Surrender of a Siren (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #2)(68)

Gray decided maybe he could.

Sliding his back down the mast, he sank to the deck and wrestled to remove his boots.

The flames had reached the standing rigging now. Above him, the tar sizzled and popped on the surfaces of the ropes, dripping to the deck like a black, sulfurous rain. His first taste of hell? The heat of the flames washed over him.

And then a familiar voice froze the very blood in his veins.

“What now, Captain?”

It couldn’t be. Gray’s head snapped up, and a curse tainted his rough exhalation. It was. Davy. “What the hell are you still doing here? You were supposed to leave with the boat!”

The boy shrugged. “I didn’t. Thought you needed me.”

Gray squeezed his eyes shut and let his booted foot fall to the deck.

“Davy, I don’t suppose you can swim?”

“No, Captain.”

Gray swore again. He kicked the mast. Punched it. Stepped back, lowered his shoulder and rammed it with all his strength, all the while releasing a vicious stream of profanity.

Davy tilted his head and scratched his neck. “Don’t think that’s working.”

“You’re bloody right, it’s not working,” Gray shouted at him. “We’re going to die, do you realize that?”

“Is there no other way to take a mast down?”

“I’ve taken dozens of masts down. But from my own damn ship, with the…” As Gray’s voice trailed off, hope sparked in his chest. The idea was pure madness. But better mad than dead. He wheeled to face the bow, a prayer caught in his throat as his eyes swept the deck. Finally, his gaze locked on the object he sought.

A six-pounder cannon, hunched low by the rail.

He strode toward it, the boy hurrying to follow. “Davy, do you know how to fire a cannon?”

“No, Captain.”

After cutting the ropes with his knife, Gray swung the cannon one hundred and eighty degrees and shoved it to the center of the quarterdeck. “You’re going to learn. Put your thumb here”—he indicated the vent hole at the top, and waited until Davy complied—“and don’t remove it until I tell you to.”

Gray retrieved the keg Davy had dropped earlier and broke it open with his knife, pouring a good third of its contents into the cannon. No time to measure out the charge. Better to err on the side of excess. Now for the cannonballs. “We’ll use a double shot,” he explained to Davy.

“We’ll only get one try at this.” Gray reached for the row of shot stored in the bulwark, only to snatch his hand back. The bloody things were still scorching to the touch. And worse. His heart sank as he gave the row an experimental kick.

The damned things were fused together. A caterpillar of iron. Every profane word Gray had ever heard, read, uttered, or invented spewed forth from his mouth. Don’t panic, he told himself, when Davy blanched. Anything can go in a cannon. Anything metal, and preferablyround.

The gale howled through the sails, now lacy with flame. The ship gave a sudden lurch; the deck tipped. And the smoking remnants of the ship’s bell rolled to rest at Gray’s feet, like the answer to a prayer.

Using the cuffs of his shirt to buffer the heat, he threw the lump of metal into the cannon’s mouth.

Gray gestured for Davy to remove his thumb. “Now, we need a fuse …and a spark.”

“No shortage of those.” Davy’s straight-faced quip gave Gray a sudden surge of determination. He was not going to let this boy die. Crewmen with his good humor and courage were beastly hard to find. Crouching behind the cannon, he aligned the sights with the base of the mainmast, just below the spreading flames.

If he missed—or even if he hit his mark—this single shot could have the entire ship exploding into flame and ash. It was a desperate risk, for a desperate situation.

“Stand clear, to the side,” he ordered Davy. “And cover your ears.” Gray scrambled to pluck a glowing sliver of wood from the deck. He touched it to the fuse, clapped his hands over his ears, and ducked.

Boom.

The shot ripped from the cannon’s barrel. A cloud of smoke and powder instantly engulfed them. Splinters of wood showered them, some piercing straight through Gray’s shirt and lodging in his flesh. Blinded, deafened, choked, and gagged—Gray simply waited for one of his senses to return and let him know whether or not he’d survived.

The powder slowly cleared, and through the dissipating cloud, Gray saw the mainmast. Blasted on one side, but still standing. Still afire. Burning brighter still.

Gray jumped to his feet. “Fall, damn you.”

The wind accelerated, and an eerie creaking sound pierced the air. Slowly, drunkenly, the mainmast splintered at its base and made an ungainly dive into the sea, severed rigging slithering behind it like eels.

“Jesus Christ.” Gray slumped back to his knees.

And then—as if God Himself had heard him and decided to drown his blasphemous soul and be done with it—the skies opened up and vomited rain.

Stinging sheets of water scoured the deck, pelting them as they huddled by the cannon. For long moments the two of them crouched there, soaking up water like sponges. Gray’s limbs were heavy with shock. At last, Davy sputtered and shook himself like a wet dog, adding a horizontal spray of water to the vertical deluge. “Thank God.” His boyish  grin broke the ice encasing Gray’s own reaction.