Princess of the Blood. Roxana Malaventura

later his third shot fell and the frigate’s rudder shattered to splinters. My nameless foe was now at my mercy, and I had none.

      “Sailing Master!” I called.

      “Aye?”

      “Damage?”

      “Two killed, Ma’am, two wounded and one of ‘em grievous. Mr. Bonaparte is a-seein’ to ’em now.” This was his way of saying I would soon bury three men, perhaps four.

      “And?”

      “Mains’l is bust, Ma’am, and, Ma’am, we’re holed in the bows, just at the waterline. Two hits, both twenty-four pounders. Cable-locker’s flooded and we can make no way in any weather. Carpenter’s a-seein’ to it, Ma’am.”

      What O’Sullivan had told me was that I could still sail, and still fight, but carefully and only if wind and sea were with me.

      “Shift half the guns aft, and whatever ballast you can,” I commanded, to keep Hecate’s prow riding as high in the water as possible. This would make her corkscrew on every swell, but it would keep her afloat. “Helm, keep me in yon frigate’s baffles – I don’t want to see even one of his guns.”

      “Aye.”

      “Mr. MacDonald!”

      “Oy?”

      “Rig a bosun’s chair and send a good man aloft to make repairs to the main. We cannot now open the sail-locker for a spare.” I needed the long nines, and their carriages sit atop the locker’s hatch. The only thing every ship has room for is compromise.

      “Oy oy, Morm.” Within minutes a seaman was dangling above the deck with a sailmaker’s needle mending the rents in Hecate’s mainsail where the frigate’s shot had passed through. For the moment, there was little else I could do. With no rudder, the enemy could only drift with the breeze. I had not the men to storm and board her – her crew outnumbered mine by six or seven to one, and I meant to worry her to death as a wolf does a bullock, but in my own time. I made my way for’ard and addressed the Gunnery Master:

      “Guns, listen to me. Yonder Captain has seen our fangs, so we can surprise him with them no more. You are to keep firing on him, on his poop-deck, one round every five or ten minutes, until I tell you to stop.”

      “Aye, aye, Milady.”

      “And were I that Captain, I would soon have my carpenter in a boat to see and mend my rudder. Watch for that boat, and sink it. He may think to hoist a gun or two onto his quarterdeck to fend us off – I do not mean to come inside his range, but nevertheless, should you see a gun, destroy it.”

      “Ja, Morm. Permit speak, Kapten?” he begged, tugging a shaggy blond forelock.

      “Of course, Mr. Günnarsson – say on.”

      “Ma’am, poop-deck good target, ja , but Great Cabin better, bigger damage. Can shoot through cabins to main deck. Kill many; kill helm, binnacle, everytink, if we keep course exact.” I gave the honest Swede an approving smile.

      “Very good, Guns, carry on.”

      While we spoke, I heard the thud of an axe or mallet beneath my feet – Atilla was at work on repairs and I did not need to see him at his task to know that Hecate’ s wounds would soon be healed.

      Returning aft, I gave orders to maintain a course that would keep Hecate within a point or two of the enemy’s centreline. The roar of Günnarsson’s first shot brought up my spy-glass, nine-pounds of round-shot crashed through the very centre panes of the great lantern-windows of my enemy and a cheer rose from the throats of a dozen men.

      Seeing that all was in order, I left the helm under the Sailing-Master’s command and went below, to where Bonaparte was doing what he could for my two wounded.

      One, a stout seaman I knew only as Jenkins, I saw at once would recover – a flying splinter had gouged a trench across his face, piercing one cheek and taking off most of an ear. He would be disfigured indeed, but was ugly already. He politely touched his forelock in salute as I approached, laying my hand on his arm, noting that he was not too much wounded to stare at my bosom. Young Hawke was attending, bathing the wound with sea-water. Taking the cloth from him, I bade him fetch the man a tot of rum, and began to tend the wound myself. Jenkins, presumably delirious, reached out a hand to touch me.

      “Nay sailor,” I said softly, “you’re not yet among the angels.”

      Bonaparte was bent over the other victim, and a glance revealed that there was nothing to be done: the man’s right arm and shoulder were shot away and in his bloodless face the eyes were already turning glassy. It shames me to say I did not even know his name.

      Hawke returned and cradled Jenkins’ head while I brought the rum to his lips. When it had disappeared I placed a pad of leather between his teeth and began stitching the flesh of his cheek, wishing I could train Polly to the task – his needlework is exquisite but he cannot bear the sight of blood. It is no wonder that he abandoned his tribe of cannibals.

      By the time I had finished and bathed most of the blood from my hands, the other man had breathed his last and another life was added to the debt owed by my anonymous foe.