under the circumstances.
Ryder wormed his way along the gunwale, moving forward, while his would-be killers wasted ammunition on the spot where they had seen him last. One of the fleeing passengers was cut down as he headed aft, thrashing around a deck suddenly slick with blood.
Ryder popped up, shouldered the Henry for a hasty shot, and winged one of the pistoleers who lined the clipperâs starboard rail. The man let out a squawk and lurched away, his left arm dangling, while the others turned their guns toward Ryder and he ducked back under cover.
Thereâd been no opportunity for him to count the men aboard the
Revenant,
but guesswork pegged the number visible on deck near twenty-five or thirty. Not a large force, in comparison to passengers aboard the
Southern Belle,
but none of those showed any inclination yet to join Ryder in fending off attackers. He could understand the women running, some with kids, but he had hoped at least a handful of the men would stand and fight.
Where was the crew? Were there no arms aboard for such emergencies, when they were hauling U.S. mail?
Instead of waiting for a hero to appear, Ryder continued on his slow way toward the steamerâs bow, staying below the gunwale as he crawled along on hands and knees. The deck was clear now, as other passengers had ducked into companionways or fled back to their cabins. He supposed they meant to hide out if the
Southern Belle
was overrun, a sign that fear had robbed them of their basic common sense.
If pirates took the steamer, theyâd be going door to door in search of plunder, maybe killing as they went. He didnât like the womenâs chances of remaining unmolested, thinking some of them might be hauled off as hostages or worse. He didnât know of any slavery per se remaining in the world, but chivalry and pirates didnât go together in his mind, either. Ryder imagined females being used, then tossed over the side to rid the
Revenantâ
s rough crew of witnesses, wherever they were going next.
Unless he stopped them here and now.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
T he next time Ryder risked a look over the rail, the
Revenant
seemed to be losing speed, letting the
Southern Belle
pull out ahead. It made no sense, until he saw a clutch of half a dozen pirates at the clipperâs stern, manhandling a pair of wooden beams theyâd propped across its starboard rail. He took another moment, putting it together, then saw that they meant to jam the steamerâs paddle-wheel if they could manage it.
He risked a rifle shot from where he was but missed, and the returning storm of pistol fire drove Ryder back below the gunwale. All that he could think of now was getting to the pilothouse, to warn the steamerâs captain and avert what might be crippling damage to the
Southern Belle.
But that meant leaving cover for a spring up narrow stairs, exposed in daylight to the shooters on the
Revenant.
Ryder supposed the run up to the bridge would take a minute, maybe two, in normal circumstances, but he couldnât outrun bullets on the best day that heâd ever had. Granted, the pirates hadnât shown much skill at marksmanship so far, but any hit at allâeven an accidental oneâcould finish him.
Or, he could wait right where he was, until they jammed the paddle-wheel, then poured over the rail in strength.
No choice, really, at all.
Ryder was up and running in another heartbeat, half crouched, with his shoulders hunched in grim anticipation of a hot slug in the back. The pirates poured it on, but they were either hasty shots or poor ones, peppering the
Southern Belleâ
s bulkhead but doing poorly with a moving target. Even so, as Ryder reached the stairsâor âladder,â as the sailors called itârising to the wheelhouse, he was sure that he had stretched his luck beyond the breaking point.
Somehow, he made it to the bridge without taking a hit. The port side door was closed, but opened
Ryder wormed his way along the gunwale, moving forward, while his would-be killers wasted ammunition on the spot where they had seen him last. One of the fleeing passengers was cut down as he headed aft, thrashing around a deck suddenly slick with blood.
Ryder popped up, shouldered the Henry for a hasty shot, and winged one of the pistoleers who lined the clipperâs starboard rail. The man let out a squawk and lurched away, his left arm dangling, while the others turned their guns toward Ryder and he ducked back under cover.
Thereâd been no opportunity for him to count the men aboard the
Revenant,
but guesswork pegged the number visible on deck near twenty-five or thirty. Not a large force, in comparison to passengers aboard the
Southern Belle,
but none of those showed any inclination yet to join Ryder in fending off attackers. He could understand the women running, some with kids, but he had hoped at least a handful of the men would stand and fight.
Where was the crew? Were there no arms aboard for such emergencies, when they were hauling U.S. mail?
Instead of waiting for a hero to appear, Ryder continued on his slow way toward the steamerâs bow, staying below the gunwale as he crawled along on hands and knees. The deck was clear now, as other passengers had ducked into companionways or fled back to their cabins. He supposed they meant to hide out if the
Southern Belle
was overrun, a sign that fear had robbed them of their basic common sense.
If pirates took the steamer, theyâd be going door to door in search of plunder, maybe killing as they went. He didnât like the womenâs chances of remaining unmolested, thinking some of them might be hauled off as hostages or worse. He didnât know of any slavery per se remaining in the world, but chivalry and pirates didnât go together in his mind, either. Ryder imagined females being used, then tossed over the side to rid the
Revenantâ
s rough crew of witnesses, wherever they were going next.
Unless he stopped them here and now.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
T he next time Ryder risked a look over the rail, the
Revenant
seemed to be losing speed, letting the
Southern Belle
pull out ahead. It made no sense, until he saw a clutch of half a dozen pirates at the clipperâs stern, manhandling a pair of wooden beams theyâd propped across its starboard rail. He took another moment, putting it together, then saw that they meant to jam the steamerâs paddle-wheel if they could manage it.
He risked a rifle shot from where he was but missed, and the returning storm of pistol fire drove Ryder back below the gunwale. All that he could think of now was getting to the pilothouse, to warn the steamerâs captain and avert what might be crippling damage to the
Southern Belle.
But that meant leaving cover for a spring up narrow stairs, exposed in daylight to the shooters on the
Revenant.
Ryder supposed the run up to the bridge would take a minute, maybe two, in normal circumstances, but he couldnât outrun bullets on the best day that heâd ever had. Granted, the pirates hadnât shown much skill at marksmanship so far, but any hit at allâeven an accidental oneâcould finish him.
Or, he could wait right where he was, until they jammed the paddle-wheel, then poured over the rail in strength.
No choice, really, at all.
Ryder was up and running in another heartbeat, half crouched, with his shoulders hunched in grim anticipation of a hot slug in the back. The pirates poured it on, but they were either hasty shots or poor ones, peppering the
Southern Belleâ
s bulkhead but doing poorly with a moving target. Even so, as Ryder reached the stairsâor âladder,â as the sailors called itârising to the wheelhouse, he was sure that he had stretched his luck beyond the breaking point.
Somehow, he made it to the bridge without taking a hit. The port side door was closed, but opened