“Charlie! Bertie! Look, a ship!”
Captain Redjack Teal was seated at his dining table, clad in a silk dressing gown and a tasselled hat, awaiting his breakfast. However, this morning proved a little different from others. Instead of the cook’s gentle tap to warn him of the meal’s arrival, the cabin door burst open and the cook was pushed to one side as the two watchmen hurtled into the room shouting, “Cap’n! Cap’n, sir—!”
Teal sprang up in a fury, his finger pointing at the doorway. “Out! Out of my cabin, confound your eyes, or I’ll have the hides flogged from your oafish backs. Out I say!”
Bertie spoke up hesitantly. “But, but, Cap’n, beggin’ yore—”
The captain fixed him with an eye that would have frozen Jamaican rum on a warm day. “Outside . . . now!” Both crewmen knew better than to argue and stumbled out. Still standing outside balancing his tray, Mounsey gave them a knowing look, then tapped gently on the door, which he had just shut behind them. Teal’s voice called out languidly, “Come.”
The cook glided in smoothly, setting the tray carefully on Teal’s table and rearranging a lemon slice as he spoke. “A very good mornin’ t’ye, sir. H’I wish to report two h’of the crew’s watch, waitin’ outside to see ye, sir.”
The privateer captain poured himself some Madeira, moderating his voice to its usual aristocratic drawl. “Really, two of the watch, y’say. Send the fellows in, please.”
Mounsey called to Charlie and Bertie, both standing outside. “H’enter, an’ close the door be’ind yew!”
Teal glanced over the rim of his goblet at the pair, standing awkwardly in his presence. Before either of them could speak, he held up a hand for silence and began lecturing them. “Never taught to knock politely, were we? Now, repeat after me: Bumpkins should always knock before entering the cabin of a captain and a gentleman of breeding. Repeat!”
Charlie and Bertie stumbled over some of the words, but they managed, after a fashion. Teal wiped his lips by dabbing at them with the serviette.
“Politeness is the first rule to one’s captain. Now, you there.” He picked up his fork and pointed at Charlie. “What exactly was it you wanted to report, eh? Speak up, man.”
“Ship off the starboard bow, Cap’n, passin’ the ’eadland. Looks like a French buccaneer, sir!”
Teal’s fork dropped, clattering upon his plate. “Demn ye man, why didn’t you say?”
Bertie piped up. “We was goin’ to, sir, but you said—”
The gimlet eye froze him to silence as Teal reprimanded him. “Excuse me, but did I address you?”
Bertie shuffled his bare feet and stared hard at them. “No, sir.”
The captain nodded. “Then hold y’tongue, sirrah!” Teal made it a point never to know the names of his crew. Such things were beneath him. He stared at Charlie. “A demned froggy, eh? Buccaneer, y’say? Still in range, is he?”
Charlie kept his eyes front and centre. “Aye, sir!”
Redjack Teal rose from his chair. “Well, I’ll teach the scoundrel to cross my bows. Cook, send in me dresser. You two, report to the master gunner and tell him to turn out his crew on the double and await me orders.”
Rocco Madrid had been wakened and called up on deck at first light. His three top crewmen, Pepe, Portugee and Boelee, were grouped sheepishly on the afterdeck, avoiding their captain’s disgusted looks.
Madrid drew his sword and prodded the long spar, which still smelled of oil and burnt canvas. He pointed the sword at Portugee. “When was this thing found, and where exactly was it?”
The bosun tried to sound efficient. “Capitano, it was found less than a quarter hour ago. We pulled it from the water, Boelee and I. Pepe knows exactly where it was.”
Pepe cleared his throat nervously. “Sí, Capitano, the spar was drifting in our wake, I was lucky to spot it.”
Turning on his heel, the Spaniard strode to the rail. He sheathed his sword and stared pensively at the water. The trio watched him apprehensively, trying to gauge his mood. Much to their relief, he was smiling when he turned to face them. “A decoy, eh, very clever. That spar tells me two things. One, the Marie is not headed for Jamaica and Port Royal. Two, they were sending us the wrong way. So, what does this tell you, amigos?”
The three stared dumbly at him as his smile grew wider.
“Donkeys, you have not the brains among you to make a capitano. Thuron would not be fool enough to turn and sail back to Cartagena. No, I think he’s taken off at an angle, east, out to the sea. So, he will head for one of two places, Hispaniola or Puerto Rico. Here’s what I plan on doing. We will sail east also, right through the strait between the two islands and out into the Atlantic. It doesn’t matter which island he’s chosen—when Thuron puts out to sea again, we’ll be waiting for him. Boelee, bring me my sea charts. Portugee, take the wheel and head Diablo due east. The French fox will not escape me this time!”
Pepe stood by Portugee at the wheel, speaking in a low voice as the captain walked away. “How do we know Thuron won’t sail for the Leeward or the Windward Isles, or maybe for La Guira, Trinidad, even Curaçao, or right out to Barbados?”
Portugee turned the wheel steadily, blinking as the sun caught his eyes. “We don’t know, Pepe. Didn’t you hear him? We’re donkeys with no brains, he’s the capitano. So whatever he decides must be right. Unless you’d like to go tell him you know better!”
Pepe shook his head vigorously. “I have no desire to be a dead man, amigo. The capitano knows best, this donkey will obey his orders without question.”
4
BEN HAD NEVER BEEN ABOARD A SHIP at sea that had been fired on. The first thing he heard was a distant boom. Both he and Ned looked up to the sky, the dog sending him a puzzled thought. “That sounds like thunder, but there’s hardly a cloud anywhere in the sky.”
Anaconda’s deep voice rang out. “All hands down, we bein’ fired on, Cap’n!”
Thuron was opening his telescope as he hurried to the stern rail when there was a tremendous splash in the water about fifty yards astern. The Frenchman sighted his glass, shouting orders as he did so. “British privateer sailing out of Santa Marta’s east coast! Carrying enough cannon for a man-o’-war, curse him! Pierre, tighten the braces and run out staysails port and starboard! He hasn’t got our range yet. We’ll need every stitch of canvas if the Marie’s to outrun him!”
A second cannon boom exploded. This time Ben heard the iron ball cleave the air with a whistling noise. Both he and Ned were drenched with spray as the shot hit the waves, less than twenty yards from the stern.
Then the chase was on. A good stiff breeze took up any slack in the sails of La Petite Marie as she shot off like a startled deer. A small, agile crewman named Gascon climbed to the stern lookout point with the captain’s spy-glass rammed into his belt. Ben and Ned stood anxiously at Thuron’s side, staring up at Gascon as he sighted the glass on their attacker and yelled down. “They’re comin’ on fast, Cap’n, ’tis a twenty-two gunner, with four culverins in the bows. I can just see the crew standing to with muskets!”
Despite the peril of their predicament, Thuron smiled grimly. “Hah! Typical privateer, overgunned and over-manned. Our Marie sports only half their number of cannon, and we cut off our fenders yesterday. We’ll outsail the fat-bottomed Englander. He won’t get any king’s bounty out of Raphael Thuron, you can bet your boots on that, boy!”
Ned shot Ben a hasty observation. “Well, at least our cap’n isn’t short of confidence. I like his style!”
Ben wiped salt spray from his eyes and addressed the captain. “I think we’ll have to sail a lot faster than the privateer to stay out of gun range, sir.”
Thuron threw an arm around the boy’s shoulders. “Aye, lad, but our Marie’s a fast little lady, and I’ve got my lucky Ben and Ned with me. Don’t worry, as long as we can keep those cannonballs from shooting our rudder away and any chain shot from ripping off our masts, all he’ll hit is our wake. I’ve outrun privateers before. Get down!
”
Ben, Thuron and the dog flung themselves flat to the deck. There was a harsh, whirring noise and a resounding crack. The captain lifted his head at the same time as Ben. Thuron nodded toward the stern rail. Hanging wrapped around the ornate gallery rail, the wood of which was splintered and split, was a chain attached to a cannonball about the size of a man’s fist.
The Frenchman whistled soundlessly. “That was close. Here, lad, come and take a look at some chain shot!”
Keeping low, they crawled to the rail. Thuron reached up and unwound the object, hauling it aboard. It was like a bolas—three lengths of chain joined at the centre to form a letter Y, with a small iron ball attached to the end of each chain.
The captain weighed it in his big round hands. “British Royal Navy issue. Poor buccaneers like me cannot afford such murderous, expensive toys. Look, here comes another! Stay on your feet, boy, it won’t hit us. We’re stretching our lead on the sluggard!” Ben heard the deadly whirr and saw the second chain shot plow harmlessly into the sea two ship lengths behind them.
Captain Redjack finally appeared on deck after breakfasting and having his dresser’s attention. He flipped a lace kerchief from his red velvet sleeve and flicked a spot of black powder from his oyster-silk knee breeches. Turning to the master gunner, whose name had slipped his mind, he held out a well-manicured hand and spoke. “Confound ye, man. Don’t stand there gogglin’, make y’report!”
Captain Redjack focussed the telescope, which the gunner handed him, on his quarry, studying the vessel as the gunner reported. “She’s a French buccaneer alright, Cap’n, sir. I tested ’er speed with a couple o’ cannon shots. She’s fast. Though I managed to wrap a chain shot round ’er stern galley, sir.”
Redjack took the glass from his eye and tapped it in his palm. “Faith, did ye now? Cowardly froggy, look at him, runnin’ like a spring hare. Mistah, er, steersman, I want ye to take us right within the gun range of yon fellow. Can y’do that, eh?”
The steersman, a lanky, gloom-faced man, tugged his forelock. “She’s ’igher out the water than us, sir. By ’er lines I’d say the Frenchie was built fer speed. But I’ll do me best, Cap’n.”
The privateer captain stared down his nose at the steersman. “Don’t do y’best, sirrah. Do a lot better’n that, eh?
Three golden guineas for the man who sets first foot on the pirates’ deck. Three stripes from a rope’s end for all hands if we lose the villain. Demme, but if that isn’t a fair offer, eh?”
The crew knew Redjack to be a man of his word. A hard-faced mate began bellowing orders. “Pile on extra spritsails an’ bowsails, take cutlasses an’ loose those fenders. Jump to it, ye layabouts!”
Redjack smiled benevolently at the mate and held his arms wide to give him the benefit of his outfit: Oyster-silk breeches, white stockings and silver-buckled high shoes, his cuffs and throat frothing with cream silk lace beneath a freshly pressed and laundered red hunting jacket. “Odds-fish, that’s the style, dress t’suit the occasion, I always say!”
Not daring to venture back up the mast again, Gascon crouched on the afterdeck viewing the Devon Belle through Thuron’s telescope. “The Britisher’s pilin’ on canvas, y’can see he’s pickin’ up more speed right away, Cap’n!”
Thuron nodded. “Just keep us running with the wind on an even keel, Ludon. We’ll lose him before we’re halfway to Hispaniola and Puerto Rico.”
The steersman, Ludon, called back to his captain. “Can’t keep ’er runnin’ due east, wind’s freshenin’ to the south. We’ll have to tack, Cap’n!”
Thuron gestured to Ned and Ben. “Watch me, I’ll show you how to tack and skim.” Thuron took the wheel from Ludon and spun it expertly, explaining his tactics to Ben. “If we can’t sail dead east, the next best thing is to tack. First into the wind, then away from it, so the ship heels over a touch and skims sideways. That way our Marie keeps up her speed. Sailing due east in a south wind would slow us down. Gascon, what’s the privateer doing now?”
From behind the captain’s back the lookout answered. “The Britisher’s doin’ the same as us, Cap’n, tackin’ an’ skimmin’ like a pondfly.”
Beneath his foppish posturing, Captain Redjack Teal was no fool. At that moment, he was watching the French ship keenly. He, too, had ordered the Devon Belle into a tacking manoeuvre while alerting his gunnery master to attend the portside cannonry. Teal reckoned he had gained a small distance on the other vessel. He waited until the moment was right, ready to take a gamble. The opportunity presented itself suddenly when he saw that the two vessels, whilst tacking, were broadside on to each other. Standing alongside his master gunner, the privateer captain rapped out swift orders: “Right, sharpish now, give her a full broadside, quick as y’like man. Now!”
Ten cannon rocked back on their carriages as they went off with one frightening explosion!
All hands aboard the Marie threw themselves flat as they heard the roar of approaching cannonballs. Ben gasped as Ned hurled himself on his master’s back, protecting him. Next moment there was horrendous crashing, smoke, flames and the sound of screaming men.
Thuron was on his feet instantly, shouting, “Run south, run south with the wind. Leave off tacking!” He hauled the dog off Ben. “Are you alright, boy?”
With the noise still ringing in his ears, Ben jumped up. “I’m fine, Cap’n, see to your ship!”
Ben and Ned were hard on the Frenchman’s heels as he hastened about, checking the damage. Luckily no masts had been chopped down by the cannonade, the rudder was intact and the Marie had not been holed. But the entire galley had been blown to pieces, clear off the deck. Pierre, ashen-faced, staggered up clutching a wounded arm. “Three crew dead, Cap’n. Galley an’ everythin’ in it, cook included, all gone. ’Tween decks is burnin’, though not badly.”
Thuron ripped a swathe of lining from his frock coat and bandaged Pierre’s arm as he issued orders. “Get those flames put out! Check all the rigging! Ludon, keep her hard south. Take us out of range!”
Ben saw the captain’s brow crease and his eyes narrow. “Can we still outrun them, sir?”
Thuron stroked his beard and stared back at the Devon Belle. “Aye, at a pinch, lad, at a pinch. But I’ve thought of a better way than running from the enemy. I’m going to stop him chasing us. Anaconda, remember Puerto Cortes?”
The giant’s face lit up in a huge grin. “Aye, Cap’n, that’s where we captured little Gerda from that Hollander. Shall I have her brought aft?”
The Frenchman drew his cutlass. “Rig a block and tackle!”
Ned sent a puzzled thought to Ben. “Gerda can’t be that little, not if they need a block and tackle to raise her. Ask him who little Gerda is, Ben.”
The boy asked, and Ned was all ears as Thuron explained. “Little Gerda is a strange gun we captured from a Hollander merchant ship bound for a garrison at the tip of Yucatan. It has a long barrel, not wide enough to fit a full cannonball but built to fire further than a cannon. You’ll see.”
Little Gerda was indeed a strange weapon. Ben helped to swing it onto the stern deck and set it up on a pivot, which was intended for the bow culverin.
The captain stroked its long barrel approvingly. “I knew this would prove useful one day. See the barrel? It is meant for long-range firing. Gerda’s magazine will take twice the normal amount of gunpowder—her barrel has seven layers of thick copper wire bound onto it, so it won’t split under pressure. The vent is too small for a proper cannonball, so can you guess what I’m going to use, Ben?”
The boy caught on instantly. He picked up the chain shot that Thuron had left lying by the cracked rail. “This would fit into little Gerda’s mouth, I think.”
The Frenchman winked broadly at him. “Right, my lucky Ben! Let’s give the Britisher his chain shot back as a returned compliment. Anaconda, Gascon, set the gun up. We’ll get it ready while we’re still on the run!”
Ned and Ben scampered below on the captain’s orders, where they collected an
y old soft lengths of cloth to act as wadding and some palm oil to soak it in. On the way back they took the rammer from the for’ard culverin to tamp little Gerda’s shot down tight.
Between them, Thuron and Anaconda were raising the gun’s trajectory and sighting it right.
A crewman aboard the Devon Belle stood dutifully by with tray, decanter and goblet. Captain Redjack Teal took his morning measure of Madeira wine, asking a seaman who was relaying observations from another stationed in the crow’s nest, “You fellow, what’s the froggy doin’ now, eh?”
The seaman shouted up to the lookout. “Cap’n wants to know what the French vessel’s doin’!”
The lookout yelled back down. “Runnin’ due south with the wind, clearin’ up the mess we made o’ their midship decks!”
The seaman reported back to Teal, who had already heard the lookout’s reply. “She’s runnin’ due south, sir, makin’ runnin’ repairs as she goes.”
Sipping Madeira, Teal dabbed his lips and smiled. “Stap me, that’s a good un, eh? Makin’ runnin’ repairs whilst runnin’ away. Very droll indeed!”
The Angel's Command Page 4