Suddenly enraged, Dex scrambled off the deck and shoved Quill hard in the chest with both hands. “Watch your feet, Quill,” he snarled, “or I'm going to pound you.” Dex saw naked animosity, but also a flicker of fear in the smaller boy's eyes as he stumbled back and instantly regretted his outburst. “And don't call me lubber again,” he muttered walking away to find Captain Campbell.
“Come,” called Campbell at Dex's knock on his cabin door.
Dex entered the cabin to find Captain Campbell and Alan Davis bent over a chart covered desk.
Campbell straightened. “By tomorrow morning, we'll be off Virginia Colony, and I intend to go closer inshore and lie in wait for the Dutchman,” he said. “I believe we can best him in a sea action, but it will be a savage battle, and although Ian Carmichael tells me you are doing well at the cannon drill, I'm not sure I would have you aboard. My thought is to put you and Mister Masters overboard in the cutter as soon as we spot the Dutchman. Once it is over, we can pick you up again or, if needs be, you could make your way to Williamsburg or Jamestown with Masters’ help.”
Dex stiffened to his full height. He had thought about the Dutchman's advantages in both crew size and numbers of cannons, but he trusted Captain Campbell. “Sir,” he said, “I'm a member of this crew and I'm not afraid of a battle. I know my job and I can help. Please don't make me go. Besides,” he added, “I'm the only one that knows what Mapes looks like.”
Campbell stared hard at Dex. “You speak lightly of battle, a subject with which I'm sure you are quite unfamiliar, but perhaps you are correct. Whatever, or whoever, put you aboard this vessel must have done so for a reason.” Coming to a decision, he reached into his jacket and brought out Dex's binoculars which he handed to Dex. “In truth, I do need all hands; your place will be with Mister Masters in the crow’s nest at dawn,” he said. “Take these and look to the east for the Dutchman. She'll have three masts and, the last I knew, a black hull.”
Dex gulped and nodded. He had become used to the main top lookout, a relatively spacious platform at the top of the lower main mast, during his times there with Tobias, but he had only climbed to the tiny crow’s nest, much higher at the very top of the main top gallant mast and more than eighty feet above the deck of the White Shark, once. And even though the ship had been tied to the dock at the time, he remembered it as a very frightening experience.
“Grip tight, rigging's getting slippery.”
The sky was just beginning to lighten in the east and Dex was climbing up the main-top ratlines behind Tobias in a blanket of cold, wet sea fog. The chill in the wind had increased overnight and its clash with the warmer waters of the gulf current cocooned the world in a shroud of white. When Dex reached the main-top platform, the foremast was indistinct, and he could not even see the White Shark's bow. Up and up they climbed until they finally hauled themselves into the cramped barrel lashed to the top of the mizzen mast. By now they were above the fog, looking down on a vast gently undulating blanket of white.
“This is useless,” complained Dex. “We can't see anything.”
“The fog will likely burn off when the sun comes up,” Tobias said. “It will go from the top down, so if the Dutchman's out there, we'll see her masts first.”
Dex shivered in the cold air and gulped to force down the meager cheese and biscuit breakfast that was threatening to rise into the back of his throat. Although the winds were nearly calm and the seas flat, he was suddenly aware of a sickening side-to-side sway at the top of the mast made worse by the lack of any visual reference. He lifted his binoculars from under his shirt and cleaned the lenses with a bit of the cloth to take his mind off nauseating motion. When he lifted them to his eyes, Tobias cocked his head questioningly. “I've never seen the like of your glass,” he said. “No doubt, it's commonplace on a rich merchantman, though.”
Dex heard Tobias' underlying question, but did not know how to answer. “I... it was a gift,” he said. “I don't know where it came from.”
The next half hour passed in uneasy silence as the fog slowly thinned before the rising sun. Dex felt like he was betraying his friend by not being honest, and the feeling was made worse by Tobias' obvious curiosity and considerate refusal to pry. He had just decided to tell Tobias everything when the larger boy suddenly gripped his arm painfully. “Look,” Tobias said pointing to the left of the bow with his other hand. “There's a ship out there.”
It was a full half hour before the fog burned away enough to see the other ship clearly. Captain Campbell had turned the White Shark away from the newcomer at Dex's first shout of the sighting and then followed Tobias' directions, maneuvering to maintain a separation which just allowed the boys to see the very tops of the enemy masts. At mid-morning, when it was clear that the other ship was headed south, albeit very slowly in the nearly still air, Captain Campbell called Dex and Tobias down from the crow’s nest. “We'll break away for the moment,” he said as he herded them towards the warmth of the galley, “and shadow them south. Tonight in the dark of the moon is soon enough to take on the Dutchman.”
The White Shark made her way southward, slowly gaining speed in the rising offshore breeze. There were no cannon drills, and the crew relaxed and looked to the knives and small hatchets that made up their personal weapons. In the late afternoon, Captain Campbell altered course once more to the east and again and sent Dex and Tobias back to the crow’s nest. It was nearly too dark to see when the three masts again appeared, far ahead at the very edge of the coming night.
Captain Campbell again swung to the south to parallel the Dutchman. It wasn't until full dark, with whatever moon there might have been cloaked by heavy clouds and the ship as dark as a shadow, that he finally turned again to the east and began his approach.
-----
Aboard the Dutchman, Anders DeJong started from a deep sleep and sat bolt upright in his bunk. He pushed back sweat-dampened hair as his eyes fell on the ghostly apparition of the old woman who had saved his life ten years before standing in the middle of his cabin. She made no sound and after a long moment her mournful visage faded until only her infinitely sad eyes lingered in his memory. DeJong didn’t need the sudden blazing agony at the site of his old wounds to remind him that his destiny was controlled by another.
-----
When the Dutchman appeared out of the dark several hours later, it was as a small cluster of lights, a tiny constellation just below the indistinct horizon. They closed slowly, and when the lights were visible to lookouts on the main top, Captain Campbell called Dex and Tobias to the deck where he stood talking with Ian Carmichael.
“We'll load the starboard eighteens with chain shot and the port with ball,” Campbell was saying. “And ball for the twenty-fours and chasers as well. I'll give you a starboard broadside and a shot at her rudder with the chasers. Then we'll come about and put the port guns into her hull.”
As they trotted to their gun stations, Tobias said. “The Captains means to dismast her, cripple her if he can, on the first pass and then stand off and pound her. If it works, she may yield without a deck battle.”
The White Shark's course carried her ahead of the Dutchman until, still apparently undetected, Captain Campbell turned to the north and she closed to within two hundred yards on a parallel path with the larger ship. Dex heard a startled yell from the Dutchman's fore-top as Ian Carmichael strode behind the starboard-side cannons readying his crews. “Steady men,” he said. “We have them cold. Step lively, now. On my command, and make ready your second shot as though the devil himself were coming for you.”
Panicked shouting and the sounds of thudding feet and rattling chains floated across the narrowing gap between the ships. The Dutchman's crew tried feverishly to make ready to defend themselves, but Dex could see that the surprise was complete. The White Shark, little more than two thirds the size of her adversary, ghosted silently past until, with only fifty yards separating the two ships, Carmichael's bellowed command “Fire” was swallowed by the thunder a
nd lightning of a full naval broadside. He had waited until the two ships were drawing apart, and the command had been timed for the rise of the White Shark's hull to hurl eight charges of chain shot diagonally across the Dutchman's deck. At the same time, the two starboard twenty-four pounders on the quarterdeck had blasted their five and a half inch balls low, smashing into the Dutchman's hull at the waterline.
Half blinded by the cannon's flash Dex was peering excitedly through the dense cloud of dirty white smoke that temporarily hid the Dutchman when he was startled by the muted bark of the two long nine pound stern chasers firing from their position below Captain Campbell's cabin. Deafened from the thunderous broadside, it took Dex a moment to realize that the roaring in his ears was actually cheering. He jumped up to the quarterdeck in time to see the Dutchman's tall middle-mast, chopped off eight feet above the splintered and savaged deck, complete its ponderous fall over the side carrying a welter of men and rigging into the sea. In the stuttering light of her cannons, Dex could see axes flash as the Dutchman’s crew struggled to cut the trailing mast free.
When the ships were a quarter of a mile apart, Captain Campbell gave the command to bring the White Shark about, spinning her to the left until the port side guns could be brought to bear. Once again night flashed to day and the Dutchman seemed to shudder at the impact of the White Shark's vicious broadside. By then, the starboard cannons were ready again and Campbell continued his turn, crossing the Dutchman's stern until, one by one, they poured accurate fire down the length of her already ravaged hull.
Although brutally damaged, the Dutchman was not yet out of the fight. Dex saw large puffs of smoke bloom at her stern and seconds later felt the jarring impact as a heavy iron ball struck the White Shark's thick oak hull. As the ships continued to move around one another, more of the pirate's cannons blazed from her gunwales as she flickered in and out of sight like a ghost behind a ragged wall of powder smoke. The deck became treacherous underfoot, foul with fallen rigging and slick with the blood of dead and wounded sailors. After the first shots, Dex was running hard, replenishing powder and shot as fast as it was consumed by the two hungry cannons he served. With each trip back to the deck, he saw more and more damage and was soon fighting for passage in the narrow companionway as wounded sailors were carried below to the makeshift surgery where the cook was acting as surgeon. The deck was covered with tangles of fallen rigging and large wooden splinters that had been torn from shell-shattered gunwales as swarms of deadly missiles.
Dex would never know how many times he carried powder and shot out of the magazine that night, but the eastern sky was showing the first faint blush of a new day when at last he staggered onto a deck, silent but for the sound of tired men cheering.
“She's struck,” called Tobias from across the deck where he sat with this back against the bulwark. “We've taken her.”
Chapter 16
“He's not here.” Dex paced tiredly alongside Alan Davis past the lines of dirty and battered sailors assembled on the deck of the Dutchman. He had looked into each of the sullen crew’s begrimed faces twice without seeing the face of Lieutenant Mapes.
“Then we must look amongst their wounded and dead below,” Davis said, “but we'd best hurry. This hulk won't float for long.”
It was still early morning, and Dex had accompanied Davis and an armed crew aboard the Dutchman. Captain Campbell remained aboard the White Shark with severe wounds in his right arm and leg from the explosion of an overheated cannon. Most of the defeated pirate crew stood about in resigned silence, with those that could manning pumps in a futile effort to keep the sea from the frigate's shattered hull. Captain DeJong lay dead on the quarterdeck and no one appeared to be in command of the dispirited men. Davis and his men had quickly disarmed the pirates and assembled them for Dex's inspection. When Mapes was not found, they were herded into the forecastle and locked down as Dex and Davis went below.
Below decks, the Dutchman was a dark hell of shredded bulkheads, wailing men and blood. Dex gagged at the coppery smell and taste of blood and entrails that lay heavily on the fetid air. Man lay or writhed on every flat surface, those surfaces shrinking as the pumps lost their battle with the sea, some with crude tourniquets slowing blood flow from severed limbs, others crying and rocking in the agony of torn flesh and crushed bodies. Many lay still and uncovered, obviously, hideously, beyond help and the smell of burnt flesh, blood and human waste was so strong as to be nearly visible in the smoky air. Hot tears ran unnoticed through the grime on Dex's face as he struggled to comprehend the slaughter.
Peering through the uncertain light of oil lanterns and guttering candles, Dex looked into the faces of the dead and dying, struggling to overcome the guilt that threatened to overwhelm him. He was so lost in shock and misery that he took several steps beyond Mapes before recognizing the gory visage of the British officer. Mapes was dressed in blood-drenched civilian shirt and pants and appeared lifeless, lying on his back on the deck, but when Dex leaned in for a closer look, the Lieutenant’s eyes flickered open and his lips parted in a hideous, blood-spattered grin of recognition. “Why do you haunt me, boy?” he gasped painfully.
Dex somehow found his voice. “Why do you steal and kill Americans?” he asked. He thought for a moment that Mapes was pondering an answer then realized that the man's stare had become fixed and his tortured breath was stilled. Dex looked into the fading blue eyes and staggered back against Davis as a growing ring of darkness narrowed his own vision.
Two hours later, Dex was unconscious in his own bunk as Alan Davis brought the last of his crew and the cargo they had salvaged from the Dutchman back aboard the White Shark. He would never remember being carried off the Dutchman, and he did not awaken to see part of the pirate crew set off for the distant Virginia coast in a flotilla of small boats and rafts, nor did he see the battered Dutchman finally slip beneath the waves carrying with her Lieutenant Mapes, Captain DeJong and the remainder of her crew.
Dex opened his eyes to an empty cabin and the dull ache of an equally empty belly. He peeled out of the filthy clothes he’d passed out in and pulled on his spare trousers and shirt before stumbling onto deck, arms sore and legs stiff, to find the White Shark heeled over and running fast under a bright mid-day sun. The deck was littered with wood and cordage, tar buckets and paint pots, but the crew seemed to have already repaired most of the battle damage. Dex climbed to the quarterdeck where Alan Davis stood behind the helmsman. “How's Captain Campbell?” he asked.
“He's on the mend and wishes you to come to his cabin,” Davis said.
“You should have called me,” Dex said guiltily. “I didn't mean to sleep all day.”
Davis chuckled. “And which day would that be?” he asked.
“Well, today,” Dex gestured at men working on deck. “I guess I slept through supper last night, but I should be helping today.”
“You did indeed sleep through supper,” Davis said gently, “two days ago. The captain ordered that you not be awakened and moved Mister Masters and Mister Quill to the forecastle to insure you rested undisturbed.”
“Two days?” Dex cried hotly. “Why should I get to sleep? I'm part of this crew too. I...”
“Nay, Lad,” Davis said laying a gentle hand on Dex's shoulder. “It was right and good that you did. I've known too many men who could not sleep at all after their first battle and not a one of them the better for it. No man should lay awake to reflect on hell.”
Dex's anger fled as the memories of the battle and the decimated crew of the Dutchman came flooding back. He nodded and turned mutely away from Davis and made his way down to the Captain's Cabin.
Captain Campbell lay propped up on pillows in his bunk, his arm and leg wrapped in bandages. His face was pale, and he sat forward with obvious discomfort, but his voice was firm and his eyes clear. “And now you can speak a little of battle,” he said. “It may be the worst you will ever experience but, in this case, it was both necessary and rewarding. We recovered the mone
y that Mapes stole and, while shared it would make every man on board rich beyond their dreams, we are taking it back to Boston. I must tell you it will go to the merchants from whom it was first stolen by unreasonable British taxation and will be used to help fashion our independence.”
At Dex's puzzled nod, Campbell continued. “This was your quest, your victory. I hope you can understand why I must deny you your prize.”
Suddenly Dex understood. “No, no,” he said. “I never... it's not mine, I don't want anything except to help Mister Adams.”
A stiffness Dex hadn't noticed left Captain Campbell's face as he lay back on the pillows. “Then we are of an accord, and we can move on to more important matters,” he said. “The money that Lieutenant Mapes stole was not the only treasure aboard the Dutchman. She floundered before Mister Davis could salvage more of a fraction of her cargo, but he had the good fortune to stumble upon Captain DeJong's personal treasury.” Campbell grinned. “After a portion for the White Shark and an additional donation to the Sons of Liberty, you and every other man aboard will share a very substantial fortune. It will take some time after landfall to determine the exact share as some of the value is in gold, silver and jewels as well as coin of the realm.” He gestured tiredly. “In the bag on my desk is an advance on your share or, if you will, a trade for the coins you showed me when first you came aboard.”
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