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unrelenting savagery. The man answerable for the death of so many of his crew. For Gideon’s death. Now he had a face. A name.
    “We’ve lost five of our strongest blockaders,” the admiral said. “All last seen in pursuit of a weak, badly damaged runner. Yours was not the first vessel to be lured out to sea, just the first to return.”
    Cole silently absorbed this information. Five other ships, their captains and crew all suffering the same violent fate.
    Billings took another swallow of brandy, his stern frown back in place. “You realize, from a tactical standpoint, what Sharpe is doing makes no sense. The South is desperate for ships, yet he’s destroying vessels he could easily capture and commandeer.”
    “He enjoys the kill.” The words were out before Cole could stop them. But there was no denying the truth.
    Cole was not naive enough to believe in civilized warfare. He’d been in battles before. He’d seen death and dying. But what he’d witnessed in that short, fierce encounter with Sharpe went beyond all bounds of what men could inflict on one another under the guise of military right or duty. Jonas Sharpe was a predator, a man who feasted on destruction. And the war gave him ample opportunity to indulge that appetite.
    “Whatever his motive, he’s cutting holes in our blockade,” Admiral Billings said. “If any more of our ships fall prey to his trap, the blockade will mean nothing.”
    Cole nodded. “The Islander won’t be ready to sail for another thirty days. Give me a ship and enough time to gather a fresh crew. I’ll leave with the tide at dawn.”
    The admiral tapped the file he held and shook his head. “I’m afraid there’s more to it than just stopping Sharpe now.” He withdrew a set of sketches and passed them across his desk. “I think you’ll find these interesting. Tell me what you make of them.”
    Cole briefly studied the sketches. Whoever had executed them was highly skilled, tracing in even the most minor of details. “Warships,” he said. “The harbor looks like Liverpool.”
    “Well, you’re right about the harbor. But according to the Brits, those are merchant ships, properly ordered and deliverable to the Confederate States Navy.”
    “Merchant ships,” Cole repeated in disgust. “With gunports cut into the sides, turrets for mounting the cannon, and sealed magazine chambers for powder and arms.”
    “Exactly. At our protest, their inspector went out to look at the ships. His report concluded that he found no warlike structures of any kind on the vessels.”
    “Was the man blind or just stupid?”
    “Neither. He was interpreting British law to the letter. Their Foreign Enlistment Act prohibits the outfitting of warships in their ports but, interpreted narrowly, does not forbid the building of vessels that might become ships of war. Once they leave harbor, they simply dock at a non-British harbor for the addition of armament.”
    Cole threw the sketches down. “So much for British neutrality.”
    Admiral Billings sighed, peering into his empty glass of brandy. “The Brits are holding the cards right now, and they know it. They haven’t openly come out in support of the Rebels, but they have no reason not to. They have everything to gain if the South wins, after all. The word from our men in London is that they’re playing it cautious right now, waiting.”
    “Waiting for what?”
    “For the next Southern victory. We’ve been hearing rumors that Lee is planning to invade the North. If he does, and he’s successful, Lord Palmerston will waste no time in recognizing the Rebels.”
    “Which will mean war with England,” Cole predicted grimly.
    Billings shook his head. “You know as well as I do that we can’t go to war with England. Not now. Lincoln has enough on his hands trying to put down the rebellion. Palmerston knows it too, and that’s why he’s playing this little game, putting a face of neutrality on his actions while he continues to send