Siren Ch 08

Hi! I'm back with more, and just in time before the semester starts. Enjoy!

***

Roland turned back to Kenna's stricken face. "Stay here," he said, voice dark and serious. "Kenna!" he snapped, forcing her attention through the panic he could see in her eyes. Of course it would bring back the memories of the day he'd first seen her, frantic as she was cornered by the Tim and Jasper, and then again, pale and shocked, covered in Dougray's blood.

Her eyes focused on him and he held them with his stare. "Stay here, I cannot vouch for your safety with the crew during the fight. Do not leave this room."

"My safety with the crew?" she whispered aghast. There was no time to reassure her of the fight to come, or the inevitability of their defeat. But he had discovered the only way to keep your head in a battle was to leave off the possibility of losing until there was no other option, and then, focus only on surviving.

"Do not leave this cabin." There was no time. He shut the door behind him, wiping the vision of her sitting there, tear bright eyes and shocked expression as she reeled from one undoing to the next. There would be time for comfort later.

Topside, Roland rushed to the sterncastel, the grey evening betrayed only the faintest outline of the Man of War on their heels.

"Starboard watch never saw them coming 'til we heard the first shot!" Stephens shouted over the thumping of boots as the men were called to their stations. "They were well within the cloud bank at stern. I don't know if they even knew we was here." Roland heard the low whistle of the cannon ball that quickly shifted to a shrieking cry as it hurtled towards them. It fell short, but not short enough.

"Mr. Abbott!" Roland called out, hoping the man's survival instincts outweighed his other, less desirable traits. "And where is Dooley?"

Stephens shrugged, "I can tell you that while we have the powder to make a stand, she's not going to withstand the guns on that ship. That's a fully loaded Man of War and we've already got holes we haven't yet plugged."

"Men to the tops! Lower royal and topgallant!" Roland called out. The only way out was to run. In Dooley's absence, Stephens began doling out orders. The sailors hit the rigging and swarmed up towards the topsails. The ship began to pitch forward as the wind filled their sails, driving them further along. A shout behind Roland alerted him to the Helmsman's fall and he grabbed the spinning spokes of the wheel before the man rolled underneath it as

The Charon

rolled to port. The man regained his footing and came to brace the far side of the wheel as the ship righted itself in time to cut through the next wave.

Abbott and Dooley appeared up the steps. Dooley's face properly scared; Abbott was looking serious but somehow pleased. "Running, captain?" Abbott made no attempt to disguise his distain this time. The whistle of another shot wiped his smirk away quickly however.

"All watches to quarters," Roland shouted, frustration rising. This was no time for their grievances. "Dooley, do your fucking job and get the rest of the men topside. We need every stich of canvass flying. Abbott, get your crews to the pumps." Before following orders, the pair of them went to the rail, assessing the threat for themselves.

Stephens ran back up the steps, Barnes on his heels. "10 knots on the windward rail, Captain, but they are still gaining." Stephens didn't spare a glance at the two men clutching the gunwale as they sighted the threat for the first time.

Roland looked at Barnes. "She's faster than we are in these winds, and won't get tossed about nearly as badly as we will," the navigator confirmed the worst. The spray from the sea soaked them all as the bow plunged down below the waves and back up, water slicking the decks with every wave.

"Then we fight," Abbott shouted. "It's the cannons or the noose and I know which I prefer."

Roland didn't turn to look at him. "How long until their gun can reach us?" he asked Barnes.

"We've got an hour at most."

Stephens looked back and then over into the gathering darkness. "Can we stay ahead of them till nightfall? We can lose them if we douse our lanterns."

Barnes looked up at the darkening sky, the storm clouds gathering to port but still thin enough to let the light through on their current trajectory. "Not unless we change course."

Roland followed the navigator's eyes over towards the very storm they had been edging for days, the one that they had agreed would likely rip the ship apart. "It seems we have a third choice, Mr. Abbott."

Dooley saw their thinking and reeled back towards the group. "There is no way we make it out alive of that!"

Stephens shook his head. "Three ways to die, Dooley. I'd prefer the sea to these English fucks any day. But if you like I'll give you a skiff and you can take your husband here and surrender yourselves to His Majesty's Navy and see if they hang you or just leave you to float away."

Dooley's face went red and he opened his mouth to shout back at the boatswain but the harsh boom and shriek of another cannon shot cut him off.

"Enough," Roland said, employing a tone he rarely used with any of the men. But now was not the time for politics. He released one grip on the wheel and stepped between the two men glowering at each other. "Barnes, change course, take us into the storm. Dooley, get men topside to take in sail as soon as we get behind the cover of the clouds. Abbott, your men to corking the pumps. Stephens, Make sure Toby has enough men to plug the holes below and then get back up here to the rig."

"There's no—" Abbott began before Roland turned to him.

"Mr. Abbott," Roland's voice rolled out across the deck so even the busy crew around them slowed at the sound. "Are you arguing with direct orders from your captain in a time of imminent threat to your vessel and crew?"

The older man glowered at him. "You-." Roland would not let him finish.

"Now, Mr. Abbott, the pumps. One more word and I will take Stephen's suggestion of a private skiff seriously." The edge in Roland's voice could not disguise the slip in his accent. As he grew more imperious, his words began to sound more like his father's, and the men would not take kindly to it. But the matter at hand was more pressing. And he chose the compliance of the crew to the possibility of giving Abbott another thing to use against him. If they survived this storm Abbott could call a vote, and Roland would deal with it then. Now he needed the men following orders.

Three of them dispersed while Barnes and Roland shifted the wheel. Roland watched as the bow turned from the light grey skies ahead into the rolling black seas. The Navy would not risk its men in pursuit into the storm. But they would patrol downwind. There would be no taking in sail and waiting this out below.

Rain began falling, mixing with the salty spray from the waves as the ship cut the waves in two as it plowed into the foaming sea, water sloshing over her waist with every roll. Roland braced the wheel while Barnes joined him and the Helmsman to hold it still.

"The rudder?" Roland called out over the winds.

Barnes nodded his head, "She'll hold, Captain. We've seen her through worse."

*

Kenna grasped the edge of the berth as the ship tossed her around. The bucket she'd used for washing was just out of reach. She gave up her grip and took three steps towards it before the ship rolled again and she fell against the wall of the cabin. The bucket turned on its side and eased itself in a great arch across the floor. Kenna thought of every curse she'd heard in the last few weeks but refused to open her mouth, sure that would be the last straw of her control.

Three more waves later and she had the bucket in hand, and gratefully released the contents of her stomach into it. The dizzying sensation of the ship rocking actually helped distract her from the numbing terror that permeated every calm moment she had. They were going to die, all of them, to the man, and she would sink with them, or be ripped apart by cannon fire, or stabbed by Abbott when no one was looking.

She cursed again, and emptied her stomach once more. The pitch of the ship was more violent than anything she'd felt up until this point, and it was getting worse. Above her, the porthole leaked water down the wall and she grasped the vertical beam to steady herself as she stood to look out.

The windows in the back of the cabin showed only distorted grey shapes, though the large one at the center could only be the navy's pursuit. The porthole on the starboard side told a different story, as black waters rushed up towards her. He had steered them into the storm.

Kenna sank back to the floor. The creaking of the ship in the high winds covered the sounds of the Navy's shots. But only just.

She fisted her hair and leaned her forehead against her knees. Dread filled the void her food has left behind. The rain began, the sounds of the storm terrifying as they filled the empty room. Rage, desperation and fear stormed inside her. He would lead her to her death, just as she'd always assumed he would, snuff out everything she had worked so hard to keep sound—her sanity, her body, her purpose.

He faced certain death on all sides, but she hadn't. If he had surrendered, she could have been saved. It hadn't occurred to him, she was sure of it, fury rising even as she reached for the bucket again. Bile burned her throat worse than her anger. What a foolish woman she was, to feel affection for a man who would rather her dead than free from him.

It was idiotic, to be angry at a man for choosing the tiniest possibility of life instead of certain death. But some part of her, the same part that loved the stories she told, the believed in redemption and goodness in the world, that stupid part of her had hoped he would do it for her, save her above himself. But rationality faded faster than the daylight as the storm closed around them, the windows at stern now completely black. Kenna's body was tossed from the wall with a violent shuddering of the ship as the wind howled through the wood. The bucket flew to the far end of the room, its contents filling the space with the smell of sick. Kenna turned on all fours and made her way back towards the berth.

She longed to retreat into the crawl space she had claimed. She needed to be away from his smell, the bed she had just betrayed herself upon over and over again. Her fear was so easily pushed into hate that it simmered inside her, murderous and violent. Every feeling she'd ever had for him twisted itself into that flame, and she lost herself in it.

When her husband had led her to the stocks she'd felt panic, the desperation as she searched the crowd for some sign that they would stop this madness, that one of them would speak against it. It wasn't until the fifth blow that clarity had bloomed through that chaos. The pain, the feeling of her own blood dripping down her ribs, the unchanging faces before her, in that moment she'd known, if she survived, she would escape. There was no other recourse, no hidden savior who would help her. She would have to break herself free.

As the ship around her shuddered and water began to foam under the door, that edge of desperation rushed up at her, and as she teetered on the brink, she swore this would be the last time.

*

"Strike the topgallants!" Roland called over the winds. "Take in the canvass and reef the mainsail!" Stephens didn't bother shouting back, but made the calls up the rigging to the men still in the tops.

The ship shuddered more violently and Roland could hear Barnes muttering reassurances to himself. The Helmsman was joined on his side by Jasper and the four men tried to keep the ship running before the storm. Men in the tops fought with the billowing canvass, struggling to take it in. Roland looked behind him again as the last bit of light was swallowed by the clouds, and with it, the Navy's pursuit.

Mizzen mast and main mast sails came in and men began to descend.

The Charon

rolled and pitched forward almost as if she hoped to shake her crew loose. But the dark smudges of the men held fast to their lines and Roland gratefully heard boots hitting the deck shortly thereafter.

A man appeared from below, fighting his way up the stairs through the shattering rain fall.

"Captain!" Mr. Schmidt called out as he grasped the line to steading himself. "The pumps are at maximum and Toby's still got more holes. We're taking on water at port and we need more hands."

"Take the wheel, Mr. Schmidt. I'll see to it," Roland traded places with the man and made his way down to the main deck. "Below!" he shouted to the men clinging to the lines as water sloshed over the sides, foaming at the scuppers and pulling their footing from underneath them. "Mind the pumps and fill holes as needed."

"Captain!" Stephens appeared next to him. "We should heave-to and go below. There's nothing left to do but wait this out."

"We run before this storm Luke," Roland shouted back, rain and sea foam filling his mouth as another wave filled the wait of the ship before retreating.

"Aye, but soon it won't make a lick of difference if we can't see the waves."

He was right, of course. "Get up the rigging on the foremast and help take in the last of the sails. I'll inform the men at the wheel."

Roland turned back towards the stair, the water soaking him to his core as another wave crashed over the gunwales and sent his back painfully into the rail. He took another step upwards, clinging to the soaked wood as The

Charon

plowed downwards into the next swell.

A great cracking sound erupted from above as he reached the bottom of the steps. The foremast mainsail, reefed to ease the strain but still propel the ship, snapped in the wind as its securing lines came loose. The men above it, still fighting with the top gallants, swayed in the ropes as the mast bent under the strain.

Roland changed direction and charged up the forecastle as Stephens, quick as ever, launched himself into the rigging. "Stephens!" Roland shouted into the wind, trying to keep the man from ascending any higher. But his voice was lost in the gale.

The lashings for the main sail caught and the canvassed billowed with the force of the wind. Stephens was halfway up to the top gallant when a man clinging to the yard arm screamed and lost his grip. Roland didn't see his body hit the waves in the dark and though the call went out, there was no man to do anything.

Roland grabbed an axe and went to the lines holding the sails in the place, intending on easing the strain on the smallest mast. The boat keeled hard, dipping the starboard yard arms into the sea before righting. Roland slipped as the deck disappeared from under his boots but he stood again as the water rushed over him and took up the axe again. Someone came alongside him to work as well. With one side free, Roland turned to the starboard lines to find the man next to him was Dooley, surprising him even through the acute focus he'd found during the storm's course.

The ship heeled, the sails taking them alongside the break of the waves so they were at beam sea in turbulent waters. The topgallant fell despite the men working to secure it, filling immediately and snapping another sailor off and into the waves. The crack of the mast breaking shot through the sounds of the storm, and Roland and Dooley turned to see the top of the foremast snap off, sending the royal and topgallant into the sea, along with the few crew members still clinging to it.

The lines that secured the sails and mast pulled on the wreckage as it made it's descent into the foaming sea. Roland shoved Dooley out of the way as a line pulled tight across the forecastle, nearly sending them flying to the main deck below.

Barnes was there before Roland could stand. "Cut it loose, Captain!" the navigator screamed through the rain and wind. "We can't keep her running this way." He lost his footing as the ship keeled over towards the broken mast, pulled by the weight over till the leeward gunwale skimmed the waves. Roland and Dooley wedges their footing between the deck floor and the gunwale, the tilt of the ship too extreme to stand on the deck alone.

Barnes was screaming to the men in the water, but Roland couldn't make out his words. It didn't matter. There was no choice in the matter. Dooley swung his axe faster than the man had ever moved before. The two of them worked on the lines until one remained. Roland cast a look out to the wreckage, and found he couldn't see it any longer. Dooley struck the last line and the men who may or may not have still been there were lost into the night.

*

The terrifying sound of the dismasting was all the warning she had before the ship pitched. Kenna slammed into the wall next to the berth, her back hitting the wood with the full force of her body as the ship keeled violently to starboard. Her head struck the wood hard enough to make her vision blacken, or it would have had she been able to see anything; the lantern she'd lit before dinner was long put out for fear of fire. Water sloshed on the floor and she tried to pull herself from the side of the cabin, only to find the ship was not righting itself.

In the dark she thought she could hear the sea foaming at the windows, the water hungry for some entry. She lay there, dazed from the blow, her back pressed to the wood, as the world tilted deeper into the waves. In her mind's eye she was arriving to port on

The Orion

, he sister waiting for her on the docks with her children. They stood there, straight and solid, smiling and holding out their hands to her, the offer of freedom at the tips of their fingers, the promise of a new beginning in their joyful faces. And still Roland intruded into the fantasy, the wood at her back became his chest, the pit in her gut became his anchoring arm around her middle as he hauled her back.

The ship rolled again and Kenna tumbled back into the berth. The pounding in her head began to overwhelm her, the loss of all she'd eaten dragging her downward. The sunny dock disappeared and all that was left was darkness and the phantom embrace of a man who was not there.

*

Roland followed Barnes down the steps to the gun deck. Dooley shut the hatch behind them and the three stood before the crew.

"Night's fallen and we will ride this out below," Roland informed the men who sat on wet wood, water still sloshing through the gun port lids as the waves beat the sides of

The Charon

. "Keep switching out with those on the pumps. Where's Toby?"

"Still below with ten men," one of the crew said in the absence a superior to speak up.

Roland nodded and turned to Barnes. "Check on the pumps. I'm going to help in the hold."

"You don't have to do that, Captain," Dooley said from behind him. "Toby's got ten men down there. Surely they don't need you as well."

The ship rocked violently and Roland grabbed an overhead line to keep from falling. He gave Dooley no such help as the man was laid out on the deck.

"I have a responsibility to this crew, Mr. Dooley, as do you. Why don't you join me below? I'm sure we can find something useful for you to do."

Barnes turned back to Roland. "Luke?"

Roland shook his head, "Luke Stephens was lost with the rest of the men on the foremast. It could have been all of us if not for Mr. Dooley's help." There was a sharp point in the way he said 'help' as if perhaps the Quartermaster had been helping send the men to their watery graves instead of releasing the ship from the drag of her foremast. It was unkind, but Roland found himself looking at Dooley's face instead of Stephens and the anger he felt at that threatened to bubble over more violently.