Free The Scent of Corruption (The Fighting Sail Series Book 7) by Alaric Bond

later, one of the seamen seated at the rear of Lewis' cart giving the alarm as they were half way between the village just left and the wall of trees they were all too slowly approaching. Lewis glanced back and saw the dim outline of several mounted riders heading hard for them. He reckoned there were ten, maybe twelve, only just less than his own force but, mounted as they were, the enemy would be so much more manoeuvrable. There was also the additional problem of a divided command. Clement, in the first wagon, appeared bright enough, but did not have the intellect to act independently whereas Chivers was little more than a boy.
    “We've company astern” he bellowed to the first cart, and noticed the boatswain's mate turn back and raise one hand in acknowledgement. “Maintain your way, and prepare for boarders,” Lewis continued, speaking to the men in general. “Any with pistols, save your powder until they are close, and then aim for the horses.”
    It was a futile hope, and Lewis had no illusions: those under his command were as hard as they came and would think nothing of killing any legitimate foe. But they could also be sentimental fools and, when ordered to kill what they would doubtless consider innocent animals, most would baulk. A horse made a far larger target, however, and for as long as Lewis' force could keep moving, their enemies remained a threat only while they were mounted.
    A pistol ball whined past, some feet from his head, but Lewis was almost pleased to hear it. Their pursuers were still some distance off. Any shot was as likely to hit one of the prisoners as his men, and it would be impossible to reload whilst at the gallop.
    Chivers was bringing the reins down hard upon his horses; the beasts had begun to tire and would be looking for the chance to slow at any opportunity. Lewis glanced back; his pursuers had halved the distance between them and now could be made out far more clearly. He forced himself to count and was fairly certain there were eleven, with most, apparently, armed. Forward, the oncoming trees seemed no nearer, and the shelter they offered would probably be of dubious benefit. Lewis swallowed as he braced himself for what was to come.
    “Want me to take a pot shot at 'em?” A round faced, toothless seaman asked, raising his pistol in enquiry. Lewis shook his head, struggling to remember the man's name. Was it Harris? Henderson?
    “No,” he hissed, temporising. “Wait for them to draw nearer!”
    Harrison, that was it. Lewis twisted himself on his seat and tried to look back before deciding it was too great an effort, and instead clambered from the driver's box while drawing his own gun.
    Another ball sped past, this time far closer; it had caused Chivers, on the driving box, to duck and may have fazed the horses. Lewis stood uncertainly on the rocking cart and stared at the oncoming force. If he had brought some marines with them it might have been a different matter. The British Brown Bess was a reliable piece: a group of men so armed, and practised in reloading on a crowded deck, would have accounted for that little lot in no time. As it was, most seamen viewed firearms as boarding weapons and, given the choice, usually chose a cutlass, half-pike or tomahawk instead. They would certainly fire the things readily enough, but were unlikely to take accurate aim, preferring to press them into the stomachs of an enemy, when a miss was less likely. Their cutlasses might prove more effective: most were drawn now and held firmly in each man's right hand, while those equipped with pistols, which were probably of more immediate value, clutched them in their left. The first horse was drawing closer to the tailgate of his cart, and the rider began to take deliberate aim with his own weapon.
    Lewis fired quite instinctively, only realising afterwards that the target had been the man rather than his mount, and he had ignored his own instructions. The job was done though and the rider fell