Bound by the Heart (50 page)

Chapter 28

W
hile
C
ommodore
W
infield
was aboard the
Chimera,
his men had repaired or replaced his damaged sails and
spliced the necessary rigging to give the
Caledonia
back its steerage. The
Chimera
and the
Gyrfalcon,
therefore, were both caught
off guard when the British frigate turned with the wind and started streaking
away from them. Within minutes Bull Treloggan gave the order to crowd on more
sail and was in hot pursuit, ignoring the caution Wade immediately signaled.
Seeing the
Gyrfalcon
pull further and further away, Wade barked orders for
Mr. Phillips to add speed, but a sudden gust of wind tore loose a mainsail and
the
Chimera
floundered.

When more than a mile separated the two ships from Morgan
Wade, the
Caledonia
veered
sharply and cut a wide swath around behind the
Gyrfalcon.
Winfield then poured three
tremendous broadsides into the
Gyrfalcon,
probing the entire length of the startled ship. The
two remaining masts were blown apart, and the frigate was easy prey for
Winfield's guns. Cannon were dismounted, the forecastle became a smoking crater
of crushed timbers, and Bull Treloggan's roar was silenced as a solid ball of
iron smashed through his chest. His body was hurled through the air, landing in
a broken heap against one of his beloved carronades.

While the Yankee frigate drifted helplessly, the
Caledonia
pulled around to her starboard
side, firing into the almost-stationary target with the deadly
thirty-two-pounders. The lower gunports were silenced one by one as a hail of
shot exploded through the reinforced timbers, driving the men back to safety.

Once more the
Caledonia
wheeled about, keeping the
Gyrfalcon
between herself and the
frantic efforts of the
Chimera
to move in to assist. Wade ordered his guns double
shotted and aimed high, but even the threat of losing her sails again did not
deter the
Caledonia
from
the kill. By now she was so close to the
Gyrfalcon
that some of Wade's shot showered the deck of the
privateer. But it did not matter. There was no one left alive on the upper
decks, and those huddled below were too stunned to care.

As the
Gyrfalcon's
guns fell mute, the British warship sidled within ten
yards, and on a signal from the bridge, fired a ferocious round simultaneously
from all three decks, hitting the crippled privateer with such force the
remaining timbers in her hull crumpled. Water poured into the gaping wounds and
began to fill the lower decks. The bleeding, hunched figure of a man emerged
from the rubble and stumbled up to what was left of the bridge and desperately
waved a white flag of surrender.

Winfield raised his arm again. His gunners were
momentarily shocked, but they reacted quickly to his shouted order and touched
the smoldering wicks to the powder, blasting another round into the dying
Yankee frigate.

Morgan Wade's hands would have crushed the oak of the
rail where he held it had his hatred been transformed into physical strength.
He shouted for more sail and dangerously overtaxed his straining ship, caroming
in before the wind as he saw Winfield give the order for yet another
devastating volley.

The
Chimera's
guns fired point-blank, obliterating the
Caledonia's
foremast, causing the huge
ship to rise up in her bows. She was caught in the turbulence and flung
sideways, slashing a deep gouge into the stern of the
Gyrfalcon
and dragging the smaller ship
with her as she reeled around. The sound of oak tearing into oak screeched out
across the surface of the ocean, and when the smoke cleared, it revealed a twenty-foot
length of the
Caledonia's
bowsprit and stem wedged fast to the
Gyrfalcon.
Bull's men trapped below
streamed up onto the deck and, having nowhere else to go, reached for grappling
hooks and boarding pikes and began clawing up the side of the
Caledonia.

Wade's ship struck the panther from the other side,
lashing into her with hooks and ropes and using her own forward momentum to jar
the Englishmen from their footings a second time. The
Chimera
shuddered with the impact, but
her timbers held, and Morgan Wade, cutlass in hand, was first over the rails,
slashing and hacking his way across a boarding plank onto the deck of the
warship. He was followed by every able-bodied man the
Chimera
boasted. Sweat and blood
gleamed as brilliantly as the steel blades of the dirks and swords; the air
rang with the stinging shrill of steel on steel. The crew from the
Gyrfalcon,
no longer faced with the
prospect of dying with their backs pressed to the deck rails, cheered and
surged forward to join forces with their comrades.

The Britons reeled under the frenzied assault, falling
back in droves as the privateers cut a great bloody path across the breadth of
the
Caledonia.
They
slid on gory planking and screamed for orders that did not come. Pockets of
scarlet-clad marines threw their muskets down, while ordinary seamen ran below
and sought refuge in the deepest, darkest recesses of the ship. The
companionways and storerooms became clogged with the wounded and with those no
longer wanting to prolong the battle.

Morgan fought his way along the length of the
quarterdeck to the bridge, a broadsword in each hand, leading a spearhead of
his men toward the shouting, fighting circle of dazzling blue and white
uniforms that were the
Caledonia's
officers. Mr. Monday fought on his right, sending
Englishmen cringing back in waves at each mighty whack of his cutlass. Mr.
Phillips took a musket ball high in his shoulder, and the impact sent him
headlong onto his knees, but he pushed himself up again and resolutely plunged
back into the fray. Two of the
Chimera's
crewmen peered up into the maze of twisted yards and
rigging to locate the source of the gunfire and saw a lone marine frantically
working to reload and fire his musket. Both men set their dirks between their
teeth and swarmed up either side of the shrouds, so terrifying the soldier that
he lost his grip on the musket, then on the spar, and fell thirty feet into the
churning mass of humanity on the deck.

Wade slashed his way to the foot of the ladderway
leading up to the bridge. There were at least a dozen men between himself and
Bennett Winfield, but there was no holding him back now that he could see and
hear his enemy. Winfield was braced on the deck, wielding his sword as if he
were on an open field with a fencing master. His white breeches were grimy and
splashed with blood; his neatly clubbed blond hair had shaken from its velvet
ribbon and clung with sweat and filth to his neck. The pale blue eyes glowed
like embers, and as they searched the area around the bridge, they found and
clashed with Morgan Wade's.

Winfield backed up several steps, his face rigid with
hatred. His gaze went to the side of his ship, to where the
Chimera
pulled and tugged against the
grappling lines, and when he looked back at Wade, there was a slow, terrible
smile on his lips. He sheathed his
sword and vaulted up over the fife
rail, landing on the deck below. In a few strides he balanced his way across a
boarding plank and jumped onto the deck of the
Chimera.

Morgan's lips pulled back from his teeth
in a snarl, and he slashed at the man blocking his path. He raced after
Winfield, leaped onto the rail and hacked at a length of rigging to use to
swing his weight across the narrow gap separating the two ships. He saw
Winfield glance over his shoulder before he vanished through the main hatchway
leading down below. Morgan whirled and descended through the forehatch, hoping
to cut the commodore off before he could follow the trail of wounded to the
storeroom surgery.

The residue of smoke and powder hung
thick in the air of the gun deck. There were wounded and dead scattered among
the warm cannon; some were propped listlessly against the guns nursing dreadful
wounds and burns; some lay facedown in pools of their own blood.

Morgan picked his way cautiously
along the row of crouching cannon, conscious of the sounds of men fighting and
men dying overhead. He passed the gangway where Michael and Summer had tried to
escape at the Sirens so long ago and paused, seeing a reflection of sunlight
glint off something up ahead. It proved to be a musket barrel propped against
one of the wooden trunnions, trapped in a stray beam of light that filtered in
through a ventilation shaft.

Having more than half the length of
the ship to go and countless obstacles in between, Morgan shrugged aside his
caution and ran along the deck, passing the ladder Winfield had used to
descend, and barely hesitated before he plunged down the hatchway leading to
the lower deck. He missed a second glint of light that should not have been
there. He misread the hiss and punch of steel striking out from the shadows
until it was too late and the blade of the sword was already buried deeply in
his flesh.

* * *

Summer and Gabrielle worked alone in
the surgery. Thorny had been called away to answer a plea from a man who could
not be moved because there were no spare hands to carry the litters. Summer had
hoped she would be better prepared this time to handle the horror, but she was
not. Her stomach—emptied violently long ago—was tied in knots, her mouth was
dry, her hands trembled so badly at times that she had to stop what she was
doing and squeeze them together. Gabrielle was whiter than the apron she wore.
When she spoke, it was more often than not in shocked, whispery French.

There was a hopeful moment when the
cannon stopped firing that Gabrielle and Summer had looked to Thorny for the
same wink and cackled assurances as before. But he had merely paused over the
shattered limb he was amputating to shake his head, before he bent back to his
task. When he followed the sailor who had come to fetch him, his only comment
was "Drop the bar down over the door be'ind me an don't lift 'er fer no
one, understand?"

"But the wounded—"

"Wounded'll wait. Ye keep the
door locked, d'ye 'ear me?"

Summer had nodded wordlessly.
Behind her, Stuart Roarke forced himself into a sitting position, and although
his face streamed sweat and his breath came in tortured gasps, he painstakingly
loaded and readied two heavy pistols.

Thorny's absence stretched from ten
minutes to fifteen, then twenty, and the corridor outside the surgery echoed
with cries for help. Summer could not tolerate it any longer and was lifting
the bar from the door, when she was jarred off her feet by the impact of the
Chimera
grinding
against the
Caledonia.
She fell heavily against a wooden
bench and rolled sideways, saved from an ugly meeting with a spiked pole by
Roarke's quick hands. Still, she was dazed. Sarah was screaming from fright,
and Gabrielle had shrunk back into a corner, weeping silently.

"Are you hurt?" Stuart
asked hoarsely. "Summer! Are you hurt?"

"N-no
...
no, I don't trunk so."

She pushed to her knees, swaying
uncertainly against a blinding wave of pain. Her fingers probed the back of her
skull and came away sticky with blood.

"You are hurt, let me
see."

"No, it's nothing. I just
bumped my head. . . . oh God, my poor baby."