Three Swords' Revenge

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Ricardo set to work, making sure the remaining men were armed to the teeth; it was a cold comfort that thanks to their losses, everyone got more than their share of weaponry.

He knew better than to offer weapons to either Señora Alexa and Señorita Valerie; he knew he had to avoid his Little Flame, lest his mind be clouded, and knowing that Valerie aspired to be like late Melisa made Ricardo sure that her skirts probably hid more than enough weapons

He left the relaying of orders to Cornwallis last; he felt clearly apprehensive about this particular duty, and it was not because of the leftenant’s perceptive nature. No, it had a lot to do with seeing the Devastation, now rechristened inanely, under another man’s command when the ship should have sank a long time ago…. When everything else in his life had crumbled into dust and been swept away.

A small part of him wondered if this was a new beginning, now that he had found his Llamita again, was so close to reclaiming her, his old ship so very close as well… ruthlessly, he quelled the thoughts as wistful, and set to informing the navy sailor who knew semaphore of just what to tell the acting Captain Cornwallis.

 

Cornwallis swallowed heavily as he received Abbot's orders, then nodded to his flagman to relay acceptance and the idea that the Matilda should lead the way into the harbor, in hopes that the image of a Navy ship bringing in a renegade would buy them a few extra moments against the town's guns. This was a desperate gamble and he was grasping for any tiny advantage he could find. Receiving a terse Aye to the adaptation to the plan, Cornwallis ordered his crew to make ready. He stood at the helm, even though he would very much rather have been lying down in his cabin with a brandy. For some reason thoughts of lying down made him think of pillowing his cheek again soft green satin, but he shook those images away and focussed on the battle ahead.

 

Cornwallis swallowed heavily as he received Abbot's orders, then nodded to his flagman to relay acceptance and the idea that the Matilda should lead the way into the harbor, in hopes that the image of a Navy ship bringing in a renegade would buy them a few extra moments against the town's guns. This was a desperate gamble and he was grasping for any tiny advantage he could find. Receiving a terse Aye to the adaptation to the plan, Cornwallis ordered his crew to make ready. He stood at the helm, even though he would very much rather have been lying down in his cabin with a brandy. For some reason thoughts of lying down made him think of pillowing his cheek again soft green satin, but he shook those images away and focussed on the battle ahead.

 

Abbot rubbed at his leg, where he had taken a bullet out only a few days before. He was surprised and lucky not have suffered a fever from the wound. Hopefully, his luck would carry on today and get him through this fight. The Matilda began moving ahead of him. If the cannon's did fire, he hoped the larger navy ship could soak it up whilst the Pale Horse moved out of their firing arc and into port.

He took out his spy glass and looked for the cannon. Freetown was built inside a bay hidden within a set of high rock walls. The cannon stood at the top of the rock walls, positioned so they were able to fire out of the bay, but not in.

There were men manning the cannon, but they appeared to be lounging. Definately not a group of men readying themselves for battle. He allowed himself the hope that the Red Hands had not convinced the Captain's Council. His hope built as they grew closer and the men still did not move to fire. "Santiago," Abbot called, "Make sure the gunner's only fire on Red Hand ships. And tell them to be accurate! It appears the Captain's council will allow us to settle the fight with the Red Hands without interference."

He smiled. That also meant they had abandoned Captain Duncan Craile to his mercies as well. He let out a breath as they passed the cannon without incident and began moving into Freetown Harbour. He was glad he had let Cornwallis sail in first. The harbour itself had been hidden from him by the rock wall, but now he could see it fully. And he could see the four Red Hand ships waiting for them. He took in the scene quickly and caught a glance of a steel breastplate on the ship positioned second from the right.

"Santiago!" Abbot shouted over the din as the Red Hand's fired. "Beat to Quarters! Battle speed!" That recieved a few odd looks. "Their anchored! Ram LeBihan!."

 

Saimon rubbed his chin. The hit had been unexpected, though not as hard as he had thought such a hit to be; his chin was but a little numb, and he knew from past incidents that the numbness would soon enough go away. What he really needed was something to take his mind off of what had happened earlier that night, and the forthcoming, soon to be inevitable, battle seemed like the ideal 'somethhing' he had been looking for.
"If I just had my rapier", Saimon thought to himself, "Maybe the quartermaster or some such could help me; it is after all bound to be onboard of this ship". Saimon gave the horizon and the forthcoming Freetown one last look before setting off on his quest to find the qutermaster. As he turned he saw Ricardo stand just a few feet away; determinded to reclaim the weapon of his ancestors, Saimon strode over to him, and poked the quartermaster at his shoulders.
"Excuse me - *uhm* - sir", Saimon said, carefully trying to pick the most appropriate words, "I'm looking for a blade that's very dear to me, a Rapier to be more precise. You shouldn't perchance have seen anyone?".

 

Ricardo hissed, spinning around to face the native. Hazy images of being imprisoned with the man filled his mind, and he had to blink to drive them away.

“A rapier?” he asked. There had been another blade with his weapons, one he had not recognized but he must’ve retrieved during the escape… “Describe it to me.”

 

"It has a blade length of approximately 35,5" * 1,09". The steal used to make it is of a particular dark blueish hue; the handle is tightly bound by strips of cow hide. The hilt consists of two half-moon shaped points, of which one points upward and the other downward... in between the two of these there's a crimson red pommel. Lastly it has two interlocked steal "branches", which are fastened at the hilt and reaches out in only to be gathered around the end of the handle to form the shape of a leaf", Saimon said quickly, almost before the quartermaster could finish his last sentence. "Now please tell me that you've seen it!?!".

 

Ricardo raised an eyebrow at the detailed, surprisingly accurate description. at best, he would have expected vague mumblings of the pommel and the hilt, but the fact that the man knew the exact measuremennts told the Spaniard that this one needed watching.

"I know where that particular weapon is, yes." Without any further ado he quickly retrieved the blade and handed it to the startled native.

"I hope you can use it well."

Gritting his teeth to drive away unwelcome memories, he turned away to concentrate on what was ahead; soon the Captain would give his orders and the battle woulfd be underway.

 

Andrew was sitting against the mast of the Pale Horse, a cutlass in one hand and a pistol in the other. He was dreading what was to come. The close encounter with the Red Hand in the cargo hold, and then the sight of the brig, were shaking him even now.

Climbing slowly to his feet, he pulled his hair out of his eyes. A voice roared from somewhere to his left, "Ram LeBihan!"

He spun around to see four ships in the port, all of them Red Hand vessels. As Andrew checked his pistol one last time, his concentration was shattered by the roar of the Red Hand's guns. The battle had truly begun.

 

Cornwallis angled the Matilda into the harbor, drawing fire from LeBihan's escort ships as he swept across their bows and swung about in the center of the harbor, putting himself between the Red Hands and Navy ships that still hadn't moved. The gunners laid down a barrage of fire that Handers couldn't really return, being busy with trying to raise anchor so they could actually engage in battle, instead of providing target practice for Cornwallis' men.

They never noticed Abbot's approach until it was too late.

 

Abbot was thrown as the ship's collided, despite his hand firmly on railing. He lost a grip on his sword, the blade spinning out of his hand, flying over board. He righted himself quickly as the movement slowed, the Red Hand ship shattering under the battering from the Pale Horse. The Pale Horse was imbedded inside the Red Hand ship, and it was the only thing keeping the two afloat, despite leaning dramatically forward.

Abbot grabbed at his pistols, dragging them from his belt and running down the ship, leaping the front railing of the Pale Horse to land on the Red Hand ship. His pistols came up and he fired both, at the nearest Red Hands. He drew his remaining two swords as the Red Hands charged. "Pale Horse! Forward!" Abbot shouted and men from the Pale Horse charged with him "Santiago! Boarding axes - get the Pale Horse free!"

 

There was nothing for Matty to do except stay out of the way - she was at a decided disadvantage in close-quarters fighting. Unfortunately, with the ships so tangled there weren't many places for her to hide. She clutched her fiddle case tightly as she tried to find somewhere to avoid the battle. There! A door had been knocked off its hinges and was leaning crazily. Matty hoped no one spotted her as she tucked herself into the tiny cubby.

***

The Navy ships hadn't realized that anything was wrong until the Pale Horse rammed the Handers broadside, and by then it was too late. They couldn't manuever around the Matilda and were forced to watch helplessly as their erstwhile "allies" foundered in the water, butchered by Abbot's men.

 

Ricardo set to do as Abbot had ordered, swearing as pain stabbed his shoulder despite the fact that he held the axe in his left hand. he and the other man he had tolssed an axe worked quickly, separqating the two ships.

 

The fighting aboard ship didn't last long. The Pale Horse's crew fought with a fury none had experienced before, the memory of their dead crewmates fresh in their minds. They were holding well, but the Red Hands numbers were pushing them back slowly. Suddenly, the ship lurched, throwing everyone to the deck as the ships separated. Abbot recovered, as fast as he could "Back to the Pale Horse, now!" He shouted and leapt for the railing, hauling himself up. Other's were following, but so were the red hands.

Abbot cried out as he pulled himself over the railing. A sharp pain had erupted in the back of his leg and he rolled over the top of the railing, landing heavily on the Pale Horse's deck. He looked down to his leg to see a huge gash, blood streaming from the wound.

He looked to the railing to see someone climbing over. LeBihan, decked out in his steel breastplate, smoothly slipped over the railing, sword in hand.

Abbot, rolled to his feet, coming up on his uninjured leg and raised his blades. "I've been waiting quite some time for this, Abbot." LeBihan said, advancing.

"I'll bet you have, you son of a bitch." Abbot replied, stepping forward to meet LeBihan's advance, "I should have killed you long ago." Abbot attacked, swift and sure, his blades leading in a fierce flurry. LeBihan was no mean swordsman though, blocking each attack and parrying to leave Abbot open for a counter.

Now it was Abbot who was on the defensive, wildly blocking LeBihan's attacks as Abbot's bad leg threatened to give way beneath him. He felt himself losing, and he knew any minute he would die on LeBihan's blade. Loss of blood had slowed him and he was fighting on pure adrenaline now as he forced himself to give up his defense and attack. If he was going to die, he'd take LeBihan with him.

He leapt at LeBihan, landing heavily on his injured leg, but gritting through the pain to let out one last attack. Time seemed to slow as Abbot's blade passed through LeBihan's sword defense. The sword swept down, only to crash against LeBihan's breastplate. The blade bounced from the metal, and Abbot took a step back.

And then he slipped, the blood streaming down his leg had coated his boot, and he had slipped in his own blood. The deck heaved up to meet him as fell and LeBihan stepped over him, sword raised to deal the final stroke.

 

The assault took Saimon by surprise. Though he had mentally prepared best he could, the havoc overwhelmed him.
He hadn't seen much of the battle back in Port Royal, and quickly realised that he wasn't really fit for a mass-fight like this; "Give me a backalley from which I can plan the assault, and I'll slit the throats of these dogs as easilly as I slew the children of my home town.", he spitted as he spoke to himself, barely dodging a blade thrusting through the air. "I'm not fit for this! Why doest thou guide me through all this pain, fair lady? Have I not always served thee? Trusted in thine benevolent and wise guidance?... yes, I know.". In the midst of the screams and chaos Saimon distantly heard Abbots cry for the crew, "Back to the Pale Horse!", and so he made his way toward the other Vessel, dodging the blades and gun-shots best he could.

As Saimon landed on deck of the Pale Horse, his first thought was to make his way to a safe-spot from which he could get an overview of the situation. For the first time he drew his blade, and started pushing forward along the rail of the ship, pushing the Red Hands who tried to follow into the water, trying to pale them on his blade at the same time.
He didn't sense anything but his blade, and barely noticed the spear plunging through his ribs, almost pinning him to the ground.
For the first time in his life, Saimon was affraid, though much to his surprise he learned the fear sharpened his sensed, and helped him focus. He'd always thought fear a weakness. Though he at the moment did not realise this, the fear was probably what saved his life in this un-familiar situation.

Again he heard the familiar sound of Captain Abbot's Scream as he leapt at LeBihan a few feet away.
Things didn't look to be going in favor of Abbot, and Saimon gritted his teeth, realizing that LeBihan would probably show no mercy to the Pale Horse's crew, should Abbot fall, and the Red Hands manage to trun the tide of battle in favor of them (not that it really was in favor of the Pale horse, as things looked at the moment). Cursing his luck, that fortune should pick this vessel of all, for him to join, he leapt at LeBihan, and standing over a wounded Abbot. A real leap it was maybe not, wounded and tired as he was (though he'd come this far without many bruises, avoiding battle at best he could), but it served it's purpose. He landed flat-on-face right behind LeBihan, and as he was about to deliver the final blow he plunged his rapier into the leg of the Red-Hand captain, at the same time feeling a large hand grabbing him by his slim neck throwing him over board.
The next thing he felt was, for the second time now, the icy cold of the water, as he splashed down amongst the numerous bodies of people who hadn't made it across the ships.

[ May 16, 2006, 23:50: Message edited by: olimikrig ]

 

Ricardo smirked as his sword gutted the red hand he was facing and with a quick sidestep turned to deflect another heavy blow aimed at his head; the other attacker was soon writing on the deck as well and the Spaniard had a moment’s respite amidst the battle.

From the corner of his eye he spied a flash of metal and spun around; it was LeBihan, battling Abbot!

Fury rose in Ricardo, cold and heavy. For a moment even the pain in his shoulder disappeared, buit only for a moment: another sword came to him and with a snarl, he spun to defend himself.

As soon as the red hand was dead, he began to make his way to where LeBihan and Abbot were battling;: a difficult task in the chaos reigning on the deck.

He was still some ways off when he saw Abbot slip; when LeBihan raised his sword, the Spaniard swore. He could not{&I] let the bastard kill his Captain!

the dagger he held was no good for throwing:; he let it drop on the deck as he tossed his sword into his right hand and let another dagger drop into his left hand.

Deadly calm took him over as he drew his arm back, ready to throw. Something made him hesitate f, and in that moment LeBihan stumbled forward.

Ricardo let the dagger fly; it flew true, hitting its mark on the Frenchman’s throat..

Still filled with the cold calm the Spaniard made his way to where the Frenchman lay, uncaring of the battle that was starting to die down around them.

LeBihan was still alive, if barely. Ricardo was filled with cold, bitter satisfaction as he knelt, an d grabbed the hilt oh his dagger, yanking it out with a spray of blood that drenched his once-white shirt. He rose stiffly, smirking slowly as he spat on LeBihan’s face.

 

The roar of battle was all around Andrew. Pistols cracked, and blades rung out as they clanged together. He couldn't see Abbot anywhere. Had he fallen? Running a Red Hand through with his rapier, he spun around to see it. Abbot on the deck, blood running from the back of his leg. LeBihan was standing over him, sword raised. Andrew took a step forward, but too slow. Something small flashed across his eyes and straight into the neck of LeBihan.

Hearing a roar from behind him, Andrew spun to see a Red Hand about to slash at him. He parried the blow, and took a few steps back. Risking a second, he glanced over to LeBihan. The Spaniard was there, Holding the dagger that had pierced the throat of the Red Hand Captain. As quickly as he had taken it in, he aimed a hard shoulder into the chest of his opponent, sending him stumbling just long enough for Andrew to deliver the killing blow.

Was Abbot alright? Was LeBihan dead? Right now, he didn't have time to find out.

 

Abbot was stunned, lying on his back waiting for a deathstroke that never came. LeBihan was falling, choking on the dagger that protruded from his throat. Ricardo was standing over the frenchman now, an almost gleeful look in his eyes at the death of his enemy.

Abbot didn't have time to watch the Spaniard draw his knife away though, as he was forced to roll across the deck to avoid a cutlass that slashed down, splintering the wood where he had just been lying.

Abbot had dropped his sword, but he swept it up into his grip and swung wide with the sword, hammering into the Red Hand's leg, almost completely severing it. The leg hung on by the tendons of the muscles but the Red Hand had fallen, begining to shake violently from the sudden pain and shock. Abbot left his there as the man's life blood poured from the huge wound, and struggled to his feet.

"Drive these bastards off my ship!" He shouted over the ring of blades. Another Red Hand attacked and Abbot knocked the man's blade aside, slicing his second sword across the man's throat in the same move. More were attacking, but the Red Hand ship was half submerged in the harbour. No-one would be helping them, and The Pale Horses' crew were not willing to give quarter.

 

Even if the pirates hadn't been completely focussed on regaining their ship and keeping it on the sea instead of under it, they wouldn't have been able to read the semaphore the Cornwallis was sending towards the Navy ships that were just beginning to move. It was a code that only officers knew, a message within the message that all could see. Since few officers were interested in leaving their soft military retirements for a life of crime on the high seas, word of this communication had never filtered into the pirate ranks.

TRAP. Let them kill each other, then take the survivors to prison.

 

The Red Hands were being cut apart. Not enough had made it onto the Pale Horse to outnumber the meager crew and they were cornered, ready to dive into the stinking water of the harbour to get away. Abbot leaned over the side of the ship, using a long stick with a hook on it's end, he jabbed it through Saimon's clothes, hauling the native back on board. The effort took a lot out of him but he had enough energy to roll Saimon onto his back.

"Alexa!" Abbot managed to shout over the ringing blades before he got to his feet and moving back toward the battle.

*********************

Bart Williams had been sitting in the Rotten Kelp, wiping the bar clean when he'd heard the first cannon roar. The two bouncers had looked to him first of all, "Go check it out." Bart said, returning to cleaning the bar. Not many were un today, just a few old seadogs that had been drinking themselves stupid for days now. The Red Hands were stopping just about every brig and sloop on the waters, looking for the Pale Horse and smuggling had slowed to a standstill for several days, so most of the sailors were holed up, waiting for it to blow over, but a lot of them were getting anxious and their crews impatient.

"It's the Pale Horse!" said one of the bouncers when he returned, "Abbot's fighting the Red Hands - there's even a navy ship on his side, the Matilda!"

"Bloody hell." whispered Bart, then he shouted at the top of his lungs "Grab yer guns, boys, we be away to give those Red Hands a Kickin'. Cap'n Dorian," said Bart to one of the men nursing a glass of grog, "Any chance you and your boys can give us a hand."

Dorian stared at his glass for a moment before staggering to his feet, "Aye, Bart..." he said, his word's slurred, "I be thinkin' these Red Hands ha' been roaming about my seas a little too long. I'll gather the crew." With that he stumbled drunkenly to the door to call for his crew.

Within minuted the news had spread across the entire dock area, and every seadog that had had his ship stopped were gathered either on the dock or on their own ships, armed to the teeth. It seemed the Red Hands had not expected such a reprisal for their actions and it looked as though their operations were coming to an end.