Seein' as it be Talk Like a Pirate Day I couldn't resist teasin' a piece o' the novel I've been tryin' to get published.
Wild Justice is my second completed novel (95,809 words), and is an urban fantasy/historical fantasy story set in Boston in the fall of 1773. The central character is Anne McCormac, an immortal Banshee better known to history as the pirate Anne Bonny. Decades after her disappearance from the history books, Anne returns to the Americas in search of her estranged son and discovers that British vampires are plotting to poison Anne's kind so that they can freely harvest the colonies' most valued resource: its people. Anne's allies intercept the poisoned goods at the docks, but when one shipment is left unaccounted for, Anne commandeers a ship, assembles a crew, and sets to sea once again.
Excerpt from Chapter 21 - "Raise the Colors and Beat to Quarters"
Aboard the privateering vessel Wild Justice, Atlantic Ocean; Thursday, December 9, 1773
[...]
I give the order, "Bring
all hands on deck and put us wind over starboard, two points on the quarter to
pursue the William.” Turning even a
bit into the wind will cost us some speed, but we need to bear south by
southwest if we want to intercept our target rather than simply chase its rudder
across this storm front.
“And
our mystery ship?”
“We’ll
have time to deal with her if we have to. Our target’s got big sails but she’s running
low in the water; she’s got too much drag to outrun us. I know it looks close,
but even with a delay we can chase down the William
long before she makes port.” I try to sound more certain of that than I am.
“Aye
captain,” Mr. Jacobs nods and gives the orders. The men immediately move into
action. The resting crew runs up from below deck to lend their hands to the pulling
of the ropes. The ship swings starboard, and we cruise along the storm front.
“Quartermaster,”
I shout, “I think we should inform them of our intentions.”
“Aye
captain; Mr. Winter!” he shouts, “Raise the colors!”
Winter
retrieves the banner Jack had gifted to me before we left, and affixes it to
the brig’s forward mast. With strength that belies his scrawny frame, he runs
it quickly up the mast. It unfurls in the wind for the first time as it rises
above us. The banner sports the nine vertical stripes of the Sons of Liberty,
but the white bars have been replaced with black, and laid over the black and
red stripes is a bone white, smiling skull and crossed cutlasses – the Jolly
Roger I sailed under five decades ago.
The
men cheer as the flag raises and snaps in the wind.
“If
you ever wanted to sail under a black flag,” I shout, “You are now, lads!”
Though
it would be nearly a century before pirates achieved the romance they have now,
every one of these men played the part at some point in their boyhood, just
like my own son. They holler and shout, and begin to sing.[i]
Come
join hand in hand, brave American’s all,
And
rouse your bold hearts at fair liberty’s call.
No
tyrannous acts shall suppress your just claim,
Or
stain with dishonor America’s name!
[i] End Note: This is “The Liberty song.” Its lyrics were penned by John Dickinson, and printed in Gill & Edes’ paper in 1768. The tune comes from “Here’s a Health to the Company,” an older Irish song.
I
realize at that moment that music has gotten decidedly more pretentious since I
sailed the Caribbean, but what the hell – if it makes them happy.
The
William evidently spots us, and
Captain Loring seems inclined to run. The William
turns port, putting wind over starboard, four points large, and picks up speed
headed southeast. Our mystery ship, however, does the opposite, she puts
herself wind over port on the beam. It slows her down, but it puts her on an
aggressive angle to intercept our course towards the William. If we maintain speed, we’ll probably beat her interception
and pass right ahead of her bow, but if we do that, we’ll get a full round from
her cannons, emptied right into our stern.
The
challenge has been made.
“Beat
to quarters!” I shout, “Quartermaster, hard to starboard, put us wind on the
beam! Master gunner, are our cannon ready?!”
“Ready
to be manned and loaded, Captain!” the man shouts back. At the quartermaster’s
behest, the crewmen re-rig the sails, bringing our course perpendicular to the
wind. We’re now getting more wind from the side than the back, which slows us
considerably. Fortunately, our opponent’s moving slow too, and it buys time for
the crewmen rigging the sails to get to their gunning stations.
“Broad
gunners, load port cannon, double shot, and prepare to fire broadside! Pivot
gunners, lay forward and prepare for axial fire!” the crewmen scramble to their
posts and begin hammering shot and powder into the big bronze barrels. “Sharpshooters,
take position!” I add. This is a little bit of unconventional warfare proposed
by my men before we left port. Three of Cassie’s friends who volunteered were
brothers from Pennsylvania with no naval experience, but who were claimed to be
deadly with their handmade, long hunting rifles. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t see
much use in small arms until we were at boarding distance, but Cassie claimed
they could hit a moving target at three hundred yards. “Remember,” I shout to
them, “we want to take the William
with as few casualties as possible, but right now, we’re not fightin’ the William!” I shout, “If you see an
officer, shoot to kill!”
I’m
skeptical that they’ll contribute much – they barely have their sea legs, and
with the wind whipping in from the storm their bullets seem likely to miss the
enemy ship altogether. I’ve been assured that I underestimate the virtues of a
rifle over a musket, but I’ll believe it when I see it.
“And
for God’s sakes,” I remind them as they take positon between the gunnery
stations to aim across the railing, “Stand clear when the cannon fire!”
There’s
a bright flash, and a loud crack and boom – for a moment I think someone must
have set off a cannon prematurely, but I quickly realize it’s the storm behind
us. Snowflakes are blowing in, far preferable to rain, certainly, but they’re
bringing thunder and lightning with them. The captain of the William would have been wise to turn
south even if we weren’t giving chase.
At
last I see our mystery ship’s name emblazoned on its prow, “Mr. Winter! What
does Pallas mean? With an s at the end?!”
Winter
leaps up onto the rigging and hangs off the side of the ship to get a better
look, “It’s a reference to Athena, the Greek goddess of War!” He shouts back,
“Pallas was the name of a titan she killed, and took his name for her own!”
I’ll
admit, I think it’s probably classier than Wild
Justice, but it’s not as intimidating. As if reading my mind, the crew
begins to chant the name of our ship again.
Winter
bounds over to where I’m standing, “Peut-être
une coïncidence,” he says, “But Pallas is usually applied to sculptures of
Athena cast from white marble.”
I’m
legitimately tired of that name, “Oh, fuck
me.”
“If
we survive this, oui,” Winter winks.
“I’m
going to hold you to that!” I shout as he picks up a musket and runs to the
foredeck.
We’re
now right upon them. The Pallas fires
a pair of chase guns – stronger forward weapons by far than our pivot guns, but
thanks to the bucking of the waves and a bit of over-caution on the part of the
Pallas’s helmsman, her bow jukes at
the last moment and the shots miss wide.
“Pivot
gunners!” I shout, “Show them size doesn’t matter! Sharpshooters, make sure they
remember it!”
The
men laugh as the small pivot guns fire. They haven’t the power of proper chase
guns, but they don’t miss. The golf ball-size iron shells whiz over the wood
railings of the Pallas and strike a
pair of her crewmen, basically splattering them across her deck, and leaving
one of her top-deck guns momentarily under-manned. The sharpshooters open fire. One I know
misses, another one clips a man, but the third strikes a man straight in the
side of his skull, interrupting his orders and sending someone else scurrying
to take his place.
Even
wind over beam, it feels like we’re rushing towards each other. We’re squared
off for a proper broadside, which makes the outcome of the next few minutes a
matter of timing and firepower. If we fire too soon we’ll miss them; too late,
we may not fire at all. If we both fire on cue, whoever has the most guns will
win. Only one deck of our brigantine is cannoned – she’s bigger and better
armed than the Revenge was, but she’s
still so under-powered that the British navy wouldn’t even rate it. So far, the
lower hull hatches of the Pallas have
also stayed shut, so I hope that they are – figuratively speaking – in the same
boat. In calmer waters I’d do a hard starboard turn and fire all port guns into
their bow, but even if the sudden shift against the wind wouldn’t put us on our
beam ends and threaten to capsize us, it’d pitch us far enough forward that our
cannons would fire into the water.
The
pivot guns and the sharpshooters manage one more shot in the darkening chaos,
but from there it’s a matter of waiting what seems like an eternity for our
opening.
I
pick up singing the men’s song where they left off. Any human voice would be
lost in the gale, but I weave my words into the wind, to make sure not only my
crew, but the men on the Pallas, can hear me.
Our
worthy forefathers, let's give them a cheer,
To
climates unknown did courageously steer;
Thro'
oceans to deserts for Freedom they came,
And
dying, bequeath'd us their freedom and fame.
Our
bows pass one another, and then as our masts begin to pass, I give the order to
fire. An instant later, cannons on both ships vomit fire and smoke with a bone
rattling boom that puts even the thunder to shame. Red hot iron balls I can’t
even touch when stored on a cold brass monkey fill the air.
I
half expect a significant portion of our crew to be dead from that volley, but
while most of our rounds batter their hull, most of theirs go high, ripping
through our sails and rigging but missing our heads. Fortunately they fire no
guns from their lower deck; they’re probably too afraid of the high waves to
open their hatches.
Some
of the rigging snaps, and the rear mast is grazed, unleashing a storm of wood
splinters on a man who falls to the deck in pain. Someone drags the man out of
the way as Quartermaster Jacobs shouts orders to secure the loose rigging and
reload the cannons.
The
Pennsylvania huntsmen take their own initiative and run to aft behind me, where
they line up and start firing behind us at the Pallas. They get off only a handful of shots – the cold wind
stiffens their fingers and tightens their rifle barrels, slowing their
reloading, and soon the Pallas is out
of range in the darkness.
I’m
something of an adrenaline junkie, but I’m not a fool. We got lucky with that
broadside, and I’m not keen for a second one. Those chase guns alone could do
us some serious damage if we go head to head again, and the William is slipping away faster than I
expected.
“Quartermaster!”
I shout, “Turn us port for speed. Bring us wind over starboard, six points
large.”
“Aye
captain!” Mr. Jacobs relays the order, sending the men from their gunning
stations back to the rigging. That would put us back on the William’s tail; the Pallas would have to make a full about
turn before it could pursue and it would be wind over beam going into and out
of that turn. She’d catch up, but it might take her a while.
“The
Pallas has turned and is pursuing
us!” One of the riflemen shouts over the aft wind, confirming my expectation.
“Master
gunner! I shout, ready our port guns to fire again!” the man relays the order,
and crewmen once again scramble to the gunnery stations to reload the weapons and
ready them.
“The
Pallas is wind over starboard, on the
beam,” another sailor elaborates from behind me, “Looks like she’s re-rigging
for speed… four, no… three points large.”
That
takes me off guard. We’re bearing south-southeast on a bit of an arc; I expected
the Pallas to go hard for southeast, and try to close the distance by making as
straight a line as possible through the storm tossed waters. Instead, she’s
headed east-southeast, putting her on our starboard side. I can’t imagine a
maneuver that would bring her along our starboard side, but I order the master
gunner to have our starboard cannons readied in case.
We
continue sailing after the William, and finally come across its course. I’m
ready to give the order to turn starboard and make this a proper chase, when
our ship suddenly lags a little.
“The
Pallas has turned!” one of the men
shouts, “wind over starboard, six points large!” The Pallas is matching the Wild Justice’s course from upwind.
“What’s
she doing?” Mr. Jacobs shouts to me.
“She’s
trying to overbear us,” I shout back, “She intends to shadow us and steal our
wind. We’ll slow and she’ll speed up. It doesn’t seem like much of a difference
now, but it’ll be enough for our prize to outrun us.”
“Captain!”
Winter shouts running back from the bow, “The William is changing course; she’s wind over starboard, on the beam.”
Just
when the Pallas had given her the
chance to escape, the William had
decided to slow down. That was unexpected.
“The
Pallas is gaining ground!” one of the
men behind me shouts, “wind over starboard, three points large.”
She’s
out of our wind now but she’s in line with us. She would definitely catch up to
us now, and with those chase guns on her that could be a problem.
Another
update comes from the bow, “The William’s
made a hard turn, she’s wind over port, on the beam!”
“She’s
bearing straight down on us, Captain!” Jacobs shouts, “Is she making to ram us?”
The
William is heavier than the Wild Justice, due to her cargo, but she is
still small as transatlantic ships go, lacks a ram, and is now sailing back
into an already violent storm. I hadn’t been told much about Captain Loring,
but I certainly didn’t have the impression he was suicidal. It is a shocking
(literal) change of direction for the American sailors who’d so eagerly fled
the storm moments before. Evidently, there’s someone on that ship that
frightens them more than the prospect of sinking in freezing waters.
“Quartermaster!”
I shout, “Wind over starboard, on the beam!”
“Captain?”
“Make
it so, quartermaster!”
“Aye
captain!” the men re-rig the ship, bringing us at a right angle to the gale
again. Gusts of wind and high waves rock the ship violently. If it gets any
worse I’ll need to turn us away just to keep us from being drowned. The
maneuver slows us down, and lines us up with the oncoming William for a game of naval chicken.
I
look back to see the Pallas’s
silhouette in a flash of lightning. It’s hard to gauge something’s speed like
that, but she is coming on fast, and even with the shifting winds of the
tempest around us, it’s evident we are slowing down.
“Master
gunner, are the port cannon still ready to fire?” I ask for confirmation.
“Touchholes
might be wet!” He shouts back.
“Get
them clean and ready to fire. No more crew than you need to fire what’s already
loaded. Mr. Clasky, Mr. Jordan!” I shout to the two nearest hands on the deck
below me, “I need two barrels of powder, still sealed, on the aft deck, now.”
“Aye
captain!” they shout and begin rushing about.
“Quartermaster,
take the helm and get every idle hand to be ready for a hard course change!”
“Our
heading, captain?!” Mr. Jacobs asks as he relieves the helmsman and sends him
to the deck.
“Hard
port, before the wind, and it needs to be the fastest rigging change in the
history of the high seas.”
“Aye
captain,” Mr. Jacobs barks the orders but he looks pale; he seems to have
figured out where this is going.
“Mr.
Clasky, Mr. Jordan toss your kegs overboard! Riflemen, don’t let those powder
kegs out of your sight, and get ready to make us proud!”
The
Pennsylvania boys shout and stamp the stocks of their long guns on the deck.
“Mr.
Winter, watch aft and call the range for me!”
Winter
scrambles over to stand alongside the riflemen and watch the powder kegs bounce
and toss in the violent waves. “One hundred yards between the Pallas and the
kegs!” he estimates.
“Quartermaster,
are we prepared to turn?”
“As
we’ll ever be, Captain!” Mr. Jacobs shouts.
“90
yards!” Winter shouts.
“You’ll
know when; don’t wait for my order!”
“Aye
captain!”
“70
yards!”
“Are
the port guns ready to fire?!” I shout.
“50
yards!”
“Aye captain,” the master gunner cries back,
“on your command.”
“30
yards!” Winter continues.
“Brace
for a hard turn!” I shout back, “The order will be yours to give master
gunner!” I can’t afford the delay that would come from my own deliberation,
hesitation, and command.
“20
yards”
“Riflemen,
fire!” I shout as I rush to the stern railing. I’d banked this maneuver on the
assumption that shooting a barrel of naval grade black powder with a rifle
would set it off, either by impact or heat. Nowadays, if you fired a tracer
round from a modern sniper rifle into a steel keg you’d get a hell of a boom,
but back in the 18th century a lead ball is a couple hundred degrees
too cool and not quite fast enough to set off a wooden barrel of powder. The
lead balls pop off the barrels without effect.
“10
yards!” Winter shouts.
Okay,
time for plan B. There was a trick I used to do in the taverns in London. If I
hit the right pitch and intensity with my voice I could create bubbles and sparks
in a bottle of beer. I even turned a bottle of gin into a shrapnel grenade once
by accident. I met a physicist a few centuries later who explained it to me –
apparently it’s called sonoluminescence; the sound creates bubbles of gas which
compress into plasma at the center. With the right sound and the right liquid,
you can create sparks as hot as 20,000 Kelvins – it’s literally lightning in a bottle. I didn’t know that at the time of
course, but I did know that this… this would be in a whole different league
from my usual barroom tricks.
I
concentrate on one of the barrels as the Pallas runs upon it and I screech at
the top of my lungs. I make it as shrill as possible, and use every bit of will
I have to give it as much oomph as
possible. The riflemen fall to the deck clutching their ears. Winter was
evidently braced for what was coming, and even though I can tell the sound is
probably tying his guts in knots, he’s got one hand on the railing and his
other arm looped around my waist, to keep me on my feet as I wail.
The
seawater behind us lights up with a thousand sparks, a wave that races back to
the Pallas at the speed of sound and strikes the barrel I’m concentrating on.
It explodes right under the Pallas’s
bow, and the shockwave carried through the water sets off the second barrel.
It’s like punching the Pallas hard in
the nose, twice.
Jacobs
hauls the wheel hard left and shouts for the rigging change. The bosun formally
relays the order, but the men are already in action. The metal blocks groan and
screech as the men throw every bit of strength they have into fighting the
wind. The ship bears hard to port, and just as I feared, the wind and inertia
cause the whole ship to lean hard starboard. If we hadn’t already been slowed
down so much by the Pallas stealing
our wind, we surely would have capsized. Gear slides hard starboard, and one
man loses his grip and slides overboard into the freezing water. There’s no
hope of rescuing the man – the cold will claim him in minutes, even if the
crushing waves don’t pulverize him against our hull.
The
William is headed straight toward our
starboard hull as we right ourselves like a cork. Our deck levels, and the
master gunner gives the order to fire the port guns as our sails catch the
wind. The cannons fire in almost perfect unison an instant before the Wild Justice launches forward with the
full force of the storm pushing her.
[... And if you want to find out what happens next, help me get this book published by sharing this post anywhere publishers, editors, or agents are likely to see it. Thanks mates!]
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James N. McDonald is a "liberal academic" born and raised in Missouri and residing in Tennessee. He holds one degree in history, two degrees in psychology, but loves writing fiction. His first, completed novel, The Rise of Azraea, Book I, is a high fantasy story with elements of comic fantasy and satire targeting present day, real world issues such as economic inequity, and sexual and racial discrimination. It is currently available on Amazon.
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