Steampunk

Finally, Hartwell saw a vague outline of the old galleon in the smoke and he realized that Madrigal’s ship had been carried by the waves to almost within jumping distance of the Plymouth. The rowing boat had been torn away from the side of the Plymouth by the forces of wind and water and Hartwell wasted no time in giving his final order on what had been his ship.

“Into the sea and swim,” he commanded. “Powder monkeys,” he yelled to the small used to tend and operate the cannons. “To me.” The boys, who found the captain to be an enigmatic yet fair man and who had witnessed the actions of Admiral Johnson with much indignation, scampered out from their hiding places and joined their captain.

“Grab a boy,” commanded Hartwell. His crew all grabbed at least one child each, as did Madrigal, while Hartwell took the smallest boy in one hand while holding his sister in the other. “Jump! Belay that!” The crew looked in fuzzy incomprehension as Hartwell ran to his cabin at the back of the vessel and emerged after a few moments with a bottle of absinthe. He grabbed the boy and Susanna once more as he re-joined the mutineers and shouted again, “Jump!”

They leapt out into the sea and noticed too late that the water was glowing red, a deep scarlet hue which flashed disturbingly beneath the waves. Fortunately, they all broke the surface of the water with no obvious ill effects. Apart from the strange glow, the sea was normal and the crew swam toward Madrigal’s ship.

It took a while for them to reach the vessel, hampered as they were by holding onto the frightened boys. As they reached the galleon and began climbing the ropes thrown down for them by the crew, they all felt a strange prickling sensation that seemed to envelop the entire body, inside and out. Each person, however, thought it was probably the trauma of the past few minutes and said nothing about it.

Behind them, the sounds of the two navy crews being cursed by Admiral Johnson drifted through the black smoke and white mist. Hartwell knew they only had minutes to escape. “All hands, cut and run!” he roared.

“Do it,” bellowed Madrigal at what was left of his crew. The men swung into action, bypassing the standard procedures by slicing lines to the anchor and rigging in order to expedite the escape of the galleon.

“Powder monkeys, make the cannons ready. Tench, Fitch, you’re on gunnery duty,” continued Hartwell. “Madrigal, where is your pilot?”

“Dead,” replied Madrigal, his lips thinning in fury at the betrayal and slaughter of his crew.

“I understand,” said Hartwell, quietly, “but we have no time for grief now. I need you at the wheel. You know this vessel better than us and your expertise can get us out of here.”

Madrigal nodded, seeing the truth of Hartwell’s words. Madrigal knew how low the galleon sat in the water, what her turn radius was, all the details required to pilot the ship through deep and shallow waters.

“Heading?” he asked.

“Anywhere that is not here,” replied Hartwell. “We’ll worry about a heading if we can outrun the Plymouth and the Morning Star.”

“On this vessel?” said Tench, looking around at the creaking, rotten galleon. “They’re faster, more powerful and new. We don’t stand a chance!”

At first glance, it seemed that Brough was right. Hartwell’s crew was outnumbered, Brough’s cannons had blown yet more gaping holes in the upper decks of the galleon, and Nani and his followers appeared to be trying to bribe the enemy rather than fight them.

Fortunately, Hartwell’s closer inspection revealed that Madrigal had knocked his opponent unconscious and now had free use of his hands, while behind them, the door to the rear cabins had opened and Madrigal’s brother, Anatole, had stepped through. On his own, Anatole was large enough to give any invading crew pause for thought. Behind Anatole came the second reason for any invading crew to turn and flee. Mechatronic had emerged onto the deck.

The invading crew gasped in horror as the silver woman stalked haughtily through the lines of brawling men. Cries of “It’s a mermaid!” and “It’s a demon!” echoed out over the ship.

“We will take your surrender now,” shouted Hartwell over the mêlée. He would prefer to end the confrontation without bloodshed, especially when the blood in question was that of his own crew. He looked over at Captain Brough, whose bravado had deserted him somewhat.

“Kill them!” screamed Brough eventually. “Kill them all before they curse us!”

Hartwell rolled his eyes in disbelief—why couldn’t anyone just run away or surrender on seeing the silver figure of Mechatronic? Why the innate urge to kill her and all her associates? It was something to ponder over but later, when he didn’t have someone trying to slice his head from his shoulders. “Madrigal, their sails,” he yelled.

Madrigal lifted his hands and pulses of bright green energy slid out from his fingers, burning the flesh and making him yelp. He forced his hands to stay on target as the pulses flowed outward to Brough’s ship, striking the side and blowing chunks out of the deck and rail. The rigging and masts exploded under the onslaught, the sails catching fire as sparks flew left and right.

Brough and his pirates screamed in terror, some running back to their ship, others trying to kill whichever crewmembers they happened to be facing.

One lunged at Mechatronic, who parried the blow and punched the man on the nose, dropping him, while another headed for Anatole, madly waving a small axe over his head. He never made it. Susanna ran out onto the deck and flung her arm out toward the man. A whip of fine metallic strands erupted from her skin, slicing through the pale flesh as it shot forward and entwined the pirate round the legs, tripping and concussing him on the hard, wooden deck. The whip retracted and the skin healed in Susanna’s wrist, leaving nothing but a faint white line.

“I do worry that whip is not entirely ladylike,” murmured Susanna to herself as she rubbed her wrist, feeling the pain quickly ebb away to nothing.

Soon, only Brough was left standing. He watched as his last two men, who had been fruitlessly attacking Hartwell for fifteen minutes, grew ever more despondent and tired until one made an error and Hartwell neatly disarmed him. The second man, seeing that Hartwell was still fresh, dropped to his knees and threw his sword away in supplication.

“What manner of cursed demons are you?” gasped Brough in fear.

“We are not demons,” replied Hartwell.

“Though we may be cursed,” muttered Fitch, darkly.