Jean Genie
Copyright© 2026 by Rachael Jane
Chapter 53: The Spanish Galleon
By midday the Sea Wraith is running hard before a steady easterly wind, her sails full, her young crew moving with brisk, disciplined purpose. The brig’s speed is effortless ... she has been built for this, a former French dispatch vessel refitted in Martinique for privateering, lean and sharp‑keeled.
Irene stands near the helm, checking her chart against the horizon. She looks steadier today, the bracelet warm on her wrist.
A shadow crosses her chart.
“Finch.”
The voice belongs to Captain Étienne Rousseau. He is tall man, his coat worn but neat, his posture unmistakably naval. His eyes are cool and assessing, the gaze of a man who has rebuilt his life after the sham of a court‑martial that ruined his naval career. Some of his crew followed him out of loyalty. He acquired the Sea Wraith, and a French letter of marque from the Martinique governor. Then he completed his crew with out of work apprentices, young seaman seeking adventure, and those who lived on the fringes of the law. He ignored superstition about women sailors, and chose Irene as his navigator, the daughter of a disgraced English navigator, seeking to restore her family honour.
“You’ve plotted us north of the current,” he says.
Irene doesn’t flinch. “The wind shifted at dawn. We’ll hold better speed on this course.”
Rousseau studies the horizon, then her chart, then her face. A single nod. “Good. Well done.”
Approval from him is rare. Irene straightens slightly.
A shout rises from the foredeck. “Sail, starboard quarter!”
Rousseau instantly moves, climbing the quarterdeck steps. The crew snaps to readiness, all young, all chosen for skill rather than tradition. Irene climbs the rigging before lifting her spyglass. She sees a square‑rigged silhouette. High stern-castle. Heavy hull.
“Spanish merchantman,” she calls down to the quarterdeck. “Eight miles. Maybe less.”
Rousseau’s jaw tightens as he assesses the enemy ship. “Slow vessel. Likely to be armed, but not well.”
Although he cannot see more than the outline of the ship, he knows that he’s right. Spain’s Caribbean trade relies on broad‑hulled navíos mercantes, merchant galleons built for cargo, not speed. They carry silver, cacao, and tobacco ... and a constant fear of attack. Their cannon are small, and their crews poorly trained.
“We’ll intercept,” Rousseau commands. “We’ll close quickly.”
The Sea Wraith adjusts her course, sails tightening. The brig surges forward, easily making ten knots. The merchantman, lumbering and panicked, can barely manage four.
Irene watches the distant ship from the rigging. “They’re trying to flee.”
“They can’t outrun us,” Rousseau said. “Stay sharp.”
As the distance closes, the crew prepare for action. Powder is brought up from the magazine, lines coiled, muskets checked. No shouting, no chaos. Just efficient movement. Rousseau’s meritocratic world has shaped them well.
Irene lowers her spyglass, pulse quickening. “Jeannia ... can you sense anything?”
I close my eyes, sensing the threads of intent drifting across the water from the Spanish ship.
“They’re afraid,” I say. “But they will fight.”
Rousseau calls out, “Ready the guns!”
The Sea Wraith leans into the wind, closing the distance with predatory grace. Irene returns to the deck, moving to her assigned battle position on the quarterdeck. She braces herself for her first true test as wearer of the bracelet.
The Sea Wraith closes the gap quickly, her hull slicing through the afternoon swell. The merchantman looms larger, her high stern-castle catching the light. Irene lowers her spyglass.
“Jeannia ... do you feel anything?”
I close my eyes, again sensing the threads of intent drifting across the water.
“Fear,” I say. “But also resolve. They are preparing their cannon.”
Rousseau raises his hand. “Hold course.”
A moment later, a puff of white smoke erupts from the merchantman’s stern gun. The shot splashes harmlessly into the sea, far short of the Sea Wraith.
Irene flinches at the sound, but steadies herself. “They’re nervous.”
“Most merchant crews are,” Rousseau said. “Their guns are small. Their aim erratic.”
The Sea Wraith continues her approach, closing to half a mile. Another Spanish shot booms across the water ... closer this time, but still wide.
Rousseau lowers his hand. “Answer them.”
The Sea Wraith turns to allow its guns to bear on the merchantman’s stern. Moments later the four starboard guns thunder in reply, the deck shuddering beneath Irene’s feet. Smoke rolls across the brig as the broadside strikes the merchantman’s hull. Splintered wood flies as all four shots hit home. Shouts rise from the enemy deck.
Irene grips the rail, breath quickening. “Jeannia ... anything else?”
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