The Bright and Breaking Sea (A Captain Kit Brightling Novel Book 1)
The Bright and Breaking Sea: Chapter 13

Where the hell did they come from?” Kit asked, grabbing the glass Jin offered her as sailors ran to their posts, ready for instructions.

But she could surmise the answer—the gun brig had swung around the far side of one of the archipelago’s islands, was rounding the downwind side of it. The ship was a mile off the Diana’s port quarter and gaining ground. Every sail had been raised, or was being raised, and it flew like a bird across the water.

Tamlin dropped to the deck and ran toward them through the currents of sailors.

“Why would it attack us?” she asked. Her hair was windblown and tousled, her cheeks pink from breeze and sunlight, and her eyes wide.

“Because of who we have on board,” Grant said. “They want Dunwood.”

“Or his information,” Kit agreed. “Or to destroy the entire lot of us and make things much easier for themselves and Gerard. Let me think,” she added, and walked to the stern, looked over the sea in their wake. The ship and its contingent seemed to inhale, as if silently holding a collective breath for her response.

The Diana was fast, and although they’d put out plenty of canvas to leave Finistère, there were sails to unfurl yet. But the gun brig had cannons. It didn’t need to overcome the Diana; it only needed to get within firing range. And that particular threshold was growing closer: Kit growled as the gun brig unfurled stunsails that extended horizontally over the hull of the ship like wings of canvas.

“The Guild can march right into the sea,” Kit muttered, then looked up, took in the canvas already on the ship, considered the wind, the water.

Fully rigged, the gun brig would probably be faster on a straight run. They were downwind, and if the sea and wind stayed steady, even with all canvas flying, they might not be able to outrun it. It would be close, and she didn’t like close.

But the Diana was more maneuverable, and speed could be negotiated. So she closed her eyes and reached out for the water. She could feel the tension created by both ships. The water thin and churning in the shoals that surrounded the islands, deeper and smoother in the waters offshore. Those were the faster waters. But, again, if they couldn’t win at speed, they could win other ways.

She opened her eyes, found Simon nearby. “Get me the archipelago map. Tamlin, get back in the top. Let us know if the wind’s going to change. Jin, all hands and keep us flying.”

The bell was rung. Seconds later, the sailors who weren’t already on deck emerged from the forecastle, began spreading to their stations.

By the time Kit turned back to the cabinet behind the wheel, Simon had the archipelago map spread atop it. Kit surveyed it, reviewed the distance between their position and the two next-largest islands: Black and Kestrel.

“What are you thinking?” Grant asked, standing beside her. And for the first time, he sounded curious, not as if he was preparing for criticism or argument.

“That we can’t beat them running downwind, and we can’t engage them,” she said. “They’re probably faster and obviously armed. As much as I’d like to let them get closer and take them with steel, it’s too risky. We have to get Dunwood home. But we may be able to outsail them.

“We’re here,” she added, pointing at the spot just northeast of Finistère. Then she looked up, glanced at the horizon. Black Island, the next in the chain, was south of them, and several miles off the port bow. The opposite of the direction they needed to travel—northeast and toward home—but the diversion would, she hoped, be temporary.

“If they can use the islands to hide,” she said, “we can use them to escape.” She looked up and at her officers. “The gun brig has a deeper draft. It’s all those damn cannons and shot. And I suspect they’re eager enough, desperate enough, to chase us, but we have the advantage in shallow water. So let’s use the shoals to our advantage.”

“You want to trick them into following us into shallow water and grounding themselves?” Grant asked.

“That’s the idea.” They’d had some luck today, and she hoped it would hold. “I’m thinking . . .” Kit began, and traced a finger along the route she had in mind, snaking in and around the islands.

“Won’t they have the same maps?” Grant asked. “And know we’re ultimately headed home? They could simply wait for us.”

“Maps, yes,” Kit agreed. “But they won’t follow us all the way to the Isles—not without a declaration of war—and they don’t want to risk losing Dunwood. If they want to catch us now, they’re going to have to play by our rules.”

She moved in front of the wheel, looked over her crew. “We’re going to let them chase us,” she called out, loud enough that the sailors could hear. “But we’re going to set the course. We’re going through the shoals, and need to be careful and cautious. She’s armed, and she may fire when we tack, when we expose our flank. That’s a risk we’ll have to take. Our mission is to get Dunwood home,” Kit said. “And by Kanos, that’s damned well what we’ll do.”

“For Dunwood!” the crew called out, fists raised in the air. “For the Isles!”

Nodding, she looked at Jin. “I want every available bit of canvas hanging on this boat. If there’s a jib, staysail, stunsail, pair of filthy trousers, it should be attached and hanging.”

“Aye, Captain,” Jin said with a satisfied smile, and the relay of orders began. Men were already on the foremast yard to unfurl the square topgallant, and she was sheeted home, tightened against the wind, masts and rigging creaking as the Diana surged forward.

The process was repeated—canvas raised or unfolded, lines tightened, the Diana offering mild complaints against the tension on her hull, but increasing her speed all the same.

Kit’s smile was slow and satisfied, and her heart began to pound again. She understood the stakes, understood the risk. Understood the likelihood that she, or some of her crew, would be injured. But they’d do it with sails flying, charting their own course. And there was little more that a sailor could ask for.

Except, in this case, for a viscount.

She looked at Grant. “I need you to be my eyes.”

He blinked back surprise. “Pardon?”

“It’s easier to read the water if I close my eyes—shut out the distractions. But I could use someone to give an eye on our visible location. I need Jin giving orders, Simon at the wheel. That means it falls to you.”

Grant lifted a brow. “Not entirely flattering, being third choice.”

“Third on a ship of nearly two dozen,” Kit pointed out, “and an army man at that. So it’s really quite a compliment.”

“In that case, I can hardly decline.” His tone was mannerly, but there was a glint in his eye. Amusement or eagerness, she wasn’t sure. He moved to stand beside her.

“We’re ready, Captain,” Jin said, and Kit gave one last look at the gun brig, the castle of canvas. And prepared to ground it.

“First tack is around Black Island,” Kit said. “Hard to port on my mark.” She glanced at Grant. “You recall which side is port?”

“You’re terribly amusing. And yes.”

She smiled at him. “Excellent. And hang on. These turns are going to be tight.”

He nodded, the same battle readiness in his eyes as the others’, and looked ahead.

Kit put a hand on the steering cabinet to steady herself, closed her eyes, and drifted down as the crew went silent, waiting for her command. Deep water to port, shallower to starboard, the current stochastic and broken among the rocks and the remains of ships that finally had run out of luck.

“We’re nearing the channel between the islands,” Grant said.

“I can feel it,” she said quietly as the current sped, magic filling the deeper void between rocky outposts. The Diana would need to thread that channel just so, and she waited . . . then a bit more . . . for the timing . . .

“Three . . . two . . . one.” Her words were quiet, her concentration intense. “Mark.”

They tacked hard to port, the Diana keeling, deck tilted, as she pushed against ocean and inertia, and putting their side in the scope of the gun brig.

She knew the gun brig would take the chance and fire, because it was the same thing she’d have done. Kit felt the sea brace, contract as if repelled. And understood its reaction immediately.

“Incoming!” someone called out.

“Brace for impact!” Jin shouted, and she could hear the shift of wood and canvas as sailors ducked.

Two shots flew toward them, the sound following behind. She opened her eyes, watched the ball strike the water twenty feet from the hull, sending spray into the air that doused the sheets, but doing no damage.

“It’s tacking,” someone called out as sailors rose again with shouts of victory; firing at that angle would be useless. But this was only the Diana’s first turn. There would be others, and the gun brig would push closer for a better shot.

Which was exactly what Kit wanted. She settled her shoulders, closed her eyes again. “Grant?”

“Black Island on the starboard side.”

“Straighten her out,” Kit said. “North-northeast until my mark.”

“Aye, Captain,” Jin said, and the course was shifted until the ship was upright again, no longer leaning into the hard turn.

“We’re past Black Island,” Grant said a minute later.

“Kestrel next,” Kit said. And reached for the water again. The shallows around Black Island had been almost neatly distributed, like a crisp crust around the isle’s perimeter. But Kestrel was different, less uniform.

“Too shallow along the southeastern side,” she murmured, feeling the high ridge of rock and coral. “Keep her in the deep,” she said. “It’s rougher here.”

“Aye, Captain.”

“We’re two hundred yards offshore,” Grant said. Kit could hear the cacophonous scream of seabirds from an island she surmised was covered with them.

“Stay the course,” Kit said, pushing forward until she pushed through the water, and felt the ridge just off the island’s eastern shore.

“There’s a reef,” she said. “We’ll tack south around Kestrel between Kestrel and Black, then north-northeast. And if we get close enough without losing our own keel, we’ll lead them into it.”

“How close?” she heard Jin call out, concern in his voice.

“We may scrape a few barnacles off the hull,” she said with a smile, eyes still closed. “But if they’re focused on stopping us before we get into the Narrow Sea, this is their best opportunity. They may be foolish enough to risk it. Given they’re chasing an Isles ship without a declaration of war, they’re foolish enough. Jin, douse the stunsails. Let them get closer.”

There was no hesitation, regardless of the danger of the order. “Aye, Captain,” Jin said, and the order went out. The crew understood naval tactics, but still didn’t relish the idea of slowing down with a cannon-loaded ship behind them. But they trusted their captain as much as she trusted them.

The stunsails were hauled in, stowed, the Diana slowing.

“We’re coming up on the edge of the island,” Grant said.

“I can feel it,” Kit confirmed, its bulk like a blank spot in the water, an absence. The deep channel between and beyond. And beyond it, shallow water and the jagged reef, diamond sharp.

“We’ll be within their firing range, so stay ready, and stay careful.”

Shouts of “Aye” came from the deck, and then it went silent again but for the rush of water, the creak of rigging.

“On my mark,” she said again. “Three. Two. One. Mark.”

The order was made, the Diana heeling again as she was brought sharply south-southeast around the island.

The gun brig took its shot almost instantaneously. Kit felt the concussion, the air tightening as shots exploded toward them.

“Incoming!” was shouted again, and the crew braced.

Kit opened her eyes. The first struck the hull with a crack that Kit could feel through her bones. Wood and men flew through air now smeared with smoke and the acrid scent of gunpowder.

The second flew through the gunwale, sending splinters flying like arrows. It bullied through rigging and then fell through the deck.

“It’s tacking,” Simon called out.

“Have March see to the wounded,” Kit told Jin. “And get Oglejack downstairs to check the hull.”

Kit wouldn’t worry about that, not now. Not when the damned gun brig was still bearing down on them. Kit loved speed, but she was impatient, and she was particularly losing patience for a vessel making an unsanctioned attack on her ship—damaging her ship and hurting her people—in international damned waters.

“Kanos’s balls,” she muttered, and wondered if she should have thrown a dozen coins into the sea when they’d left New London.

“This is it,” she called out, focusing again on her job and closing her eyes. “Grant?”

“I’m with you. I can see the chop ahead—the water’s lighter.”

As was the magic, Kit thought, the current was choppier again. Beyond them, to port, was the reef, just offshore. She needed to replace the threshold around it, and sail just along that line. And then tempt the gun brig into crossing it.

She waited until they were close, until sweat covered her brow and coral seemed to prick at her fingers. “Three . . . two . . . one. Mark.”

They bore toward port, the ship creaking like an old woman, listing in the turn.

Kit opened her eyes, looked back. The gun brig cut in just behind them, aimed at the Diana’s flank—its position just slightly farther north. If it wanted to fire again, it would have to sail right over the reef.

Both ships took a risk. Both ships hoped the benefit would outweigh the cost.

Kit saw the spark as the gun brig fired. “Incoming!” she screamed, but the sound of the cannons drowned her voice.

Three shots this time, whistling . . . and then there was chaos.

One ball glanced off the port bow, tore through rigging, and had the flying jib flapping. The other hit forward near the forecastle, shattering glass and punching another hole through the deck.

Kit watched in horror as the third struck the top portion of the mainmast, just above where Tamlin perched. A snap broke the air like lightning, and the topmast split away, taking sails and rigging—and Tamlin—with it, plunging into the sea.

“Man overboard!” someone called as the Diana listed to the side, pulled down by the weight of sails and rigging and wood.

“Cut it away!” someone yelled, and fear gripped Kit’s heart like a fist. She took off toward the bow, but Grant, long legs pumping, was faster, looked over the gunwale.

“She’s in the rigging!” he called out. “And she’s holding on. Don’t cut it away—haul it in!”

Kit forced herself to trust him, to join the line of sailors who heaved, arm over arm, to pull up the tangle of rope and wood.

And then Grant was reaching out, and he and Sampson pulled Tamlin over the side. Her eyes were wide, her skin even paler than usual, her red hair wet and streaming.

But she was alive.

“Dastes,” Kit said, refusing to think how close they’d been to tragedy, and reminded herself to throw a coin later.

“Take her down to March,” Kit said as Sampson scooped Tamlin in his arms. “And get the mess cut away. Keep anything worth salvaging.” And because she still had a crew to lead, trusted Sampson and March just as she’d trusted Grant, and went back to the helm, looked back at the gun brig.

“Status?”

“Still moving, Captain,” Jin said.

“Anytime now,” Simon murmured.

They heard the grinding crunch across the water, looked back to see the gun brig lean, then come to a full stop as hull and coral came to blows. And coral won, even as the masts began to tilt, the sails still full of wind.

There were shouts of glee from the Diana, shouts of fury and fear from the gun brig as they ran for the masts, prepared to cut them down to keep from tearing their ship apart.

“Take that, ya bastards!” August said, shaking a fist in victory.

He finally got one right.