Across a Moonlit Sea Read Free

enveloped in flames, her masts and rigging dragging behind her like drooping wings. Two more showed damage in their tops; another had had one of its guns blown from its carriage and it hung over the smashed remains of the gunport, the snout pointing straight down to the sea.
    But the zabras were regrouping. They would know what to expect this time and not stay so obligingly clumped together. Moreover, they would load with chain and aim high for the sails, hoping to cut the Virago’s speed and maneuverability.
    Dante’s pale blue eyes scanned the clouds of smoke that still obscured the tiny island they had left behind. The Talon should have emerged from cover by now and with the wind in her favor, would be racing up on the Spaniards with swift, lethal surprise.
    A warning shout from Pitt drew Dante’s attention back to the Spaniards. The two largest galleons were closing fast, coming up on either side of the
Virago
, clearly intending to take her in a crossfire.
    “Mister Brighton, bring her about! Hard to starboard. Hard to starboard now!”
    The helmsman had anticipated the order and was already straining against the tiller, throwing all of his weight into turning the arm that controlled the rudder. A loudcrack and tearing of timber sent the tiller swinging hard against the bulkhead, the sudden freedom throwing Brighton with it. He fell hard onto his knees and scraped a layer of skin off his chin as it made contact with the planking, but he was on his feet an instant later, cursing orders to the topmen to correct their trim to compensate for the lost rudder.
    The
Virago
faltered briefly off her course, allowing one of the galleons to gain way.
    “Mister Brighton—!”
    The banshee scream of chain shot cut through Dante’s orders, cut through the helmsman himself in a fanning red spray. Dante was knocked to the deck by a section of rail and lay there, stunned, for almost a full minute. Lines and rigging were torn from their stays and the screams of his men echoed the shrill tearing of canvas overhead.
    Dante fought to regain control of his senses and his body, struggling to his feet as another wailing salvo struck his ship. He limped to the rail, his left leg numb from the knee down and awash in blood. Pitt was below, struggling to clear bodies and debris away from the guns. The deck was littered with wreckage. Cables swung free and sails hung in shreds from yards that were broken and dangling free of their braces. Blood ran from one side of the planking to the other following the roll of the ship, tracing spidery patterns on the sun-bleached oak.
    Cold, silent rage filled Dante’s soul and he whirled, shouting orders aloft. If he could coax one more pass out of the
Virago
, surely the
Talon
would be there, beating in to support them. And wounded though she was, the valiant privateer responded, tacking with a graceful slide against the wind, taking herself away from the one vulture who had found his range and throwing herself under the guns of another who had not. Pitt fired his cannon, kept hiscrews swabbing, reloading, tamping, and firing until their hands blistered from the heat.
    Dante made his way to the bow and manned one of the falconets, swiveling it on its mount and taking aim on the target, now less than a hundred yards off the larboard side. His eyes were burning from the smoke but it was his ears that brought him the vindictive satisfaction of broken timbers and dying men. He breathed through clenched teeth and watched as the Spaniard returned fire. His eyes narrowed and he wiped at them savagely to clear them of sweat and blood, and when he looked again, such a roar came out of his throat, even Pitt heard it over the thunder of the guns and came running up onto the foredeck in panic
    “The bastard! The filthy yellow bleeding bastard!”
    It took a moment for Pitt to see what was causing such rage in Dante’s face, and when he did, he stopped breathing, stopped thinking, stopped time itself from intruding