The Sea Wolves Read Free

might be the only person who could give them that.
    He turned and bolted up the narrow, steep stairway, emerging onto the deck and breathing in the cold, mist-shrouded air. He left the door hanging open and slid to the side, dropping to the deck, grateful for the thickening mist. He pressed himself against the wall across from where the door hung against the bulkhead, the darkened passage below yawning in between. He’ll expect me to be hiding behind the door , Jack thought. Or to have run . But Jack would not run. He felt flushed with fear, but there was also a cold and primal strength rising in him, a wild determination. He was sickened at the bloodshed but ready for a fight.
    He heard the man’s footsteps, still quiet but no longer so cautious. At the top of the staircase the murderer gave the creaking, swaying door a mighty kick, crashing it back against the bulkhead. Jack moved quickly, grabbing his leg behind the knee and standing, pushing up, lifting and tipping him so that he tumbled hard back down the stairs. The man did not cry out as he fell—made no noise at all, other than the shocking impact of his head against the stairs and the crack of something breaking.
    Jack didn’t even wait to see if the man would rise. He slammed the door shut, pressed his foot against the bulkhead, and levered the handle off, in the hope that it might jam the latch. He turned and saw that where the grappling hooks had come over the starboard railing, the ropes had been wound about the cleats and tied off, so the killers’ vessel must be running alongside.
    He’d had the knife for a long time, and it had served him well. But these ropes were wet and his hand was shaking, and Jack found cutting through harder than he’d anticipated. He kept low, remembering the fate that had befallen the lookouts up in the crow’s nest. Crossbow, he suspected, or perhaps a small harpoon. He had no wish to present another silhouetted target.
    Something crashed against the door behind him, shaking it in its frame. He jumped, and the rope parted. It had been under such tension that it whipped and unwound, strands catching Jack across the face as it fell away to the boat below.
    Whoever was down there would now know that something was amiss.
    The door shook again, the impact tremendous.
    A crack sounded from somewhere; wood breaking close by, perhaps, or maybe a gunshot from farther away.
    â€œHey, down there!” a voice cried out, and it came from above. Jack spun around and crouched in a fighting stance, knife held out to his right, knees bent, ready to leap aside. “Hey, is that … is that a boat?”
    â€œTurn hard to port, Captain!” Jack shouted.
    â€œWho is that? What’s happening?”
    â€œWe’ve been boarded by pirates seeking gold. Hard to port, and I’m doing my damned best to—”
    The door was struck again, and a long splinter cracked out as the wood around the broken latch changed shape.
    â€œHard to port!” Jack ran to the next rope and started sawing. Something whistled by his head, lifting his hair and kissing his ear bloody, and he ducked down, heart thumping, eyes wide with dreadful excitement.
    He was just killing those men in cold blood , he thought, and the memory was terrible. He had only once seen such extreme brutality by man upon man, and all but one of those slave drivers was now dead. But the more he dwelled on that, the more it would distract him.
    In the pit of his gut, he felt the slight pull that told him the Umatilla was starting to turn. Good on you, Captain , he thought, and then gunfire erupted from somewhere inside the ship.
    The rope parted beneath his knife, and this time he was ready. He ducked down and turned his face away, feeling the frayed ends whip through his hair as he ran at a crouch beside the railing. Two ropes were cut, and there were two more to go. The wind changed, and the ship started to thump through the water as it