Hawkeye heard Giselle draw in a breath, in disgust or distraction he couldn't tell. It was true that the captain of the Leopard was young, but Hawkeye wasn't so quick as Granny to discount a man with so much firepower at his back.

The wind was high and there was no hope of catching anything of the conversation, at least not while Granny kept up her steady stream of curses, spattering the circle of marines with her spittle.

"Godforsook shite-brained maw-dickers!"

Giselle grabbed the old lady by the shoulder. "Annie," she said sternly. "Enough. We cannot hear when you carry on so."

Granny Stoker peered at Giselle anxiously, one hand clawing at her arm. "Ah, there you be, sweetings."

Robbie stiffened in surprise, but the crew covered their mouths with tarry hands, trying to hold back their uneasy smiles.

"Christ," Connor muttered, wiping his sweaty brow with his cap. "She's off again."

The old lady grinned sweetly as if she had not heard this. "You'll fetch me musket, won't you, Mary, me love?"

"Later," said Giselle evenly. "When the time is right."

The old lady slumped down in Robbie's arms. She hung there, staring glumly at the marines and at the crew gathered around, all of them nervous enough to jump ship and swim for France, if that would keep them off the Leopard. At least the cutters had been signaled back to the fleet, which seemed to take no more interest in them, now that the gunplay was over. The Royal Navy was bound for France; and so might this crew be, by nightfall.

"Cowards," Granny muttered thickly. "Not a real man in the lot of youse."

The captain of the Leopard turned and pointed in their direction.

"Here we are then, mates," said Jemmy with a sigh. "Tories or sharks."

He was a man of no more than average height but with a keen look about him, battle scarred and burned deeply by the sun. His gaze slid over the crew, hesitated at Giselle, and moved on to Hawkeye and Robbie. When he came to Granny she reared up and grinned at him.

"Hello, luvy. Come closer and give us a kiss."

"Connor," snapped Stoker. "Take her below."

She puckered up her toothless mouth. "Ooh, that's not very friendly. All these lovely big marines. Look at the doodle sack on that one, will ye? A yard like an iron pike."

"Connor!" Stoker barked.

"Go with them, Quint," said Fane. "We want no surprises."

Connor did as he was bid with the marine at his back while Fane examined the rest of the crew.

He lifted his short sword so that his sleeve pulled up. A scar crossed the back of his hand and snaked up underneath his cuff. With a little flourish he pointed at a man Hawkeye knew only as Penny Whistle.

"You, there. Have you ever served on board a ship of the Royal Navy?"

Penny scowled. "I'm Massachusetts born and raised. What would I be doin' on a friggin' Tory shitebucket?"

It was calculated to make Fane angry, but the man wasn't so easily riled. He smiled with half of his mouth, the one side drawn down by a curving scar.

"An opportunity missed, then, eh? Captain Stoker, who else is on board?"

Mac shrugged. "I run a tight ship. This is my whole crew."

"All Americans, I'm sure you'll claim."

"Every man of them," Stoker said calmly, the Irish heavy on his tongue. "There was a war fought, if you'll remember."

"Ah, yes," said Fane thoughtfully. "That little squabble." He turned and met Hawkeye's gaze. Something flickered there, some curiosity. He jabbed the sword twice, toward Robbie and then Hawkeye.

"These two."

There was a moment's silence, and then Stoker began to sputter like wet gunpowder.

"Those two! Those two? Are you mad, man?" He thrust a shoulder forward toward Fane. The marines brought up their weapons, and he pulled back.

"You shoot me ship half to pieces for two men?"

"I can take them all, if you prefer." Fane's tone was icy. "And burn your ship, for good measure."

Stoker's expression shifted from outrage to suspicion. "Why those two? They're no sailors and they're older than sin, the both of them."

Fane was studying Robbie. "Not sailors? I suppose that one there is the King of Siam."

Stoker swung around to Hawkeye.

"Say something! Tell the man you're American."

"I ain't American."

"Of all the-- Of course you're American. Sure and you were born and raised on the New-York frontier!"

Hawkeye met Stoker's eye. "That don't make me American if I don't want it to. I was raised Mahican, and Mahican I'll be until I die."

Stoker drew in his breath with a hiss. "You're damned easygoing for a man about to be pressed onto a Tory frigate."

There's good reason for that, Hawkeye might have said. He made himself look away from the deck of the Leopard, where a familiar figure had appeared at the rail with a long glass in his hand. A man of no more than medium build. Not a sailor, or an officer.

Hawkeye said, "I been taken prisoner more than once in my lifetime, and by worse scoundrels than these. Rab here was held by the Mingo for a whole year."

Robbie grunted, his brow furled down low. He hadn't seen the man studying them from the Leopard's quarterdeck and he didn't follow Hawkeye's purpose, but they had hunted and fought together for fifty years; Robbie could tell well enough when Dan'l Bonner had a scheme.