Granny pushed on Hawkeye's shoulder to bring him around, even as she raised her long glass. Her hand trembled, the skin blotched with the sun and yellowish.

"Jaysus Mary and Joseph," the old woman breathed.

A forest of masts had appeared to the northeast, a world of sails. A hundred ships or more, maybe five miles off: no distance at all in good winds. Hawkeye felt the skin on the back of his neck rise in a slow shimmer.

"Micah!" Stoker grabbed the young sailor and shoved him hard. "Up the mast, lad, and see what you can see. Be quick about it! Connor, raise that jib now."

"I can't pull a friggin' turnbuckle out of thin air!" the first mate bellowed, his whole body jerking as he rounded on his captain. Then his expression shifted, anger slipping away suddenly to be replaced by surprise. He raised an arm to point. "The frigate's rolling her guns out!"

Hawkeye swung around without any prodding from Granny.

The frigate was no more than thirty yards off, her broad black side looming with all gunports open. Three officers stood on the quarterdeck, their hands crossed casually at their backs: hunters sure of their prey, and in no hurry.

Giselle pushed in front of Hawkeye, her jaw set like a child's who will not be ignored, but Granny reached out and grabbed her by the shirt before she could say a word.

"To the guns!" Granny shouted. "Don't stand there with your gob hanging open, girl! To the guns!"

Giselle shook the old woman off, all her concentration on Hawkeye, and so the volley took her by surprise, threw her off her feet as the twenty-pounder plowed into the forward mast where young Micah perched, still counting ships on the horizon.

Oak cracked like bad bone and the mast came down, rope and sail shrieking, and through it all the boy screamed. He hit the rail and his back snapped in two; the look of surprise on his face was the last thing Hawkeye saw before the deck filled with smoke and the terrible clatter and fizzle of grapeshot.

Granny slung her arms tighter around Hawkeye's neck, shouting hoarsely in his ear. The ship rocked hard as Giselle grabbed his legs to haul herself upright, but a twelve-pounder hit the mast directly overhead and they went down in a tangle, the three of them, Hawkeye bent over the women as a hailstorm of shattered rigging began to fall. It went on for minutes, and then in the sudden silence Giselle coughed.

"Have they sunk us?" Her voice calm, even cold.

Granny croaked a kind of laugh and pushed at Hawkeye to move him off her. "You'd be treadin' water already if that's what they had in mind, the bloody bastards."

"What do they want?" That same tone, as if she were discussing the price of a new bonnet.

Hawkeye pulled himself to his feet, feeling the bruises rising already on his back and a cut on his shoulder. He said, "They must be after fresh crew. They'll be boarding us next."

Granny's eye blinked, as bright as a crow's. "Aye, and you'll arm yourself right quick, girl, or those marines will be mountin' more than the poor old Jackdaw."

Connor's voice came to them from the quarterdeck where he stood looking not at the frigate, which could end them with one more volley, but in the opposite direction. "Blow me if that ain't the whole Atlantic fleet. And they've got two sloops-of-war headed this way."

Stoker lifted himself off the deck, fought free of a mass of shredded sail, and picked his way across the rubble.

Beside Hawkeye, Giselle let out a half-sigh, but Granny Stoker grinned.

"There ye are, boyo. Prime me musket double quick. Anne Bonney won't go down without a fight."

"It's a gey lot o' trouble they're goin' tae for a handfu' o' sailors," Robbie said darkly as they watched the Leopard's longboat row toward them. "It makes no sense."

"They look healthy enough," Hawkeye agreed. If disease had reduced the crew to the point where they were desperate for replacements, there was no telling that by the brawny marines who manned the longboat.

There was only one officer among them. He raised his speaking trumpet so that the brass bell caught the light.

"Jackdaw! I am Captain Fane of His Majesty's Royal Navy. You will put down your arms and allow us to board or my gunners will sink you." With his other hand he raised his short sword and in response the Leopard fired a shot across the Jackdaw's bow.

The sailors were muttering among themselves, but Granny Stoker was not intimidated.

"Poxy sons of ha'penny whores!" she shouted, leaning out of Hawkeye's arms as if she would fling herself overboard and take on the Royal Marines bare-fisted.

"Captain?" Connor stood beside Mac Stoker, shifting from foot to foot.

Stoker kept his gaze on the Leopard, the rows of cannons and gunners. He had a look about him that came to a man when he knew himself to be outmaneuvered, and no longer able to protect his own: just enough anger to keep a stranglehold on the shame.

He gave the order, and the Jackdaw prepared to be boarded.

The captain of the Leopard kept Stoker with him while the marines searched the ship, took weapons, and herded the sullen crew to the quarterdeck.

"Bloody Tory arse-wipers! You can kiss me blind cheeks, fookin' cowards, the lot of youse!" Granny had lost her musket and her knife to a marine three times her size, but her mouth was her own.

She perched on a water cask now, as there was no intact mast left on which to hang her sling. "Give me back me musket. Do you bloody hear me, boyo? I want me musket so I can stick it up your captain's arse! At least he'll die with a smile on his ugly phiz!"