With the swab in his hand, washing out the barrel of his falconet for the sixteenth time, he felt as if someone had suddenly placed their hands over his ears and tried to pull his head off. Thrown suddenly against the hull, he could see nothing. His head hurt, much more than his hand. A man was crying somewhere nearby, another howling. The ship was rolling from side to side even more than before. Clarenceux struggled to his feet and looked at where his gun had been. There was a gash in the side of the ship and the falconet was rammed into the wood. The wood had splintered outward, however. The cannonball had come through the ship from the other side and hit his falconet. He looked at the gaping hole in the opposite side of the ship. He turned back to his gun. It was now useless.
He walked through the smoke-filled deck, his head reeling, a singing noise between his ears. Only eight men were still firing—five attending to a demicannon on the starboard side and three firing one on the port. The body of Nick Laver had been blown from the position in which he had fallen and smashed like a doll against the mainmast. His cutlass, still tucked in his belt, had caught on the body of another man, who had also suffered from the massive splinters of smashed oak strakes. At the foot of the ladder was the naked upper body and head of a woman, Charity Pool. Clarenceux had been dimly aware of Charity and the other women going among them, trying to staunch the bleeding of the wounded. Her long hair had been burnt away and her skin scorched black. Her legs had gone entirely, torn off by a cannonball.
Clarenceux crossed himself, pushed the woman’s remains to one side and went up the ladder. Everything was changed. The galleon that had surprised them, coming from the east, was still a hundred yards away but now it had only one of its three masts and no sails—partly due to his own work. The three ships that had been sailing at them from the south, however, were all close at hand. One had lost all but its topmost and lateen sails and was about three hundred yards to the south, but the other two were both within a hundred yards, and one of those had all three masts still intact—albeit with one sail ripped. The fifth vessel too had moved closer and now was about a mile away.
None of this surprised Clarenceux so much as the scene on the deck of the Davy. Bodies were lying everywhere, men groaning with broken limbs where they had fallen from the yards onto the deck. Some were screaming in agony. There were splashes of blood across the wood. Even those who were not wounded were lying down or crouched in corners as occasional gunshots hit the deck. One of the sakers stationed on the upper deck was surrounded by corpses; the other was still being manned by John Devenish, despite the blood across his shoulder and back. The mainmast had been split in two about ten feet above the upper deck and, restrained by the rigging, the top half had fallen down, hanging across the yard. The foremast was similarly broken, its jagged edges pointing into the blue sky. All the sails were down except one, and that was ragged.
The almost unscathed ship was moving fast toward the Davy on the port side, looking as though she was going to ram her. Musketeers were stationed on her deck, firing at anything that moved on the Davy, and men with bows were shooting arrows with incendiary pitch-covered heads at the ship. As these hit, the Davy’s crew rushed to throw them over the side. When they did so, the enemy opened fire with their muskets. Although their aim was wayward because of the pitching of the two ships, five or six guns being trained on the target made the task of clearing the deck a dangerous one.
Clarenceux ducked back down through the hatch and looked across the wrecked main deck, wondering how to stop the fast-approaching ship. Through the smoke he could see men and boys scurrying around, carrying powder and shot and buckets of water for the swabs and to put out the fires. Only one of the demicannon was now in operation—the one on the starboard side. The other had been abandoned, with broken timber, blankets, eating vessels, and a mass of broken rubbish piled up behind it, preventing it from being drawn in to be reloaded. But the men firing the starboard gun were shooting at a ship that posed no immediate threat. Clarenceux needed to have these men fire the gun that was out of use. “The other gun!” he roared in his loudest, most commanding heraldic voice. He stepped down the ladder. “Take the other cannon. We are about to be rammed from the portside—fire the other cannon!”
One of the men grasped what Clarenceux was saying; the other four followed, bringing the linstock and gunpowder between them. Clarenceux helped them clear a path to pull in the gun. There was no time to swab it—and no need, as it had not been fired for some time. One man packed in the four-pound charge of gunpowder and the other lifted the cannonball and rammed it home. A fourth man saw to the priming and Clarenceux looked along the barrel, taking the linstock. “Run her out,” he commanded, looking over at the fast-approaching ship. When the gun was ready, he still waited, picturing the nine or ten feet of ship below the waterline. It was a careful balance, between a shot that was too deep, which would barely damage the vessel, and one that was only just below the waterline. The ship heaved, the muzzle wavering between the waterline and the forecastle. “Muzzle down,” he yelled, watching the prow of the ship close in on them. Then “Stop!” he shouted, realizing that just below the waterline would be enough—the water pouring in would do the rest itself. He waited a moment, gauged the timing of the waves, and applied the linstock to the gunpowder.
He only just managed to dive out of the way in time. In concentrating on aiming the gun, he had forgotten about the recoil. In the second or so that it took the priming gunpowder to burn through, he remembered. The cannon shot back—more than two tons of bronze and iron-bound oak—restrained by the ropes with an impact as sudden as the initial deafening explosion.
Clarenceux got to his feet quickly and grabbed the swab from the neighboring gun as the other men hauled in the cannon. He glanced through the gun port as he cleaned the barrel, hearing the hiss of the water on the hot metal. There seemed to be no difference to the enemy ship. He gestured for the next charge to be inserted and picked up the linstock, as the thirty-two-pound cannonball was rammed home. Wiping the sweat from his face, he gave the order to run her out. Again he looked down the barrel, and aimed to hit the ship two feet below the waterline. Another deafening roar burst from the gun. Immediately Clarenceux picked up the swab and gave orders for the next shot to be prepared. When the smoke cleared and he could see the approaching ship, her prow was lower in the water. She was sinking.
Clarenceux ordered the men to continue firing the smaller guns and went back up through the smoke to the ladder. He crouched on the upper deck, shouting at Luke, who was loading a number of pistols arranged in a row in front of him. The body of Hugh Dean was nearby, his stomach a mass of blood and bone, ripped open by a cannonball. His mouth was open and his eyes too, still staring up through the smoke at the sky.
“Where’s Carew?” shouted Clarenceux, moving over to Luke.
“He led a boarding party. He went in with Kahlu, Francis, Harry, and Skinner and used the ship’s own cannon to blow a hole in the bottom of the hull. He’s swimming his way back now, look.”
Clarenceux glanced over the gunwale. The ship he had hit was going down prow-first, slowly. The second nearby ship was listing to port; its crew was in a panic. Some were jumping into the water; others, not knowing how badly holed she was, were trying to sail her toward land. Carew and Kahlu were swimming back to the Davy followed by the others. Clarenceux almost laughed at how lucky Carew had been to have chosen to sink the other one of the two nearby vessels. The man has more lives than a cat.
Clarenceux took stock of the situation. The ship to the east was without its sails, practically becalmed off the starboard side. As for the ship he had hit, the waves were over the deck now; only the masts and sterncastle were still visible. Men were swimming or clinging on to the rigging in the hope of a skiff coming along to save them. A number had already drowned, their bodies rising and falling lifelessly in the swell. The ship Carew had boarded was taking in water through its gun ports. But there were still
two other vessels afloat.
The most distant one was now about half a mile to the southwest, as yet unscathed. The other ship, which had lost all but two of its sails, was still mobile and firing, about two hundred and fifty yards away to the south.
“We are just waiting for them,” muttered Clarenceux to Luke, as Carew and Kahlu climbed up the outside of the ship and clambered over the gunwale. As he spoke, another cannonball from the ship to the east hit the main deck below. The impact shook the boat and knocked Kahlu off balance. He picked himself up as Carew approached.
“We’re holding them,” said Carew, “but only just. It would be better for us if we could sail.”
A movement away to the east caught Clarenceux’s eye. A skiff was setting out, full of men. “Here they come,” he said, pointing.
“Go below, alert them,” said Carew, turning to survey the rigging. For a moment Clarenceux considered telling him how few men were left alive below, but he thought better of it. Carew turned back to him, as if reading his thoughts. “Do what you can. Encourage them.”
The ship rolled on a higher wave and a musket ball cracked into the sterncastle. Clarenceux ducked his head, scampered across to the ladder, and went down to the main deck. Men were still firing the gun on the port side and running around for more powder, more shot. Alice was nursing a man who had lost a leg and a lot of blood. She was mopping his brow—obviously she had given up on trying to save his life. Juanita was working fast, wrapping a tourniquet around the bleeding leg of a gunner, trying to staunch the rapid flow of blood. Stars Johnson had taken over from Dunbar in measuring out gunpowder. He looked up as Clarenceux jumped down the ladder.
“Where’s Dunbar?” shouted Clarenceux.
“Down below, looking for more gunpowder.”
Clarenceux looked down the timber-strewn deck. “Give me powder for that saker.”
“This is all for the demicannon,” replied Stars.
“For the love of God,” yelled Clarenceux, “give me a charge anyway.”
Stars passed a measure of gunpowder to Clarenceux who ran to the abandoned saker. A shot hit the outside of the hull and split the wood with an alarming crack. He looked and found a cache of shot for the gun and the priming flask lying on the deck. Pouring all the gunpowder into the barrel, he inserted the cannonball and wadding and primed the gun and, shouting for help, tried to run out the gun singlehanded. It hardly shifted. Juanita was suddenly beside him, grunting as she heaved on the carriage. Then another man joined them. “Fetch a linstock,” Clarenceux shouted over the sound of muskets and shrieking from the upper deck. He knelt to look along the barrel.
The skiff was heavily laden, being rowed quickly toward him. He counted the men aboard: fourteen. Is this the work of God? Or the Devil? He closed his eyes.
“Here,” shouted Junanita, thrusting the slow-burning linstock at him.
He took it and looked at her face, streaked with sweat, fierce. The determination showed in her eyes. She was fighting for her life—as much as Carew or anyone. This is neither the work of God nor the Devil. This is war and I have chosen sides.
Looking toward the skiff, which was now no more than sixty feet away, he lowered the gun, secured it, and applied the linstock. There was a moment while the priming sparked and burnt—and then the explosion. He watched the shot smash into the boat, splintering the rear of the skiff and sending the front of it and pieces of wood spinning up into the air. When they splashed down there were several men dead in the water, their heads bobbing on the reddened surface like fruit in a bowl. Only one of the survivors could swim and was fit enough to do so; he turned back to his own ship. The others screamed in panic as they thrashed about, drowning, clutching at the fragments of the boat.
Clarenceux clambered across to the other side of the main deck and looked out through a gunport. There were bodies, limbs, and pieces of timber around the Davy, bobbing about on the water: the flotsam of a battle. The ship to the south was closer, about one hundred and fifty yards. The fifth ship, still unscathed, was also only a few hundred yards away to the southwest.
Another cannon shot boomed out across the water. Clarenceux heard footsteps on the ladder and turned to see Carew stepping down.
“I didn’t expect you to fight,” Carew said.
“I’m fighting my own war. My cause is different from yours—but we’re allies.”
Carew nodded. “Good. Find yourself a blade. We are about to be boarded.” He walked further down the main deck, inspecting the damage. “One ship might try to ram us against another, so we are attacked on both sides at once. If so, we will try to board whichever one has the most sails and, if we can take it, that will be our escape.”
Clarenceux watched him go down to the orlop deck. Steam billowed up from the hatch. The Davy was sinking. One of the many blows she had suffered over the past two and a half hours of engagement had weakened the planking below the waterline.
Carew reappeared. “Galley’s waist-deep in water.” He glanced out of the gunport at the approaching vessels. “If they realize, they will just hold back until we go down. They had better attack soon.”
Carew went over to Juanita, who had given up the struggle to save James Miller. She lay his head on the deck and closed his eyes. Clarenceux shook his head. He knew they had no chance of taking another ship; there were too few of them left. But that seemed not to concern Carew, who knelt down beside Juanita, placed his hand on James Miller’s chest, then touched her face and kissed her.
Clarenceux steadied himself as another cannonball smashed into the Davy. He felt resigned; he was barely aware of what he was expected to do. He stumbled toward the hatch down to the orlop deck and descended the ladder. Steam was hot and wet in the air. There was light on one side where a cannonball had splintered two strakes of the hull. When the water reached that point, the ship would flood in a matter of moments. She would heel over and sink quickly.
He bowed his head, praying for salvation. He was past praying for anything in particular; he had no ideas left. All he could think of was to escape by trying to swim to shore. But that was miles away and he had never swum more than a few hundred yards. Also he would probably be shot in the water. Even if a bullet simply wounded him it might stop him from swimming so far. Carew would not reveal where Rebecca Machyn had gone either. All this would have been in vain. The best he could do was survive—and hope that the enemy commander would treat him as a herald and not as a pirate.
But he had fired on a boat full of men and killed them. He could not refuse to fight the boarding party now. He had committed himself.
Tears welled in his eyes at the thought of Awdrey and their daughters. He remembered little Mildred learning to climb the stairs. He prostrated himself, begging for mercy, for forgiveness. He prayed that his family might be safe and secure. He would have continued in that position, praying, had not another cannonball smashed through the hull just astern, sending splinters flying through the dimness, cutting his face and arms and leaving him gasping against a barrel. The shock and the pain brought him to his senses. He looked out through the newly made hole and saw the sea surging not far below. He crossed himself and went back up the ladder.
Clarenceux went between the corpses, looking for a blade. Remembering that Nick Laver had been wearing a cutlass, he searched for his corpse. He walked over and confronted the smashed head, the glistening brain, the loose eyeball. He saw the hilt of the weapon and drew it. As he did so, he noticed the other eyelid flickering.
Clarenceux hesitated. How was it possible? He bent down and listened to his breathing, seeing the eyelid flicker again. “Help me,” whispered Laver. “End it now.”
Clarenceux remembered the killing of the men in the skiff, how he had justified that to himself because it was war. Now Laver seemed like an apparition of one of them, making him confront at close quarters what he had done to those men at a distance. He was a living
ghost, come from the sea, bloody and accusing. A ghost from the guns of warships.
I killed men who were not dying. Why is it difficult to kill a man who wants me to kill him?
Clarenceux suddenly jabbed forward with the dagger, aiming for Laver’s heart. He hit the breast bone and had to twist the blade loose, causing Laver to scream a chilling greeting to death. He stabbed again and hit a rib, and Laver screamed again, lifting a trembling hand to the destroyed side of his head. Frantic, Clarenceux stabbed a third time and thrust the blade deep into the man’s heart. The arm slowly fell, Laver froze into death. Clarenceux pulled the blade out, wide eyed with revulsion. He turned and ran up the ladder to the main deck in a blood-smeared daze, unable to think of anything but the need to stab his way clear of the ghosts plaguing his conscience. He bent down beside a corpse on the main deck, knowing that it was the body of John Devenish and that his Moorish blade was lying there. He picked it up, not even thinking about the musket bullets raining down from the two ships that were now only twenty or thirty yards from the Davy. He was barely even aware of the flames in the rigging. He ascended the ladder to the sterncastle as if they were the steps to heaven and looked down on the men sheltering there almost with disdain, as if their fear was contemptible.
The Roots of Betrayal Page 23