The Angel's Command (6 page)

4

BEN HAD NEVER BEEN ABOARD A SHIP at sea that had been fired on. The first thing he heard was a distant boom. Both he and Ned looked up to the sky, the dog sending him a puzzled thought. “That sounds like thunder, but there's hardly a cloud anywhere in the sky.”

Anaconda's deep voice rang out. “All hands down, we bein' fired on, Cap'n!”

Thuron was opening his telescope as he hurried to the stern rail when there was a tremendous splash in the water about fifty yards astern. The Frenchman sighted his glass, shouting orders as he did so. “British privateer sailing out of Santa Marta's east coast! Carrying enough cannon for a man-o'-war, curse him! Pierre, tighten the braces and run out staysails port and starboard! He hasn't got our range yet. We'll need every stitch of canvas if the
Marie
's to outrun him!”

A second cannon boom exploded. This time Ben heard the iron ball cleave the air with a whistling noise. Both he and Ned were drenched with spray as the shot hit the waves, less than twenty yards from the stern.

Then the chase was on. A good stiff breeze took up any slack in the sails of
La Petite Marie
as she shot off like a startled deer. A small, agile crewman named Gascon climbed to the stern lookout point with the captain's spy-glass rammed into his belt. Ben and Ned stood anxiously at Thuron's side, staring up at Gascon as he sighted the glass on their attacker and yelled down. “They're comin' on fast, Cap'n, 'tis a twenty-two gunner, with four culverins in the bows. I can just see the crew standing to with muskets!”

Despite the peril of their predicament, Thuron smiled grimly. “Hah! Typical privateer, overgunned and over-manned. Our
Marie
sports only half their number of cannon, and we cut off our fenders yesterday. We'll outsail the fat-bottomed Englander. He won't get any king's bounty out of Raphael Thuron, you can bet your boots on that, boy!”

Ned shot Ben a hasty observation. “Well, at least our cap'n isn't short of confidence. I like his style!”

Ben wiped salt spray from his eyes and addressed the captain. “I think we'll have to sail a lot faster than the privateer to stay out of gun range, sir.”

Thuron threw an arm around the boy's shoulders. “Aye, lad, but our
Marie
's a fast little lady, and I've got my lucky Ben and Ned with me. Don't worry, as long as we can keep those cannonballs from shooting our rudder away and any chain shot from ripping off our masts, all he'll hit is our wake. I've outrun privateers before. Get down!”

Ben, Thuron and the dog flung themselves flat to the deck. There was a harsh, whirring noise and a resounding crack. The captain lifted his head at the same time as Ben. Thuron nodded toward the stern rail. Hanging wrapped around the ornate gallery rail, the wood of which was splintered and split, was a chain attached to a cannonball about the size of a man's fist.

The Frenchman whistled soundlessly. “That was close. Here, lad, come and take a look at some chain shot!”

Keeping low, they crawled to the rail. Thuron reached up and unwound the object, hauling it aboard. It was like a bolas—three lengths of chain joined at the centre to form a letter Y, with a small iron ball attached to the end of each chain.

The captain weighed it in his big round hands. “British Royal Navy issue. Poor buccaneers like me cannot afford such murderous, expensive toys. Look, here comes another! Stay on your feet, boy, it won't hit us. We're stretching our lead on the sluggard!” Ben heard the deadly whirr and saw the second chain shot plow harmlessly into the sea two ship lengths behind them.

 
Captain Redjack finally appeared on deck after breakfasting and having his dresser's attention. He flipped a lace kerchief from his red velvet sleeve and flicked a spot of black powder from his oyster-silk knee breeches. Turning to the master gunner, whose name had slipped his mind, he held out a well-manicured hand and spoke. “Confound ye, man. Don't stand there gogglin', make y'report!”

Captain Redjack focussed the telescope, which the gunner handed him, on his quarry, studying the vessel as the gunner reported. “She's a French buccaneer alright, Cap'n, sir. I tested 'er speed with a couple o' cannon shots. She's fast. Though I managed to wrap a chain shot round 'er stern galley, sir.”

Redjack took the glass from his eye and tapped it in his palm. “Faith, did ye now? Cowardly froggy, look at him, runnin' like a spring hare. Mistah, er, steersman, I want ye to take us right within the gun range of yon fellow. Can y'do that, eh?”

The steersman, a lanky, gloom-faced man, tugged his forelock. “She's 'igher out the water than us, sir. By 'er lines I'd say the Frenchie was built fer speed. But I'll do me best, Cap'n.”

The privateer captain stared down his nose at the steersman. “Don't do y'best, sirrah. Do a lot better'n that, eh?

Three golden guineas for the man who sets first foot on the pirates' deck. Three stripes from a rope's end for all hands if we lose the villain. Demme, but if that isn't a fair offer, eh?”

The crew knew Redjack to be a man of his word. A hard-faced mate began bellowing orders. “Pile on extra spritsails an' bowsails, take cutlasses an' loose those fenders. Jump to it, ye layabouts!”

Redjack smiled benevolently at the mate and held his arms wide to give him the benefit of his outfit: Oyster-silk breeches, white stockings and silver-buckled high shoes, his cuffs and throat frothing with cream silk lace beneath a freshly pressed and laundered red hunting jacket. “Odds-fish, that's the style, dress t'suit the occasion, I always say!”

 
Not daring to venture back up the mast again, Gascon crouched on the afterdeck viewing the
Devon Belle
through Thuron's telescope. “The Britisher's pilin' on canvas, y'can see he's pickin' up more speed right away, Cap'n!”

Thuron nodded. “Just keep us running with the wind on an even keel, Ludon. We'll lose him before we're halfway to Hispaniola and Puerto Rico.”

The steersman, Ludon, called back to his captain. “Can't keep 'er runnin' due east, wind's freshenin' to the south. We'll have to tack, Cap'n!”

Thuron gestured to Ned and Ben. “Watch me, I'll show you how to tack and skim.” Thuron took the wheel from Ludon and spun it expertly, explaining his tactics to Ben. “If we can't sail dead east, the next best thing is to tack. First into the wind, then away from it, so the ship heels over a touch and skims sideways. That way our
Marie
keeps up her speed. Sailing due east in a south wind would slow us down. Gascon, what's the privateer doing now?”

From behind the captain's back the lookout answered. “The Britisher's doin' the same as us, Cap'n, tackin' an' skimmin' like a pondfly.”

 
Beneath his foppish posturing, Captain Redjack Teal was no fool. At that moment, he was watching the French ship keenly. He, too, had ordered the
Devon Belle
into a tacking manoeuvre while alerting his gunnery master to attend the portside cannonry. Teal reckoned he had gained a small distance on the other vessel. He waited until the moment was right, ready to take a gamble. The opportunity presented itself suddenly when he saw that the two vessels, whilst tacking, were broadside on to each other. Standing alongside his master gunner, the privateer captain rapped out swift orders: “Right, sharpish now, give her a full broadside, quick as y'like man. Now!”

Ten cannon rocked back on their carriages as they went off with one frightening explosion!

 
All hands aboard the
Marie
threw themselves flat as they heard the roar of approaching cannonballs. Ben gasped as Ned hurled himself on his master's back, protecting him. Next moment there was horrendous crashing, smoke, flames and the sound of screaming men.

Thuron was on his feet instantly, shouting, “Run south, run south with the wind. Leave off tacking!” He hauled the dog off Ben. “Are you alright, boy?”

With the noise still ringing in his ears, Ben jumped up. “I'm fine, Cap'n, see to your ship!”

Ben and Ned were hard on the Frenchman's heels as he hastened about, checking the damage. Luckily no masts had been chopped down by the cannonade, the rudder was intact and the
Marie
had not been holed. But the entire galley had been blown to pieces, clear off the deck. Pierre, ashen-faced, staggered up clutching a wounded arm. “Three crew dead, Cap'n. Galley an' everythin' in it, cook included, all gone. 'Tween decks is burnin', though not badly.”

Thuron ripped a swathe of lining from his frock coat and bandaged Pierre's arm as he issued orders. “Get those flames put out! Check all the rigging! Ludon, keep her hard south. Take us out of range!”

Ben saw the captain's brow crease and his eyes narrow. “Can we still outrun them, sir?”

Thuron stroked his beard and stared back at the
Devon Belle.
“Aye, at a pinch, lad, at a pinch. But I've thought of a better way than running from the enemy. I'm going to stop him chasing us. Anaconda, remember Puerto Cortes?”

The giant's face lit up in a huge grin. “Aye, Cap'n, that's where we captured little Gerda from that Hollander. Shall I have her brought aft?”

The Frenchman drew his cutlass. “Rig a block and tackle!”

Ned sent a puzzled thought to Ben. “Gerda can't be that little, not if they need a block and tackle to raise her. Ask him who little Gerda is, Ben.”

The boy asked, and Ned was all ears as Thuron explained. “Little Gerda is a strange gun we captured from a Hollander merchant ship bound for a garrison at the tip of Yucatan. It has a long barrel, not wide enough to fit a full cannonball but built to fire further than a cannon. You'll see.”

Little Gerda was indeed a strange weapon. Ben helped to swing it onto the stern deck and set it up on a pivot, which was intended for the bow culverin.

The captain stroked its long barrel approvingly. “I knew this would prove useful one day. See the barrel? It is meant for long-range firing. Gerda's magazine will take twice the normal amount of gunpowder—her barrel has seven layers of thick copper wire bound onto it, so it won't split under pressure. The vent is too small for a proper cannonball, so can you guess what I'm going to use, Ben?”

The boy caught on instantly. He picked up the chain shot that Thuron had left lying by the cracked rail. “This would fit into little Gerda's mouth, I think.”

The Frenchman winked broadly at him. “Right, my lucky Ben! Let's give the Britisher his chain shot back as a returned compliment. Anaconda, Gascon, set the gun up. We'll get it ready while we're still on the run!”

Ned and Ben scampered below on the captain's orders, where they collected any old soft lengths of cloth to act as wadding and some palm oil to soak it in. On the way back they took the rammer from the for'ard culverin to tamp little Gerda's shot down tight.

Between them, Thuron and Anaconda were raising the gun's trajectory and sighting it right.

 
A crewman aboard the
Devon Belle
stood dutifully by with tray, decanter and goblet. Captain Redjack Teal took his morning measure of Madeira wine, asking a seaman who was relaying observations from another stationed in the crow's nest, “You fellow, what's the froggy doin' now, eh?”

The seaman shouted up to the lookout. “Cap'n wants to know what the French vessel's doin'!”

The lookout yelled back down. “Runnin' due south with the wind, clearin' up the mess we made o' their midship decks!”

The seaman reported back to Teal, who had already heard the lookout's reply. “She's runnin' due south, sir, makin' runnin' repairs as she goes.”

Sipping Madeira, Teal dabbed his lips and smiled. “Stap me, that's a good un, eh? Makin' runnin' repairs whilst runnin' away. Very droll indeed!”

The lookout called down again. “I think they're riggin' a cannon up at the stern, can't make it out properly though, sir!”

The seaman turned to his captain. “He says, he thinks . . .”

Redjack dismissed him with a haughty glance. “Go away, sirrah, y'sound like an echo in a cave. I heard him.

Gunner, get up an' see what that oaf's blitherin' about, will you?”

The master gunner climbed obediently up the mast into the crow's nest with the lookout. Shading his eyes, he peered at the
Marie.

Teal called up testily. “Give him the demned glass!”

The gunner took a sighting through the telescope lens. “Looks like a long-nosed culverin, sir. We're well outta range. 'Twon't shoot half this distance, Cap'n, sir!”

Teal held out his goblet for more wine. “Well, let the silly Frenchies amuse themselves by tryin', eh? Haw haw haw!”