Chapter 1

Th e d e c k o f the French ship was slippery with
blood, heaving in the choppy sea; a stroke might as easily
bring down the man making it as the intended target.
Laurence did not have time in the heat of the battle to be
surprised at the degree of resistance, but even through
the numbing haze of battle-fever and the confusion of
swords and pistol-smoke, he marked the extreme look
of anguish on the French captain's face as the man
shouted encouragement to his men.
It was still there shortly thereafter, when they met on
the deck, and the man surrendered his sword, very reluctantly:
at the last moment his hand half-closed about the
blade, as if he meant to draw it back. Laurence looked
up to make certain the colors had been struck, then accepted
the sword with a mute bow; he did not speak
French himself, and a more formal exchange would
have to wait for the presence of his third lieutenant, that
young man being presently engaged belowdecks in securing
the French guns. With the cessation of hostilities,
the remaining Frenchmen were all virtually dropping
where they stood; Laurence noticed that there were
fewer of them than he would have expected for a frigate
of thirty-six guns, and that they looked ill and hollowcheeked.
Many of them lay dead or dying upon the deck; he
shook his head at the waste and eyed the French captain
with disapproval: the man should never have offered
battle. Aside from the plain fact that the Reliant would
have had the Amitié slightly outgunned and outmanned
under the best of circumstances, the crew had obviously
been reduced by disease or hunger. To boot, the sails
above them were in a sad tangle, and that no result of
the battle, but of the storm which had passed but this
morning; they had barely managed to bring off a single
broadside before the Reliant had closed and boarded.
The captain was obviously deeply overset by the defeat,
but he was not a young man to be carried away by his
spirits: he ought to have done better by his men than to
bring them into so hopeless an action.
"Mr. Riley," Laurence said, catching his second lieutenant's
attention, "have our men carry the wounded
below." He hooked the captain's sword on his belt; he
did not think the man deserved the compliment of having
it returned to him, though ordinarily he would have
done so. "And pass the word for Mr. Wells."
"Very good, sir," Riley said, turning to issue the necessary
orders. Laurence stepped to the railing to look
down and see what damage the hull had taken. She
looked reasonably intact, and he had ordered his own
men to avoid shots below the waterline; he thought with
satisfaction that there would be no difficulty in bringing
her into port.
His hair had slipped out of his short queue, and now
fell into his eyes as he looked over. He impatiently
pushed it out of the way as he turned back, leaving
streaks of blood upon his forehead and the sun-bleached
hair; this, with his broad shoulders and his severe look,
gave him an unconsciously savage appearance as he
surveyed his prize, very unlike his usual thoughtful expression.
Wells climbed up from below in response to the sum-
4 Naomi Novik
mons and came to his side. "Sir," he said, without waiting
to be addressed, "begging your pardon, but Lieutenant
Gibbs says there is something queer in the hold."
"Oh? I will go and look," Laurence said. "Pray tell
this gentleman," he indicated the French captain, "that
he must give me his parole, for himself and his men, or
they must be confined."
The French captain did not immediately respond; he
looked at his men with a miserable expression. They
would of course do much better if they could be kept
spread out through the lower deck, and any recapture
was a practical impossibility under the circumstances;
still he hesitated, drooped, and finally husked, "Je me
rends," with a look still more wretched.
Laurence gave a short nod. "He may go to his cabin,"
he told Wells, and turned to step down into the hold.
"Tom, will you come along? Very good."
He descended with Riley on his heels, and found his
first lieutenant waiting for him. Gibbs's round face was
still shining with sweat and emotion; he would be taking
the prize into port, and as she was a frigate, he almost
certainly would be made post, a captain himself. Laurence
was only mildly pleased; though Gibbs had done
his duty reasonably, the man had been imposed on him
by the Admiralty and they had not become intimates.