Three Swords' Revenge

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Alistair was reloading when the blow came out of the darkness. He had heard it, but didn't have time to react - his body was flung into the darkness, where he hit the wall, bloodily.

He wasn't dead. He was painfully aware of this. Blood flowed from his wound. His hand tried to reach out desperately for a weapon, but he wondered about his aim. His hand was shaking. Pain continued to course through his body. Even his vision was fading. Blackness...to deeper blackness.

He needed help. He wanted to crawl away. He couldn't die here. He couldn't. He still had much to do...

 

The sound of smashing boxes had got closer and closer, and suddenly there was something different. The sickening crack of a bone breaking, and a heavy grunt of pain. Andrew already knew who the grunt had come from.

Reloading his fourth pistol, he fired two of them into the darkness. He ran to the wall, and dropped to one knee. The room was far too dark to see further than arms reach, but in the darkness, Andrew could make out vague shapes. A barrel, a crate, and much to his suprise, a figure slumped against the wall.

What should he do? If he went to help Alistair, he'd be open to attack from whoever had just done this. If not, the man that had got him out of the cell could die. He quickly made his decision.

Dashing forward, he grabbed Alistair by the back of his jacket, and dragged him aside. Keeping to the wall, he got as far away as he could, then pulled the man up onto his feet, and helped him limp toward the door. Finally getting out of the cargo hold, he helped Alistair into a small dark room, and sat him behind a table. Ripping the arm of his shirt off, he did his best to bandage the wound, then sat down facing the door, pistols in hand, and waited.

From the cargo hold came an angry scream, and the smashing of boxes continued.

 

Firing on a superior officer = Good Lord in Heaven, what have I done to my career?" Leftenant Cornwallis didn't let that miserable thought stop him from running the battle, taking direction from Abbot but now and then adding something of his own. If Captain Grayling really was involved with the Red Hand, he'd likely blathered on about naval strategy to them, just as he tended to do in the Matilda. The young officer remembered snatches of half-heard lectures, and refined Abbot's battle plan accordingly.

But LeBihan had had enough of the ruination of his plans. He'd never thought he'd be tangling with a fully-armed navy vessel - preventing that was why he endured the insufferable Grayling's presence in the first place. When a well-placed ball took a large hole out of the fo'c'stle, he was done, and gave the order to raise whatever sail they had left and run.

"The prisoners, sir!" came a cry. "Both the native and the Spaniard! They're in the water!"

"Leave 'em to the sharks!" LeBihan roared. "There're bigger prizes to be had for the likes of us, provided we live to chase 'em!"

And live they would, for the wind was Abbot's friend that night. The Frenchman's ship might have been blown out of range of his guns, but it also veered ever farther away from the prize it had tried to claim. Choosing between retrieving his own ship and wreaking his revenge was easy for Abbot. The Pale Horse, sailing calmly out to sea, was ready to be rescued.

 

Brutus smashed another box, then stopped and listened. Nothing. The bastard must have somehow gotten away. He felt his way to the stairs and climbed up to the deck. Old Joe was at the helm, but nobody else was in sight. Another ship was closing in on them.

"Where is everybody?" he yelled at Old Joe.

"I don't know," Old Joe hollered back. "They all went down in the holds with you to look for the prisoners. Haven't seen hide or tail of them since."

"Damn! We don't even have anybody on the guns!" Brutus cursed. He strode up to the helm and cranked the wheel hard to stern.

"What the hell are you doing?" Old Joe gasped. "You don't know anything about sailing!"

"I know what this here wheel does," Brutus said. The Pale Horse turned abruptly, heading straight for the ship that was now dangerously close.

"You crazy dunderhead!" Old Joe shrieked as he jumped overboard.

"Good riddance to you, old fart!" Brutus grunted. "Ramming speed!" He'd always wanted to yell that.

 

Leftenant Cornwallis sent several men to fish Saimon and Ricardo out of the water, then escort them to a cabin and guard them - discreetly - until Abbot could decide what should be done with them.

He saw Matty coming down from the crow's nest and waited for her. "I thought I ordered you below decks," he said, the sternness in his voice softened by a big grin.

She returned the grin, and the attitude. "I don't remember joining the navy while we were dancing." Her defiance matched his sternness.

"Good thing, otherwise no one would have spooted that other ship coming to engage." They laughed, and he pointed towards the Pale Horse. "One fight down, and one to go. We'll soon be within range of Abbot's vessel."

 

"If you fire on my ship, Cornwallis, it will be you we will use as a substitute for the cannonball. The Pale Horses guns are too small to do much damage to a ship this size." His face contorted into a sly smile - a very rare occasion for a man like him. "It seems we are lucky has yet to run out - look!" he said, pointing to the Pale Horse. Whoever had taken the helm was now turning toward LeBihan's ship, changing it's position side on to the wind, causing it to drop it's speed dramatically. The Matilda wass still heading with the wind strongly to it's back, gliding easily towards cutting them off.

"Have the gunners get up here and arm themselves - I want as little damage done to my ship as possible."

"Captain Abbot." Cornwallis said, "I don't think we'll need extra men." Abbot looked at him strangely, then looked at the Pale horse again. The Red Hands must have realised how easily and how quickly the Matilda was coming upon them and without LeBihan, they knew they were defeated. A white flag was slowly being raised up the mast.

"Bring them up, anyway Leftenant, I want to prepare for any tricks the Red Hands may have left."

 

Brutus wondered why the ship he was piloting suddenly slowed, when before it had been cutting along at a nice clip. Looking up, he saw that the wind was not in the right direction for ramming into the other ship. He also noticed that someone had run up a white flag. He couldn't see any of his crew mates on the deck, they must all be hiding, the cowards. Otherwise he would've chopped them up too. Looking at himself, literally covered in blood from the Pale Horse's crew, with their severed ears hanging fresh on his sash, he didn't think he'd have much of a chance getting Three Swords to give him any clemency. If he went charging at them with his battle axes he'd just be shot down like a dog with a volley of musket fire. That was no way to go. It seemed he had one choice left.

He left the rudder and went below decks, looking for the powder room.

 

Cursing under his breath, Andrew struggled frantically to load the pistols. As he finally finished the last one, heavy footsteps came down the corridor outside. Looking up, he saw a large man stride past muttering to himself, something about "cornered", or "powder". For a second, Andrew sat still, staring at the loaded pistols. Suddenly, the relalisation of what he had heard hit him. The big man was going to destroy the Pale Horse!

He looked at Alistair. The poor guy looked in a pretty bad way, but he was breathing. There were still more Red Hand on the ship. If he left him here, they might find him, but if he stayed...

He threw a pistol into Alistairs lap. "Be careful, y'hear?". Snatching a pair of loaded pistols off the floor, he headed to the door. Looking out into the corridor, it was empty. Andrew realised he was at the advantage. he knew the ship, and he knew where his prey was heading. he ran down a corridor, his feet pounding against the boards, jumped down some stairs. There, at the door to the powder room, was the man. He spun around as Andrew landed at the bottom of the stairs, a collection of dried ears hanging from his sash. For a moment, there was silence, then Andrew pulled a pistol out of his belt and fired. There was a loud crack, and a deep thud as the shot buried itself into the wood just to the left of Brutus' head. They both stood silent for a moment. "Last chance and you missed" Brutus jeered. He threw his head back, and laughed.

Suddenly, there was another loud crack. Brutus froze, and blood started pouring out of a hole in his throat. With a rasping sound, he fell to the floor. Andrew turned on his heel to see Alistair half way down the stairs, Musket in hand. The injured man nodded, and slumped down in the steps looking exhausted.

 

Daniel woke up with his head feeling worse than his chest. He wasn't sure if that was good or bad, but at least his chest wound and lung didn't feel like he was going to die any minute. He took a deep breath, past the point of too much pain, and passed out again.

When he woke up the second time, he was more careful about breathing. He was also aware that his bladder was about to burst. He had to go empty it. He got out of the bed and made his way up to the deck.

Were they in battle? People were running around like it, but there weren't any cannon sounds yet. Wait a minute, this ship wasn't the Pale Horse, and he didn't recognize any of the sailors. What was going on?

He looked around for somebody, anybody that he knew, so he could find out how long he'd been sleeping, and what this ship was and what they were doing on it.

 

Once back aboard the Pale Horse Matty left dealing with the few remaining Handers to the Captain and Leftenant Cornwallis. She ran to her little corner of the crew's hold to check on her treasures. Everything was jumbled, but nothing was damaged. Except... the fiddle was gone!

She frantically scoured the ship until she found the case, tucked away where Alastair had put it for safe keeping. It was battered but when she opened it the instrument inside was undamaged. She plucked a few soft notes and promiseed herself a chance to really play it later.

As she lovingly laid the fiddle back in its nest of felt, she noticed something odd. Apparently the rough treatment it had received from the Red Hand had jostled something loose, because the corner of a note peeked from under the padding. Extracting it, she read:

"Siren, 37 Coronation Way, Freeport."

[ December 15, 2005, 17:11: Message edited by: Rallymama ]

 

Abbot leapt aboard the Pale Horse, marching across the deck, as the navy men flowed on board. "Cornwallis - kill all of the Red Hands left." Cornwallis stared at the Three Swords back with astonishment.

"These men have surrendered!" Cornwallis exclaimed. Abbot turned to look at the leftenant.

"And?" He said simply,

"Well... well we can't just..."

Three Swords' voice didn't rise at all, but his voice was icy, "Do it and search the whole ship from top to bottom, I don't want any Red Hands left on board." He said, then strode off, heading to his cabin. He moved inside, his eyes narrowing slightly as he examined the mess. The Red Hands had had little chance to do any looting and the lock on his cupboard where he kept his weapons and loot had not been broken open - and not for lack of trying.

Cornwallis, came in behind him. "Sir... I can't just kill these men!" he said, "They're unarmed prisoners."

"Damn you, Cornwallis! They stole my ship, killed, raped and looted their way through Port Royal and god knows what they did to the governor! They deserve to die."

"They must still stand trial, in any case." Cornwallis said, "It's the law."

"Then try them now and hang them from the main mast in ten minutes." Abbot said, pushing past him and back onto the main deck.

[ December 07, 2005, 20:52: Message edited by: The Kilted Crusader ]

 

Daniel grabbed a cutlass and went over to the Pale Horse with a boarding party. If any of the crew was still alive, they'd probably be in the brig. He quickly made his way down to it, as the squad he was with started searching the holds.

A wave of pungent odor, blood, innards, and bowels hit his nose as he opened the door to the brig. He held the lantern in, and couldn't believe his eyes. It was a butcher's house, with body parts all over the place, blood splattered all over the walls, the ceiling, and totally covering the floor. He could hardly recognize the pieces. Upon closer examination, he noticed that all of the pieces still recognizable as heads had the ears cut off.

"What kind of a sick bugger would do this to prisoners?" Daniel asked aloud.

There was obviously nothing he could do here. He heard someone calling for help down the corridor, so he cautiously went to check it out.

Peeping around a corner, he saw one of the crew, he couldn't remember his name, trying to help the bounty hunter, who was bleeding profusely from his back. Beyond them, next to the powder room door, lay the corpse of a huge man covered in blood.

Daniel ran to the bounty hunter and took off the red jacket he had "borrowed" on the other ship, applying it to the massive wound on his back. Looking at the other man he said, "Good to see you both. What's your name, sorry, I can't remember. You two are lucky to be alive. Some bastard has hacked all the others up into little pieces."

The bounty hunter's shoulder blade was cracked, probably some ribs as well, more than a few. He kept pressure on the wound and told the other man, "We shouldn't move him. Can you go find my mother? I think this needs to be looked to right away."

 

"The name's Andrew, and this poor lad is Alistair." Armed with only a brief description of Alexa, Andrew ran down the corridor, and up the stairs back onto the deck. Looking around, it was obvious that the crew of the Pale Horse had taken back the ship. A couple of Red Hand were on their knees, their hands tied behind them.

Looking around, he soon spotted the long red hair he had been told to look for. She was looking a little worried. He stepped over to her.

"Alexa? There's an injured man outside the powder room who needs your help. He took a hit to the shoulder blade from an axe. Your son is down there with him now."

 

Alistair had spent the last few minutes in dazed, painful confusion. Firing that musket had drained the very last of his energies. His vision was blurry, he felt weak, and pain was repeatedly hitting him with a sledgehammer. He opened his eyes slightly, although he didn't realize they were shut. A young man's face entered his view. He looked vaguely familiar, and his mind told him something along the lines of "The surgeon lady's son".

"What happened?" he asked weakly. "Are those bastards dead?"

 

Pirate justice was swift, certain, and anything but fair. It left a bad taste in Cornwallis' mouth to be responsible for looping the nooses around the necks of the condemned, but he seemed to have been given the role of Abbot's quartermaster at least until the one who had previously held that position could be interrogated to determine if he had turned traitor or not. The former officer hoped his attendance would not be required at that interview. Ordering a sailor to clean up the mess under the jerking corpses-to-be, Cornwallis went below, hoping to find some rum.

 

"Yes, I think so." Daniel said. "I'm Daniel. I've got your bleeding pretty well stopped, but your shoulderblade and some ribs are probably broken. My mother will have to see if she can do anything for you there. You're lucky to be alive. Some bastard cut up most of the crew left here into little bits. Probably that one over there, judging by those axes next to him. Did you finish him off?"

 

He was cold.

Ricardo had slumped against the wall instantly after the door had closed; his legs could not support him, pain wrecked his body, and he was so cold…. He could feel the sickness setting in, the fever starting to crawl thorough his body….

He closed his eyes, hoping to drive away the images of another feverish recovery, of another time when he’d felt this pain… when he’d lost his Llamita when he’d lost his Captain, when…

The Spaniard shuddered violently, his legs giving way as he collapsed to the floor, his head hitting the wall. For a brief moment he saw sparks, before delirium took over.

”You’re a good boy, Reeves…”

”One day, she will be yours I am not immortal, and I know she deserves a captain like you.”

”You’re my Little Flame, my sweet possession…”

”No!”

“Foolish boy! A disgrace to your name!”

“My name is Don Juan Ricardo De La Santiago y Riviera. You are the man who slew my father. I am here to exact vengeance.”

Images swam before hois eyes, ghosts of past whispering in his ears as he waited.

 

Abbot stepped over a Red Hand body as he made his way back to the Matilda. He had yet to see to Santiago since he had been hauled on board. Abbot walked swiftly over to the next ship and headed for the cabin Santiago and the native had been thrown into whilst they had made for the Pale Horse. Abbot pushed the door open and stepped in tentatively.

He closed the door behind him with a soft click and took a few steps forward. At the sight of Santiago he was convinced the man had not changed his allegiances in the short time he had been with the Red Hands. His tortured and bloodied body was evidence of that.

Abbot knelt in front of him, peeling back the soaked shirt to look at the wound on his shoulder. It looked bad, Abbot might be able to convince Alexa to stitch it up again if he was lucky. "Ricardo?" Abbot said, "What did they do to you?"

 

Ricardo could hear a voice, as if coming from a great distance, through the sea and the mists of time….

”… do to you?”

“D…. do unto other…” Ricardo gasped for breath, “As you would.. have them to do to you…”

His head swam with pain, the cold throbbing on his shoulder only worse now that his shirt was open; the heat on his shoulder had to be blood, had to be sickness and fever… soon enough the flames would come…

He could hear the voice again, cursing. Something in the voice jolted through the haze in Ricardo’s mind and he suddenly realized it was his captain talking to him, asking what happened….

“LeBihan… hadn’t forgotten our last meeting… that I burned his ship;” He coughed, pain flaring through his sore ribs. “Had me beaten…. “ And worse

He could dimly hear Abbot saying something, but the painful mist descended upon him again, and he could hear no more.

 

With his mind on other things, Andrew headed below deck. The Red Hand hadn't been all that kind to the ship, and most of the cabins were a mess. Rounding a corner,he found himself face to face with a navy officer. Almost on instinct, he pulled a pistol out of his belt and pointed it directly at the man.

"Who are you?" he barked.