A Swift and Savage Tide (A Captain Kit Brightling Novel Book 2)

They were the Princely and the Domination, one a merchant frigate, the other a brigantine. Destroyed by some combination of eighteen-pounders and, according to the field reports, “a bit of freak lightning.”

But Kit knew better. Chandler knew better. And after they’d corralled the War Council, the War Council knew better. Kit and the Diana—along with the other troops and ships assembled under Perez’s command—would sail at dawn for Auevilla.

She made her way to the Crown Command’s dock just before, with the sky still purpled with darkness. Kit would leave Portsea the way she’d come into it—just on the verge of night.

She hadn’t slept well. Her mind raced, considering strategies and preparations. And with the increased likelihood of fighting, there were new questions: Did they have enough shot? Enough gunpowder? Enough salve for the inevitable burns, and linens for dressing?

They weren’t a ship of the line. But death didn’t care for the number of guns on deck; it hunted small ships and large.

The Diana, which was a large enough ship, looked miniature when sharing a dock with frigates and four-masted brigantines that rose high above her. They were big, Kit thought as she surveyed them from the dock, but not nearly as spry as her own. She wouldn’t have traded the Diana—where she knew every plank of oak and every sailor from lieutenant to able seaman by name, even if she was obliged to maintain a respectful distance from most—for a ship of the line, and hoped to put off her “promotion” to a larger ship as long as possible.

She made her way on board, thinking the ship looked even better after only a few days in port. The bowsprit had been replaced, the rigging rerun in the bow. And was the brass in the binnacle a bit shinier, perhaps? The deck a bit smoother? And were casks of wine being loaded on board?

“What are they doing to my ship?” she asked no one in particular.

“Fancying her up a bit,” Tamlin said. “She gleams now, doesn’t she?”

“Commodore Perez sends her thanks and congratulations for locating the Fidelity,” Simon said, stepping up behind Kit.

“Sugar and milk?” Kit asked hopefully.

“A bit of both.”

“Well, then. We’ll all have cake.”

“Unfortunately, there’s more.” He pointed to the stack of papers on the steering cupboard.

“No,” Kit said, her mood deflating.

“Aye, Captain. I’m sorry. They’re for documentation of our arrival and departure in Portsea, provisioning, additional shot and supplies in the event of battle.”

Kit cursed in disgust. “My ship found the Fidelity. Found Doucette. And I am still damned with paperwork.”

“Captain,” Simon said, and his quiet tone had her looking up, following his gaze to the dock. She found Jin in uniform and walking toward them, March at his side. But for the slightest hitch in his gait on the side of his wound, he looked the same as he had when he’d boarded in New London.

“What are you doing here?” she asked when he reached them.

His brows lifted. “Last I heard, I was the commander of the Diana, and the Diana is preparing to set sail. Therefore . . .”

“You’re injured.”

“I’m standing, and I was cleared by the physick.”

She glanced at Simon and Tamlin, and they left her with Jin and March. “No,” she said, when only they remained. “You will not risk yourself.”

“Only you’re allowed to do so?”

“I am the captain of this ship.”

“And I have a debt to repay to said captain.”

“There is no debt,” Kit said. “And you’re not healed enough for this.”

“Are you saying that because you are my friend, or my captain?”

She stepped up to him. “I’m saying it because I don’t want your blood on my hands again.”

For a long time, they just looked at each other, a million things unsaid because they were Islish and stubborn and ranked and wearing uniforms.

“It’s been three days,” Jin said. “I’ve no fever, I’ve been stitched on both sides, and the healer has provided several disgusting poultices to be applied daily.” He held up a small basket, a bow on the handle and something pungent tucked inside a bit of linen.

“I’ll take that,” March said brightly, plucking the basket from his hand. She leaned in, sniffed, and quickly turned away, lips pursed. “The odor is absolutely foul. So they’ll probably work wonders.”

“Do you support this?” Kit asked, gesturing to Jin.

“He’ll have delicious scars,” March said with a grin. “But aye, Captain. He’ll hold up—if he follows my instructions and applies the poultices regularly.”

Kit resisted—barely—the urge to poke him in his wound and remind him of his limitations. Having those limitations was no failure, but it was an unfortunate fact, at least for now. On the other hand, there were no sailors to spare to replace Jin while he was gone, and the ship was already leanly staffed. They needed more men, not fewer. And she trusted him as she trusted few others.

Kit watched him. “Half duty. And if you look even the slightest bit pale, you’ll go immediately to your quarters.”

“Kit—” Jin began, but she held up a hand.

“I am your captain, as you just acknowledged. You serve with the necessary conditions, or you don’t serve.”

She gave him a moment to be angry—as she’d have felt the same—and was proud when he straightened his shoulders. “Aye, Captain. But I’m eating the chocolates I bought for you.”

“All’s fair in love and war,” Kit said, and squeezed his hand. “Welcome back, Commander.”

“Glad to be back, Captain.” He looked up at the mainmast. “Let’s go hunting, shall we?”

While the dockworkers continued loading the ship, she went down to her quarters, a bit horrified at the possibility she’d find it littered with brass candlesticks and frilly linens and antimacassars. She found none of that, to her great relief. But when she put the stack of papers on her small desk—damn each and every one—and pivoted to return to the deck, she found something new.

Hanging beside the door was a painting—a sleek schooner on a turbulent sea, the water shot through with light. Not the same as the one she’d seen in Raleigh’s town house, but a similar style, and a similar appreciation of the sea.

Grant appeared in the doorway, and she gestured to the painting. “Did you do this?”

“Do what?” Grant asked.

“Put this here. It wasn’t in my quarters before.”

Frowning, he walked in, looked at it. “No,” he said after a moment. “Raleigh, I’d presume.”

“Is there anything a duke can’t do?”

“Apparently not.” His voice bordered on petulant now. “Why is he giving you works of art?”

“I’ve no idea. Perhaps he has a surplus. He is a duke, after all.”

Grant muttered something.

Kit glanced back, brows lifted in amusement. “Are you jealous?”

His responsive look was arch. “I’m jealous of a man who can command a token delivered across the Narrow Sea in a matter of days.”

“That is rather impressive,” Kit agreed, and looked back at the paperwork. “And I’ll damned well bet he didn’t have to sign his name to a dozen forms to get it done.”

“Dukes rarely do.”

“It’s a beautiful work,” Kit said, “and proves that he’s safe.”

“You needn’t worry about Raleigh,” Grant said.

“Yes, I’m sure he can protect himself.”

“Perhaps I should have said I’d prefer you didn’t think about Raleigh.”

Kit stopped, looked at him. “What? Why?”

“Because I’d prefer your attention be on me.”

She could feel it again, that warmth of his gaze on hers, pushing away the remaining chill of fear and concern. She was beginning to like it. Beginning to rely on it.

And didn’t mind that so terribly much.

The provisioning was completed, and by the time the Diana was prepared, the tide was fair, the sky was impossibly blue, and the wind straight and strong. And so, with that auspicious start, the Diana moved into the Narrow Sea again. There’d be a gunship between her and the troop ships, and she’d wait for them to fall into line before setting sail for Gallia. She moved to the helm. Even now, there was work to be done.

“Call the all hands,” she told Jin, and watched as the bell was rung, the order given, and sailors scurried into position. They finished their immediate tasks, then hustled into lines that faced the helm.

“One year ago,” she said, “we were relieved of the burden of war. Of the fear and concern. The man who called himself emperor was sent to his prison, where he was to remain while the world tried to right itself. But we find ourselves here again, because some crave glory more than they crave peace. Yesterday, Gallic ships destroyed two Islish vessels. More than one hundred souls lost.”

Sailors touched their caps, their hearts, or their amulets, depending on their persuasion.

“Today, the fleet sails for Gallia, to stop the man who wishes to draw us back into fire and smoke and death. Nearly one thousand troops will travel on the ships behind us. We will scout.” She thought of what Jin had said. “We will hunt. And we will do what’s necessary to keep Gallic eyes away from our soldiers.”

There were general sounds of agreement.

“I’m not certain what we’ll find today, but there is one thing of which I am certain.” She took a step forward, met the gaze of each and every sailor in turn. “We will do what is necessary to save the Isles.”

Fists were thrust upward, shouts called.

“We will be quick and expert with cannon and sail alike. We will use magic when we can. And we will be aware—always aware—that those who follow Gerard are prepared to use magic against us. We will trust ourselves and each other, and we will fly.”

The shouts were thunderous now, the sailors stomping their feet so enthusiastically, the deck rattled with it.

She moved to the bow of the ship, which swayed silkily beneath her. She’d normally visit the hold, surround herself with water. But she didn’t need to descend in order to feel the magic today. It was healthy here, strong and shimmering, with none of the limitations she’d felt to the northeast. She knew it wouldn’t last, and she was impatient for the flotilla to arrive so she could touch the current, feel that connection again.

She had a thin splinter of worry that being eager to make that connection was approaching a dangerous line, the kind of line that Doucette had likely crossed some time ago. But her course had been set.

She walked back toward the helm, navy tailcoat blowing in the breeze, and watched Grant watch her as she moved, his eyes warm, and a cocky kind of pride in his smile. She could take that, she decided.

“Map, Mr. Pettigrew,” she said, and Simon arranged it atop the cabinet, marked their current location with a coin, smaller coins behind.

“We will sail toward Auevilla,” she said. “We plainly know the way.”

“Forward and back,” Jin agreed. “Although I was unconscious for some of the back.”

“It all looks the same,” Kit said. “We will sail in formation to approximately here.” She marked a spot off the coast. “At this point, we will split. Half the troops will move to the western landing point”—she moved some coins—“and half to the eastern”—she moved the rest of the coins. The eastern point was near the Seine River, which flowed to Saint-Denis. “We’ll sail with the eastern group.”

Watson and March came to the helm; Watson had a stack of paper and a wee pencil. “Captain, we’ve double-checked the goods from Portsea and confirmed the manifest. In addition to the food, we’ve flints, wadding, gunpowder, and an extra supply of goods for our near physick.”

“ ‘Near physick’?” Kit asked, smiling at March.

“She may not be officially a ship’s physick,” Watson said, “but she’s close enough for the Diana, aye?”

“Aye,” Kit said. “And the near physick found everything she might need?”

“Aye, Captain. The Crown Command was generous. Linens, splints, forceps, scalpels, needles, and thread. A newfangled scoop for pulling out shot and”—she paused—“two new bone saws.”

“Gods keep us,” Grant murmured.

“Thank you for the detail, Lieutenant. Do let us know if you find your kit to be lacking.”

“I never need to hear the phrase bone saw again in my life,” Grant said, when March had gone again.

Simon clapped him on the shoulder. “Better to hope it’s never to be used on you, Colonel.”

“Ooh, look there!” someone called out near the stern.

Kit turned back, expecting to see one of the transports finally making headway—and caught the sheen of brilliant crimson disappear beneath the water.

“Sea dragon!” came the shout from the top. “Port stern!”

In addition to being a symbol of the Isles—part of the flag and engraved on Kit’s sabre—sea dragons were an omen of good luck. They were serpentine in shape, with fins at intervals along their spines and short front and back claws. Their heads were roughly rectangular, with wide eyes that Kit felt always looked thoughtful.

Kit joined the sailors who looked over the port-side gunwale, waiting for the creature to show itself again. After a moment, it did, its sinuous body curving above the surface in an arc, the largest of its shimmering scales big and round as dinner plates. Kit couldn’t see the entirety of this particular beast but guessed it was as long as the Diana herself.

Every conversation stopped, as if the crew was hypnotized by its undulations. It was a strange and beautiful thing, Kit thought, and wonderful to observe from a safe distance. A single sea dragon was lucky; a horde was a frenzy of movement, teeth, and claws.

“A good omen,” Jin said. And Kit hoped he was right.

It was three more hours before the convoy was fully assembled and moving and the Diana could let fly the canvas. The ships loomed behind her, hulks of timber, stuffed with soldiers and noisier than Portsea during shore leave. The Diana was a solid half mile ahead, and they still sounded like a hive of rowdy bees.

“Soldiers,” Jin murmured, arms crossed as Kit watched them dancing on the deck of the closest transport.

She lowered the glass, glanced at Grant. “Have they no decency?”

Grant just raised his eyebrows. “No less than sailors on shore leave.”

That she’d thought the same thing just irritated her.

Fortunately, they all but flew to Gallia—the wind still blew toward the coast, which actually helped them this time. They sailed in formation for hours, biding their time until the signal was made and the squadron split apart. The Diana veered east with the others, sailing toward the coast.

The troop ships would make landfall well after dark so they’d be less visible to anyone who might be watching from shore. But that increased other dangers, as the ships had to navigate to shore and the soldiers would have to make their way into Gallia in darkness.

So the Diana would provide some needed protection.

“All right, Captain,” Simon said. “Don’t leave us in suspense. I know you’ve a plan in that canny brain of yours. Where are we going? And what shall we do when we get there?” His eyes gleamed with anticipation.

“We’re going to make a bit of trouble.” She pointed to the cliffs. “There.”

“The cliffs?” Jin asked, frowning.

“Ah,” Grant said with a sly smile. “I see.”

Kit glanced back at him. “Do you?”

“You intend to destroy the shutter telegraph.”

“I do,” she said with a smile. “I very much do.”

They signaled their destination to the lead gunboat in their group, waited for their acknowledgment, then veered farther northeast to the cliffs at the edge of the crescent. There were no other ships in sight this time. No Gallic brigs, no damned Frisian men-of-war.

But the shutter telegraph, once hidden from view by a rise in the land, was plainly visible now as darkness began to descend. It was perhaps twenty feet tall, with two columns and four rows of square boards that hung from wooden rails. There would have been ropes or cranks to flip the boards from one side to the other, and the small building nearby was probably the home of the person who tended it. There’d be others along the coast, so messages could be passed from telegraph to telegraph or—as had probably been the case with the Gallian brig—from someone in town to ships offshore.

Destroying it would give the troop ships more time to land, more time to get away, before the enemy was signaled. Yes, it could be rebuilt, but that would take time, and the troops would have disembarked by then.

The question was how.

She ached to use the ship’s eight-pounders again, but the noise would raise alarms. And, if she was being quite honest, the odds of her new cannoneers destroying such a slender target at distance with a single shot—or two or three shots—were slim.

Much to her chagrin, this was not the time for Kit to play at sabotage onshore. But she knew a very capable soldier, so she looked at Grant.

His smile was wide and immediate. “Oh, you don’t even need to ask. I absolutely will.”

They waited until the sun was down completely, and the crew was ordered to silence. Only a single lantern on the starboard side that faced the coast was left alight, hung below the gunwale to disguise the size of the ship. Sampson, Watson, and Grant would take the jolly boat to the shore, ascend the cliff on the northern side—which was a low grassy hill, rather than the granite stone on the southern—and take out the telegraph by whatever method they deemed most efficient. They’d have axes borrowed from Mr. Oglethorpe, rifles, a lantern—and a small object that appeared to be a large glass marble, which Kit produced from a velvet bag in her trunk. This was a sparker, a small explosive Jane had designed for Kit’s use at sea. They were marvels, and Kit was conservative with her small supply.

While Sampson and Watson loaded the boat, she offered the sparker to Grant.

“Is this a symbolic gift?” he asked with a crooked smile. “Offering me explosives?”

“No, but it is a useful one.” She placed it carefully in his hand, pointed to the small depressions on opposite sides. “When you’re ready, squeeze here and throw. If you can feel it begin to warm, you should have already thrown it.”

He nodded, pulled a handkerchief from his waistcoat, and wrapped it carefully before slipping it into an interior pocket. “I appreciate the token and the gift.”

“We’re ready, Captain, Colonel,” Sampson said behind them.

But Grant didn’t break their gaze. “Try to stay out of trouble while I’m gone.”

“Try not to get arrested by Gallic authorities.”

His grin widened. “If you’ll recall, Captain, I’m the one who saved you from arrest.” He leaned toward her, lips perilously close to her ear. “And if you manage to injure yourself while I’m gone, you’ll need saving from me.”

She didn’t injure herself, except for the muscles she might have strained while stalking the deck. An hour had passed, and then two, with no sign of the jolly boat or its passengers. They’d reached the telegraph—that was certain enough—as the lanterns that illuminated it had been doused some time ago. Unfortunately, that meant Kit could no longer see from the boat whether it was still standing, nor the passage of her crew upon the dark water.

“He’ll be fine.”

Kit stopped pacing at the helm, looked up at Jin with narrowed eyes. “I have no idea what you mean.”

“I meant Grant,” Jin said with a wry smile.

“Insubordinate to the last,” Simon said.

The oldest member of the crew, Mr. Smythe, shuffled toward them. “The lieutenant’s spotted the boat!” he said, in a painfully slow and hoarse manner Kit thought was intended to be a whisper.

She winced at the sound, like rusted nails against tin, but said a Dastes and offered up her bit of copper.

“It was the damned surf,” Sampson said, when they’d made their way out of the jolly boat and onto the Diana’s deck. He was soaking wet, as were Grant and Watson.

“Some linens, Mr. Wells, if you would,” Kit said, and Mr. Wells sprinted toward the companionway. Other sailors began unloading the supplies, which would apparently also need drying.

“We made it in quick as you please,” Watson said, wringing water from her hair. “Made it to the telegraph with no one to see it.”

“We saw you doused the light,” Jin said.

Watson nodded and grinned at Grant, offered him a shoulder bump. “This one here may be a viscount, but he’s nearly as good as a sailor.”

“High praise,” Kit said, shifting her gaze to him. The damp shirt did nothing to hide the muscles beneath, so she focused her eyes—and her attention—on his face.

“Indeed,” Grant said. “Took the telegraph out with the axes, and it fell like a tree.”

“Made a good bit of racket,” Watson agreed with a nod. “But the man in the hut there was so busy singing a tune, he didn’t notice a damned thing.”

Mr. Wells returned with clean and folded linens, passed them out.

“We ran like he was chasin’ us, though,” Sampson said, picking up the story. “Made it back to the boat. And then had to make it out of the surf.”

“We struggled at it for an hour,” Watson said, scrubbing a linen through her hair. “One wave after another—the same that pushed us into shore, now keeping us in again. And they were high, too.”

“How’d you manage it?” Kit asked.

“Brightling levels of stubbornness,” Grant said, hanging the linen around his shoulders. “We kept the boat straight and paddled like Gerard himself was chasing us.”

“Not that he could handle an oar,” Sampson said. “Probably never raised one in his life.”

“Probably not,” Kit said. “Well done on all accounts.”

“And what’s next?” Jin asked.

“Let’s return to the squadron,” she said. But she had something else in mind . . .

When the Diana made it back around the crescent, the first ship had discharged its crew and supplies, and unloading of the second was underway. They stayed offshore, most of their lights still doused, but for one near the binnacle. On a clear night, they might have used the stars to navigate, but clouds obscured the stars, and with the other ships’ lights extinguished, the compass kept them oriented.

The crew stayed quiet, and Tamlin scanned the horizon, but there was no sign of enemy ships.

Kit took the spyglass from the cabinet, raised it, and aimed it toward Auevilla’s harbor. And found the Fidelity still at the dock, in the same berth where they’d seen it last.

The Diana hadn’t yet been spotted. What if they crept a bit closer to the harbor, with all quiet and lights doused? And what would happen if they lobbed a couple of Jane’s sparkers onto the Fidelity’s deck, let the explosion do what the Crown Command hadn’t yet been able? Or simply let loose the moorings and anchor, and let tide and sea take the Fidelity where it would?

Sailors and soldiers both were superstitious sorts. The loss of Gerard’s former flagship by mysterious circumstances, or perhaps suspected sabotage by one of their own, might hurt Gallic morale. Might tempt a few to stay in town, rather than taking a berth on a Gallic warship or, if the War Council was right, joining the march to Saint-Denis.

She lowered the glass, frowned out at the water. The night was clear, the Diana would be all but invisible from the shore, and the lights of the town were enough to guide them. Another team could take the jolly boat, get the mission done, and get back.

Kit had nearly convinced herself the risk would be worth it, when she felt the sea shudder. Not physically—not a rogue wave or earthshake—but magically. She looked around; no other members of the crew made any obvious reaction. Those on the deck whispered quietly or helped mend sails, waiting for the next spot of action.

So she reached down and found the current flowing normally, or as normally as she’d have expected . . . but for the shudder of something farther away, as if something had slapped the current upstream.

Or someone had.

Spyglass in hand, she walked back to the mast, looked up, gave a whistle. Tamlin was on the deck in less than a minute.

“There’s something,” she said without prompting. She’d braided her hair today into a long queue, and her fingers wound the end of it, over and over, as if nervous.

“There’s something,” Kit agreed. “Can you tell what?”

She shook her head.

“It felt to me like someone hit the current,” Kit said.

“I feel . . . surprise,” Tamlin settled on. And Kit reckoned this was one of those times when different Alignments made discussion difficult.

“Is it like what you felt before at Auevilla?” Kit asked. “What Doucette was doing?” He could still be onshore; they hadn’t been gone that long.

“No,” Tamlin said after a moment. “It’s not the same.”

Kit wasn’t sure if she should be relieved or not. Which was worse—the enemy that terrified you or the one you hadn’t yet met?

“Thank you,” Kit said with a nod. “Let me know if anything changes.”

Tamlin nodded, climbed back up the mast.

Kit walked to Cooper, who stood in her assigned position middeck. She didn’t want to embarrass the woman by asking for information that was beyond her Alignment and ken, but Kit needed information.

“I don’t suppose you feel anything unusual, Cooper?”

Cooper’s brows lifted in surprise. Then she pulled up her sleeve, showed Kit the gooseflesh that pimpled it. “I thought I was imagining it, sir. I can’t feel the current from here, but something feels amiss.”

“Indeed it does,” Kit said, and walked back to the helm where the others waited, if impatiently. “Something is happening in the current. Tamlin and Cooper feel it, too. We don’t know if it’s Doucette—it feels different than it did at Auevilla. We need to signal the ships.”

Simon nodded. “What shall we send them?”

“Magic nearby,” Kit said, tucking hair behind her ears as she considered the best and simplest phrasing. “Prepare for incoming.”

“Incoming what?” Grant asked.

“Just . . . incoming,” Kit said.

And they didn’t have long to wait.