Bethany accepted a tankard of watery rum. Lamps hoisted into the rigging shone down onto the fantail where clutches of sailors drank and chattered. Beyond their glow the sea was totally black, low clouds blotted out the moon and stars. There was no wind but Fletch was not in need of any, for she was at anchor, waiting for Tess to catch up. Several idle days had passed; in honor of the prize - there had been gold in the sack - and to ease the monotony Granger had called for a celebration. A sailor sat on the aft rail of the superstructure, picking a battered guitar. His playing had been quite good when he had begun after dinner though as the evening went on and more rum was served it was starting to slow and muddle. His audience, with the exception of Bethany, had kept pace with his drinking and therefore did not care. She decided it would be a good idea to catch up and downed a third of the tankard, all she could manage in one go.

Badrine emerged from below deck and ambled toward the fantail. He plucked an empty tankard from the rail, filled it, and then produced his cigar case from a trouser pocket. Coming alongside Bethany at the taffrail, away from the bulk of the sailors, he lit his cigar.

“How many of those did you bring along?” Bethany asked.

Badrine paused and Bethany could almost see him tallying in his head, “Seventy-five of these big ones and a few hundred dry-cured cigarillos.”

“Aren’t they rather expensive?”

“There’s a gentleman in Bray who gets me wholesale prices, he worked for your father for a spell, in fact I think your family grew most of these.”

Badrine took a long pull on the cigar, its coal glowing in the fading light. Of all of Fletch’s officers he was the least gentlemanly in appearance. He was short and broad and rarely wore his full uniform, turning out instead in bits of civilian or common sailor’s clothes inevitably blackened with grease, oil, and soot. Bethany supposed he had come by his rank through merit, elevated from some gutter or farmhouse by his wits just as the mill foremen were on land. It was fashionable, both among Bethany’s city friends and the learned men of Bray, to disdain fellows like him. To the high they were intruders and to the low they were traitors. She had known in passing ravenously ambitious examples that put some truth to that, but Badrine seemed fundamentally alright.

He lowered the cigar from his lips and took a swig of rum, then turned to Bethany, “I’m never going to mention this again, but I can’t say the same for the lads... what you did on Dux with that sword of yours, I thought it was luck in the dining room but at the boat... no, that’s witchcraft, isn’t it?”

Bethany took another drink, “it was.”

“That’s remarkable, I had no idea. Generally that sort of thing precedes a person.”

“Most of what I’ve done I have done in the last few months. It was never something I cultivated. Really, it started on the river, I was about to get done in by one of those terrible orcs and the sword came to me. I didn’t ask it to.”

“Is Mr. Threlfall a wizard then? I saw him help you.”

Bethany looked perturbed, “I don’t think so, only a scribe and seer, he’s not done anything illegal.”

“Lord, dear, do not worry about ‘illegal’! Who is going to enforce that out here? It’s foolish to proscribe it anyway, anymore.”

“Why?”

Badrine pointed to the deck gun just in front of them, “we’ve got our own sort of magic now. That might not be the best of examples, it’s pretty puny, but you take my point I’m sure. It’s no coincidence that the Assembly cropped up right around the time they figured out how to mass produce rifles. They were black powder and muzzle loading, but get enough angry men at arms together and history shows that even that was enough to put wizardry down. Nowadays the odds are even less favorable. I say let them do whatever they like and reign them in if they overstep.”

Bethany was a touch pleased, “You know that’s a fairly rare view.”

“Maybe so. Treating men like scoundrels based on what they may do, as opposed to what they’ve done doesn’t sit right with me. I could blow the boiler up on a whim but nobody follows me around with a pistol in my back to see that I don’t.”

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“What did you mean about the lads - the crew - are they talking about me?”

“They’ve been talking about you since we left port, you’re the only lady here, after all. With respect to the witchery, a few said they saw something on the river, I suppose now they were right, they did. My stokers have mentioned what you did in the dining room and the men from the boat, well, I suspect maybe half saw it, that was such a mess, not everyone was looking that way.”

“Is it going to be a problem?”

“If you were a guest or the like, perhaps, but on paper you outrank all of them, and they’ve seen you kill. You would have to ask Boyle about the majority of the fellows, I can only really speak for my stokers.”

“And where do they come down on it?”

“They were impressed, a bit afraid, curious for the most part. In truth they’ve seen far more memorable things than your tricks. I mean no offense by that, but seeing a man’s head hollowed out by a three line round will stick in the mind far longer than a bit of magic. If it was Threlfall it would be different, we were all raised to fear wizards.”

Bethany finished her rum. “Careful there,” Badrine admonished as her cheeks flushed, nearly glowing in the lamplight.

“It’s quite strong, even with the water,” Bethany agreed.

“Aye, they don’t water it down because they mean to stretch it, the stuff in the barrels is concentrated, higher proof than anything that would be served straight.”

A flurry of chatter rose from the taffrail, “a glass, somebody fetch a glass!” insisted one of the less drunk sailors.

“If it’s another Bexarian I think I might resign my commission,” Badrine grumbled before addressing the sailors, “wait now, I’ll go get my glass.”

He disappeared below for a moment and returned with his spyglass, the sailors parting to allow him to reach the taffrail. “Right off the stern, sir,” a sailor indicated. Badrine looked down the glass.

“Sails,” he murmured, “it’s likely Tess.”

“Aye but what about the smoke?” a sailor protested.

Badrine grimaced and looked again, “she’s a steamer with her, you’re right. The question becomes, did Tess take the steamer or the other way ‘round? In fact, she may not even be an enemy, perhaps Tess found a friendly raider or merchantman out there.”

Badrine was silent for a while, studying the slowly advancing ships. With a shrug he tossed the remains of his cigar off the taffrail and collapsed his glass, “I’m not the officer of the watch, one of you lot go and get Mr. Granger.”

Granger was quickly brought. He had retired to his cabin after sharing a few drinks with his men but was found awake, studying an issue of Naval Dispatches.

“Gentlemen, what do you see?” he inquired, deploying his own glass.

“Right off the stern sir, a barquentine, likely Tess, and an unknown steamer. They’re coming our way,” Badrine reported.

Granger quickly sighted on the vessels, observing “what busy waters these are” before collapsing his glass.

Indicating the barrel of rum and tables set up near the deck gun he ordered, “clear this all away at once. We cannot be sure that is Tess and she may well be a hostage. Find Mr. Farley, we are going to beat to quarters. Mr. Badrine, get us steaming, if we are engaged I want mobility.”

The men on the fantail scattered and the lights in the rigging were brought down and extinguished.

“Make the private signal now or you will be fired upon,” flickered across the dark sea from Fletch’s signal lamp. It was clear now that the steamer had the sailing ship under tow, which accounted for the latter’s progress in the windless night. Whether the steamer was being exploited by Tess or dragging her into captivity remained to be seen and the armed men standing in knots all over Fletch’s deck waited anxiously for the answer. The yacht was steaming toward the two ships in a “Z” pattern, turning every so often so as to keep her broadside pointed at them.

The steamer’s signal lamp was lit. After a lengthy pause it began to flicker.

From his chair, Granger looked up at the helm, where a sailor was marking down the incoming message, “is it correct?”

“Nearly so, sir. There is one error but it seems to have been a true mistake.”

Granger nodded, “ask them to identify themselves.”

The request was sent and the sailor at the lamp read the response aloud, “Fletch this is Luft of Tess addressing you from the bridge of Bexarian provisions ship Strator, captured by us two days prior.”

Fletch’s men whooped approval.

“Straighten our course to bring us alongside,” Granger instructed.

Fletch’s launch went into the water a little past midnight. It left virtually empty and returned with a beaming Florian Luft. Granger shook his hand as he came aboard and regarded the Bexarian steamer. She was about the same length as Tess and would have been taller were it not for the barquentine’s masts, her superstructure soared several decks above her captor so as to provide accommodations for the crew while the entire hull, it seemed, consisted of cargo holds or machinery spaces.

“How did you take her?” Granger inquired.

“She might be a steamer but she was slower than we, she has a pathetic excuse for a boiler and a single screw. The wind was at her prow, beating her back, and we were able to come at her on a fine reach. She was Bexarian Navy on paper, flew their jack, but every man aboard was a civilian, looks to me like she and her crew were pressed into service altogether. We put a shot across her and she struck then and there.”

“That’s a blessed thing. What was she carrying?”

Luft produced a folded slip of paper from his pocket, “she has four holds, two fore and two aft. In the fore holds she had grain, medical supplies, and dry victuals - salted meat and what have you. Aft there were rifle cartridges, gun carriages disassembled and crated, and casks of fresh water. I cannot put a value to any of it, or the ship herself until I confer with the Admiralty, I should hope your scribe will assist with that.”

“Of course,” Granger nodded, leading him to the chartroom.

When the pair emerged from the little compartment Luft was clearly pleased. He clutched another piece of paper, covered all over with arithmetic. Granger conferred with him a last time at the gunnel then saw him into the launch. This done he called together the crew. Bethany was asleep on her feet but joined them, curious as to what had become of Clotilde’s family and ship.

“Thank you for your attention, I know I have wrecked the watches with this activity and most of you should be in your hammocks at this hour. As you saw, Tess has made a prize of a Bexarian steamer,” Granger began, leaning on his stick, “just now the Admiralty received and responded to a message from Mr. Luft as to how the steamer and her cargo should be disposed of so as to best help the war effort. Tess has been directed to sail with her prize 250 versts southwest to the Holman Islands and deliver the prize to the depot there. We are to escort her. There we will also be rid of the survivors from Dux. For now they shall be transferred to the steamer so that we might have again the use of our forecastle and lower decks without tripping over them. I am pleased to tell you also that all of you will be granted several days liberty on the island, in view of our recent combat. We are going to begin the transfer at once using our boat and several from the steamer, when it is done all of you not in the mid watch may retire for the night.”