The Shadow Lamp

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  “Would you mind if I speak to my men? It might help for me to explain the situation to them.”

  “Seein’ as how your fellas might need a little encouragement, I see no harm,” allowed the captain. “Go ahead as you deem fit.”

  Having received the captain’s blessing, Burleigh gathered his four ruffians from their various chores and took them to the gun room below. “We will not waste time moaning,” he began. “There are privateers and pirates in these waters, and it appears that we have drawn the attention of some of them.” He paused a moment to allow this to sink in. “Captain Farrell is making all speed for the nearest port, but the enemy will try to catch us before we come in range of the harbour cannon. If they succeed—as seems likely—there will be a fight and each of you will be required to do his part.”

  The men shifted in place and looked at one another. Only Tav spoke up. “What do you want us to do, boss?”

  “I expect you to do whatever you’re told,” Burleigh answered. “Farrell’s men are experienced and know the ropes. You are to obey them instantly and without question. Is that understood?”

  All four nodded their heads as one.

  “If we are taken, we will defend ourselves by any means possible—pistols, knives, swords, bare hands, and teeth if need be.”

  “Count on it, boss,” said Mal. “I likes a good fight, me.”

  “You will be given weapons, and I expect each one of you to sell your lives dearly should it come to that.”

  “Aye, boss, we’re with you there,” said Tav, his voice taking on a savage note. “Come near us and we’ll tear ’em limb from bloody limb.” He turned to the other three. “Right, fellas?”

  “Right-o!” they answered in ragged chorus.

  “Don’t you worry ’bout us, boss. We’ll see ’em off or die tryin’.”

  “I expect no less,” Burleigh concluded. “Acquit yourselves well and there will be something extra in it for you when we reach port.”

  Dismissing his men to their assigned stations, Burleigh returned to the quarterdeck to assess the state of affairs. The schooner was very much closer now and swiftly closing the distance. “They mean to overtake us,” observed Burleigh as he stepped into the wheelhouse.

  “Aye, so I expect,” affirmed the captain. “They’ve had ample opportunity to slide off, but have not. They’re on a course to intercept.”

  “We’ll show them we’re not for the taking,” said Burleigh. “My men are spoiling for a fight.”

  “Let us not be o’er hasty, sir,” Farrell cautioned. “I will run up a signal and see if we raise a reply—that’s only fair. It may be they are making for port on our wake.” With that, he summoned the first mate and instructed him to send aloft a signal requesting the stranger ship to identify itself and declare her captain’s intentions. The seaman made a knuckle and hurried off to obey the captain’s command. “Now we’ll see where we stand,” Farrell said.

  Burleigh went to the stern and a few moments later heard a rippling sound behind him; he turned as the string of varicoloured pennant flags was hoisted aloft. They flew there in plain sight, and Burleigh turned to await a response from the schooner. “How long before they reply?” he called back to the crewman.

  “Not long, my lord,” answered the sailor, “if they know their business at all.”

  Burleigh observed the approaching ship and, indeed, within a minute or two, a flutter of colour appeared at the schooner’s foremast. It was too far away to make out clearly, but the first mate came to the rail with his glass and took a reading.

  “They say they are heading for port and will pass astern,” he said slowly. He lowered the small brass telescope and handed it to Burleigh, who pressed it to his eye. He saw four small flags of different colours in a vertical row. The arrangement meant nothing to him.

  “You do not sound convinced, Mr. Garland,” Burleigh said, lowering the glass.

  “No, my lord, I am not convinced.” The mate pointed a finger at the schooner. “I asked her to identify and she declined to run up the ensign. As for the rest, anyone can see she means to pass astern. That is not what I asked.”

  “You think them up to no good.”

  “Aye, I fear so, my lord.” The first mate spat over the rail. “Not to put too fine a point on it, I think them rogues and rascals, and I think they mean to take us.”

  “Then you best go inform the captain,” said Burleigh.

  “He already knows, sir.”

  CHAPTER 21

  In Which an Unknown Mettle Is Tested

  Do you trust me to see us through the thick?” demanded Captain Farrell. “Tell me aye or nay, for I will brook no second-guessing my commands once we engage.”

  “Aye, Captain,” answered the first mate, and his ready answer was repeated by the rest of the crewmen arrayed behind him.

  Farrell turned to the others looking on nervously. “Well? What say you, greengills?”

  Tav spoke for all of them. “We’re with you, guv’nor—Captain. No two ways about it.”

  “Then get you below to the gun room,” Farrell commanded. To his own crew, he said, “To your stations, lads. And be ready for a fade and feint.”

  The men scattered, leaving Burleigh and the captain together at the rail. The schooner was almost within hailing distance. Burleigh raised the glass and swept the deck of the overtaking ship.

  “They seem to be going about their business—just a few men on deck. I count eight gun ports, but no cannon in sight.”

  “Won’t be cannon seen,” Farrell told him. “Not yet. Their captain’ll wait until the last moment to spring his trap. Once he’s come up alongside we’ll learn his intent. But I’ve got a surprise of my own.”

  “The fade and feint?” guessed Burleigh. “What is that?”

  “As soon as they alter course to come onto us, I will douse the mainsail and throw the helm over hard—this will make our girl swing her stern and slack her sails. That’s the fade.”

  “And the feint?”

  “To an experienced seaman, it will look as if we were tryin’ to make a break to open sea and misjudged the turn. They won’t be able to match us—carryin’ that speed—and will have a devil of a time to come about in short order.”

  “But won’t we be a sitting duck?” wondered Burleigh.

  “Aye, we will. But they’ll have to come around if they want to broadside us or board us, and when they do . . .” Farrell gave a sly smile. “We open the gunports and let fly. At that close range we won’t miss.”

  “What if they fire first?”

  “Well, sir, it will be a test o’ our mettle, no mistake,” granted the captain. “But there’s chance in every battle, aye? And we’ll be countin’ on the privateer’s natural greed to see us through the worst.”

  “They want to keep the ship and cargo undamaged,” mused Burleigh as the meaning came to him.

  “Aye, what looks an easy prize is granted too great a license—I’ve seen such before.”

  “Do it, Mr. Farrell.” He stuck out his hand and shook with the captain. “Good luck. Unless you have other duties for me, I’ll go below and make ready the swords and pistols.”

  He had just started for the aft companionway when a blast echoed across the water. Burleigh looked up just in time to see a spray of water arch up a hundred metres or so before the bow. He raced back to the wheelhouse. “They fired on us!” he exclaimed. “It has started.”

  “Oh, it started some while back,” observed Farrell philosophically. “They put a shot across our bow just now to advertise their business, nothing more. They hope that honest merchantmen like ourselves will consider our wives and families and surrender without bloodshed.”

  “Does such a ploy often work?”

  “Often enough to make it worth tryin’ of a time.” The captain stepped from the helm to observe the schooner bearing ever closer on a course that would soon bring the two ships alongside one another. “It will not work this day, says I. It will not work with Ba
rtholomew Farrell.”

  Cupping his hands to his mouth, he turned to shout an order to the sailors standing ready at the rigging. “Prepare to luff the mainsail!” he shouted. To Burleigh, he said, “Best get you below, sir, and stand ready to release the weapons.” As the earl hurried away, he added, “Mind, tell Garland to open the gunports on my signal. Not a blink before!”

  Belowdecks the men had heard the report of the enemy gun and were concerned. Burleigh explained what the captain had told him about their battle strategy. “Each of you get to your cannon and be ready for the signal.”

  Burleigh’s men moved to their stations where, surrounded by small pyramids of cannon balls and stacks of powder cartridges, they picked up ramrods and waited for the seasoned crewmen to arrive. Burleigh positioned himself in the centre of the gun room near the bottom step of the companionway where he might more easily hear the captain’s signal and, if necessary, dash up to the quarterdeck.

  The momentary calm was abruptly shattered by another report of cannon fire. This time the men in the gun room heard the splash that followed. “Steady,” intoned Burleigh. “They mean to frighten us into submission.”

  The words were scarcely out of his mouth when the cry echoed: “Luff the mainsail!”

  At almost the same instant, the ship gave out a groan, and a shudder passed through the stout hull as Farrell spun the wheel hard. For a moment the Percheron seemed to rise in the water, then the floor beneath their feet tilted sharply—two ways at once: port to starboard and back to front. In the gun room, they heard water surge along the hull with the sound of a flood in full spate . . . followed quickly by footsteps pounding over the deck above and then down the companionway.

  “Come on, you clew-footed rascals!” shouted the first mate, urging sailors to the guns. “Prime your cannon!”

  The seamen leapt to the guns. Each gunner deftly shoved in a powder cartridge, rammed it home, and then, fed by Burleigh’s men, rolled in a ball.

  “Ready, Mr. Garland!” they shouted one by one as the four big guns were positioned in their cradles.

  “You lot!” barked the first mate. “Put your hands to the port ropes and be ready to give an almighty heave.”

  Burleigh’s gang did as they were told and stood gripping the braided cord that hung beside the covered porthole. The deck still tilted this way and that, but less dramatically as the ship settled and began to drift. All was quiet from above—so quiet they could hear seagulls keening as they wheeled in the air over the stern.

  Then, in amongst the shriek of the gulls, there came another cry—that of a man’s voice hailing them.

  “What’s he sayin’, Mr. Garland?” asked one of the sailors.

  “Don’t speak French, do I?” snapped the first mate.

  “He is ordering the captain to surrender,” replied Burleigh from his place at the foot of the stairs.

  “’Twon’t be long now, lads,” said the first mate. “Listen here—first shot will be blind, but we’ll likely get in another before they know what hit ’em. Might not get more than that, so make it count.”

  There was another shout in French and an answering reply from Captain Farrell. This was followed a moment later by a dull, thudding clunk directly above their heads.

  “Easy, boys,” said Mr. Garland. “That’ll be the grapple. They ent going to fire on us and risk damage to the ship and cargo. The Frenchies be getting ready to reel in the prize.”

  The Percheron gave another shudder and the deck tilted slightly to port.

  “Ready . . .” Garland said, his voice low. “Wait for my count.”

  There followed an agonising wait . . . and silence . . .

  A voice, low but firm, and speaking directly over the companionway shaft, called down to them. “On count of three, raise open ports and let fly!”

  “There’s the captain,” said the first mate. “Ready at the ropes! On three count! One . . . two . . . PULL!”

  All heaved at once, and the port covers flipped up and Burleigh glimpsed a banded expanse of black-and-white hull. The gunners, without pausing to shove the cannon forward into the port, simply pulled the firing chain, and there erupted a staccato burst of fire and smoke as the guns roared to life. Instantly the air filled with the corrosive stench of burning brimstone. The resulting concussion of sound hammered Burleigh’s chest with the wallop of a horse’s kick, rocking him back on his heels.

  Into the silence that followed, he heard the screams and moans of wounded men.

  Gasping, his ears ringing, the earl darted for the nearest gunport, fanning his way through the smoke. Pressing his face to the portal, he looked out to see that great gaping holes had appeared in the schooner’s smooth flank. Smoke and fire belched from these ragged holes. Farrell’s feint had succeeded in gouging a huge rent in the enemy ship’s hull, taking out six of the eight cannon on the schooner’s starboard side.

  “Reload and fire at will!” shouted the first mate. “Let the salt rats have it!”

  Before the guns could be reloaded, however, the schooner’s two remaining cannon fired one after the other. The first ball struck the stern at an angle and sent a shudder through the ship. The second explosion punched a hole through the hull. The iron missile burst through in a blizzard of splinters—shards of oak, needle sharp, blasted through the air on a gust of smoke and fire.

  “Destroy that gun!” screamed Garland. “Destroy it now!”

  Dazed, deafened, Burleigh shook fine slivers of wood from his coat. His hand brushed his upper thigh and he felt a twinge, looked down, and saw a piece of oak the size of a dagger sticking out of his leg. Without thinking, he pulled it and instantly wished he had not been so hasty. Pain flashed through him with an intensity that stole his breath away. He staggered back and collapsed on the lower step of the companionway, suddenly light-headed and dizzy.

  Across the room, everyone seemed to move with slow, lethargic nonchalance, as men in a dream, in timeless languid deliberation. He saw the sailor at the gun nearest the blast hole push the cannon carriage around and his man, Dex, shove in a cartridge and ram it home while the gunner pulled a lever to raise the elevation of the big gun’s barrel. Dex pushed in a ball and the gunner pulled hard on the firing chain. The cannon lifted in its cradle as the explosion spewed fire. Smoke drifted from the barrel in backwards-curling billows. The resulting impact of the hurled iron piercing the wooden skin of the enemy ship resounded like a clap of thunder. And with that sound, Burleigh’s normal sensation resumed.

  Pain shot through him in throbbing waves and black spots danced before his eyes. His ears hurt and his head ached from the crown of his skull to his back teeth, and he realised he was clenching his jaw.

  First Mate Garland dashed to the nearest gun port; he thrust in his head and assessed the damage inflicted on the enemy by the last shot. “Good work, lads!” he shouted. “That’s slowed the buggers down.”

  Laying hands on the crewman nearest him, he pulled him away from the gun. “Thoms!” he cried. “You and Henderson get up top and mount the deck guns! Fire at will. The rest of you—follow me!”

  Thoms and Henderson ran for the companionway and found it blocked by Burleigh sprawled on the steps holding his head. “Mr. Garland!” cried Thoms. “Sir is down!”

  Garland hastened to the earl’s aid. “Where are you hurt, sir?”

  “My leg,” growled Burleigh through his teeth. Blood spilled out from between his fingers where he gripped the wound.

  The first mate bent to inspect the injury, then stood. To Thoms and Henderson, he said, “Get you up top and commence firing! Fly!” Bending once more to Burleigh he said, “Right, sir. We’ll get you to your cabin. Dex, Mal—help his lordship—”

  “The devil you will,” growled Burleigh. “Lift me up.” They raised him to his feet; he steadied himself and shouted, “Don’t stand here gawking. Get to the weapons store and break out the pistols and blades. Then meet me on deck.”

  The men raced off and Burleigh struggled up the
stairs to the quarterdeck, regaining strength and vigour with every step. The pain, though great, was bearable, and he limped onto the deck to find it awash in a fog of smoke. The schooner had attached itself to the Percheron with two grappling hooks—one below the bow and the other amidships—and enemy sailors were pulling on the cables to draw the two vessels closer together so that the prize could be boarded. Burleigh started for the bow, where crewman Thoms was priming a sixteen-pounder mounted on a swivel.

  “There!” shouted Burleigh, tottering towards him. “Aim for the rail!”

  “Aye, sir!” replied Thoms, ramming home the charge. Pulling the gun around, he lined up the shot and let fly. Fire and smoke issued from the slim mouth of the swivel-mounted gun, and the schooner’s rail near the bow hook exploded in a hail of splinters. The enemy sailors dropped from sight and the ball careered on, smashing into a hatch housing in the centre of the deck.

  “Keep firing!” shouted Burleigh. “Don’t let up!”

  “Your lordship!” called Garland. “Here!”

  The earl turned as the first mate came running, a pair of pistols in one hand and two cutlasses in the other.

  “I suggest you defend the gun, sir,” said Garland, shoving a pistol into Burleigh’s hand.

  A desperate cry went up from the stern and Garland raced off.

  “Right,” muttered Burleigh, cocking the pistol. “Show your scabby faces, rogues. Let’s make buzzard food.”

  A report resounded from the stern. Burleigh glanced back along the rail and saw the stern gun enveloped in smoke and a chunk of the schooner’s railing pinwheeling through the air. Like his mate at the bow gun, Henderson was aiming for the sailors hauling on the grappling hook amidships.

  As the smoke cleared, Captain Farrell appeared with a cutlass in hand, chopping at the hawser that secured the grappling hook. A hail of pistol fire spattered around him—one shot biting out a chunk of the rail near his hand. Burleigh scanned the schooner’s rigging and saw three pirates clinging to the mast lines; two of them were reloading and the third was taking aim at Farrell.