A fine lunch was served on Fletch’s fantail. Wessex and Dunstable’s senior surviving officers were present and their success was toasted, as was the progress of the soldiers, who were now far inland. The yacht lay at anchor near Sophie out of range of Kjell, unable to give or take fire, while Unyielding played along its coast, providing an occasional supporting shot.

Bethany had awoken a little after dawn but in that time had managed to do nothing but move between her chair and her bunk. The tropical air, a treat when the wind was up, was now stagnant and clung to her. She kicked her blankets away and then, feeling vulnerable, retrieved and sweated beneath them. Another dose of papaver seemed a very good idea, but during the day, when she might be called on to perform some nominal captain’s duty, she dared not take one. Being caught at it would not bring on any real consequences, it was not illegal and as captain, there was no one who could punish her for the ill discipline, but it would destroy any shred of respect the ship’s company had for her. Though she did not desire to be respected in the same way Granger was, she hoped to be taken for at least a decent girl guilty of nothing but being born to wealth. The same sort that caused men in the streets to doff their hats and whisper to their friends, that, if only they could make some money, they would make such a lady their bride.

Threlfall knocked on her door then peered through the window just beside it and saw her apparently asleep. Bethany hoped this would deter him from entering. It did not.

“You should rise and eat something before the stewards clear it all away. It’s past noon.” He stated.

“Is there coffee?” Bethany murmured.

“Yes, it was served with dessert.”

“Can you bring that?”

Threlfall answered by leaving the cabin and returning with a filled cup. He offered it to Bethany, waiting until she was grasping it with both hands before letting go.

“The word is you’ve had a shock - a dead man. That is why we let you sleep.” Threlfall told her.

“I wasn’t aware I needed the officers’ blessing to sleep.” Bethany observed.

“You don’t, captain, but we had hoped you would lunch with us, and were going to wake you when a fellow mentioned the incident.”

Bethany set her coffee down on a distant part of the bunk and ran a hand through her hair. It was sticky with sweat and she fleetingly wondered why some sailors, who, unlike her, would not raise disapproval if they cut it all off, chose to wear theirs long even this far south. It was, she figured, for the same reason merchant raider officers grew scruffy beards on long cruises: they could get away with it on a small ship so distant from the Admiralty, and however silly it was, they were hellbent on trying it once.

Threlfall had taken her chair and was looking at her expectantly, to sate him she said: “Incident is a touch strong. Don’t worry for me. I was bound to see something like it.”

“Just because something is inevitable doesn’t make it easy. Every man loses his parents unless he somehow dies young, but I’ve met many who were utterly despondent despite the benefit of a lifetime to steel themselves.”

Bethany lifted her coffee cup. “My mother and brother died while I was away. When they told me I must admit I felt nothing.”

“Had they been ill? I find that if somebody dies after an illness the impact can be very mild.”

“My mother was, my brother went in an accident, but that is not the trouble here. Rather, well, that poor man yesterday, I felt more for him than for the woman who birthed me and a boy who was my companion for my entire childhood and my own blood.”

“You learned of both deaths all at once, correct?”

Bethany nodded.

“Well that explains it, in my view. There are two ways to react to such news without warning, complete collapse or complete detachment. Neither is pretty, but the latter at least preserves the mind. Your mind defended itself, in the same way your blood wards off infection. It is for this reason also that a soldier can watch his dear friend be shot before his eyes and go on fighting without interruption, with drilled efficiency, until the battle is won.”

“How did you come by these notions? The Academy?” Bethany asked.

“No. Truly it is not even a primary interest of mine, but when one reads the theories of wizardry, one finds the practitioner’s state of mind is integral to their work, and the newer texts, those compiled by academics rather than mere folk histories, consequently wander deeply into the latest views on the brain.”

A commotion just beyond the cabin door drew their attention. The troopship officers were being hustled into a launch bound for Sophie.

Threlfall excused himself: “I had better say goodbye to them.”

Bethany watched him go out of the cabin and speak with the officers, who seemed unsettled. They did not stop to talk, but rather spoke as they mantled the gunnel and stepped into their boat. As it rowed away, Threlfall returned to Bethany’s cabin to find her standing.

“New orders.” Threlfall announced.

“What could they possibly want with those old merchant captains?” Bethany inquired.

Threlfall’s look darkened. “For us, they’re disembarking so that we might take on some of Sophie’s marines.”

“To what end?”

“Granger received a signal by lamp, he has not told the rest of us yet, but he sent for his pistol and had the lunch cleared away to free up the deck gun’s traverse.”

“Perhaps the Bexarian fleet has come to congratulate us.” Bethany replied with a thin smile.

“I wouldn’t joke about that... but no it can’t be anyway, for the Sophie is still at rest. If there was a fleet action in the offing she would be steaming up and getting her men to their stations.”

Fletch was steaming up, Bethany could hear Badrine shouting something at his stokers and the clatter of their shovels. Two of Sophie’s launches, sitting low in the water for they were near capacity, came alongside and disgorged numerous marines. Their captain conferred with Farley in hushed tones. Granger interrupted them: “Is this all we can expect?” He asked Sophie’s marine captain.

“Yes, it’s our entire complement save for a few men who must stay behind in case of boarders. I know that’s not likely, but it’s against regulations to leave a ship entirely bereft of marines.”

Granger nodded: “Of course, I understand.”

The old Master then proceeded to the bridge and addressed the engine room: “Slow ahead” and to the helm “Make for the inlet a few points off the great rock.”

Bethany felt the mild shudder that accompanied the first turn of the expansion engine’s pistons, soon Fletch was making headway.

From the bridge, Granger instructed the bosun to call together the crew. When they were all accounted for he began: “Men, you are certainly curious as to why we are steaming again. I had promised you an idle day and I must break that promise, for I have been given new orders. Our brave lads in the army have taken half of Kjell but they are stalled. The enemy has constructed an earthworks fitted with field guns and to their credit are defending it like lions. They have accounted for every possible land approach, but they did not account for the Fletch. As you may know, Kjell is not one island, but two, and betwixt them lies a narrow river of sorts. Both Sophie and Unyielding draw too much water to go up it, but we can, and we will. We will steam up it until we are behind their fortification and there, under the protection of our deck gun, we will put ashore these marines so that they might pay a visit to the Bexarians. There will be high danger, but is rare that a raider has such an opportunity to effect the course of a grand battle, to go from a nuisance to the enemy to their bane. We shall do so now. All to your quarters and good hunting.”

Bethany looked to Threlfall for reassurance and found none. “This is grave, isn’t it?” She asked.

“It is the most dangerous thing we’ve done so far. There’s not a lick of armor on this ship and her only gun is slow in action, if we come under the fire of more than one piece, or they try to board us from the river banks, I’m not convinced we can hold.” He replied, walking briskly toward his compartment below deck. Bethany followed him and stood in the doorway as he donned his sword and service revolver.

“Surely, though, the Bexarians will be too busy with the army on the other side to trouble us much.” Bethany suggested.

“That is certainly the assumption this was planned under.” Threlfall replied, stuffing loose 4.5 line cartridges into the pockets of his uniform coat.

Bethany turned to see a party of sailors drawing up the hammocks and spreading sand on the floor. “If we’ve wounded they will put them here, the sand is so nobody slips on the blood.” Threlfall explained.

Fletch crossed over the sand bar that blocked access to the inlet for most larger vessels and found herself in the salty river. To port rose the rock of Kjell. Nothing grew in the stoney ground, and few structures could be built. To starboard was a tropical forest, largely stripped of trees to build the settlements and relieved of the few survivors by artillery fire. Along the dirt tracks leading inland, Bethany saw the trail left by any advancing army. Ration tins, spent cartridges and chargers, bloody bandages, and the occasional dead man. A small party of wounded soldiers, guarded by a single rifleman and a few medics, saw the passing yacht. When the Grand Jack at her mizzen came into view they hooted and waved. The marines now lining Fletch’s gunnels returned the gesture.

A single rifle shot echoed from a position a few hundred arshins away from the wounded men and cut down the rifleman guarding them. “Damn! Sharpshooter! They must have drawn the coward’s attention.” Farley announced.

“But will he fire on the wounded men?” A young marine, Coleville, wondered.

“I wouldn’t bet against it. Give me your carbine.” The marine did as instructed and Farley, who had been standing to oversee the firing line, knelt beside the gunnel, bracing the short rifle against it.

“Take my glass and find him. I am going to take a ranging shot which is certain to miss, you tell me by how much.” Farley went on. The other marine took Farley’s spyglass from his belt and looked in the direction of the enemy’s fire. Farley flipped up the carbine’s ladder sight and ran it out to 500 arshins. A silent crowd of sailors was watching now.

“I think he is just to the left of that black stone there.” Coleville whispered.

Farley swiveled his rifle and found the stone. He fired. “Miss low and right.” Coleville reported.

The Bexarian shooter made his rebuttal in the form of a single shot that struck Coleville in the neck. His body dropped to the deck. A handful of marines rushed to put pressure on the wound, but the bullet had entered just below his chin and was as good as decapitation, piercing the jugular before burying itself in the spine.

Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author's preferred platform and support their work!

Farley rose and stepped over the corpse. “Mr. Nock!”

“Aye!” The gunner replied.

“Did you see where that came from?”

“Nearly.” Nock assented.

“Well, with Mr. Granger’s permission of course I would like you to load high explosive and fire on the enemy sharpshooter.”

Granger nodded.

The gun was laid quickly, its entire crew working with bowed heads for fear of another precision shot. One came, but missed, ricocheting harmlessly off Fletch’s steel mizzen. “I have him!” Nock shouted, “Fire!”

The deck gun boomed. Seconds later its shell exploded, enveloping the black rock on all sides with fire. Eagerly, the gun crew cranked open the breech, sending the spent casing clattering to the deck with a hollow ring, and jammed a fresh one home. When the fire and dust cleared from his view Nock pronounced: “I see a body! He’s done for.”

The gunners’ celebration was muted by the marines, who silently lifted Coleville and carried him below deck, laying his corpse in the sand. Farley congratulated Mr. Nock in a distant, professional tone, then took up Coleville’s spot at the gunnel, still wielding the dead man’s carbine.

“Stop engine!” Granger shouted to the helm. Fletch’s screw lurched to a halt. “What is it, sir?” Farley asked, knowing how vulnerable the men on deck were when the ship was at rest. “There’s a chain across the river about 200 arshins upstream.”

“Ours or theirs?” Farley wondered.

“It’s not charted but the garrison may have put it up during the invasion, or its Bexar’s. In either case we’ll have to land men to take it down. There’s no way to bring the stern around to lay the gun.” Granger replied.

Farley did not have to be told to gather a party of marines for the task. He selected five men, two from Fletch’s complement and three newcomers from Sophie. They were soon over the side and making their way down the riverbank. The marine Captain watched them along the sights of his carbine. They reached the chain and found each end wrapped around large stones, stand-ins for the more usual tree trunks. The chain was looped several times around the starboard stone before disappearing beneath it. One of Sophie’s marines tugged at it. It seemed to give, so more joined in and, after a minute or so it was free from beneath the stone. No longer anchored it could now be unwound. The chain was heavy and covered in slimy marine growth, several times it was dropped into the water and a marine had to wait up to his neck to retrieve it, lest the screw be fouled, but ultimately it was gathered on one side of the river, entirely out of the way.

“Dead slow ahead.” Granger ordered. As Fletch trundled by the marines climbed aboard.

“That was wonderfully simple.” Farley observed.

Granger was far less pleased: “Either they were expecting us to hit it at speed or it was only ever meant to slow us down. Consider that if they have observers they just had a good while to count our men and guns at their leisure.”

On this, Farley produced his spyglass and scanned the Bexarian earthworks, which was now clearly visible a verst upriver. “If they’ve observers on this side I cannot see them, not to say that proves anything.”

The sounds of battle, present since the landings but muffled by distance, were now all that could be heard. Beyond the earthworks individual rifles barked between organized volleys of the same, which became less frequent as the invading units were thinned and their officers killed. Sappers’ axes thumped against revetments, Bexarian field guns and repeaters swept the approaches. Men screamed orders or in agony, occasionally a sword rang against another blade. A cloud of gunsmoke clung to the earthworks like ash about a volcano.

The works itself was a dirt mount reinforced with tree trunks and iron rails ripped from the island’s narrow gauge railway. It stood at the broad part of a bend in the river and so was protected by water on three sides.

“That’s academy stuff there. Right out of the expedient fortifications manual.” Farley commented.

“I can’t say you’ll have gun support. We’ll hit its backside but depending on how thick the walls are it may do no good. What is your landing plan?”

“Stop us about...” Farley was interrupted by the report of field gun, clearly coming from the rear of the mound. A camouflage thatch of branches and green canvas had been pulled aside to reveal a firing port.

Granger shouted “Down!” as the shot hit. It struck just in front of the foremast, missing any structure but cutting away the rigging for the jib before exploding on the far bank of the river. Rope and pulleys fell to the deck in a tangle.

“Marines! Suppress that gun!” Farley ordered, shouldering his carbine. Granger rounded to face the helm and bellowed “ahead two thirds and keep her turning as much as you can, use the whole channel!” Fletch accelerated as a volley of fire came from the marines. Unordered, Nock’s crew fired a shell that missed the enemy position low, but seemed to shake them.

“Don’t waste your shots!” Granger advised Nock.

From the same firing port, the Bexarians now let loose with a repeater. Scores of rifle caliber bullets struck the water just in front of Fletch, then walked across her deck, cutting down ten marines and the helmsman. Granger bolted down the deck and up the ladder to the bridge. The bleeding helmsman was slumped over the wheel. Finding him alive, the master pulled him clear and leaned him against the bridge rail, then took the helm. Another shell was fired, it pierced Fletch’s deck amidships, rending her superstructure and exploding deep inside the hull. “We’ve water coming in!” Badrine called up the speaking tube.

Granger looked aft: “Mr. Nock if you have a shot, take it!”

Nock fired at the same instant as the Bexarian gun. Both weapons found their mark. The Bexarian position vanished in a veil of fire and dirt while the enemy high explosive round slammed into Fletch where her mizzen was secured to the deck. The steel of the tall mast groaned as it tried to absorb the shock. It let go, ropes and guy wires snapped. Nock’s crew scattered, one jumping overboard, as the mast fell on their position and came to rest against the gun barrel.

The impact kicked Fletch’s stern and the helm shuddered in Granger’s hands. He tried to correct, but turned too hard, and, as the yacht rounded the bend in the river just behind the earthworks, she ran aground. Badrine slammed the throttle shut, tripping the steam pressure release and sending the vapor rushing up the funnel.

Farley stood.

“Sir, we had better take this fort or we’re cooked!” He suggested to Granger.

“Go! Go!” The master agreed, breathless.

Captain Farley mantled the gunnel, the marines followed him. With his saber flashing in the haze of coal smoke and steam he bellowed: “Marines! Advance! No quarter!” Just behind him stood one of Sophie’s complement who had tied a Marine Jack to an oar. Following the banner, the marine squadron charged the right flank of the earthworks.

Warm, mucky water touched Bethany’s ankles. Since the start of the shooting she had secured herself in Threlfall’s small compartment below deck at his suggestion. It was now flooding slowly. She opened the door, straining a little to push aside the water that had gathered near its bottom. Fletch lay in a list to starboard having bottomed out and pivoted on her keel - upon leaving Threlfall’s cabin and walking a little to port she was clear of the flooding.

She stood now in the open hammock room. Coal dust from a ruptured bunker hung in the air along with the stench of mortal wounds: blood and evacuated bowels. At least fifteen pitiful men lay in the sand or sat shivering against bulkheads. Bethany approached the most lucid one, kneeling over him, she whispered: “What happened? Are we defeated?”

“Not yet dearie, we’ve sent our marines ashore to pay them back for this nonsense.” A sailor with a hastily bandaged arm replied.

“Where is the surgeon?” Bethany asked.

“We’re far too small to warrant one. The steward has some training I’ve heard, the fundamentals or what have you, but I fear he may be dead.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“Water, to drink and for our wounds, and something for the pain. Rum will do.”

Bethany stood: “Right, I shall try. Hold on.”

Moving toward the fore, still below deck, Bethany scanned the darkness for a cask of drinking water. She found a few in the forepeak. Grabbing a cask with both hands she tried to drag it along. It barely moved, so she pushed against it until it fell on its side and could be rolled. In this way she brought the cask to the wounded.

Two men who could stand, including the sailor with the wounded arm, helped her right it again. A raid on the steward’s compartment netted a ladle and few glasses. Bethany gave filled glasses to the men who could hold them before going to the grievously wounded men. She held the ladle to the mouths of those who were still living and they drank haltingly. When all had a chance to drink she handed the ladle off to the sailor she had spoken to.

“If you can manage it, keep giving water to whoever asks. I’ll go for the rum now.” Bethany stated.

In truth she had no idea where to find the rum - it was hidden to keep the less disciplined sailors from sneaking extra rations - but she could certainly lay her hands on something for the pain. Bethany went up the stairs that led to the deck. Upon opening the hatch at the top, the light revealed that the steps and a pathway between them and the gunnel were streaked with blood where the wounded men had walked or been dragged below.

“Miss Esterhouse stay down there!” Granger called from the bridge.

“I will go below again soon! I’m getting something for the wounded.”

Granger sighed and returned to scanning the earthworks with his spyglass. Making her way to her cabin Bethany found the deck covered in splinters and spent cartridges cases. The latter rolled about under foot and threatened to trip her. Rounding the head of the superstructure near the bridge she came across Threlfall. His uniform was soaked by sweat and dappled with blood.

“Are you alright? Have you been shot somewhere?” Bethany inquired, reaching for him.

“That’s a marine’s blood. I’ll be fine.” He replied, turning into the chartroom. “I need to raise Sophie. They must know the mess we’re in.”

Bethany looked down. “How great of a mess is it?”

“If the Bexarian fort falls in short order, we’re quite alright, but if they bring another gun up it will be time to abandon ship. What are you doing above deck anyway?”

Bethany dared not mention her cache of papaver. “Looking for the steward. A sailor told me he has some basic medical training.”

“I saw him near the stern.”

“Is he alive.”

“And unhurt, yes.”

Bethany resolved to find him and send him below first thing. If he could staunch the wounded’s bleeding he would do more good than the papaver might. Continuing aft, past her cabin, she found the steward ministering to a man half crushed by the collapsed mizzen. Nathaniel knelt beside him, bearing bandages.

“You’re needed below sir.” Bethany said.

The steward shook his head: “If they’re below a decision’s already been taken - they’re either too far gone or, in the case of them that walked there, will heal up without me.”

Bethany contemplated arguing with him, but the dried blood caking his hands and running to his elbows quieted her. She turned to go to her cabin when an alarmed murmur rose from the port side of the ship.

“Boarders inbound!” Boyle reported.

Bethany, Nathaniel, and the steward wheeled to look. A swarm of infantry were rising from a trench blasted into the rocky side of the river. Too low profile to identify unless one was flying above, the position was the perfect spot from which to spring an assault on a ship fouled in the river bend. The first gunshot came from a sailor on Fletch’s forecastle, wielding an old revolver. He missed the advancing force who were still at least 200 arshins away, but they did not miss him. A rifle shot to the stomach dropped him to the deck.

“Get below now! For the love of god, go!” The steward demanded of Bethany and Nathaniel. The boy ran for the hatch straight away but Bethany made for her cabin. Bursting through the bullet riddled wooden door she reached under her bunk for the box of papaver syrettes. On the opposite side of the ship, boarding ladders clanked into place. Clutching the syrette box, Bethany exited her cabin and ran toward the sole hatch leading below. A few Bexarian infantry appeared before her, one with a sailor on the end of his bayonet. Granger shot them down with a carbine.

“Go!” He screamed.

A party of sailors had leapt onto the riverbank to hold off the boarders. From this group came the sound of breaking bones. Someone’s body thumped wetly against the side of the hull. The sailors fell back, as the first of them came over the gunnel he shouted “Orcs! Orcs! They have Orcs!”

The first orc did not climb but leapt onto the deck from the riverbank, its massive, bare feet thudding into the bloody teak. Men as tall as it existed, but none so muscular - its gray flesh rippled with animal strength. It wielded a pike in its right hand. The orc did not move after its landing, instead looking around the ship slowly, sniffing the air. A sailor fired a carbine into its chest, the orc stumbled, but ignored the wound. The creature was on the same side of the superstructure as the steps leading below, but was facing away from them, and seemed perplexed by its new environment.

Bethany rose from her hiding place amongst the wreckage of the mizzen and made again for the hatchway. When she was about an arshin from it, the orc turned to look directly at her. Grunting, it raised its pike.

Nathaniel sprung from the hatchway with a service revolver in his hand. He fired four shots into the beast’s belly before it ran him through with the pike. His limp body hung in the middle of the weapon - meat on a skewer. The orc hooked Nathaniel’s legs against the gunnel and pulled back on the pike until his corpse slid off, falling to the riverbank. It smacked the deck with the base of the pike then charged Bethany.

Bethany was frozen. She had stopped running when Nathaniel had appeared but not sought cover. She stood upright and open to attack like the flour sack men soldiers used for bayoneting practice. Threlfall called her name, she did not react, and he turned away, firing his revolver at another orc on the forecastle. Bethany could not act, but she felt. A strange, warm energy came over her. Fleetingly, she thought it was death, or at least the acceptance of it. Then, from her right hand came two tendrils of matter resembling molten gold. The tendrils crossed each other over and again, forming a long, slender helix. Inside of this material, moving again downward from her hand, flickered into existence first the hilt of her rapier and then its blade, not tarnished and dull as it had been moments before in its box beneath her bunk, but gleaming with a perfect edge.

Instinctively, Bethany raised the sword to guard herself. As she did so the shimmering tendrils retracted, leaving only the weapon. She could feel the orc’s breath on her and swung downward with the rapier, striking the rapidly advancing pike. The orc jolted his weapon upward, Bethany’s right wrist filled with agony as the force of the parry nearly broke it. Her grip failed, on the inertia of the orc’s strike the sword flew from her hand and over her shoulder, landing somewhere in the river.

The beast swept her legs with the end of the pike and she fell onto her back. It roared and raised its weapon, poised to ram it through Bethany’s face. She turned her head away, a glob of the orc’s sweat or spit dropped onto her neck. It could have killed her already with a quick blow, but seemed intent on driving the pike slowly through her skull. The tip of the pike, cheap, dull iron, touched her between her left ear and eye. It did not enter.

The orc groaned and fell forward, Bethany rolled clear of it in time to avoid being crushed. She tried and failed to stand. Pulling herself to the gunnel she rested her back against it, aching. First, she regarded the chaos that reigned near the forecastle, as orcs and Bexarian infantry rushed aboard. When she finally looked away she saw the dead orc. Her rapier was embedded in the back of its skull.

A Bexarian infantryman rushed down the deck in Bethany’s direction, exchanging fire with someone sheltered by the mizzen. Reaching the dead orc he paused, for it blocked most of the path between the superstructure and the gunnel. As he stepped over it he caught sight of Bethany and pointed his rifle at her, muttering something in his language. Bethany stood and rushed at him, the barrel of his rifle glancing off her ribs. She grabbed it, he fired, but in the scrum the muzzle was pointed upwards directing the bullet away. Tugging at his weapon the Bexarian freed it from Bethany’s grip and leveled it at her. Bethany found herself partly atop the dead orc. She reached down and grasped the hilt of her rapier. It glided out of the creature’s skull.

As the soldier fumbled with the bolt of his rifle she pierced his heart. He fell dead and Bethany ran aft, rounded the end of the superstructure, and returned to her cabin. From beneath her bunk she retrieved the long, low crate marked “Walkinshaw, Sons, & Company”, opened it, and extracted the 4.5 line self-loading pistol and several loaded magazines that she dropped into a pocket. Hurriedly, she took up the pistol in her left hand and the sword in her right.

Bethany burst back onto the deck. The debris on the fantail had forced most of the combatants forward. Granger was still firing from the bridge and Threlfall had joined him there. Bethany rushed by them. Near the mainmast an orc was slowly advancing on a clutch of sailors. Its entire chest and belly were red with blood oozing from at least 20 wounds, but it lumbered on. Bethany did not choose to run at it but something carried her forward until she was nearly touching the creature. She thrust her rapier up, through its chin and brain, withdrawing it as the orc fell dead. This revealed three Bexarian infantry who had been using the beast as mobile cover. Bethany sprang back as they shot at her, but one round clipped her shoulder. As she staggered in pain the sailors regrouped and cut them down with pistol shot.

Another orc jumped onto the deck, unwounded and raging. Bethany emptied the pistol’s magazine hoping to slow it. It faltered but swung its pike at her, nearly striking home. As she tried to move out of range, Badrine came up the deck wielding his service revolver and a pipe wrench. A phalanx of stokers, shovels in hand, followed after him. After exhausting his handgun, Badrine fell back and the stokers advanced. One dashed the creature’s eyes with his shovel while the others beat its body and legs. As it began to falter, Badrine reloaded his revolver, dropping most of the cartridges from his oily hands as he did so, but managing to get two in place. He clicked the cylinder closed, pointed the revolver at the back of the orc’s skull, and pulled the trigger.

Nothing.

He worked the long double action trigger again.

Nothing.

Finally, it found a cartridge. The orc’s brains burst from his eye sockets, spattering Bethany and the sailors with meat and blood.

Behind them, without warning, the earthworks exploded. When the resulting geyser of dirt and flame dissipated a line of 100 or so men appeared, rounding the fortification’s shattered base.

They were a scraggly lot, most were bandaged in at least one place, and while they were largely armed with rifles a few too many wielded only swords or axes. At their head was a man mounted awkwardly on a Bexarian cuirassier’s horse.

On Fletch’s deck both her crew and the boarders paused to regard the troops. At that distance and in the pall of smoke and dirt it was impossible to tell who they belonged to.

Captain Farley’s brogue echoed down the mound. “Fix bayonets!”

A metallic clicking rippled down the line of men as they complied with the order.

Granger, wounded in two places and bent against the bridge rail, rose. He patted his uniform coat in search of his spyglass. Finding it he cast his gaze toward the formation. Bethany saw the old man’s face light with a small smile. He murmured “Bless you, Farley, bless you.”

Fletch’s Marine Jack, still on an oar, came into view, as did an Army banner, holed by shot and bloody. Farley spurred his stolen courser and the troops followed him toward the river. They reached the water in a flash. Farley rode right over it and into the melee of boarders on the far side, hacking at them with his saber. His men - marines and soldiers - split, some scaling the low side of Fletch and reinforcing the sailors on deck, others wading across the river to join their commander.