After a good night’s rest, Harry had them brought aboard in the boats. They were excited now, gabbling like a flock of geese, larking about and touching things they shouldn’t. Stern words seemed to do little to contain them, and Harry thought by the time they were all aboard that he’d rather sail with a crew of right hard-nosed buggers than raise anchor with this crowd of irrepressible youngsters.
The Principessa was low in the water with such a load, and she was unlikely to set any records for her speed. They wallowed along, heading due north. Harry would dearly have loved to drop his charges on the nearest part of the Italian mainland, but there was little point in dropping them off in some southern Italian port. Further north, at the head of the Adriatic, there might be people who were aware of this trade, and who would know whence these children came.
The weather held, and the hands seemed happy to sleep on the deck, for the nights were warm. And their routine, on such a crowded ship, had become less arduous, for there was no room to swab the decks, and any idea of fancy sail drill or firing the guns was out of the question. Fairbairn had his hands full, not surprising given the number of children in his care, so he had no time for a return of his own ailment.
The older girls were more of a problem than his own men, since they would insist on flirting with the crew. Harry threatened to confine them below decks. The other children could not avoid being restless. Lubeck found the solution. He organised games, got the hands to teach the nippers to tie knots, broke the boys and girls into parties of a manageable size, and taught them how to survive while climbing the rigging. Then set the teams against each other, with prizes for the winner made by the sailors, with boarding nets rigged and boats over the side to catch anyone who fell. Full she might be, but after a few days of this skylarking the Principessa was a happy ship.
Harry tried to avoid all other shipping, but the further north they sailed the closer they came to Venice, encountering a vast increase in traffic. He knew that many a glass would be trained on him, wondering what the hell he was about, with his rigging full of capering youngsters. Polite signals to heave to were much in evidence but he ploughed on, making for the port of Trieste.
It took a week and half, by which time the children, Harry, and the crew, were all one big happy family. Some of the girls wouldn’t get home in the same condition that they’d left, for a sailor’s ingenuity was never more evident than in the presence of a willing girl, crowded ship or no. But no one complained, so Harry, despite his lecture, let it pass.
He left the ship well off land and went ashore in the cutter. Once he’d landed Harry headed for the nearest church, and having found the priest, explained in halting Latin the problem he faced. This fellow was of little help, sending him off in search of a nunnery. He found it, and he discovered, to his mind, a saint. The Mother Superior, once the situation had been explained, threw up her hands and thanked the Lord that these children had been delivered from evil. Yes, she would take them. There would be someone here in Trieste who would speak their tongue, and when Harry offered her a large sum of money for their upkeep, she took it gratefully, swearing on the cross that the money would be used to get these children back to their homes, though she knew, as well as Harry, that they would not all be welcomed back, some of them having been sold by their parents to the slavers in the first place.
He brought the Principessa into the harbour. Word of his cargo had got round the town and a large crowd had gathered. Harry noticed that while most cheered there were those who eyed some of the youngsters in the most salacious way. But the nuns were like sheepdogs, harrying the children away with their bundles. Some of them turned, boys and girls, to wave to the hands lining the side of the ship, and Harry observed that some of his most hardened tars had a tear in their eye. He had a catch in his own throat. Time to put an end to all this nonsense.
‘Right, swabbers on deck,’ he yelled, ‘let’s get this damned ship cleaned up.’
Fairbairn had a run ashore, heading for the apothecary shop to top up his medicine chest. Harry left him to it, knowing that in purchasing the things he needed to perform his duties as a ship’s surgeon, he would be exposed to the opportunity to purchase opium. If he did, then Harry would have to try and stop him taking it. But in the end, only Fairbairn could control his habit. No outside agency would be anything other than temporary. Fairbairn, knowing full well that Harry was concerned, reassured him when he came back aboard that, while he had looked at the cause of his downfall, he had suffered no desire to purchase any. His face, pale and drawn, gave the lie to such easy assurances. But he’d resisted temptation. Perhaps he was completely cured.
Harry cast off as soon as he’d topped up his water and taken on some fresh meat and vegetables. The Principessa was clean and clear of bodies and she sailed like the ship he remembered. Harry just prayed that in rescuing these children, and delivering them to safety, he had not missed Bartholomew.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
AS HE headed back south, Harry cracked on, driving the crew and the ship relentlessly. Rarely off the quarterdeck, he had no time for anything other than speed, and although he still wanted to pursue the threads of what had happened in Genoa, he wanted Bartholomew dead at his feet much, much more. With Sutton still avoiding him if he could, there was no time to continue his questioning before they raised the island again.
Bartholomew’s squadron was restored to five ships once more, sails clewed up, and their masts stark against the sandy white of the beach. Harry turned his glass to the newcomer. It was a merchant ship, broad-beamed in contrast to the sleek shapes of the rest of Bartholomew’s flotilla. Harry looked above the town at the tall hills that dominated the island. They knew he was coming. A lookout up there, on such a day, would be able to see for miles.
It was clear to him by the way they were moored that they’d been at anchor some time. The ships had a settled air, as though they were in a home port. They were strung across the bay, with the four privateers forming a line to cover the single merchantman. Bartholomew would have taxed the eunuchs. Presumably he knew how to communicate with them. Why wait, when there was no longer anything to keep him here? Unless he was waiting for Harry Ludlow, knowing that he would return. And perhaps, given his previous behaviour, they surmised he would attack. He didn’t doubt they’d be after revenge.
Harry toyed with the idea of obliging them, but the odds were too great. He could of course sail into the bay, sit off, and bombard them from a greater range, but they had men in abundance if they didn’t have to sail. He, in their place, would have hauled some guns ashore to place on either side of the narrow entrance to the bay. And just in case that failed he’d have loaded some cannon into the ship’s cutters to turn them into gunboats, a deadly weapon when fighting in a confined space, with manoeuvre impossible. Harry had the good sense not to underestimate his enemy. After all, they’d had plenty of time, it seemed, to ponder on the question.
He steered for a point in the middle of the opening to the bay and hove to just out of range of land, content to sit there studying the four fighting ships. They’d either been here a while or they’d stopped off somewhere on the way, for he could see fresh paint on all of them. Any damage that he’d managed to inflict south of Genoa had been patched up. Even the Bella looked as though her fire damage had been put right. He could imagine hem sitting there, willing him to fall into a trap they’d carefully prepared.
It came as a bit of a shock to see men racing up the shrouds of the fighting ships. They were getting ready to make sail. He watched as they cast off their anchors, and dropped their topsails to carry them out of the bay. Surely they weren’t trying to escape, for they seemed intent on leaving the merchantman? But why come out to engage, when all they had to do was to sit at anchor and frustrate him, and force him to fight on their terms? It made no sense to come at him right off. No sense, unless you included anger.
Harry slid down to the deck, and ordered Lubeck to make sail. The ship had been cleared for ac
tion the minute they sighted the island. There was little more to do. Knowing that the day would be long and hard, Harry ordered a hot meal prepared. Then they doused the galley fire. They made all possible sail away from the shore. To a jaundiced eye it might have looked as if Harry was preparing to flee, but if he was going to have a fight then he wanted plenty of sea room.
Once clear Harry shortened sail again. Would it be a repetition of the last engagement, with them all bunched up defensively? He stood at the stern rail, his glass on them, looking for some sign of their intentions. They dropped their courses once they cleared the lee of the land. The four ships formed up in line ahead with Bartholomew in the van, Frome in the Ariel next, then Bella, with Pilton in the Cromer bringing up the rear. With the wind southeasterly Harry turned north. It was his best point of sailing and he wanted to see what they would do. At the sound of a gun, like a miniature fleet, they all turned after him. Bartholomew wasn’t saving his ships any more. Their cargo was gone. He had come out to fight. This time Harry wasn’t the hunter, he was the hunted.
The prospect of fighting four ships, all attacking, presented a whole new set of problems. He could not best all of them if they sought to engage. No ship was that nimble. How determined were they? It was of primary importance to find out. He put the Principessa about and beat up towards them. On they came, clear to the naked eye now. This time, they were going to try to force battle, and if they continued to do so he would have to turn away.
Harry watched them for a good ten minutes, judging their rate of sailing. He reckoned he could get a shot off at Bartholomew with his twelve-pounders, on the turn, before he’d have to make all sail to get away. And it would be close, especially if the two fastest sailers, Daedalus and Ariel, decided to crack on. But he reasoned that only Daedalus would outrun her consort, so he’d only face a single-ship action, with him having the legs of her if he felt endangered. Providing Bartholomew didn’t get in a lucky shot and wound one of his masts.
They were converging at speed when the oddest thing happened. Harry had to look twice to make sure he wasn’t seeing things. The three rear ships turned away on a more southerly course. But Bartholomew came on alone, heading straight for the Principessa. Harry nearly turned away immediately, for he sensed a trap. But seeing that he was only facing a single ship, he decided to wait, and have a careful look. His enemy’s gunports were still closed, and Harry wondered if Bartholomew had acquired some heavier guns with which to surprise him. Or was he really proposing to take on Harry alone, in a fight to the finish?
The Ariel had now detached itself slightly from the other two, and was coming round onto a parallel course with Daedalus, but far to the rear. She was also sailing easy, making no attempt to close the distance between her and Bartholomew. If anything, the gap was increasing. She was no threat unless he was engaged so close that he couldn’t get away. Harry had to admit they had him foxed. He couldn’t figure out what they were about. It didn’t make sense to fight alone when you had odds of anything up to four to one to choose from. Unless Bartholomew was determined, at all costs, to revenge himself on the man who’d stolen his business. He couldn’t believe that. The man was as cold as ice. Harry had rarely met someone who so lacked passion.
Harry ran through a whole host of possible explanations. Had he had a falling-out with his fellow captains? Had they refused to support him? Did Bartholomew feel he could achieve more success on his own? He then realised that his action in repatriating the children had done more than deprive Bartholomew of one cargo. His whole livelihood, perhaps his life, would be forfeit if Harry Ludlow returned to Genoa. He had to be stopped.
Whatever, he had no need to change his tactics. He would still give Bartholomew a broadside on the turn, but he would slow his getaway, allowing Daedalus to come up with him when it looked safe to do so. Then they would have a bout, just the two of them, for none of his friends would be close enough to help. Harry issued his orders, and watched his approaching enemy carefully so as to time it right. The Principessa swung round. To Bartholomew it would look as though she was just changing course. But pretty soon they would see her swing round, gunports open, and they’d know what they were in for.
If they did, it didn’t check Bartholomew’s speed. Harry fired off his long guns, and saw one ball strike the hull, bouncing harmlessly off, while another went through Bartholomew’s jib. Then Harry was round, taking the wind on his larboard quarter and heading away. He looked back at the other ships. The Ariel was coming on, but still at no great speed. The gap between her and Bartholomew was still increasing. The other two were still heading south. The Daedalus ploughed on, and would soon, if he didn’t set more sail, steal Harry’s wind. If he wanted to disengage, this was the moment to do so, for if he waited much longer the decision would be taken out of his hands.
Harry felt uneasy. He searched the deck of Bartholomew’s ship, trying to see if he had anything extra aboard. Nothing showed, and as the gunports opened Harry could see that he still carried the same ordnance as before. He wondered if Bartholomew had stripped some hands out of the other ships so that he could board in numbers. Harry gave quick orders to load with grape and hold their fire after the next round had been fired. He might have more men aboard now, but he wouldn’t by the time Harry Ludlow was finished with him.
He felt the Principessa’s speed drop as the Daedalus took some of the wind out of his sails. The distance, which had been closing slowly, now seemed to disappear in the wink of an eye. Bartholomew came alongside in a few seconds. The four-pounders, heaved right forward, fired one by one, each gun carefully aimed at the side of the Principessa. And this time they struck home. Wood flew in all directions. Harry fired off his rolling broadside to disrupt this careful aim, and it was pleasing to see that his guns did more damage than Bartholomew.
Coming abreast of each other, Harry held his fire, prepared to suffer the shots of the four-pounders. He could see that Bartholomew was edging closer, intent on boarding.
The man stood where he had before, his feathered hat on his head. Harry raised his glass, and looked at him close to. The bastard was smiling. It was as if all was going according to his plan. Having taken Harry’s wind he decreased sail himself and still he edged in towards the side of Harry’s ship. Then he called the men from his guns and lined them up. Harry did a quick head count. There were no more than his usual complement. Unless he had more men hidden down the hatchways out of sight, Bartholomew was proposing to fight Harry knowing he was outnumbered!
Harry yelled to Lubeck to shorten sail. Bartholomew, seeing him checking his speed, did the same. The two ships slowed together, coming closer. Harry shortened sail even more, leaving only his topsails drawing. Bartholomew followed. Harry, still prey to his suspicions, made a quick decision. If there were more men down that hatchway, the way to fetch them out and neutralise them was to attack. If they came out early he could still decimate them with grapeshot. If they kept their place, he would make it his first job to close those hatchways off and trap them below decks.
He called for all hands to stand by to board, leaving just the gun captains standing by their weapons. The two ships had now slowed to a near standstill, barely keeping steerage way. Harry’s men, with Lubeck in the middle, started to crowd the starboard rail. No crowd from the Daedalus gathered to oppose them. As the ships crunched together, Harry gave the orders and his men jumped onto the deck of Bartholomew’s ship unopposed.
It was all wrong. Some kind of trap. Harry spun round and saw that the Ariel had raised everything she possessed and was cracking on. He was right, they’d set out to snare him; but while the plan was sound, the execution was lamentable. Ariel had left it too late. Either that or Bartholomew had got too far ahead. It didn’t matter. Here was a chance to get Bartholomew, and he might just have enough time to do it.
Lubeck and his men stood on one side of the Daedalus’s deck, Bartholomew and his crew on the other. There was an abundance of threatening looks, but little action. Harry y
elled at the top of his voice as he jumped the gap himself, Pender right behind him. His men picked up the cry and battle was joined. But all the aggression was on the side of Harry’s crew. They attacked with venom, but Bartholomew’s men seemed content to just hold their line. What Harry needed, indeed expected, was a mêlée; something that would break up the enemy and allow his superior numbers to tell.
He worked his way to the centre of the line to get near to Bartholomew. The man smiled at him from behind a line of sailors holding a fearsome array of boarding pikes. If Harry tried to get him he would die before he even got close. Pender spotted it right away, and grabbed Harry’s arm in case he should be tempted.
‘Come on, you bastard,’ his captain shouted. Bartholomew must have heard him above the din because, if anything, his smiled widened. Then he gave Harry a small, insulting, slightly effeminate wave. Harry’s blood boiled, and damning the consequences he charged the line of pikemen. His flailing sword was no match for them. If they had, at that point, decided to counter-attack, he would have been in trouble. Beldeau was the only one to break ranks, coming forward despite Bartholomew’s shout to desist. He tried to spear Harry, but his pike was knocked in the air by a vicious swipe. Harry’s sword took him under the chin, half severing his head as it came out of the side of his neck. Beldeau screamed and fell to the deck and Harry stepped in to finish him, ignoring the other pikes that surrounded the dying man. But he couldn’t follow through. Pender, who had him by the collar, saw the danger, and hauled him back.
It was a measure of Pender’s own frustration that he addressed Harry like a common seaman. ‘What the fuck are they about, Captain?’
Dying Trade Page 34
