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PART III

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JUNE, 1780
THE THAMES
LONDON, ENGLAND

ELLIOTT, HAVING abandoned his wig, coat, cravat, and pumps some time ago, was silent as he helmed and observed his crew surreptitiously going about the business of preparing to abandon ship. They had passed the Thunderstorm ninety minutes ago, and he had feared Rathbone would notice there had been two HMS Roses on their way to hunt Fury, one of them pointed in the wrong direction.

Rathbone was high on the platform, the glass to his eye, watching fore and aft, unable to fathom where Fury might have gone or even if she was still on land. His certainty that Fury would take flight on water had been convenient, but now he was doubtful.

“Raxham!” he called. “The Rose is closing in.”

“Signal for assistance!” Elliott called back.

A tense few moments passed before Rathbone spoke again. “Hylton’s at the helm, praise God.”

“Praise God indeed,” Elliott replied with some amusement.

“She’s still signaling. The Thunderstorm is ahead of us, but we also have reinforcements ahead.”

He started. Reinforcements? “Yeardley!”

“Our reinforcements,” Yeardley murmured a few minutes later from the darkness behind Elliott, “consist of the Mad Hangman and the Black Demon.”

Elliott took a deep breath of relief. “Excellent. Tell the men to make for them instead of awaiting the Thunderstorm.”

“Aye, Cap’n.”

Another full glass passed as the tide began to roll back in, the wind picked up, the sky gradually darkened to deep violet, and the Thunderstorm drew closer just as they passed into the Channel.

Rathbone spoke again. “Do you know,” he called slowly, facing aft with the glass to his eye, “there is something quite odd about the admiral’s captaining.”

Elliott had expected that five minutes ago.

“’Tis familiar to me, but it’s not the ad … mir … al’s— GODDAMMIT! FURY!”

“HO PENANCE!” bellowed a female voice from behind them that carried across the waters. Elliott looked over his shoulder to see her bare to her waist, her long orange mane flowing on the breeze before she reached back to secure it. “Looking for me?”

“RAXHAM!” he roared.

“AHOY, MARQUESS!” she answered with a cackle. “If I have not yet succeeded in destroying your career, I will today. RUN UP CONGRESS’S COLORS, LADS!”

Elliott choked back a laugh, swore appropriately, and bellowed rapid-fire battle commands. He could hear Celia and her officers doing the same, putting them all in position for Elliott and his crew to escape out of Rathbone’s view.

The two of them were dancing with their ships, their masts and sails turning smoothly as one so that they were fore and aft perpendicular to the shores. Likewise, they executed the next steps together when the gunports of both ships slammed open and the cannons were rolled out.

“Munro!” Elliott bellowed. “Go overboard and keep watch for the report. I can put this bitch down.”

“I will not!”

“Someone has to record this, and I am a mite occupied at the moment.”

Still, Rathbone hesitated, loath to carry out such a cowardly order, but aboard this vessel, Elliott’s word was law, no matter their ranks, military or noble.

“FIRE!” shouted Celia’s gunner.

The Penance heeled larboard with the blast, causing wood to splinter and fall like rain.

“THAT’S AN ORDER, LEFTENANT!” Elliott thundered even as the Penance fired back—and hit, rocking Thunderstorm to starboard.

“Goddamn you, Tavendish! I’ll make you regret this!” And with that, Rathbone dove off the platform with the grace of long practice, cleaving the Thames sixty feet below.

BOOM!

Another broadside to the Penance, this one a mortal hit.

At Elliott’s signal, his topside crew scrambled over the wale opposite the one Rathbone had taken, whilst his meager gun crew fired one last shot at the Thunderstorm before they, too, abandoned ship and swam out to greet the ships just coming out of the lightening horizon.

“Cap’n,” Yeardley said, even as they ducked a spray of grape-shot from the Thunderstorm’s swivels. “Everyone is out and the bodies have been dressed and placed.”

Elliott simply nodded while attempting to keep the Penance from coming about with the force of each cannon blast she took. Out of the corner of his eye, Elliott saw Yeardley follow the rest of the crew overboard and out to sea.

He was alone now, facing Celia’s swivel gunners who peppered the ship, sending wood and metal flying. He ducked again when a large piece of wood flew past his ear.

Celia’s archers rose up and now he could see the flaming arrows pointed right at him.

“FIRE!” she bellowed.

The woman was enjoying this far too much, he thought as he awaited the arrows. As soon as his freshly tarred rigging and dry sails went up in flames, he turned and ran for the wale, hoping he could get far enough away before—

Elliott hit the water in a clean dive, then quickly shed the last of his clothes.

He flinched when, a few seconds after that, the Penance’s magazine blew, sending wood and burning canvas and human body parts sky high along with flames that lit the night and shielded his and his crew’s escape from Rathbone’s detection.

It was done, and Elliott sighed, half elated and half grieving. He turned and made toward what he could tell was the Mad Hangman.

Another volley of cannon fire and a third explosion, surely the one that would reduce the Penance to burning flotsam and allow the Thunderstorm to sail past with little risk.

He did not turn and look, which he supposed he should have done to avoid the burning wood that speared him straight through his gut.

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Pirates!