They were doing it again now. The first wave of boarders had been joined at the front by the next two. Fully a fourth of the hundred were not using their spears at all. They were simply clearing the midships of the pirate vessel, pushing their opponents back with a solid shield wall. Their shields remaining locked, even as the men holding them threaded their way down the bench rows. Their legs drove relentlessly, never losing their footing even when the sandals stamped down on ruptured bodies instead of wood. Helga could remember watching her father train soldiers on a field littered with the carcasses of gutted pigs. She’d thought it gross, at the time.
Not to mention wasteful of perfectly valuable swine. But now, also, she understood why she’d overheard soldiers say they preferred serving under a rich officer, as long as he was competent. She’d thought, then, that they’d only been thinking of pay and bonuses. But now she realized that a man like her father could afford to train his soldiers properly, as well as provide them with the best equipment. Pay and bonus did no good to a dead soldier.
The pirates were screaming even more loudly, now that this second blow had struck them. They’d been expecting to face nothing more than the usual crew of a demibireme. Sailors, basically, who doubled as fighters only on rare occasion. Coming on top of the surprise volleys of gunfire, the shock of seeing regular Confederate marines storming across boarding ramps—and where the hell had those come from?—had unnerved them completely.
The pirates facing the marines directly weren’t even fighting, except here and there. Most of them were simply trying to scramble away.
But there was no room to scramble. Two hundred men packed aboard such a galley had left little room to begin with, even before the Confederate assault cleared the space in the middle.
“They’re starting to go over the side,” said Jessep. Sure enough, Helga could see at least a dozen pirates spilling into the water. A few of them from jumping, most of them simply from being knocked overboard by the sudden crush.
“Pity the poor bastards,” he added. Softly, if not gently.
Helga was about to snarl something to the effect that she wanted all the pirates dead. The coast wasn’t that far away, after all, and at least some of them would be good swimmers. But then, seeing the first fins cutting through the water not more than fifty yards away, the words died in her throat.
“These are shark waters, aren’t they?” she asked.
Jessep grunted. “Famous for it.” He studied the shoreline for a moment; then: “I’d say it’s a good two miles. Maybe closer to three. Not too many men can swim that distance to begin with. Here . . .” He shook his head. “Not a chance.”
Helga decided he was right. As they neared, she recognized the shape and markings of the fins. These were what sailors called “redsharks.” Not from their own coloring, which was basically a dull gray except for the white tips of the dorsal fins, but from their handiwork. Redsharks were almost as large as the much rarer “great blues,” and their gaping jaws were fringed with grappling tentacles lined on the interior with nasty little barbs.
They weren’t even the same species—not even close—as most of the seabeasts which went by the generic name of “sharks.” Men had been known to survive attacks by other types of sharks, even great blues. Most sharks were actually a little finicky in their tastes. They usually bit humans by mistake, thinking they were their normal prey. One bite was enough to find the taste of humans sour, and the shark went on its way.
Of course, often enough that one bite was fatal, especially with great blues. Still, many men had lived to tell the tale afterward of a great blue attack; even if, as a rule, they told the tale with a wooden leg propped up on a seaside tavern stool. But Helga had never heard of anyone surviving a redshark which sunk its teeth and tentacles into them. Redsharks were about as indiscriminate in their taste as hogs in a trough, and they weighed on average half a ton. Once a human got into their grasp, that . . . was it.