Jonas Dante stood at the rail of his ship, his large hands gripping the oak. His face looked as if it had been chiseled out of rock, all hard planes and angles, completely devoid of any decipherable expression.
They had sailed in close to the island as evening descended, although calling it an island was flattery at its best. Perhaps a mile long and half that much in width, its only redeeming feature was a deep-water bay where the Tribute was able to tuck into the shadows. Had her holds not been so weighted down with copper, she could easily have outrun the advancing ships instead of hiding and waiting for them to pass.
Unfortunately, they had not passed. And now, somewhere on the leeward side of the island all three ships were engaged in fierce fighting, tearing at each other through a steady roar of broadsides.
"Well Mr. Pitt?" Dante glanced at the younger man standing on his left. "What think you?"
Like his father, Young Pitt knew his weaponry and ships and could identify the first by sound, the other by sight.
"The two smaller galleons are Spaniards," Pitt declared. "I would know the sound of their guns anywhere."
"And the other?" Dante asked.
Young Pitt chewed on his lip. He realized he was being tested, for the captain had sent a jolly boat ashore hours ago and was receiving regular reports from the observers. "I vow I heard a carronade, sir, a big one. Perhaps a fifty-pounder. The only ships who carry those are Dutch East Indiamen."
"Go on."
"Aye, sir. Well, I wager she is heavily burdened, which has allowed the Spaniards to catch her, but she has not taken advantage of her superior size and firepower until now, so she must be crippled in some way. Damage from the storm, perhaps. Or a previous confrontation."
Dante nodded and clapped the boy on the shoulder. "My thoughts as well. And you are correct. She is a Dutch fluyt. If she has come up the coast of Africa from the Cape, she might well have run into all manner of troubles. She's firing one shot to every five from the Spaniards and it would appear her captain made a deliberate run for the island to avoid getting caught in a crossfire."
They listened to the staccato explosions and followed the flickering blooms of light, tracking the battle as it moved along the length of the island.
"The currents could very well carry them around the point," Varian warned quietly. "And run them straight down our throat."
"Thereby putting to waste any good intentions we may have had to let them battle it out between them," Franks said grimly.
Hobson Grundy sucked air through his front teeth, leaned over and spat. "Never did put much faith in good intentions, Capt'n. Always seem to come 'round an' bite ye in the arse. Mind, there's nay moon an' it be darker than the inside of a donkey's arse. We might be able to cut away an' steer a wide enough course around them without them even seein' us."
Varian arched an aristocratic eyebrow. "You've been inside a donkey's arse?"
"Nay." Grundy cackled. "But m' wife's hole is just as dark an' I can get lost in there easy enough." He paused and glanced at Jonas. "Providin' that's what ye want to do, that is: Get us lost in the dark."
Dante was aware of the whispers and growing tension amongst the crewmen. They were not accustomed to hiding in dark bays or running from a fight. Dante had not yet shared the reason for their need to return to Pigeon Cay with all due haste. He had kept the rumor of a possible threat against their home port between himself, Varian, and Hobson Grundy—mainly because it was, thus far, just a rumor delivered by an overblown ambassador bragging about his boastful nephew.
It was an oversight he would have to correct before they went any further. For the moment, however, while he had no fear of the whispers turning to mutiny, he had no desire to put any shreds of doubt in the minds of the crew as to his ability and authority to command. He was still bristling from Bella's ill-advised challenge.
As much as he bristled, however, there was no denying the girl had guts. Those eyes could cut a man to the bone if he did not drown in them first. And despite his resolve not to let her become a distraction, he feared she might already have become exactly that.
The sound of oars in the water brought Dante's attention into sharp focus again as the jolly boat approached the side of the Tribute's hull.
A minute later, a bearded, bone-thin mate named Sticks came directly to the quarterdeck with the latest report.
"Captain, sir. The fluyt has taken severe damage. Half the deck is aflame, only a third of her guns are able to fire. For a time, the two galleons were taking turns coming in hard and raking her with full broadsides."
Dante clenched his fists, listening. It was not his fight. He had no good reason to interfere and every good reason to stay where he was and let them thrash it out to whatever end.
Sticks was not finished his report. "On the last pass, one of the Spaniards took a direct hit and lost her foremast. The drag slowed her down, putting her out of gun range."
"Small mercies," Varian murmured.
"One other thing, sir. We were finally able to identify her as the Gulden Dolphijn."
Dante's jaw clenched as tightly as his fists. Four years ago, the Gulden Dolphijn, together with twenty other ships culled from the pirate stronghold on New Providence, had joined forces with Simon Dante in an effort to attack a fleet of Spanish warships sailing from Havana to Cadiz. Their combined efforts had not only destroyed a second attempt by Spain to amass an armada to invade England, but the ambush had provided the opportunity to rescue Gabriel Dante from the clutches of Don Cristobel Recalde.
"I'll be damned," Varian said quietly. "The world gets smaller every damned day."
Sticks fidgeted and snatched the cap off his head. "Captain… sir… one other thing. She's run up the white flag."
"The Dolphijn has surrendered?"
"Aye, but the Spaniards have not acknowledged it."
Jonas glanced at the sky, at the flickering yellow bursts reflected in the clouds. "What do you mean the Spaniards have not acknowledged?"
"He's continuing to fire. I think he plans to sink the Dutchman."
"Make ready to drop sail, Mr. Grundy," Jonas snarled. "Get us out of this bay."
Grundy hooted and punched the air with his fist at the prospect of joining the battle. "Aye Capt'n!"
"Artemis!"
"Right here." The gun captain was ready and waiting for the order.
"Double-shot the culverins with chain and canister. We'll be going in hot and fast and I would be happy to see the Spanish bastard dismasted on the first pass."
"Aye, Captain!"
Most of the crew had been within earshot and sprang into action before the orders had been passed down the line. Men armed with muskets and bows swarmed up the rigging to take positions on the yards where they would have the best lines of fire. Gun crews primed the cannons on both decks. The remaining men crouched by the boards, cutlasses, pikes and marlins within grasp, pistols tucked into their belts. The already heavily shielded lanterns on deck were doused leaving only twin rows of glowing red fuses visible in the utter blackness.
Dante went below briefly and when he emerged again, he wore two leather crossbelts over his chest, each with three pistols fitted into slings. His sword was strapped to his hip alongside two throwing axes and several daggers of various sizes. He curled his lower lip and let loose a sharp whistle, one that found an echo in the ships stern. Moments later the huge canvas mainsails dropped, followed by the slap of more sails being released and the zzzzzipping of lines and creaking cleats as the sheets were pulled tight and fastened off.
Almost at once the Tribute began to glide forward, an ominous shadow moving stealthily around the island. The helmsman kept her hidden in the darkness until he was able to bring her around in a wide circle and approach the battle unobserved. Without the barrier of the island to dampen the sound, the volleys rolled across the water like great booms of thunder as did the crash of the shots and the screams of dying men.
~~
Bella had remained, albeit with re
luctant obedience, in the cabin with Molly. The ship hadn't moved in hours, so when she heard heavy footsteps striding toward the captain's cabin, she opened the door a crack. Moments later Dante emerged, this time with his sword belt strapped to his waist and enough guns on his person for a one man army.
She poked her head fully out the door but he had either not noticed her or simply chosen to ignore her.
Assuming the latter, she was startled nearly out of her skin when Young Pitt stepped out of the gloom beside her.
"You're to come with me, my lady."
"Come with you where?"
"Captain Jonas says to take you below to the surgery. He says you're to stay there until someone tells you that you can leave, and I'm to tie you to a chair and lock you in if you argue. He says to tell you if he sees you up on deck he'll ribbon your back with lashmarks."
"He said all of that, did he?"
"He'll do it too, miss. Mark my words, you don't ever want to cross the captain when he's given an order. Doubly so in battle. He has eyes in the back of his head, he does. He sees everything, even when the smoke is so thick you don't know there's a man standing next to you. He might seem the fair and jolly sort, but he turns into Satan himself if you disobey him."
"Of all the words I might use to describe your captain, fair and jolly would not have entered my mind."
"Mayhap so, my lady, but the words 'devil' and 'all of hell's demons' will ring loud if you cross him again today."
Bella noted the use of the word again and surmised the whole crew was once more privy to what had gone on in Dante's cabin earlier.
"Very well, Master Pitt. Lead the way."
With Molly following close behind, Young Pitt hurried along the corridor and descended not one but two ladderways, taking them deep into the bowels of the ship where the air was stale and reeked of burning whale oil and sludge from the bilges. Tucked there was a cabin no more than ten paces by ten paces, the walls lined with shelves containing pincers and saws and the various other ominous tools of Digger's trade. In the middle of the room was a plank table, the length of it stained black from old blood stains.
Bella felt Molly's cold hand slip into hers. She gave the girl a reassuring squeeze and, since Digger himself was nowhere in sight, found a convenient corner where they might both sit and wait.
~~
The Spanish ships were two-masted and carried twenty-four demi-culverins apiece, twelve on each side. They were commonly used as escort ships for the treasure fleets and excelled at close range fighting.
As Sticks had reported, one of the Spaniards had lost her mainmast and drifted at the far end of the island, well out of the main action while it affected hasty repairs. The second Spaniard was pounding away at the Dutch Indiaman with unrelenting fury, ignoring the fact that the fluyt had stopped returning fire.
Gouts of red and orange flame followed each shot out of the muzzles and to add injury to the tremendous injustice, the gunners appeared to be aiming at the mast carrying the huge white flag of surrender.
"Hardly sporting," Varian muttered, his hand curled angrily around the hilt of his sword.
Equally incensed, Dante roared a command to the helmsman, who brought the Tribute speeding headlong into the fight. Since most of the attention on board the Spaniard was focussed on the Dutchman, it wasn't until the Tribute was in firing position that anyone noticed her.
By then it was too late.
Dante swung his arm. "Fire!"
Fuses were lowered to the touch holes. The powder crackled and sparked its way down to the charges packed into the throats of fourteen culverins and ten demi-culverins. The crews clapped their hands over their ears and stepped back as the big guns erupted and leaped against the restraints of the tackle lines. Before the flames had even left the snouts of the big brass beasts, the carriages were hauled in so the smoking barrels could be sponged and reloaded.
At a range of less than five hundred yards, the effect of Dante's double-shotted culverins firing a broadside was devastating. A lethal barrage of fifteen pound iron balls connected with chain tore through whole sections of rail and decking, scything through flesh and timber in a blur. The ten demi-culverins on the lower gundeck had been loaded with canister shot, thin-shelled iron balls filled with razor sharp scraps of tin and nails that exploded on contact. Men and parts of men were pulverized into a red mist. Rigging collapsed and yards were smashed to kindling.
Having thus announced their arrival on the scene, Dante's crew roared and the men in the tops started firing their muskets and bows. The gunners let loose four more debilitating broadsides before a single Spanish gun could muster an answer.
The capitán of the damaged galleon must have recognized the crimson and black pennon flying on the Tribute's mast, for he piled on as much sail as the jury-rigged mast would carry and fled behind the shield of the island, leaving his fellow capitán to stagger and roll under the assault alone.
Seeing this, Grundy leaped onto the rail and shook his fist at the fleeing ship. "Captained by a spavined spineless bastard! Run! Run like the cockless bitch-dog who mothered ye!"
A ball screamed across the quarterdeck, the first of only three the Spanish were able to fire with any success. The ball missed Grundy, but smashed through the rail beneath him, sending him cartwheeling across the deck in a hail of wood splinters.
The Tribute's superior speed brought her within two hundred yards of the Spaniard, then one hundred. At fifty yards the order went out for men to stand ready with grappling hooks.
Close on, side by side, the Tribute continued to belch fire, shot, and clouds of sulphurous smoke. Within a dozen yards the grappling irons sailed across the gap connecting with thuds and clanks as they gripped the Spaniard's bulwarks. Desperate axmen turned their efforts to chopping at the ropes, but there were too many and within minutes men from the Tribute were swarming over the rails and swinging across from the yardarms.
The devastation on board the galleon was such that most of the surviving crew threw down their weapons and surrendered without pause. The captain, a greasy little man with one ear shot away, was found in his cabin and dragged topside where he was forced to his knees in front of Jonas Dante.
He immediately started babbling, spitting invectives in his own language, alternately cursing Dante, then the captain of the ship that had fled, then screaming at his crew for being weakling cowards and giving up without a fight.
Dante let him rant until his chin was wet with strings of spittle. He snapped his fingers and was given a square of white linen, which he balled up and shoved into the captain's mouth. He then took one of his pistols out of its leather sling and touched the metal snout to the Spaniard's forehead.
"Even a dog like you knows the meaning of a white flag," he said in perfect Castilian. He pulled the trigger, releasing the flint to strike the pan and fire.
Chapter Fifteen
When the fighting began, the noise in the surgery was horrendous, as were the violent recoils that shuddered through the timbers, sending the saws and pincers bouncing off the wooden shelves. The sulphurous stench of gunpowder and smoke seeped down the hatches and drifted along the companionways, causing eyes to water and throats to burn. The broadsides were fired with such efficiency, the volleys ran one into the other, creating continuous, deafening reverberations.
Molly crouched on the floor, her eyes as round as an owl's. Bella had tried pacing, but the violent motion of the ship sent her back into a corner, her hands braced flat against the wood, her body shuddering with each thunderous explosion. Unlike the drills, which they endured in the relative comfort of a cabin that was above the waterline, this dank, dark box two levels below the big guns was something out of hell. Visions of being trapped, of having the hull smashed and water pouring through were so realistic that when the door burst open, both women screamed.
It was one of the crew, his hand clutched around his upper arm. Blood was oozing through his fingers, soaking the sleeve and front of his shirt.
"Aye, he be topside with the men. Sent me 'ere. Said as 'ow 'tween the two o' ye, ye could figure out how to tie up me arm so's I don't bleed all over the deck."
Bella and Molly exchanged a glance, then Bella nodded and wiped her hands on her breeches. "I'm certain we can manage that, yes."
She bade him sit on the stained table while Molly fetched a basin of water and a ball of linen strips. The strips were none too clean, but then neither was the crewman, who was dusted head to toe with black soot. The cut on his arm was not deep and Bella washed it as best she could then wrapped the wound several times around to staunch the bleeding. When she was finished, he ran off again, eager to rejoin the fray.
Three more men arrived sweaty and out of breath, one with a crushed toe, one with a burnt hand, and one with a splinter of wood embedded in his shoulder. Molly was happy to be doing something to take her mind off the guns and explosions; she made use of a pair of pincers to remove the splinter while Bella wrapped the burned hand and debated what to do with the crushed toes.
"How is the battle going?" Bella asked one of them.
"Bastards never knew what hit 'em. Capt'n's poundin' the shite out o' them."
And just like that, the guns stopped.
Suddenly.
Completely.
Absolutely.
They just stopped. The terrifying vibrations ceased and both girls stared up at the ceiling, watching flurries of dust motes swirling in the lamplight.
The shattering volume of noise was replaced by a numbness in the ears that distorted normal sounds, making it seem as though voices were coming through a long tunnel. Bella looked at Molly and saw her lips moving, but there was no substance to her words. She remembered something Young Pitt had said and cupped the palms of her hands over her ears, pumping them like bellows until the pressure eased.
The Far Horizon Page 15