Page 84 of Rears & Vices

As the gun’s last recoil rocked a bruised D’Arcy back onto his heels, Vitaliy gave orders across the companionway to drop the courses, swing the yards back, and fly. Then it was cat-and-mouse—with the mouse’s impossible flight pulling the cat by imaginary leading strings into the traps.

Vitaliy had calculated not only the speed of the San Telmo and its dead reckon towards them, but the wind’s effect on the harpoon’s flight, the push of Gulf current on the floaters, the time it would take the snagged warship to almost reach the Sévère. He had apparently done this in his head, all while seated at Everard’s side in the shrouds; he hadn’t seen him write a thing down. Genius indeed.

Out of nine torpedo mines, five threw up miniature frothing waterspouts, harmless in the broad middle of the Gulf; another failed to detonate entirely.

Three clung like burrs to the San Telmo and struck target.

They triggered all against her larboard hull, just as she came within cannon range; but Everard didn’t need to order a single volley. By the time the Spanish warship managed to come close, she was thoroughly holed, and had heeled so sharply to larboard that she needed most of her men to plug the leaks, and had no energy or portholes available for gunning. She began slowly to wear to her starboard, away from the Sévère.

Still she raised nothing white.

To Everard, this seemed nonetheless a victory, a retreat, if only Vitaliy would take advantage and flee.

But the crew’s energy was restless, muttering, anticipation wasted, and Vitaliy said nothing.

Then the San Telmo raised her final signal: the black.

Vitaliy didn’t appear at all surprised.

“Bring her alongside,” he said calmly. “We will board her.”

To this, there was crew cheering.

In the greatcabin, Vitaliy pulled sword and pistol and axe from their mounts on the wall and strapped them on, one by one. Around his arm he’d tied a band of sailcloth dyed with bright indigo, the same as the crew. Over his chest he buckled a bandolier that held a massive, arm-sized knife. He drew it forth and back again in its sheath as a test: it was a rectangular, hook-pointed, finely serrated fishing knife.

All Everard could see was that knife snatched and used against Vitaliy himself. This didn’t detract from his fury. It made him all the angrier, the futility and unnecessity of it.

He shut the door behind him, pressed his back against it like a guard. “You knew she was pirate,” he accused, low. “This whole time.”

“And whose she is,” Vitaliy admitted, unblinking, without guilt.

“Jean Lafitte.”

Vitaliy nodded.

“If you’d only said⁠—”

“It changes nothing.” He cinched his belt. “Many will still die.”

Everard threw up his hands. “Not if we’d fled! You lied to me.”

“No.” Vitaliy’s eyes had gone wide and warning. “It is a Spanish anti-revolutionary. Lafitte is allied with the Spanish, as I said. He will do everything they would, and more.”

“Deception by omission, then, if we are to debate semantic nuance. Por Dios.”

“One man doesn’t make the difference,” Vitaliy snapped.

“Now, look—now you are lying outright. I’d bet he’s the reason entire you’ve done every bit of this! Is he who betrayed you, Vitya? This is your revenge?”

“Ah, fuck,” Vitaliy cursed, apparently quite beyond. “No, I do not have time for this. For this, with you.” He brushed past Everard, a glancing sidestep, and put his hand on the door. “Are you boarding her or staying behind?”

“Am I—” Everard drew in a breath through his teeth, also quite beyond. He grabbed at Vitaliy’s shoulder. “What?” he demanded. He waited, with sick anticipation, for Vitaliy’s glance to drop meaningfully to his hand. “Why in hell would you ask that?”

The dark gaze didn’t waver from Everard’s own. “I don’t ask it of you. If you⁠—”

“No, no. I’m sorry, I’ve said it wrong: why would you wonder that? Is it a heavy question in your mind, whether or not I am a coward? Incapable?”

Vitaliy went still beneath his palm. The anger wisped out of him, dissipated like cooling steam.