CHAPTER TWO
The events of that morning were almost too improbable to be described. After taking on the Indian pilot, Hawksworth's plan had been to make landfall immediately, then launch a pinnace for Surat, there to negotiate trade for their goods and safe conduct to the capital at Agra for himself. If things went as planned, the goods would be exchanged and he would be on his way to the Moghul capital long before word of their arrival could reach Goa and the Portuguese.
The pilot's worth was never in question. A practiced seaman, he had steered them easily through the uncharted currents and hidden swallows of the bay. They had plotted a course directly east-north-east, running with topgallants on the night breeze, to make dawn anchorage at the mouth of the Tapti River. Through the night the Resolve had stayed with them handily, steering by their stem lantern.
When the first light broke in the east, hard and sudden, there it lay—the coast of India, the landfall, the sight they had waited for the long seven months. Amid the cheers he had ordered their colors hoisted—the red cross, bordered in white, on a field of blue—the first English flag ever to fly off India's coast.
But as the flag snapped its way along the poop staff, and the men struck up a hornpipe on deck, their triumph suddenly was severed by a cry from the maintop.
"Sails off the starboard quarter."
In the sudden hush that rolled across the ship like a shroud, freezing the tumult of voice and foot, Hawksworth had charged up the companionway to the quarterdeck. And there, while the masts tuned a melancholy dirge, he had studied the ships in disbelief with his glass.
Four galleons anchored at the river mouth. Portuguese men-of-war. Each easily a thousand ton, twice the size of the Discovery.
He had sorted quickly through his options. Strike sail and heave to, on the odds they may leave? It was too late. Run up Portuguese colors, the old privateers' ruse, and possibly catch them by surprise? Unlikely. Come about and run for open sea? Never. That's never an English seadog's way. No, keep to windward and engage. Here in the bay.
"Mackintosh!" Hawksworth turned to see the quartermaster already poised expectantly on the main deck. "Order Malloyre to draw up the gunports. Have the sails wet down and see the cookroom fire is out."
"Aye, sir. This'll be a bloody one."
"What counts is who bleeds most. Get every able man on station."
As Hawksworth turned to check the whipstaff, the long wooden lever that guided the ship's rudder, he passingly noted that curious conflict of body sensation he remembered from two encounters in years past: once, when on the Amsterdam run he had seen privateers suddenly loom off the coast of Scotland, and then on his last voyage through the Mediterranean, when his convoy first spotted the Turkish pirate galleys. While his mind calculated the elements of a strategy, coolly refining each individual detail, his stomach belied his rational facade and knotted in instinctive, primal fear. And he had asked himself whether this day his mind or his body would prevail. The odds were very bad, even if they could keep the wind. And if the Portuguese had trained gun crews . . .
Then he spotted the Indian pilot, leaning casually against the steering house, his face expressionless. He wore a tiny moustache and long, trimmed sideburns. And unlike the English seamen, all barefoot and naked to the waist, he was still dressed formally, just as when he came aboard. A fresh turban of white cotton, embroidered in a delicate brown, was secured neatly about the crown of his head, exposing his long ears and small, jeweled earrings. A spotless yellow cloak covered the waist of his tightly tailored blue trousers.
Damn him. Did he somehow know? Did he steer us into a trap?
Seeming to read Hawksworth's thoughts, the pilot broke the silence between them, his Turki heavily accented with his native Gujarati.
"This is your first test. Officers of the Moghul’s army are doubtless at the shore, observing. What will you do?"
"What do you think we'll do? We'll stand the bastards. And with Malloyre's gunners I think we can . . ."
"Then permit me an observation. A modest thought, but possibly useful. Do you see, there"—he pulled erect and pointed toward the shore—"hard by the galleons, there where the seabirds swirl in a dark cloud? That is the river mouth. And on either side are many sandbars, borne there from the river's delta. Along the coast beyond these, though you cannot see them now, are channels, too shallow for the draft of a galleon but perhaps safe for these frigates. Reach them and you will be beyond range of all Portuguese ordnance save their stern demi-culverin. Then they will be forced to try boarding you by longboat, something their infantry does poorly and with great reluctance."
"Are there channels on both sides of the river mouth? To windward and to leeward?"
"Certainly, my feringhi captain." He examined Hawksworth with a puzzled stare. "But only a fool would not hold to port, to windward."
Hawksworth studied the shoreline with the glass, and an audacious gamble began to take form in his mind. Why try to keep both frigates to windward? That's what they'll expect, and any moment now they'll weigh and beat to windward also. And from their position, they'll probably gain the weather gage, forcing us to leeward, downwind where we can't maneuver. That means an open fight—when the Resolve can barely muster a watch. How can she crew the gun deck and man the sheets? But maybe she won't have to. Maybe there's another way.
"Mackintosh." The quartermaster was mounting the quarterdeck companionway. "Order the mains'l and fores'l reefed. And the tops'ls shortened. We'll heave to while we run out the guns. And signal the Resolve while I prepare orders for Kerridge."
The grizzled Scotsman stood listening in dismay, and Hawksworth read his thoughts precisely in his eyes. There's nae time to heave to. And for wha'? We strike an inch o' canvas an' the fornicatin' Portugals'll take the weather gage sure. Ha' you nae stomach for a fight? Why na just haul down colors and ha' done with it?
But he said nothing. He turned automatically and bellowed orders aloft.
Hawksworth felt out the morning breeze, tasting its cut, while he watched the seamen begin swinging themselves up the shrouds, warming the morning air with oaths as the Discovery pitched and heeled in the chop. And then he turned and strode down the quarterdeck companionway toward the Great Cabin to prepare orders for the Resolve. As he passed along the main deck, half a dozen crewmen were already unlashing the longboat from its berth amidships.
And when he emerged again on deck with the oilskin-wrapped dispatch, after what seemed only moments, the longboat was already launched, oarsmen at station. He passed the packet to Mackintosh without a word, then mounted the companionway ladder back to the quarterdeck.
The Indian pilot stood against the banister, shaded by the lateen sail, calmly studying the galleons.
"Three of these I know very well." His accented Turki was almost lost in a roll of spray off the stern. "They are the St. Sebastian, the Bon Jesus, and the Bon Ventura. They arrived new from Lisbon last year, after the monsoon, to patrol our shipping lanes, to enforce the regulation that all Indian vessels purchase a trading license from authorities in Goa."
"And what of the fourth?"
"It is said she berthed in Goa only this spring. I do not know her name. There were rumors she brought the new Viceroy, but early, before his four-year term began. I have never before seen her north, in these waters."
My God. Hawksworth looked at the warships in dismay. Is this the course of the Company's fortune? A voyage depending on secrecy blunders across a fleet bearing the incoming Viceroy of Goa. The most powerful Portuguese in the Indies.
"They are invincible," the pilot continued, his voice still matter-of-fact. "The galleons own our waters. They have two decks of guns. No Indian vessel, even the reckless corsairs along our southern coast of Malabar, dare meet them in the open sea. Owners who refuse to submit and buy a Portuguese trading license must sail hundreds of leagues off course to avoid their patrol."
"And what do you propose? That we heave to and strike our colors? Without even a fight?" Hawksworth wa
s astonished by the pilot's casual unconcern. Is he owned by the Portugals too?
"You may act as you choose. I have witnessed many vain boasts of English bravery during my brief service aboard your ship. But an Indian captain would choose prudence at such a time. Strike colors and offer to pay for a license. Otherwise you will be handled as a pirate."
"No Englishman will ever pay a Portugal or a Spaniard for a license to trade. Or a permit to piss." Hawksworth turned away, trying to ignore the cold sweat beading on his chest. "We never have. We never will."
The pilot watched him for a moment, and then smiled.
"You are in the seas off India now, Captain. Here the Portuguese have been masters for a hundred years." His voice betrayed a trace of annoyance at Hawksworth's seeming preoccupation, and he moved closer. "You would do well to hear me out. We know the Portuguese very well. Better perhaps than you. Their cruelties here began a full century ago, when the barbarous captain Vasco de Gama first discovered our Malabar Coast, near the southern tip of India. He had the Portuguese nose for others' wealth, and when he returned again with twenty ships, our merchants rose against him. But he butchered their fleet, and took prisoners by the thousand. He did not, however, simply execute them. First he cut away their ears, noses, and hands and sent these to the local raja, recommending he make a curry. Next a Portuguese captain named Albuquerque came with more warships to ravage our trade in the north, that on the Red Sea. And when servants of Islam again rose up to defend what is ours, Allah the Merciful once more chose to turn his face from them, leaving all to defeat. Soon the infidel Portuguese came with many fleets, and in a span no more than a male child reaching manhood, had seized our ocean and stolen our trade."
The pilot's face remained blandly expressionless as he continued, but he reached out and caught Hawksworth's sleeve. "Next they needed a Portuguese trading station, so they bribed pirates to help storm our coastal fortress at Goa, an island citadel with a deep port. And this place they made the collection point for all the pepper, spices, jewels, dyes, silver, and gold they have plundered from us. They lacked the courage to invade India herself, as the Moghuls did soon after, so they made our sea their infidel empire. It is theirs, from the coast of Africa, to the Gulf of Persia, to the Molucca Islands. And they seek not merely conquest, or enforced commerce, but also our conversion to their religion of cruelty. They have flooded our ports with ignorant priests. To them this is a crusade against Islam, against the one True Faith, a crusade that has triumphed—for a time—where barbarous Christian land assaults on our holy Mecca have always failed.”
Then the pilot turned directly to Hawksworth and a smile flickered momentarily across his lips. "And now you English have come to challenge them by sea. You must pardon me if I smile. Even if you prevail today, which I must tell you I doubt, and even if one day more of your warships follow and drive them from our seas entirely—even if all this should take place, you will find your victory hollow. As theirs has been. For we have already destroyed them. The way India consumes all who come with arms. The ancient way. They have robbed our wealth, but in return we have consumed their spirit. Until at last they are left with nothing but empty commodity. It will be no different for you, English captain. You will never have India. It is India who will have you."
He paused and looked again toward the galleons, their sails swelling on the horizon. "But today I think the Portuguese will spare us the trouble."
Hawksworth examined the pilot, struggling to decipher his words. "Let me tell you something about England. All we ask is trade, for you and for us, and we don't have any priests to send. Only Catholic traders do that. And if you think we'll not stand well today, you know even less about the English. The thing we do best is fight at sea. Our sea dogs destroyed the entire navy of Spain twenty years ago, when they sent their Armada to invade England, and even to this day the Spaniards and Portugals have never understood our simple strategy. They still think a warship's merely a land fortress afloat. All they know to do is throw infantry against a ship and try to board her. The English know sea battles are won with cannon and maneuverability, not soldiers."
Hawksworth directed the pilot's gaze down the Discovery. The ship was of the new English "race-built" class, low in the water and swift. Absent were the bulky superstructures on bow and stern that weighed down a galleon, the "castles" that Spanish and Portuguese commanders used to stage infantry for boarding an enemy vessel. A full thirty years before, the English seaman and explorer John Hawkins had scoffed at these, as had Francis Drake and Walter Raleigh. They saw clearly that the galleons' towering bow and stem, their forecastle and poop, slow them, since the bluff beamy hull needed to support their weight wouldn't bite the water. A superstructure above decks serves only to spoil a warship's handling in a breeze, they declared, and to lend a better target to an English gunner.
"Your ships assuredly are smaller than Portuguese galleons, I agree," the pilot volunteered after a pause, "but I see no advantage in this."
"You'll see soon enough. The Discovery may be low, but she'll sail within six points of the wind, and she's quicker on the helm than anything afloat."
Hawksworth raised the glass and studied the galleons again. As he expected they were beating to windward, laboring under a full head of canvas.
Good. Now the Resolve can make her move.
The longboat was returning, its prow biting the trough of each swell, while on the Resolve seamen swarmed the shrouds and rigging. Hawksworth watched with satisfaction as his sister ship's main course swiveled precisely into the breeze and her sprits'l bellied for a run down the wind. Her orders were to steer to leeward, skirting the edge of the galleons' cannon range.
And if I know the Portugals, he told himself, they'll be impatient enough to start loosing round after round of shot at her, even from a quarter mile off. It takes courage to hold fire till you're under an enemy's guns, but only then do you have accuracy. Noise and smoke are battle enough for most Portugals, but the main result is to overheat and immobilize their cannon.
As the Discovery lay hove to, biding time, the Resolve cut directly down the leeward side of the galleons, laboring under full press of sail, masts straining against the load. The Indian pilot watched the frigate in growing astonishment, then turned to Hawksworth.
"Your English frigates may be swift, but your English strategy is unworthy of a common mahout, who commands an old she-elephant with greater cunning. Your sister frigate has now forfeited the windward position. Why give over your only advantage?"
Even as he spoke the four Portuguese warships, caught beating to windward, began to shorten sail and pay off to leeward to intercept the Resolve, their bows slowly crossing the wind as they turned.
"I've made a gamble, something a Portugal would never do," Hawksworth replied. "And now I have to do something no Englishman would ever do. Unless outgunned and forced to." Before the pilot could respond, Hawksworth was gone, heading for the gun deck.
The ring of his boots on the oak ladder leading to the lower deck was lost in the grind of wooden trucks, as seamen threw their weight against the heavy ropes and tackles, slowly hauling out the guns. The Discovery was armed with two rows of truck-mounted cast-iron culverin, and she had sailed with twenty-two barrels of powder and almost four hundred round shot. Hawksworth had also stowed a supply of crossbar shot and deadly langrel—thin casings filled with iron fragments—for use against enemy rigging and sail at close quarters.
Shafts of dusty light from the gunports and overhead scuttles relieved the lantern-lit gloom, illuminating the massive beams supporting the decks above. Sleeping hammocks were lashed away, but the space was airless, already sultry from the morning sun, and the rancid tang of sweat mixed with fresh saltpeter from the gunpowder caught in Hawksworth's mouth, bittersweet.
He walked down the deck, alert to the details that could spell victory or loss. First he checked the wooden tubs of vinegared urine and the long swabs stationed between the cannon, used for cleaning burning f
ragments of metal from the smoking barrels after each round. Fail to swab a barrel and there could be an unplanned detonation when the next powder charge was tamped into place. Then he counted the budge-barrels of powder, now swathed in water-soaked blankets to fend off sparks, and watched as Edward Malloyre, the man some called the best master gunner in England, inspected each cannon's touchhole as its lead plate was removed, assuring himself it had not corroded from the gases expelled during their last gunnery practice, in the Mozambique Channel.
"Master Malloyre."
"Aye, sir, all's in order. We'll hand the Spanish bastards a taste o' English iron." Malloyre, who had never troubled to differentiate Portugal from Spain, was built like a bear, with short bowed legs and a tree-stump frame. He drew himself erect, his balding pate easily clearing the rugged overhead beams, and searched the gloom. "The Worshipful Company may ha' signed on a sorry lot o' pimpin' apple squires, but, by Jesus, I've made Englishmen o' them. My sovereign to your shilling we hole the pox-rotted Papists wi' the first round."
"I'll stand the wager, Malloyre, and add the last keg of brandy. But you'll earn it. I want the portside battery loaded with crossbar forward, and langrel aft. And set the langrel for the decks, not the sail."
Malloyre stared at him incredulously. The command told him immediately that this would be a battle with no quarter. The use of langrel against personnel left no room for truce. Then suddenly the true implications of Hawksworth's command hit him like a blow in the chest. "That shot's for close quarters. We lay alongside, and the bastards'll grapple and board us sure. Swarm us like curs on a bitch."
"That's the order, Malloyre. Be quick on it. Set the starboard round first. And light the linstocks." Hawksworth turned to count the shot and absently picked up one of the linstocks lying on deck—an iron-plated staff used to set off a cannon—fingering the oil-soaked match rope at its tip and inhaling its dank musk. And the smell awoke again the memory of that last day two years before in the Mediterranean, with Turkish pirate galleys fore and aft, when there had been no quarter, and no hope . . .
"Beggin' your pardon, sir." Malloyre's voice was urgent, bringing him back. "What's the firin' orders?"
"Just fire the starboard round as a broadside, and set for the lower gun deck."
"Aye aye, sir." He paused. "And Lord Jesus pray we'll live to swab out."
Malloyre's parting words would have followed him up the ladder to the main deck, but they were swallowed in the muffled roll of cannon fire sounding over the bay. The galleons were spreading, circling the Resolve as they bore down upon her, and they had begun to vomit round after round, jets of water randomly around the frigate as she plunged toward the shallows and safety. Any minute now, Hawksworth told himself, and she'll be in the shallows. If she doesn't run aground on a bar.
Then he saw the Resolve begin to come about, reefing and furling her sails. She's made the shallows. And the Portugals' guns have quieted.
"Permission to set sail, sir. The bleedin' Portugals'll be on her in a trice." Mackintosh stood on the quarterdeck by the steering house. And he made no attempt to disguise the anxiety in his eyes.
"Give the Portugals time, Mackintosh, and you'll see their second fatal mistake. The first was overheating the cannon on their upper decks. The second will be to short-hand their crews. They're out of cannon range now, so they'll launch longboats, and assign half the watch as oarsmen. Here, take the glass. Tell me what you see."
Mackintosh studied the shallows with the telescope, while a smile slowly grew on his hard face. "I'm a motherless Dutchman. An' there's a king's guard o' Portugal musketmen loadin' in. Wearin' their damn'd silver helmets."
They haven't changed in thirty years, Hawksworth smiled to himself. The Portugals still think their infantry is too dignified to row, so they assign their crews to the oars and leave their warships shorthanded. But they won't find it easy to board the Resolve from longboats. Not with English musketmen in her maintop. And that should give us just enough time. . . .
"Are all the longboats out yet, Mackintosh?"
"Aye, sir." The quartermaster steadied the glass against the roll of the ship. "And making for the Resolve like they was runnin' from hell itself."
"Then bear full sail. Two points to windward of the bastard on the left. Full press, and hoist the spritsail. Keep the wind and pay her room till we're in range."
With an exultant whoop Mackintosh jabbed the sweat-soaked telescope toward Hawksworth, and began bellowing orders to the mates. Within moments sails unfurled and snapped in the wind, sending the Discovery's bow biting into the chop and hurtling spray over the bulwarks. Hawksworth kept to the quarterdeck, studying the nearest warship with the glass. The galleon's forecastle towered above the horizon now like some Gothic fortress, and with the glass he could make out pennants blazoned from all her yardarms. Then he turned toward the Indian pilot, whose gaze was riveted on the Portuguese warships.
"What's the name of the galleon on the left, the large one?" Hawksworth pointed toward the vessel he had been observing with the glass. "I can't read it from this distance."
"That one is the Bon Ventura. We know her to be heavily armed."
"I'd say she's over a thousand tons burden. I wonder how handy she'll be with her best men out in the longboats?"
"She'll meet you soon enough, with her full bounty. It is said that last year she caught and sank a twenty-gun Dutch frigate trading in the Moluccas."
"She'll still have to come about into the wind." Hawksworth seemed not to hear the pilot now, so absorbed was he in the looming battle.
As though in answer to his thoughts, the Bon Ventura started to heel slowly about, like an angered bull. But the Discovery now had the windward position secure, and the Portuguese ship would have to tack laboriously into the wind. Her canvas was close-hauled and she would be slow. We've got the weather gage now, Hawksworth told himself, and we'll hold it. Then he noticed that the second galleon in the row, the St. Sebastian, had also begun wearing around, bringing her stern across the wind as she too turned to meet the Discovery.
"They've deciphered our plan," Hawksworth said quietly to himself, "and now it's two of the bastards we'll face. But with luck we'll engage the Bon Ventura before the St. Sebastian can beat to range. And the Bon Ventura is drawing away from the fleet. That bit of bravado will cost her."
The Discovery was closing rapidly on the Bon Ventura. In minutes they would be within range. Mackintosh was at the whipstaff now, holding their course, his senses alert to every twist in the wind. He involuntarily clenched and unclenched his teeth, while his knuckles were bloodless white from his grip on the hardwood steering lever. Hawksworth raised the glass again, knowing what he hoped to see.
"The Portugals have just made their third mistake, Mackintosh." He tried to mask his excitement. "They've sealed the lower gunports to shut out water while they're tacking. So after they get position they'll still have to run out the lower guns."
"Aye. That's why two-deckers won't buy a whore's chastity on a day like this. But they'll have the upper guns on us soon enough."
"Wait and see, Mackintosh. I'll warrant their upper guns are overheated by now. They'll think twice about trying to prime them just yet. They'll have to wait a bit. Perhaps just long enough for us to get alongside. Then the upper guns'll touch nothing but our rigging."
The breeze freshened even more, driving the Discovery rapidly toward her target. Mackintosh eyed the galleon nervously, knowing the frigate was heavily outgunned. Finally he could bear the tension no longer.
"We've got range now. Permission to bring her about."
"Steady as she goes. They're slow on the helm." Hawksworth glanced at the line of seamen along the port side, untying bundles of musket arrows and lighting the linstock. "Bosun! Are the men at stations?"
"Aye, sir." A gravel voice sounded through the din. "Stocks were a bit damp, but I warrant the hellish sun's dryin' 'em out. We'll give the fornicators a fine English salute."
Hawkswor
th gauged the galleon's course, estimating her speed and her ability to maneuver. Then he saw her start coming about in the water, turning to position the starboard battery for a broadside. Gunports on the lower deck flipped up and cannon began slowly to emerge, like hard black fangs. Nervous sweat began to bead on Mackintosh's brow as the Discovery held her course directly down the galleon's windward side.
The Bon Ventura's broadside battery was not yet set, but a sudden burst of black smoke from her starboard bow-chaser sent a ball smashing through the Discovery's quarter gallery, removing much of its ornate embellishment. Then came another flare of smoke and flame, hurtling a second ball through the lateen sail above Mackintosh's head. The quartermaster went pale, and looked imploringly at Hawksworth.
"Steady as she goes, Mackintosh, they still haven't fully set their guns." The knot in Hawksworth's stomach was like a searing ball of fire. God, for a brandy. But we've got to hold till we've got sure range. To come about now would keep our distance, and mean a classic battle. One we're sure to lose.
He pushed away the realization of the immense chance they were taking. But now there was no turning back, even if he wanted. Finally he could bear it no longer. God make it right.
"Now, Mackintosh! Bring her hard about!"
The quartermaster threw his weight against the whipstaff, shouting orders to the two seamen on the deck below to haul the tackles on the tiller, helping him flip the rudder. Then he turned and bellowed commands to the mates.
"Hands to the braces. Bring her hard about."
The seamen poised incredulously in the maintop and foretop cheered as they began to haul in the ropes securing the yards, and in moments the sails swiveled off the wind. The Discovery careened in the chopping seas, responding readily to the shift in rudder and canvas. By this time Hawksworth was standing over the scuttle above the gun deck, shouting to Malloyre.
"Coming about. Prepare to fire the starboard battery when your guns bear."
The Discovery had wheeled a sharp arc in the water, laying herself broadside to the galleon, hardly fifty yards away. The English seamen aloft stared mutely at the towering forecastle of the Portuguese warship, most never before having seen a galleon at close range. Although the guns on her upper deck were still silent, had they spoken now they would have touched nothing but the frigate's tops'ls. But as the galleon turned, the cannon on her lower deck were coming into final position. In moments she would lay the Discovery with a broadside. Hawksworth watched her carefully, calculating, and then the knot in his stomach dissolved like ice in the sun. The Discovery would be in position seconds ahead.
Malloyre's command to fire cut the awe-stricken silence. The next instant a low roar seemed to emanate from all the timbers of the English frigate, while red-tipped flame tongued from her starboard side. The ship heeled dangerously sideways, while black smoke, acrid and searing, boiled up through the scuttles and hatch, as though propelled on its way by the round of cheers from below decks, the traditional salute of ship's gunners. Hawksworth later remembered noting that the battery had fired in perfect unison, not losing the set of a single gun by the ship's recoil.
A medley of screams came first, piercing the blackened air. Then the smoke drifted downwind, over the side of the Bon Ventura, revealing a savage incision where her lower gun deck had once been. Cannon were thrown askew, and the mangled forms of Portuguese gunners, many with limbs shattered or missing, could be seen through the splintered hull. But Hawksworth did not pause to inspect the damage; he was already yelling the next orders to Mackintosh, hoping to be heard above the din. The advantage of surprise would be short-lived.
"Pay off the helm! Bring her hard about!"
Again the rudder swiveled in its locks, while seamen aloft hauled the sheets and braces, but this time the Discovery came about easily, using the wind to advantage. As he turned to check the whipstaff, Hawksworth heard a high-pitched ricochet off the steering house and sensed a sudden dry numbness in his thigh. Only then did he look up to see the line of Portuguese musketmen on the decks of the Bon Ventura, firing sporadically at the English seamen on decks and aloft.
Damn. A lucky shot by some Lisbon recruit. He seized a handful of coarse salt from a bucket by the binnacle and pressed it against the blood. A flash of pain passed briefly through his consciousness and then was forgotten. The Discovery's stern had crossed the wind. There was no time to lose. He moved down the companionway to again shout orders to Malloyre on the gun deck. "Set for the fo'c'sle and rigging. Fire as your guns bear."
The Bon Ventura still lay immobile, so unexpected had been the broadside. But a boarding party of Portuguese infantry was poised on the galleon's forecastle superstructure, armed with swords and pikes, ready to fling grapples and swing aboard the frigate. The Portuguese had watched in helpless amazement as the Discovery completely came about and again was broadside. Suddenly the captain of the infantry realized what was in store and yelled frantically at his men to take cover. But his last command was lost in the roar of the Discovery's guns.
This time flames and smoke erupted from the Discovery's portside battery, but now it spewed knife-edged chunks of metal and twisting crossbars. Again the screams came first, as the musketmen and infantry on the fo'c'sle were swept across the decks in the deadly rain. Crossbars chewed through the galleon's mainsail, parting it into two flapping remnants, while the rigging on the foremast was blown by the boards, tangling and taking with it a party of musketmen stationed in the foretop. Now the galleon bobbed helpless in the water, as the last seamen remaining on the shrouds plunged for the decks and safety.
"When you're ready, Mackintosh."
The quartermaster signaled the bosun, and a line of seamen along the port gunwales touched musket arrows to the lighted linstock and took aim. Streaks of flame forked into the tattered rigging of the Bon Ventura, and in moments her canvas billowed red. Again the Portuguese were caught unaware, and only a few manned water buckets to extinguish the burning shreds of canvas drifting to the deck.
They were almost alongside now, but no Portuguese infantry would pour down the side of the forecastle onto their decks. The galleon's decks were a hemorrhage of the wounded and dying.
"By Jesus, 'tis a sight for English eyes." Edward Malloyre's blackened face, streaked with sweat, bobbed up through the hatch over the gun deck, and he surveyed the wreckage of the Bon Ventura. "Had to give 'er a look, Cap'n. See if my lads earn'd their biscuit." He beamed with open pride.
"Malloyre, how does it stand below decks?" Hawksworth yelled from the quarterdeck.
"Starboard side's swabbed out. How shall we load 'em, sir?" Malloyre leaned backward to gain a better look at the galleon, which now towered above them.
"Round shot, and run them out fast as you can."
"Aye, sir. An' no more close quarters if you please. Ne'er want to be this close to one o' the bastards again." Malloyre started to retreat through the hatch, but then he turned, paused for a second, and yelled at Hawksworth. "Beggin' your pardon, Cap'n. I knew all along 'twas best to pull alongside and lay 'em wi' crossbar. Just wanted to give the lads a bit o' a scare. Keep 'em jumpin'."
Hawksworth waved his hand and watched as Malloyre's pudgy frame dropped through the gun-deck hatch like a rabbit diving for its warren.
Mackintosh was standing on the main deck, his tangled red mane blackened with smoke, watching as the Discovery drifted slowly toward the side of the bobbing galleon. Then, when they were only feet away, he signaled the bosun, and a line of English seamen lit the waiting fuses and began to loft clay powder pots across the waist of the Bon Ventura, now almost above their heads. When they had finished, he passed orders and the Discovery began to pull away, before her sails could ignite. Then one by one the powder pots started to explode, spewing burning sulphur over the Portuguese vessel's decks.
Hawksworth watched the carnage, and asked himself if he had been right to do what he'd done. They'd have sunk us. Cut down the men and taken the officers and merchants to a Goa priso
n. And then what? We couldn't have sunk them with cannon in a week. The only choice was fire.
Then he turned to see the St. Sebastian making toward them. Her cannon were already run out, and at any moment she would start coming about for a broadside. Again he felt the throb in his thigh, and it triggered a wave of fear that swept upward from his stomach. The Indian pilot stood next to him, also watching the approaching galleon.
"I have seen a miracle, Captain. Allah the Compassionate has watched over you today." The pilot's face showed none of the strain of battle. And his clothes were still spotless, oddly immune from the oily smoke that blackened all the English semen. "But I fear there cannot be two miracles on the same morning. You are about to pay for your fortune. Perhaps there is still time to strike your colors and save the lives of your men."
"We surrender now and we'll rot in a Goa prison forever. Or be pulled apart on the strappado." Hawksworth glared back. "And I seem to recall the Quran says 'Do not falter when you've gained the upper hand.'"
"You do not have the upper hand, my Captain, and the Holy Quran speaks only of those who trust in Allah, the Merciful. . . ." His voice trailed off as he turned to stare at Hawksworth. "It is not common for a feringhi to know the Holy Quran. How is it you--?"
"I just spent two years in a Turkish prison, and I heard little else." Hawksworth turned and was testing the wind, weighing his options. The St. Sebastian was almost on them. Her cannon were already run out, and at any moment she would start coming about for a broadside. He could still hear the trucks of the cannon below decks, as the starboard battery was being run out, and he knew the portside crews were only now beginning to swab the last glowing shreds of metal from the cannon barrels.
Good God, there's no time to set the ordnance. They'll blow us to hell. He deliberated for a long moment, weighing his options. As he watched, the St. Sebastian began to shorten sail, preparing to come about and fire. Only minutes remained. Then he noticed that the wind on the burning Bon Ventura's superstructure was drifting her in the direction of the approaching St. Sebastian, and he hit on another gamble. They've shortened sail in order to come about, which means they're vulnerable. Now if I can make them try to take their bow across the wind, with their sails shortened . . .
"Mackintosh, take her hard about! Set the courses for a port tack."
Once again the Discovery heeled in the water, her stern deftly crossing the wind, and then she was back under full sail, still to windward of the burning galleon. The sudden tack had left the burning Bon Ventura directly between the English frigate and the approaching galleon. The Discovery pulled away, keeping the wind, forcing the galleon to tack also if she would engage them. Hawksworth watched, holding his breath as Portuguese seamen began to man the sheets, bringing the St. Sebastian's bow into the wind.
It was fatal. The approaching galleon had shortened too much sail in preparation to come about for the broadside, and now she lacked the momentum to cross the wind. Instead the sluggish, top-heavy warship hung in stays, her sails slack, her bulky bow fighting the wind, refusing to pay off onto the opposite tack. All the while the Bon Ventura was drifting inexorably toward her, flaming. I was right, Hawksworth thought. She didn't have the speed to bring her bow around. With his glass he watched the galleon's captain order her back to the original tack. But time had run out.
Blinding explosions suddenly illuminated the gunports of the burning Bon Ventura, as powder barrels on the gun decks ignited, first the upper and then the lower. In only moments the fire found the powder room aft of the orlop deck, and as the English seamen looked on spellbound the galleon seemed to erupt in a single cloud of fire, rocketing burning timbers and spars across the sea's surface. The mainmast, flaming like a giant taper, snapped and heaved slowly into the fo'c'sle. Then the superstructure on the stern folded and dropped through the main deck, throwing a plume of sparks high into the morning air.
Although the St. Sebastian had righted herself, she still had not regained speed, for now the sails had lost their luff and sagged to leeward. Why isn't she underway, Hawksworth asked himself, surely she'll circle and engage us? He looked again with the glass and the reason became clear. The Portuguese crewmen on the St. Sebastian had begun throwing themselves into the sea, terrified at the sight of the Bon Ventura's blazing hull drifting slowly across their bow. The wind had freshened again and was pushing the burning galleon rapidly now. The blaze had become an inferno, fueled by casks of coconut oil stored below decks on the galleon, and Hawksworth involuntarily shielded his eyes and face from the heat that, even at their distance, seared the Discovery. As he watched, the drifting Bon Ventura suddenly lurched crazily sideways, and then came the sound of a coarse, grinding impact, as her burning timbers sprayed across the decks of the St. Sebastian. In moments the second galleon was also an abandoned inferno, her crew long since afloat in the safety of the sea, clinging to debris and making for shore.
"Allah has been merciful twice to you in one morning, Captain. I had never before known the extent of His bounty. You are a man most fortunate." The pilot's words, spoken softly and with pronounced gravity, were almost drowned in the cheers that engulfed the decks and rigging of the Discovery.
"The battle's just begun. Boarding parties are at the Resolve, and there are two more galleons." Hawksworth reached for the glass by the binnacle.
"No, Captain, I doubt very much the Portuguese will trouble you further. Your luck has been too exceptional. But they will return another day." The pilot squinted toward the shore, as though confirming something he knew should be there.
Hawksworth trained his glass on the two galleons that still held the Resolve pinned in the shallows. They were heeling about, preparing to run southward on the wind under full press of sail. He also realized their longboats had been abandoned. Some were following futilely after the retreating galleons, while others were already rowing toward the river mouth. The English frigate had been forgotten. Then he noted that although pennants no longer flew from the yardarms of the galleons, the large, unnamed vessel had run out a brilliant red ensign on her poop staff. He studied it carefully, then turned to the pilot, extending the glass.
"Take a look and tell me what the colors are on the large man-of-war. I've never seen them before."
The pilot waved away the telescope with a smile. "I need no Christian device to tell you that. We all know it. With all your fortune, you have failed to understand the most important thing that happened today."
"And what is that?"
"Those are the colors of the Viceroy of Goa, flown only when he is aboard his flagship. You have humiliated him today. The colors speak his defiance. His promise to you."
As the pilot spoke, Mackintosh came bounding up the companionway to the quarterdeck, his soot-covered face beaming. "What a bleedin' day! What a bleedin' day!" Then his eyes dimmed for an instant. "But a man'd be called a liar who told the story."
"How many dead and wounded, Mackintosh?"
"Two maintopmen killed by musket fire. And a bosun's mate took a splinter in the side, very bad, when the bastards laid us wi' the first bowchasers. A few other lads took musket fire, but the surgeon'll sew 'em up fine."
"Then break out the last keg of brandy. And see that Malloyre's men get the first tot. . . but don't forget to send a tankard to the quarterdeck."
Mackintosh broke an appreciative grin and headed down the companionway ladder. The sun was baking the decks now, and a swarm of locusts had appeared from nowhere to buzz about the maintop. The wind was beginning to slacken in the heat, and silence slowly settled over the Discovery. Hawksworth turned his glass one last time to the large galleon. He could still make out the ensign over the crests of surf, blood red in the sun.
The Moghul Page 3