A sharp crack in his ear, and the sudden gouge that appeared in the deck behind him just as he gave orders to see to the casualties made him look up. A party of Walloon Guards had taken up a position at the top of the levee, their muskets prodding forward to play on his deck. Harry called to the forward gunners, who, jamming their bars under the gun barrels, removed the quoins that controlled the elevation. Reaching the soldier on the rim was impossible. But Harry hoped he’d be able, at least, to give them some kind of fright.
‘Remove the top of that levee, as near as you can, then reload with grape. Larboard gunners take up your muskets and keep the heads of those buggers down. All guns to fire on my command.’
The broadside, as each gun went off together, heeled the ship over, so great was its force, which added marginally to the height. Great clods shot skywards, completely covering the soldiers, the weight of the earth dropping on their heads, forcing them downwards. Musket balls were sent into their midst, increasing the havoc rather than inflicting wounds. Looking ahead Harry caught his first sight of the downriver bastion, flames sprouting from the top. Perhaps Pender had set fire to the interior, either deliberately or by the use of his charges. It made no difference. With that level of conflagration, no one could work the guns. They’d be lucky to flood the magazine. Perhaps the whole edifice would go up in the air. The orange glow lit up a pair of ships berthed just offshore. Harry recognised the two merchantmen that Don Cayetano had used as transports, the ones he’d first spied off Fort Balize.
A glance back established that the Navarro was shielding him from the other great guns, though that wouldn’t last if he continued downriver: the artillery would soon be able to fire over the deck of the galley at a target still well within range. Another salvo of musket fire swept across the deck, striking two of his men, then he saw the Walloons move along the jetty to take up a fresh firing position ahead of him. Harry rushed forward, calling for a line to be dropped from the maintopsail yard. Slung in a block it would provide the purchase he needed. Half a dozen men were sent to take the other end while he lashed the dropped line around the muzzle of the nearest nine-pounder.
‘Haul away,’ he cried, arm raised. As the muzzle of the gun came above the level of the bulwark he shouted again, this time to belay. ‘Now run the gun up as normal.’
The gun crew didn’t ask why, nor did they need to when they realised what their Captain was about. ‘Some gammoning under the muzzle, then stand clear.’
A shout lowered the nine-pounder onto the padding that had been placed along the bulwark. Harry grabbed the slow-match from the gun captain, squinted along the barrel at the row of white coats, and touched the hole. He then leapt for his life, pushing the curious gun crew back as he went. No one could know how the cannon would react when it fired. In fact, it shot upright. It nearly tipped off its carriage to flip back onto the deck, but after hovering for a second with its muzzle to the sky, it dropped forward with a crash. The grapeshot it had contained swept the top of the levee, just as the Walloon Guards, who’d considered themselves safe from anything but an occasional musket, shaped up for another salvo. The small metal balls scythed through the ranks like the Grim Reaper. Hardly one of their number was unaffected as they spun and fell, emitting a sort of collective scream that was loud enough to drown out all the other sounds of battle.
‘Navarro getting under way, Captain!’ shouted Dreaver.
That surprised Harry, who ran for the taffrail. The Spanish officers, realising that their ship was protecting Bucephalas, had poled the bows clear and were using the current to get themselves out into the channel. They represented no threat in themselves, but without the bulk of the ship he’d be exposed much sooner than he’d anticipated to the only weapons that could hinder his escape. He ran back to the wheel, shouting for men to get aloft and set more sail. Others were commanded to man the braces and see if by trimming the yards they could coax an extra ounce of speed out of their ship. Their Captain put the helm down, taking Bucephalas out into deeper water, his bowsprit aimed for the stern of the nearest merchantman, which produced an immediate increase in speed. He realised that the Mississippi current, stronger away from the shore, was working in his favour. For the first time in an age he had a chance to look around. What he saw was a scene of destruction, made more ethereal by the fire downriver. The first galley he’d attacked was wallowing, close to foundering, as she was carried downstream; the one destroyed by the gunner’s barrel was also in view, now that the Navarro had pulled away from the jetty. The stern was high in the air, probably being held there by the cable attached to the quay.
For a short while it was silent, until a ragged volley of gunfire from below the burning bastion reminded him of the need to provide for the men ashore.
‘Dreaver, get the cutter over the side and tally off a party to go and rescue Pender. They’re to make for the watergate that runs under the drawbridge. But tell them to look close to the levee first, just in case our men are trapped upriver.’
The flash came first, an orange and red flame fifty yards long, then the thunderous boom. Finally the ball hit the larboard side a glancing blow that dented the planking but didn’t pierce it. The ball carried on to bounce on the water three times before it sank out of sight. By that time the second gun had fired. They’d used too much powder or elevation, since it screeched across the deck all the way from stern to figurehead, the blast of air from its passing knocking men flat. How it missed the masts Harry didn’t stop to consider. He began counting immediately, ticking off the seconds till the next salvo.
He barely noticed the cutter going over the side, a party of men already aboard, nor the commotion on the deck of the merchant ship. Like him, those aboard Bucephalas who had nothing to do stood and watched as though fate had robbed them of the power to move. Both cannon fired together, and in the split second between the flash and the arrival of the ball Harry mouthed a prayer. He held the wheel steady, cutting across the merchantman’s stern, his very skin crawling in anticipation of the moment when he could put up his helm and slip to safety behind her high sides. One ball passed over to land in the river, sending up a great fount of water, the second took the top off the mizzen-mast just above the cap, slicing through the great tree trunk as if it was matchwood. The force of the ball lifted it out and up, causing it to tear at the restraining rigging. The quarterdeck was deluged with pulleys and blocks, all torn from their positions aloft. Only a miracle saved those on that part of the deck from serious injury, and many suffered minor wounds from chains and debris landing on their cowering frames. Then the mast fell over the side, in its travel causing even more damage, and Bucephalas yawed away from the safety of the larger ship.
‘Get some lines onto that ship and haul us in close,’ he shouted.
Suddenly the merchantman’s side was lined with shouting, gesticulating men, who tried to catch and return the grappling irons that were being cast from the privateer. Muskets already loaded, it took only a second to clear them. One iron caught the high bulwark, and Harry’s men hauled on it till the ships nearly touched.
‘We should be safe now, lads,’ he shouted.
The crash of metal striking wood drowned out his command to look to the wounded. The merchantman shuddered and rocked as she crashed into Bucephalas. Another salvo followed, at exactly the same range. Great chunks of wood from the far bulwarks shot up in the air, some of the deadly shards scything across Harry’s deck. No one knew what that did to the crew on the merchantman, but it caught three of Harry’s men still on the ropes, trying to secure Bucephalas. There was nothing worse on a ship’s deck than shards of flying wood – the uneven edges, some razor sharp and as pointed as a stiletto, caused the deadliest of wounds as they ripped into soft flesh. Blood spurted everywhere as the men fell, writhing in agony. Harry led the rest of the crew forward at a rush, to get these unfortunates off the deck before the next salvo. There was too little time, but the gunners must have altered their weight of powder, since the next s
alvo landed in the water upriver.
No care could be shown to the wounded. They were dragged to the companionways and hauled down below, with Harry ordering their rescuers to stay with them. He and Dreaver dived for the bulwarks, just as the next pair of cannon balls, blasted off with a proper charge, hit the merchantman. The mizzen-mast was smashed at the base. Fortunately, when it toppled, it fell on the upriver side, clear of Harry’s ship. But it was a warning. Whoever commanded that battery was so determined to sink Harry Ludlow that he was prepared to destroy the ship shielding him, plank by plank. Another salvo produced no flying splinters or wounded rigging. But it hit the caravel amidships, and from the little that Harry could judge, close to the waterline. Panic reigned aboard the Spanish vessel, as the small crew rushed from one place to the next trying to escape this unforeseen attack.
‘Get a party together,’ Harry yelled to Dreaver, pointing towards the companionway. ‘We’re going aboard that ship to cut her anchor cable. And I need a line to lash the wheel so that we can control her drift.’
‘What are you going to do with the crew?’ asked Dreaver.
‘I’ll turf them onto our deck. At least they’ll be marginally safer here.’
Two more balls smashed into the merchantman’s unprotected side, sending a shock wave through her entire frame. Harry knew he had to be quick. If he stayed here she would sink, leaving him with nothing but clear water between himself and those cannon. He had to get out of range, and that could only be achieved by drifting on the current. A call to Dreaver brought his men on deck. Rushing forward he led them up the shrouds, and once high enough he leapt for the deck. As soon as he landed he had to throw himself flat as another salvo hit the vessel. He felt the deck planking lift below his hands, a measure of the force with which those guns, properly ranged, could batter their target. More men followed, carrying axes, some going forward while he rushed for the wheel. The man cowering behind it was dressed well enough to be the Captain, made more likely by the ship’s log he clasped to his bosom. But his hat was gone and his wig was askew.
As Harry approached he caught sight of the man’s eyes, wild with fear. His injunction to get out of harm’s way fell on deaf ears, and the need to lash the wheel took precedence. The ship shuddered again, her timbers groaning at the strain of the shock. The splinter came from nowhere, missing Harry by a hair’s breadth, and hit the Captain, crouched behind the wheel, in the shoulder. He fell back, still clutching his log, the first cries of pain emerging from his lips. Harry turned to yell for assistance, aware that the slight feeling of movement beneath his feet meant that the ship was drifting freely. Two of his men, who’d been busy helping the original crew over the side, rushed to join him.
‘He’s bleeding badly, probably too much to be moved. But if we don’t get him off this deck I think he’ll die anyway.’
Screaming with pain, the wounded man passed out as soon as they lifted him. The log dropped from his hands to the deck and Harry picked it up before rushing to the side to call down to his own deck. The gangplank, slung amidships when they’d escaped, was raised to make a platform, which at least made the passage to the deck much smoother. Harry jumped down, followed by the rest of his crew, just as the sixth salvo hit the caravel.
‘Have men standing by with axes. If she looks as though she’s going down, cut us clear.’ He threw the log at the foot of the binnacle then turned to the two men carrying the wounded sailor. ‘Get him below to my brother.’
Ten more salvoes hit the ship, shattering the planking on the far side with enough force to inflict serious damage. And she was lower in the water, the distance between the two bulwarks sinking by the minute. Harry had climbed up the mainmast to observe the fall of shot, glad that the guns seemed to lack the elevation to overshoot the target and hit him. He also had his eye firmly fixed on the merchant ship’s deck, looking for the tell-tale signs that she was about to break up. The crack of timbers below decks was soon almost a constant, and finally he gave orders to man the braces. With the sails still set, Bucephalas, cut free, turned easily, taking the wind on her quarter, and sailed out of range of the guns a few moments before the ship that had kept them safe broke in two and sank.
CHAPTER FORTY
AS SOON as he was sure he was safe from attack, Harry anchored and sent three lanterns aloft as a signal to Pender. He also rigged blue lights in case the Spaniards tried to come for him in small boats. Then he waited, gnawing at the thought that perhaps he’d sent his servant on an impossible mission. Aware that his pacing of the deck was attracting too much attention from the crew he ordered the barge and launch over the side then went below to see James, who was still in the now crowded sick bay. He spoke to those of his men that had the power of speech, thanking them, uttering reassuring words and the odd apology for having got the crew into this predicament in the first place, while trying simultaneously to avoid looking at the silent bodies and covered faces of the dead. James, his apron and forearms covered in blood, poured Harry a much-needed tot of brandy as he explained how things lay.
‘I don’t think we’re in any danger of attack. Certainly not without warning. After all, we sank two of their ships already. My only worry is that we’ve stung their pride very hard indeed, and that tends to make Spaniards dangerous.’
‘Well, here’s one who will be no danger to anyone,’ James replied, pointing to the wounded man that Harry had brought off the sunken ship.
‘Did he come round, at all?’
‘No, thank God. I’m ham-fisted in the medical line, brother. I rather think my ministrations might have done for him. As it is, like one or two of our own, if he doesn’t get a surgeon I fear he’ll expire. It’s a bad wound.’
‘So we still don’t know who he is.’
‘Someone told me he was the Captain.’
‘He was certainly dressed like one,’ Harry replied.
James picked up the well-cut satin coat, now ripped and bloodstained. He began to search the pockets, as well as examining the lining, looking for a clue to his identity. Harry looked around the cramped cockpit. He had three dead men in view, seven wounded, two of whom were not expected to see the dawn, as well as one poor soul who’d already gone over the side. Dreaver lifted the canvas screen, his already foxy face made more pinched by the sight and smell of so much blood.
‘No sign of Pender yet, your honour. An’ the boats are crewed and in the water.’
‘Right!’
‘There’s nothing here, Harry,’ said James, holding up the coat.
Harry was already halfway to the canvas screen when he replied.
‘I think he was carrying his ship’s log when I found him. I brought it on board and slung it down by the binnacle. If he is the Captain his name will be in there.’
The fire in the bastion that Pender had attacked was now no more than a red glow against the arc of light that covered the city, but it served as a point for which the two boats, in line ahead, could aim, that being the route by which they expected him and his party to join. Those very embers were evidence that his task had been completed. And his orders for escape, regardless of success or failure, had been the same. Make for the bridge over the watergate, where a boat would be waiting to take them off. But Harry was worried he might have left launching the cutter too long. He’d always considered himself a lucky man but since coming to New Orleans, especially in the last few days, he was no longer certain. Try as he might, he could not keep visions of Pender dead or mutilated out of his mind. His heart felt like a lump of lead, so acute was his depression, and his eyes were closed tight.
The sudden fusillade brought them open, and, standing up, he followed the outstretched fingers of the crew, who’d ceased to row and were pointing towards the shore. That, they told him, seemed to be a mass of muzzle flashes. He was looking in the right area when it happened again, as if a battle took place. Harry observed that those nearest the city were not only more numerous, but were ranks of disciplined muskets. Those that fired in re
ply seemed ragged, and had the shorter flashes that denoted handguns. Even with such scanty evidence it looked like an uneven contest, and that put Harry in an agonising position. He waited for the next fusillade, trying to count the number of guns. It was impossible, but it didn’t remove the feeling that whoever was fighting to get away from the city was heavily outnumbered. Even if it was his men, of which he had no sure knowledge, could he justify putting his small party ashore, without the certainty that their number would affect the outcome? He couldn’t bear the thought of leaving Pender in the lurch, but at the same time he had the safety of the ship, and the entire crew, to consider.
The Scent of Betrayal Page 41