How many of the great captains still lived? As far as Radcliffe knew, all their ships but one still floated. But the number of dead and wounded on the battered Black Hand warned that not all of them would have dodged bad luck.
Splash! Another body swathed in bloody canvas went into the drink. Red Rodney scowled. "If we win another fight like this, we're bloody well ruined."
Ben Jackson shrugged broad shoulders. "Well, skipper, we're bloody well buggered if we lose, too. So where does that leave us?"
In trouble, Radcliffe thought. You didn't want to believe what a man-of-war's broadside could do to a ship. And the Black Hand was lucky. That leak wasn't…too bad. She still had both masts and most of her yards and rigging. Men were aloft, patching the sails. She could go where she needed to go. She could fight again…if she had to.
The boat ride over to Michel de Grammont's ship was a relief. While his men rowed him from one brigantine to the other, Radcliffe didn't have to think about anything. The Aigle d'Argent had taken less damage than the Black Hand. Rodney Radcliffe supposed that was because de Grammont hadn't wanted to close with the enemy, and so fewer cannon balls had come her way. At another time, he would have something to say to the Frenchman. For now, it could wait.
He clambered up over the side. "Is it that we are victorious?" de Grammont asked in accented English.
"For now, anyway," Red Rodney said. "Let's go back to your cabin. What have you got to drink?"
"Wine," the admiral answered. Rodney Radcliffe hid a sigh. He wanted whiskey or rum. But wine would do if he drank enough of it.
It was red and sweet and strong-strong for wine, anyhow. A couple of mugs began to build a wall between him and what had happened earlier in the afternoon. One by one, the other leading captains came aboard. Bertrand Caradeuc's earring was missing. So was his right ear; a marksman on one of William Radcliff's armed merchantmen had shot it off. Had the ball flown a couple of inches to the left, Caradeuc wouldn't have been there. Goldbeard Walter Kennedy wasn't. He'd lost a leg above the knee, and probably wouldn't live out the night. His younger brother, a massive man who carried the nickname Brickyard, came in his place.
"We beat 'em," Brickyard said. He'd brought his own jug of something strong, and swigged from it now.
"We did." Red Rodney sounded so gloomy about it, he made everyone else stare at him. And he had reason for sounding gloomy, too: "What do we do if they come after us again tomorrow morning? We're out of fireships, and we'd never surprise 'em twice anyhow."
Cutpurse Charlie Condent stared at him in horror. "They wouldn't do that…would they?" He shook his head, answering his own question: "Nah. 'Course they wouldn't. I lay they're bound for Stuart now, tails between their legs."
"How much?" Radcliffe asked. "A gold sovereign? I'll take your money. I'll take it, all right…if my damned cousin and his dogs don't take your life."
"You're on, by God!" Condent said. "You'll pay me when I see you in Avalon. Or if you turn out to be right, I'll pay you when I see you there…or I'll pay you when I see you in hell."
Red Rodney spat when he heard that, to turn aside the evil omen. So did Brickyard Kennedy. "Watch your mouth, Charlie," Radcliffe said.
"I didn't mean anything by it," the other captain said.
"Watch your mouth anyway," Red Rodney told him. Cutpurse Charlie Condent glared back. At another time, they might have gone for swords or pistols. Radcliffe thought about it anyway. By the way that glare lingered, so did Cutpurse Charlie. But, until they knew what the enemy ships were doing, they had more important foes than each other.
"We sank some of their ships of the line, and wrecked some others," Bertrand Caradeuc said. "They may have decided they've had enough."
"If they have, we sail home and we fill up our forces again," Red Rodney Radcliffe said. "I know I'm not the only one who lost more than he wished he did."
The other captains all nodded. He'd been sure they would. He'd never known-he'd never imagined-a cannonading like that. He counted the corsairs lucky that Goldbeard Kennedy was the only major skipper missing here. To Radcliffe's surprise, de Grammont spoke up: "Can we fight them again on the sea?"
"Is anybody aiming to try, if they come south again?" Red Rodney asked.
No one said anything for a long time. At last, Brickyard Kennedy said, "We beat 'em. Cutpurse Charlie's right about that. They won't dare try to hit us again. They sailed away, after all. We didn't." He sounded like a man trying to convince himself as well as his comrades.
"If they sail south in the morning, and we fly before 'em, we didn't really win a damned thing today," Condent added.
"You're right," Red Rodney said. "And so?"
Cutpurse Charlie glowered some more. "And so you led us up here to beat them and drive them away. And if we didn't, why were we such a pack of damn fools as to follow you, eh? Answer me that, you sorry son of a dog!"
Rodney Radcliffe resolved that he would kill the other captain first chance he got. But that chance was not now. He sighed. "We had a chance of doing it. We may have done it even yet. What other choice did we have? Let them land by Avalon? Let them into Avalon Bay?"
"What are the forts for, if not to hold those bastards out?" Condent returned.
"If we don't do everything we want out here on the open sea, we can try something else later," Radcliffe said. "If we don't try anything out here and if the forts fail us, it's over. We've lost. And even if they do come forward now and have at the forts, they're weaker than they would have been if we didn't fight 'em here."
Cutpurse Charlie Condent didn't glare any more. He only rolled his eyes. "So are we," he said, and Radcliffe found no quick comeback for that.
William Radcliff did not order his captains-or even Piet Kieft, who had to rate as a commodore-to repair aboard the Royal Sovereign. He used signal lamps to order the fleet to stop, and arranged the smaller, faster ships in a circle around the surviving men-of-war and merchantmen. If the pirates came forward, the heart of the fleet would have warning.
"Will you not discuss our next move with the officers who needs must make it?" Elijah Walton asked him.
"I will not, or why am I admiral?" Radcliff returned. "Tomorrow, we fight again."
"And if the captains should refuse your order?" Walton persisted.
"I shall construe that as making a mutiny, and fire upon any ships failing in obedience," William said.
"Dear God in heaven," Walton said. "You are a man who will eat fire even if you must kindle it yourself."
"I am a man who will see the Hesperian Gulf cleared of pirates, Mr. Walton," William said. "I am a man who will see Avalon razed, its present populace captured or scattered to the winds, and the place settled with men of civil disposition. It could be a jewel in the British crown of Atlantis rather than a boil on his Majesty's arse."
"You show yourself a settler. No good Englishman would speak of his Majesty so."
"I am a settler," Radcliff said proudly. "I am loyal to London across the sea…in however dilatory a fashion London may show its loyalty to me. But I am also loyal to Atlantis, and I believe I have earned the right to hold that loyalty as well. My forefathers settled here two centuries ago. When two more centuries have passed, I expect Radcliffs to dwell here yet. And in two centuries London had better look to its laurels, for Stuart will grow up to rival it."
Elijah Walton laughed. William angrily clapped a hand to his pistol. The laughter cut off, and the admiral's hand fell away. "I do beg pardon for my show of mirth, but surely you must see the absurdity of your statement," Walton said. "London is…well, London. Stuart makes a very tolerable town for a settlement on distant shores, but…my dear fellow! Have you ever seen London? Do you know how greatly it outshines your home?"