A Sacrifice of Pawns E-Book

Malcolm Archibald

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Caribbean, 1762. With the French in Canada defeated, the focus of Sergeant Hugh MacKim's war shifts to the West Indies.

Still with Kennedy's Rangers, a French privateer captures his ship off the Bahamas, and the French captain murders the crew. From that point on, MacKim and the Rangers fight their way through the campaign, with battles on Martinico and Cuba only the backdrop to their personal war with Captain Rene Roberval of Douce Vengeance.

In the third book of the Warrior's Path trilogy, MacKim faces hurricanes and meets slaves while hoping to survive and return to the arms of Claudia, his French-Canadian sweetheart. But life does not always go according to plan.

This book contains graphic violence and is not suitable for readers under the age of 18.

Leseprobe

A SACRIFICE OF PAWNS

Warrior's Path Book 3

MALCOLM ARCHIBALD

CONTENTS

Prelude

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Thematic Note

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About the Author

Notes

Copyright (C) 2021 Malcolm Archibald

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2021 by Next Chapter

Published 2021 by Next Chapter

Edited by Chelsey Heller

Cover art by CoverMint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author’s permission.

For Cathy

PRELUDE

THE ISLAND OF MARTINICO, CARIBBEAN SEA

June 1761

With her flag of truce limp under the brassy sun, HMS Temple sat off Fort St Pierre, Martinico. As the heat bubbled the pitch between the pristine planking, Temple’s crew stood on deck, studying the fort with its batteries of cannon and white-uniformed garrison. It was seldom that a British ship came so close to a French stronghold without firing, and the officers and men of Temple resolved to record every last detail of the enemy fort.

It was June 1761, and the war between His Britannic Majesty, King George III of Great Britain and Ireland, and King Louis XV, Louis le Bien-Aimé, the Beloved of France, had dragged on since 1754. What had started as a minor Colonial dispute in the backwoods of North America had spread across the globe to Europe, the East Indies, and the Caribbean.

“There’s the captain going ashore,” said Foretopman Harry Squire, tipping back his straw hat as the captain’s barge eased from the stern. Captain O’Brien sat erect in the stern beside a smart young midshipman.

“I don’t trust these Frenchies!” Daniel Tait was a native Jamaican, a free black man who had joined Temple when the warship berthed at Kingston earlier that year. “They are too friendly with the Spanish for me.” He shook his head. “I hope the captain is safe.”

Squire nodded at the ranked cannon on Temple’s main deck, with the gun crews standing ready. “The captain is under a flag of truce to negotiate an exchange of prisoners. Not even the Frenchies will break a truce.”

“I don’t trust the Frenchies,” Tait repeated.

“La Touché, the governor of Martinico, is a gentleman,” Squire insisted. “He’ll keep his word.”

Both men wore the ubiquitous clothes of the British seaman, the white cotton shirt with horizontal coloured stripes—red in Squire’s case, blue in Tait’s—a dark blue neckerchief, and white canvas trousers. While Tait wore low shoes—“purser’s crabs”—Squire was barefoot, and both had seamen’s knives attached to their belts.

“Ship ahoy!”

The hail came from aloft, where a lookout was permanently on watch.

“Where away?” the lieutenant of the watch bellowed.

“Just breaking the horizon to the west, sir!” the lookout replied. “Two vessels! One is Bienfaisant, and I don’t know the other!”

Grabbing the telescope from its bracket on the mizzenmast, the lieutenant scrambled up the ratlines to join the lookout. Perched eighty dizzying feet above the deck, he extended the telescope and focussed on the distant sails.

“That’s Bienfaisant, right enough,” the lieutenant said. “I think she’s captured a French prize, the lucky bugger!”

“Is that lucky?” Tait was not yet fully cognisant of the ways of the Royal Navy.

“Yes, Taity,” Squire said. “If you capture a ship, it can be sold, and the captain and crew get a share of the profit after the admiral takes his whack.”

“Lucky bugger,” Tait agreed.

They watched as HMS Bienfaisant escorted in her prize, a wave-battered sloop with patched sails and a deck packed with artillery. At her stern, the Union flag hung above the white-cross-on-blue ensign of France, a sure sign she was a prize of war.

“She’s a privateer or I’m a Dutchman, although she wears a merchantman’s flag,” Squire said. “She carries too many guns for an honest merchantman.”

Tait studied the captured vessel with calm eyes. “In Jamaica, we call the privateers freebooters,” he said. “Or pirates.”

“You won’t be far wrong, Taity.” Squire produced a wad of tobacco, bit off a chunk, and handed the rest to Tait. “Pirates and privateers are much the same in these waters.”

Both men knew that privateers were privately owned vessels with an official licence that empowered them to attack the enemy shipping. Fighting for profit more than patriotism, privateers often crossed the border into piracy, attacking even neutral vessels. Some had earned an unenviable reputation for violence and cruelty.

As Tait and Squire watched, an eager lieutenant on the prize ship ushered half a dozen prisoners onto a yawl. Grinning Royal Navy seamen shoved them into the centre of the boat and manned the oars. Within a minute, the yawl was powering towards Temple, with the prisoners scowling at the British warship.

“Here come the first of the Frenchies,” Squire said.

“All hands!” the first lieutenant of Temple roared, and Squire and Tait joined the others in mustering on the main deck. In response to bellowed orders, a file of Marines waited to escort the prisoners below decks until they could be exchanged for British seamen held by the French.

Squire nodded at one of the Frenchmen, a tall, handsome man in an ornate coat. “A golden guinea to an Irish sixpence that’s the captain.”

Tait looked and stepped back. “That’s a bad man,” he said, shaking his head.

“He looks very debonair in his fancy coat,” Squire said, still chewing on his tobacco.

“The devil is in that man,” Tait said.

As the French boarded Temple, the tall Frenchman stopped at the entry port with its elaborate carvings of Neptune. He looked across at his sloop, now a sad sight, and at the flag of truce drooping from Temple’s stern.

“Flag of truce!” he shouted the words in high passion, and although he spoke in broken English, Squire understood the meaning.

“The British took me in a flag of truce!” He drew a small knife from his belt and, with a dramatic gesture, he carved a cross in his forehead.

“What the devil?” Squire made to step forward until the second lieutenant ordered him back to his place.

The French captain stood still, ignoring the shouts and pointing bayonets of the scarlet-coated Marines. Blood from his cut seeped down his nose to drip onto the deck.

“You took me under a flag of truce!” the Frenchman shouted. “You broke the rules of war. For that, I will wage raw war on you and your ships. There will be no quarter!” He raised his voice to a near scream. “No quarter!”

When the Marines ushered him forward, the Frenchman replaced his knife, bowed to the first lieutenant, and followed his men.

“Who was that?” Squire asked.

“Captain René Roberval,” one of the escorting seamen replied.

The name seemed to strike a chill across Temple’s main deck, and not only Tait stepped back in nearly superstitious awe.1

1

ST LAWRENCE RIVER, CANADA

November 1761

“We’re iced in!” Lundey, the mate, swore. “We should have left Quebec a week ago. Now the ice will hold us until the spring thaw.”

Captain Stringer looked forward, where the St Lawrence River eased away into the cold distance. “Get the hands forward with poles,” he ordered, “and use these damned Rangers as well. It’s time they earned their keep.”

“Come on, men!” Lieutenant Kennedy hurried forward, with Sergeant Hugh MacKim and the other Rangers only a few steps behind.

The Boston-registered brig, Martha, had left Quebec only the previous day, hoping to reach the open sea before the river completely froze over. Now, as the ice closed in, Lundey was not alone in believing they had lingered too long in the British-garrisoned city.

“Can we break through?” Private Dickert asked as he viewed the barrier of ice that stretched from bank to bank of the river.

“We’ll give it a bloody good try,” Lundey replied.

“Smash the ice with the poles, you men!” Stringer ordered. “It’s not too thick yet.”

As Dickert lifted his pole, Private Duncan MacRae joined him in the bow of the ship. Both hammered the ends of their staffs onto the ice. A few chips flew upward, and then a tiny crack appeared a foot from Martha’s bow.

“Break, you bastard!” Dickert said, lifting his pole above his head and smashing the end down on the crack.

“We’re winning!” MacRae said as the crack widened and water bubbled through to the surface of the ice.

“Less talk! More sweat!” Lundey shouted. “Get working, you men!”

Martha inched forward, with her weight, the current, and a fortuitous wind combining to ease her slowly downstream.

“We are winning,” Private Parnell agreed. “We’re moving one tree at a time.” He indicated the thick forest on the bank, where rank after rank of trees marched into the limitless interior. “Another six months, and we’ll nearly be halfway to the sea.”

“We’re making poor progress,” Captain Stringer said. “Can’t you work harder, Rangers? The frost is early this year.”

Lieutenant Kennedy nodded. “We’ll do what we can.” He changed the men in the bow, giving them half-hour shifts at ice-breaking to ensure nobody was overtired.

“At this rate,” Private Oxford fretted, “we’ll never join with the fleet at New York.” He looked around at the snow-covered forests. “We might walk there quicker, sir.”

“It’s hundreds of miles of bad territory.” Kennedy looked over his Rangers, the twenty-five green-clad forest fighters, mostly veterans of the campaigns around Quebec. Only two of them, Privates Oxford and Danskin, were untried replacements.

MacKim read Kennedy’s thoughts. “You two,” he indicated the new men. “Go forward and help smash the ice.”

“Sergeant?” Oxford looked up with a quizzical expression on his face.

“Go and help smash the ice!”

While Danskin hurried forward, Oxford hesitated before moving. MacKim frowned; there was no room for shirkers in Kennedy’s Rangers.

“Keep at it, Danskin,” MacKim called. “Think how proud your sweetheart will be when you relate your adventures.”

Danskin gave a weak smile as he leaned forward with his pole.

“We’ll have to watch Oxford, sir,” MacKim warned Kennedy as Oxford poked reluctantly at the ice.

“I’ll keep my eye on him,” Kennedy promised.

MacKim glanced upwards, where the white-tinged sky threatened further snow. “Come on, Oxford, or we’ll be stuck on this blasted river until the thaw.”

Parnell spat into the wind. “If we are, sergeant, we’ll avoid the fighting.”

“Aye, and we don’t want that, do we?” MacKim said. “We can’t let others think we’re scared.”

“They can think what they like,” Parnell retorted. “We’ll be alive, and they’ll be dead.”

“Here!” MacKim tossed over a long pole. “Save your energy for the ice!” He lifted one for himself. “Watch me and learn.”

Leaning forward on the sharp prow of Martha, thrusting at the ice, MacKim soon found he was sweating, despite the sub-zero temperatures.

“We’re slowing down,” Kennedy said, half an hour later.

“Rock the ship!” Lundey ordered. “I sailed on the whaling ships. Run from side to side!” Within a few moments, he had all the Rangers and crew not otherwise occupied, racing from port to starboard and back. The motion cracked the ice around Martha, so she eased forward another few feet.

“This is the strangest voyage I’ve ever been on,” Dickert said as he ran across the ship. “Join the Army, and play children’s games.”

“It’s working,” MacKim pointed out. “We’re moving.”

“Do we have to rock the boat for the next thousand miles?”

“If we have to,” Kennedy replied. “King George needs us.”

Parnell grunted. “He should come here then. He can balance his crown on his arse and run around the boat all day long.”

“All we need is for the French to fire on us while we’re stuck here,” Dickert said.

“They’ve surrendered,” MacKim reminded. “Canada is ours now.”

“Until the Frenchies change their minds,” Parnell said cynically.

Martha continued downstream, sometimes sailing in nearly clear water and occasional spells of ice. On one occasion, when the ice proved particularly stubborn, the captain had the ship’s boat brought forward and dropped over the bows. The resulting shock cracked the ice sufficiently for Martha to ease through.

“Every delay is costing us time,” Kennedy fretted.

“We can’t help the climate, sir.” MacKim tried to be philosophical, although he thought of Claudette, left behind in Quebec.

“I’m well aware of that, sergeant!” Kennedy’s snapped retort proved his tension.

“Yes, sir.” MacKim retired to the rail, leaving Kennedy to his worrying. Canada closed on all sides, vast and winter-cloaked in white. MacKim felt inside his coat and pulled out the letter Claudette had placed there when he left Quebec. She had written in French, so MacKim automatically translated the words as he read.

“My dear Hugh,

I have enjoyed our companionship together these last few months, with all your strange Scottish ways and expressions. I sometimes hoped that our friendship might develop into something more. However, it seemed that you were satisfied only with what we have.

Notwithstanding our religious differences, with me a Roman Catholic and you aPresbyterian, and our emotional contradictions, I felt that we formed a bond. My son Hugo also enjoyed your company, and, Hugh, now you have left, I can say this insafety;Hugo often expressed a wish that you would stay, either as a friend or as somethingmore.

I know that I could never follow the drum, as the saying is, and I would neverpresume to persuade you to leave your military calling, so I allowed our friendship tocontinue without depth.

I wish it had been otherwise.

Now that you are leaving on another campaign, probably never to return to Canadaagain, I will say that you take a piece of my heart with you that can never bereplaced.

Take care of yourself, dear Hugh, and never forget your friend here in Quebec.

I am always your

Claudette.”

MacKim reread the letter, poring over every word before folding it neatly and returning it inside his coat. Why didn’t you say, you distant woman? Why did you hide your feelings from me?

Martha sailed down the St Lawrence, with every tree they passed taking MacKim further from Claudette and closer to the French and the war.

“The fleet’s sailed.”

The news travelled around Martha in seconds as men stared at the vast anchorage and the neat little city of New York.

“They’ve sailed without us.”

“That damned ice slowed us down!”

MacKim saw Kennedy’s mouth tighten as he heard the news.

Captain Stringer swore. “Damn the bloody Army,” he said. “I have a cargo to deliver to the fleet.” He raised his voice to a bellow. “Rangers! You’ll be with us a good bit longer.”

“I thought we were joining a transport in New York!” Oxford was not yet tested in battle, so he tried to prove his masculinity by tough talk and an eagerness for action.

“That was the idea, Oxford,” MacKim explained patiently. “But the fleet’s sailed without us.”

“So, what do we do now, sergeant?” Oxford asked.

“Now we follow the fleet and hope to catch them before we reach the Caribbean,” Captain Stringer joined in.

“Where about in the Caribbean?” Kennedy asked. “My orders said to join Admiral Rodney’s fleet at New York. I know nothing beyond that.”

Stringer gave a small smile. “The Army keeps you in ignorance. Well, Lieutenant Kennedy, the fleet has sailed for Barbados, and so must we.”

“Barbados? That’s far south.” Kennedy sounded worried. “The Rangers are forest soldiers. We fight wearing snowshoes.”

“Not anymore.” Stringer pointed south. “You’re headed for warmer climes, Lieutenant. There will be no need for snowshoes in the Caribbean.”

“I thought we had beat the French,” Dickert said disconsolately. “I thought we were going to New York to get disbanded and go home.”

“The French are not beat yet,” MacKim said. “We defeated them in Canada, but they’re still fighting in Europe, the Caribbean, and India.”

“India?” Danskin fastened on the word. “I’m not going to bloody India!”

“No, Danskin. We’re not going to India,” MacKim said. “The captain told us we’re headed to Barbados.”

“Why Barbados?” Oxford did not appear the most intelligent of men.

“To join the rest of the fleet,” MacKim explained as patiently as he could.

“Are we attacking Barbados then?” Oxford asked.

“No,” MacKim said. “We already own Barbados. We are probably using it as a rendezvous and base to attack one of the French-owned islands in the Caribbean.”

They spent two days bringing on fresh water and food in New York, with the Rangers sampling the pleasures of the city. MacKim reread the letter from Claudette, scribbled a brief reply, and prepared to send it. But before he ran ashore, he heard Stringer give the order to cast off.

“Ready aft?”

“Ready aft, Captain!”

“Ready forward?”

“Ready forward, Captain!”

“Let fall! Sheet home!”

Martha eased away from New York, and MacKim knew he had delayed too long. Pushing Claudette to the back of his mind, he concentrated on keeping the Rangers fit by regular drills, for sea voyages tended to make men slack.

Rather than sail direct for Barbados, Captain Stringer headed out to the Atlantic before beating south.

“I want a man aloft as a lookout at all times, Lundey,” Stringer said, “and change him every two hours.”

“Yes, Captain.” Lundey did not hide his confusion.

“The French privateers are deadly, even in winter,” Stringer explained. “They send out ships from Martinico all across the Caribbean and as far north as Nova Scotia. Bloody pirates!” He spat into the wind.

MacKim and Kennedy exchanged glances.

“Martinico?” Kennedy said. “That would be a logical target for the fleet. I think it’s the only sizeable French possession in the Windward Islands.”

“We’d better hope it’s a quick campaign,” MacKim said. The Caribbean islands had a terrible history for previous British military endeavours. As well as the actual fighting against the redoubtable French, the islands had a long-standing reputation for being riddled with disease. Yellow fever and malaria could reduce a regiment of eight-hundred men to a couple of hundred within a few months. To many soldiers, being posted to the West Indies was a death sentence without the possibility of military glory.

The Rangers’ morale slumped as they headed south, despite every mile bringing them closer to better weather, so it was a surprise when something disturbed MacKim’s sleep.

“Somebody is singing.” MacKim struggled out of his tiny cot. Martha was a small brig, not designed to carry passengers, and the Rangers crowded into anywhere they could. MacKim and Kennedy shared the tween decks with the carpenter, cook, and sailmaker.

MacKim looked around as the singing increased in volume. “Somebody is drunk.”

“It’s not one of our men,” Kennedy said. “Leave it to the captain.”

“I’ll look anyway.”

It had been a few years since MacKim crossed the Atlantic as a Johnny Raw with the 78th Highlanders. Looking back, it seemed incredible that he had ever been so naïve. Now, with three years of bitter war and three savage campaigns behind him, he was a seasoned veteran, carrying mental and physical scars. MacKim touched the bald patch on the top of his head, where an Abenaki had taken his scalp, grunted, and moved on.

Martha plunged and kicked as she fought her way down the Atlantic towards the Caribbean. MacKim had forgotten how lively a ship could be at sea and how the wind howled fiercely through the rigging. He emerged on deck, staggered as a gust of wind battered Martha to starboard, ignored the scornful laugh of the helmsman and listened for the singing.

A seaman emerged from below, grinning vacantly at MacKim and slurring something incomprehensible before he collapsed on the deck.

“Bloody idiot,” MacKim muttered and dragged the man to the fo’c’sle. He opened the door and pitched the drunkard into the stinking dark. “Here! Take care of this man before he falls overboard.”

Two of the crew looked at their shipmate. “He’s been tapping the spirits,” one said.

“Does the captain not keep it secure?” MacKim asked testily.

“It’s in the cargo hold,” the seaman said. “If you want a free drink, lobster, just stick a straw into one of the kegs and suck.” He gave a crooked smile.

“What’s the cargo?”

“Brandy, rum, and spruce beer for the Army.” The seaman laughed. “We’re carrying rum to the Caribbean, where they invented the damned stuff.”

MacKim shook his head. Even after years in uniform, the ways of the Army were strange to him. “I’ll leave this fellow with you,” he said.

“Join us, sergeant,” the seaman said. “We’ve always plenty rum in this ship.”

“Thank you,” MacKim said. “I must decline. I have to show a good example to my men.” He heard the crew singing as he returned to his bed, with the night wind keen on deck and Martha surging south with the wind now on their quarter—a soldier’s wind, as the crew called it.

Claudette. Her image filled MacKim’s mind as he lay still. Will you forget me when I am on the islands of the far south? He sighed. He was not lucky with women, and despite her letter, he had no reason to believe that Claudette would be any different.

He had met her, a French-Canadian native of Quebec, during the winter of 1759, when the British occupation of the city was raw. Their initial tentative friendship had deepened, yet never extended to romance. They were friends only.

So why am I thinking of you when I am alone?

Because you are something to hold onto, MacKim answered himself. You are a reality that there is sanity outside the madness of continual war. That’s the only reason. I don’t expect anything else, whatever you claim.

MacKim sighed. Danger, drink, and women were the three constants in a soldier’s life.

2

MacKim heard the quick patter of feet on deck, listened to the steady creak of Martha, and left the tween decks to check his men. They lay in various corners of the vessel, some silent, others grunting or snoring in their sleep. MacRae was talking in his native Gaelic, Parnell snoring like a bull, Oxford curled in a foetal ball, Danskin holding a letter to his sweetheart, but all present and correct.

MacKim nodded, satisfied that his men were safe. Only a few weeks ago, they had all been quartered in Quebec, secure in the knowledge that they had conquered Canada and hoping their war was over. After years of hard campaigning, MacKim’s parent regiment, the 78th Highlanders, had settled into the Canadian city, while Kennedy’s Rangers had engaged in routine patrolling and picket work.

MacKim smiled as he remembered these quiet days when he had spent many of his off-duty hours walking with Claudette.

“What are your intentions with that woman?” Kennedy had asked, half-joking, yet wholly serious.

MacKim had considered the implications before he replied. “I’m not sure I have any intentions.”

“In the eyes of the rest of the Rangers,” Kennedy said, “you two are already married with a brood of children.”

“I’m too young for a wedding,” MacKim said as the idea of married life slid into his mind. “And a soldier’s life is no life for a woman.”

“Harriette is happy enough,” Kennedy pointed out. Harriette was Private Chisholm’s wife, as tough and hardened a campaigner as any soldier in the British Army. MacKim had known her from his early days in the 78th Highlanders when she was married to Corporal Gunn, now dead. Chisholm, a much-scarred veteran, had befriended MacKim when he was a Johnny Raw.

“Harriette was born in the Army,” MacKim said. “She knows no other life.” He had looked over the ruins of Quebec, which the Army and Quebecers were gradually rebuilding after the British bombardment of two years previously. He liked the spirit of Quebec, although he found city life constraining.

“Claudette favours you,” Kennedy urged, smiling.

MacKim temporised. “Maybe after I leave the Army.”

“That won’t be long now. As soon as peace comes, the king will disband us all. Geordie doesn’t need Rangers in time of peace.”

Peace. The concept was alien. MacKim could not imagine a world at peace. He knew he could never return to scraping an existence at the whim of a landlord or a clan chief. After fighting with the 78th in the vastness of North America, and particularly after making his own decisions with the Rangers, MacKim would never bow down before imposed authority.

“Maybe then,” MacKim said. “It all depends on the Spaniards. If Spain remains neutral, we can force France to the negotiating table, although God knows they’ve little to negotiate. We’ve removed most of their colonial possessions from the chessboard.”

“They still hold Martinico, Louisiana, and part of Hispaniola,” Kennedy said. “Let’s hope Spain does not get involved. That would mean another couple of years of war until we can force her to submit.” He grunted. “On the other hand, if the Spanish do ally themselves to France, we can grab Florida.”

“I don’t want to grab anything,” MacKim said.

“Except Claudette?” Kennedy said, smiling.

“There are obstacles between us. Claudette is Roman Catholic, and I am Presbyterian.”

Kennedy looked away. “That is an obstacle.”

“Aye. I’m not giving away my life to the dictates of the Pope.”

“Maybe you could convert Claudette to the Reformed Church?” Kennedy asked.

“Claudette is staunch in her Catholicism,” MacKim said.

MacKim remembered that conversation as he lay in his uncomfortable cot. The religious obstacle seemed insurmountable, for MacKim’s mother had fed him tales of the horrors of the Roman Catholic Church. However, his family had fought for the Catholic Stuarts in the late Jacobite Risings in Scotland, which was always a paradox in MacKim’s mind. To him, man had debased the simple teachings of Christ by creating hierarchies of religion, with different factions preaching alternate varieties of the Gospel.

MacKim shook his head. Should people not have allowed the fundamental truth to shine through without confusing the issues for their own ends?

He heard a sudden shout on deck, sighed, and tried not to listen. MacKim had grown used to the crew’s nightly raids on the cargo and subsequent drunken return to the fo’c’sle. He ignored the shouts and yells and tried to get back to sleep, but the noise was different this night.

The distinct crack of a pistol brought MacKim to full wakefulness.

“What was that, sergeant?” Kennedy’s voice sounded through the gloom.

“It sounded like a gunshot,” MacKim said as he controlled his suddenly increased heartbeat. “Wait here, and I’ll investigate.”

“Drunken fools!” Kennedy said. “Captain Stringer ought to get them in hand.”

With the Rangers’ firearms held elsewhere, MacKim only had a bayonet as he slid onto the main deck. He had no sooner emerged when he knew something was badly wrong. A crewman lay dead beside the mainmast, with blood spreading from his chest, and his eyes and mouth wide open.

“Trouble, lads!” MacKim ran below to warn the still-sleeping Rangers.

Before the Rangers could react, a rush of men thundered onto the ship with a pair of pistols pointing at MacKim and others directed at the half-sleeping men.

“What the devil?” MacKim asked.

“Allez!” the man with the pistols gestured for MacKim to return to the main deck. Only then was he aware of the vessel tied up alongside Martha.

“Who are you?” A smiling, slender man pushed through the crowd to confront MacKim. “You are not part of this crew.” His strong French accent informed MacKim what had happened. Unseen in the cloudy night, a French vessel, either a royal warship or a privateer, had closed with Martha and sent a boarding party onto the Boston vessel.

Now that they had control of the brig, the Frenchmen lit lanterns, whose smoky, flickering light illuminated the deck, allowing MacKim to have a partial picture of events.

Looking over the faces of the men who pointed pistols, boarding pikes, and swords at the Rangers, MacKim guessed they were privateers rather than seamen from one of King Louis’s ships. They looked more like buccaneers from the seventeenth century than seamen from the more civilised eighteenth—ragged, fierce-eyed, and composed of a multitude of nationalities.

“Who are you?” the smiling man repeated.

“I am Sergeant Hugh MacKim of Kennedy’s Rangers. Who are you?” MacKim tried to keep calm.

“I am Captain René Roberval of the privateer Douce Vengeance,” the slender man gave a sweeping bow as he confirmed MacKim’s suspicions. “You may have heard of me?”

“I have not, monsieur,” MacKim replied in English.

“You will, sir. You will.” Roberval sounded disappointed.

“You appear to have us at a disadvantage,” MacKim said as the privateers ushered the Rangers onto the main deck. A glance assured MacKim that the French had complete control of Martha, with other privateers holding weapons to the crew. MacKim was aware that the Caribbean and east coast of the Americas swarmed with French privateers, civilian vessels officially licensed to prey on their country’s enemies. Some were as disciplined as any French royal vessel, but others were little more than pirates.

“You damned French scoundrel!” Captain Stringer roared from aft. “You’ll not take my ship, by God!”

“Oh, it seems that I have taken your ship, by God,” Roberval said. “You are the master, I presume?”

“You’re damned right I am!” Stringer strode forward, with a grinning black man holding a cutlass to his chest. “Get off my ship, damn your eyes.”

“Damn my eyes?” Roberval said. “You’ll damn my eyes?” He stepped up to the much shorter Stringer. “You won’t damn my eyes, captain, but I’ll have yours.” The suave voice altered to a deadly hiss.

After years at war, MacKim recognised a dangerous man and sensed the malignant force within Roberval. Behind the polished façade, this privateer was vicious, despite the faint outline of a cross that marred his smooth forehead.

“Hold him,” Roberval ordered in French, and two of his men wrapped their arms around Stringer. Drawing a long, slender knife from his belt, Roberval approached Stringer and slowly, deliberately, gouged out the captain’s eyes.

“You bastard!” Lundey surged forward, only for two of the privateers to knock him to the deck and kick him into submission.

“Dear God in heaven,” MacKim breathed as the Rangers watched in horror. “He’s as bad as the Indians.”

“Now,” Roberval said as Stringer writhed, screaming, with blood flowing down his face, “throw him overboard.”

“You monster!” Oxford shouted until MacKim clamped a hand over his mouth.

“Best keep quiet, son,” MacKim said. “You can’t help, and yelling will only turn Roberval’s attention to you.”

The privateers pushed the struggling Stringer to the rail, punched him in the stomach until he doubled up, and casually pushed him into the sea.

Even the war-hardened Rangers flinched at the cold-blooded murder.

“Keep quiet,” MacKim snarled to his men.

“Why are Kennedy’s Rangers on this vessel?” Roberval asked, cleaning Stringer’s blood off his knife on the scarf he wore around his neck.

“Captain Stringer was taking us to join the rest of the British Army,” MacKim said.

“I have Kennedy,” Roberval said. “How many Rangers are there?”

MacKim glanced over his men. If any had managed to hide, he would have given a false figure, but all were present. “Twenty-five,” he said. “Including me. Plus Lieutenant Kennedy.” He knew that hesitating or lying to Roberval would bring retribution on him or his men.

“Hmmm,” Roberval said. “Where are you bound, sergeant?”

MacKim shook his head. “I don’t know, captain.”

“Hmmm,” Roberval said again. “Perhaps the sergeant would not know. It’s a small matter.”

The tropical night was already easing, with a band of lesser dark along the eastern horizon. MacKim knew that it would be full daylight in fifteen minutes, with the harsh sun ensuring every man would droop in the heat. He was not yet used to the speed of sunrise and sunset this far south, so different from the protracted dawns of more northern climes. He surveyed his surroundings, with the sea rising in a regular swell to north, south, and east, but a dense smudge to the west suggesting an island huddled nearby.

“Bring me Lieutenant Kennedy,” Roberval ordered. Within two minutes, three of his men shoved Kennedy along the deck. The lieutenant nursed a heavily bruised eye and left cheek while blood dribbled from a split lip.

“It’s nothing serious,” Kennedy said with an attempt at a smile. “I’ve had worse from my mother.”

“Join your men,” Roberval ordered dispassionately.

Kennedy did so, sinking to the deck in sudden pain.

Dawn came swiftly, with the island now plain. It was a scrap of land with a small hill on the north and a scattering of palm trees catching the horizontal rays of the sun.

“Bring me Martha’s crew,” Roberval ordered in his pleasant voice, and the privateers pushed and dragged forward the twelve-strong crew.

MacKim looked around. The privateer’s vessel—a long, fast, black-painted ship—lay alongside, with three steeply raked masts and a row of cannon on her deck, plus a dozen swivels for scything down the crew of any vessel that showed resistance. Douce Vengeance must have crept up during the night when most of Martha’s crew were asleep and half the others lushy with rum. Roberval would have boarded silently, with his more numerous boarders easily overpowering Martha’s men.

Beyond Douce Vengeance, the island was becoming clearer by the minute. However, MacKim’s geography of this area was so vague, he could only guess it was an outlier of the Bahamas group.

Roberval smiled as Martha’s crew huddled before him, with one or two looking at the fresh bloodstains on the deck.

“Who’s first?” Roberval asked.

The hands looked at one another without understanding.

“You, I think.” Roberval spoke English with a decided accent, as though he was used to mixing with the lowest in society, however resplendent his clothes. He pointed to Lundey, who responded with a defiant glare.

“Me what?” Lundey asked.

In response, Roberval strode forward, drawing his sword. As Lundey lifted his fists in defence, Roberval cut off the mate’s left arm. The blood spouted as Lundey stared, too shocked to scream.

“Throw him overboard,” Roberval ordered as the remainder of Martha’s crew stepped back or roared in horror. Two privateersmen grabbed Lundey and threw him over the side.

“And the rest of the crew,” Roberval ordered, and a horde of privateers rushed at Martha’s remaining crew, cutlasses raised as they hacked at the helpless merchant seamen.

“You murdering bastards!” MacRae reared forward, only for two privateersmen to thrust boarding pikes at him, forcing him back.

“Careful, sergeant!” MacRae said.

“Right, men,” Kennedy spoke urgently. “This French Roberval’s crazed. I’m going to rush him and try and take the boat back. On the count of three!”

“He’ll kill you,” Oxford said.

“I think he’ll kill us all, whatever we do.” MacKim balled his fists.

“We’ve no weapons.”

“We have our fists and boots,” Kennedy said. “One, two…”

“Allez!” a Frenchman on the upper mast of Douce Vengeance shouted through cupped hands. “A British frigate is coming from the lee of the island!”

“Back to Douce Vengeance!” Roberval ordered.

In an amazingly short space of time, the privateers fled Martha, leaving her crew dead or dying on the deck, or floating overboard in the sea.1The newcomer, with the Union flag flying proud, approached at some speed. When she was within three-hundred yards, her gunports opened, and twelve cannons rolled out, their muzzles black and evil.

Douce Vengeance unfastened herself from Martha, caught the wind, and danced away, leaving the frigate standing.

“Thank God for the Royal Navy,” Kennedy said. “They saved us in the siege of Quebec, and they’ve saved us again here.”

“They didn’t save Martha’s crew,” MacKim pointed out.

“Nor did we,” Kennedy said.

The frigate came to three cables-lengths from Martha with her broadside run out and a row of black-muzzled cannon menacing the brig. Within two minutes, the frigate launched a pinnace, which pulled across the intervening water. A young, gloriously uniformed officer sat in the stern as a dozen men strained at the oars, cutlasses at their hips and pistols prominent in their belts.

“Here they come.” Kennedy stepped to the rail. “We’re glad to see you!” he shouted.

The pinnace came alongside, with the crew raising their oars at the last possible moment and one man expertly using a boathook to attach the pinnace to Martha. The officer scrambled on board, quickly followed by every man save one, who remained in the pinnace.

“Thank God for the Navy,” Kennedy said.

“Qui es-tu?” Who are you?the officer asked. “British?”

“You’re French.” Kennedy stepped back.

“Oh, dear God in heaven,” MacKim said.

3

“Lieutenant Gramont.” The officer gave a slight bow. “Are you English?”

Kennedy shook his head. “No. I am from the colony of New Hampshire. This gentleman—” he indicated MacKim “—is from Scotland, and most of my men are from New Hampshire, with some from Scotland or England.”

Lieutenant Gramont gave a slight smile. “Either way, you are now prisoners of King Louis.” He indicated his ship just as the Union flag fluttered down to be replaced by the ensign of France. “May I have the honour of knowing your names?”

“I am Lieutenant Kennedy of Kennedy’s Rangers, and this gentleman is Sergeant MacKim, late of the 78th Fraser’s Highlanders and now of the Rangers. My men are all Rangers and entitled to be treated as prisoners of war.”

“The Highland Furies?” Gramont eyed MacKim as if expecting him to pull a broadsword from his stocking and charge forward.

“Will you treat my men honourably, according to the Rules of War?” Kennedy asked.

As he waited for an answer, the French seamen examined Martha, pointing at the blood-stained planking and talking in low tones.

“The privateers murdered the captain and crew of Martha,” Kennedy continued. “I hope you are more civilised, sir.”

Gramont frowned. “I am a servant of the king, not a privateer,” he spat out the word as if it was a curse. “These men,” he continued, jerking his chin in the direction of Douce Vengeance. “They were not even privateers; they were nothing more than freebooters—common pirates—not fit to lick the boots of a true Frenchman.”

“They were murderers,” MacKim said. “Captain René Roberval commanded them, and their ship was Douce Vengeance.”

“I will remember the names,” Gramont said. “In the meantime, your men shall return to whatever quarters they habitually frequent in this vessel, Lieutenant Kennedy, while you and the brave sergeant shall repair to Dryade, his Majesty’s ship, so my captain may question you.”

With two more boatloads of French seamen arriving on Martha, the Rangers, unarmed and outnumbered, could not resist as armed men herded them back into the hold.

“Keep your heads up, lads!” Kennedy shouted. “You’ll be exchanged before you know it.”

Dryade was a 32-gun frigate, smart, efficient, and dangerous. Captain Marbet waited on the quarterdeck as his men escorted the prisoners aboard.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” he commanded as he gently examined Kennedy’s bruised face. “My surgeon shall tend to that, Lieutenant Kennedy.” Then he snapped an order to a junior officer, who hurried away, returning with a plump and cheerful doctor.

“Ah, two brave British soldiers, lost on the high seas.” The doctor examined Kennedy with care, rubbed some foul-smelling ointment on his bruises, and left, whistling a jaunty song.

“Take them below,” Marbet ordered. “Ensure they do not escape, and feed them.” He smiled. “The fortunes of war have not favoured you, gentlemen, but that does not mean we are not humane.”

MacKim found their quarters on Dryade more comfortable than their space on Martha, with the added refinement of a bottle of fine wine and some bread that their captor sent them as sustenance.

“If this is French captivity,” Kennedy said, tasting the wine, “I could get used to it.”

“I don’t intend to,” MacKim said. He pushed at the door, found it was locked, and when he looked through a crack in the wood, saw a marine sentry standing outside. “It may be velvet-lined, but it’s still a prison.”

Kennedy sat on the deck with his back resting on the bulkhead. “I’ll think of something, MacKim. I still want to visit Covent Garden when this war is over.”

MacKim touched Claudette’s letter in his pocket and said nothing. This new campaign is not going well.

Captain Marbet called them up to his cabin later that day, sitting at an ornate desk while he shared a bottle of wine with them.

“I have put a prize crew on your vessel,” Marbet told them. “Your men will be gently cared for.” He spoke halting English, and MacKim thought it best not to admit he understood French.

“Thank you,” Kennedy said.

“Now, gentlemen, I know you are both Rangers and your vessel was bound to the south. Please tell me where you were heading and what you know about the British intentions.”

Kennedy glanced at MacKim. “We came from Quebec and meant to join the British fleet at New York,” he spoke slowly, enhancing his New Hampshire drawl. “But we were late. Ice on the St Lawrence delayed us.”

“And where are you headed now?”

Kennedy screwed up his face. “We were heading south,” he said truthfully. “Somewhere south of wherever we are now.”

Captain Marbet nodded. “Did you hear the lamented captain of Martha mention any destinations? Any islands?”

Kennedy shook his head. “The captain barely spoke to me at all, sir.” He looked over at MacKim. “How about you, sergeant? Did the captain mention his destination to you?”

“Not even once,” MacKim said.

“You are very reticent gentlemen,” Captain Marbet said, smiling. “I will put you with my other guests, and when we arrive at a French port, you will be accorded all the hospitality usual for our prisoners.” He called for a guard, and two white-coated marines escorted MacKim and Kennedy down below.

“In there.” The marines were rougher than Marbet had been as they thrust Kennedy and MacKim into a reasonably large space lined with furled sails and spars. A dozen men looked up at their arrival with a mixture of resignation and curiosity. The marines closed and barred the door behind them.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” Kennedy said. “Can any of you speak English?”

“A damned sight better than you can,” a thin-faced man said. “You’re a Colonial.”

“New Hampshire, born and bred,” Kennedy admitted. “God’s own country. Are you all British?”

“Some.” The thin-faced man sat on the deck, his eyes scrutinising Kennedy. “Some are from the islands—Jamaica, Barbados, or others. We’re all masters and mates of vessels that Dryade has captured.” His bitter eyes scanned Kennedy’s green uniform. “How did Marbet net a brace of Colonial Rangers?”

Kennedy explained what had happened as the other prisoners gathered around to listen.

“Roberval,” the thin-faced man repeated the name. “I’ve heard of him. He’s a pirate, pure and simple, and a first-rate bastard to boot.” He looked up, glaring at Kennedy and MacKim as if at an enemy. “I’m Captain Mansfield, late of Emma’s Pride, until Marbet captured us off Cape Cod.”

MacKim kept quiet as the seamen discussed piracy in the Caribbean. After a while, he spoke up. “I have no wish to spend months or years as a prisoner. What are the chances of escaping from here?”

“None,” Mansfield replied flatly. “We’re locked in, with an armed guard outside. Even if we managed to leave the cabin, we’re on a French warship packed with hundreds of sailors and marines. What could we do? We’re merchant seamen, not fighters.”

Kennedy glanced at MacKim. “What do you think, sergeant?”

“I think I don’t want to be a prisoner,” MacKim said. “We’ll get out of here somehow.”

“They must feed us.” Kennedy squeezed into a corner.

“They treat us well,” a stocky man said. “I’ve no complaints about that.”

“How many men come at feeding time?” MacKim caught the drift of Kennedy’s words.

“Three,” the stocky man said. “One man with food and water, and two marines with musket and bayonet. It’s no good, sergeant. Even if we could overpower them, then what? We can’t take over the whole ship.”

“We don’t have to,” MacKim said. “We only have to get on a boat. You men are sailors; you can sail to the nearest British island.”

Although Mansfield grunted, his eyes lost some of their acidity. “Maybe. Aye, maybe.”

Kennedy lifted a finger. “I have a plan.” His smile masked the worry in his voice. “I will need all your help, and even then, it may not work.”

The stocky man grunted. “That’s encouraging. What do you want us to do?” He held out his hand. “Robinson, late of Bristol Trader.”

“We’ll use one of these sails,” Kennedy said as he shook Robinson’s hand. “And a little bit of guile.”

MacKim heard footsteps outside the door. “Somebody’s coming,” he warned, and slipped behind the old sail Kennedy had draped against the bulkhead.

“Ready,” Kennedy whispered.

The prisoners waited, one man chewing tobacco and others holding makeshift weapons or merely clenching their fists.

There was the sound of wood on wood as the Frenchman unbarred the door and pushed it open, shining a lantern inside the room.

“Make way,” the Frenchman said in clumsy English. “Allez!”

As the prisoners shuffled back, the food-bearer entered with two white-coated marines at his back.

“Monsieur!” Kennedy beckoned them forward, smiling. “Monsieur!” He had picked up a smattering of French from his time in Quebec. “Come here.”

As the Frenchmen stepped forward, MacKim emerged from beneath the sail and slipped outside the door. In common with their British counterparts, French marines were brave soldiers, but not trained in deception and original thought like the Rangers. They were disciplined to obey orders immediately and without question. MacKim felt the hammer of his heart and hoped the sound did not echo from the bulkheads of Dryade.

Take deep breaths, MacKim. You’ve faced French regulars in open battle and Abenaki warriors in their native forests. What are a few tarry-backed sailors after that?

MacKim huddled in the thick darkness of the tween decks. On Martha, he had belonged, but on this French ship, he was an enemy alien. The surroundings felt more hostile than any Canadian forest—claustrophobic, intense, and with a pervading scent of French cooking. All he needed to do was avoid detection until the hours of darkness, then open the door to release the prisoners. But where to hide? The frigate was crammed with men, far more than Martha had held and more than any British warship he had seen. It seemed as if the French filled every available space with men and munitions, leaving no hiding place for fugitives.

Where is the least likely place for a man to hide? If the Frenchies discover I am missing, where won’t they look?

In the captain’s day cabin. No fugitive would be foolish enough to hide there.

Compared to the crew’s quarters, the captain lived in luxury, with two cabins to himself, one for sleeping and another for eating, working, and relaxing. MacKim ensured that Captain Marbet was on the quarterdeck, giving quiet orders that moved Dryade efficiently through the sea.

Moving aft, Watters swore when he saw a marine on guard outside the captain’s cabin.

Damn! I should have considered that possibility. Distract him, MacKim!

Hiding in the shadows, MacKim called out in French, “Marine! Check the forward hatch!”

As the marine hurried forward, MacKim slid inside the cabin, feeling his heart pounding. If Captain Marbet were as efficient as he appeared, he would remain on deck most of the day. If he returned to his cabin? MacKim shook his head. He would deal with that eventuality if it arose.

The day cabin was beautifully furnished, with an ornate, inlaid desk, a glass bookcase full of books, and half a dozen decanters of wines and spirits. Although Dryade was more stable in the water than Martha, she still pitched and rolled, causing the decanters on the side table to slide. Possibly to combat the ship’s motion, Captain Gramont had placed a heavy paperweight to hold down a neat pile of documents on his desk.

“I’m no spy,” MacKim told himself, yet the presence of nautical papers was tempting. The Admiralty would love to have access to a French captain’s documents, possibly with sealed orders that revealed the dispositions of the French fleet.

Stepping to the desk, MacKim scanned the papers on top. One, in particular, took his attention, addressed to the secretary of state in Paris.

It was the work of a second to lift the letter and slide it inside his tunic, and then MacKim searched for somewhere to hide in the cabin.

He heard voices and squeezed against the bulkhead, hoping nobody entered the captain’s cabin.

“The British will have to move quickly if they want to take Martinico,” somebody said. “The fleet from Brest will shatter their Navy and bring reinforcements to La Touché’s garrison.”

“I hear the Spanish are with us now,” a second voice murmured. “They are sending twenty-five line-of-battle ships to our aid. With our combined fleet, the British will see their acquisitions fall one by one.”

The voices drifted away as the speakers passed the door. To judge by their refined accents, both men were officers.

MacKim crouched in the cabin, held the letter he had stolen, and wondered about the snippet of information he’d just heard. Admiral Rodney would be eager to hear of this French fleet from Brest, whether he was headed for Martinico or not.

Am I a spy now? I hope not. Spying is a dirty, dishonourable business, sneaking around and stealing the enemy’s secrets.

MacKim shook his head. The intelligence he had in his hand might save thousands of British lives if he could get it to Admiral Rodney. Dishonour or honour mattered little in comparison. A fleet coming from Brest and the Spanish joining the French? Either of these happenings could alter the course of the Caribbean campaign.

Opening the door a fraction, MacKim peered into the gloom. Somewhere ahead, a lantern flickered as it swung to the rhythm of the ship. There was something essentially dismal about a deserted passageway in a ship, an atmosphere MacKim could not fathom, as if the surrounding timber was aware it did not belong so far from land.

Concentrate!