Across a Moonlit Sea

by Marsha Canham

  “It means I will save you the trouble of having to scurry from one end of the ship to the other every time you see me on deck. Moreover, I apologize wholeheartedly now for distracting you from your work.” He offered an exaggerated bow. “I came to ask only if you might be interested in joining the rest of your crew below. Pitt was about to give them a lesson in firing the thirty pounders and your father suggested it might be of some interest to you as well. But since you are so busy with your paints…” He shrugged and started back toward the ladderway.

  Beau clamped her jaw tight against the urge to hurl the vilest epithet she could think of at his broad back. He knew damned well she was as interested as any other crewman on board, just as he knew she would have put aside her paints in a snap. But she did not stop him and he did not look back as he descended to the main deck and strode into the midst of the gathered men. The lure of the demi-cannon was a sore temptation to have to pit against her own pride, but she would stand before a smoking muzzle and let the shot blast straight through her heart before she would give the arrogant Captain Simon Dante, Comte de Tourville, the satisfaction of seeing her run after him like a beggar.

  He was arrogant. And far too sure of himself for her liking. Just the way he cocked his head and smiled with such self-serving belligerence proved he did not think anyone on board this ship to be his equal, or even worthy of his consideration. Most infuriating of all was the patronizing, amused manner with which he regarded her position on board the Egret. It made her fervently wish for a glimpse of sails on the horizon.

  And, whether it was because she wished for it so hard, or because the booming thunder of the huge guns had rolled to the edge of the horizon and attracted other searching eyes, it was less than an hour later that the watchman sounded an alert from his perch high in the tops.

  “Sails, Captain! Sails off the larboard bow!”

  Chapter 9

  “Well, she’s a Spaniard, no mistake,” Spence pronounced.

  “Six hundred tons or more, to judge by the size of her.” Dante stood on the deck beside Jonas Spence, his hand raised to shield his eyes against the glare of the sun. “I make out two tiers of guns, probably perriers and quarter cannon—impressive, but only if they get within decent range.”

  The swift excitement that had brought him to the rail had waned somewhat when it became clear the ship they had sighted on the westerly horizon, running parallel to them, was not the Talon. It was therefore with a more critical and practical eye that he continued, pointing disgustedly at the huge silhouette, dominated fore and aft by castellated superstructures. “They pile up six storeys worth of fancy cabins all gilt and mahogany, filled with furniture as fine as any king’s courtesan ever graced, and expect to draw more than eight knots from the wind. Even the balconies on the stern galleries are painted with gold and carved by the same men who fashion their cathedrals and churches.

  “At the same time, they have to keep them as deep and broad as possible in the belly to hold the several tons of cargo as well as the three or four hundred soldiers they ferry around. Another hundred or so sailors are needed to crew her and the same again to man the guns, for God forbid any among them should know how to do two jobs. The soldiers sit with their hands warming their cockles until the sailors bring them into grappling range. By then the gunners are spent and have to take their leisure while their fancy conquistadores wave swords and slash throats in the name of the Catholic Christ. Stupidity, if you ask me. Sheer mindless stupidity.”

  “Aye. We could circle her half a dozen times,” Spence snorted derisively, “before she could even line her guns on us.”

  “We have a fair wind behind us,” Dante mused, almost to himself. “How much speed do you think we could put into the sheets?”

  Spence turned to his left and frowned at Simon Dante. “Fifteen. Eighteen if we mount extra canvas on the tops an’ fores—an’ if the ship’s in the mood.”

  The pale blue eyes narrowed. “What would it take to get her in the mood?”

  Spence arched his brows. “A bitch the size o’ that one comin’ over the horizon will surely do it. We’ll be able to outrun her without raisin’ a sweat.”

  “Assuming you were of a mind to outrun her,” Dante said quietly.

  Spence stared at him for a moment, then glanced at the approaching galleon. “Ye’re not suggestin’ we could go up against her alone?”

  “The Virago went up against six of them alone—not as large as that bitch, to be sure, but daunting nonetheless. Had she been sound or had we a fellow captain with a spine sturdier than Victor Bloodstone, we would have sunk the lot on the first pass. You can see for yourself, she’s slow and wallowing. Slower than usual and wallowing more because of a full hold than because of a few fancy cabins. You said your bays were unhappily emptier than you like to see them. Would it improve your humor to see them filled with crates of Spanish ducats?”

  “Spanish ducats?” Spence’s tone changed instantly. “Ye think she’s carryin’ treasure?”

  “I think—calling on some measure of experience in such things—she is not out here for a pleasure cruise. If it is true the King of Spain is building an invasion fleet, he will no longer be able to afford the luxury of having his full flota of treasure ships linger in Panama until all their holds are filled. My guess is, as soon as three or four galleons are loaded, they are sent on their way back to Lisbon, with only a small escort, relying on their size and firepower to frighten off any mad-minded freebooters. This one has obviously become separated from the flock by some means or another.”

  “At least ye’ve used the right term to describe yerself,” Spit grumbled, mindful of keeping Spence’s bulk between them as a shield. “Only a madman would take on a ship four times his size.”

  Spence was still mulling over Dante’s opinion of Victor Bloodstone’s spine. “I’ve ten guns. She has”—he lifted an enormous, hairy paw of a hand and smoothed it over his bald pate—“thirty or more!”

  “You’re forgetting my demi-cannon. You can pepper her from three hundred yards out while our papist friends can only spit vitriol past eighty. What’s more, double shot my bronze beauties with incendiaries and you’ll have the Spaniard’s sails down and her decks burning by the second pass.”

  “There wouldn’t be somethin’ more in this, would there? Like sailin’ home to England with a bloody big prize in tow so ye could thumb yer nose at the Queen’s counsellor’s nephew?”

  Dante’s face hardened. “I have already told you my quarrel with Victor Bloodstone is my own.”

  “Aye, an’ it’s a quarrel ye’ll not have a penny’s worth chance o’ resolvin’ at sea if we take time out to shake our fists at yon Spaniard.”

  “With no insult to your ship or crew, the chances of catching him in open water were slim at best. That being the case, the decision is yours whether you sail home with a few tuns of Indies Gold … or with your flags raised and your guns blazing to call the guild merchants to the quay.”

  Spence locked the younger man’s gaze with his own until his eyes began to burn. The lure of Spanish bullion was surely tempting, but they were outmanned, outgunned …

  “Spit?”

  The wiry little man grumbled and scratched savagely at the spikes of hair that grew across the back of his head. “I think ye’d be madder than a Bedlam inmate if ye tried to take on a lumberin’ Goliath the likes o’ that out there. She’ll chew us up an’ spit us out like fodder.”

  Spence squinted into the sunlight. “Mad, eh? Jaysus an’ all the saints be damned, but I’d piss blood to have a little taste o’ madness about now. How are we for shot an’ powder?”

  Spit swore under his breath and glared at Simon Dante. “We’ve plenty o’ both to have ye pissin’ blood, if that’s yer pleasure.”

  “It might well be. Beau!”

  She was right behind him. “Aye, sir?”

  “Do ye think it would be possible to take us on a few turns around that comely Spanish sow?”

  T
he first shadow of hesitation flickered in Dante’s eyes as he glanced her way and Beau could see the doubt, the stirrings of an objection, even as she stared him down through her reply. “The wind is steady from the west. The seas are moderate, the horizon clear in all directions. Aye, sir. I can give you as many passes as you need, as close or as wide as you order them.”

  “And spines?” Spence shouted over his shoulder. “Do they stand sturdy enough, do ye think?”

  An eager cheer of approval went up from the crew. Those close enough to have overheard the conversation on the forecastle had been relaying it word for word to those behind and their excitement was almost palpable. After five days of being regaled with the bold adventures of the Virago, if Simon Dante said the Spaniard carried gold and if he thought the risk worth taking, who were they to stand in the way of a possible fortune?

  “Clear the decks, then,” Spence roared. “Gunners, ready yer stores. Helmsman, set every square o’ canvas she’ll carry an’ bring me alongside her beam at three hundred yards, not a lick less.”

  “Aye, sir!”

  “Six hundred bloody tons,” Spence muttered as chaos erupted around him. “I hope ye’re right about this, Cap’n Dante. I’ve no desire to set my teeth against the bite o’ an Inquisitor’s crimpin’ iron.”

  The pirate wolf grinned. “Your permission for Pitt and me to take charge of the demis, Captain?”

  “Aye. Ye have it. Take what lads o’ mine ye might need on the tackle if some o’ yer own are still shy on strength.”

  “Never on courage, though, as you will see.”

  “Make those monsters spit fire, lad; that will be worth all an’ more to see.”

  Within fifteen minutes the Egret had changed her course to intercept and raced with her nose held high under a swollen pyramid of sail. Her decks were cleared for action. The gunports were opened, the lashings taken off the muzzles of the culverins, and sturdy breeching tackle attached. Buckets of sand and ash were spread on the planking for added traction, barrels of seawater were hauled on board and set between the guns in case of fire. Sponges, crowbars, linstocks, and handspikes were laid alongside the gun carriages; the wooden wheels were given an extra smear of grease, and the trolleys were stacked high with iron shot in varying weights and calibers.

  The Spaniard, within the next quarter hour, had been identified by her silhouette and fittings as the San Pedro de Marcos, indeed a treasure ship, and one that had likely been in the small fleet that had cleared Hispaniola a fortnight before the Egret.

  The captain-general of the San Pedro had equal time to prepare, for there was no way to misread the Egret’s intentions, though it was doubtful he would know the identity of the merchantman beyond the Cross of St. George she flew. With predictable insolence, and being nowhere within range, the San Pedro fired the first shot, its main purpose being, Spence declared in a contemptuous bellow, to frighten them away. He ordered a temporary course change, one that presented his broadside for a brief snub, then gave the helm back to Beau, who tacked efficiently into the wind again. Someone on board the Spanish galleon must have recognized the insult for what it was— either that or he realized the Egret was not going to be so easily discouraged—and ordered another volley, this time a full salvo from both tiers of guns, fired almost simultaneously so that the leviathan was lost for a moment behind a dense cloud of smoke.

  The Egret streaked within five hundred yards, then four. A second full salvo and a third followed the first, all of the shots falling well shy of any real threat, and by twos and threes the grins began to break out on board the English merchantman. The biggest grin by far came on the face of the Cimaroon, who startled everyone around him by leaping nimbly up onto the deck rail, flinging his loincloth aside, and sending a long stream of yellow liquid in the direction of the Spaniard.

  Spence ordered the gunners to open fire at three hundred yards. Geoffrey Pitt’s crew scored the first direct hit, albeit a harmless one, bouncing an iron ball off the San Pedro’s two-foot-thick outer hull. His succeeding shots, and those of his other gunners, were more accurate and far more deadly, blasting away sails and yards and the men who balanced there precariously awaiting orders from their helm. Standing off at what must have seemed a preposterous distance from the startled Spaniard, Pitt’s crews split rails and smashed through the ornately gilded stern galleries.

  They maintained a steady barrage, firing as quickly and as smoothly as the guns could be swabbed and reloaded. Clouds of smoke and flame erupted continuously from the long black row of muzzles, cloaking the lower deck in a thick, impenetrable fog of choking cordite. Sweat streamed from the bodies of the men who lifted and rammed the thirty-pound shot into the smoking muzzles. A shout had them jumping back from the anticipated recoil and covering their ears against the tremendous roar of each explosion. Another shout had them leaping forward and swarming over the gun again, feeding a powder cartridge down the barrel, packing down the shot and wadding, then grunting against the winch lines to reseat the carriage in front of the gunport. More black powder was poured down the touch hole and ignited, and the macabre dance began again.

  Beau’s throat soon grew raw from the smoke and heat, from shouting orders to the men who worked the miles of rigging, setting the sails to her directions. By the time they made their fourth pass around the Spaniard, each one as tight and clean as if executed with a brush stroke, her nerves had settled, although her blood still roared with the excitement, the thrill of battle. The treasure ship was so sluggish and heavy, she seemed to be standing still while the Egret swooped and carved furrows in the sea around her. They were returning fire, but for every shot that chanced off the Egret’s hull or decking, the San Pedro de Marcos suffered thirty or more in return.

  The afterdeck was Spence’s domain and he ruled it with thunderous authority, ordering tighter circles on each pass, allowing the gunners on the smaller culverins to join in and pour round after round of mercilessly destructive shot down the Spaniard’s throat. She was a magnificent example of Spain’s finest, with gold figureheads and ornate carvings on all her decks. Regal beauty though she was, Spence’s armaments made short work of her fancy trimmings and scrolled grotesques. The rows of diamond-paned windows across her stern galleries were reduced to powder, exploding in founts of shattered glass. The sails were shredded, the rigging slashed in so many places, the yards swung loose in their braces. Two of the masts took direct hits and were cracked off midway down the stems. They hung over the side of the ship, dragging their sodden sails and lines in the water, further hampering the ability of her helm to respond.

  Dante’s demi-cannon were impressive, wreaking most of the damage on the San Pedro’s sails while well out of range of the Andalusian guns. De Tourville and Lucifer labored side by side on one of the cannon, both men working as hard as the rest of the gun crew. Dante was stripped to the waist like the common seamen, trading off blisters and cuts from flying splinters against the more dangerous threat from the clouds of live sparks and burning cinders. His chest was a gleaming wall of muscle, rippling under the strain of loading shot and hauling winch lines. His hair was tied back with a leather thong, his face streaked with sweat and as blackened by smoke as Lucifer’s was by nature.

  Geoffrey Pitt stalked the rows of guns like a panther, thundering as loud as the cannon if he saw a line too slack or a flambeau hovering too carelessly close to a bucket of loose powder. The crew of the Egret had become accustomed to his amiable and cheerful presence on board their ship; they had to adjust their perceptions accordingly as he turned into a green-eyed devil in battle. But they responded each time he pounded them on the back for encouragement, and they grinned as broadly as he did each time one of their shots tore down rigging or sail. Even Spit McCutcheon, whose bony nose had been put out of joint watching the demis outshine his culverins, was seen to roar and leap with approval a time or two and he began to look to Pitt and watch for his signal that they might send the next volley arcing out across the water in unison.


  The Spanish galleon staggered under the assault. She had been caught completely off guard by the Egret’s size and audacity. The haughty, armor-clad hidalgos paced atop the tall forecastle in frustration, their polished breastplates winking through the smoke, their plumed helmets bobbing up and down as they shouted useless commands to their crews. Sailors and soldiers alike were helpless to do more than watch as the Egret’s guns turned the open and unprotected decks into a bloody slaughterhouse.

  As the Egret closed her deadly circle the returning fire came closer to the mark, but the shots were solid and easy enough for a man to avoid by tracking the high-pitched whistle. Unlike Pitt’s little innovations. He began to fill hollow shells with combustibles, rusty nails, and sharp iron filings. They flew in silent, lethal arcs across the water, exploding on the enemy deck with a decimating spray of slivered metal and smoldering faggots. Fires began to break out on the San Pedro’s shattered decks, turning the entire length of the ship into an inferno of thick, boiling clouds of black smoke shot through with columns of orange flame. On every gust of wind they could hear the screams of the soldiers and crewmen, for a shipboard fire was dreaded even more than sinking in shark-infested waters.

  Dante’s earlier misgivings were replaced by genuine admiration each time he looked through the smoke and spouting water and saw that the distance between the two ships had not varied by more than the length of a knife throw despite the increasingly choppy waves. The Egret’s motion was becoming more unstable as she rocked against the swells and the spine-juddering recoils, but they had the wind to their advantage, blowing sharp and steady, and a helmsman who was relentlessly efficient at presenting the Egret’s best broadside to her enemy.

  Spence’s daughter was good, as much as it galled him to admit it. Damned good. She was guiding the helm with a sure, deft touch and the Egret was responding like a lover, thrusting and withdrawing, thrusting and withdrawing, at her pleasure. More than once Dante found himself staring at the slender figure on the afterdeck. She worked the tiller with a young, muscle-bound crewman named Billy Cuthbert, and even though her arms surely had to be tiring from holding the rudder in such a tight pattern for so long, she did not take more than a few minutes’ break at a time. Her shirt was soaked in sweat and her cheeks wore two red blazes from her exertions … yet Dante suspected she would have to fall over in a dead faint before she would relinquish the helm.