Freebooter

by Tim Severin

  Tew paced back and forth by the helm, occasionally pausing to shield his eyes against the sun’s glare as he reviewed the progress of his prey, or glancing up to check the set of Amity’s sails. There was no need for him to supervise his crew. All sixteen sakers had been charged, loaded with round shot and primed. The sloop’s bulwarks were padded with thick bundles of bedding and rolled-up sails to provide extra protection from enemy fire. Muskets and pistols had been handed out in plenty of time for checks that they were in working order. Each man had half a dozen dry cartridges in a bag at his waist, and twice that number of lead musket balls. Now the ship’s company idled on deck, dividing their attention between their captain as they waited for his instructions, and the formidable sight of their intended targets less than a mile ahead.

  No one took any notice of Hector. He was growing increasingly uneasy as the gap between the vessels narrowed. The big ships were certain to be well armed and there was no way of knowing how many cannon they carried, or of what calibre. It was virtually certain that their guns would outrange Amity’s and the freebooters would be obliged to run the gauntlet of their gunfire long before she came to grips with them. Even then the outcome was likely to be disastrous. He could count no more than sixty men aboard Amity, while each of the large ships must carry at least six or seven times that number, more than enough to repel any boarding party, however ferocious. He thought about suggesting to Tew that Amity delay her attack and wait for Fancy and the other ships to catch up, but knew that he would be wasting his breath. The sloop’s crew had no intention of sharing the spoils, and Hector recalled Jezreel’s description of Amity’s captain as foolhardy and hot-headed.

  ‘Hold this course?’ the helmsman was asking Tew. There was a tremor of excitement in his voice, elation too, making Hector wonder how many members of Tew’s crew were as reckless as their commander.

  ‘Bear away a little,’ Tew answered. He pulled a black silk ribbon from a pocket and tied back his long dark hair. Then he adjusted his coat across his shoulders and patted down the lapels. When he was satisfied with his appearance he picked up his speaking trumpet and addressed his men, speaking slowly and clearly and with complete certainty. ‘We take the farther vessel, the one that looks like a fairground show,’ he called. ‘To get at her, we’ll run past that warship, then turn hard to starboard, close under her bows.’

  Hector looked across to the two great ships. They were less than a thousand yards away now, and one of them – the warship – was finally reacting to the sloop’s close approach. She was turning towards Amity, placing herself between the sloop and the second vessel. The manoeuvre was slow and ponderous but with a twist of fear in his stomach he saw the gun ports along the warship’s hull start to swing up in a ragged sequence, and the barrels of her cannon poke out. He understood what Tew had in mind: he would use Amity’s superior speed to overtake the warship, then suddenly cut across her bows where she would mount fewest guns, and fall upon the larger vessel that was following along behind. With luck and if the wind held, Amity would be exposed to the warship’s gunfire for perhaps ten or fifteen minutes. Much would depend on the accuracy of the warship’s gunners and the range of their cannon.

  ‘You’ll be needing these, captain.’ A heavy-set, hard-faced seaman with streaks of grey in his beard, older than most of the crew, was holding out Tew’s baldric with its sheathed rapier and a long-barrelled pistol. Hector guessed he was the quartermaster. Tew laid down the speaking trumpet and took the weapons, slipped the baldric over his head and adjusted the rapier at his right hip. He slid the pistol into the deep pocket of his blue coat so that the butt protruded close to his left hand. It seemed that the captain of the Amity was left-handed. The quartermaster treated Hector to a flat disapproving stare, making it clear that he was not considered a proper member of the ship’s company and would have to look after himself. He did not attempt to provide Hector with a weapon though the helmsman, not a yard away, had already been issued with a blunderbuss that lay on the deck beside him.

  Hector stepped forward and stooped to pick up the speaking trumpet. The attack was now inevitable, and it would be vital for Amity’s outnumbered crew to hear and follow orders that might be missed in the noise, smoke and confusion. If he made himself useful, the quartermaster might decide on giving him a share of plunder, however small.

  ‘I’ll watch out for your signals, then relay them to the crew,’ he told Tew. ‘Where do you want me?’

  Tew responded with a crooked smile. ‘The foredeck would be as good a place as any. I’ll lead the boarding party myself.’

  The oncoming warship fired her first gun. The ball went wide, skipping three times across the sea before plunging into the water – but Hector caught the look that passed between Tew and the quartermaster. The warship had opened fire at well over eight hundred yards, much more than the range of Amity’s smaller guns. The sloop would have to run the gauntlet for longer than had been expected. The ship’s company, grasping their weapons, were already moving into shelter. Some crouched behind the padded bulwarks, others lay down flat on the deck. Wasting no time, Hector ran forward at a crouch, and joined the lookouts on the foredeck where they were stretched out on their bellies, peering over the bow. Everyone knew the danger they faced.

  Another bang from a cannon, and this time a hole appeared in the sloop’s mainsail. The warship’s gunners were beginning to find their aim.

  The sailor lying next to Hector could not have been more than eighteen years old. He was ash-blond and fresh-faced with great red patches where the sunburned skin had peeled away. He winced the next time the warship fired, two shots in quick succession. The second one must have struck the sloop for a tremor ran through the foredeck. His knuckles went white as he tightened his grip on the wooden shaft of a short boarding pike, and he turned his face towards Hector. ‘Useless marksmanship,’ he managed to say, though his voice was unsteady.

  ‘Not long to go now,’ Hector assured him. ‘As soon as we cross her bows, she won’t be able to bring her main guns to bear.’

  ‘Captain Tew took a thirty-gun ship last season, near as big as that one.’ The young sailor’s eyes were stretched in fear and he was talking fast, almost babbling, to keep up his courage. ‘My cousin was aboard that voyage. Brought back enough plunder to retire from the sea.’

  ‘Did your cousin get you your berth on Amity?’ Hector asked.

  The sailor nodded, a short nervous movement. ‘Recommended me to the captain. He picked me ahead of a dozen other volunteers.’

  More cannon blasts, at least five of them at irregular intervals. A crash from somewhere amidships near the waterline made the sloop shudder again. An acrid whiff of gunsmoke came drifting down on the wind. Amity must now be level with the warship.

  Hector wriggled around so he could look aft. Tew and the helmsman were the only two men still standing. All the rest of the crew were huddled in shelter though it would do little good if the next cannon ball scored a direct hit. Hector had seen the appalling wounds of men struck by flying splinters.

  He turned back and raised his head over the low cap rail of the foredeck to risk a glance forward. The ordeal was coming to an end. Amity had sailed beyond the warship. Soon she would be able to turn and cut across the warship’s bows, and that would bring the sloop close enough for her sakers to be within range. A minute later he felt the slope of the deck suddenly change beneath him as the sloop straightened up and came on a level keel. There was a clatter of canvas, a thumping sound as the great mainsail swung across, and a sudden burst of activity as the sail-handlers jumped to their feet and hauled on the sheets that controlled the headsails, before flinging themselves back on deck. Now the sloop was heeling over on the opposite tack, already slicing her way past the warship’s bows. It had been neatly done.

  Again he glanced back over his shoulder. Tew in his long blue coat was standing by the stern rail. He had drawn his rapier and was waving it defiantly at the warship. Amity’s gun crews had scuttle
d into their positions and were frantically preparing to fire their cannon. The range was point-blank, and there was no need for them to adjust their aim. To loud cheers from their comrades they fired each gun as soon as it came to bear on target. Hector watched the results. A section of the warship’s forward rail abruptly vanished, smashed to matchwood. Two holes appeared in the great triangular foresail. One cannon ball struck the side of the warship and bounced off, falling uselessly into the sea.

  Already the gap between the two vessels was widening as Amity’s helmsman brought the sloop on a course that would place the sloop directly into the path of the larger ship, still wallowing slowly onward, the huge hull rising and falling on the swell. More than ever, the vessel looked like a floating pageant. It had not fired a shot.

  Aboard the warship the gunners were re-loading and firing single shots aimed at the stern of the sloop as she sailed away at speed. Amity’s men were back on their feet, coughing to clear the smoke from their lungs, grinning at one another in the knowledge that the worst was past. A man who Hector supposed was the ship’s carpenter clambered down a hatchway, presumably to check if there had been any damage to Amity’s hull. Hector stood up on the foredeck, still holding Tew’s speaking trumpet, and rested a hand on a forestay to maintain his balance. His knees were trembling from relief, though he would not have admitted this to the young sailor who gave him a cheerful punch on the shoulder. ‘Now for the prize,’ the young man crowed.

  At that moment Hector felt the forestay suddenly go slack under his hand, then snap taut. Alarmed, he looked up at the masthead. It was swaying from side to side, a yard or so in each direction. An upper section of the starboard main shrouds was hanging loose, severed by a lucky shot from the warship. A grating sound, loud enough to be heard over the noise of the waves and wind, brought his attention down to the spot where the mast had been repaired with wooden splints bound with heavy rope. There, thirty feet above the deck, the rope was bulging under the strain. Raising the speaking trumpet he bellowed at Tew to attract his attention, pointed at the damaged rigging, and shouted a warning. Tew turned, his glance flicking upward. But it was too late. There was no time to reduce sail and relieve the pressure on the weakened mast. Men on deck scattered as the top section of the mast began to buckle, leaning farther sideways each time the sloop rolled. The young sailor beside Hector gave a yelp of fear, and jumped off the foredeck in case the mast snapped and fell.

  At the stern Tew reacted strangely to the crisis. He sheathed his rapier, and climbed up on the sloop’s rail, his coat tails flapping. He grabbed hold of the ensign staff with his right hand and pulled himself upright, balancing to face the warship. His black flag with its arm-and-cutlass emblem rippled and curled around his torso as he drew the pistol from his pocket. He raised his left arm and took careful aim though the range was far too great. In a flash of understanding Hector realized that Tew knew that his luck had run out. This was his final gesture of bravado.

  Tew’s hand jerked up as he pulled the pistol’s trigger. There was a small puff of white smoke. Tew had not yet returned the empty pistol to his pocket when another cannon ball from the warship fell short, skipped off the surface of the sea and took him full in the stomach. He was hurled backwards, his blue-coated corpse tumbling across the deck until it came to rest by the helm.

  Then the mast snapped. Hector heard a great rending creak, a shadow passed over him and the flogging headsail as it descended dealt him a glancing blow on the side of the head. It swept him overboard. He hit the water backwards, arms flailing, and went under. Seawater rushed into his mouth and nose, and when he spluttered back to the surface, he found himself facing the sloop. He could see at once that Amity was crippled. Two-thirds of her mast still stood, enough to support the drooping mainsail on its spar so she was still moving slowly forward. But the two headsails dragged in the sea beside her like an injured seabird with a broken wing.

  Hector kicked off his shoes and trod water. He was unharmed apart from a painful scrape on his cheek and a numbness in his right ear where the sail had hit him. His first thought was to swim after the sloop and try to get back aboard. But it was soon obvious that the sloop, even in her battered state, was moving too fast for him to catch up. Nor would she put back to collect him. Amity was no longer under control, and her captain was dead. Twisting round, he looked for the warship that had done the damage. He fully expected to see that the vessel had altered course and was closing in for the kill. To his amazement he saw that the warship was sailing calmly onward, making no attempt to finish off its helpless victim.

  Something made him look to his right. Fifty yards away and bearing down on him was the huge flag-covered ship. Already she was close enough for him to see the broad green stripe of seaweed at her waterline each time she rolled.

  He took a deep breath and began to swim to one side, fearing that he would be run down. He was a good swimmer but barely succeeded in getting far enough to avoid being swept under. As the great hull passed by him he was floundering within touching distance. He heard a faint shout from above. There was a splash in the water close to him and something hit him on the shoulder. It was a rope’s end with a loop. The crew had thrown him a life-line. As he slipped the loop over his head, he had a sudden sharp memory of Captain Tew, making exactly the same gesture as he put on his baldric before his last fight. Then, with a jerk, the rope cut into his chest and under his arms and he was snatched out of the water. Dangling and spinning, he was hoisted yard by yard until unseen hands reached out to drag him over a broad wooden rail. Finally, he was lowered onto a sun-baked deck where he stayed on all fours like a dog, head down and his chest heaving as he gasped for breath.

  EIGHT

  He became aware of a circle of bare feet surrounding him. When he looked up, his eyes smarting from the salt water, he saw a ring of brown faces staring down at him. They were small, scrawny men, at least a dozen of them standing shoulder to shoulder. They wore sweat-stained head cloths, tattered shirts and a skirt-like cloth wrapped around their waists. Several had hitched the garment up between their skinny legs to give free movement. Hector presumed that they were the ordinary deck hands that worked the great ship. Their expressions were a blend of curiosity and surprise as if his rescuers were puzzling over what to make of such unlikely flotsam pulled from the sea.

  Carefully he pushed himself to his feet, aware that his wet clothes were sticking to his body, and that the deck was uncomfortably hot. He felt strangely disoriented. There was none of the sea motion that he had experienced on the sloop. In its place was a ponderous fore and aft rocking, slow and gentle. Strangely, the effect was to throw him off balance. Around him, everything was eerily placid, almost serene after the clamour and confusion aboard Amity during the fight. He shook his head to clear the water from his ears. The loudest sound was the constant fluttering and snapping of dozens of flags and banners over his head. He could just detect the regular creak of rigging in the background and the faintest sigh of the wind. There was also a trace of a strange smell, something he could not identify. It reminded him of the inside of a church.

  Looking over the heads of his rescuers, he was awed by the vast scale of the vessel on which he now found himself. He was in the waist of the ship, the lowest open area, and the deck was at least fifteen paces from rail to rail. The mainmast was so huge that two men would have had difficulty in encircling it with their outstretched arms. The smallest rope was as thick as his wrist, and the two companionways, fore and aft, that gave access to the higher decks were like stairways in a mansion. Equally unexpected were the piles of bales, boxes, cloth bundles and sacks that lay in untidy heaps everywhere. The owners of this clutter had to be the crowd of onlookers who sat or sprawled on their baggage and were staring at him with unconcealed fascination. Judging by their clothes – loose, open-necked cotton gowns like long shirts – they were men of modest means. He supposed they were ordinary ship’s passengers on their way home after their pilgrimage. The majority were greyb
eards, but at least one traveller had brought his family with him. A cloth stretched between the barrels of two large deck cannon gave some shade for several half-naked toddlers and the veiled figure seated on deck whom Hector supposed to be their mother.

  One of his diminutive rescuers was plucking at his sleeve and pointing toward the foot of the companionway leading aft, gesturing that he must go to an upper deck. The sailor accompanied him up the steps and as he climbed, he got a glimpse of Amity already half a mile astern. The crippled sloop was being left farther and farther behind. He doubted that her crew, however expert, would resume the chase. They would need at least a day to carry out repairs, jury-rig her mast top and make her sea-worthy. The warship that had done all the damage was off on the port side, half a mile away and still keeping pace with her escort. Amity, it seemed, had been no more than a nuisance, easily brushed off.