Page 87 of Rears & Vices

The one who counts the souls imprinted upon his own.

“Out of curiosity, how many such someones are there?”

Vitaliy didn’t answer.

“Right,” Everard said. “Well, let’s take her sword before she sinks, shall we?”

In the San Telmo’s greatcabin, there was nobody sitting in wait, but no sword, either. A handful of hammocks hung from the cabin rafters—further confirmation of a leaderless crew, and little to no preparation for battle—although the captain’s built-in cot to starboard looked rumpled and slept-in, too. Maybe they’d drawn straws.

There on the desk the planned trajectory of the Sévère was plotted on a Gulf map.

“This is absolute madness,” Everard revelled, looking it over. He paged through the scattered, chicken-scratch captain’s log. It revealed nothing in Spanish or English.

To plant false watchmen, pay four score mercenaries to sail a warship, and yet not utilise her properly…

“I simply can’t believe they’ve managed this,” he mumbled. “To rendezvous two warships of the same bloody Navy fleet would be feat enough.”

Vitaliy said, “It is just hunting. With enough foreknowledge, easy enough.”

“It seems they had a lot of that,” Everard said. “But nobody knew of your torpedoes?” he asked, half-hopefully, because it would certainly help narrow the potentials. Not that he wasn’t pretty damn sure who had done this. There’s nobody better at a dead reckon, especially the Sévère’s.

“Not a soul.”

“Damn. But then why fight anyway, once she was holed?”

“They need the ship. They couldn’t have her run.”

“Yes, but to provoke boarding… Varfolomey honors a surrender, doesn’t he?”

Everard didn’t have to ask. He’d heard the crew stories, told to him many times over and sung of at least once, how the Sévère herself had been taken: nary a drop of blood fell as the massive meregildo changed hands, the Spanish captain’s own shirt off his back making the final flying white. The defeated crew and captain had been left alive in tenders just outside Spanish Florida, to flounder and make their way north. To maybe even find their own fortunes in America, if they would.

Vitaliy looked over. “Always. If I had a guess…” He jerked his chin back to the second deck, the bodies and blood and viscera sliding down. “These were mercenaries,” he said, low. “Paid to engage, to hunt. Nothing unusual for Lafitte. But I was thinking it felt like we’d outnumbered them by a larger margin than we should have.”

Everard cursed. “You think it was slaughter a-purpose?”

A slot-in captain and a replaced crew. Why trouble with mutiny, he supposed, when you could sail off with one’s own man-o’-war and half the loyal crew who had just prized her?

Vitya swallowed, nodded. “And I called for no quarter.”

“But—salted earth,” Everard marvelled. “Who would do such a thing?”

So much callous death, and behind it the would-be captain, taking the San Telmo’s helm at incredible cost. Everard looked back to the hatch, where dust and smoke swirled in the light, falling peacefully in the deadly calm.

“The Sévère—is she in danger? We’re not worried of her being cut free and run, now we’ve been”—he swallowed—“victorious here?”

“No.” Vitaliy shook his head. “No. Milly has her; she’s secure.”

Everard’s heart thumped. How could he broach it, that awful suspicion? That awful knowledge? “I’m not sure… Would not René…? I don’t wish to imply⁠—”

“I know you and Milly do not get along, but that doesn’t mean⁠—”

“Do not get along? She spat on my boot!”

“She’s allowed to dislike you, matelot.” Vitaliy ran a palm over his mouth. “The lieutenant is there,” he added. “If that reassures you more.”

That was true. Everard had wondered what Vitya’d said to D’Arcy to convince him to stay back from the boarding party. But he knew over D’Arcy’s dead body would he let René or anyone take the Sévère and leave Everard behind.

“Does it reassure you?” he asked. “Preston’s being there?”