Captain Arnan's laughter rolled like the waves of the sea he so loved. "If the damn bastard ships are so superior, I expect you will allow me a little whim?"

"It depends, of course."

"Paint the Vision red. Let them see we are coming. Let them rig full sails at a goodly distance and show their sterns and wail and beat themselves at their ill fate."

Admiral Bedlanic was not disapproving. "There can be no survivors to tell of the new designs."

Fregor Arnan remembered his reply well; "They will all rest in the heart of the sea, sir. I know how to keep a secret."

He came back to the command deck of the Vision abruptly as his favored First Ensign touched his sleeve gently. "Captain? Shall we open fire on her at our present range?"

The Lastborn was little more than a speck on the horizon and fleeing as she could. It would be a long chase if the long guns did not slow her.

Arnan sighed tiredly and thought once more to himself that all the bravery and skill had left his command. The ensign at his elbow, Dobsie Rasworn, could captain the Vision himself by now.

"Right. Inform the longsharpies to open fire. She's large enough; go down and log some farange practice on the Pritchard gun if you desire."

Dobsie wasn't with him any longer than a polite acknowledgement.

The lower forward Athner guns opened fire seconds later at the boy's shout and the Pritchard joined them shortly, no doubt under his direct command.

Arnan's first mate reported the strikes as they fell in. "Ho! She's lain to port and returning fire!" Arnan smiled dully. He respected the fighters who refused to take in their sails and hoist the white straight away. There was foolish hope and there was fighting hope. The fools thought they might be spared; the fighters took their fate with a powder charge and a hateful growl. One daring battery crew on the Confederate ship even came close once, but only the once and Arnan assumed they had damaged their gun with an overcharge of black powder.