The Muhalif’s bow sheared through the waves towards the Baron’s Reply, spraying white foam into Aidar Pasha’s face. The little polacre headed straight for the man of war’s starboard side. Six of the Baron’s thirty-two starboard gun ports opened up to roll out their guns. The vessel did not have enough hands to man a full broadside.
“All hands!” Aidar yelled, taking hold of a yard, “Brace for impact!”
The Muhalif slammed into the Baron, violently rocking her just as the Baron’s gunners gave fire. The guns shot high, ripping through the polacre’s rigging, sending cannonballs sailing over the heads of the Muhalif’s terrified crew.
On the Baron’s Reply, marksmen fell from their fighting tops into the sea as the ship shook from the force of the impact, while sailors and marines were thrown off their feet and tossed to the larboard side. The polacre’s blow had failed to breach the Baron’s hull, but Aidar would not pass up this chance to board her.
Aidar Pasha, who himself had fallen during the violence of the ramming, found his feet and cried to his men in French, “Alors! Alors, you men of France, and feed your steel to the English as you would pigswill to swine!”
With boisterous shouts and taunts to death itself, the Muhalif’s sailors drew their weapons and charged across the deck to board the Baron’s Reply. They carried every implement that could do harm to a man. With candlesticks, fishing pikes, table legs, and belaying pins, they stabbed and bludgeoned their British foes alongside bayonets and cutlasses.
In sharp contrast to his men that threw themselves at the enemy with nearly suicidal abandon, Aidar Pasha ran up the Muhalif’s bowsprit, agile as a cat, and sprung into the air to break his fall on an unsuspecting redcoat. His mace swung with quick, deliberate movements, cracking skulls and breaking ribs and wrists.
Lord Garlington watched the bedlam from atop the quarterdeck with wide eyes and quivering lips. Beside him were his cadre of officers, who had narrowly escaped death at the hands of slaves – now they feared they would be killed by a group of ragged Frenchmen that seemed to have come from nowhere.
“Your Grace, we have not enough men!” yelled Pauli, Garlington’s captain of marines. “We must surrender!”
Garlington regarded this foreigner in a red coat as a mere hireling, and snapped back at him with some disdain, “To what end, Captain Pauli? So the frogs can hang us by our entrails? I think not!” Garlington had to duck as a throwing knife sailed past his head. “By Christ man, they’re aiming at us! Think of something!”
“I have an idea, Your Grace! Everyone, follow me! We shall retire to the ship’s magazine below!”
Like a panicked flock of chickens, the officers fled to the safety of the lower decks under withering musket fire. Some threw off their hats – their most obvious indicators of rank – and others picked up muskets from the fallen. Down into the belly of the ship they went, where the noise of the battle that raged outside was muffled by the thick oak timbers that shut out the sunlight.
The Baron’s Reply came equipped with a saferoom in the gun deck by the magazine, to be used in cases of extreme danger, such as if the vessel were to be overrun by pirates. Its thick oaken wall had gun ports for muskets, and the room was regarded as the single safest place on board the ship.
Once Pauli had secured every man inside the magazine, they began rolling casks of gunpowder into the small, dark saferoom with them. Once they had filled it with as many casks of powder as they could, Pauli shut the door tight and ordered the officers to aim their muskets through the gun ports on the wall. Across from them, beyond the confines of the saferoom, lay a dozen yards of dimly lit empty space that they had made from clearing the casks. The stairway was the only way out. Any man that crossed the threshold would be caught in the sights of half a dozen muskets.
“And what are we to do down here?” hissed Garlington, “Give them the satisfaction of letting us starve to death?”
“No, Your Grace,” replied Pauli. “When they send a man to check the magazine, we shall inform them that they must leave us in peace,” he glanced at the several hundred pounds of powder and ordnance barrels behind him, “Or we shall send them to blazes ourselves.”
“Ah,” Garlington said, sweat trickling down his forehead. “A daring gambit, by God. But it is the only card we may play, given our present circumstances. You did well, captain. And now, we shall wait.”
Pauli turned his eyes upward and contemplated the screaming of his men and the sounds of a losing battle.
“Indeed, all we can do is wait.”
Abovedeck, a French sailor cut the tattered Union Jack loose from the mainmast. The bloodied but victorious crew of the Muhalif cheered as the Baron’s colors fell onto the deck.
Raising his sword, the man atop the mast cried out, “Pacha! Nous sommes victorieux!”
Aidar Pasha, in a show of humility, took a very low bow and said in French, “This victory is wholly yours, my brothers. I was only here to witness your bravery.”
In years to come, it would become a custom for every Frenchman to call their captains “pacha” as a sign of respect. But at that moment, only the crew of the Muhalif could praise their captain with the name. There were no “sirs” on this ship, no one uttered “mon capitaine.” They all acted in agreement as free men, and only in battle was Aidar Pasha their leader.
The Tatar gazed across the waters and saw a multitude of small sails cresting the horizon. Burned Beck and the Vengeance, along with her flotilla of pirogues had held off until last possible moment as reserves. Aidar thought to himself that they had come much too late, for it was plain to him that the battle was over. Now was the time to abscond with what booty they could.
“Pick the vessel clean, lads,” he said as he reached down and grabbed a musket from a dead British sailor. “We’ll want to take all the spoils we can before the Pirate Queen gets here and decides she wants everything for herself.”
The crew understood immediately. Every man that was at rest shot up like a bolt. Those standing next to barrels and casks rolled them down the deck towards the Muhalif. A few men began running back over to the polacre to orient it correctly and set up gangplanks. British prisoners were searched for weapons, ammunition, coins, food, and personal items like wedding rings. They were even stripped of their boots and hats. One of the Muhalif’s sailors was busying himself ripping brass buttons out of British jackets. Another had found some pliers and was trying to rip a gold tooth out of a sailor while arguing with the man that was holding him down about how to split the money.
Aidar thought to himself that there was a comedic beauty in such chaos, and chuckled as he headed down into the Baron’s belly. Even down here, the men scrambled to loot the place. Men carrying tables, bookshelves, and sea chests excused themselves as they brushed by Aidar in the narrow corridors of the ship’s lower deck. While the Muhalif’s men ravaged the galley and the crew quarters, Aidar went to scavenge what he could from the magazine.
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The further down he went, the scarcer his crew seemed to become. When he had finally reached the stairwell leading into the magazine, he found himself alone. It made sense – one would rather take items of luxury from the captain’s cabin than weapons and explosives from the magazine, of which the Muhalif already had plenty.
With slow, leisurely steps, Aidar made his way down the stairs into the magazine. It was dark there. Only the tiniest beams of sunlight made their way from the world above. Aidar sighed. Before him lay a seemingly empty room, with a door on the far end.
As he put one foot into the dim light, he heard the distinctive “click” of a musket going to full cock.
“Hear this, pirate,” said a rather pompous voice from the darkness, “I am Lord Chester Garlington, First Baron Garlington, the shipowner of this vessel that you have so viciously overcome. I congratulate you on your victory, sir, but I must ask that you leave in peace and spare us our lives. This is not a plea for mercy, but a warning.”
Aidar winced and saw the glint of several muskets through holes in the walls of the magazine’s saferoom. He was outnumbered at least six to one, and now had no choice but to listen.
“How do you mean this is a warning?” he asked, as he looked around the room for any other way to get behind the saferoom door.
“There is nothing behind this door but the lives of the ship’s officers and enough powder to send both our ships down to Davy Jones. You have an hour to depart or I shall set a match to the casks behind me and make this disaster a reality. If you attempt to cut your way into this room, I will hear it and give the order to light charges, and if you send men down here to take us by force, I shall give the order to light charges. I expect you to inform your captain of these new circumstances directly.”
“I just so happen to be the captain…”
A loud bang erupted from one of the portholes as a musket ball flew past Aidar, making him jump, and embedded itself in the wood behind him.
“Damn you, Pauli!” whispered Garlington.
“That’s for taking our ship, you heathen bastard!” said a second, rougher voice.
“I apologize for the behavior of my captain of marines, but I hope you understand the reason for his hostility.”
“Of course,” Aidar said with a fake grin.
“Now then – I want you to take your ship and cast off. Pass by the stern of my vessel once you leave so I may know that you have kept your word. We shall be watching you from the portholes. I have said all I need to say. Begone with you, and depart from my vessel with all haste.”
Without another word, Aidar made his way back up the steps towards the main deck, his brow furrowed in frustration. The men of the Muhalif had not yet begun to pack away the most valuable items, but Aidar thought to himself that no Christian lord would kill himself just because a given time had expired. It was then he decided to call Garlington’s bluff – he would only leave when his crew had taken everything they could.
On his way upwards, he grabbed the first French sailor he saw and told him in a hushed voice,
“This is the entrance to the magazine. The powder down there is volatile, and I do not want a single soul descending down those steps. Do you understand?”
“Oui, pacha.”
“Good man. See to it then.”
It was at that moment that Rodion Kazansky ascended onto the deck of the Baron’s Reply, drenched in sweat. He had taken as many of his men as he could on a jolly boat, and the small crew had rowed like madmen to get to Garlington’s flagship. As he saw the Muhalif’s men engage in their frantic looting, his blood boiled with rage at the thought of stolen vengeance.
Sitting on a barrel nearby, a French sailor was counting the buttons he had taken from all the British dead. He did not expect Rodion to strike him with an open palm, and fell face flat on the deck, spilling his precious buttons everywhere.
“Garlington was mine, damn you to hell!” he screamed in Russian. The sailor understood nothing and merely looked up at him, dazed and confused. “I would have ripped his eyes from his skull, so he could know what darkness he had brought me!” tears began to form around the Cossack’s eyes, and his speech became slurred with sadness.
“Eirene would have been my wife!” Rodion shouted, his chest heaving. “And that slave raping Garlington denied me this greatest joy!”
He lunged forward to strike the sailor again, but Aidar emerged from the lower decks just in time to hold him back.
“Friend Rodion,” he said cheerfully, “What are you doing here?”
“You denied me my rightful vengeance, you Mohammedan fuck!”
Aidar frowned, confused for a moment. “What do you mean?”
Between clenched teeth, Rodion hissed, “She’s dead, Aidar.”
Aidar’s eyes grew wide with realization, and gave Rodion a tight embrace.
“I have no words that will quench the fire of your agony, but know that I suffer with you.”
Rodion hugged him back and, through his tears, let out a loud, sorrowful roar. When he had finished, he pat Aidar on the shoulder and said, “Well… at least Garlington is dead now. May Eirene’s spirit rest in heaven while his spirit languishes in hell.”
Aidar pursed his lips and winced, “Well… I believe I should speak to you in private. Follow me.”
The two friends stepped away into Garlington’s cabin, and Aidar locked the door behind them. Taking a deep breath, Aidar let the words seep through his teeth,
“Garlington is not dead.”
Rodion’s eyes grew wild, and he inched closer to Aidar that almost made the Tatar fear for his life. “What do you mean he’s not dead?”
“He is here, as in, on this vessel. In fact, he should be directly below us.”
“You spared him?!” Rodion said with a raised voice.
“Oh hardly,” Aidar scoffed. “Your man is just as much our hostage as we are his.” He noticed Rodion ball his hands into fists. “Before you stop telling me to speak in riddles while beating me senseless, I should tell you that he claims to be sitting on a large stockpile of gunpowder. Unless we leave, he will blow us all to hell.”
“Have you told the crew?”
“Allah korusun, of course not. They are already in a panic as it is, trying to loot this ship before the Vengeance gets here. If I told them that we had a mad Englishman sitting on a powder keg below deck, they would drop everything and simply flee. Think of all the loot we would lose!”
Rodion ran his hands over his face. “I have half a mind to go down there myself and make him blow us all to bits.”
“Yes, but you would not be able to live with yourself if you sent your friend the Tatar to his death, swallowed by the fireball of your vengeance, no?”
“No. Still, the bastard must die. What does he want?”
“Nothing,” Aidar shrugged. “He simply wants us to leave him in peace and pass the Muhalif by the stern of the vessel to let him know we have left safely.”
“You will do no such thing,” Rodion growled. “That man is responsible for the suffering of countless people and Eirene’s death. He deserves justice for his actions.”
“And I am quite sure Allah subhanahu wa ta'ala will enact his holy vengeance on him, but I am content to escape this vessel with my treasure and my life.”
Before Rodion could react, the conversation was interrupted by three loud raps on the cabin door.
“Pacha! The Vengeance is here! She is very close! What are our orders?”
“Make ready to cast off, sailor,” said Aidar as he turned to unlock the cabin. “We are leaving!”
Rodion shook his head in disbelief, “You can’t just let him go!”
“Rodion Ivanovich, if you were in my position, would you put the lives of your men above your own petty schemes of vengeance, or would you have them all be blown to hell just to kill one man?”
The truth in Aidar’s words made Rodion’s brow furrow. What good would come from Garlington’s death, he thought, when all the slaves were freed and his enterprise was in ruins? Was that not what Captain Glass and Burned Beck had wanted from the beginning? Would he be more of a man if he simply let this defeated enemy of his live?
Aidar did not wait for Rodion to respond. He was already grabbing various knick-knacks from Garlington’s cabin and stowing them away in a satchel.
“I fear that we may never meet again, Cossack,” he said as he grabbed a gold pocket watch off a low shelf. “I will take this ship and crew with me and sail on to my destiny, where I shall not permit you to follow. I feel that it would be thoughtless of me to leave without telling you that I enjoyed our time together.” Aidar was in such a rush that he did not even look his friend in the eye as he bolted out the cabin door with his loot. “May Allah bless you and keep you!” was the last thing Aidar said before slamming the door behind him.
Rodion could now be alone with his thoughts. All this time he had pursued vengeance of some kind or another, and now more than ever, its fulfillment seemed useless and wasteful. He had harbored so much hatred for the Tatars since he was a child, and now he counted one of them among his friends. Now this British noble who was unquestionably evil and deserving of the harshest of punishments had clearly been defeated, and all seemed to be well. He asked himself again, what would the man’s death add to anything? Was Burned Beck in the wrong as well? Eirene’s dying words echoed back to him. She said that only the brave knew how to forgive. So, he would try to be brave.