Astern, the damaged frigate had dropped out of sight over the horizon; her consort continued to follow them at a distance of about two miles.
‘When we turn back this time,’ Phelps told his crew, ‘we will take that ship by cannon fire or boarding; we will rend her unfit for further action.
‘Be ready. I want the Spaniards a little further apart then we will go.’
The Mercury had lost four men in the short action, with another seventeen below under the surgeon. It could have been a lot worse. This time would be different: a fight to the finish.
Phelps walked over to where David stood propped against his ladder. ‘I would ask you to assist Randall as much as you are able, David,’ he said. ‘I will lead the men if we have to board this Spaniard.’
‘Gladly,’ David replied. ‘Although what I can do with only one working leg I’m not sure.’
‘Control the quarter deck; that will allow Randall to move about at will.’ Phelps turned. ‘Mr. Randall,’ he called and when the officer approached, ‘Mr. Fletcher will assist you here to give you a little more freedom.’
‘Aye aye, sir.’ Randall touched his forehead and then grinned at David. ‘Don’t do too much running about, Mr. Fletcher,’ he said.
Two hours later the Mercury once more turned back towards the enemy.
This time both ships were ready; both knew this was a final conflict.
Phelps brailed up his courses and topgallants as the Spaniard luffed up to sail towards the Mercury’s starboard bow. The two ships very quickly came together.
Both ships fired at the same moment and from then on continued to pour shot into each other as the range got steadily shorter. The English rate of fire was faster with the Mercury firing almost twice to the Spaniard’s once. Timber flew from the rails and the hull trembled from the steady hammering as the gap between the two ships came down to pistol shot.
Blocks and warpage fell from the rigging along with a marine from the fighting tops, but when David looked up all the spars were still in place.
The marines kept up their musket fire at the Spanish officers from the poop deck as well as from above. A ball lifted a whole section of rail and smashed it into a party of seamen around the main mast, turning them into a broken mass of arms and legs.
Now the ships were so close that you could see the enemy working their guns through the open gun ports.
‘Ready, boarders,’ Phelps shouted as the two ships came together.
The larboard gun crews, sail handlers and marines ran along the starboard catwalk and, slashing at the enemy boarding nets with their blades, followed their captain onto the Spaniard’s deck.
From his position beside the poop ladder, David could see very little of what was happening on the other ship. He had armed himself with a musket and two pistols as well as his sword and now he struggled up the poop ladder and balanced himself against the upper rail. From there he saw that the fighting was savage as both crews drove into each other with no thought but the total destruction of their enemy.
The Spanish officers were leading their men whilst their captain stood by the wheel.
Phelps was trying to cut through to him but was some way off. The Spanish crew was pushing forward and the boarders started to give ground.
‘The ship is yours, Mr. Fletcher,’ Randall called up to David, as he ran forward with the starboard gun crews.
Raising his sword he screamed, ‘With me,’ and leapt across to the other ship.
The arrival of Randall and his men had an immediate effect and the Spanish started to give ground. The enemy captain now rushed into the fray, attempting to rally his men. David fired his musket at him but missed and brought down a seaman at his side. A Spanish marine turned and fired at David who, in trying to dodge the ball, fell down the companionway to land on the main deck with his injured leg bent under him.
For some moments David tried to come to grips with the pain and as it eased started to pull himself up. The helmsman left his post and lifted him from where he had fallen.
‘Best lie down, sir,’ he said. ‘Your leg’s bleeding.’
David’s leg was indeed bleeding and he allowed himself to be laid down by the ship’s wheel. ‘What’s happening?’ he demanded.
To his frustration the man simply said, ‘Don’t worry, sir, it’s alright.’
Then he heard the cheering; the helmsman cheered as well.
‘The Spanish flag is down, sir,’ he laughed.
It was sometime later when the crew started climbing back on board. Phelps had ordered all the Spanish frigate’s running rigging cut down.
The enemy captain was wounded, having taken a bayonet thrust in his side.
As they cast off and got underway, the topsails of the second frigate could be seen on the horizon.
‘Unless he has another mizzen mast in his pocket we shall not see him again,’ Phelps said with satisfaction.
The Mercury’s damage was, however, considerable and the sound of hammering went on for the remainder of the voyage. She had lost sixteen of her crew with thirty-four wounded. Mr. Randall had a sword cut to his leg but was said to be in no danger.
David was in trouble with the surgeon who told him he did not treat fools.
*
The Ipswich coach rattled its way towards the Mistley crossroads. Lieutenant David Fletcher thought it would never arrive. His leg was wracked with cramp, his buttocks on fire. His constant wriggling around in his seat had upset his fellow passengers all the way from London.
David’s wounds had healed well on the voyage back from the Azores with no infection or fever. The Mercury’s surgeon had been surprised and considered the thought that perhaps the soaking in salt water had something to do with it.
As the passage had continued, David had told Phelps all the gory details of his search for Carter and the history his family had with him. They also talked of the man’s savage madness and his crazy genius.
The rest of the voyage was almost a holiday for David; he slept late and spent his waking hours talking with his friend or exercising his leg. The wound was healing well, but he found he could not stay still for long without cramping up. One week out of London he started sharing a watch with the first lieutenant who thought it funny that both of them had only one fully operational leg.
On arrival in the Thames, Phelps had taken his frigate all the way up to the tower and once there he had anchored mid-river. At the admiralty they had been shown into a waiting room by a liveried servant who took their dispatches and reports. It was not long, however, before they were ushered into the office of Admiral Brookes.
Without preamble Brookes demanded, ‘Where is this gold now?’
‘On board my ship, sir,’ Phelps replied. ‘Anchored below the tower.’
The admiral stood and walked out of the room to return minutes later with a post captain. ‘Captain Phelps, you will return to your ship with my flag officer and make arrangements for the gold to be transferred to the tower.
Mr. Fletcher, you will take lodgings in the town; I will have you shown where. Once I have read these reports you will be sent for.’
In fact, it was two days before David was called back to the admiralty. Two days during which he was afraid to leave the inn where he was staying in case he missed the summons.
When he was again shown into Brookes’ office he was faced with four officers all of flag rank.
The atmosphere, however, was almost friendly. He was given a glass of claret and told to sit down. For almost three hours the story had to be told from beginning to end.
Once he had finished he was questioned on every aspect; strangely enough they seemed to be concentrating on the conduct of his fellow officers.
‘You will be rewarded for your efforts in this matter,’ Brookes told him as he opened the door to let David out. ‘Go back to your lodgings.’
Rewarded David was; on his third visit to Admiral Brookes he was told he would receive a small percentage of the gold. In fact, it was a very small
percentage but more money than David had ever hoped to own.
Brookes had shaken David’s hand and said, ‘Go home to Essex, or is it Suffolk, Mr. Fletcher? There will be a promotion and a command for you, I’m sure.’
So after saying goodbye to Phelps, who was preparing to return to the West Indies, David had boarded this damned coach, which was now arriving at Mistley crossroads.
He saw the family waiting for him as the coach came to a stop. David’s leg was cramped stiff and as he struggled to climb down he was seized and carried towards a horse and cart by his two cousins. His mother was in tears as usual and his Aunt Molly kept rubbing his leg.
‘Put me down,’ David begged. ‘It’s just cramp.’
‘What have they done to you?’ his mother wailed.
‘I’m fine, Mother,’ David shouted. ‘Daniel, would you please put me down?’
They tried to lay him in the back of the cart, but he insisted on sitting up with Daniel who took charge of the horse.
Once all were settled, they set off for the cottage. Daniel and Joseph were both bigger than David remembered but otherwise the same.
‘The squire sent a man down with a broadsheet,’ Joseph said. ‘He read the story to us all about you catching some mad pirate and finding masses of gold. He told us you had terrible injuries; your mother had a fainting fit.’
‘I’m fine.’ David turned and looked at his mother. ‘Really, I’m fine.’
Daniel nudged his arm. ‘Tom died some nine months ago, David,’ he said.
‘I’m sorry.’ David looked at him. ‘I didn’t know.’
‘He had a good life,’ Daniel continued. ‘But with him gone and Beatrice married off to a farm hand from the squire’s farm, there’s plenty of room in the cottage now. You don’t have to go away again, David, your home is here.’
‘You don’t know how much that means to me,’ David said. ‘But we have a war to fight and they promised me a command.’
‘That’s a fine coat,’ Aunt Molly remarked. ‘Is it lined, David?’
‘It is, Aunt,’ David replied, turning and opening his coat. ‘This blue coat, white shirt, britches and stockings is the uniform the navy intends to make standard if rumour is to be believed.’
Daniel pulled one side of David’s coat wide open. ‘Where did you get that knife, cousin?’
‘That’s a long story,’ David told him.
‘Must be.’ Daniel grinned. ‘That’s old Arthur Woodman’s knife.’
‘Who?’ David asked.
‘Tom’s captain of the Ruby Ann, you remember, him that was cut up in London. I should know; I watched him sharpen it often enough.’
David glanced at his mother. ‘I’ll tell you later,’ he whispered. ‘So Beatrice is married to a farm hand.’
CHAPTER 15
The smell of the jungle seemed to thicken the air; all was damp and the heat took the will out of a man. The brig lay close to one bank of a mighty river, the current keeping her parallel with the shore.
The Indian had put in to many small bays and rivers as he sailed south but always had moved on. Sometimes he felt too exposed or the population seemed hostile. Then there had been Jesuit missions. Teema feared these men of god with their long robes.
The crew had complained, argued and almost come to blows before they had settled on this lonely place.
The brig was in bad order. They had reduced the leak to a slow trickle, but the damage she had taken from the English merchantman plus months of hard use had left her sails in tatters and her hull covered in patches. The pirates had little interest in repair work and since their captain still lay silently in his bunk, they sat around bewailing their fate.
Carter had not spoken since he had been dragged on board; he lay in his filthy bed, eating and drinking whatever the Indian brought him.
His one eye seemed empty as if his soul had departed. The filth had mounted in the cabin, making the stale air reek.
Yet still the men feared him; they believed that at any minute he might leap up on deck.
The wounds to his face and head had almost healed, the scars pulling the right side of his face into a cruel mask. The condition of his leg was anybody’s guess; nobody had looked at the injury since the Indian had pulled it together. If Carter was in pain, he didn’t show it.
After two weeks, sitting in this river, with both food and water running out, the crew came to a consensus: they must find a town. There was still some money in the cabin strong box; they should see what could be bought and try to find a way out of this hole.
The Indian was a problem, however; he guarded the aft cabin day and night and all had seen him use the axe and knife that never left his hands.
When one pirate tried to talk to him, Teema just snarled, showing black, broken teeth.
The crew huddled together.
‘Put a pistol ball in him,’ said one.
‘Be sure not to miss,’ said another. ‘If you miss, you die.’
‘He’s one man,’ a grey-haired seaman said. ‘If we each take a pistol, what chance would he have?’
‘What about Carter?’ The question hung over the group.
The older man stood up. ‘One man,’ he said, ‘and him laid like the dead.’
They fell silent as the Indian approached. He took two bowls of the salt pork stew that bubbled on the stove and dropped some mouldy biscuit into it. As he walked away the youngest of the crew asked, ‘How is the captain?’
The Indian ignored him.
Next morning the crew had still not come to a decision. The grey-haired man whose name was Briggs picked up a pistol.
‘Who’s with me?’ he called.
Reluctantly the men armed themselves and started towards the aft cabin. As they neared the door Teema stepped out with a pistol in each hand.
‘Dogs,’ he cried and shot Briggs in the stomach.
Momentarily taken aback, the crew hesitated and then fell back in panic as Carter hopped through the cabin door.
Standing naked in the doorway, Carter looked like a demon from hell. His body was covered in filth and dried blood, his hair matted and hanging down past his shoulders. Their captain’s maimed face snarled at them.
In one hand Carter held a boarding axe, the head of which had a five-inch curved blade on one side and a five-inch spike on the other. In his left hand he held a pistol.
The crew had moved back towards the bow. Carter passed his pistol to the Indian and hobbling forward swung the axe, spike first, into the head of the wriggling Briggs. Jerking it free, he struck again with the blade, once, twice, three times.
‘You will obey,’ he screamed. His words were slurred and spittle ran down the damaged side of his face. ‘You will work and you will obey or die.’
He turned and re-entered the cabin. Teema waved his pistols. ‘Work, dogs,’ he said. ‘First, clean ship then cabin.’
The crew worked; nobody said a word. They put down their pistols when Teema told them to, scrubbed the deck, repaired the sails and watched in silence as the Indian washed the muck off the captain.
Carter put on his black coat; the axe handle still tied to his leg prevented him wearing britches and with axe in hand he sat on deck watching. For hour after hour he talked to himself. Nobody could understand what he said except the name Fletcher and some crazy laughter. Then on the third day he suddenly seemed to calm down.
‘We sail north,’ he said in a clear voice just above a whisper. ‘Time we got back in business.’
Some days later the brig sailed quietly between steep cliffs and then bore to the east and followed the coast of an island for some three miles. The island was Spanish, the principal settlement a small town ten miles ahead of them. As Carter rounded up and anchored, they lowered the only remaining boat and, landing on a beach, set off inland. A small hamlet nestled in the trees, beyond which a large plantation centred round a beautiful mansion. Slave quarters to one side housed a large workforce.
Carter limped up to the front door. He
was dressed in his priest’s robe, the hood up over his head.
Six men from his crew hid in the shrubs to each side of the entrance.
The door was opened in answer to his banging by a woman dressed in servants’ clothes. She looked at him in distaste and said something in Spanish. John Carter grabbed her by the hair and strode into the house, dragging her behind him.
The woman’s screams brought an overweight man running from the rear of the house. Carter drew a pistol from beneath his robe and shot the man in the chest. The pirate crew spread through the house with more men running in from the road.
Carter stopped at the doorway of a huge reception room and using the pistol as a club battered the woman’s head bloody.
‘Search the building,’ he ordered. ‘Bring all in the house to me.’
Eleven servants were found, all black. Carter had no interest in black people; he had them locked in a small storeroom off the entrance hall. His crew then set about stripping the house of all value.
They loaded all onto a wagon they found at the back of the house. Silver plate, gold crosses from a small chapel, paintings, carpets, and anything else they thought could be sold for good profit. There were weapons in a gun room and expensive gowns in the bedrooms. As they ransacked the house, a group of six slaves came up from the shacks. Carter told them that if they stayed away and made no attempt to interfere, all the slaves would survive. If not, everyone, men, women and children, would be slaughtered. They turned and walked away.
Next the pirates loaded all the food they found stored beneath the house along with the wines and spirits. Finally, they set off back to the beach driving the livestock before them. The goats they ferried off to the ship along with the plunder. The cattle they butchered and carried off in pieces.
As evening fell Carter raised the anchor and sailed back the way he had come through the cliffs, but instead of turning south he went north back to the islands.
He would sail back to Farmer’s Island for one last attempt to lift his gold.
The empty cave seemed to laugh at him. The rage swelled up in his chest as if to choke him. Carter screamed and pulled his hair as his crew fled in all directions. With a great howl Carter ran into the trees.
By the Knife Page 18