth. He ran onto the deck and two bodies hurtled toward him. Joyful lashed out with the scalpel and felt it slice through cloth and into flesh.

“Merde!”
Tintin jumped back as hot blood began pumping from his shoulder wound, then sprang forward again, his cutlass slashing but cutting through nothing but air. The force of his lunge carried him across the deck, and by the time he turned around, he saw Joyful Turner and Gornt Blakeman locked in combat, outlined by the light of the moon.

Blakeman had already discharged his pistol. The shot had gone astray and he’d dropped the useless weapon. He was heavier than Joyful, and he had two hands. But he was considerably older, and the younger man had both speed and stamina on his side. Blakeman came in close, wrapping one arm around Joyful’s neck, and tried to bury his dagger in the other man’s gut. Joyful swung the black glove at the side of Blakeman’s head, putting the full range of his height behind the move. The blow connected, and Blakeman broke his hold and staggered back, then lunged once more.

Tintin, the front of his shirt soaked in blood, ran toward the two men, swinging his cutlass. Joyful moved aside and the pirate hurtled past them, then turned and came again. The pirate opened his mouth to shout, but what came out was not a war cry but the gurgling sound of death; he dropped to the deck, the severed artery in his shoulder having starved his heart of blood. Joyful kicked the pirate’s body away and lunged for Blakeman. He still had the scalpel in his teeth, and he dropped his head. He felt the blade cut into the other man’s cheek, and at the same time took a glancing blow to the forearm from Blakeman’s dagger. Both men ignored their wounds and grappled again, fighting to maintain footing on a deck now slick with blood.

The silence on
Le Carcajou
was broken only by the grunts of Joyful and Blakeman, but the sound of clashing blades and shouts came from the
Lisbetta.
A door opened from amidships of the schooner, and a shaft of yellow lantern light fell across the wolverine’s deck. Joyful was half aware of another figure come to join the battle, and knew that whoever it was would fight on Blakeman’s side, not his. He heard the crack of the whip and managed to swing his body to one side, forcing Blakeman to move in a half circle, and scream out in pain as the lash caught him full on the back.

The stinging hurt and the force of the blow caused Blakeman’s head to jerk upwards, hitting Joyful full in the chin. The scalpel he’d kept clenched between his teeth dropped and skittered across the deck. He ignored the pain, knowing he had a second, maybe two, of the barest advantage, and that if he didn’t use it he was a dead man. He lunged once more. This time the scalpel he held bit deep and he ripped upwards through resisting muscle and flesh, but was forced to let go of the weapon and fling himself backward to avoid the whipper’s lash.

Blakeman reeled and fell against the ship’s side, instinctively struggling to tear the scalpel from his side, widening the wound as he did so. Vinegar Clifford flicked his arm and the whip snaked toward Joyful. He knew he did not have the strength to keep fleeing Clifford’s lash. If the whipper chased him across the deck of the schooner, the whip would eventually win. Joyful hurled himself toward the long leather thong and fell on it, rolling toward the whipper as he did so.

Clifford howled in rage as his weapon was immobilized, then used every bit of his strength to pull free. Joyful kept rolling toward him, until the full force of his body weight yanked the handle of the whip from Clifford’s hand and the whipper suddenly careened backwards. Joyful was on his knees now, and he flung himself at Clifford, head-butting him directly in the belly at the same moment that the whipper’s out-of-control body made contact with the ship’s rail. Dried out from years of pirate neglect, it splintered and gave way, and Clifford fell overboard.

Joyful stopped his own forward motion by grabbing hold of a line stretched from a deck-mounted block and tackle to one of the sails, hanging on and gasping for air. He heard Clifford shout, his voice rising from the surface of the water fourteen feet below. Something about not being able to swim. Joyful turned his head, checking to see if either the pirate or Blakeman had gotten up and was coming for him, but both lay motionless on the deck. Bile rose in him and he could do nothing but retch for what seemed like an age. Finally, he got to his feet and staggered toward the opening that led below. “Manon! Manon! Where are you?”

He hadn’t thought to detach the lantern at the top of the ladderway, and the dark of the lower deck was relieved only by thin shafts of starlight coming through the occasional porthole. “Manon!”