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The Story Starts Here___________________________

- Chapter 3 -

In fair weather, he allowed Danese to hold the wheel, her arms stretched to the breaking point, but always he would be within an arm’s reach beside her, guiding her, causing her emotions to churn and heat to the boiling point.

And through it all, Michael called himself a saint. He was totally besotted with Harry. He longed to hold her as a woman, to run his fingers through her soft hair. Her eyebrows gave only a hint of the magnificent hair color hidden beneath her sailor’s cap. Michael had come to hate that cap and he spent useless hours plotting its demise.

When Harry was near, Michael’s pulse accelerated to alarming rates, his breathing caught in slight little gasps as he inhaled the sweet fragrance she somehow managed to achieve on a ship full of sweaty sailors.

With the declaration of war, Michael drilled the men in battle tactics. In port in Savannah, he added two small powder monkeys, little boys about eight years old, to facilitate powder and cannon movement on the ship during a battle. Their actions during drills showed Michael that he had made a wise decision in bringing the little boys on board. Danese took special delight in watching out for them, seeing to their meals and keeping them clean.

The day the crew of the “Bold Spirit” had been waiting for finally arrived. The day dawned sunny and clear, but low-hanging, grayish clouds scudded across the sky before noon. No signs of a storm were seen but the wind was not at its best. The sails would suddenly slack and flap uselessly in the breeze. Michael retired to his cabin and his maps to try to reroute the ship to avoid the erratic winds. Shortly after he left the bridge, a squall line appeared on the horizon. At the same time, “Sail, ho!” was shouted from the nest.

Michael ran up on deck and fastened his green-eyed gaze on the approaching storm and the sail that rode the wind in front of it. Unable to maneuver his ship until the wind caught up with them, Michael could only watch as the British ship approached.

“Call stations, Oliver.” His voice was low and level. Michael kept his eyes trained on the dark boiling clouds behind the coming ship.

Oliver’s composure slipped as he shouted, “This is it, men! To stations! We’ll show them who’s in charge here!” Grinning, he tipped his cap to Michael and slipped down the ladder from the quarterdeck to more closely follow the crew’s actions.

Danese heard it all and began her duties in readying for battle. With her heart pounding furiously in her chest, she set about securing the galley, setting aside bandages, extra water, and the small store of medicines that were available, mostly herbs and powders.

Her hands trembling, Danese armed herself with two heavy skillets and on second thought, stuck a rolling pin in her belt. Michael had ordered her to lock herself in his cabin after her duties were done, but she found she couldn’t. She had to know what was happening. She had to be near Michael. What if something happened to him? What if he was hurt and she wasn’t there?

Michael continued to watch the sails, hoping that some wind would reach them before the British ship did. The “Bold Spirit” could barely turn, and Michael did not want to engage the British broadside. He had too few cannon to do much damage before they would blow him out of the water.

Michael knew he would have to rely on maneuverability and quick thinking.  As if his prayers were answered, the slack sails suddenly gave a lurch and filled with wind. A cheer went up from the crew, many of whom would admit to holding their breath. Now, at least they stood a fighting chance. Mumbled prayers could be heard from every corner of the ship.

The name of the British ship could now be read as it stood out proudly on its bow – the “Yorkshire.” Michael counted eighteen cannon, nine to a side. He confidently thought it could easily be handled.

“Raise colors!” The second mate quickly raised the American flag. Another cheer went up. They were now close enough to see the British captain on his quarterdeck. Michael shouted, his strong voice heard easily across the deck, “Stand by, larboard battery! Aim for her topsails. Reload instantly and fire again on my command!”

The “Yorkshire” pivoted for broadside but Michael swung leeward, exposing only his stern and angled portside. “Steady, men. Fire!” The cannon on board caused a ripple effect on deck as the ship jumped and the men felt the movement under their feet. A crashing and ripping sound jumped and the men felt the movement under their feet. A crashing and ripping sound caught everyone’s attention as Michael realized that at least two of the cannon had found their mark. The mainmast, the foremast, and the royals and topgallants were hit.

“Fine shot, men!” Michael cried, his face aglow. “We’ve hit her square.”  His teeth flashed bare and white against a face blackened by powder smoke.

Yelling like demons, Michael’s men leapt at their smoking guns to sponge out, load and send the carriages flying to battery. It was for this that their commander had drilled them so ceaselessly. Three broadsides were fired to every one of the “Yorkshire’s”. In the face of such punishment, the enemy’s top men were unable to get aloft to repair the damage done to rigging and canvas.

The British were following the tradition of firing low into the enemy’s hull. But Michael had little fear of being sunk immediately. Striding back and forth behind the smoking battery, shouting encouragement to his men, Michael felt certain he would have the “Yorkshire” battered to a hulk long before his own ship could be seriously distressed.

At close range now, both ships were exchanging broadsides. Danese could hear nothing but the deafening sound of the guns and the rumbling of the carriages. Her anxiety mounted as she wondered if Michael was all right. Urging herself forward, Danese made her way topside, bracing her body against the force of the cannon blasts. Nothing had prepared her for the confusion of the battle. Streaked with sweat, barefooted on the sanded decks, Michael’s men hauled desperately at tackles and rammers, making ready for hand-to-hand with the enemy.

Soaked to the skin, his brown hair plastered to his head and his green eyes flashing, Michael bellowed, “Keep those guns firing!” Danese had hidden in the companionway leading under the forecastle trying to get a good vantage point so she could keep her eye on Michael.

Never had he looked more dashing, every bit as much as her dreams had pictured him. Danese knew in this moment that she loved with a woman’s love, and with a full heart. No matter how many minutes or years were left to them, she wanted to be at his side to share whatever fate would hand them.

Michael had ordered grappling hooks, every man for himself. The rain and wind prevented tactics that would have spared the “Bold Spirit” while downing the “Yorkshire”. The only advantage left in the “Bold Spirit” was the tremendous pride Michael had in his crew and their ability to fight. Men from both sides crossed over, with shouts and war cries rising above the pounding rain. Danese strained to keep Michael in view, but lost him in the swarms of men converging on one another.

Raising one of the heavy skillets, Danese advanced in the crouched position, trying to stay out of the melee. She angled herself away from the men and crept up the steps to the quarterdeck. Using the railing as a shield, she hunkered down and waited for an opening.

Giving a quick prayer for a steady hand, Danese waited until on of the men came close enough to her hiding place.

Recognizing the uniform, she raised her arm and brought the skillet crashing down, toppling the man backwards. Closing her eyes, not wanting to view the results of her deed, Danese took aim on a second man.

Grimacing, she couldn’t help a small feeling of pride. She hadn’t hidden in the captain’s cabin like a ninny, but had contributed to the outcome of the battle. The thought brought Danese swiftly back to reality. The hand to hand battle continued.

Scanning the deck and the fallen masts of the other ship, Danese realized almost at once that the Britisher had managed to get men in the rigging that was left standing. They were about to fire into the crew of the “Bold Spirit”. Unable to do anything, Danese strained to make herself heard above the noise. “In the rigging! In the rigging!”

She was gratified to see she had alerted Oliver. Danese watched as he made his way under the quarterdeck and returned with a musket and two knives. Already primed, Oliver raised the musket quickly to his shoulder and fired, hitting the first marine in the chest. She held her breath as he slowly slid downward, then plunged to the deck.

Danese suddenly felt sick and dragged large amounts of air into her lungs. She hated war. She hated the thought that these men being killed had wives and children and loved ones they would never see again. Then she thought of the British balls hitting the man she loved and she hardened her resolve.

Oliver had disposed of the second marine. Danese had no idea if he had fallen or not. The third marine took a knife in the thigh. He, too, toppled backwards, but his foot caught in the ropes and he dangled there twenty feet above the ship.

Danese turned her attention to the deck, her eyes automatically seeking out the brown-haired captain. Michael and Oliver fought back to back with cutlass drawn, holding off four attackers.

Danese slithered forward, still using the railing as protection, then scurried around the helm to the other side of the ship, dragging the skillet behind her. Checking to see if the rolling pin was still in her belt, she waited for an opening. As Michael and Oliver turned, their opponents also shifted positions, giving Danese the clearing she needed. She brought the rolling pin down on one of Oliver’s opponents. He stood for a long moment, dazed and unseeing. Then he dropped like a rock to the deck.

Suddenly she was trembling. Not knowing if it was a delayed reaction, or because her aim might now determine Michael’s fate, she squeezed her eyes shut and pictured only Michael’s face. Taking a deep breath, as calm as she could possibly be considering the circumstances, she opened her eyes, raised the skillet with two hands and heaved it as hard as she could toward the enemy.

At exactly the same time, Michael was able to parry and lunge, his cutlass plunging into one of his opponents upper belly. Expecting a blow from his second attacker, Michael quickly removed his sword and side stepped, swinging toward the man. Michael stood still for several seconds, unable to comprehend the look of sheer horror on the enemy’s face. The man dropped his cutlass and clutched his chest with both hands. He then sank to his knees and fell face down on the deck.

Michael was at a loss, and noting Oliver had only one attacker, he knelt and turned the body over. The man wasn’t dead, but he was unable to catch his breath as if a violent blow had knocked it out of him. But what had happened?

Michael turned and saw Harry on the quarterdeck crouched by the outer railing. What was she doing there? She should be below decks.

Michael saw that Harry now sheltered the two little monkeys and was trying to stay out of the way and protect them at the same time. With a slight smile but no further thought, Michael turned back to the fighting.

Captain Michael Smith’s voice rang out loud and clear, “The enemy strikes!”

Down from the stump of the “Yorkshire’s” mainmast fluttered the tattered Cross of St. George. The battle was over. The British captain and first mate were dead. The enemy toll was 22 dead, 29 wounded. Michael’s crew suffered 6 dead and 19 wounded.

The next several hours the men worked strenuously to clear the two decks of debris, carrying and treating the wounded and resting themselves. All of it was done in a driving rain. Danese was exhausted and sickened as she helped with the wounded.

Unable to stand the smell of blood any longer, Danese sought out the deck despite the rain. Though everyone was tired and soaked, the men were beginning to let their usual good natures surface.

Danese glanced up at the horizon and caught her breath. The sky was spectacular. She looked around at the damage of war, her heart full of sadness, and said softly, “Well, mates, I believe the sunset is in our honor.”

Michael found his way to Danese’s side and placed his arm across her shoulder. She startled at the unexpected warmth seeping outward from his hand. Turning her head, she looked into Michael’s penetrating gaze, and her heart did flip-flops.

“I know what you did, Harry. I wasn’t sure at first, but several of the crew saw you throw that skillet with all the skill of someone used to wielding such weapons. It makes me glad that you’re on my side.” A grin took over his facial features as Michael squeezed Danese tighter. His grin became a chuckle and then an outright laugh.

Indignation rose in Danese, but she soon saw the humor of the situation. Her smile slowly widened until she, too, laughed.

He had absolutely no idea he had turned Danese’s legs into two quivering sticks of willow or her heart into a pounding drum. Taking a deep breath to steady herself, she grinned back. “Oh, I’m really rusty. Only one put of four hit where I aimed.”

“But you leveled all four!” Michael’s grin turned to incredulity.  “Well,” she paused, considering. “With practice, I’ll improve.”  Throwing that comment over her shoulder, Danese deliberately swaggered away. Let him wonder!