With understandable reluctance, Master Ferguson directed the helmsman northeast, past the narrow strait of Gibraltar where the tip of Africa met the tail of the Iberian Peninsula. It was a fair morning when we passed, and through the cloudless sky, the men could see the Union Jack waving in the distance, hoisted high on a Gibraltarian flagpole that marked a British coastal gun battery and a friendly port. Docking there was extremely tempting, but the threat of being shot by the Maroons that held us captive still loomed over all of our heads, and I, as acting captain, wished to keep my men safe. With audible groans of sorrow, we sailed straight past the friendly port, much to the relief of our captors and the despair of every Englishman on board.

As the British port faded into the distance and the open water of the Mediterranean lay ahead of us, the men busied themselves with their tasks to stave their grief and forget that they were the slaves of slaves. I was content to stand by the Peregrine’s bow and feel the spray of the ocean wash over my face. Every little moment of relaxation was precious, especially when we knew that our lives could be taken from us at any moment. Eirene, who was no doubt still upset at my obstinance to complete this mission for Burned Beck, had retreated to her quarters below deck. Andrei was acting like nothing had happened at all and was content to prepare meals as usual. Sergeant MacRae had decided to do the logical thing and refresh his men’s knowledge on the use of pikes, conducting drills on deck while under the watchful eyes of our captors, while the rest of the Peregrine’s officers milled around checking on the men, each escorted by a Maroon with a musket to make sure that no secret plots were afoot.

Aidar, one of the few of us who had no official task on the ship, walked up to join me at the bow. He carried with him an unmistakable air of uneasiness.

“What troubles you, friend Aidar?” I offered.

“You know that these waters are patrolled by my brother Muslims. Do you not fear that I will turn on you in the middle of battle?”

“Do you feel the desire to?”

“Battle has not yet begun. I do not know the odds.”

“And what if the ship we find is not under the flag of your people?”

“Well, if it is loaded with infidels such as yourself,” he chuckled, “then may Allah have mercy on them, for I shall not.”

“Hm, yes, that is very troubling. Why are you being so open about this?”

“It is not my custom to lie, Rodion Ivanovich. If I betray, I betray openly, and if I die because I have done so, I die knowing that I do not carry the burden of a Tatar.”

“What?” I said with genuine confusion.

“You Russians always accuse my people of being rogues, bandits, and con men. I come to you with naked honesty, and in doing so, I hope to be remembered as an ‘honest Tatar.’ I do not want anything weighing down on my conscience before I die. You may throw me in the brig now as a precaution, if you wish, but you know how it is down there, so I doubt you will have the heart to put me through that again.”

“You are right – and by saying that you took no small risk. What balls you have!” I laughed, “But you are right – we have not yet sighted a ship worthy of taking. Perhaps it will be…”

“Ship ahoy!” called the lookout, “Polacre off the larboard bow! She’s flying French colors!”

“Well,” Aidar chuckled, “Alhamdulillah, my friend. It seems I shall not betray you today.”

“Master Ferguson!” I yelled at the quarterdeck, “Is your nation at war with the French?”

“Well, no!” Ferguson shouted back. “We have had four years of peace, miracle of miracles!”

“We shall keep it that way… for now. Someone fetch Sergeant MacRae!”

Since we set sail, I had been cooking up schemes in my head on how to best deal with a prize once we had the opportunity. Now God had placed this unsuspecting French polacre in our lap, and it was up to me to take it. The French were about to have a tragic accident.

Sergeant MacRae walked up to me with a dragging gait and gave a half-hearted salute. I could tell that he was not happy to be on this voyage in the least bit.

“Aye sir, what be yer orders?”

“I must first tell you a story so you will not cry bloody mutiny for what I am about to order you to do. A few years ago, when I still roamed free on the grass sea that is the Crimea,” I said as MacRae let out a long groan, “my brothers and I used to lay this trap for unsuspecting Poles or curious Tatars. We would remove the wheel from an old cart and place it on the road. We would then implore the aid of any passerby with fat pockets. Even if they said no, the very act of being distracted by the sight of the three-wheeled cart would be enough to swipe a coin purse from their saddle bag – and if the poor fool actually did dismount and lend a hand, we would throw ourselves upon him from the bushes and take all he had.”

“So you want to cripple the Peregrine, sir?”

I gave him a wink and said, “Have a lad tear off the main yard, sergeant, then signal yonder polacre for aid.”

With another loud groan and a shake of his head, MacRae turned about and screamed up at the lookout to “fuck up the main yard” and let it fall to deck. Confused, the sailor repeated the instructions to confirm, to which MacRae replied, “Aye, ye deaf git! Fuck up the main yard!”

The poor sailor was joined by the entire crew in their sense of general bewilderment as he produced his knife and began to hack away at the lines that held the yard together.

Only I watched with a smug smile of satisfaction as the long wooden beam snapped loose from its fastenings and plunged downwards, wrecking our mainsail and destroying many of the Peregrine’s lines and shrouds as it crashed into some barrels on the main deck.

All eyes were on me, and I would not doubt that many had thought that I had deliberately sabotaged our ship. The Maroons too, seemed very suspicious, staring at me and fiddling with their firelocks.

Looking up at the fruit of my scheme, I truly managed to render the Peregrine a pitiful sight. Here lay a ship with a missing mainsail and a broken yard, her hull still covered with arrows from our previous action – a truly wretched sight. She was perfect.

“Well comrades,” I said with a chuckle, “that French ship is our only hope of escape. I suggest we hail it for aid!”

All at once, the crew rushed to the bow of the ship and started screaming at the polacre in the distance, leaping up and down to get its attention, while our signalmen raised a distress signal up on the lines that could still hold flags.

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

In the distance, the French ship made a clear shift in course, tacking towards the Peregrine – they had taken the bait.

Up on the quarterdeck, the cabin doors swung open, and out came Eirene with sword in hand, ready for battle. She first took a glance at the fallen yard and then immediately cast an accusing gaze at me. I gave a friendly nod and wave in return.

“What have you done?!”

“Eirene, my sweet! Come down here so we may discuss our current situation!”

She was already storming down the quarterdeck steps as I spoke, stepping over fallen lines while never averting her shocked and confused stare from me.

“We are dead in the water!” she yelled.

“I know, and I am the grand architect of our misfortune!”

“What the hell were you thinking!”

“I was thinking that, when circumstances permit, I never reveal my battle plans until the very last moment, to avoid them being sabotaged by my subordinates.”

“Like you sabotaged our ship?” she scoffed, throwing her hands in the air. “Brilliant!”

“Eirene, this is all part of a very simple plan of mine, in which you have an important part to play.”

After explaining all of the details to her the same way I explained them to MacRae, her mood changed from frustrated to understanding, and then to impressed.

“Very good,” she nodded. “I shall fetch Andrei and assemble the marines.”

The plan was simplicity itself. Eirene and her marines would be waiting down in the hold below. Once the French had boarded and were busying themselves with repairs, I would give the signal – five quick stomps of my feet – and the marines, armed with their pikes, would swarm the deck and force the enemy’s surrender. In my mind, there was nothing that could go wrong.

With bated breath, I watched as the polacre neared us. It was a beautiful vessel – half European and half oriental in its design, with a large lateen rigged sail on its foremast and square-rigged sails like our own on its main and mizzen masts.

“I am glad you are in need of my services once again, monsieur,” said Andrei as he approached from behind me, “but you should know that I was in the middle of supervising the preparation of tonight’s meal. Without my oversight, our cook may simply throw all care to the devil and boil the fine cuts of meat we acquired on our last resupply like he…”

“Andrei?” I interrupted softly, my gaze lingering on the figure of the approaching polacre. “Fetch an officer’s uniform from Lieutenant Riley. He’s about your size is he not?”

“I… beg your pardon, monsieur?”

“Fetch a spare uniform from him or put on his blue jacket. You will try to pass as the acting captain.”

“But why? You are much more suited to this task than I am!”

“There are two reasons, Andrei. Least of all because I am wearing a scarlet coat, and naval captains always wear blue. This is known to them; second and more importantly, you have heard me speak, and I sound nothing like an Englishman. The moment the first English words escape my mouth, the French will suspect something. You on the other hand…”

“I see,” he said, hanging his head as he turned around to find Lieutenant Riley.

So far, everything was going to plan. After a brief moment of protest from the lieutenant, Andrei returned wearing his blue jacket that Lieutenant Riley had surrendered with great reluctance. The rest of Andrei’s appearance was only slightly out of place – he had kitchen grease stains all over his trousers and he smelled like he had come from a butcher shop, but it would have to do.

The polacre neared us and requested permission to approach and come aboard, which Andrei naturally granted. The marines were below and the deckhands stood scattered around the deck. The Maroons, whom none of us could communicate with, seemed to know well enough that I was preparing a trap, and tucked away their firelocks in turn.

“A fine day to you, English!” came a cry from the polacre. The French captain waved at us, and Andrei repeated the gesture with a nervous grin.

“Ah… hello! My friend!” Andrei shouted back in French, “Our yard has fallen and we require some assistance! Would you be so kind as to do the Christian thing and render aid unto us?”

“But of course!” came the reply, “You should be glad we are not at war – I would have sent you down to the great bouillon some years ago!”

With a nervous laugh, Andrei ordered the gangway to be set up, and I rubbed my hands in excitement as the Frenchmen came on board.

Everything was going smoothly. Andrei was engaging the other captain in light banter, albeit with a noticeable stutter, which the Frenchman possibly thought to be verbal tic. The French sailors, meanwhile, were gathering up cordage from their own ship to repair our rigging, and were even bringing over a spare sheet of canvas for our sail. All the busywork had them distracted well enough, and I was about to give the signal for the marines to storm the deck when suddenly, I saw a hint of smoke rising from the focsle. Aidar reacted quicker than I did.

“Fire! Fire down below!”

The deck hatch burst open and our marines began spilling onto the deck, no doubt believing that fighting was already underway. Eirene was close behind with her sword in hand, screaming like the devil. The confused and frightened French sailors drew whatever weapons they had ready and engaged the Englishmen nearest to them. Their captain swung his saber at Andrei, who leapt away just in time to scurry back down into the hold, screaming that the cook was burning the sausages as he raced towards the fore hatch.

The Maroons were quick to join in on the fighting, turning their firelocks on the French sailors who had little more than knives or repair tools in their hands.

In the chaos, several Frenchmen ran back across the gangway to board their polacre. I would not let them sink us after having coming this far. With a platoon of like-minded marines, we attempted to chase after them, but the gallant French captain stood in our way with his pistol in one hand and his sword in another. I held my marines back – the gangway was only wide enough for men to cross one at a time.

“I should have known you were pirates!” he said to me in English. “No honest Englishman would allow blackamoors to take arms on board their ship! I will take one of your lives before I die!” He turned his weapon to full cock and pointed it squarely at my face.

Before I could reach for my own pistol, I heard a loud whoosh of air from behind me. A boarding pike flew into the French captain’s shoulder! He recoiled backwards in pain and plunged into the ocean below.

“I never could stand the French,” said MacRae from behind me, without a weapon in his hand. “Ye owe me one now, sir.”

I tipped my hat to him in thanks, but before we could advance through the gangway, a loud crack of a musket shot rang out from the enemy’s fighting top. MacRae fell to the deck, clutching his chest. His marines immediately rushed to his aid.

“Get away from him!” I yelled. “You are giving the enemy an easier target clumped up like that! Rush the enemy vessel! I shall handle the scoundrel on the fighting top!”

As the only one with a firelock present, it was up to me to return fire and avenge MacRae. The Maroons were engaged elsewhere, oblivious to what was happening on the gangway.

The marines heeded my orders and rushed the enemy with their polearms, covering me from incoming French sailors. I rested my pistol on my forearm and steadied my hand at the bastard who shot my sergeant. He was nothing but a young lad, fumbling with his musket as he tried to reload it as fast as he could. In his haste, he dropped his ramrod, making another shot impossible. He looked like he was about to cry, and locked eyes with me. He did not say anything, but his countenance cried out for mercy. I gave him none.

I pulled the trigger, and in a spark of flame and puff of smoke, the boy fell from the fighting top and onto the deck of the enemy ship, cracking his skull on its surface.

Just as he hit the ground, I heard cries of “mercy” spontaneously erupt from all around me in French. Hands went up, and weapons were tossed onto the deck or into the sea. The marines and sailors of the Peregrine exploded with great cheers – victory was ours at last, and our return home was ever closer.

However, with that victory came a price. Sergeant MacRae lay sprawled out on behind me. His chest was bare, his jacket and blouse ripped open – I had seen this before. Men shot by muskets would tear off their clothes to abate the heat or extract the shot themselves. It never worked. There was nothing we could do for him now.

Even as the marines cheered around me, some rushed to my side to render aid. I raised my hand and shook my head, and they too knew, that their leader had left this world.

I knelt over him, crossed him in the manner of my faith, and said,

“Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on your servant…” I stopped. I did not even remember his first name.

“John, sir,” said Private Debenham, leaning over my shoulder. “His name was John.”

“… your servant John…” I continued. “May his soul be cleansed of all his sins and be lifted up to heaven, where he will no longer suffer the pains of this world but live in Your glory, forever and ever, Amen.”

The marines around me put their hats on their chests in reverence, and I kept by his side, wondering if I could ever call these men my brothers if I barely knew them.