The Dust of 100 Dogs - A. S. King [61]
“You did?”
“Yes, sir.”
She looked each man up and down slowly, then handed them a few gold coins. “Say nothing ’til you hear more, lads.”
The men looked at their money and shrugged. David walked with them to the ladder and returned to the doorway. Emer still paced the cabin, looking serious.
“After we get some more supplies, guns, and men, we will go to this Campeche and see what we can see.”
“It was generous of you to pay the men for their reports, sir.”
Emer laughed. “I didn’t pay them for that. I paid them to stay loyal and to shut up. Hell, I didn’t believe a word they said but for the slave ship. Tell me, why is it that men who work those infernal ships always look half dead afterward? Could you see it in their eyes, David?” David nodded. He’d seen it. “But the rest? All bullshit, I reckon. Just some story they heard from other sailors on a different ship.”
Emer lay down on the small bunk and propped her head on several lumpy pillows. She pulled her cape from under the wooden frame and continued repairing the worn hems at its base. This was as good as a nap. It relaxed her and made her think of her mother.
Her plan to begin sinking Spanish ships southwest of Havana excited her and depressed her. Still lost without Seanie, she knew that gold would never fill the hole his absence had left in her. She had no need for fineries. No want for drink or whores. No knack for gambling. But why not try something new? And the sailor was right—the Spanish needed to be harnessed. They’d taken nearly all of the Caribbean for themselves, and did nothing but spoil the place and make slaves of its people! She would take on a private crusade to send King Philip a message. Finally, she might find a way to rid herself of the bad blood that coursed through her orphaned veins—and finally, she might wreak revenge on a dragon.
There was a knock just before daybreak.
“Captain, a ship to the south has spotted us,” David said through the door. “And we’ve hit wind.”
“Tell the men to stand ready,” she answered. If for no other reason, she’d have to attack the coming ship for food or else her men would start dropping. Yet she felt fear and revenge deep in her empty belly.
After seventeen days stuck in the light air, the Emerald had picked up its pace. The approaching ship flew no flag, and Emer assumed it was the Frenchman. (Every ship that approached, since Emer left Tortuga, was the imaginary Frenchman.) The thought of him made her stomach turn and growl. But now she had a choice other than running.
David lined the gunners up and divided ammunition between them. He made sure the sailors knew which way to tack to get ahead of the wind and knew when to turn. And mostly, he made sure each recruit had a belly full of rum and a stark reminder: if we don’t take this ship, we won’t eat until we dock again.
Emer arrived as the port cannons fired. Surprisingly, the approaching ship did not fire back but continued heading toward the Emerald, on course to ram her. The crew turned the Emerald around and fired the starboard guns. Emer aimed a long-barreled musket and fired. She continued this until the boats met with a mighty crash, and then pulled the sharp cutlass from her waist and began to butcher.
Men piled onto the ship. At first, it looked like her crew would be badly outnumbered, but Emer soon realized that the men coming aboard knew little about fighting. Some didn’t even have weapons. Emer injured three in her first strike, by holding her blade horizontally and spinning around, slashing an eye, two ears, and a neck. All three men fell to the deck and screamed for help.
Her men were having a similarly easy time in the brawl. Some even had enough time to stop and mutilate their adversary before moving on to the next one. Emer continued to drop one man after another, looking around when she could for