Jenna drew in her breath, horrified.
“You have my word dear lady; they will not be setting foot upon this ship.” Van Noord half saluted his two passengers and strolled astern, issuing calm, unhurried orders as he went.
Tiola linked her arm through Jenna’s. “He knows what he is doing, we must trust him.”
The older woman snorted. For all he was a gentleman, through most of her forty years of life she had never found a reason to trust a man.
Almost leisurely, the Dutch crew were reducing the spread of canvas to fighting sail. A ship had to be balanced, the height of her masts to the length and weight of her hull. Full sail would give them speed but not manoeuvrability. And in a fight, it was being able to turn that counted. That and the power of her guns and the efficiency of her gunners.
Excitement was shivering down Tiola’s spine. Real pirates! All the stories she had read of daring adventurers: Sir Francis Drake and his expeditions against the Spanish; Captain Morgan’s famous sacking of Panama and Portobello. William Dampier, whose exploits had led him to sail twice around the seas of the world, and who was even now on a third journey. And Captain William Kidd, whose pirate bones had bleached from where they dangled on the gallows at London’s Wapping docks. They had pushed him off from the wagon twice. The first time the rope had snapped and he had tumbled, shaken but unharmed, to the mud of the low tide. The misfortune had not served him well for they tied another noose and pushed him off again. To the end he had shrilled his innocence, claiming he was a privateer with a royal commission, not the scoundrel of a pirate.
Tiola shivered again. She was not afraid, the child she was had too much liking for the romance of adventure, and the ageless woman, the part of her that carried the inherited gift of Craft passed down through alternate generations, grandmother to granddaughter, was not afraid of anything. Aside, Captain van Noord knew exactly what he was doing.
Equally however, these men rapidly closing on the Christina Giselle appeared to be as competent in their trade.
At first sight of the cannons being run out, Jenna fled to the sanctuary of their cramped cabin situated forward on the lower deck. Tiola remained above, although prudently she moved to the taffrail along the stern, out of the way of the scurrying men busy rigging protective netting. Several of the crew shouted at her to go below, including Captain van Noord, but with determined stubbornness she pretended not to hear, and they did not have opportunity to bother with her again.
Her throat dry, breath coming short and quick, Tiola’s emotions were tumbling together, alarm mixing with exhilaration. She was determined to stay and watch, for there was something here – someone – stirring her excitement. She stood, her hands gripping the rail as the pirate ship ran closer, studying the men aboard her as the smaller vessel began to overhaul the Christina Giselle. Her vision enhanced by the ability of Craft, Tiola needed no telescope to put to her eye.
Pirates. A ragged bunch, most of them barefoot and unwashed with greasy, unkempt hair and dressed in loose woollen shirts and seaman’s striped trousers. Their captain stood astern on the quarterdeck, smarter dressed than his crew; a buckram coat, white breeches, a feathered plume in his cocked hat. His hands were clasped behind his back, his face grim as he glowered, steadfast, ahead.
Her gaze slid over him, dismissive. No, it was not his spirit calling to hers – there must be someone else. Someone who…
And then she saw the man with the black hair and the blue ribbons.
Three
Jesamiah counted twelve gun ports along the starboard side of the ship. Mermaid carried twelve cannon in all; minions, three- to four-pounders. Twelve against twenty-four.
“Shit,” he muttered beneath his breath, his mind rapidly considering several questions. What poundage were they? A vessel her size, nine? Surely not powerful twelve-pounder guns? And the big question; was she nothing more than brazen show? This air of could-not-care-less, was it all sham? The Christina Giselle – her name was painted across her stern – was not running from them nor, beyond reducing to the more manageable fighting sail, had she made any attempt at defence; just keeping steady on her course, almost stubbornly ignoring them. Her captain must be damned sure of himself; few ships could muster the bravado to outface a pirate.
The distance rapidly decreasing, Jesamiah, standing beside Taylor on the quarterdeck, was beginning to feel the first niggling of doubt. He considered whether to voice his unease aloud or keep the thoughts to himself.
“Why are they not responding to our presence with more alarm?” he murmured. Then, louder, “I wonder what crew she has? These Dutch merchantmen are usually undermanned. All owners think of is profit, employing a decent crew eats too far into it.”
His thumbs tucked through his pistol belt, Taylor was vigilantly studying the ship looming larger ahead of them. Now they were closing her size was more apparent; at least twice the length of Mermaid, he reckoned. As long as she did not have twice the gun power.
“Or she might be adequately crewed.” Jesamiah continued his commentary, nervously running the fingers and thumb down his moustache, the hairs at the nape of his neck prickling. “Not all owners are imbeciles. She don’t appear to be poorly manned, she shortened sail efficiently.”
Taylor answered gruffly. He had been thinking the same thoughts but was not as confident at airing them aloud. “Well, Jes lad, when we engage, we shall find out, eh?”
A quarter of a mile away as if the Christina Giselle had heard, her gun ports casually opened, her cannons run out. Walking forward to the rail Taylor called his order to the crew down in the waist. Time for the Mermaid to reduce sail as well. “Clew up there!”
“Malachias,” Jesamiah said quietly at his side, his hand lightly touching the Captain’s arm to gain his attention. “I have a bad feeling about this. Something ain’t right here. Why not pass her up? Go for that Spaniard trying to scuttle away, instead?”
Did Taylor hear? If he did, he ignored the suggestion; shouted, “Gunners, we’ll rake her on my command. Sail trimmers stand by. Mr Acorne, I would be obliged if you were to run up our colours.”
Jesamiah shrugged; he had said his piece, so be it. He twirled the flag halyard off the belaying pin and brought in the decoy British ensign, in its place, hauled up the pirate flag of the Jolie Rouge – most pirates had their own design, Taylor’s being a red flag adorned with a grinning skeleton and an almost empty hourglass. Death and time running out.
The distance between the two ships was closing rapidly; Taylor nodded to the helmsman, his plan, to run in rake her with a few well-aimed shots from the starboard battery, force her to heave to and surrender, then make ready to board.
But the Dutchman fired first, a single shot that plumed towards the Mermaid and missed her bowsprit by a matter of inches.
“Damn his hide!” Taylor roared, indignant, and in the next breath bellowed, “fire all!”
Six guns boomed in a rippling howl of noise that rent apart the quiet of the ocean, sending it into a fair representation of Hell. The Mermaid’s deck shook from the recoil and smoke belched in a thick, choking fog that swirled and lingered a moment before drifting off downwind. The men, used to the incredible noise and the acrid stink, took no notice, with barely a pause began running in and reloading.
At the same moment the Dutch captain ordered the release of his own rage of destruction. Protruding from her white-painted hull the cavernous muzzles of the Christina Giselle’s guns were stark and ominous – and then fire and smoke roared in a broadside from all twelve as if they were a single, terrible weapon, the sound splitting the air with its mighty force, like the crash of an overhead thunderclap. Only, this unleashed storm brought with it the heavy iron of deadly round shot whistling across the gap between the two vessels, to punch holes in sails, rip away great sections of railing and tear apart mens’ bodies. To leave behind the gush of blood and the scream of death.
Mermaid rocked, then shrugged herself free of the damage and the swirl of s
moke enveloping her, sailed on, plunging gallantly forward. Jesamiah swore colourfully, his hope of this being an easy fight totally gone. Two of those guns were mighty eighteen-pounders!
Pray God, he thought, she’s not as well manned as she’s making out…He let the thought drift off with the smoke. The merchant had either to turn or swab, reload and run out again. If she was bluffing, had a ragged crew, poorly commanded, Mermaid might stand a chance. If not…
Jesamiah’s deafened ears were ringing from the sound of the guns and the screams of wounded and dying men, but there was no time for concern – the merchant was tacking away from them, apparently unharmed save for minor damage to her rails and one hole in her fore topsail. Was she leaving? Making a run for it now she had made her defiant gesture?
Again Jesamiah swore. Was she heck – her sails were coming aback as her crew hauled the topsails around. If Mermaid did not meet her, any compassion he held for his dying crewmates would be worthless, for within a few minutes they might all be dead.
He glanced across the quarterdeck at Malachias, expecting him to shout orders to tack, saw him slumped across the binnacle box, his head in his hands, blood streaming between his fingers.
“Taylor!” Jesamiah ran to him, was relieved to be waved aside. The Captain lifted his head, showing a great, bloody gouge along his cheek. “I’m alright, give me a moment, I’ll be alright.”
But there was no time for delay; without pause Jesamiah took command. “Hands to stations for stays!” he yelled. “Tack, for God’s sake! We need to bloody bring her round!”
Men were running to their places, looking towards him for orders, while the gunners continued to reload and run out, making ready to fire the next blast once the Prize came into their sights again.
His concentration set on the leeches, the vertical edges of the fore topsail, Jesamiah waited, impatient, for the telltale flutter of the wind to touch them. “Come on, fok you, come on,” he muttered, casting a swift glance at the Christina Giselle as she completed her turn.
Calmly, the Dutch ship continued to turn, coming around in an elongated circle, presenting her opposite, larboard, side and any moment now, a second deadly barrage of cannon fire.
“Tops’l haul!” Jesamiah bellowed, and as the sail came aback the yards were hauled around. “Turn, you fickle bitch!” he muttered, “do not miss stays, for pity’s sake, don’t bloody miss!” And as the second blast of fire and smoke tore from the merchant, Mermaid responded with her fore topsail pressed against the mast; was swinging through the wind.
“Keep falling off!” Jesamiah shouted to the helmsman; to the men: “Meet her, damn you! Come on, move yourselves, you’re too bloody slow! Square up!”
He ducked as another round of shot whistled through rails, rigging and canvas. The main topgallant mast fell away, crashing to the deck, hands racing aloft to cut away the tangled mess. The merchant’s cannons were firing one after the other, a nonstop barrage, the gunners professional, experienced men, with an excellent aim.
“Get those guns reloaded!” Jesamiah bellowed, “run out, run out!”
And the merchant got a taste of her own medicine. Holes appeared in her sails and the torn woodwork sent up sprays of flying splinters, but her captain had rigged his netting well and there was little harm done to her crew. He knew what he was about and showed it, as with cold efficiency he began to make ready to swoop around and cut behind the Mermaid’s stern.
Jesamiah’s blood froze as he watched; thought, If he knows what he’s doing, then God help us! He issued a stream of orders. Sod Taylor – they were ending this. Now!
Appalled at the carnage she was witnessing, Tiola cried out in dismay; blood was running everywhere on the pirate’s decks, draining out the scuppers, leaving a trail of red to mar the white foam of her wake. Each shot of the Christina Giselle’s fire found a mark, men were being flung into the air and the sea. Limbs were severed, heads decapitated; bodies dreadfully mutilated. Those men, pirates they may be, but they were being butchered like cattle at the autumn slaughter!
All her excitement, the childish eagerness had gone, replaced by horror. Tiola’s gifts, her inherited knowledge, was for healing and bringing life into the world, not to see it so wantonly and bloodily snuffed out. This was naught but madness set loose! What drove these men? Surely not the lure of silver and gold alone? Sickened by the sight and the noise and the smell, Tiola put her hand over her nose and mouth to avoid breathing in the choking, acrid smoke, tightly shut her eyes, felt the heave of the deck from the thrust of the great guns’ recoil; heard the noise, smelt the smoke and gunpowder. Not being able to see exaggerated the other senses, making the horror worse – the noises louder, the cries of dying and wounded men more inhuman. She had to look! She had to watch that man with the black hair and the blue ribbons, something was drawing her to him, something over which she had no control. Like a bee is attracted to honey, she thought, then snorted mild self-contempt. Or a moth is seduced to the lure of a flame, only to find its wings get burnt.
Aboard the pirate vessel, the dead and dying were sprawled in distorted heaps, some no longer recognisable as men; others remained at their guns, running them out, firing, hauling in, swabbing, ramming, reloading; running out, firing. Gun after gun as the Christina Giselle began to sweep in a wide curve behind the Mermaid’s stern and immediately took her wind, leaving her crippled with no means of forward movement or escape. At least, now, Tiola could read the smaller ship’s name, painted in gold across her stern. Mermaid.
Briefly, Tiola diverted her attention to Captain Van Noord standing behind his helmsman, his hand raised, holding the gunners ready, not permitting them to fire in the tawdry, haphazard order that the pirates had been doing. With horror, Tiola realised he intended to use the full effective force of his gunnery to put an end to what he considered an inconvenient nuisance. He waited, then released his larboard guns to rake the pirate from stern to stem, a consecutive barrage of destruction each gun firing one after the other as they came to bear. Firing straight along the Mermaid’s deck with a mixture of round shot, chain shot, grape and langrage that took away the rudder and ripped through the great cabin below the quarterdeck, shattering the glass of the stern windows and everything in its path. Round shot tore through the bulkheads and men alike.
Blast after blast the cannon spat death and carnage in a roll of fire, one, two, three, four, five – all twelve guns, the men aboard the Mermaid steeling themselves as the Christina Giselle swept on past, some falling to their knees to pray, others curling into a protective ball. This was not a good way to die. Chain shot tangled in the Mermaid’s already damaged rigging and wrapped around the main mast, while the small, Jagged pieces of scrap iron that was langrage ploughed through flesh and bone, sail and wood alike. The resulting splinters, some several inches long, causing as much destruction as the shot itself.
Unhurried, unconcerned, her twelve guns emptied, the Dutch East Indiaman forged onward beginning to leave the pirates astern. Tiola’s fingernails dug into the taffrail, tears streaming down her face as she swivelled her head to keep her gaze on the dark haired man as he jumped from the quarterdeck down into the waist.
He stumbled over the torn mess of tackle, was urgently pointing upward as he ran, shouting. Blood was staining his left bicep, seeping further into the sleeve as he gestured frantically, unaware he had been wounded by a length of splintered wood. Tiola could see it thrusting through his torn shirt and the bloodied flesh beneath. She flinched, feeling the pain he was ignoring.
Following his pointing fingers upwards, she heard, above all the noise, a distinct creak from the main topmast. Then something snapped, a loud, sharp, bang and standing and running rigging was pinging apart, wood was splitting – the whole uppermost part of the mast was groaning, sounding as if a tree was about to fall. And then the pole began to topple, slowly, so very slowly at first, leaning ponderously for a moment to one side. A cable parted and the topmast and t’gallant mast, spars, sails and riggin
g all tipped through the centre of balance and fell, everything coming down, crashing across the deck to drape into the sea, trailing like a bird’s broken wing.
The pirates were firing muskets and pistols as if nothing else mattered, and were frantically working the two lightweight swivel guns mounted on the quarterdeck’s rails but their efforts were futile. The black-haired man was desperately shouting at men to clear the wreckage, to free the tangled rigging, using his cutlass to hack at the damage. With the Christina Giselle’s stern now past the Mermaid’s they had a wind again; but what use the wind with a shattered mast? If the Dutch should turn and hit them again they would all be dead men.
*
Jesamiah slashed at the tangle that had once been a topmast. One more broadside and they would be finished. His arm was screeching pain, blood slithering, wet and sticky, down his arm. He ignored it, would tend it later – if he survived that long. If he had not bled to death or stopped another shot of iron.
“Keep firing!” he bellowed at the men in the waist – although only two guns were now intact. “Gunners, forget this mess just keep bloody firing! You other men get aloft and help cut those shrouds free!” Anger stormed in his eyes, despair shrieking in his deep, husky, voice. He paused from his hacking, wiped sweat and grime from his forehead with the back of his sleeve, spreading blood grotesquely across his face. Mermaid lay wounded and sluggish, as if along with the broken mast her heart had been torn from her. Their only hope was to keep fighting, for she could not run. Jesamiah closed his eyes, not wanting to witness her agony. She was a good craft, she did not deserve to die so ignobly.
With a cheer of relief and success, the men managed to hack through the last cable and the mast fell away with a plume of spray into the sea. They had a chance now, a slight chance to hold their own when the Dutch Indiaman next fired, when she tacked to run alongside, board and finish the job.
Sea Witch Page 2