"The Frenchman shall strike his colors, Mr. Treach, and I'll shoot the man who fights as anything less than a devil!" he roared, a great laugh forming in his throat as the merchantman's volleys became increasingly ragged and her planking began to fly in splinters from beneath the very feet of her crew.
For the Frenchman's cargo, whatever it was, Cutlass knew he cared but little. The Talon's hold must be full to overflowing with jewels pillaged from the galleys of the Great Mogul—hard specie from the hulls of the East Indiamen—no, the plunder was for the satisfaction of the crew. But this—this, pure taste of revenge was for Robbin Cutlass!
Something stirred peculiarly in his mind—something that for the moment caught his breath from his lungs and left him shivering, then sent the blood racing hot through his body. There was an anger there—a long-smouldering anger for which he could not accurately account, but which was undeniable. His sword flashed again in the blaze of the sun.
And once more he shivered.
"Cap'n Cutlass sir! It's a trap!"
His palm was suddenly cold and slippery on the corded hilt of the glittering blade in his hand.
"Sail ho! Sail to stern sir!" the lookout was bellowing. "Three o' the King's men-o'-war!"
Cutlass watched them as they bore down, shouted orders to the helmsman to bring the brig about. The cries of the drowning merchantman's crew were totally wasted on him as he prepared to meet the new menace. Ordinarily, so far as his hazy memory would account for him, there had never been much to fear from the Jamaica fleet. Now it seemed they had been especially enjoined in the Frenchman's aid for the sole purpose of taking his head for the 500-pound reward on it. Or perhaps the British King had added a couple of hundred—because for less, who was there who would dare bring the attack to Robbin Cutlass?
The men-of-war, under a smart press of canvas and now within cannon range, were already lowering boats.