Fortune's Favour

A cat and mouse chase on the high seas

Please ignore that these are the wrong style of ship and flying British flags.

While he understood why he had been invited to the captains’ dinner – and it was certainly better fare than he was used to – Dimitrios would really rather have stayed away. It was just him with the three captains who made up their little convoy heading over hostile seas to the neutral Lydesi port of Obahasrand and, thus far, was less a meal than an interrogation.

‘You’ll take a drop more, Mr Kepharot?’ asked Captain A’Themi from the head of the table.

Dimitrios nodded, accepting the bottle of Kyrenian red his employer slid towards him. In his own estimation it tasted no different from the local swill he was used to, though had the same pleasant effects. He poured a glass and passed it back.

He was a young man, this Daniele A’Themi who had hired Dimitrios and his decades of experience as a gunner in the Xhodesii Republican Navy. This man who had given him the impossible task of turning a merchant ship into a fighting one, such that it could fend of enemy ships from Thema and Thasionos and lead convoys to lucrative continental ports. Young, yes, but he had done well as a merchant adventurer before war broke out – captaining his own ship, Fortune – and was by all accounts a good sailor. Still, Dimitrios didn’t quite know what to make of him.

‘Tell us, Mr Kepharot, how progresses the gun crews’ training?’

The question came from Captain Giorgion. Kestril was his ship, though he was only a hired captain rather than her owner, unlike the other two.

‘They’re coming along, sir,’ said Dimitrios. All three captains remained looking at him, as though that weren’t enough. A’Themi, in particular, with that easy smile.

‘Their speed is improving,’ he added. And, when even that seemed not to satisfy, ‘accuracy on the long sixes will come. The carronades, brought to pistol shot as they should be, can hardly miss. Speed and sailing make the difference there.’

None of which was a lie, even if it was stretching the truth like a wet hawser. The problem, of course, was the cost. It was the same problem Dimitrios had always faced in the navy, compounded by A’Themi having to make a profit on their voyage – to spend less on powder and shot and the rest than he was charging the two other ships for their protection.

Not that the navy was openhanded, but good captains – the type of gunnery focused captains Dimitrios approved of – paid for extra supplies out of pocket, knowing they would recoup it in prizes won in battle. It was why Dimitrios had always preferred to serve under rich men of the senatorial class.

Yet here he was, on a civilian ship under a merchant captain. Not enough hands – despite A’Themi doubling the ship’s usual complement – and not enough powder or time to turn them into true gunners.

‘You’re confident in Fortune’s fighting abilities, then?’ asked the last of the three captains, Brafis. A merchant adventurer like A’Themi, his ship was Sweet Winds. Not as smooth a sailor as her name implied.

‘The guns are as good as anything the Themans have,’ Dimitrios said. That was certainly no lie, no matter the quality of their crews. ‘But any ship can find itself outgunned, sir. Flight is sometimes the wisest course.’

That wasn’t what any of them wanted to hear, he could tell. Yet, any further questions were cut off as Mr Mosk, Fortune’s bosun, entered the small – though richly decorated – captain’s dining room.

‘Sirs, a windward sail on the horizon.’

‘Colours?’ asked A’Themi.

‘Kyrenian, sir, as best we can make out.’ Neutral, that meant, so long as the colours were true.

‘A warship?’

‘Perhaps.’

‘What does it signify, A’Themi?’ asked Brafis.

Dimitrios guessed that he and his employer shared the same thought. It was written there on his olive countenance.

‘I don’t trust it. My contact on the Admiralty Board said the Kyrenians pulled their ships out of the western Gulf when the war broke out.’

‘False colours,’ Giorgion mused. ‘Aye, it could be.’

‘Gentlemen, you are welcome to join me on deck,’ said A’Themi, rising from his chair. All followed.

###

After the dingy cabin, Dimitrios allowed his eyes a few moments to adjust to the glorious, cloudless sky. A strong breeze rippled through his coarse beard and, up above, a few dark-winged gulls danced through the air. That morning, one had dropped dead to the deck; a dark omen. All around, the sea caressed the ship, whispering to her and stroking her sides. And, upon that ship, the crew, either busy or having the good sense to look as though they were.

They were Islanders all of them; salt water was in their blood. From the waves they had emerged and back to them they would return, sailing under the sea to the Underworld on the drowned ship Sylaph, captained by Kathor, son of the Sea King Neros. Dimitrios would crew that ship. For a dozen years and a day, one could pledge themselves to the barge of souls before making the final journey. To some, it was a dark thought. Not to Dimitrios. He would be proud to serve. To sail in death as he had in life.

But not yet, he reminded himself, making it a prayer to the Sea King and Mother Mistera and, because he was a man of war as well as of the waves, to Victorious Ashope, Queen of Generals and Maid of Battles, too.

While the captains made their way to the stern – extended to overhang the hull – Dimitrios kicked off his shoes. He only wore them at formal dinners: a sailor had to feel the deck under him. Spitting on his callused hands, he hauled himself up the mainmast ropes to the tops for a better view.

His sinewy old limbs were used to the climb. In his youth, on the frigate Javelin, the crew had traded their wine ration for a macaque in Jalasria. Lena, they’d called her, and rated her able and fed her fruits and a cup of wine at dinner. And they’d raced her up to the tops, though at first she hadn’t understood the game and got distracted, but once Dimitrios had beaten her, and she hadn’t been distracted at all, and he’d won five silver dolphins.

They’d all been sad when Lena died. Dimitrios couldn’t have beaten her any longer. He was more careful with his holds since that time he had fallen and dislocated a shoulder. Yet, he was a sure climber still and soon reached the tops, where he took a spyglass from the spotter and trained it on the distant sail. From the deck, it would still be hidden behind the horizon, except perhaps for the very tops of the masts.

Before the return climb, a brief inspection of the convoy. Fortune led, a three-masted xebec – the style favoured for ships of her size throughout the Islands – rigged in the modern style with square sails on the mainmast. From his perch above her, Dimitrios saw nothing to disapprove of.

Behind her and a little to starboard, Sweet Winds, of that same xebec style and the traditional sailing plan: lateens on all three masts. The fasted of them all on the tack, though otherwise the slowest and awkward on the manoeuvre. Finally, Kestril, a brig laid down in Daastrijn long enough ago for her age to show. The smallest, but well handled by an experienced crew.

When he returned to the deck, the captains were still debating. A’Themi spoke over the others to ask what Dimitrios had seen.

‘Three masts. Probably a corvette. About twelve miles away, three points aft of larboard beam. Kyrenian colours for certain, sir.’

‘Adjusting course?’

‘Aye.’

‘They’re just on the tack,’ said Brafis.

‘We cannot run that risk,’ Giorgion replied.

‘Sirs,’ said A’Themi, ‘I suggest you both return to your ships. We shall adjust course and see how they respond.’

‘And if they give chase?’ asked Brafis, worry entering his voice for the first time. ‘You’ll fight them off, A’Themi?’

The captain looked Brafis in the face.

‘If it comes to that, yes.’

Dimitrios rested his hands on the gun beside him, one of the four-pounder stern chasers, feeling the cold metal against his rough skin. If it came to shooting, he didn’t think much of their chances.

###

‘She’s adjusting course and gaining on us, sir,’ Dimitrios said. ‘Six knots to our five, best we can make out.’

‘Thank you, Mr Kepharot.’

The captain was in his cabin, hunched over his maps. Being used to the navy, Dimitrios was baffled by how A’Themi acted as his own sailing master and pursuer. And, absent of lieutenants, Mr Mosk and Dimitrios himself led the two watches in addition to their other duties.

‘And what manner of ship is she?’ A’Themi asked.

‘A man-of-war for certain. A corvette, and on the larger side. Four-and-twenty or eight-and-twenty guns, I’d guess. More than twice our tonnage on the broadside.’

‘Very well.’

The captain glanced back at his charts. He never questioned Dimitrios’s expertise; there was certainly that to be said for the man.

‘Mr Kepharot, ask Mr Mosk to signal Kestril and Sweet Wind. They’re to follow us as we run another point to lee.’

###

The chase – all participants now acknowledged it was a chase – sprung into action. A’Themi ordered more sail, though they all knew it was Sweet Wind that would hold them back, especially with the wind behind them. If the captain had considered leaving the slower ship behind, he had yet to voice the thought.

The pursuing ship dropped all pretence and strung up Theman colours. The crowned spear, gold against a wine dark sea. Thema, Xhodesi’s arch-rival these three centuries, who had forced them into this latest of wars by blockading Atkorini and firing upon and capturing poor, brave Ioanna.

Dimitrios spared a glance for his captain. What did he think of that? A’Themi was of Theman descent himself, as the name he proudly bore implied. His grandfather, Dimitrios remembered. Were two generations enough to adopt new loyalties? If patriotism didn’t wed him to the other ships, he might abandon them to save his own. For a merchant adventurer, his ship being taken as a prize would mean the end of his livelihood. Even good patriots would have to reckon with that reality.

While he thought, Dimitrios wasted time inspecting all fourteen guns. Two four-pound chasers at the prow and an answering pair at the stern. Along either side, four six-pounders and, there in the middle, a twelve-pound carronade. Snub-nosed as bull-fighting dogs, the carronades were, and just as aggressive. Any faith Dimitrios had in damaging another vessel was placed in those two guns, able to throw a weight equal to three long guns their same size.

‘Are they up to the task, Mr Kepharot?’

Dimitrios started at his employer’s voice and turned sharply to show his respect. He thumbed his cap. Not a true salute, of course. He wasn’t in the navy anymore. Too old, his captain had told him. More vigorous men were needed in times of war. He’d been replaced by his mate, who he’d been training for half a dozen years to do just that, though surely not so soon. And then A’Themi had come along, offering him double the navy wage.

‘Sir?’

‘The guns, Mr Kepharot.’

‘Broadside to broadside, we won’t have a chance. The best crew in the Gulf wouldn’t.’

‘I know, Mr Kepharot.’

‘When they close to within a mile, I’ll try the stern chasers against their rigging. We might get lucky. Immobilise them.’

‘Or they might, with us.’

‘Aye, sir.’

‘It’s a risk I’d rather not take. Tell me, Mr Kepharot, do you know any navy signals?’

‘Sir?’

The only ship to signal was their pursuer, which wouldn’t respond to Xhodesii signals even if they had wanted to communicate with her.

‘That ship, Mr Kepharot,’ A’Themi nodded towards the corvette, a slightly larger smudge on the horizon than it had been, ‘will overtake us. She’ll put on more speed than we can. Certainly more than Sweet Wind. We could break up the convoy, so only one of us is captured. But that won’t do. So, we’ll have to force her to give up the chase.’

‘She has no reason to, sir.’

‘No, not yet she doesn’t. I’d like to adjust course two points windward.’

‘So she’ll catch us sooner?’

‘Exactly. Now, why would we do that?’

A’Themi smiled to himself. An inviting expression and a conspiratorial one. Dimitrios was caught between confusion and an unaccountable desire to be included in the conspiracy.

‘I don’t know, sir. Why would we?’

‘Well that’s what her captain will be asking. At the same time, I’d like some signals. Hailing a friendly warship and informing her of our pursuit, something like that. The real signals would be better but, if you don’t know them, believable counterfeits would do. The Themans, we’ll have to hope, won’t know the difference.’

‘But sir, who would we be signalling?’

A’Themi winked and waved a hand towards the open seas.

‘Our reinforcements, of course. At least, so far as our pursuer knows.’

Dimitrios was dumbfounded.

‘You want to bluff her, sir? This is war, not cards.’

‘She played a trick on us, with her false colours. I’d merely like to play one back. Mr Kepharot, if you see another course, please tell me. Your experience is perhaps my most valuable asset at the present moment.’

Against his better judgement, pride warmed Dimitrios’s heart.

‘Thank you, sir,’ he said, saluting properly before he realised he had done it. ‘Short of throwing the guns overboard and abandoning Sweet Wind—’

‘I’m a man of my word. And those guns didn’t come cheap.’

‘Yes, sir. Then… we should try your ruse.’

‘Glad you agree,’ A’Themi said, before leaning in close and dropping his voice. ‘Because I can already tell Brafis won’t like it.’ He patted Dimitrios’s arm and went off calling for Mosk.

###

As Mr Mosk ordered the crew through the adjustments to rope and sail, Dimitrios stitched together his final flag. The navy used a pure red flag for distress, he remembered that. In all honesty, most signals were improvised and unclear, not that the civilians – or other navies – would know that. He had devised what he decided was eminently believable: the red of distress, then a pure blue, then one of half white and half green.

It meant nothing, of course. Besides the red, the colours had been dictated by his materials, which were a few bolts of dyed cloth Brafis had agreed to part with, after A’Themi had gone over in his barge to explain his plan to the other captains. A’Themi had agreed to pay him for the cloth, if it worked.

Still, three flags hoisted together. Anyone could see that was a signal and, if the Themans knew any Xhodesii signals, it would be that red one. It was the best he could do.

Dimitrios handed the flag over for A’Themi’s inspection. The captain smiled.

‘I’d believe them myself,’ he declared. For some reason, that was a comfort.

The crew snickered. They approved of the trick and, in their minds, it had already succeeded. It would prove the Themans stupid and cowardly which, after all, was their national character. That and servility to their prince and imperiousness to all else.

The flags were tied and run up the mast. They caught the wind and flew eagle proud.

‘You may fire, Mr Kepharot,’ said A’Themi.

‘Thank you, sir. Fire!’

At the command, match kissed touchhole and a larboard gun, filled with powder though no shot, kicked back in a fury. Like the flags, it meant nothing. But Dimitrios remembered that guns sometimes accompanied signals. It would add to the performance, A’Themi had decided.

A cheer went up from the men. A’Themi joined them and laughed, but his eyes – hidden to most – turned back to the Theman ship. Dimitrios saw no humour in those eyes.

The crew returned to their tasks or their hammocks. Not all were so carefree. For a quarter hour – Dimtrios kept an eye on his watch, and saw the captain doing the same – nothing. Every moment, the gap between the convoy and their pursuer narrowed. Imperceptibly, yet undeniably.

In that gap, a spray disturbed the water, and then a whale broke the surface, pirouetting and crashing back down, momentarily blocking sight of the other ship. A second leviathan followed the first, in play and in chase.

Dimitrios gasped at the omen. If only they had a priest, to interpret it. Was it for them, or the Themans? Two whales could be the two dolphins of Xhodesi, representing the twin Musi in whose honour their city had been founded. Yes, that was it. It was for them. Protecting them. Dimitrios took heart.

Perhaps the omen was the decisive factor aboard the pursuing ship. Within minutes, it began to turn. Three points to lee, or there abouts. A few sails disappeared. The chase, given up. Dimitrios gasped in disbelief. The crew roared.

###

A’Themi called the other captains to a celebratory supper. Thankfully, Dimitrios was not invited. Instead, he took his wine ration on deck with Mr Mosk, who had the watch.

‘Did you think it would work?’ Dimitrios asked. He took a gulp of the wine.

The other man laughed. He was younger than Dimitrios, of an age with A’Themi, though with a face more weatherbeaten than the captain’s and his hair pulled back into a sailor’s tail.

‘I’ve sailed with him these four years, ever since his father bought the ship and died while waiting for us to return from our maiden voyage. I’ve seen him do more with less than this feat today.’

‘Aye, but…’

‘But?’

‘No. I’d offend.’

‘Offend, then.’

‘That father. Was he born in Thema?’

Mosk bristled, as Dimitrios knew he would.

‘He wasn’t. He was born in Xhodesi to a Xhodesii mother, as was the captain.’

‘I heard the captain lament the war,’ Dimitrios said.

‘You don’t?’

‘I was a navy sailor. I don’t know what to do with peace. Besides, it’s the Themans. Sooner or later, there’s always war with Thema.’

‘You’re on a merchant ship now, guns notwithstanding. War’s bad for business.’

‘But he would fight Themans? He wouldn’t fear upsetting his ancestors?’

Xhodesii ancestry down the maternal line was well enough, but everyone knew the angriest spirits came from the father’s side.

‘Aye, he’d fight them,’ Mosk confirmed. ‘He’d say we aren’t all so different, us children of the Five Islands. Same tongue, more or less. Same gods, more or less. But he’d remind us of the libation he poured to Markomonos, Father of the Republic, before we left, and that he is a son of Xhodesi, and he’d shoot and hack and drown those Themans dead.’

‘You think well of him.’

‘You will too, if you give him time. He has something. He’s the kind of man sailors like to follow.’

‘And lubbers too,’ Dimitrios agreed. Had he not also felt that pull? The kind of easy charisma the rhetoricians claimed they could teach, but not all needed teaching.

Gazing across the serene water, Dimitrios drained his wine. It mattered not. They would arrive in Obahasrand the next day, if the wind held. It was unlikely they would see another—

His eye caught on a flash of white.

‘Up in the tops,’ he called. ‘See you a sail to stern?’

No reply.

‘Tops!’ Mosk shouted. ‘If I find you sleeping, you’ll swim home.’

Which, if they had been dozing, was enough to start them awake. There was a cry and a man slid down the ropes.

‘It’s her, I think, sirs,’ said the slacking spotter. ‘The Theman. She’s back.’

###

‘We need to hold her off ‘til nightfall,’ said A’Themi. All three captains were back at the stern, watching the enemy ship crest the horizon. ‘Adjust course and make it look as though we are making for the Lydesi coast by the shortest route.’

‘Make it look like?’ said Giorgion.

‘You have another plan, sir?’ Dimitrios asked.

‘We need to lose her in the dark. But first, to survive until then.’

The ships put on more sail and turned to lee, picking up a knot of speed as the wind filled their canvas. Still, the Theman gained. She was a beautiful sailor. A sail plan not dissimilar to Fortune’s, though scaled up to a larger ship. One of the Theman new four-and-twenty gunners, Dimitrios decided, so feared as cruisers, though they were as yet untested in battle.

Brafis sent word from Sweet Wind. Any more sail and she risked breaking a mast. The other ships would have to slow or else leave her behind. There was a question in that statement. A’Themi answered it, ordering the sails trimmed.

‘Wait, sir,’ Dimitrios said, careful not to be overheard. It would never do to question the captain’s authority.

‘Sir,’ he continued, ‘you’re used to a small merchant crew. But we have three score sailors aboard.’

‘Therefore, Mr Kepharot?’

Dimitrios had feared angering the man, but his words were carried only an intense curiosity.

‘Sir, in the navy, in such a situation, we might order extra men into the boats, and have them row to tug the lagging ship.’

A’Themi cracked a smile. ‘You’re correct, Mr Kepharot. I’m unused to so many hands. Mr Mosk! Belay that order – we have a better solution.’

The boats were ordered over, with Dimitrios as their leader. Rowing over and securing cables took agonising minutes, but soon they were pulling Sweet Wind along by the strength of their backs, adding another crucial half-knot to her pace.

‘Pull, lads! Pull!’ Dimitrios shouted.

He’d taken an oar with the rest of them. He felt the sea resist as he propelled against it and tasted the salt spray on his lips. The water was his strength. Always had been. He kept pulling.

The sun was already low, a mere handspan over the waves, throwing brilliant oranges and pinks into the sky. They just had to keep going until dark.

So they rowed and they rowed. Dimitrios couldn’t see the pursuing ship, obscured as it was by Sweet Wind before him. He wondered if she had put on more sail. If, even now, she was gaining too fast. The first he would know might be the scream of her chasers into Sweet Wind’s rigging.

He couldn’t allow that. So he pulled, though his shoulders burned and his back ached. He let his mind wander away from the moment with its discomfort, to settle in memory. On other desperate moments. On the boom of cannon and crack of timber and cries of men. Compared to that, rowing was nothing. He redoubled his efforts.

The sun met the horizon and sank ever lower. The sky darkened. No lanterns were lit aboard Sweet Wind, nor on the ships ahead of her. All part of A’Themi’s plan. The moon was a sliver, her eye turned away in horror or indifference. Dimitrios could make out little beyond the confines of the boat.

He ordered the rowing to cease. They had done it – night had fallen and the Theman ship hadn’t caught them despite all its grasping. They rowed back to Fortune and came aboard with as little noise as they could.

‘Quiet on deck,’ said Mosk as Dimitrios finished his clamber.

‘How close?’ Dimitrios asked.

He strained his eyes. Beyond Fortune, Kestril and Sweet Wind were only visible by how their sails blocked out the stars. Even further and there were a few dancing lights. Their pursuer, that would be, but Dimitrios couldn’t make out the distance.

‘Two miles. A close-run thing. But we made it.’

‘And now we merely must adjust course, staying in convoy, without sound or light.’

‘Aye. Only that.’

It was a task that called only for those most intimately familiar with Fortune and each other. The old crew, who had plied the seas with A’Themi before the war. A tight cadre that made up a third of their present number. The rest were shooed below deck, save Dimitrios.

They worked without orders or encouragement, all in darkness. Like Sylaph, the drowned ship, it was, for the sea permitted no light so deep and dead men had no voices. Dimitrios felt a longing to be counted amongst those few. A’Themi had the helm. He turned to windward.

Fortune creaked as she went, the waves lapping at her flanks. Without lights on any of the three ships, the Theman surely couldn’t see them. Wouldn’t know when, or if, or in what direction, they turned.

They completed the turn, back in the direction of Obahasrand, their destination. Kestril and Sweet Wind followed with their own manoeuvres. Behind them, the Theman’s bobbing lights remained ignorant and maintained their course.

Dimitrios stayed on deck, watching those lights pass them, not much more than a mile away, and keep going. The lights grew more distant, off on the starboard quarter. Once more, they’d escaped.

###

Feeling the exhaustion of his limbs, Dimitrios slept for the hour that remained until he had to be up with the middle watch. No sign of their pursuer in the darkness. Dimitrios ordered the lanterns lit and kept an eye to stern the whole watch, before he was relieved by Mr Mosk to his hammock. He fell back into exhausted sleep, awakened only when the watch changed once again.

The day was good, the wind strong. They would make it to port, before it was out. Captain A’Themi was sure of it. So long as the Neros deigned it to be so, Dimitrios reminded him. A’Themi seemed to care little what the gods thought, though he poured the Sea King’s morning libation overboard all the same.

Finally with the time to spare, Dimitrios put some of the gun crews through their paces. They had no powder or shot to waste on training, but the crews could still put on a dummy show of it: pulling back the guns and acting their roles and pushing them forwards. Budding dramatists, all of them. They’d certainly be better on stage than behind a gun. A stroke of luck, then, that those skills would not be needed.

At noon, A’Themi took his observations as the watch changed. It merely gave Dimitrios the time to inspect all the guns, and maybe give them a polish. Around him, the crew tottered along, swabbing and making a few adjustments to the sails. And then they weren’t. Dimitrios noticed it all at once, that the bustle had stopped and a silence descended. A low murmur replaced it.

He cast his eyes around. A’Themi and Mosk held a private conference. Dimitrios intruded upon it.

‘The spotters think they’ve seen something, Mr Kepharot,’ said Captain A’Themi.

Only one thing would have caused such a stir. Mosk retrieved the bosun’s horn and called across to Kestril, asking what their own spotters could see. Sweet Wind was consulted too. After a few minutes, all three ships concurred. Their pursuer had returned.

‘Well, it wouldn’t take a scholar to guess we had resumed our previous course, once her captain recognised that we had slipped the noose,’ A’Themi mused. ‘Still, I’d hoped for a little more time.’

‘We’ll be in Obahasrand by evenfall, sir,’ said Mosk.

‘Indeed we would,’ A’Themi replied, ‘if it weren’t for her overtaking us first.’

‘Another plan, sir?’ Dimitrios asked with a smile.

‘No, Mr Kepharot.’ There was no hint of mirth on A’Themi’s face. ‘I fear not.’

All hands on deck – they knew the routine by now. The captain knew his ship well, and could stretch every bit of speed out of yet. She sailed well with the wind just a few points off her starboard beam. But, of course, it wasn’t Fortune that the Theman would catch first.

They began to pull away from Kestril. Sweet Wind fell even further behind. Dimitrios heard A’Themi swear and blushed at the blasphemies. The captain asked for the bosun’s horn.

‘Maintain course for Obahasrand,’ he shouted to Kestril, where they would pass the message along. ‘We shall lead her off.’

Dimitrios was stunned to hear it. What could they do against the Theman ship? Nothing, of course. Except, perhaps, distract her long enough for the others to finish their voyage. A’Themi intended to sacrifice his ship, then. And his crew. And himself. To end his livelihood, and for what? For patriotism? For pride? For a promise?

Dimitrios’s heart clenched. But it sang too. He was sure that he had never served under a man quite like Daniele A’Themi.

Yet there was no more time for such thoughts. It was all hands again, manoeuvring Fortune such that she dropped behind the rest of the convoy, her course a little more to lee.

‘Mr Kepharot,’ A’Themi said with a sigh, clasping his gunner’s shoulder. ‘If you would be so kind, please inspect the magazine. We shall soon have need of it.’

The Theman increased sail but maintained her course, still pursuing the two slower and more vulnerable quarries. The captain took the situation in hand, slowing Fortune further. If their hunter refused to engage them, they could cross her prow and rake her mercilessly. Even against an inferior ship, that was a concern.

She recognised it, the chasing ship, and altered course. She’d go for Fortune first, and hope to swoop back in on the others before they reached port. On Fortune, their job was to ensure she didn’t have the time. They wouldn’t survive long, however. They couldn’t, against a ship that outclassed them so.

‘A sail! A sail!’

The cry came from the tops and a sailor followed it, hurrying down. Burning his hands on the ropes, surely.

‘Sir!’ the sailor cried, panting. A’Themi held up a hand and he came to a halt, catching his breath. ‘Sir, a sail on the horizon. Three points off larboard bow.’

‘Did you see anything else, man?’ A’Themi asked.

Anything to confirm it as friend or foe, he meant.

‘Three sails. A warship. Bigger than that one.’ He meant the Theman. ‘And we’re broad on her starboard bow. That’s all, sir.’

A’Themi dismissed them all, but called Dimitrios and Mosk to him.

‘If they’re friendly, they’re deliverance, sir,’ said Mosk.

‘If they’re not, our situation cannot deteriorate much further,’ A’Themi added. ‘We’ll make for her. Try to signal. Mr Kepharot, fire a larboard gun. Let us get their attention. Then, perhaps your flags could do with another outing.’

The gun fired and the flags flew. A few minutes of strained staring later, they all saw it. That ship, though still so far away, began to turn. And, a little after that, the even more welcome news. Dimitrios got a good look at her. A frigate, she was. More than that, they could all see the flag she flew. Two golden dolphins against a black sea. She was Xhodesii. The crew cheered and Dimitrios joined them. A friendly ship, and moving to help.

The Theman reacted not at all.

‘They seem unconcerned,’ Dimitrios noted to A’Themi. ‘Despite all our signals.’

The captain laughed, drawing confusion from his gunner.

‘Don’t you see, Mr Kepharot?’ he said. ‘They think we’re playing the same trick a second time. They think they are calling our bluff.’

Their pursuer was closer, but chasing them, fighting for every inch of gain. Their saviour, by contrast, was moving towards them even as they moved towards her. They would meet first and could both fall upon the hapless Theman.

‘Sir, I recognise her!’ said Dimitrios. ‘Tirasos, one of our two-and-thirties. Captain Disoulis has her.’

‘Tirasos,’ A’Themi repeated in a whisper. ‘Hail to you, Tirasos.’

Most of an hour passed, before the Theman showed activity. She had spotted Tirasos and realised her predicament. She turned, back towards the fleeing Kestril and Sweet Wind, still on the horizon. A’Themi wouldn’t let them. Nor, it seemed, would Captain Disoulis.

The ships arced through the water, circling like wolves. Tirasos went straight for the Theman, on a course that could expose her to raking fire when they were close enough, but closed the gap as fast as possible. Fortune remained more cautious, ensuring she could cover the two fleeing ships. Yet still, she was the first to fire.

Fortune was ahead of the Theman and held the weather gauge. The stern chaser on the starboard side had a shot, Dimitrios decided. He sighted it himself and ordered it fired.

The ball skimmed the water once, twice, but missed, perhaps fifty feet to the Theman’s larboard and a little short. They reloaded the gun and fired again, to similar effect.

A’Themi called hard to lee, threatening to rake their enemy. She turned the other way, hoping to slip past, but brought herself closer to Tirasos, almost within gunshot. And, Dimitrios saw, allowing Fortune and the Theman a broadside at each other. He took the chance with glee.

The carronades would be useless with almost a mile still separating them, but he had crews at each of the four starboard long guns, primed and ready.

‘Into their rigging, lads! Wait for the wave the crest!’

The four guns fired, one after the other, throwing up a cloud of smoke that obscured their enemy. Dimitrios peered through it. Three balls missed – two short, one side – but one smashed into the Theman, taking her just above the waterline. Not the rigging, but damage nonetheless.

And then, of course, the Theman answered. Dimitrios had no time to count the flashes but guessed at ten. Each would belong to a gun of higher calibre than Fortune’s. After the flashes and smoke, the crack. And, after that, the impact.

Dimitrios threw himself to the deck. Around him, the crew braced as best they could. There was spray and splinters and a scream before Dimitrios pulled himself off the deck to assess it all.

One ball had blown away some of their rigging, but nothing essential. Another had landed on deck, torn away a crewman’s head – they would have to identify him later – and bounced off into the sea. The rest had missed. Even still, Fortune couldn’t take many more lashings like that.

Yet, the Theman’s turn had finally brought her into range of Tirasos. Their compatriot fired her chasers and began to turn before the Theman could rake her. She still suffered a broadside but, only a minute later, could return with her own. Dimitrios couldn’t see the damage. He prayed it was considerable.

With the two larger ships engaged, and Tirasos so outsizing her opponent, A’Themi could have retired his ship with honour. Instead, he ordered them to close the distance, a look between inspiration and mania on his face.

‘Mr Kepharot, let us see the carronades in action!’ he shouted.

A tack brought them up behind the Theman, half a mile away and gaining. The enemy ship had hastily pulled in sail, to protect them from Tirasos’s guns. All the way, Dimitrios had the prow chasers firing, though they had to weather counterfire from the Theman’s stern. Below those stern guns, Dimitrios could read her name with his spyglass. Hrakion. A thing lost its power, once named. All knew that.

They drew up to Hrakion’s starboard quarter, easily within musket shot, while Tirasos hammered her on the larboard side. The broadside was ready. Dimitrios gave the order.

The long guns fired. It was difficult for them to miss. But in sound and in effect, they were nothing to the carronade. It fired last, closing the opera, a great boom that allowed no other noise. The ball went high, into the rigging.

No, not just the rigging. It struck the mizzenmast a powerful blow, throwing splinters the size of limbs every which way, a maelstrom of deadly spears. As for the mizzen itself, it creaked and it complained and it gave out, crashing forwards into the mainmast, gathering up the rigging, and throwing everything after it as it rolled into the sea.

It was too much for any ship to bear: outnumbered and outclassed, with a mast in the water and no hope for reinforcement. Hrakion struck her colours.

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Thank you for reading. In the confusion of travel I apparently forgot what week it was, so this should have gone out last week. Alas. The result is that my next post will come out in just one week. After that, all else being equal, back to the regular schedule.

Like all my naval fiction, this is a love letter to Patrick O’Brian, one of my absolute favourite writers. It’s also the first of a few stories I want to write following the exploits of Daniele A’Themi — one of my oldest characters, though not one who had appeared in my short fiction before — during the Gulf Sea War. This story takes place in the first few months of that war, and in doing so also functions as a soft sequel to this story, my first ever foray into naval fiction and the first story I ever posted on substack:

Don’t know where to continue with my writing? This might help:

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