Kale swore colorfully. “I’d be thrilled to give him more if only those blighters in the settlement would just let us do what we do best.” He grunted, then shook his head and returned his attention to his plate. “Sadly, they’re the ones who pay the piper, and they pay his highness Dubois, too, so he’ll just have to make do with those we can give him.” Kale waved the newcomers to the pot. “Sit and eat. You’ve earned it.”
The four did, gratefully settling with the rest.
Conversation was nonexistent while the men ate. Caleb would have felt hungrier had he not insisted that his party consume a decent breakfast before they broke their temporary camp that morning. He’d never favored fighting on an empty stomach, and he’d felt quietly confident that they would find Kale’s camp that day.
“That’s seventeen now,” Phillipe murmured. “Not quite so easy.” He sounded, if anything, pleased.
Caleb softly grunted. He verified Phillipe’s headcount and, again, thanked the impulse that had prompted him to invite Phillipe and his crew to join his mission. A day out of Southampton, one of The Prince’s main water kegs had sprung a leak. Determined to adhere to the maxim of “take no unnecessary risks,” Caleb had made the small detour to the Canary Islands. Before he’d even moored in Las Palmas harbor, he’d spotted the distinctive black hull of The Raven. While the keg was repaired and refilled and his men arranged for extra supplies, Caleb had spent an evening catching up with his old friend. And on discovering that The Raven, along with its experienced crew and captain, was presently unengaged, Caleb had invited Phillipe to join him on his mission. He’d made it clear there would be no payment or likely spoils, but like Caleb, Phillipe was addicted to adventure. Bored, he’d jumped at the chance of action.
Phillipe was a lone privateer, and while he’d originally sailed for the French under Bonaparte, exactly who he sailed for these days was unclear. However, the war with France was long over, and on the waves, any lingering political loyalties counted for less than longtime friendship bolstered by similar devil-may-care traits.
To Caleb’s mind, twenty-five men against seventeen was precisely the sort of numbers he needed in this place, at this time, to eradicate Kale and his operation. The slavers would fight to the death and would do anything and everything to survive. Caleb didn’t want to lose any of his men, or any of Phillipe’s, either. Twenty-five to seventeen...that should do it.
By the time he’d sailed into Las Palmas, he’d already discarded the notion of leaving Kale undisturbed and, instead, picking up the trail north from the “Homestead” and making directly for the mine. That was his mission, after all—to locate the mine, learn what he could of it, and then get that intelligence back to London. However, heading north to the mine with Kale and his men effectively at his back didn’t appeal in the least. More, returning to London without eliminating Kale and his crew would simply leave that task to whoever returned to complete the mission. No commander worth his salt would attempt to attack and capture the mine with Kale still in his camp, a potential source of reinforcements for whatever forces were already at the mine.
But Kale had to be removed in a way that would not immediately alert the villains behind the scheme—the “blighters” Kale had referred to—or Dubois and any others in charge at the mine. That was Caleb’s first hurdle—the first challenge on this quest.
“If we’d arrived earlier,” Phillipe murmured, “while they’re all gathered as they are, distracted with eating, would have been a good time to attack.”
Caleb shrugged. In days gone by, he might have leapt precipitously at the chance and rushed in, but for today and the foreseeable future, he was determined to adhere to the script of a reliable and responsible commander. He could almost hear the voices of his three older brothers, all of whom would lecture him to take his time and plan, and find and secure every advantage he could for his men in the upcoming skirmish, which was guaranteed to end as a bloody massacre.
He, Phillipe, and every man in their company knew and accepted that they would need to kill every slaver in Kale’s camp. That Kale and his men were engaged in trading in others’ lives—men, women, and children, too—had made the decision, the resolution, that much easier to make. The men gathered around the fire pit ranked among the lowest of the low.
Kale spooned up the last of his stew, chewed, swallowed, then looked across the fire pit at the large man Phillipe had earlier noted. “Rogers—you and your crew can rest up, then head back to the settlement midafternoon. If you don’t find a message from Muldoon waiting—no suggestion of who to grab next—use your own judgment. See if there are any more sailor-boys we can snatch. Dubois, at least, will be grateful.”
Rogers grinned and saluted. “We’ll see what we can find.”
Phillipe shifted to whisper in Caleb’s ear. “We need to attack before Rogers leaves.”
Caleb studied the group, then replied in the barest murmur, “They’ve just eaten their main meal for the day, and it was stew. Heavy.” He glanced at Phillipe. “In this heat, an hour from now, they’re all going to be half asleep.”
Phillipe blinked his dark-blue eyes once, then he grinned wolfishly and looked back at the camp.
Several minutes later, after having seen Kale retreat with three of his men into the main barracks while the rest of the slavers spread out in groups, quietly chatting, Caleb tapped Phillipe on the shoulder, then carefully crept back to where their men waited.
Phillipe followed. At Caleb’s signal, the group moved farther back, away from the camp and deeper into the concealing shadows.
They chanced upon a natural clearing big enough to hold them all. Most of the men had been hauling seabags and packs containing their tents and supplies; Caleb waited while they shed them, then at his intimation, they all hunkered down in a rough circle. He looked around, noting the expectant faces and also the confidence—in him and his leadership—conveyed by their steady gazes; all had fought under his orders before, and his own men had been with him for years. “Here’s how we’re going to approach this.”
Not recklessly but responsibly—with all due care for the safety of his men and prospective success.
Clearly and concisely, he laid out the elements of his plan—in essence a version of divide and conquer. He invited input on several aspects, and Phillipe and a number of others made inventive suggestions that he readily incorporated into the whole. In less than half an hour, they’d hammered out a solid plan, one to which everyone was ready to lend their enthusiastic support.
“Right, then.” He looked around the circle, meeting each man’s eyes. Then he nodded decisively. “Let’s get to it. Move into position and wait for my signal.”
The men melted away in twos and threes, some going west, others east, ultimately to encircle the camp.
When all others had left them, Phillipe dipped his head in wry acknowledgment. “That was well done.”
Caleb knew Phillipe wasn’t referring to how he’d made the plan but to the way he’d doubled up the less experienced, less strong fighters among their men. Five of his men and five of Phillipe’s, as well as himself and Phillipe, were well able to take care of themselves in any company—even against slavers of the ilk of Kale and his crew, all of whom would, without a doubt, prove to be vicious fighters. Vicious and desperate, for they would quickly realize that they were outnumbered. Caleb shrugged. “I just want us all to walk out of this and, given this climate, with as few cuts as possible.”
They’d brought various salves and ointments in their supplies, but in tropical climes, infection was always a danger.
“We’d better get into position.” In such close quarters, pistols would be useless—as likely to hit a friend as an enemy. The fight would be all bladework. Both Caleb and Phillipe reached for their sword hilts and loosened the blades in the scabbards, then they checked the various knives strapped about their persons.