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Prologue
Cannon fire roared as waves of thick graysmoke billowed across the deck ofTriton’sRevenge. Even after almost an hour of battle, Morgan Drake was still amazed that the English frigate had actually tried to defend itself from him.
It’d been a long time since anyone dared such an affront. Most captains knew his flag on sight, and after firing a round or two of initial rebuttal, they docilely submitted to his plunder.
But not theMolly Doon. For some reason her captain had taken on a fool’s crusade. What could the ship possibly carry that would make her captain so willing to risk the lives of all his crew?
He would know soon enough.
Another blast sounded. Morgan barely had time to duck before a cannonball whizzed past, only to land harmlessly off the starboard prow. He sucked his breath in sharply between his teeth. A few more feet and he would have been searching the waves for his head.
“A captain’s share to the crew who disables the main mast!” Morgan shouted to his gunners. He was bored with this game, and it was time to end it.
Eight of the cannons on the main deck of his ship were pushed forward while four more were reloaded. He could feel the deck beneath his feet jar as the cannons were pulled back and forth by their crews. The cotton fuses hissed just before the cannons fired, almost in unison.
After pulling back the cannons, his gun crews dumped water over the long iron barrels to cool them off before they repeated the loading process.
Morgan smiled at their efficiency, at the symphony of their movements.
How he loved this! Every bleeding part of it.
His ears ringing from the fight, Morgan watched his men fire another volley at their target. A few seconds later wood began splitting as rigging fell from theMolly Doon. The main mast made a tidal splash in the ocean and his crew raised a cacophonous bellow of victory.
The pungent smell of sulphur circled around him and stung his eyes. For hours he and his crew had been pursuing the English frigateMolly Doon, and at long last the chase had ended. With one final shot, theRevengehad crippled her prey.
“Bring her about, Mr. Pitkern,” Morgan shouted to his quartermaster. “TheMolly Doonis listing to port.”
“Aye, aye, Cap’n,” Barney Pitkern responded, whirling the wheel. TheRevengecut a smooth course through the waves until it drew broadside with theMolly Doon.
“Stand ready to defend,” Morgan called to the twelve sharpshooters who were positioned in the rigging as a precaution against whatever other surprises might be lurking aboard theMolly Doon. “Fire upon my orders.”
Their answer to his words came as each man trained his sights on the enemy vessel.
To safeguard his identity, Morgan placed his mask over his face.
On the main deck of his ship, sixteen members of his crew drew swords and pistols as they made ready to board the smoking frigate. Grappling hooks whistled through the air as four men whirled and tossed them to catch the thick oaken boards of theMolly Doon’s side and haul the lumbering ship nearer.
He found it surprising that none of the English sailors had bothered to arm themselves, especially given the fact that they had fought him so ferociously just moments before.
Instead, the English stared at him as if they were seeing a terrifying phantom. Even their captain, dressed in the dark blue coat, white breeches, and powdered wig of the Royal Navy, did nothing more than open and close his mouth like a gaping fish.
As they drew close enough for him to see the individual faces, Morgan could pick out the English sailors from the Americans who had been impressed into service. The American sailors’ eyes burned with great relief while their British counterparts shook visibly with fear of his retribution.
Barney gave a raspy laugh. “Looka there, Cap’n. They’ve finally got the white flag.”
“Aye, and from the look of the English captain, it’s not from his drawers,” Kit added.
Morgan laughed at his boatswain. For a youth barely old enough to shave, Kit had seen more than his share of blood, and battle.
And soiled English breeches.
“Bring ’em aboard, boys,” Barney shouted to the small group of their men who were pulling out boarding planks. “Reclaim America’s riches from them thieving Brits.”
In only a few minutes his crew separated the Americans from their slavers and sent the newly freed men across the small makeshift gangplank to the safe deck of theRevenge.
His crew was well accustomed to such skirmishes, and Morgan knew it wouldn’t take his men long to ferret out whatever stolen American goods might be hidden aboard the fallen ship. Once they’d reclaimed all that property, they would head home for a well-deserved liberty.
Barney shouted orders to two of the men to help lift a crate of American spice over the last plank. Morgan smiled at the old man’s efficiency. At sixty-two, Barney looked like a withered up piece of driftwood, but his small stature and bald pate hid the fact that he was one of the finest quartermasters to ever sail the seas.
