Devil's Prize

by Samuel Edwards

"I don't know." Ethan bit his lower lip and tried to shut out every thought but the immediate, urgent problem. "Our gunners are out of practice, and it will be a miracle if they can sink enough balls into that frigate to disable her. Besides, her captain has shown in his attacks on Long Island that he's crafty. What would you do if you were in command of that ship?"

  "I—I don't know, sir."

  "I'll tell you what I'd do." Ethan did not take his eyes from the freebooter. "I'd try to knock the Battery out of commission. These guns are a menace to a buccaneer, and could incapacitate her when she's moving either in or out So I'd try to silence the Battery."

  The junior officer shook his head. "Wouldn't it be simpler just to slip past in the dark—and trust to luck?"

  "Ordinarily, maybe. But the freebooter captain is in for a surprise. There are five little fishing skiffs darting around out there in the harbor. They've all been equipped with flares, which they'll send up when they find her in the dark, and that will be a signal to the Battery. The boats are small enough to dart away before the frigate can train her guns on them."

  "But—"

  "When she's discovered, she'll move in for a fight, Abijah. She has no choice. I hope you've noted that the wind is from the west, which means she can anchor out there in the harbor and send some broadsides ashore. Suppose I were her captain. I wouldn't want a duel, but I'd have no alternative, once the flares revealed my position."

  "But, sir—you've already said that our gunners are out of practice. What will happen when the freebooter finds that the Battery's guns are making a lot of noise but not doing any damage?"

  "Ah, there's the question." Ethan smiled grimly. "You see, Abijah, if I were out there it would take time for me to learn that the Battery is comparatively harmless."

  "Then—"

  "I'd have to anchor out there, at least long enough to exchange a few rounds with the Battery. I wouldn't know how much damage could be done to me, and I wouldn't know the range of the Battery's cannon. So I'd test the land defenses with ten broadsides. Maybe a round dozen, I'd discover they have a handful of puny six-pounders and only three nine-pounders capable of inflicting any real damage on me. I'd soon find out they weren't going to sink me.

  "Damnation, Captain, there's always a chance—"

  "I don't believe in fighting a battle by chance. There's too much at stake. Why have the buccaneers chosen this particular night for their attack? Look up at the sky, Abijah. See those clouds from the west? It's going to be dark, so dark that the freebooter can slip past us in another hour. She'll send her crew ashore somewhere along the Hudson, and they'll be back on board and safely on their way out again before we can touch them."

  "It's insane of the Colonel to expect you to defend the town with eighty men. Captain," Davis said loyally. "We can't be everywhere at once, sir."

  "So we can't. And that means we've got to put the frigate out of action before she can hurt us." Ethan frowned, shook his head and slid his sword in and out of its scabbard.

  "Davis," he said, taking a deep breath, "assemble the crews of the six-pounders on the parade ground. And round up every other man who's on service or supply duty, too. Officers and non-commissioned officers will bring their sidearms, and enlisted personnel will carry their rifles. I want four bags of gunpowder—they're more important than anything else."

  The Ensign could not believe he had heard correctly. "You want them to desert their cannon, Captain?"

  "I've given you an order, Davis. You'll carry it out."

  As the perplexed young officer started toward the door Ethan turned to his corporal. "Fuller, tell Lieutenant Waterford to meet me on the parade ground at once. And give these instructions to his next in command: the nine-pounders are to hold their fire until the flares reveal that the freebooter has reached the tip of Governors Island. Then they're to open up!"

  The die was cast now, and Ethan felt exhilarated— the indecision and fear he had felt before was gone. He jammed his pistol into his belt, dropped a leather bag of bullets into his pocket and started for the door. Then he turned back and took a bone-handled Seneca knife from his desk. That momento of a previous triumph might bring him luck now; it might even save his life.

  He ran down the stairs to the parade ground and prayed that in the hours to come his life would be spared. He wanted to return to Prudence so he could convince her that the ideals represented by his uniform were second only to his love for her.

  Two

  FIFTY-SIX MEN responded to the parade-ground muster, and after a quick inspection to make sure they were armed, Ethan issued a series of rapid instructions to Lieutenant Greer, his second-in-command, who led the men out of the battery through the main gate. Lieutenant Waterford, a lugubrious militia officer in charge of the nine-pounder guns, arrived at the scene just in time to see the last of the column making its exit. He looked at Ethan in utter consternation.

  "Has a retreat begun already. Captain?" he asked, his voice thick with anxiety.

  Ethan grinned at him. "Waterford, I've been waiting for you. A great deal will depend on you tonight."

  "You're leaving me to fight a delaying action," the Lieutenant said gloomily.

  "No, you're acting commander of the Battery. Now listen to me carefully. Victory or defeat will depend on how well you co-ordinate your activities with mine. When the buccaneer passes Governors Island, open fire on her with all three of your guns. Disable her if you can, sink her if you must. But above all, make your test shots low. Aim for her hull-and avoid her decks at all costs. Do I make myself clear?"

  "Yes, sir. I'm to concentrate my fire on her hull, not her decks. Does that apply when she heaves to and presents me with one whole side of her hull as a target?"

  "It applies until you receive my signal. Davis," he demanded, turning to the ensign who hovered behind him, "did you get the flares out of the armory?"

  "I did, Captain." The youthful officer held up two handfuls of conical gunpowder parcels, each of which was attached to its own fuse.

  "Good. When you see my flare, Waterford, cease fire completely. You'll know mine from those of the fishing skiffs, because mine have three times the power of the others."

  "I'll send you the signal from the freebooter," Ethan added quietly.

  "From the freebooter, Captain?"

  "We'll be either on her main deck—or in hell. Good luck, Waterford. I'm counting on you." Ethan shook the dumfounded lieutenant's hand. "Come along, Davis."

  With the ensign at his heels he walked swiftly out of the Battery compound and headed for the waterfront to his west, where the Hudson River emptied into the harbor. Commercial docks and anchorages crowded the shoreline here, and Ethan made straight for the wharves of van der Puylen and Company, a firm that specialized in overhauling and repairing merchant vessels. It was growing dark now, and Ethan increased his pace, finally breaking into a run. A variety of small craft were tied up at the van der Puylen piers, and near one small boat he made out the shapes of his waiting men.

  Lieutenant Greer immediately detached himself from the group. "I've got them. Captain," he called, cupping his hands. "I've commandeered two longboats."

  As Ethan approached he saw the bulky figure of a civilian standing beside the lieutenant. He recognized Hendrik van der Puylen, the eldest of the brothers who operated the concern. The heavy-set man was scowling, and when he stepped forward resolutely Ethan was sure that valuable minutes would be lost while the owner of the commandeered boats registered a protest. But van der Puylen suprised him. "You do not take my boats, Mijnheer Wade," he said in a deep voice. "I give them to you, if you take me with you." He brandished an old-fashioned cutlass of the type his ancestors had used to clear away underbrush when they had transformed the wilderness into New Amsterdam.

  "Agreed!" Ethan cried, clapping him on the shoulder. "You'll ride in the first boat with me. Men, gather round me." He paused for a moment while the militiamen crowded closer to him. "There's only time for me to say this once, so hear me carefu
lly. As you've probably gathered, we're going to board the freebooter. We'll approach her from her stern. If all goes as it should, our guns should be distracting her crew and giving us cover by pounding her."

  "Captain!" someone called. "Are you sure you brung the right fellers? If them cannoneers on the big guns ain't no better shots than we are, every mother's son of us is going to have a swim before supper I"

  Ethan waited until the laughter that greeted this sally died down. "If anyone wants to stay ashore," he said, "let him fall out now. I want only volunteers."

  Not one man moved.

  "Now, then. We're not going on board to fight. I'm sure we're badly outnumbered, and we're not out to make heroes of ourselves.

  "We're going to set fire to her. We'll carry two bags of gunpowder in each longboat. It's my hope that the freebooters will be so busy shooting at the Battery that we'll have a chance to start a few good, strong fires that will either sink her or drive her off. We won't stay on board any longer than we must, and we'll come ashore again as fast as we can clear off. Any questions so far?"

  Again there was silence.

  "All right, then. Set your fires on the main deck."

  "We'll roast 'em all on a barbycue. Captain!"

  "Remember," Ethan shouted above the laughter, "that surprise is our best weapon. Mr. Davis, distribute the flares to officers and sergeants. They're to be sent up as a cease-fire signal as soon as we have the situation under control. All right, men! Let's go!"

  There was a concerted rush for the longboats. So many of the militiamen tried to get into the lead boat that the officers had to struggle to prevent an outbreak of fist-fights. In a few moments both boats were filled, and Ethan, satisfied, leaped into the first longboat. "Shove off!" he directed.

  It was too dark now to make out the frigate across the bay, but the militiamen continued to row diligently, their enthusiasm compensating at least in part for their lack of skill. The breeze was freshening, and the water became increasingly choppy, which made the task of the oarsmen all the more difficult. The salt tang in the air was strong, and, as the night closed in, Ethan felt that he and his little band were isolated from the rest of the world. The second longboat was directly behind him, and as he watched it bobbing up and down he wondered anew whether he had exceeded his authority, whether he had the right to gamble the hves of so many others in this venture.

  Suddenly a flare from a fishing skiff shot up, revealing the frigate off Governors Island, and the peace of the night was broken by the ear-shattering roar of cannon from the Battery. A second shot followed in quick succession, then a third. Lieutenant Waterford was following orders.

  The pirate ship was quick to answer the challenge, and several of her guns spoke simultaneously. Both the frigate and the Battery were clearly outlined in the light of the steady gun-fire; whether either was being hit could not be determined, but Ethan noted that no shots were falling in the vicinity of his own little craft, and was grateful.

  The buccaneer's captain, aided by a strong head wind, swung the ship around, presenting his whole starboard side landward. As the frigate maneuvered she stopped firing, and then the men in the longboats heard a harsh, grating sound. Ethan's guess had been correct—the frigate was paying out her anchor. He immediately directed his crews to row in the direction of the clanking chain. Then the noise was no longer necessary as a guide, for the freebooter opened a concentrated barrage, making her almost constantly visible.

  She was a long ship, narrow and graceful, and rode lower in the water than larger men-of-war. A square-rigged vessel, her mainmast was located aft of the quarterdeck. There were auxiliary sails fore and aft, which aided her in achieving the speed lost by the thinness of her hull—ships of her category sacrificed speed for maneuverability wherever possible. She had been designed and built as a fighting ship, and her gunnery officers showed they knew their business; they timed each salvo to coincide with the rise and fall of their pitching vessel, firing when the frigate reached the crest of a wave.

  So far the plan was working out precisely as Ethan had hoped it would, and he was gripped by the excitement he always felt just before a battle. The longboats were closing the gap of open water that separated them from the foe, and in a few minutes they would be alongside her. There was the possibility, of course, that their approach would be discovered by an alert seaman—in that case they would be doomed, for they would present an easy target for freebooter marksmen armed with muskets, and would be as helpless as wounded deer if they were attacked. With each passing minute the chance of discovery increased, but Ethan tried not to let his mind dwell on the matter; it was senseless to worry about something that was beyond his control.

  At last the boat pulled alongside the broad stem of the frigate. Van der Puylen swung an iron grappling hook attached to a long line, then hurled it high into the air. It curled around the rail of the aft deck, and while he threw a second hook and then a third, Ethan strove to restrain his militiamen, who were anxious to swarm aboard. When the last iron was in place van der Puylen was the first to hoist himself up, with Ethan at his heels. Two soldiers shinnied up the other lines.

  In a few seconds they reached the deck. The scene that greeted their eyes might have been a portrait of hell. Seamen, black with gunpowder and glistening with sweat, were manning the starboard cannon, firing as fast as the ammunition lines passed balls and powder to them. All were naked to the waist, and in the eerie light of their gunfire they looked like demons. Ethan made a quick estimate of the crew's number and knew that the night's hazards had just begun; if half of the sailors were engaged in the artillery battle, a generous guess, his own force was outnumbered at least three to one.

  As his men came onto the frigate Ethan spread them out, leaving a sergeant and four others to keep guard over the precious lines. He peered down at the water and saw that the first longboat had been emptied and that the men of the second were now climbing aboard. Suddenly there was a loud, splintering crash, and the vessel shuddered. One of Lieutenant Waterford's nine-inchers had scored a direct hit just above the water line.

  The diversion could not have come at a better moment The militiamen, working feverishly under Ethan's direction, laid a trail of gunpowder along the broad stem of the deck and another on the port side, which seemed to be deserted. And as still more men came on board, Ethan sent them forward on the port side of the deck, directing them to place the gunpowder wherever it would create the most damage. Gradually he became aware of a harsh voice shouting commands in Spanish and French. Peering up at the little quarterdeck, he made out several shadowy figures, only one of which stood out clearly.

  At this moment a seaman, who had been injured by a chunk of flying wood and was limping aft, stopped short, turned back toward his companions and screamed.

  A militiaman's well-aimed knife snuffed out his life, but the crew had heard his warning.

  Ethan had organized those of his troops who were not laying powder trails into a V-shaped wedge, with himself in the center, to provide cover for their comrades, who had started setting fires. But van der Puylen, who was indifferent to military discipline, began to run toward the freebooters, cursing alternately in Dutch and English. There was no way to stop him, and a dozen or more of the cutthroats charged toward him, howling insults. The cannons were abandoned, and Ethan, seeing that at least half the men from the second longboat were already on board, turned to Lieutenant Greer.

  "Start as many fires as you can while I hold them off 1 And signal the Battery with your flares!"

  Not waiting for a reply, he took a fresh grip on his sword and moved forward with the men of the V-wedge. Some of Ethan's men broke from their formation to help van der Puylen, and within a few seconds there was utter chaos.

  As Ethan waded into the melee, he found himself confronted by a barrel-chested sailor who carried a spike in his right hand and a curved poniard in his left. They circled each other briefly, then the seaman suddenly hurled the spike. Ethan ducked his head, an
d the deadly weapon missed him. He straightened as the sailor leaped forward, dodged the vicious swing of the spike and impaled the man on his sword. He turned, sweating, from the falling body. The night seemed suddenly brighter, and a shower of red sparks fell to the deck, but it was a moment before Ethan realized that Lieutenant Greer had fired his signal flare.

  Ensign Davis appeared, a pair of cumbersome horse pistols in his hands. "We're all on board, Captain!" he shouted with the abandon of one who had been deprived of battle for a long time and was now slaking his thirst "We made it—smooth as Jersey butter!" He raced oflf, a Mohawk war cry on his lips.

  The fight seemed to be spreading to the port side, and Ethan, hurrying there, saw a score of fierce encounters in progress. In one comer two seaman were attacking someone hidden in the shadows, and Ethan ran to the aid of his subordinate. To his amazement the beleaguered man turned out to be Hendrik van der Puylen, who had somehow miraculously survived the initial assault. He stood now with his back against an open hatch cover, slashing furiously with his cutlass and still finding voice to taunt the buccaneers.

  One of his blows connected, and the shorter of the sailors gasped, tried to stop the flow of blood with his hands and slumped to the deck. In the instant that van der Puylen's attention was diverted, however, the other seaman leaped toward him and grappled with him. There was no time to lose. Ethan drew his Seneca knife from his belt and hurled it across the deck. It buried itself in the man's neck, and he toppled over backwards. Ethan hurried forward and retrieved his knife, then felt a hand on his shoulder.

  "We fight good together," van der Puylen exclaimed, his eyes glowing with the fever of combat. "Come."

  He started forward again, but Ethan put out a hand and stopped him; this was a moment when a leader needed to think rather than race madly about the frigate on the heels of a Dutchman who had developed a lust for battle. Fires were burning brightly in six or eight places now as the gunpowder flared up, and Ethan realized that the majority of the ship's cannon had fallen silent. The buccaneer crew had become badly disorganized, in spite of the attempts of the loud-voiced officer on the quarterdeck to restore some semblance of order. A short flight of steps not ten feet from where Ethan and van der Puylen stood led up to the quarterdeck. Looking up, they could see a gaudily dressed, black-bearded giant, a sword in his right hand, his left cupping his mouth as he bellowed commands.