Wild Justice Teaser for #TalkLikeAPirateDay

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 18^th 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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