Even over the wind he could hear the man’s blood spilling into the channel waters. He heaved the body overboard, washed the blood from the thwart with the broken bucket, and then dipped the knife into the sea to clean the sated blade. He dried it well so that it would not rust.
He rested a moment, almost reveling in his work and the release it gave after the aborted assassination, but he was in many ways too proud and too impatient to gloat too much over any one killing.
Before long he would be in France, and from there he could return to Ireland. He set the mast and sail, stretched his arms, yawned, and, keeping an eye on his pocket compass—illuminated by a bit of slow match lit by flint and steel—and steered his course. The wind had veered, up the Channel now, and he would be unable to sail to Calais without hours of tacking, too dangerous under the circumstances. He would have to try for Dunkirk instead, or somewhere else up the coast. He kept a casual watch, fearing little in the night.
But the day was another matter, and at dawn he saw it, a sail astern and closing.
In his gut he was certain it was the ketch that had challenged him three or four hours before. Rather than flounder around in the darkness after him, frightening him into a different course, they had let him go, then set the course they anticipated he would take, knowing that wind and current gave him little choice, knowing at first light they might come up with him. And so they had.
It’s but a damned poor sailor, this tool of a boat, Michael thought, I’ve not even a fool’s chance at outsailing them now.
Struck by a sudden revelation, he reached over the transom and into the water, feeling around until he found a taut line. He hauled it up, and found at its end not a packet of letters, but a small grindstone hidden in a canvas sack.
No wonder we sailed so poorly! he thought, and silently cursed himself.
Michael cut the grindstone loose and stared at the swiftly closing naval ketch.
Chapter 26
What cursed chance is this?
—Aphra Behn, The Rover, 1677
For a moment at dawn’s first clear light, Edward thought they might have lost their quarry, a four-oared fishing boat rigged with a small mast and sprit-sail—a seaworthy craft but a slow one, unable to outsail the ketch. It was a reasonable possibility that the boat might miss the rendezvous or fly from it, in which case Edward had told the smuggler to manage the boat in a lubberly fashion and, if possible, hang a grindstone from its stern to make it row and sail even more slowly.
But not all possibilities can be planned for—ill-Fortune being the most notorious—and it would be easy for the King Fisher to take the wrong course or sail past the fishing boat in the darkness in spite of all precautions.
Edward’s master and mate had concurred with his estimate of the boat’s course, although there was some debate over the effect of the Channel currents. There was little doubt the boat would head for France. A southeasterly wind, strong current, and choppy sea prevented the shortest passage.
“A sail! A small boat, sir!” came the lookout’s cry.
“Where and how far?” Edward shouted to the maintop.
“Half a league, maybe two miles, two points on the starboard bow!”
“What sail does she set?”
“A sprits’l!”
Good! Edward thought to himself. We might have missed her in the trough of the sea if she were under oars alone.
“What other sail do you see?”
“Nothing new, sir: two sail two leagues south, fisher-boats I think, and two sail of small ships four leagues north. More sail on the French coast, probably our fleets.”
Edward, satisfied that this must be the boat they sought, ordered Scudamore, the ship’s master, to set fighting sail—main-topsail and jib for the ketch—and bear toward the chase. Also at his orders the topmen rigged the remaining sails with rope yarns in order to set them quickly in case a potential prize or predator presented herself.
The wind had veered, and its southern breeze sped the King Fisher across the Channel after her prey. The chase would not last an hour.
“Make her clear for engaging?” Scudamore asked.
“Small arms and swivels only,” Edward ordered. “I don’t believe her carriage guns will be much of a threat,” he said, joking.
For all practical purposes, the ketch was largely ready for action, given the dangers of the Channel.
Scudamore laughed. “We’ll hull him with the swivels if he refuses to strike, or just run him over and send him to David Jones. Damned Jacobite bastard. Will there be a reward, Captain?”
“That will depend on who’s in the boat,” Edward replied.
“One of those assassinators, I hope. If we catch him alive, maybe we can have some sport with him.”
“We’ll see. The Admiralty and Crown want him alive and intact,” Edward retorted, and thought, And so do I. If it’s you, O’Neal, you owe me answers.
He no longer cared whether his recent buffeting had been due to ill-Fortune, deliberate intrigue, or the simple failure of his new philosophy—or his inability to live by it. But the answer no longer mattered: it was open warfare now, he was in his element, and the first of his several prey was plausibly in sight.
“Colors, if you please, ancient, jack, and pendant. Aloft there! Keep a sharp eye out for Dunkirkers!” Edward ordered.
The proximity of Dunkirk’s privateering fleet—corsairs ranging from small snows and barque longues of ten to thirty tons, to swift ships of two hundred tons or more—was Edward’s only real concern. These famous Flemish privateers—now French corsairs—grew up in dual trades: fishermen or merchant seamen in time of peace, corsairs in time of war. They were notoriously successful and more than willing to engage enemy men-of-war. Edward had little interest in a rencontre with a stout privateer, not with his small crew and armament. A French merchantman, however, would be more than welcome for the prize money it would bring.
Minutes later the lookout reported that the two ships to the north appeared to be engaged. Edward was suddenly torn between two duties, that of chasing the prey who had slipped from Romney Marsh and might be an assassin, and assisting a vessel, prey or predator, which might be English or ally. He resigned himself to first pursing their quarry, then investigating the ships to the north.
Soon the lookout called again to the deck, confirming the flash and smoke of great guns. Given the wind’s direction, there was so far no sound of gunfire great or small.
“Colors, can you see colors?” Edward shouted to him.
“Not to make out, sir! I see red and maybe white at the sterns. It could be our ancient, and the Monsoor’s, but I can’t tell at this distance!”
Edward aimed his spying glass at the two ships, now some two leagues distant and a point forward of the larboard quarter. Even with his spying glass he could in no way be sure of the colors they flew, but he suspected a French or Dunkirk corsair attacking an English merchantman.
“Are any of His Majesty’s other ships in sight?” Edward shouted aloft, hoping there were. If so, the King Fisher could make a signal and perhaps bring assistance to the beleaguered merchantman, if she were English.
“Aye, sir, but leagues distant!”
“Damned bad Fortune for whoever she be,” Edward muttered, “but our first duty is to capture the boat’s passenger. Afterward we can turn our attention to the engagement.”
But the King Fisher and her crew were too small to take on a three-masted privateer of any real size, at least if the privateer had a crew to match.
“Aloft there, keep your eye on the action and inform me immediately of every change!” he ordered.
“Aye, aye, Captain!”
The glass was turned. The fishing boat, now under sail and oar, was making better speed. As the fight between the two distant ships played out, the King Fisher closed to within musket shot of her prey.
“Wind’s larging, Captain,” the master noted.
“Southwest,” Edward noted in confirmation.
<
br /> “Even so, the bastard Jacobite can’t get away now. He’ll look like a bucket of spilled fuck by the time we get through with him.”
“That’s not what concerns me,” Edward said, proffering him the spying glass and pointing.
The corsair had captured its prey and now stood southeast toward the King Fisher. She was small, perhaps one hundred twenty-five tons, but she was still twice the size of the ketch.
“France’s white ensign, Captain, and Dunkirk’s blue and white at the bow and masthead,” Scudamore reported.
“We’re going to have a fight on our hands,” Edward said matter-of-factly. “She’s a ship of force, and greater than we: we must be more clever than her captain and crew if we wish to sleep in a whole skin under English colors tonight. Make the King Fisher clear for a fight, but keep our course. We’ll first have our quarry if we can, under the Dunkirker’s nose if necessary.”
The master returned Edward’s spying glass and gave the necessary orders. Edward sent one of the two ship’s boys below to fetch his sword and pistols, and gave orders for brandy and sugar for the crew. It felt good to command again, good to have a man-of-war of any size beneath his feet, ready for a fight.
And fighting a ship was something he knew well. He had learned the practical lessons first from his father, who passed on the lessons he had learned from Christopher Myngs and Henry Morgan. Later, more through accident than intent, Edward had twice sailed with Laurens de Graff, the Dutch filibuster who could command a ship in a fight better than any sea rover of the Caribbean, ever. Edward was even present during de Graff’s successful engagement against the two greatest ships of the pirate-hunting Armada de Barlovento. Added to this was Edward’s own extensive experience in command in action. To him, a rencontre at sea was nothing more than one with swords, only greater. The tactics and strategies were identical.
“Lads,” he said boldly, after Scudamore had called all hands, “today we’ll soon capture not only a likely traitor, an assassinator, a Jacobite enemy who would see the papist James put back on the throne, but we’ll also capture a Dunkirker if she’s so foolish as to try and take us! Remember that the King Fisher was once captured by the French after a glorious stand against an eighteen gun French privateer—but now the King Fisher is English again! We’ll match that glorious English captain and crew for courage, and have their revenge! Remember for what you fight: your wives, your women, your children, your families, your King, your country—and prize money!”
“Huzzah! Huzzah! Huzzah!”
“Each man to his duty, and we’ll give King William a traitor to hang and a white rag he can wipe his ass with!”
“Huzzah!” shouted the crew again, each man licking his lips, a few of them surreptitiously gripping rigging to wipe the sweat from their palms.
“You heard the captain!” Scudamore—a skinny, salty, tarry son-of-a-bitch—bellowed as he walked among the crew. “Fuck me and damn my eyes, we’ll bugger all these Flemish bastards and the squinty-eyed, long-nosed French curs with them. Damn, I hate the French, even if their women are like long, low, snug frigates, and damn, that was a fine French woman who poxed me!”
A quarter hour later the fishing boat was within half-musket shot, one hundred yards or so, and the corsair, under topsails and foresail, bore down on both. Edward thought it curious that the Dunkirker had not set more sail, but perhaps her captain assumed the ketch intended to fight, or he was being careful to discover what she was before engaging. Or just as likely, she was still clearing up her decks and making repairs from her recent fight.
Less than a glass before she’s on us, Edward realized. We must work quickly.
A few days ago, he might have regretted, if it actually were O’Neal in the boat, not what he was about to do, but that circumstances had come to this. But no more, not today, not now. He had no compunction about firing on the boat and on whomever was in it.
Edward picked up a speaking trumpet and walked to the bow.
“Ahoy the boat!”
No answer.
“Ahoy the boat!”
Again, no answer.
“Ahoy the boat! Strike amain, or we fire!”
Still there was no answer. Suddenly the boat changed course to starboard and came on a bowline close to the wind, a course that would almost immediately run her past the gauntlet of the King Fisher’s broadside, but also one that would force the naval ketch to change course as well—and right into the arms of the Dunkirker.
“Damn, he’s a bold one!” Edward cursed. “And a clever one too, knowing that if he escapes our broadside he’ll probably escape us entirely. Mr. Scudamore, give him our broadside as he passes!”
And as the boat came under the starboard guns, Edward hailed once more, to no reply. The King Fisher opened fire. The partridge shot—bags of musket balls—on top of three-pound round shot tore into the fishing boat, punching holes in the hull, sending splinters across the water, and shivering the boat’s mast, leaving its sail dragging overboard. No crew could be seen: anyone aboard had surely hidden in the bilge for protection.
“Mr. Scudamore, put the Dunkirker in our wake!”
“Aye, aye, Captain!”
The wind had veered again, to the west. Edward, the thrill of being able to fight surging through his body, wanted two broadsides in the corsair before he might be forced to run. Given the Dunkirker’s speed, it looked as if there might not be much of a running fight at all, but a true rencontre.
Like most of his profession, the Scotsman loved a sea fight above almost all else. Today it was vital that the King Fisher fire the first broadside: it might disable the enemy, would doubtless diminish the effectiveness of the enemy’s return broadside, and would definitely encourage his crew’s fighting spirit.
The King Fisher’s new course brought the Dunkirker directly astern.
“Mr. Scudamore, we can’t outrun her. Send a few men aloft as if to set all sail, then be prepared to turn hard to starboard on my order and rake her fore and aft. Have the gun captains aim low!”
“Aye, sir!”
Using his spying glass, Edward examined the pursuing ship closely.
One hundred to one hundred-twenty tons, ports for twelve guns, six per side, all in the open on her main deck, no chase guns, looks like she carries ten or twelve three- or four-pound iron guns; we’ll find out soon enough. At least twice our weight of broadside. Long, snug lines, small quarterdeck, no raised forecastle, a crew of fifty to seventy I’ll bet, her decks are massed with men. Twice or thrice our crew. She just took a prize after a fight, perhaps has some wounded; if we’re lucky maybe she has only forty or fifty men now, it’s hard to tell; but we’ve a fighting chance, we might well take her if we can prolong the fight, and if not, we’ll beat her bloody until she shows her heels.
By comparison, even with her increased armament and crew, the sixty-one ton King Fisher mounted only six small carriage guns, along with four swivels on the rails, and carried only thirty-five men. She set a tall course like that of a fishing buss, a topsail above it, a latteen and small topsail on a short mizzenmast, a small spritsail beneath her striking bowsprit, and a fore staysail and jib between mainmast and bowsprit. Her bow was bluff, her stern pinked. Although she sailed best quartering and might outsail most vessels right before the wind, her shrouds were set well back so that her yards could be braced up closer to the wind than most square-rigged vessels.
The corsair’s captain did as Edward predicted: seeing his quarry send men aloft as if to set all sail for a running fight, he ordered some of his men aloft to do the same. The enemy captain expected the ketch to run, not fight.
“Now, Mr. Scudamore!” Edward ordered when the Dunkirk privateer approached within two hundred and fifty yards.
The King Fisher turned hard to larboard and fired her small broadside of three guns and two swivels, plus several muskets, low across the Dunkirker’s decks, raking her almost fore and aft. Splinters flew when the shot from the three small guns hit their mark, although
the curved bow deflected one of the light round shot. The weight of metal was small, but still killed and wounded men and cut up rigging and sails. The Dunkirker fell briefly off her course and was unable to bring her own broadside immediately to bear.
“Come about, Mr. Scudamore, and give her our starboard battery!”
Again round shot and musket balls flew, this time raking the lightly built Dunkirker truly bow to stern.
“Mr. Scudamore, ease the helm, put her back in our wake, set all sail!” he ordered. The seamen designated to handle the ship hauled on sheets, breaking the light rope yarns that held the sails to their yards. Almost instantly the ketch was under full sail on a southerly course. Edward would have preferred to run with the wind dead astern under only the main course and topsail, negating the frigate’s advantage in canvas and putting the ketch on her only point of sail superior to her adversary’s, but such a course would carry them to the enemy coastline.
“We’ll sheer larboard and starboard while we run,” Edward ordered, “and give a broadside each way as long as we can. The Dunkirker has the legs of us, but we’ll beat her bloody before she ranges alongside, then we’ll seize our chance and board or destroy her! Point your guns as far aft as you can. Alternate chain and bar shot, elevate the muzzles, fire at will! Bugger her rigging! Musketeers and swivels! Load and fire as fast as you can, aim at her decks, kill her crew, swivels load with musket balls! I want to see blood from her scuppers! For England, King William, and our good Queen Mary who died too soon!”
“Huzzah! Huzzah! Huzzah!”
Most privateers preferred a boarding action to engaging broadsides, and this gave the King Fisher a fighting chance. She was nimble enough, if not faster than her enemy, and would fight large, before the wind. She was outnumbered, outgunned, and probably outsailed—exactly the kind of engagement that brought out the best in Edward and this crew of English tars. And it was a relief to the Creole Scotsman to be able to fight back after the chases between England and Ireland.
Fortune's Whelp (Fortune's Whelp Series Book 1) Page 33