My conclusions are that while he clearly feels something for me, and indeed, all the signs point to that something being love, it is important—in fact, critical—for our future happiness that he acknowledges that fact, and accepts that love—mutual and enduring—is the true basis of our marriage from the start.
So how do I bring that about?
As ever resolute.
E.
The attack came with the dawn.
Emily woke with a start. Her hammock swung wildly as she sat up. Shouts reached her from the deck above, followed by the unmistakable clang of swords.
Feet thundered past—the men belowdecks racing for the companionway ladders.
A heavy thump fell on their door, then it swung open to reveal Gareth in breeches and shirt, a pistol in one hand, sword at his hip.
He looked at her. “Stay here.”
His gaze flicked to Dorcas and Arnia, extending the command to them, then he whirled and was gone, racing to join the fight.
Emily looked at Arnia, then Dorcas, then tumbled out of the hammock. There was only just light enough to see, a pearly wash spreading from the far horizon sliding tentative fingers through the small porthole.
Moments later, fully dressed, the three of them gathered at the foot of the stern ladder. They had no intention of staying out of the fight, of not helping their menfolk, but neither were they foolish.
In matters such as this, Arnia took the lead. Head up, she listened to the thumps and thuds of feet on the deck above. She leaned toward Dorcas and Emily, whispered, “It will be better to let them all become engaged, then fall on them—our attackers—from the rear.” She gestured with the wicked looking blade in her hand. “If the cultists have time to notice us, they will come for us first, thinking to weaken our men by holding us.”
Emily nodded. Dorcas had Arnia’s second knife. Emily had glanced around the ship’s galley, but hadn’t seen anything she wanted to use. Despite Bister’s training, she didn’t think she would be able to wield a knife—just the thought of sticking a blade into someone made her squeamish—but she’d noticed the pole the sailors used for tweaking the sails and ropes, similar to the pole she’d used in their previous shipboard fight. As before, the pole was stowed along the side of the stern housing; she would grab it the instant she gained the deck.
She was an Englishwoman; fighting with staffs was much more her style.
Arnia had been listening intently. Abruptly, she nodded. “Now.”
She started up the ladder. Dorcas followed, with Emily close behind.
They reached the deck to discover not just chaos, but pandemonium. Schooners were sometimes fighting ships, and so better accommodated hand-to-hand combat. Most xebecs were solely merchant vessels. Their low railings and narrow walkways made their decks highly unsuitable for fighting.
And it was definitely cultists they were fighting.
Emily saw the black silk scarves she’d grown to fear wound about far too many heads. Arnia and Dorcas saw backs to attack and moved away. Stepping fully onto the deck, Emily ducked and bent to retrieve her weapon of choice.
She’d grasped the smooth wooden pole, and was dragging it to her when some instinct made her glance around.
A cultist had spotted her. Grinning widely, he came strutting forward, bloody sword in one hand, the other reaching for her.
He wasn’t smiling an instant later when the end of her pole rammed into his groin.
She leapt up as he fell to his knees, kicked his sword out of his hand, then lifted her pole high and brought it crashing down over his head.
He slumped—unconscious, not dead.
She could manage unconscious without a qualm.
Two more cultists went down under her swinging pole, but she had to wait for her moment and get enough space to wield it…and, good God, there were dozens of them. The melee of bodies literally clogged the deck.
Then she saw why. Another ship much like their xebec had drawn close—close enough to send more cultists scrambling over the side onto their deck whenever the gray waves pushed the ships close.
One glance along the deck told the story. Their band, aided by the captain and his crew, were fighting valiantly, and to that point had held their own. But there was no chance they could hold out forever, not against the tide of cultists waiting to jump across and join the fray.
Fear gripped her. Eyes wide, she scanned the deck. Through the faint veil of morning sea mist, she located all of their party, all still on their feet, still doggedly fighting, but two sailors were already down. As she watched, another fell.
Casualties. And there were going to be a lot more. Unless.…
A sudden upheaval of the bodies to her left had her hefting her staff and swinging that way.
But it was Gareth who erupted out of the pack. He’d been fighting a little way along the deck.
His eyes met hers. There was cold fury in his, but before he reached her a cultist pressed in. With a snarl, Gareth swung to deal with the attacker, sword swinging fluidly, effortlessly.
She edged back to give him room, her mind darting, racing, thinking.
Cultist dispatched, Gareth turned to her and roared, “For the love of God, what the devil are you doing here? Get below!”
Below…eyes flying wide, she seized his lapel and hauled him close—close enough that he could hear her above the godawful din. “The oil!” She met his eyes. “I saw in the galley—the cook has just decanted an amphora into lots of little bottles. He uses lots of rags. Put the rags in the bottles, light them, and…” She looked up at the sails of their ship, taut in the breeze—the fair wind was still blowing—then looked at the other ship. The cultists’ ship. It, too, was under sail. “If their sails burn—”
She didn’t need to finish. Gareth grabbed her arm and pushed her toward the stern ladder. “Come on!”
He had to help her slide between desperately fighting men. Suddenly, he reached over and past a set of shoulders, tagging someone in a scrum beyond.
An instant later, Bister popped through. “What?”
“Come with us.” Gareth pushed past Emily to clear the area around the stern hatch. As soon as she could, Emily darted behind him and went down. At a nod from him, Bister ducked down behind her.
Gareth dallied to deal with the two cultists who had seen them go below. A slash on his upper arm and two scrapes later, he whirled and went down the ladder.
He found Emily and Bister working frantically, readying their little incendiaries. Emily had found a basket. She thrust the last of the pottery bottles wicked with rags into it, looked at him. “Tinder?”
He reached into his pocket and drew out his tinderbox.
Bister did the same. “But…” His young batman eyed the bottles.” We’ll need to be on deck before we light them.”
“Indeed.” Gareth reached for the basket—a sudden ruckus in the corridor had him seizing his sword instead and swinging to face the door.
But it was Watson who appeared. He was bleeding from a gash on his face. “What’s to do?”
Gareth lowered his sword, lifted the basket. “How’s your aim?”
He explained as, with Bister in the lead, they hurried back to the stern ladder. Setting the basket at the ladder’s foot, Gareth handed two bottles to Watson, another two to Bister, then took two himself, tucking them into his breeches’ pockets. “I’ll go up first and clear an area—you follow, get those lit, and aim for their sails. Mooktu and Mullins are up there somewhere. We’ll give you cover and I’ll get my two away when I can. But we’ll almost certainly need more than those”—he nodded at the bottles they held—“to get their sails fully alight. So once you throw the first two, come and get more.”
He turned to Emily. “You stay here, down here, and hand up the rest of the bottles as we come for them.” He reinforced the order with a commanding stare—it had always worked on soldiers.
It suddenly struck him that he wanted to kiss her—desperately wanted to taste her lips for
just a fleeting instant. He knew how badly the odds above were stacked against them.
Gripping his sword, he turned, and pushed past Bister. “Come on!” Without a backward glance, he led the way up and out.
Back into the cacophony of a battle that was definitely not going their way. This attack was infinitely better planned than any of the previous incidents; whoever had organized this knew his business.
His reemergence in the restricted space around the stern hatch temporarily swung the odds in that corner their way.
He found Mooktu, and with a word and a glance had him shoulder to shoulder, then Mullins saw, and although not knowing why, came to join them in clearing the area around the hatch and holding all comers back.
Gareth noticed Arnia at Mooktu’s elbow, and Dorcas behind Mullins. Both women looked dishelved, but neither had wounds, and both had knives. He knew Arnia could use hers, and Dorcas’s was bloodied.
Then another wave of cultists charged their little wall, and he had other things to think about.
The first incendiary lobbed out from behind him. Bister’s direction was good, but his range less so. The burning bottle smashed on the other ship’s deck. Surprised crew quickly stamped out the ensuing fire.
But the next bottle struck the lower part of the middle lanteen sail.
The oil soaked in, then flared, and the sail caught.
As he’d expected, the sailors rushed to douse the flames, but Watson lobbed his bottles in quick succession, and fires bloomed on the rear lanteen.
With shouts and curses, the sailors on the other ship rushed to fill buckets. But before the flames were fully doused, Bister hit the middle sail again, and the very top of the rear lanteen.
The other ship started to lose speed and fall back—bringing their front lanteen into Bister’s firing range. Watson concentrated on keeping the fires going on the middle and rear sails.
One of the advantages that until then the cultists had had was that they could remain intent and focused, uncaring of what else was happening on the xebec. But with their own ship in difficulties, that changed. Distracted, they glanced across the waves, only to see their ship drifting further back and away.
The tide of the battle, until then with the cultists, swung the other way. Dacosta and his crew sensed it. They were quick to capitalize, pushing hard to lower the number of cultists they had on board.
Some cultists decided the waves were safer.
And then, quite abruptly, the fighting on the xebec’s deck reached the mopping-up stage. Bister popped up at Gareth’s elbow as he stepped back from the waning fray.
“We’re out of incendiaries”—Bister nodded at the other ship—“but looks like we had enough. Watson even managed to hit their sail locker, so they won’t be coming after us anytime soon.”
“Not unless they run out their oars.” Dacosta pushed through the others to join them in the stern. He looked at the ship sliding away in their wake, then up at his own sails, and shook his head. “No, not even then.” He glanced at Gareth. “These cultists—how likely are they to be competent oarsmen?”
“Not likely at all.” Gareth glanced at Emily as she joined them. She appeared unharmed. She grasped his arm as if for support and comfort, and something inside him calmed.
Dacosta had brought his spyglass. He trained it on the other ship. “His crew will need to get those burning sails down and ditched before they can think about the oars, and if the cultists aren’t able, there’s not enough crew to make much of a show.” He glanced back, signaled to his first mate. “We’ll keep all sail on—in these conditions, it can’t hurt.”
Gareth caught Emily’s eye. “That was an inspired idea to use the oil.”
Dacosta glanced at her, brows rising. “That was your notion, mam’zelle?”
Emily smiled weakly. “We had to do so something, so…” She suppressed the impulse to lean heavily against Gareth. Fighting was horribly draining…truth be told, it was simply horrible all around. She tried not to look as the crew checked bodies, then heaved the dead overboard. Those cultists who were able had already jumped.
But the xebec was safe again, and so were they.
Dacosta acknowledged that with a low bow. “It seems we all owe you a debt, mam’zelle. For me and my crew—and my brother who owns this ship—I thank you.”
Emily inclined her head, and kept hold of Gareth’s arm. She’d noticed his cuts. None were still bleeding, but she was conscious of a definite desire to take his hand, lead him belowdecks, and wash and tend them. She wondered if perhaps she might manage it later.
Dacosta had his spyglass to his eye again. “If you can explain to me one thing, Major. Why is it the captain there”—his fixed gaze made it clear he was speaking of the other ship’s captain—“did not run out his guns? He wanted to after we set his sails alight—I saw him try to give the order, but the cultists—those on his ship—prevented it. If not for that…” Lowering the glass, Dacosta regarded them impassively. “Given our cargo, he would have blown us to bits.”
Emily stared. “He had guns? You mean cannon?” The last word came out as a half squeak.
Dacosta nodded. “All xebec carry guns, but only small ones, and not many. But at such close quarters, he couldn’t have missed, and because of the oil, we would go”—he made a gesture—“poof.”
A rueful smile touching his lips, Gareth met her gaze briefly, then faced Dacosta. “It’s that thing I’m carrying that they want. For once, it protected us. If they’d blown up the ship, even if they’d just sunk it, they would lose what they’ve been sent to fetch—and their master wouldn’t like that.”
Dacosta nodded. “I see. This master of theirs, this Black Cobra. I take it he doesn’t forgive well?”
Gareth shook his head. “Not well. In fact, from what I’ve heard, he doesn’t forgive at all.”
The Black Cobra’s lack of forgiveness, more specifically the vindictiveness visited upon any of the cult who failed, ranked high among the thoughts crowding Uncle’s mind.
From the safety of the deck of a small but swift fishing sloop bobbing on the waves at some distance from the action, through a spyglass Uncle watched the engagement unfold, and cursed.
This time, he’d taken no chances. This time, he’d planned, and sent a force all had agreed would be more than enough to overrun the major’s xebec.
But no. Once again, his enemy had triumphed. Once again his quarry had escaped.
He ground his teeth, and quickly counted the black-scarf-encircled heads on the deck of the now becalmed vessel.
Of the large force he’d committed, less than a third were returning.
Since leaving India, he’d lost a lot of men. The leader wouldn’t be pleased.
A chill touched his nape, slid slowly down his spine.
He shivered, then shook off the sensation, the sense of helplessness.
He would turn the situation around. He would redeem himself by capturing both the major and his woman, and treating them to the epitome of Black Cobra vengeance.
He would avenge his son, and triumph in his master’s name.
Lowering the spyglass, he squinted over the water, quietly intoned, “Glory to the Black Cobra.”
He invested the words with the reverence of a prayer. He believed, in his heart, that it was.
As if in answer, the morning sun rose, sending a wash of pink and gold spreading across the sea.
Uncle turned and walked to where his lieutenant silently waited. “Tell the captain to make all speed for Marseilles.” He glanced across the waves at the stern of the fleeing xebec. “Our pursuit is not over yet.”
20th November, 1822
Early evening
My hammock in our tiny cabin
Dear Diary,
We are still feeling the effects of the action yesterday morning. Although we won through with our lives and with the ship intact, as I had feared, there were casualties. Captain Dacosta lost two of his crew, and two others are too injured to work. Gare
th and our people are helping as best they can—Dacosta has kept on all sail, even through the night, keeping us flying over the waves to Marseilles. He wants to make the most of the fair conditions while they last. I think exposure to the cultists and their ferocity—and the loss of his two men—has also made him less inclined to close with our enemy.
Fighting of this nature isn’t sport. Indeed, whenever I recall glimpses of what occurred during the battle, I shiver. Blood and blades and violent death have never rated among my favorite things. However, it was necessary or we would have died, so it seems futile to repine too much upon the moment.
Englishwomen abroad are supposed to be resilient.
And, indeed, I am trying to be. I have just returned from keeping vigil by Jimmy’s hammock, and am writing now because at last I can report he is awake, and in reasonable possession of his senses. While the rest of our party ended the incident on our feet, albeit with injuries many of which required tending, Jimmy was, at first, nowhere to be found.
We searched in mounting horror, fearing he’d been flung overboard, but Bister finally found him under some cultists. Jimmy had a bad knife wound and had lost a lot of blood, but Gareth assured us the wound wasn’t life-threatening, and indeed it turned out Jimmy had been knocked unconscious. But he did not stir until this morning, when Arnia and Dorcas managed to get some broth down his throat. He then lapsed back into unconsciousness, and we again feared, head injuries being so difficult to predict.
But he is fully awake now, and Bister is teasing him, so while he may take some days to regain his strength, he will pull through, I hope without lasting damage. I am hugely relieved, for I would have felt considerable responsibility had he died. Jimmy is in my train—one of my people—and our involvement in Gareth’s mission and the attendant danger stems from my wish to follow him. It was my decision that brought us here. If Jimmy—or any of the others—had died, I would have felt it keenly.
I cannot imagine how much of such weighty responsibility already rests on Gareth’s broad shoulders. He has been a field commander for years, and in active service for more than a decade. I am starting to appreciate how much he, and others like him, do in our country’s cause, and how much they silently bear on their conscience for ever after. It cannot be a light burden, yet they never speak of it.