by Tim Severin
‘De Graff has placed his ship exactly opposite the entrance to the bay. Tomorrow afternoon when the sea breeze is strongest, I propose sailing the Meteor through the entrance, then setting her alight and letting her drift down on the French frigate.’
Bartaboa, the sailing master, nodded approvingly. ‘Even if the Sainte Rose has re-rigged her spars and sails, de Graff can’t shift her fast enough nor can he beat out of the bay. The wind will be against him. He’s trapped.’
Hector went on. ‘The Meteor carries combustible naval stores including large quantities of gunpowder and tar—’
‘—and dozens of barrels of brandy and rum,’ added Jezreel. ‘De Graff’s crew must be a gang of tosspots if that’s what they asked to be sent to them. That ship will blaze like a firework.’
With the tip of the ramrod Hector traced a line on the deck. ‘This will be the Meteor’s route. She makes a direct approach from the sea, the breeze dead astern. Only a minimum of sail handlers are needed, three or four at most. Here –’ he tapped the end of the rod on the narrow entry to the bay – ‘they set fire to the cargo and leave the ship in the cockboat. They row clear to be picked up by the Speedy Return. The fireship sails on, unmanned, and collides with the frigate.’
Jezreel spoke up. ‘Surely de Graff knows that his careenage is vulnerable. He must have placed a shore battery to protect the entrance.’
Hector exchanged glances with Dan. ‘You are correct. De Graff has landed some of his guns and set up a battery at this point.’ Another tap of the rod. ‘On the slope of the hill which overlooks the harbour entrance from the west.’
The parson, Watson, gave a snort of disappointment. ‘Even a drunken gunner’s mate couldn’t miss at that range. He’ll be shooting from a steady platform. Your fireship will be blown to bits before she’s halfway through the entrance.’
‘De Graff’s gunners won’t know that she is a fireship,’ said Hector quietly. He had their full attention now. ‘He’s expecting a supply vessel to arrive. Indeed he may even know that it’s the Meteor from Petit Goâve. When his gunners see a ship heading boldly for the entrance and recognize her as French by her rig, they will let her sail in.’
‘And what happens if de Graff is not expecting a supply ship?’ objected the sailing master. ‘He’ll smash the Meteor to splinters with his first salvo. The plan is suicidal.’
‘We make sure that he thinks the Meteor is friendly. And at the same time we give those who are aboard the fireship their best chance of getting away.’
He paused and looked round the circle of faces. He thought someone else would have seen how to fool de Graff. But he was met with bemused silence.
Hector took a deep breath. Now came the key part of his plan. ‘De Graff is unaware of our presence and that the Meteor is in our hands. Around noontime tomorrow his lookouts on the hill will see a ship, a French vessel judging by the look of her. She is heading straight for the entrance to the bay, tearing along at full speed, every sail set, clearly in an emergency.’
Jacques gave a cackle of delight. He had guessed. ‘And not far behind her is the Speedy Return, guns firing, chasing the Meteor, apparently trying to catch her before she reaches safety.’
Hector grinned. ‘Exactly. De Graff’s shore battery allows Meteor to race into the bay. The gunners concentrate their attention on the Speedy Return, waiting for her to come in range. Meanwhile, below them, in the entrance to the bay, the men aboard the Meteor put torches to the combustible cargo, abandon ship and row out to the Speedy Return to be picked up.’
‘Hector, you’re as cunning as Captain Drake!’ exclaimed Jezreel.
‘Does anyone have any questions?’ asked Hector.
‘Just one,’ said Jacques. ‘Who will be aboard the fireship?’
‘I will, and I need four volunteers to come with me,’ said Hector.
Jezreel, Dan and Jacques immediately raised their hands. Hector had expected them to do so. ‘Dan, I’d be glad if you would come along. This is a job for good swimmers should anything go wrong.’
Then he hesitated. Jezreel and Jacques both knew how to swim but they were clumsy in the water. He did not want them floundering in the sea under gunfire. The sailing master was speaking rapidly to the Coromantee sailors. He must be explaining the plan. When he finished, his listeners asked a few questions and then four of them stepped forward.
‘Captain,’ said Bartaboa, ‘these men would like to join you on the fireship. It will be their way of repaying you for agreeing to help them. On the African coast they worked on the boats that run the surf. I can assure you that they are excellent swimmers.’
‘Just three men will be sufficient. Please thank them for their bravery.’
He felt light-headed now that he had committed himself and his volunteers to the adventure. ‘Tonight we stay well clear of Providencia. In the morning we prepare the Meteor for burning. Then, as soon as the on-shore breeze picks up, we set sail for the entrance.’
Suddenly he was tired, very tired, and with exhaustion came the realization that he would have to hand over command of the Speedy Return during his absence. ‘Jezreel, I’m placing you in charge until I get back. If for some reason neither Dan nor I return, you and Jacques must decide jointly what is best.’
*
THE METEOR REEKED OF tar and rum. They had hoisted two barrels of ship’s pitch from the Meteor’s cargo and softened it to a bubbling sludge in kettles over the supply ship’s galley fire. They had cut up the spare sails and dipped the canvas strips in the sticky liquid before stuffing the rags in cracks and crevices around the vessel. Knocking in the top of a hogshead of rum, they had taken dippers and splashed the liquor around the hold. The gunpowder kegs they left sealed. Loose powder could lead to a premature explosion which would shatter the Meteor before she was alongside the French frigate, and ruin their plan. It was enough to shift the powder kegs from their safe storage in the bowels of the ship, and position them at intervals within the hull so they would detonate one after another when the conflagration reached them.
On deck everything still appeared normal. The preparations that had turned the brigantine into a floating bomb had to be invisible to sharp-eyed lookouts on Providencia. Hector walked around the deck, checking for any suspicious signs. He could see none. The little skiff they would use to escape the burning vessel was chocked on deck close to a gap they had sawn in the bulwark. He doubted that this unorthodox arrangement was enough to arouse the suspicions of observers on the island. The crew of the fireship had only to cut two lashings, then slide the skiff through the gap and into the sea.
The day was full of bright sunshine with only the faintest smears of high gauzy cloud. Already the sea breeze had begun to blow towards the land. The Meteor, all sails set, was travelling at her best pace straight for Providencia. The low hill at the entrance to the careenage was two miles ahead and plainly visible. Hector himself had dressed in a rust-red coat taken from the French captain’s wardrobe, and at the stern flew the same Brandenburg ensign which the Meteor had shown when she had tried to escape the Speedy Return. In every detail they were trying to repeat the appearance of that earlier chase, and once again the Return was in hot pursuit. Bartaboa, the sailing master, was handling the pink skilfully, and there was no doubt that she had been gaining on the Meteor yard by yard. If she kept up the blistering pace, she should overtake her prey before the Meteor reached apparent sanctuary in the bay.
A cannon boomed, and the ball threw up a spout of water thirty paces to one side of the fleeing Meteor. Hector looked astern. The Speedy Return had yawed to one side so that her forward gun could be brought to bear. She was well within range. Inevitably the manoeuvre slowed her down, and when she came back on her course the gap between the two vessels would have widened again. Hector allowed himself a moment’s satisfaction. Everything was going as he had intended. For the past ten miles, whenever the Speedy Return began to get too close to the Meteor, she had made that deliberate swerve. Simeon Watson aimed o
ff and fired a useless shot, and the chase went on. To the observers on Providencia it must seem that the Meteor was fleeing for her life, and it would be a close call if she reached her refuge before she was captured.
He turned to look at the island ahead. In that short space of time the details of the landscape had become much more defined. Over the starboard bow rose the hill that commanded the entrance. Halfway up its flank he could make out the ledge where de Graff’s men had cleared away the vegetation, levelled the ground, and placed their artillery. It must have been hard work to haul the heavy culverins up there through the matted bushes and tangled undergrowth that covered the slope. The opposite shore was much lower and more open, a promontory where the coconut palms tossed and waved in the breeze. Straight ahead through the entry he could already distinguish the three masts of de Graff’s frigate. She was still anchored where he and Dan had last seen her. At that distance it was difficult to be sure but it appeared to him that the Sainte Rose already had her yards crossed. The filibustier captain must have been driving his men hard to have re-rigged his ship so quickly. In a day or two he would be ready to sail.
Hector’s gaze returned to the Meteor’s deck. The supply ship must now be in clear view of the gunners on the hillside. He was suddenly uneasy that they would wonder why so few people were on the deck of the approaching vessel. But there was nothing he could do about it now. He could only hope that the drama of the chase unfolding below them would distract their attention.
The Meteor raced on. Dan, at the helm, was steering the vessel into the middle of the entrance channel. Hector stole another glance at the shore battery on the hillside. He was close enough now to see the individual cannon, four of them, their black barrels sinister against the green foliage around them. The gun crews would have had ample time to load and prime their weapons from the time they first saw the Meteor and the Speedy Return hull up against the horizon. He could see the gunners standing poised, almost motionless. They were waiting for the command to open fire.
A darting movement caught his attention. A man was running down from the summit of the hill, where de Graff must have placed his lookouts. The undergrowth was so thick that Hector could only see the man’s head and shoulders as he sped towards the battery. The slope was very steep, nearly a precipice, and the man had to double back and forth in a series of zigzags, following a hidden track. Hector watched his progress, saw him arrive among the gun crews, and then a flurry of ant-like activity as they responded to the message he brought. They were adjusting the angle of the guns.
Once more he looked back at the chasing pink. In a matter of moments the Speedy Return would come within range of the shore battery. He hoped that Jezreel would not be rash and bring the vessel dangerously close. De Graff’s gunners had to be made to think that they could destroy the Speedy Return. But at the same time Jezreel should stay far enough out to sea to make it unlikely that they would hit their target. It would require fine judgement and skilful sail-handling.
‘Another two or three minutes,’ called Dan from the helm. The Meteor was in the jaws of the entrance. Hector was conscious of the land closing in on either side, and the gun aimers on the hillside above him looking down, watching his every movement. He strode purposefully towards the cook’s hearth near the forecastle. Stowed there were half a dozen firebrands, twists of oakum wound around short lengths of stick. He would light them from the wick of the lantern they had taken from the binnacle and hidden within the cook box, then distribute the flaming torches to his crew. All pretence cast aside, they would hurry about the vessel and set fire to the tarry rags, wood shavings and dry kindling they had prepared.
He arrived at the cook’s hearth and knelt down. He reached for a bottle that was wedged there, drew the cork and sprinkled a generous dose of the contents on to the yarn of the firebrands. The sweet smell of rum filled his nostrils. He was relieved to see that the lantern was still burning. He did not relish fiddling with flint and steel to light the firebrands. Every second was vital.
He swung open the flap of the lantern and at that same instant felt an intense rushing, rippling sensation in the air. A split second later there was the unmistakable thud of cannon fire. Instinctively he ducked. The lantern fell on its side, and he had to grab it and set it upright again. But the flame in the wick had gone out. He cursed and fumbled in his pocket for his tinderbox. From behind him he heard Dan shout, ‘Hector! Stand clear! Look out, above you!’
He glanced upwards. To his stupefaction he saw that the Meteor’s foretopmast was askew. It was leaning at a weird angle. A severed shroud was dangling free. In another few moments the strain of the topsail would bring the topmast down. Shocked, he looked towards the hillside and de Graff’s shore battery. A cloud of pale grey smoke was blowing away, dispersing across the green slope. In its wake the gunners were working furiously, reloading.
Hector had a sudden sick lurch in the pit of his stomach. De Graff had not been fooled. He had seen through the ruse and guessed that the Meteor was in hostile hands. The man who ran down from the hilltop must have told the gunners to aim for the supply ship, not for the pursuing Speedy Return.
In the tense silence which followed the first salvo from the shore battery, Hector distinctly heard the high-pitched creaking sounds of twisting timber. The topmast was drooping farther to one side. In another moment it would come crashing down where he stood. He sprang to his feet and bolted. Two of the Coromantee sailors were already crouched on the edge of the deck, sheltering beneath the bulwark, looking upwards, terrified. The third had been on the foredeck and now he was scuttling aft. But he was too late. There was a loud crack and the topmast folded like a snapped fishing rod. The mast top came swinging down on the deck and struck the running man. He was hurled to one side by the force of the blow, his head at an unnatural angle. Moments later the topsail settled over his corpse as a shroud.
‘They’re firing at our rigging!’ Dan shouted. Hector looked up at the battery in time to see a bright yellow tongue of flame leap out from the muzzle of one cannon, then the spurt of smoke. Immediately came the dreadful rushing sound as the shot tore through the air. The gun aimer had overcompensated for the downward angle. A thick gout of water burst up a few yards to starboard of the Meteor, showering the midships with spray.
‘They’re using chain shot,’ bellowed Dan.
Two more of the cannon on the hillside fired in a ragged sequence, and this time they found their mark. The Meteor shuddered down her entire length as a pair of round shot joined by three feet of iron links whipped across her deck and scythed away the mainmast. Now the brigantine was utterly crippled. She slowed abruptly and began to turn sideways to the breeze.
Hector heard the snap and pop of musket fire. The range was extreme but the gunners on the shore battery had also taken up small arms and were shooting down on the deck of the helpless ship.
The little skiff so carefully prepared for the escape was half buried under the wreckage of the mainmast. There was no chance of freeing it.
‘Save yourselves!’ Hector yelled at the two Coromantees still crouched behind the bulwark. He waved them to go overboard. One man gave a final glance towards where his comrade lay crushed under the topsail. Then he joined his companion and both men swarmed over the rail and launched themselves into the sea.
Hector crouched, eyeing the mess of ropes and spars and canvas draped across the ship. He was looking for a path through the tangle that would bring him to the cook box. If he could get there and light a torch and set fire to the ship, there was still a chance that the Meteor would drift down on her target and burn de Graff’s frigate.
He heard a thud as a musket ball fired from the hillside struck the deck beside him. Then came a queer ringing sound in his head and a stab of pain. He blinked, trying to focus on the chaos of wreckage ahead of him. Defeated, he had to accept that he would never be able to get through to reach the firebrands.
Bending low, he scrambled back towards the stern. He was seeing
everything through a mist. It was difficult to keep his balance. He was staggering from side to side, his legs wobbly underneath him.
Another musket ball went whirring away past him and rapped the tiller head. Dan was beckoning to him urgently. ‘The port side,’ he said, ‘keep the ship between us and the marksmen.’
The hem of Hector’s borrowed coat caught on a hidden snag, and he was held fast. He scrabbled furiously, lunged, and felt the fabric rip. He seized the rail and tumbled over it, cartwheeling through the air. He landed awkwardly. The sea closed around him and he took a choking gulp of seawater. Spluttering, he came to the surface, the heavy coat already soggy and clinging around his shoulders so that he could barely swim. He trod water, struggling to get his arms out of the sleeves, when he felt someone grab the collar of the coat and peel it off his back. He turned in the water. It was Dan who had saved him.
‘It’ll be a long swim,’ said the Miskito.
Hector looked away to the north. There, almost a mile distant, was the Speedy Return. The pink was tacking through the wind. As she came broadside on, he saw the spurt of smoke that told him that she was firing cannon towards the shore battery. But it was a single gun, a mere gesture.
‘Pray that Jezreel doesn’t come in too close. He’ll lose the ship,’ he said to Dan.
‘He’ll do what’s right,’ said the Miskito grimly. His long straight black hair was wet and plastered tight against his head. For a second Hector was reminded of how his friend had looked when he was diving on the Spanish wreck.
Together they struck out for the Speedy Return. Behind them they could hear de Graff’s cannon still firing. Now there were longer intervals between the shots. They were taking their time, aiming carefully at the distant ship. He was aware of an occasional splash in the water nearby, and guessed that the musketeers were still taking potshots at the heads of the four swimmers who had abandoned the Meteor, relying on luck to make a lucky hit. Once he turned over on his back and looked at the disaster he was leaving. A longboat, probably the same one he and Dan had seen when they were spying from the mangrove swamp, was alongside the crippled Meteor. De Graff’s men had rowed out to take the crippled supply ship in tow. Now they would haul her into the careenage and unload the stores they had been waiting for. The catastrophe was complete.