“This is the town trading store. By direction of the governor, the natives must trade here.”

  “You mean Governor Nicholson. I had tea with the governor’s wife just last week.” Karen watched the muscles in Edwards’ jaw flex as he stared into Karen’s eyes.

  Finally, he lifted five blankets, two axes, and two shovels from behind the counter and placed them on the well-worn oak countertop. “Take ‘em and go.”

  Karen stepped back from the counter and motioned at Mato. She then spun on her heels and headed for the door.

  Mato and the two braves retrieved the items and fell in behind Karen.

  Mato glanced back over his shoulder and gave Edwards a hint of a smile. He caught up to Karen and began matching her stride. “What happen?”

  “Sometimes you have to force people to do the right thing,” Karen said, as she continued walking.

  ◆◆◆

  By late afternoon, the two sloops had pulled to within three miles of the brig. It had to be obvious to the merchant captain that the sloops were something other than Royal armed vessels.

  “Our colors, Mister Thomas, if you will,” Low said. “Run ‘em up.”

  Thomas gave the orders and two men lowered the ensign and raised the skeleton. Raising the pirate flag was a signal to the merchantman to heave to, or face the consequences.

  The merchant captain apparently elected to take his chances. After all, the larger vessel was armed, but less armed than the two sloops combined. More importantly, the brig was nowhere near as agile. But still, anything could happen in combat.

  Knowing what he knew about Ned Low, Mason would have made the same decision.

  An hour later, the sloops had gained another mile on the brig but were still well out of cannon shot. Mason didn’t know the range on a four-pound ball, but figured it couldn’t be more than two thousand yards, a mile or so, depending on the powder charge.

  As the minutes ticked by, Low kept his gaze on the horizon, probably trying to gauge how much time he had before dark. At the current rate, there was time to catch the brig.

  Suddenly, the brig came about to the starboard. The maneuver brought its broadside guns to bear on the two approaching sloops, which closed rapidly.

  Mason counted eight gun ports just as smoke billowed from every barrel. He heard the successive booms at about the same time he saw multiples splashes in the water to the left and right of Fortune. He instinctively ducked, even though he knew it would have been too late had one of those balls had his name on it. On all fours, he crawled to the mast for cover.

  With little more than a nod from Low to the helmsman, the ship began veering to starboard.

  Mason glanced back and saw that Ranger was veering in the opposite direction at the same time. This was obviously a common maneuver against an armed adversary, something Harris and Low had probably executed many times.

  The gun crews on the brig let loose another volley. Of the eight rounds, six flew harmlessly through the rigging. But two found a mark. One crashed through the planking of the sloop’s gunwale, between two gun emplacements; the other caught a crewman standing at the stern and divided his torso at the navel in a gush of blood and tissue. Both halves were lifted up and over the side.

  McGregor and the other gunners were unfazed as they took aim.

  At Low’s direction, Thomas yelled fire and all six cannons spit forth flames and thick clouds of smoke. All but one cannonball slammed into the brig’s hull and deck. Wood splintered along the entire length of the hull.

  “The rigging,” Thomas yelled. “Reload, and fire at will!”

  Every crew member not manning a large gun was aiming and firing a musket.

  The brig’s crew was doing the same thing from their own deck.

  Between cannon booms, Mason could hear musket balls thumping into wood, or whizzing through the air. Armed with only a pistol, Mason would not have been expected to return fire, since the range of his weapon was much shorter.

  By this time, Ranger had maneuvered around and was raking the brig’s stern with cannon and musket fire.

  With only a swivel gun at the stern, the brig was not able to return fire.

  Low’s gun crews were able to get off two volleys to the brig’s one. That more than made up the difference in firepower. Cannonballs slammed into the large ship’s rigging. Many struck home and brought canvas, yards, and line to the deck. Despite the damage, the large ship was still able to maneuver, and it did so by coming about to port. This suddenly brought its port guns to bear on Ranger. As soon as they were aligned, the ship’s gun crews unleashed a massive volley at the sloop.

  The brig’s turn, however, exposed its stern to Low’s gunners. They fired at will, volley after volley, without fear of return fire.

  The helmsman steered in a wide arc around to the brig’s starboard, while the gunners continued to fire ball after ball into the ship’s planking and rigging. More clumps of rigging and wood fell to the deck.

  When the brig’s starboard guns failed to return fire, Low directed his ship to draw closer, broadside to broadside.

  “Prepare to board, mates,” Thomas yelled.

  As the two ships closed, men scurried about and massed along the port gunwale. Some men held iron grappling hooks attached to lengths of line. When the large ship was within range, these men gave the hooks a twirl or two and let them fly through the air until they clanged onto the brig’s deck.

  This is when Mason should have joined in, to help tug on the lines and, when secured, board the other ship, ready to kill and maim. But he didn’t do that. There was no way he could participate in the carnage he knew was to come. He had an alternate plan. While most of the crew were boarding the other ship, Mason intended to take that opportunity to exact his own revenge.

  CHAPTER 11

  After heaving to and letting the sails go slack, Jeremy, Forrest, and Charlie gathered at the port gunwale to observe the battle raging in the far distance. From almost ten miles out, they could hear the boom of the cannons and see the flash of discharges in the subdued light of early evening.

  “That ship is most likely out of New York,” Charlie offered to no one in particular.

  “Hard to tell from here,” Jeremy said, “she’s large.”

  “Merchantman, headed to Boston, maybe London,” Forrest said.

  Charlie shook his head. “We won’t even know if Mason survives this battle.”

  “That’s true,” Jeremy said, “but we have to pursue until we know something for sure.”

  “Can we get closer?” Charlie asked.

  “As long as it’s light, we’ll be seen for sure if we do,” Forrest said.

  “We hang back,” Jeremy said. “Observe and wait, for now. That’s all we can do. That’s all Mason expects.”

  In the dimming light, the three men watched the light show on the horizon.

  ◆◆◆

  With hull-to-hull contact with the brig, Low’s crew rushed over the gunwales with whoops and hollers. Pistol shots rang out among the clang of metal against metal as the cutlass-wielding crews engaged.

  Mason had only taken a few steps toward Low and Thomas at the helm, when both men suddenly sprang forth to join the melee. Mason altered his course to pursue Low, intending to stab or shoot him during the commotion. But such was not to be.

  Mason didn’t hear the particular shot that sent the lead ball toward him, and had no idea who had fired the shot, but he felt the impact for a split second before his world swirled in a sea of black dots on a field of gray. The sound of battle, suddenly muffled, was his last recognizable connection with the world before all went dark.

  What seemed like seconds later, his senses began to return, beginning with the sound of the two ships rubbing against each other, screeching from wood against wood. The sounds of battle were no more, replaced with human voices, indecipherable at first. He recognized Low’s voice an instant before he opened his eyes.

  Apparently only minutes had passed. The two ships were still side-by-side, but most of Low’s crew, and Low himself, were still on the brig.

  He raised his hand to the source of his pain: his forehead, just below the hairline on the right side. He felt the warm, viscous wetness of his own blood. He stared at the red liquid on his fingertips. Bleeding, but not dead, was his first thought. His next thought was the massive headache throbbing at both temples. He was prone on the deck, apparently exactly where he had fallen. He felt the wound again and ran his fingertips over the contours of the broken skin. A glancing blow from a subsonic flying piece of lead. He was unbelievably lucky to not be dead.

  He suddenly felt hands on his upper arm and then a piece of cloth being placed against his wound. He shifted his eyes, focused, and saw McGregor hovering over him.

  “What happened?” Mason mumbled. He was aware that his words were slurred.

  “It bounced off your head,” McGregor said. “I had a feeling you were the hardheaded type.”

  “Much blood?”

  “No, it’s already stopped,” McGregor said, “you’ll live.”

  Mason moved his body, intent on sitting up, but relaxed back to his prone position when his surroundings began to swirl and the headache worsened.

  “Take it easy, you’re going to be dizzy for a while.”

  “What shall we do with him?” Mason heard in the background. It was Low’s voice.

  “Send him to the bottom, Ned,” came an immediate response. Mason recognized Thomas’ voice.

  “What is happening?” Mason asked.

  “Ned is meting out punishment to the brig’s crew,” he replied. “They tried to run. They should have heeded our colors.”

  Mason shifted his head slightly but, from his position, all he could see was the gunwale and the heads of several men above. They seemed to be surrounding something. “I need to sit up,” he said, as he pushed with his elbow against the deck.

  McGregor grasped Mason’s shoulders with both hands and helped raise his torso. As Mason came up, McGregor pivoted his body around so he could rest his back against the frame of the pin rail.

  The world swirled for several seconds but then slowly dissipated. From the new angle he could see the men standing on the brig’s deck, and what they surrounded.

  Ned Low stood above a man on his knees.

  The man was looking up at Ned. The expression on his face was one of acceptance. He was likely about to die, and he knew it. Based on the clothes he wore, Mason presumed it was the merchantman’s captain on his knees. He watched as Low lifted the blade of his cutlass slowly and let it come to rest on the captain’s right shoulder. The sharp edge faced up.

  The captain closed his eyes and lifted his face toward the darkening sky. His lips tightened as he readied himself for the inevitable.

  Low studied the man for several moments as men from both crews looked on.

  Every one of them expected to see the captain dead at any moment. The captain’s crew cowered and tried to look away, but the impending scene proved too much to ignore. Low’s crewmen jeered, smirked, and some even laughed.

  Mason focused on the sloop Ranger as it crept by fifty yards off the merchantman’s bow. Harris was obviously ready to lend a hand if needed. Mason turned back to Low just in time to see his expression change.

  At that moment, Low shifted the blade an inch or two toward the man’s neck and with an upward flick of his wrist, separated the man’s ear from his head. For a moment, nothing happened. The wound didn’t bleed, and the captain didn’t react. But then the opening turned a bright red as blood began seeping from the multitude of tiny vessels. Blood began to flow. It streamed down the man’s jaw and onto his shoulder, where the stream divided. Half ran down his chest, and the other half down his back.

  It must have been that moment when the man felt the pain. His face winced as he clapped his right hand over the spot where his ear used to reside. He brought it down, stared at the blood for a moment, and then returned his hand to cover the spot. The man glanced down and to his right.

  From his angle, Mason couldn’t see what caught the man’s attention. But an image of a bloody ear lying on the deck entered Mason’s mind. Surprisingly, the captain didn’t scream out or even moan.

  The man suddenly bent forward and disappeared from Mason’s view.

  “Hold him up,” Low ordered. “Back to his knees.”

  Two of Low’s men rushed forward. Each took an armpit and returned the captain to an upright position, and back into Mason’s view.

  Blood now covered the entire side of the man’s face, neck, shoulder, and upper torso. His hand still covered the side of his head.

  Low slowly brought the cutlass up again, repeating the same motions as before, except he now let the blade come to rest on the man’s left shoulder, the side away from Mason’s view.

  The man stared up at Low. His eyes drooped. The man looked tired, and his face carried an expression that said to just get it over with.

  But Low wasn’t one to be hurried. He took his time, positioning and then repositioning the blade on the man’s shoulder. He glanced up at his men, standing in a semicircle around the scene. He cocked his head slightly to one side, as if asking for their opinion.

  Several men jeered and urged Low to continue.

  Without any additional thought or a care in the world, he flicked the blade up.

  Mason expected to see man’s other ear fly up into the air and plop back to the deck. But it didn’t.

  The captain immediately brought his left hand up to cover the spot as he continued to eye Ned Low.

  At that moment, Thomas hurried up to Low. “We found it. A large chest full of silver, too heavy for four men to carry.”

  “Transfer the silver, a bag at a time if you have to,” Low said, as he glanced around at the open ocean. His eyes landed on Ranger for a few moments and then turned back to Thomas. “Get us moving, Mister Thomas.”

  “What of him?” Thomas asked, motioning to the captain. “And the others?”

  “Bring ‘em; sink their ship. It will send a message when they reach port. We’ll hand them over to the next vessel we stop.”

  “Aye, Ned,” Thomas said, as he turned and hurried off.

  The captain, minus an ear, slowly brought his left hand down, expecting to see it covered with blood. His hand was clean. He felt the side of his head. His face relaxed, apparently relieved Low had taken only one of his ears.

  Low stepped over the gunwale and back onto the deck of Fortune. He stopped next to Mason. “Will he live?” he asked McGregor.

  “He’ll live.”

  “Get him wrapped up and below. Give him a day of rest.” With that, Low turned and began walking toward the aft hatch.

  ◆◆◆

  Karen and Lisa sat across from each other at their table in the common dining area. They each had both hands wrapped around a mug of hot coffee.

  All of the workers had already eaten and were off to their various tasks for the day. Only Marie and her young assistant remained, and they both busied themselves in the cooking area.

  This was the part of the day when Karen and Lisa didn’t have to worry about what Michael might be getting into. He would be asleep for at least another hour, upstairs in the main house.

  “You look worried,” Lisa finally said, to break the silence.

  “Don’t think this thing is going according to Mason’s plan,” Karen said.

  “Things rarely do. But he always finds a way through it.” She patted Karen on the hand. “And he will this time.”

  Karen cocked her head for a better view through the window on the opposite side of the room.

  Lisa pivoted her body to see what had gotten Karen’s attention.

  They both watched as Mato and his two braves walked toward the kitchen from the work barn in the far distance.

  Lisa swung back around to face Karen. “They could have stayed in the main house, we offered.”

  “I’ve lost count how many times Mato has visited and he’s never wanted to sleep in the house, always the barn. Not even with Charlie, in Charlie’s room. Every time, they spread out their bedrolls and sleep on the floor in the main section.”

  “Ever think about how this country has treated, is treating, the natives?”

  “Yeah, all the time, but there’s nothing we can do except our small part.”

  “They should have repelled Columbus before he ever stepped foot on this continent,” Lisa said.

  “I don’t believe Columbus ever reached North America. The closest he came to the northern mainland was the Bahamas.”

  “You know what I mean,” Lisa said.

  “I do. But even if the natives had repelled Columbus wherever he landed, Europeans would have kept coming. They knew it was here. That’s all it took. Besides, the Vikings and maybe even the Phoenicians and Romans were here before Columbus. And it’s not like the various tribes were tolerant of each other before we arrived. They weren’t. They’re human; we don’t play well with each other.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Created this way. It’s in our nature. But greed, envy, and aggression have their good points. It is those very characteristics that drive us to not only survive, but to flourish. Can you imagine beings as fragile as us, just surviving on this hostile planet for very long, much less achieving what we’ve achieved, even up to this point. Pure meanness, that’s the only explanation.”

  “You’ve given this a lot of thought,” Lisa said.

  “Not really. It’s something Mason talks about. He likes it when I listen to him; hates it when I don’t.” The corners of her eyes suddenly wrinkled and her lips tightened.

  “He’ll be back before you know it,” Lisa comforted.

  “Morning,” Karen greeted Mato and his braves as they stepped through the kitchen doorway. They each carried a bow and a quiver of arrows.

 

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