vertical prow and then shattered under its rushing keel. For a vessel larger than a llaut, there would have been no reciprocal danger involved, but in this case, it was a somewhat bold move: the pirate hull was not so large that it was impervious to damage. But as it turned out, this calculated risk was in fact a fatal mistake.
Thomas North clenched the athletic whistle between his teeth and sent out a shrill blast that carried over the sound of the gentle swells and the hulls that were hissing and frothing through them.
From the skiff, the stentorian voice of Owen Roe O’Neill barked out orders. A moment later, the little boat nearly came to a stop, offering its waist to the onrushing llaut. When the separating range had diminished to seventy yards, six men rose up in the skiff, weapons snugged against their cheeks as O’Neill roared for the oarsmen to steady the hull as much as possible.
The pirates came on, confident that they would soon be past a single storm of lead and then smash the enemy craft to flinders. That was when the weapons of the six men-four. 40–72 lever actions and the task force’s two SKS-Ms-began their rolling torrent of sharp, percussive fire.
The SKS’s alone pounded out fifty rounds in less than twenty seconds. The. 40-72s fired at a slower pace, but there were four of them, and when one was dry, Owen handed that rifleman a fresh weapon. Fired from one moving, pitching, platform to another, the majority of the shots were misses, many quite wild.
But at least a score found their marks. Pirates kept sprawling, falling across their oars, under the thwarts, two going over the side. The one who had been heaving mightily on the yard collapsed; the yard tilted down, the sail sagged. The corsair captain, resolved to return fire, scrambled to the bow, raised his wheel lock-and had three bullets go through his chest before he could fire his own weapon. The man at the tiller stood to see what had happened, was shouting orders when a round hit him in the shoulder. It spun the steersman about, but he kept hold of the sweep and was still giving orders when a second bullet went in his left temple and emerged in a bloody gout from his right ear.
The llaut, tiller free and sail hanging, began drifting back in toward the bay, pushed by the currents and the wind. As the Minnow closed in on it, there was movement visible along the gunwales and then a few survivors rose up cautiously. A quick look at the bodies piled in their boat told them all they needed to know: that there were not enough crew left to man her. The survivors looked at each other, and then began to raise their hands over their heads.
Thomas felt his stomach clench, but did what he had to do: he gave two short blasts on the whistle. The four Hibernians with him in the Minnow lifted their weapons and shot the pirates down where they stood.
As the Minnow and the skiff converged on the llaut, no amount of rationalizing managed to untie the knot of guilt that was constricting North’s stomach. He looked at Lefferts, whose face was not quite entirely impassive.
“We had no choice,” said the up-timer quietly. “We knew it would probably come to this.”
“Damned if that makes in any easier,” commented North.
Harry nodded and watched the first of the Venetian sailors leap across the gap between the Minnow and the pirate llaut, carrying lines to make them fast together.
North cleared his throat. “Aurelio,” he said, “go on board and tell me how fast you can get her crewed and ready to move. Owen?”
“Here.”
“Any casualties?”
“Nary a hit, not even to the skiff itself. Shall we board the corsair and take inventory?”
“Stop reading my mind. By the way, how much food did you leave behind in the cave?”
“Dinner for twenty, maybe.”
“Not worth the risk going back for it. Anything else?”
“No; every bit of gear-ours and theirs-is crowded into this wee boat.”
“Transfer it all to the llaut, then put the skiff in tow.”
“As you say, Lord Sassenach. And the bodies? What to do with them?”
Thomas glanced at Harry, who met his gaze and nodded. Thomas stood straight and called over to Owen, “Consign them to the deep.”
Two nights later, Miro arrived at the Caves of Arta, found the skiff waiting for him, and made what was now a long journey over the horizon to the re-gathered flotilla. As the little boat finally approached the lightless Atropos, he grinned up at Harry Lefferts, who was awaiting him on poop deck. “Permission to come aboard?”
“Hell,” drawled Harry, “near as I can figure it, you own this ship.”
“Why, I suppose I might. But no: it’s more proper to consider all the prize hulls common property for now, at least until we can work out the shares later on.”
“You sound way too familiar with the conventions of this piracy business, Estuban. You sure you’ve told me everything about your past?”
“Never ask a question if you’d rather not know the answer.”
“Huh. Figured. So: now what?”
North had strolled over with O’Neill and, seeing them approach Harry, Miro lost his train of thought for a second; they were truly, and naturally, comrades now. In his absence, these three very different men had finished forging the bonds that made them a team, a group of soldiers who worked well together, and even liked each other.
“Estuban? You okay?”
“Yes, Harry, just a little distracted. Tired from the journey, I expect. The rowers in the skiff briefed me on the way out, but some of the news seemed to good to believe. Did you really take the corsair without any losses?”
“Seems so,” said Harry, who rummaged about in a deck locker and produced a bottle of wine and a fistful of small pewter mugs.
Miro looked down. “A victory drink? Isn’t that a bit presumptive?”
“I think of it merely as a ‘Hey! We’re not dead yet!’ drink,” replied Harry.
Miro smiled. “Yes. We have been lucky. For a change.”
“Let’s hope that luck holds a little longer-long enough to grab Frank and Gia.” Harry gulped at his wine. “So spill, Estuban: are the Stones where you thought they’d be?”
“Yes, in the Castell de Bellver. And we’ll have all the help and supplies we need to get them out.”
“And do you have a plan finalized yet?” Thomas sounded doubtful,
“I have a plan; you will all help me polish the details. And we’ll need to do it tonight, in my cabin.”
“Why so soon? And why inside?” asked Owen.
“It must be tonight because some of you will be heading directly to a safe house in Palma by tomorrow evening.”
“Oh, and who would that be?”
“Well, actually…you, Owen. You and one of your men will be the first to go.”
“Me and-?”
“Yes. Then you, Thomas; you’ll head in a few days before the rescue operation is set to begin.”
“And may I ask why I must be shipped into Palma?”
“So that you can lead the troops into Bellver.”
“Wonderful. And how am I supposed to do that? By knocking on the portcullis and asking politely to enter?”
Miro smiled. “We’ll worry about the specifics when we’re done with the wine-and where none of the men can hear us talking.”
Harry looked around at the black seas and up at the silver stars. “Huh. Doesn’t look like a promising neighborhood for enemy informers, Estuban.”
“It’s not. But we’ll be coming close to shore soon; I trust our men, but I don’t know all of them well enough to be sure that, if they had a detailed plan to sell to our enemies, one of them wouldn’t succumb to the allure of forty pieces of silver-or much more. And with all the pre-positioning, supply pickup, and transport that we’re going to be coordinating over the next two weeks, they’d have plenty of opportunity to betray our plans to the enemy. So except for those groups who will train for the operation in separation from the others, we will not be sharing the details of the rescue with our men.”
“So you do have the basics of a rescue plan,” persisted North. “Does this mean you have also settled on a plan of escape?”
