A few notes

I forgot to mention that I'm making the Aquila a three-mast frigate. It makes her more closely resemble heavy frigates like the USS Constitution.

I decided that Edward's crew wouldn't be spread throughout half a dozen ships. Instead they were all on a makeshift prison boat.

This is happening near the South Eastern tip of Florida.

Disclaimer: I do not own Assassin's Creed.

Mortars burst overhead, filling the sky with smoke and the smell of gunpowder. Shrapnel blanketed the ocean, the closest thing to hail the Caribbean was likely to see. Connor watched the exploding shells, took note of their trajectory and shape, and then let his Eagle Senses map out the likely impact area.

Perhaps it was because his Sense was so accustomed to tracking British firing lines or perhaps it was the long slow arch of these Spanish mortars, but Connor found it… easy. Seeing where he would need to position the Aquila, that is. Which is to say not very much at all. The mortars and their shrapnel were not centered around his ship. They would, of course, rip through the Aquila's sails if Connor took no action but they were a greater threat to the second of the two ships that had tried to give chase. Why, wondered Connor as he turned the wheel and barked an order that Faulkner dutifully repeated (even as Dobby shouted for him to let go of her).

The answer came to him when the last of the mortars crashed into the water.

"Bloody fucking mortars," said Faulkner, the disbelief obvious in his voice. Dobby shoved the large sailor off herself while muttering how the last one at least too her out first. Faulkner didn't seem to hear. He turned to his captain, hoping he could help make sense of the Spanish attack. "Who the fuck uses mortars at sea? They take up twice the space of a carronade and are only useful about half as often. I know the Spanish navy's run by lackwits, but this is too much!"

"Do you see where the mortars fell, Mr Faulkner?"

Faulkner frowned. He looked past Connor, calling upon his own Sense to show him what the younger man expected him to know. The mortars formed a long streak across the water and the Aquilla fell between it and the Spanish fleet. More mortars were coming too and like before the Aquilla was not their intended target. "Yes… We're being corralled." Faulkner traced his forefinger and thumb over his beard. "How do you want to play this sir? If we try and sail through the cloud it'll be a long while before we're clear of danger. And that's assuming our sails hold up… But if we keep on this course we'll run straight into the firing range of every one of those Spanish ships."

"I believe that to be our best bet," said Connor as he altered course again.

"Any reason, captain?" There was sure to be one, but first mates should always check least they follow their captain on a fool's errand.

"I have been watching their signal flags. There does not seem to be one supreme commander for the fleet. Whenever the third-rate ship changes her signal flags they are not repeated in full. Rather, a handful of ships comply while a fourth rate sends up her own set of flags and it's only then that the whole of the fleet moves." Faulkner laughed. Connor looked at him with concern. "Is something wrong, Mr Faulkner?"

"Not at all, captain, not at all," the old sailor replied. "Just marveling at how much time you must have spent with deGrasse to be picking up on something like that so quickly."

The Assassin Master did not smile. "I believe it was our skirmishing with the Hinchinbrook that forced that trick on me. It's how I believe she was able to stay one step ahead of the merchant fleets."

"Aye," Faulkner sighed. "Not thirty guns on her and she still managed to wreak havoc on the Spanish."

"Sometimes the captain counts for a full battery."

"Let's hope that holds true today too." Faulkner clapped the younger man on the back.

"Hey, Connor," said Dobby. She had the spyglass pressed to her eye again and there was a clear look of apprehension across her face. Today was determined to be as eventful as possible. May you live in interesting times indeed. "We've got more ships coming. But I don't think they're Spanish."

"English, Turk, Italian?" asked Faulkner. He stepped away from his captain and towards Dobby. "What colors are they flying?" he asked as he took the spyglass from her.

"Black," was all Dobby said and it was exactly what Faulkner saw as he looked eastward to the coming ships.

"A schooner, a brig, and a frigate… All sporting just enough guns to have a nasty bite without sacrificing speed." Faulkner passed the spyglass back. "Pirates. And a motley looking bunch at that. Maybe that Jupiter fellow did drop us off by Gibraltar and these Spanish lackwits mistook us for privateers."

"We are privateers." The impacting mortars created a light mist as they sent more and more water droplets into the air. It was oddly relaxing. Something like listening to a powerful storm from inside a wooden cabin. Connor breathed in the salty air and found it focused his mind a little. Questions still buzzed in his head but there was now a clear order to them. "Why would pirates challenge a military convoy? The risk alone would be grounds for a mutiny and there would be little hope of taking any of these ships as prizes. Even the smallest ships in that fleet carry too many men to take prisoner."

"Should we be questioning our good fortune, captain?" chided Faulkner.

"If not us then who?" The Aquila made what was for a frigate a sharp turn. It now headed straight for the convoy. "Besides, do you really want to be indebted to pirates so mad they would challenge a Spanish man o' war in open waters?"

Faulkner chuckled. "No offense, sir, but isn't that your plan? And I remember you once challenging a man o' war with a lot less than these rogues are about to." They said nothing else to each other. Hopefully their luck held, each man thought although not for themselves. Fate had given them enough chances and it would have been rude to ask for yet another. But the civilians on board were a different story and Faulkner hoped that for their sake Connor's gambit saw them through this. "Think it too late to become a church going man?"

"Duncan is below deck, and I need you here, friend."

"Aye."

"If you two are done whispering sweet nothings into each other's ears," interrupted Dobby. "That ship that was following us? It hasn't stopped. And I think it's gaining on us." She bit her lip. "I reckon it means to ram us."

El San Sébastien's sister ship, Alta Gracia, had found her nerve. Her captain stood erect, his eyes two milky beads of hate. There was such a determination to him that his many layers of fat (a reliable mark of European nobility) looked almost dangerous. He sailed Alta Gracia forward, possessed by a vigor he'd only heard about in old stories. Mortars did nothing to deter his crazed dash towards the Aquila. Happily he braved them to put the wind behind Alta Gracia's sails. Crates of precious tobacco too he jettisoned, so many that they clearly marked the path he had taken through the hail of mortars. All for the chance to clip an eagle's wings.

"Dobby," Connor said slowly. "Climb up on the mast. When the enemy ship gets close-"

"Jump over and do what I'm good at?" she suggested with a wink.

"Take out her sails, if you can," replied her master. "It would be much less of a hassle than having to kill however many men man her and I – the men aboard that ship. They are not to blame for their commander's decisions. I already loathe that we must kill so many to win our escape"

"You're still such sweetie," the older woman cooed.

"Ms Carter! That is this ship's captain and our new Mentor!"

However true, it was enough to quiet the small bounce in the woman's step. She looked from Faulkner to Connor the latter of who opened his mouth to speak. She didn't let him. "I'll get it done, Connor," she said in a soft voice.

Not sure what to say, Connor mouthed 'thank you.' It brought the smile back to Dobby's face.

There were not so many feet to the Aquila's mizzenmast, at least not to an Assassin, so Dobby was able to position herself quickly. She was lucky she had taken so quickly to Connor's training as there was no top on the mizzenmast to stand on. Dobby was made to rely on her own balance to steady herself in preparation for her mission. Clipper was across from her, half way down the ship, his rifle at the ready. He looked professional to Dobby but a little awkward as if the length of the weapon restricted how well it could be wielded and he were forcing compliance from it.

She probably looked no better, Dobby realized and began counting the seconds before the attacking vessel would be near enough for her to jump over. "Five, four, three," she whispered to herself as the Alta Gracia's figurehead became easier and easier to see. "Two…" The Alta Gracia crashed into the Aquila, rattling everyone on board. The smaller ship then slid along the side of the larger one placing her cannons within a dozen meters or less of the Aquila. But then Connor gave the wheel a hard turn into the smaller ship before turning again except in the opposite direction. The sudden movement brought Dobby close enough to act and then place the Aquila at such an angle that her stern was almost perpendicular to the Alta Gracia. "ONE!" shouted Dobby. She cleared the gap, landing gracefully… and in front of an amazed Spanish soldier.

"Not bad, eh?" joked Dobby before yanking the musket away from him. She gave him a smirk as she tossed it into the sea. "Leave," she ordered forgetting the man likely did not speak English. When he did not move Dobby drew her pistol and repeated the order. He misunderstood a second time and lay himself across the top of the Alta Gracia's mainmast. "Close enough," decided Dobby. The sound of cannons firing somewhere below her spoiled her jovial mood. "Christ that was loud." She ran past the frightened soldier and along the ship's sails. From her belt she withdrew a bottle filled with a thick black liquid which she smeared across as much of the sails as she could. Then she took out a second bottle filled with a purple and black liquid. This she used to trace a path all the way back to the soldier on the mast's top. He looked at Dobby with inquisitive eyes.

"Sorry, love. It's this or I start stabbing you all," she said with a shrug before placing a lit match against this second liquid. "I'd- uh- I'd be somewhere else if I was you." Realization slowly dawned on the soldier and he bustled to his feet. "Yeah, that's the spirit. Hope everything works out alright!" Dobby jumped into the waters below her. She allowed herself one look to appreciate her handiwork and was pleased to see the fire was a lively one, even bigger than expected. Then she turned towards the Aquila and began the trek back. Mortars still were incoming, and Connor could not simply stop his ship for a lone crewman during a battle, so she needed to be quick.

Deciding a couple meters of water might lessen the risk of a lucky shot killing her, Dobby dove deeper into the sea. But her eyes were unaccustomed to the sting of salt water and forced themselves shut almost immediately. She gasped and only had just enough self-control to keep herself from swimming back to the surface. How stupid it would be to die over something so ridiculous crossed Dobby's mind. She tentatively opened an eye but again the irritation was too much. Her Sense would have to suffice. It mapped a weaving path for her, that saw her come up for a breadth only once, and each time pulled her below water within half a second. She didn't dare open her eyes during those moments. For Assassins like Connor, Eagle Vision was no harder than focusing in on what the friend next to you was saying. For Assassins like Dobby, those born with no great affinity for The Ones Who Came Before, Eagle Vision was like trying to hear what strangers were whispering about two tables over. She would need to remain focused.

A faint light appeared to her, many meters away. She chased it, willing it to become brighter and easier for her follow. The water carried the sound of the mortars to her ears, giving her fair warning of which way the coming shockwaves would move her. Dobby swam for what felt like hours but couldn't have been more than a few moments. Her heart beat against her chest, desperate to keep up. Finally, when it felt as if the muscle might burst, her hand struck something solid and Dobby opened her eyes. She emerged from the water to see the Aquila, Faulkner, and his scraggly beard peering over the side of the ship. His hand was outstretched.

"Gods, woman, you must be part fish swimmin' like that!"

"Part shark more like," Dobby shouted back before scrambling up the side of the ship. "Fish don't have so many stabby bits." She fell into place beside the two men and hoped to catch her breath before either took notice. "Good job, Dobby," she said to herself when she realized neither man would. "You looked sharp out there!" Connor turned his face to look at her. They exchanged grins.

"I hope you are ready to do that a few more times," he said. "Those pirate ships seem to have made up their minds to attack the Spanish."

Dobby laughed. "And you've decided if they're helping us, we can't leave them to fend for themselves."

"That frigate's got forty guns on her," volunteered Faulkner. He did not sound enthused. "With two ships to help, she can do some real damage."

"And she is attacking on the same flank as we are," said Connor. "Even if all they provide is a distraction for the smaller ships, it will mean wecan concentrate our fire without fear of leaving ourselves exposed. The crew will not need to divide itself between port and starboard cannons."

"You change your tune quick, Connor," said Dobby as she took the spyglass from Faulkner. "'If not us than who?' indeed."

"This frigate may be our greatest stroke of luck," said Connor with a small shrug. "And was it not you who once asked me to be more positive?" Dobby laughed and trained her eyes on the increasingly chaotic Spanish line.

"Her figurehead looks familiar," mumbled Faulkner before pushing the thought from his mind. He should focus on the fleet in front of them first and passing oddities second.

Adéwalé pressed his newly acquired sword against the neck of the Spanish guard. He was on top of the man, with his knee pressed hard against the whimpering man's sternum. Cruelty was curling the ends of Adéwalé's mouth into a smile. "No me des complejos," he ordered. The guard complied.

"Pathetic little sod, aren't you?" said Edward. The Welshman made a show of admiring the pistol he'd looted. He holstered before waling over to Adéwalé and the guard. "What's wrong? You and your mates were talking so bold last night. Did something change, hm? Lost your nerve?" The now free prisoners snickered. When the Spanish guard mustered enough courage to look away from Adéwalé, he saw their toothy grins gleam in the dim light. Like rats waiting until that last terrible moment when an animal stopped moving before descending on it.

"I don't think he speaks English, Edward," said Adéwalé.

"Aye? Well let him know if he doesn't want to end up like his friend he'll do exactly as we ask."

"¿Ves estos hombres? A cada le gustariare verte murir. Pero te necesitamos para algo." Adéwalé took his knee off the man and stood. "¡Levantate!" Again the man complied, his eyes darting every which way not knowing which threat to focus on. A sudden word from Edward almost made him jump.

"Now tell your mates to come quick. This fella here had a nasty fall and needs to see a doctor."

"Llama a tus amigos. Dile que este se ha desmayado y necesita ayuda," whispered Adéwalé. He was so close to the Spaniard, Adéwalé's lips all but grazed the stubble on the man's face. "No trates de ser héroe." It was the last command Adéwalé would give him and the last he'd carry out. After leading his fellow guardsmen into an ambush the Spaniard lost the will to sail or soldier. He slunk into a corner of the cell and didn't dare move.

A tall bearded man was the first through the door followed by a stocky one who carried his musket at port arms. Edward throttled the first and Adéwalé skewered the second. Beyond them more men sat and stood largely oblivious to the commotion happening a few feet away. They were too confused by the sound of cannons and excitement above deck. With enough patience they could all have picked off one at a time, but it was not to be. Edward now had two pistols and their temptation proved too great. He held both pistols out in front of him, selected a pair of especially oblivious looking guardsmen, and pulled both triggers. Their heads burst open and even Adéwalé (who was about to hiss something venomous at Edward) was taken by how impressive a feat that was.

"Meant to catch the second on the temple, not the ear," said Edward. He dropped both pistols and drew the sword he'd pilfered from the now cowering guard. "Let's see if my swordplay is as rusty."

"You're a cocksure cully," said Adéwalé. He wasn't sure if he meant it as compliment or insult. Edward took it as the former and beamed. Then he went off at a full sprint towards the Spanish. Because a poor plan executed confidently was better than no plan at all, Adéwalé threw himself into the fray as well. The pirates would eventually but not before they saw how little trouble the odd Welshman and the severe African were having. Three soldiers came at Edward, each swinging their sword and expecting for at least one of them to strike the escaped prisoner. Instead, Edward parried one sword into another sending both soldiers stumbling into each other while the last soldier was forced to cut his stroke short as to not injure his comrades. It was this one Edward hit with the hilt of his sword, breaking the soldier's nose. Now panicking, the soldier was too distracted to see that Edward had pulled back just enough to slash with the sharp end of the blade. Which Edward did, killing the Spanish soldier and impressing the surviving two enough that they reconsidered challenging him again.

But by now the pirates had seen enough. They would throw in with Edward and Adéwalé. For now, each added to themselves as pirates always did when they accepted a new captain. Melee soon broke out across the two compartments. Edward and Adéwalé fighting with their stolen weapons and the pirates fighting with broken chair legs and whatever else they could get hold of. Many Spanish soldiers found themselves clubbed to death as they searched in vain for ways to communicate surrender. It was a bloody, brutal quarter hour that thankfully did not drag on longer. However cruel imprisonment had made the newly freed pirates, they all understood the need for haste and neither Edward nor Adéwalé were inclined to tolerate an excess of sadism.

The armory was breached. Edward did not even bother looking for which soldier carried the right key. He brought his foot against the door, kicking with every muscle in his leg and back, until its lock broke. Few noticed as they were busy looting the corpses that now littered the room. They were searching for the same things as Edward (better clothing, boots, weapons) but less intelligently. Adéwalé came to stand beside Edward when the lock finally gave. "You don't do things by half measures, do you?" he asked with raised eyebrows. Edward flashed him a grin and Adéwalé began to wonder how the Welshman had survived so long. "Let's have it. If we're to take a ship with so few numbers, we'll need more than a few pistols and muskets."

Edward agreed and beckoned for Adéwalé to follow him. "I'm hoping to find something flammable. Not enough for a big fire, mind. Just enough to make a lot of smoke." A volley of cannon went off on the deck above them. They stopped their conversation to listen for a response. When it came it sounded as if this ship was not the intended target. Edward said a small prayer of thanks. He did not want his escape to be marred by cannons ripping into the side of the ship as they fled. "As I was saying-"

"We'll light a fire but make sure it's more smoke than flame and then throw it through the hatch," said Adéwalé before Edward could continue. "Clever. The smoke will make it harder to see and the Spanish will rush to grab their hoses to deal with the fire." He clapped Edward on the shoulder and gave him a rare smile. "You've a good head on your shoulders even if you don't pay it much mind."

"The head's there to make the dreams of the heart reality," replied Edward. "Let's get those boys armed. If everything goes according to plan-" It wouldn't. "-we'll have half our lot through that hatch before the panic stops. Then it's butcher's work from there."

Everyone was outfitted. Edward donned the robes of the late Walpole and added some strong leather to them, giving them a more mercenary look that Edward thought an upgrade. Adéwalé found a proper belt and scabbard for his sword and a horn to hold gunpowder in for his pistol. The crew was as lucky, finding enough equipment to make them look like a competent boarding party. Grappling hooks, muskets fixed with bayonets, and swords, everything they would need to storm the ship. It was then that Edward addressed his new crew for the first.

"Oy, lads! Listen here!" he began. "You don't owe me your allegiance, but you do owe me your lives. There was a noose at the end of this holiday to Spain and there might still be for any man who can't fend for himself. Now my friend and I can. You all saw him cut up our jailers like they were a fat goose. All but ripped apart one with just his hands. Can each of you do that? Don't be shy, lads, we've all got our gifts in this world. And you know what yours look to be to me? Sailing. You've the look of men who could keep a ship afloat no matter what Neptune's mood. The kind my friend and I are in need of. Now there's half a dozen ships out there perfect for… privateering and I mean to have one. And I mean to have you for my crew. Will ye have me as captain, lads?"

There was loud cheering from the men and a look of skepticism from Adéwalé. He considered both that Edward insisted on calling him friend and that the Welshmen had all but declared himself captain. He would discuss it with him later. Now, there was a ship to steal. "Save your cheering for when we're at port. There's who knows how many ships out there firing on this fleet and they'll be just as like to turn their guns on us."

"Aye," agreed Edward. "There's too many tons of brazilwood in this ship's hold for her to outrun anyone. We'll need a smaller ship. But we still need to clear the remaining decks first." Edward shared his plan with the crew, each man nodding along and forgetting their anger with Adéwalé over his rebuke. They found what Edward needed in the kitchen space. Cooking oil was spread across several bottles and in those bottles rags were stuffed. Edward's Eagle Sense told him just the right arc to lob the bottles in and which one to let explode and create enough of a fire for it look dangerous. He was, of course mindful of the powder stores and the fact the Spanish were loading cannons.

It was here luck turned against Edward and Adéwalé. Once the smoke had thickened and the Spanish begun shouting in a panic, the pair grabbed a handful of their crew to join them in storming the upper deck. Edward was the first through the hatch, followed by Adéwalé, and then the others. The expectation had been that the Spanish would secure their cannons while they dealt with the fire, minimizing the possibility for things to go catastrophically wrong. But this was not what the Spanish did. The gunnery officer, acting under the captain's explicit orders, had told each team to remain in place while the auxiliaries handled the fire. Too much depended being able to sustain their current rate of fire.

Perhaps it was a lack of experience or the urgency of battle or the panic caused by the smoke (or a combination of all them. That was how life liked to play it.), but one team did not drive a wet sponge though the barrel of their cannon. So in that cannon, a single ember survived until it came time to set the second charge which of course became lit on contact and burst like it would during a normal cycle of operation. But there was no cannonball for it act against, nor was any member of that cannon's team ready for it to go off. The man who was preparing to load the next cannonball had his hands seared off, while another had his leg shattered as the war machine recoiled. In his hand had been a lantern and it flew away from him, landing on a powder keg.

The explosion ripped through the deck. That same one Edward had just brought his crew onto.

Thank you for reading. Sorry to end on a cliffhanger. This seemed like the most natural place to seperate this chapter from the next.

Next chapter will conclude the battle with the Treasure Fleet. Meant for it to end here but I'd rather keep the word count for each chapter in the 4k zone.

Andreas_Corelli: Thank you for the kind review! I'm glad someone likes my writing style XD