Blue Sail

By Aaron S Gallagher

In the crystal waters of the Caribbean seas, a predator stalks unwary merchant ships.

The notorious pirate Piter Vierling freely plunders these and other vessels. Possessed of the ability to hide in plain sight, Vierling and his crew are challenged on the open sea. In Port Royal, Jamaica, a British captain is entreated to stop him.

Captain Iago Haken, armed with a new type of warship, undertakes to stop Vierling once and for all.

Royal engineer Gwendolyn Sweet, designer of Haken's wondrous new vessel, is overseeing the maiden voyage of her creation.

As the confrontation draws closer, each of them will be changed in ways they could never suspect.

And so will their world.

The Golden Age of Piracy is over.

The Iron Age of Piracy has only just begun.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Indies United Publishing House, LLC
• Release date: Mar 18, 2020
• ISBN: 9781644561096

Aaron S Gallagher

Aaron S Gallagher was born in Syracuse, New York and currently resides in Leander, Texas with his long-suffering wife, three rowdy teenagers, and a thoroughly indifferent cat. His writing career began at a young age after he annexed an old mechanical typewriter from his mother.His work has appeared in Analog Science Fiction & Fact, Ares Magazine, and Escape Pod. He has received both a semi-finalist and honorable mention in the L. Ron Hubbard Writers of the Future contest. His previous novel, The Mercer Street Murder, won the Book Talk Radio Club Award for Best in Crime Fiction 2018. In between haranguing magazine editors he also wrote 17 books and refuses to stop. His genres include crime fiction, science fiction, and drama.He prefers to read deep stories populated with characters that develop and breathe on their own, and endeavors to write the same. His goal is to create new worlds, compelling characters, and to bring something unique into the world.

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The Iron Age of Piracy

Book One: Blue Sail

Aaron S Gallagher

The Iron Age of Piracy Book One: Blue Sail ©2020 by Aaron S Gallagher. All Rights Reserved.

Published by Indies United Publishing House, LLC

All rights reserved worldwide. No part of this publication may be replicated, redistributed, or given away in any form without the prior written consent of the author/publisher or the terms relayed to you herein. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

Cover designed by Aaron S Gallagher

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Visit my website at www.aaronsgallagher.com

www.indiesunited.net

Printed in the United States of America 

First Printing: March 2020

Library of Congress Control Number: 2020932348

ISBN 13: 978-1-64456-109-6

Indies United Publishing House, LLC

P.O. Box 3071

Quincy, Illinois 62301

www.indiesunited.net

This book is dedicated to Ian Bullard,

one of my oldest friends,

who helps in ways he cannot possibly imagine.

♦

PART I

♦

♦

The soft and clear creak and squeal of rope and sail, the sound of the deck flexing, the palpable thump of sail cupping the scant breath of wind. These sounds and no others, for they were under orders, and his crew always obeyed orders or they suffered mightily for it.

He peered through the tiny rip he’d made in the canvas with the point of his dagger, watching, gauging, and calculating. He gestured with his left hand, and his Quartermaster, Quail, came to him silently. Quail bent his gaunt head close to his captain’s lips.

Have Master Gunner Chase make ready. Five minutes, more or less. Drop cloth at my signal. Prepare for the battle, the Captain whispered. His lips barely moved, and the words carried only an inch or so, more breathed than spoken.

Quail nodded and turned, taking care to make not a sound. The board beneath his foot creaked and he froze. His Captain’s head turned and his emerald eyes stared. Slowly Quail lifted his foot from the offending wood and continued. He made his way across deck and whispered the order to the barrel-chested gunny.

Chase nodded gravely and gave hand signals to his powder boys. They held shielded and shuttered oil lamps and fuses, ready to light and touch off powder on the deck guns.

The captain peered through the cloth again and waited, a smile slowly spreading across his thin lips.

♦

It had been a long crossing, but the warmer climes and gentle weather had cheered everyone immensely. Three weeks in Port Royal had seen them fill the hold with cargo and rotate the crew off-board for some well-deserved mischief-making, but they were back at the sail again, and the time for merry-making had ended.

Bosun Rodigo took his posting very seriously, and he had designs on his own captaincy within five or ten years. He glanced at the horizon. It was a beautiful calm day, bright and hot, the sun almost directly overhead. Lunch would be soon, and he grinned in anticipation. They had caught a turtle just three hours previous, and the heady aroma of soup had spread throughout the ship. The bells sounded, and he clapped his hands thrice. All hands! he shouted, begin-

Movement caught his eye and he cast a glance again off the port side of the ship. His mouth dropped open, eyes popping. A ship appeared, seeming to shimmer into view like a mirage, the gentle blue sky rippling and revealing the broad side of a clipper.

Before the bosun could even shout a warning, the clipper’s guns bellowed, the explosion dashing him to the deck. Agony flared along his ribs and he stared down in disbelief. A shattered length of spar protruded from his ribs, the white flowing shirt he wore puckered into the edges of the wound, wicking blood outward in a ragged star pattern. He sucked in a single breath and died, wondering where in hell that ship had come from.

♦

Upon hearing the first chime of the noon bell, the Captain had dropped his arm. Quartermaster Quail crossed and uncrossed his arms over his head at the men in the rigging, and those men each threw a ten-pound ball tied in a basket of knots over the top line.

A line had been strung from the tip of the bowsprit to the end of the main boom, and ran the length of the ship’s spine, over the top of all the masts. It served a single purpose: to hold a ship’s-length of painted sailcloth over the entire broadside of the ship. Midnight black sail on the ship-facing side, the outward-facing side of the cloth had been painted a deep azure- remarkably close to the shade of sky under which they now sailed. The cannonballs heaved over the line from the lee side pulled the cloth from that bow-to-stern line, and ensured that it dropped with the swift suddenness of a closing curtain at a theater. The three cannonballs bounced over the side and splashed into the crystal waters, pulling the sail from the ship with it. Barrels attached to the ends would assure the sail recoverable in the aftermath of the coming battle.

  The very instant the giant cloth cleared the bow, the Master Gunner nodded at his boys. Twisted hemp wicks were lit at hooded flames, and touched more or less simultaneously to the bared breeches- and the guns boomed and jumped in their harnesses.

The powder monkeys leaped to their work- with haste but no wasted effort- clearing and reloading the six deck guns to be ready for the next volley. The eight-pound cannon took considerable muscle and movement to reload. It would be nearly five minutes before they were ready to fire once again- but the nine longs on the second deck below were ready to fire at once.

All six shots had landed, and the upper deck of the merchant ship Alcott heaved, smoked, splintered, and bucked as the round shot tore through the wood like paper, casting men and wreckage into the air like so much confetti.

The Captain leaped to his rail, one hand finding purchase in the rigging without conscious thought. Master Chase- again! he barked.

"Below-guns fire!" Chase bellowed, and the nine cannons fired almost at once, the smoke and noise enveloping the crew. The side of Alcott burst and buckled, and the screams carried, even from a quarter-mile off. The Captain grinned, turned to his Master of Sail, and inclined his head in a respectful gesture.

Master Gibb, if you please, the Captain called, alongside.

Aye, sir, Gibb called. He spun the black and gold wheel before him, judging correctly by eye the angle needed to cut in and broadside the crippled merchant vessel.

Quail appeared at his captain’s side. Your orders, sir? he called too loudly. Quail was a steady hand and an even taskmaster, and there was none finer at the keeping of a vessel, but he tended to get excited in times of stress. The Captain turned to him with a fierce grin.

Prepare to board yon ripe fruit, Mr. Quail, the Captain told him. He could feel the flames of battle rising within his breast. He well understood how Quail could lose control of himself, but he would never reveal such a kindred burning, nor show it. He placed a hand on his cutlass. I’ll be leading them myself.

Aye, sir, Quail growled. Shall I-

"You know your duties, Quartermaster," the Captain admonished.

Quail scowled, his stubble-grayed cheeks contorting. Aye, sir, was his only reply. Quail had sailed with his captain for nigh on two years now, and knew his habits. He’d not let his men plunge headlong into danger without himself at their head. Not out of any sense of duty or leadership, but because he wanted the fun for himself. Quail shook his head and turned to the deck. Boarders ready! You there, stand fast! Prepare the grapples!

Six men with oversized hooks and lines stood to the rail, waiting for the ships to be close enough to heave. It was tricky, dangerous work to bind two ships together. While the heaving and pulling were simple, it left the men open to return fire by musket and pistol, not to mention cannon. Rifle-armed covermen stood beside each grapple-bearer, and between the grapplemen, the riflemen, and the powder-monkeys working diligently to reload the deck six, the rail was crowded and full of elbows and muttered curses.

Gibb maneuvered the ship closer. He barked an order at Davy Missive, the desk bosun. Kee’ ready on th’ sails, lad, prepare to drop all aught!

Aye, sir, Missive nodded, eyes fixed to the merchant vessel being drawn near. They were still shipping water, and needed to match speed with the vessel in order to stay side-by-side.

"Now, blast ye, Gibb growled in his throaty hasp. Drop all but the topsail!"

Aye, sir! Missive called to his own charges. You there! And you! Douse sail! Douse sail, you dogs! Douse now! All but tops’l! Lively now!

Hands ran out lines and sails slack-bellied in the rigging as they dropped wind and slowed the ship. Quail judged the distance, and nodded to himself. You lot, cast out! Cast out, and make fast!

The grapplemen hauled and heaved, and six heavy iron hooks arced through the air. One of the hooks cast short, bounced off the Alcott’s hull, and splashed into the sea. Chagrinned, the man heaved on his line, desperate to pull in his grapple before the ships converged. The other five gripped the lines tightly and heaved, turning backs to the merchant vessel and throwing their weight to the rope. Ragged, asynchronous cracks filled the air as the riflemen fired at the responding crew of Alcott.

There came a slow thump and a grind as the two vessels collided and clung. The Captain stood astride the rail, drew his cutlass, and called, Ahoy the vessel! Parlay! Captain to captain! You’re wounded but seaworthy for the moment! My guns are readied and the word can be given! Ahoy the captain! Parlay- for your lives!

The Alcott captain’s voice rang out over the screams, the groans, the bustle of orders, from the flying bridge of Alcott. A guarantee of safe passage! I require-

I couldn’t give a toss what you require, my good man! the Captain called. "This is the Captain of Der Tiegel! Lay down arms and you’ll be spared!"

A moment of silence and then, Your word, Captain! Your word my men will be- bloody hell! What ship? What ship did you say?

The Captain allowed himself a tight grin, a fierce, cheerful moment. He savored the taste of victory, knowing the moment he announced his ship’s name that the captain of Alcott had frozen in place, heart growing cold and still.

"I said the name of my vessel is Der Tiegal!" the Captain called joyously.

Bloody ‘ell, a second voice came, fear echoing through the din. "The Cauldron! The bloody Cauldron, out of Tortuga, it’s only the-"

Be silent, you grub! the first voice commanded. Through the smoke and gunpowder, clearing now in the gentle breeze, a figure appeared. Dressed in a blue frock coat and a jauntily-feathered hat, it could only be Alcott’s captain. He approached the rail. His hands were empty, though a rapier rode at his side in a polished black scabbard, and a pistol showed in his belt. Be silent all!

The two captains stared at one another from a distance of mere feet. The Alcott’s captain studied his opponent carefully. Finally, he nodded, as if to himself. "If that ship is truly Der Tiegel, then you’d of course be-"

Captain Vierling, the Captain said, sweeping his brandished cutlass in a broad gesture and bowing, but never taking his eyes from his opposite number. Captain Piter Vierling, to be sure. At your service, Captain…

Rutledge, the captain of the Alcott grudgingly admitted. Bastion Rutledge.

Captain Rutledge, Vierling said, please come aboard my ship, that we might negotiate for your ship, crew, and continued safety. Mr. Quail?

Quail brought forth two men with a plank, and they laid it across the gap. Rutledge studied the board for a moment. His second in command came to him. Cap’n, the man said in a low tone. "Ye’ve no need of- we can fight, Cap’n! You-"

Silence, Weatherby, Rutledge said. To Vierling he said, Your word, then, Captain? Safe passage?

Vierling grinned, his pencil-thin moustache and the narrow strip of hair that ran from the bottom of his lower lip to the tip of his chin stretched by his welcoming smile. My word, such as it is, of safe passage- until the conclusion of our negotiations.

Rutledge studied the cap of blond hair and its well-groomed owner. Vierling grinned rakishly, eyes never leaving Rutledge’s own dark steel-colored eyes. Finally, Rutledge nodded. Your word, then. He raised his voice. Stand down, men! Hear me! This is Captain Rutledge! Stand down and be easy. I shall parlay with Captain Vierling! Make no aggressive moves without my say-so!

Rutledge turned to his first mate. Weatherby, I trust you to keep the men in check. Fetch the doctor for those who require him. Arrange the dead, if any, for proper respect later.

"If there is a later," Weatherby groused.

There’s little enough profit in slaughter, Rutledge said to his mate with more confidence than he felt. We shall be released in due time, I’m sure.

Rutledge kept his eyes upon those of Vierling, whose smile never wavered or faltered. Come, Captain, Vierling said with a gesture. There are refreshments in my cabin.

Rutledge hesitated only a bare fraction of a moment before striding over the plank. He stood before Vierling, who sheathed his cutlass and offered a hand. Rutledge took the proffered grip.

Well met, Captain Rutledge. My apologizes for the rough contact. In my experience, no captain will stand down without a show of force, Vierling said, grinning. Rutledge couldn’t help but notice the man’s teeth were straight and blindingly white. One rarely saw teeth so perfect, especially in a sailor’s mouth.

Vierling wore a dark coat of forest green trimmed with lighter green brocade. His narrow, regal frame held the tailored clothing well, from the frock coat to the deep green breeches. He wore polished leather knee-high boots. At his throat was a pendant crafted of fine gold and gemstones. He wore no hat, oddly enough. His blond hair was close-cropped and spiky, short enough to stand in the slight breeze. His eyes were the same shade of green as the brocade of his coat, something Rutledge instinctively knew to be no accident.

A popinjay, obviously, judging by his smooth-shaved cheeks and the carefully-trimmed darker blond hair that rode his lip and chin, the immaculate clothing, and his jaunty manner. A man more concerned with appearance than substance, unless Rutledge missed his mark far off.

Vierling patiently withstood Rutledge’s judging gauze. He didn’t mind a man’s eyes on him, nor did he fear judgment. It often suited his purposes to be filed into a category, for he alone knew to which actual one he belonged, and the wronger his opponents’ opinion, the better his advantage. Eventually, Rutledge bowed his head slightly and strode forward across the deck to the stairs down, heading for the captain’s quarters.

Quail, Vierling murmured.

The old Quartermaster stepped to his captain’s side. Aye? he asked, matching his captain’s quiet tone.

Stay the men. No movement until I give the word, Vierling said.

Aye, sir. No man stirs unless you give the word, Quail agreed.

Vierling settled his merry, volatile eyes upon his Quartermaster. Their ship had never had a first mate. Quail fulfilled those duties and those of quartermaster both, duly elected by the crew, as had been Vierling himself. I never said ‘unless’, Vierling said to Quail. "I distinctly recall the chosen word, and it was no ‘unless.’ I said, ‘until’, did I not, Mister Quail?"

Quail swallowed. He knew Vierling well as you could know a man whose past you didn’t have a guess to. He’d sailed with his captain for two years, and knew when his killing moods were high.

Aye sir, Quail said, far more calmly than he felt. He did his level best to hide the shiver of fear traversing his spine. ’Until.’

Good man, Vierling agreed. He followed Rutledge across decks to the stairs that led to the main deck, and around, into his cabin. The door snapped shut with a soft click. Quail let out his held breath. He made sure not to make a sound, though, for Piter Vierling’s hearing was supernaturally sharp and he had a disturbing tendency to know things he had no natural right to.

Mr. Missive, secure the deck, Quail barked. Master Chase, keep the guns ready. We’re at rest… until Captain says we’re not.

Missive nodded. In the fighting he’d taken a blow to the temple and the side of his face showed drying blood. Quail eyed him. See the doc, Missive, after you’ve stayed the crew to rest.

Missive shrugged. It’s naught but a scratch, sir, I’m able.

Quail scowled. It wasn’t a request, boy, he ground out.

Missive nodded convulsively. Aye, Master Quail. He turned to his work.

Quail kept an eye on the Alcott. The men there moved in sullen, desultory time, clearing the deck and dragging bodies off to the center line. Quail grabbed Missive’s arm. Davy turned to his Quartermaster with a questioning look on his blood-streaked countenance.

Make sure the cover sail doesn’t stay in the water overlong, Mr. Missive. It’ll get heavier the longer it floats. And the last thing we need is to foul in their rudder with our own secret weapon.

Missive nodded. I’ll have some lads pull it to the port and reel, he assured Quail, who nodded.

Good lad, Quail said. Be off now, smartly.

Missive hurried to his duties.

Quail scanned the Alcott’s deck. When Captain Vierling came up-deck, he might want answers. What they might be, Quail couldn’t guess, but if he saw everything, and knew everything, he stood a better chance of answering.

♦

Brandy? Or rum? Vierling asked Rutledge. The two men stood over Vierling’s desk, set by the windows that showed over the stern of the Tiegel. To the left of the desk stood several paper screens of a lacquered paper-and-wood construction Rutledge recognized as oriental. He realized the entire cabin boasted expensive and exceedingly well-crafted goods from all over the world. Rutledge had called at to innumerable ports in his twenty years at sea and knew many strange and fascinating cultures. The carved bedstead was Irish unless he were far off. The desk seemed to be French. There were Dutch paintings upon the walls, Spanish gold dishes and candelabras displayed on the walls, dark sandalwood African chests lined the nearer wall. The cabin, though smallish, boasted many fine treasures.

From where does the brandy hail? Rutledge asked, almost absent-mindedly. He was attempting to place, in this room amongst worldly spoils, Vierling’s accent. It was cultured, carried a hint of something. Rutledge couldn’t identify. And from where do you yourself hail?

It’s Italian, as it happens, Vierling said. It’s quite good. Apricot.

Very well, Rutledge agreed. Unless your rum is exceptional.

Brandy, then, Vierling said with a smile, pouring two snifters. As for myself, I’m a man of the world, with no home port. By the way, I’ve had these glasses for a long time. The crystal is leaded and quite fine.

Rutledge stared at Vierling, trying to understand the irrelevancy of the make of his dishes. He took the proffered glass without understanding what Vierling was saying.

They raised the glasses and touched them together. The deep, clear chime of the crystal was oddly soothing. Rutledge sniffed, and then tasted the brandy. It was sweet, smoky, and bit deeply. It was, in fact, very good. He raised the glass to the light and examined it.

I took it from a ship last season, Vierling said. The glasses eight seasons past. In point of absolute fact, everything in this cabin is a spoil, Captain Rutledge.

Rutledge inhaled sharply. He looked around again, and then into his glass once again. I see, he said quietly.

Indeed, Vierling said with a slanting grin. "And so tell me, Captain Rutledge, what shall I add to my cabin from your ship?"

Rutledge turned to face the man, setting his glass down upon the blotter again. We’re heavy-loaded. Sugar, rum, molasses, tobacco. Sundries. Food. Fruit, and the like.

Vierling nodded. I know, he said. He rummaged through the papers on his desk, found a sheaf, and held them aloft. I have your bill of lading here.

Rutledge’s mouth dropped open. You-

Vierling’s cocky grin taunted the other man. Come now, Captain. Everything in Port Royal’s for sale. Don’t act surprised.

"You knew our- Rutledge stopped his mouth. No need, he thought, to restate the obvious. He bowed his head. You’ll be taking the cargo, then."

Indeed, Vierling agreed. I’m low on rum. Your cargo will fetch a handsome price in… well… wherever.

Rutledge nodded, resigned. You can undercut anyone else and still make a handsome profit.

I never undercut a man. Wouldn’t do for anyone to know your goods are stolen. No, I set my prices always slightly higher, and I refuse to quibble or haggle. Everyone knows that if your cargo is the best, your prices will be high. Vierling said. He eyed Rutledge, who nodded with a grudging smile.

And what man would infer stolen cargo from high prices? Rutledge mused. Devious, sir.

Indeed, Vierling agreed. "You may take your ship, make repairs, and secure what cargo you wish, after we’ve relieved your holds of what we desire. Have you any counter-terms, Captain Rutledge?"

Rutledge stared at Vierling with suspicion. You’ll let us be? Free to continue?

Of course, Vierling said.

No press-gang shenanigans?

I’ve no need of it, Captain, Vierling said with a faint laugh. I’ve lost no men in the engagement and I’ve a full complement already. As full as I require, in any case.

Rutledge throttled his first instinctive retort, a snarling condemnation of the pirate’s craven behavior. Instead, he attempted to change the subject. Pray, Captain, would you be so kind as to regale me? I’m very interested in knowing how you managed to hide a ship in plain sight. You ambushed me handily, and I’d know how, if you please.

Vierling laughed. Please, Captain Rutledge. If I tell you, you’d tell someone else, they’d tell someone else, and the next thing you know, everyone would be doing it. No thank you. Vierling tipped his glass at the other man and raised it, draining the brandy in a single draught. Now then. Have you anything else to add? Or shall we conclude our business?

Rutledge thought hard, but could see nothing else that might gain him an advantage. No, sir. Your terms, such as they are, are acceptable. Our cargo in return for a promise of safe passage.

Vierling smiled. Agreed.

Best done quickly, then, Rutledge sighed. Let’s be on with it. I have men to bury, wounded to tend, and a ship to repair.

All true, Vierling agreed. However, you’d never had given over if I’d simply asked.

No, Rutledge said. I’d have done my level best to rid the world of the plague of you, your ship, and men.

That is fair, Vierling allowed. He shrugged and smiled. But what wasn’t, isn’t. And what is, is. And so, let us get about our business. Aye?

Rutledge nodded, a sour look upon his weathered face. Aye, Captain Vierling.

Then, I await your pleasure, Vierling said. He rounded the desk and went to the door. Rutledge considered the back of the man. His hand went to his scabbard. Vierling didn’t break stride, but Rutledge heard the pistol in Vierling’s belt snap as he thumbed back the hammer. He stared at the back of Vierling’s coat for a long, terrified moment. The rumors of Vierling’s supernatural skill… could it be-

Rutledge stilled his thoughts and grinned ruefully. He realized that Vierling hadn’t turned his back at all, not really. Mounted on either side of the door of the cabin were two full-length, smoky mirrors. Rutledge could see himself and his hand upon the pommel of his rapier. He released the pommel, and Vierling eased the hammer on his pistol. Rutledge knew when he’d been outmatched, and followed Vierling out of the cabin.

♦

It took four hours of back-breaking labor to empty the hold of the Alcott. Most of which was performed by Rutledge’s crew; Vierling had his own men rigging their ship for sail, working on minor repairs, and keeping out of the way. The Quartermaster watched the cargo with a wary eye, offering commands to have the loads arranged to his liking. Vierling disappeared into his cabin for nearly two hours, leaving Rutledge on his own, but with an armed contingent of men under Gunny Chase’s unwavering watch.

Finally, the rum, most of the food, and two tons of metals and rock were transferred. Vierling toured the Alcott’s holds on his final walkthrough. Satisfied, he turned to leave- and stopped. He went to the dimly-lit walls of the hold and examined several inset fixtures. He cocked his head.

There were iron ring bolts set into the Alcott’s walls every eighteen inches, all the way around. Walking the perimeter again, Vierling came upon several crates whose tops had been pried open, and the contents examined and discarded as not worth taking. The boxes fairly bulged with chains. No, not merely chains. They were shackles. Hand-and-leg irons. Vierling nodded to himself, his lips compressed into a narrow line. Memories crowded his mind and he had to breathe deeply, to compose himself. When he had reigned in his fury, Vierling climbed out of the hold into the bright sunlight. He examined the damaged deck of the ship. Rutledge joined him after a long moment.

Satisfied, Captain? Rutledge asked.

Vierling turned to the other man, his bottle-green eyes flat and empty. Absolutely satisfied, he said remotely.

I appreciate you staying your hand. An honorable enough thing to do… for a pirate, Rutledge allowed.

Vierling smiled and his smile was as empty as his eyes. His customary mirth had drained from his features leaving a man who seemed more puppet than man. A back-handed compliment, but close enough to the truth. I’ll allow you that, Captain Rutledge. It’s a small enough prick that I shan’t bleed overmuch from the wound.

I may lose my ship for this, Rutledge said. "But I couldn’t have my crew slaughtered. I can’t imagine what the masters will say when they discover we’ve not only not turned a profit, but lost almost all of what we traded for on this trip. Nigh on a year, come to nothing."

Vierling studied his opposite. Pray, Captain… what goods did you bring from the far shores?

Rutledge looked down into his empty hold. Labor, for the most part. Workers. The bulk of our cargo came from the Gold Coast, Senegambia. We were working the Triangle, of course. Munitions, mostly from England, to Fort Gambia. We took on the cargo from there. After loading we sailed across. We unloaded at Kingston, resupplied at Port Royal, and here we are four days out of Port Royal, headed back for England.

And what were your losses during the crossing from Africa to Jamaica? Vierling asked.

Very reasonable, actually. Fifteen percent is the standard; I rated only nine percent, Rutledge boasted.

I see, Vierling said.

It’s been an excellent trip, but for the last bit, Rutledge admitted.

Vierling nodded absently. Unfortunate.

Indeed, Rutledge said dryly. I’m not sure what I should do now. Certainly we’re expected in England in three months. However, I no longer have the supplies to make the crossing. I’ll be able to secure credit in Port Royal, I suppose, or Kingston. But then what? Perhaps I should take the ship back to the Gold Coast. It’ll add most of a year to our journey, and the men won’t be pleased, but we might still show a profit, or at least recoup the loss.

Rutledge mused, staring grimly out over the calmed sea with the white-topped waves colored amber by the falling sun. Vierling glanced at Rutledge’s face lit by the slowly-setting sun. The man’s face appeared quite awash with blood in the bright afternoon’s dying light.

Well, Vierling said, as Quail came to him. I wish you the best of luck, Captain Rutledge. I doubt we’ll meet again.

Rutledge turned to the younger Captain. They were of a height, Vierling only a hair shorter. He put out his hand. Vierling glanced at it, extended his own, and clasped with the captain of the Alcott.

I certainly hope not, Rutledge said. I will of course be filing a complete report of today’s atrocity with the Governor’s office.

Certainly. Give Sir Beeston my regards. He and I are… acquainted, Vierling smiled to himself.

Given the Crown’s stance against piracy and Governor Beeston’s uncompromising ideals with regard to such, I’d be surprised to find you’d ever met the gentleman, Rutledge said, a touch of arrogance salting his words.

Vierling slanted a grin at the other Captain. "Did you know, captain, that when you’re backed by no one, what I do is known to one and all as piracy? However, when one is backed by, for instance, a Crown in need, one’s title is actually privateer."

Quail, his hands clasped behind his back, cleared his throat gently and stared out at the sea. Neither captain paid him mind. Rutledge’s face flushed. You- for- for England? Sir, I’ll remind you that it is strictly against the terms of English Letters of Marque to sack ships belonging to the Navy of one’s own commission, sir! Are you attempting to tell me-

Peace, Captain, Vierling said, raising a hand. "I fly no English flag. At least, I no longer fly such. But Sir Beeston and I are acquainted in this way: I once helped defend Isla Jamaica against the Spanish. I was commissioned by the Crown itself… or whomever handles the paperwork for the King in such matters. I doubt highly he actually takes a hand in such business himself. Or, I suppose…"

Vierling trailed off and pursed his lips thoughtfully.

…I suppose it was Sir Beeston’s commission, in the King’s name. Being governor allows him the latitude to commission mercenaries. I suppose that is a good enough title. Just as Privateer was. I acquitted my duties with honor, Captain Rutledge, and was even toasted by Sir Beeston at a very nice dinner. So, yes, the gentleman and I have met. Vierling turned empty eyes to the captain. Quail, turning slightly, saw the look. He swallowed hard, but said nothing. He could tell from the set and bearing of his captain that Rutledge was in deep current and didn’t realize it. Quail turned his eyes back to the horizon.

Rutledge shook his head. Privateer, mercenary… and now pirate. Despite your… distinguished service, you’ll still hang, should they catch you.

Of course. That’s the price of my current venture. And yet, Captain Rutledge, Vierling said softly, you should consider the fact that I am before you even now, as-yet unhanged. There is a reason for this happy condition. It is not accidental.

Rutledge snorted. They will capture or kill you eventually.

Vierling shrugged carelessly. "You’re not a student of history, Captain. Remember, Governor Morgan was at various times both pirate and privateer as I have been. The Crown saw value in his experience. He made Port Royal into a very successful venture. Is it too gauche to suggest that I might be of similar use? With a similar successful future at my horizon?"

Rutledge eyed Vierling, amused. "No student of history yourself, eh, Captain? Morgan fell from grace and was relieved of his title and position."

Vierling glanced at Rutledge once again out of the corner of his eye. In a clipped tone, he said, A thirty-year career at sea. Pirate, soldier, explorer, governor. His honor remained intact. Remember: his uncle Edward held the Lieutenant-Governorship before Henry himself took it on. He served with distinction, only political treachery unseating him, not incompetence or corruption. He was never convicted of a crime and he died in his own home in Jamaica. Died, I might point out, surrounded by the spoils of his life and not in a cell or at the end of a rope, sir. Port Royal would still be a great port and city if not for the earthquake of ’92. Still, the rebuilding goes apace. It’s come a long way in the decade since.

Rutledge studied Vierling with growing disquiet. I see you are an educated man, captain. I apologize for my aspersions.

Vierling shrugged. It matters not, sir. I know what I am and what I am not, and your opinion can’t change what I know to be true. Come, captain. It’s time to send you speeding on your way.

Quail turned then and gestured toward the gangplank that stretched between the two ships. We await your pleasure, Captain, Quail muttered.

Vierling mounted the plank, but paused to turn to Rutledge. Nine percent, you say, he said with that same curious absence of animation.

Rutledge raised his chin. Indeed.

What numbers did you ship? Vierling asked. Total compliment out of Gambia?

Six hundred head, Rutledge said proudly. We’re rated for five, but I managed to get six onboard.

Six hundred, Vierling murmured. He glanced at the cargo hold of Alcott. And their value?

Rutledge shrugged. Five pounds sterling on average, in either coin or goods.

Vierling looked at Rutledge. Six hundred head. You lost nine percent. Fifty-four head. Two hundred seventy pounds sterling.

Rutledge smiled faintly. You’ve a head for figures, sir. Almost exactly to the pence. A costly part of the business, but as I said, the average loss is upwards of fifteen percent of the shipment. We did-

The Captain broke off, annoyed. He cleared his throat.

"We had done well. There was talk of a bonus amongst the crew," he concluded ruefully.

Vierling nodded to himself. A heavy cost.

Hm? Rutledge asked, still distracted by his dismal return for a year’s travel and work.

The nine percent. A heavy cost, Vierling repeated.

Rutledge nodded. A considerable sum, to be sure.

Vierling stared at the captain. He started to speak, but shook his head. He cleared his throat. Well, Captain Rutledge, I bid you adieu.

Rutledge’s lips twitched. I shouldn’t, but I shall wish you good journeys as well, Captain Vierling. With any luck, I will be able to secure funding for a second trip. Failing that, I’m positive I may expect a drink or three for the privilege of the tale in many of Kingston’s pubs. You’re not unknown, of course.

Vierling said gravely, I am aware.

They say you never leave survivors, Rutledge said hesitantly, when they tell stories of you.

Vierling smiled with real mirth for the first time since discovering the iron rings in the Alcott’s hold. I too have heard this. And every time, I wonder to myself, ‘then who tells the stories? How do people know my name?’

Rutledge guffawed. Indeed, sir. Astutely noted. Captain Vierling, you’ve been more than fair. I’ll take my leave with your kind permission, and I bid you an unreserved good journey.

Vierling nodded. And to you, sir.

He strode over the plank onto the quarterdeck of Der Tiegel. He went up to the stern deck to stand beside Master Gibb. He watched as Quail had two lads pull the gangplank back over. Quail gestured, and six of Alcott’s men flung the slacked mooring lines and hooks over the side of their ship. He went to Quail’s side.

Mr. Quail, I trust we’re rigged ready? he said.

Aye, Captain, Quail said. Squared and sure. Give the word.

Vierling nodded. He descended the stairs and went to the main deck where Master Gunner Chase stood, watching his boys.

Gunny, Vierling said in a quiet voice. Chase’s dark eyes came to rest on him.

Aye, sir? Chase replied.

How stand our guns? Vierling asked.

All eighteen starboard loaded and primed, sir, as you know. Soon’s as we’re under way I’ll have the boys unpack them and stow, Chase told his captain.

Vierling nodded. Good idea. However, I have an easier way to clear those guns. All starboard hands fire. No synch. Just fire all guns. Broadside.

Chase blinked up at Vierling. The taller man gazed blandly back. Chase opened his mouth but not to argue. He turned on his heel.

All starboard guns! All starboard guns! Fire at will! Fire at will! Fire at will! Ready on the rel- Chase’s barked command to make reload-ready was swallowed by the deafening cataclysm as all eighteen guns fired in a ragged group. Normally Chase would stagger the firing line, waiting for the pitch and roll of the ship to bring her cannon level with the target, but when firing all at once, one needed only wait out the great heaving of the ship the cannon would set them to while reloading.

The deck jumped and pitched under their feet as Der Tiegel yawed to port in response to the discharge of all starboard guns. Chase rocked automatically like an expert rider posting perfectly. Vierling did not rock with the ship but neither did he pitch over, nor did his eyes lose sight of his victim.

Quail hit the deck on reflex, realized what had happened, and surged to his feet with a bellowed call for Arms ready on the starboard side! All hands snap to!

Free sailors began to arm with muskets, ready to repel boarders. They rushed to the gunnels, ready to fight off their attackers, but it became instantly clear that no attack had been raised from Alcott.

The powder-monkeys rushed forward to begin the laborious reloading of the guns, both on the main deck and below on the gun deck. Vierling had turned to watch the Alcott as Chase had bellowed his order. He watched, unflinching.

Eighteen six-pound balls slammed into the Alcott’s port side. Already damaged by the first attack, the close-quarter cannonade seemed to disintegrate the ship in a cloud of splinters, rigging, men, and smoke. Vierling watched as the side of Alcott was destroyed by the single bombardment. His eyes roamed the deck, and he found Captain Rutledge’s eyes with his own.

Rutledge stared, mouth agape, eyes comically round. In mute reply, Vierling raised both arms, crossed them at his wrists, and shook them once at the ship, saluting her captain, her men, and her death.

It takes an average of six to nine months for a crew of master shipbuilders and labor crews to lay up a hull, stand the masts, seal the boards, spin the rigging, hang the sails, and launch her. Once launched, a well-built ship of the merchant style such as Alcott was patterned after could carry 300 tons of raw cargo, field eighteen to twenty-eight six-pound cannon, and house a crew of upwards of a hundred-fifty men.

A fully-rigged three-mast galleon was a monument to man’s ability to, if not conquer, then master the sea. The skill involved in building a boat-bodied vessel capable of drawing thirteen to fifteen knots fully-loaded is prodigious. It could list almost fifty degrees off-true and remain upright.

It could accomplish those feats with a sound hull, of course. A ship could withstand a truly horrific amount of damage- Vierling himself had seen vessels remain afloat with holes large enough to swim through in hull below the water line. The Alcott could not remain afloat with fully a third of her port hull stove in. The sea rushed into the vessel, and it was apparent that the ship had minutes at most.

Vierling turned his head to speak to Gunny Chase without taking his eyes from Captain Rutledge, who tried in vain to organize his men. Are the guns ready, Master Chase?

Chase nodded, realized Vierling couldn’t see him do so, and said, Aye sir. All guns report ready.

Very good, Master Chase. Your men do you proud. Fire at will, Vierling told him calmly. Chase studied Vierling’s face for a moment.

All starboard guns! Fire at will! Fire at will! Fi- Chase’s shout again drowned in the discharge of Der Tiegel’s eighteen. Again the smoke and shrapnel clouded the Alcott from reasonable sight. When the smoke, cries, and debris cleared, it was perfectly clear that the mortally-wounded vessel, unable to sustain the strain of her three proud masts of full canvas billowing in the insistent wind, was destroyed.

The main and foremast heeled far right in the wind and the mizzen, sails half-collapsing as spars sprang free, fell to the rear. With an enormous guttural groan the ship, cored like a rotten apple, came apart in a screaming wrench of rope, wood, and cloth. Before Master Gunner Chase could have his cannons made ready, the remains of the Alcott foundered and sank between the waves and pillows of ragged canvas sail cupping air between water and calm, quiet sky. Men splashed and screamed, the water was strewn with flotsam. Soon the weight of the debris pulled even the buoyant canvas pockets below the waves, the screams stopped, and the clumps and bits of hull and mast and men themselves drifted into the horizon or sank beneath the waves.

There were no men in the water. Alcott had been utterly destroyed with all hands, from the lowest bilge rat to her fatally-surprised captain. Vierling watched the water for most of an hour. He shook himself free of his reveries, tucked his hands behind his back, and said, Clear your guns, Mr. Chase. Well done.

Vierling turned on his heel and walked casually to the stairs next to his cabin doors.

Master Quail, Vierling called. Quail appeared at the edge of the deck instantly.

Aye, Captain, Quail responded.

Make the ship ready to put into Tortuga, home port. I want us under way within the hour. I shall be in my cabin, Vierling said. He didn’t seem to see Quail’s worried eyes on his face, nor did he seem worried. He opened and closed the doors behind him, and the crew did not see him again for almost two hours.

♦

In the water beneath the stern of Der Tiegel, a single sailor floated. Gabriel Dohmnal clung to a bit of the