Burning Up

Blacksmith!”
    She hurried down into pandemonium. The gun captains shouted orders, directing teams of men who shoved cannons toward open gunports. Boys raced about, placing buckets of water near the guns, spreading sand on the deck. Men began tying their neck scarves around their ears, and instinctively, Ivy covered hers.
    She followed Duckie down another ladder, and the next deck was marginally quieter. Ivy shouted, “Why the cannons? That ship is foundered!”
    Duckie shook his head. “It’s a slavers’ trick!” he shouted. “They took the captain in once—they won’t get him again. Quickly, Miss Blacksmith!”
    He raced along the passageway to the engine room, and Ivy hurried after him, her mind spinning. She’d heard something like this before. Aboard the airship that had taken her to Fool’s Cove, the crew had been abuzz with reports of ships that used inflatables to lift their stern. When another ship answered their signals for help, the crew was ambushed and boarded, passengers taken as slaves. But like the tales of clockwork armies in Europe and tribes of warrior women in South America, like the stories about giant worms on the Russian steppes, or humans that the Horde had bred to animals—no one had actually seen it for themselves or known someone who had, and so Ivy had dismissed it.
    She wouldn’t have believed Mad Machen if he’d told her, either.
    Duckie pounded on the engine room door, yelling a stream of French. She heard locks opening from the other side, then Leveque poked his balding head out. He smiled at Ivy and gestured her in.
    Quietly, he sat at a small desk and picked up a pipe, puffing out rings of blue smoke. The expensive scent of tobacco filled the room. The engine lay silent. Around them, the hull creaked. Fewer boots trampled the deck above, as if all the men were in position and waiting.
    Her heart leapt as a cannon fired, a single shot followed by a muffled cheer. Leveque spoke, and though she didn’t understand anything he said, she gathered by his tone that he was telling her everything would be alright.
    She’d have to take his word for it.
     
    O nly twenty minutes passed before Leveque stood and moved to the door. She looked at him wonderingly, and when he pulled a white kerchief from his pocket and waved it, she understood: the other ship had surrendered.
    He unlocked the door and, with a bow, gestured her through ahead of him.
    On the main gun deck, the men hadn’t stood down from their positions, though they’d obviously relaxed. Several wiped the sweat from their faces and necks with their scarves. Others laughed and talked quietly. Ivy climbed the ladder to the upper deck, emerging amidst a cluster of Mad Machen’s men armed with pistols and swords. Their eyes were trained starboard, and Ivy followed the path of their gaze. Her stomach lurched.
    Mad Machen stood at the rail, holding a man by his neck over the side. His face purpled, the man struggled for air, clutching at Mad Machen’s wrist. His ship floated fifteen feet from Vesuvius ’s side, grapplings and gangways stretching across the distance. That single cannon shot must have destroyed the inflatable, sending the stern crashing back to the surface. Both the mizzenmast and main had broken, the heavy timbers fallen aft, sails and lines trailing in the water behind the ship. At least a hundred men had been gathered on the decks—the ship’s crew, Ivy realized.
    Mad Machen’s deep voice was loud enough to carry to the other ship, and full of deadly threat. “I ask you a final time, Captain. Which of these men is your employer?”
    When the captain waved his hand, Mad Machen brought him in. Falling to his knees on the deck, the mercenary gasped for air and wheezed, “The . . . hold. With . . . the cargo.”
    Mad Machen’s face darkened, and for an instant, Ivy thought he would kill the man. But he turned away from him, calling out, “Mr. Areyto, lead your men across and secure the hold. All men with bugs remain on Vesuvius until she’s clear.”
    “Aye, Captain.”
    Eyes wide, Ivy watched the master-at-arms step onto the gangway while half of his men lined the rail with weapons aimed toward the other deck. Why only those who weren’t infected? They weren’t as strong, wouldn’t heal as quickly.
    A sudden murmur ran through the men surrounding her. Mad Machen shouted, “Hold! Return, Mr. Areyto.”
    Ivy strained to see what had caught their attention. But there were only the men standing on