Hadrian nodded grimly.
Poe moved to help cut the salted pork, then added, “Wyatt has a plan. It won’t save everyone—only a handful, really—and it might not work at all, but it’s something. He wants to know if you’re in.”
“What about Royce?”
“Him too.”
“What’s the plan?”
“Sail!” they heard Mr. Wesley cry even from the galley. “Two more tartanes dead ahead!”
Poe and Hadrian, like everyone else aboard, scrambled to the deck to see Mr. Wesley pointing off the starboard bow. Two red sails were slipping out from hidden coves along the shore to block their retreat. Sailing nimbly against the wind, they moved to intercept the Storm.
“Clear the deck for action!” Seward shouted from the quarterdeck, wiping the sweat from his head.
Men scrambled across the ship, once more hauling buckets of sand and water. Archers took their positions on the forecastle, stringing their bows. Oil and hot coals were placed at the ready.
“We need to steer clear,” the captain said. “Helm, bring her—”
“We need speed, sir,” Wyatt interrupted.
The captain winced at the interruption. “Be mindful, Deminthal, or I’ll skip the flogging I owe you and have you hanged!”
“With all due respect, you abdicated that privilege to the Dacca last night. All the sooner if I alter course now.”
“By Maribor! Mr. Temple, take—” The captain stopped as he spotted the tartanes beginning to turn.
“See! They expected us to break,” Wyatt told him.
Realizing their mistake, the Dacca fought to swing back, but it was too late. A hole had been created.
Seward grumbled and scowled at Wyatt.
“Sir?” Temple asked.
“Never mind. Steady as she goes, Mr. Bishop. Order the archers to take aim at the port-side ship! Perhaps we can slow them down if we can manage to set one afire.”
“Aye, aye, sir!”
Hadrian rushed to the forecastle. Having proved himself one of the best archers on the ship, he was stationed at the center of the port side. He picked a strong, solid bow and tested the string’s strength.
“The wind will set the arrows off a bit toward the bow,” Poe mentioned, readying a bucket of glowing hot coals. “Might want to lead the target a bit, eh?”
“You’re my squire now as well?”
Poe smiled and shook his head. “I’ve seen you in practice. I figure the safest place on this ship right now is here. I’ll hand you the oiled arrows. You just keep firing.”
The Dacca tartanes slipped through the waves, their red triangular sails billowing out sideways as they struggled on a tight tack to make the best use of the headwind. Dark figures scurried like ants across the decks and rigging of the smaller ships.
“Ready arrows!” Lieutenant Bishop shouted.
Hadrian fitted his first shaft in the string.
As the Dacca closed in on the Storm, they began to turn. Their yards swept round and their tillers cranked, pivoting much as Wyatt had, the action all the more impressive as both ships moved in perfect unison, like dancers performing simultaneous pirouettes.
“Light arrows!”
Hadrian touched the oil-soaked wad at the tip of the shaft to the pot of coals and it burst into flame. A row of men on the port side stood ready, a trail of soot-black smoke wafting aft.
“Take aim!” Bishop ordered as the Dacca ships came into range. On the deck of the tartanes, a line of flaming arrows mirrored their own. “Fire!”
Into the blue sky flew a staggered arc of fire trailing black smoke. At the same time, the Dacca launched their volley, and the arrows passed each other in midair. All around him, Hadrian heard pattering as they struck. The bucket brigade was running to douse the flames, and above them Royce dropped along a line to kick free one lodged in the masthead before it could ignite the mainsail.
Poe had another arrow ready. Hadrian fitted it, lit it with the pot, took aim, and sent it into the lower yard of their mainsail. To his right, he heard the loud thwack of the massive ballista, which sent forth a huge flaming missile. It struck the side of the tartane, splintering the hull and lodging there.
Hadrian heard a hissing fly past his ear. Behind him, the oil bucket splashed and the liquid ignited. Poe jumped backward as his trousers flamed. Grabbing a nearby bucket, Hadrian smothered the fire with sand.