The council was held on board The Hope. Rozalinde refused to be left out. She sat in a corner and listened to the men, the captains from each ship of the Beggar Fleet, Phillipe, Kit, as they hammered out the details of their strategy. The mayor of Enckhuysen joined them, along with the captain of the garrison. All that day they pored over maps, sent messengers into town to amass supplies and weapons, assembled men to stand at the ready on land and men to fight at sea.
Rozalinde fell into bed at noon and slept for several hours, the dreamless sleep of exhaustion. When she got up, she retrieved her tide charts of Enckhuysen, read them over, then went out to check their accuracy on the bay itself. By night, she was exhausted, having spent all afternoon on the water in a small boat, rowed by Tom from the Swiftsure. She had checked depths over and over with a lead line, rowing up and down the city's shores. She measured, she memorized landmarks. That night she slept soundly. There was going to be a battle, a surprise attack the Spanish hoped to spring on them. But because of her efforts, the Dutch would be ready and waiting. And despite its orders to the contrary, despite their raging argument n the subject, she intended to be there.
On the fifteenth of October, just as the communique stated, the Spanish fleet was sighted. It sailed en mass down the mouth of the Zuider Zee, proudly displaying the Spanish cross on each sail, set upon conquest.
Huddled at the windows of the Swifisure's charthouse, Rozalinde waited and watched. Suddenly the sound of cannon fire split the golden calm of the afternoon. Roz shot to her feet and craned her neck to see.
Sun reflected off the blue waters of the Zuider Zee, blinding her with its brilliance. It was deceptive, that cheerful light. Because all around her ranged the ships of the Sea Beggars, armed and ready for battle. She swallowed hard and sat down again. The shot must have been a warning. Enemy ships were not yet in range, though all ships flew the red signal banners meaning they were about to attack.
Roz shifted on the cushions, pounded one fist against her open palm to still her agitation. The waiting hung like a sentence of death over her. She shouldn't even be here— if Kit knew, he'd send her back to Enckhuysen. But she had defied his orders, stowed away in her instrument trunk. There was a reason for its exact dimensions, made to accommodate her body in a comfortable position. But when she finally emerged from the confines of the trunk, she was rewarded only with the sight now displayed before her.
The fleet of the Sea Beggars sat wedged at the head of the Zuider Zee, ships crowded bow to stern in battle formation. To lee and port rose the forest of masts belonging to twenty-two Dutch caravels, the sum total vessels of fighting consequence. To the back of the wedge floated numerous smaller pinnaces, each with a cannon or two, and behind them the miscellany of smaller boats that would scavenge when the time came.
Rising from the window, Roz went to the door, pushed it open a crack. On both sides she observed the ships, crowded with men and boys who strained to see their attackers.
At the entry of the bay, where the land to the east and west narrowed to a slim bottleneck, Roz knew Dutch soldiers crowded the shores. They would aid their rebel navy if the opportunity arose. Any Spanish ship that came within wading distance would find brutal treatment at the hands of these men. To their backs stood men, women, and children of the city, ready to aid them. They were a fierce, devoted people, these Dutch, ready to fight for their town and their freedom.
Having heard the battle plans last night, Roz knew the Swiftsure sat toward the front of the formation, just behind The Hope, which took the flagship position. But she couldn't see it from her vantage point. Tension squirmed and twisted in her belly as Roz doubted her decision to stay on board. Kit had warned her.
"I'm your wife now. I'll go with you."
He'd bristled at that. "You're my wife. You'll obey me."
"The devil."
"You might see him if you persist in this madness."
"I'm looking at him now." She eyed him furiously. He burst out laughing.
Ruefully she'd put aside her anger and laughed, too. Kit often ruined her arguments by laughing. "You might just as well let me have my way," she told him firmly. "You know I'll stow away else."
He'd eyed her appraisingly. "You have a propensity for such things."
"Do I have a propensity for anything else?" she teased, encircling his waist with both arms, rubbing her cheek against his chest. She felt sleek and contented, like a well-fed cat. Never had she known marriage would bring out such feelings. He was entirely, splendidly her own, this man. Well, not quite.
Now Roz pushed a sagging braid behind one ear and peered through the door crack, remembering their last lovemaking before the battle. No, it was bad fortune to call it their last. Their most recent, she corrected herself. As she studied what she could see of the Spanish battle formation, she thought of Kit's reserved expression afterward. Must she always endure his mystifying changes of mood?
The wind blew in a steady gust from due west. The lead ships would be within range any minute. Fear ground in the pit of her stomach as she observed the Gran Grifon she felt certain Trenchard was on board. He would be eager to taste the spoils of war should the Spanish prove triumphant. Unconsciously she clenched her kirtle skirt, her thoughts swirling.
Suddenly, the ordnance of the Spanish flagship thundered. The attack began. Rozalinde scrambled back into the charthouse and pulled the door closed, praying for their victory.
The sound erupted in the quiet Dutch afternoon, echoing into the surrounding low lands. Black smoke wafted through the crystal clear air behind the charthouse. Roz chaffed her hands one against the other. This was unbearable. She couldn't see a thing!
She felt the Swiftsure change direction. Kit would be on the forecastle deck. At his signal, Ruske had shifted the tiller.
Mentally Roz reviewed the battle plans. The first rank ships in the Dutch vanguard would cut into the Spanish wedge and break it up, clearing the way for the second rank Dutch ships to surround individual victims, grapple and board them. The Spanish galleons lumbered in the water—heavier, bigger, with many more guns. The question was, could the Dutch break their ranks?
Hurrying back to the windows, Roz pressed her nose against the leeward glass. The Dutch ship beside them had dropped back. The Swiftsure surged forward, her timbers shaking beneath Roz's feet with each blast of gunpowder. At the same time Roz felt the vibration of the masts. The wind was changing! Closing her eyes, Roz tried to judge its direction. If only she were outside, she would know what to do. Rigging clanked as the sails were adjusted. The Swiftsure made its bid. She could feel it move.
Slipping to the door, Roz opened it a crack. To their lee, the Gran Grifon towered, majestic with its four top-heavy masts and high-charged decks. The ship moved sluggishly, struggling to maneuver her guns into a better position. The Swiftsure circled to her left, nimble in the water. Oh, let them draw the Gran Grifon after them, Roz prayed, hanging on to the door latch with all her might.
The Swiftsure kept up a constant barrage of volleys, moving east by north. To their portside, Roz could see the other Spanish ships interspersed with Dutch ships. Their tactic was working. The Spanish wedge was breaking up.
As the Swiftsure moved toward shore, Roz lost sight of the Gran Grifon. Was it following? Unable to stand the suspense, she slipped from the charthouse. Stooping low, she made a mad dash for the quarterdeck. Reaching it, she huddled against the protective partition of the ship's side. Around her the shouts of the men rose as they worked frantically.
A Spanish cannon barked. A thirty-two-pound ball roared through the air above their heads, missing the low-riding English ship entirely. Don't let them strike the masts, Rozalinde prayed fervently from her crouched position. If only she could stand up to see.
One peek over the side stilled her questions. The Swiftsure was headed for shore just north of the city, followed at several cables' lengths by the Gran Grifon. Even now Kit was bringing the Swiftsure about. They w
ould lay to the seaward, waiting for the Spaniard, then double back and pass, shooting as they went. She could see the men of the Swiftsure as they gathered in the topsails to slow the ship.
Roz peeked again, realized she was demented to be here in the midst of cannon fire. The Swiftsure crew hadn't suffered any hits yet, but they would. It was inevitable. She could hear the screams of wounded men from a distance as she watched the crew of the Gran Grifon adjust their sails in answer. The return brought the two ships precariously close. So close, Roz could see the faces of the Spaniards on board the Gran Grifon. As the space between them closed, Rozalinde's gaze lit upon Trenchard, standing on the quarterdeck surrounded by Spanish officers in uniforms and half armor. Her heart plummeted as their eyes met across the water and Roz felt determination emanate from him. With maddening calm, Trenchard held out his hand to her. He beckoned. It's not too late, Roz could almost hear him saying in his calm, logical voice. Come, Rozalinde. We were meant to be.
With a cry of agony, she ducked behind the ship's protective side. She could not, would not think of him or what he wanted. Gathering her wits about her, she scurried for the opposite side of the Swiftsure, just as their cannon spoke from the lee. The upward roll of the waves lifted the Swiftsure high in the air. She let loose with her culverins and demi-culverins.
Deadly wooden splinters flew on board the Gran Grifon as masts shattered and rigging tore. The lower shrouds ripped away on the forward mast and the towering column wavered unsteadily. On the downward roll, the Swiftsure let loose with her heavier cannon, hitting the Gran Grifon broadside. Now they were close enough that the Gran Grifon could fire back. A heavy roll of Spanish cannonade rent the air. Roz turned just in time to see a group of men on the Swiftsure disappear in smoke. Their screams were cut mercifully short.
Roz clapped her hands to her face, horrified. Bile rose in her throat, threatening to choke her. This was the end they came to, men she cared for. The rubble of their bodies stained the deck in sickening reality. Tears stung her eyes and rolled down her face as the acrid odor of smoke prickled her nostrils. Roz sucked in her breath and tried to think clearly. How could men experience this hell they called war and not question its necessity? Even she had not doubted it until now. Nay, she had wanted to be here, to help Kit. Groping to keep her sanity, she turned to the one thing left her—her task, her reason for being here. Taking a grip on her emotions, she gaged their distance from the shore, then headed for the channel-wailes where the pilot often stood.
They had passed the Spanish ship to her lee. Now they circled to her portside, ready to draw her toward shore. The heavy galleon followed. Easing herself cautiously over the rail on the side away from the Spanish, Rozalinde took her place on the narrow ledge. She groped for the lead line and dropped the weight over the side.
The water depth was dropping rapidly. Expertly Roz scanned the surface, shutting out the ugly sounds of war around her. Her mind dove swift and deep, remembering the shifting sands of the coast. There would be a sandbar just ahead. They must swing away.
Frantically she waved to catch the attention of a man nearby, then shouted the reading to him. He stared at her in surprise, then leaped to set up the relay. The leadsman was in the sounding station. The ship must respond.
In response to Roz's reading, the ship veered to the lee. They headed for deeper water. Roz breathed a sigh of relief and dropped the lead again.
This time the depth dropped. They could edge back toward the shore. Loudly she called the reading. The man on the deck nodded and relayed the information to Kit, who was out of her sight at the helm. Behind them Trenchard's ship came on steadily. Roz sucked in her breath and held it as she dropped the lead again, then emptied her lungs as she checked the colored tags. If only they could draw the Gran Grifon shoreward....
Down went the sounding lead. Up it came. The tags showed depth holding steady. Sand stuck to the wax on the lead indicated what she hoped for. Swiftly Rozalinde assessed the ship behind them, trying to estimate the volume of her hull. She calculated the tidal depth in her head, her many hours spent poring over tidal charts fueling her decision. She said a brief prayer of thanks that she had checked them meticulously the day before and memorized the landmarks. Knowing the exact flood point of the tide told her how deep the water would be this time of day. She knew the Swiftsure was the lighter ship and could easily navigate in this water. But the Gran Grifon sat deeper. By Roz's calculations, it would be her undoing.
She called out to the relay once more, sending the Swiftsure even closer to shore, luring the other ship onward. The Gran Grifon came on relentlessly, gaining on them. The ordnance of the Spanish ship thundered. One front-placed cannon was positioned to strike the Swiftsure. A huge ball whizzed toward them.
Roz almost shrieked as a ball flew by her platform, within feet of hitting her. Another struck their stern with a sickening explosion of wood. Another volley and Rozalinde heard the cry of a wounded man. She clamped her eyes shut, realizing it was someone she knew. Damn the Spanish and damn George Trenchard. He would cripple their ship, kill their men, then grapple and board.
Determinedly she opened her eyes and concentrated on the water. She lowered the lead, took the reading, called it to the relay to pass on. Straight sailing ahead. The sea bottom was rich in sand. The bar she memorized yesterday lay just ahead.
Roz gripped the lead line and held on as the Swiftsure reached the sandbar and began to cross. Around her the sounds of battle shattered the day. Screams of wounded men and crashing of cannon rocked the harbor. The water was littered with debris from ships—broken masts and rigging, barrels and other goods fallen overboard.
Staring down into the churning water, she imagined the bar beneath them as they crossed. She counted the seconds, pleading with God for speed.
Tensely she turned to watch the Gran Grifon follow. The other ship was so close she could see George Trenchard on the quarterdeck, sheltering his massive body behind the mast. Even at this distance his eyes focused on her, and she clung hard to the wales, her body shaking uncontrollably. He would have her within minutes if her calculations were wrong. A sob escaped her throat as she cast her gaze away and clutched desperately to the rigging stretched against the side of the ship.
The hull of the Swiftsure rasped a warning against the sandy bottom. Roz saw the relay look at her inquiringly, waiting for her to order them to the lee. But her calculations were not wrong and she shook her head, trusting her knowledge. The complete layout of the ocean floor unrolled in her memory. She could see every sandbar and shoal of this bay in her mind. Holding her breath, she waited for the inevitable.
The cannon of the Gran Grifon thundered again, bombarding their ship. Trenchard's mouth creased in an ugly smile. Triumph shone in his eyes.
It was then the Gran Grifon faltered in her course. Roz squinted, trying to be sure. The distance between the two ships widened.
Roz let out a whoop of triumph. "Run aground!" she cried to the relay, whose face lit up with understanding as he looked where she pointed. Quickly he turned to deliver the message to his captain while Roz collapsed on her platform, weak with relief. "We've done it," she choked out to Kit when he appeared a second later. She found herself ecstatic, multiple emotions streaking through her. "Look."
Kit hesitated, one arm reaching to help her over the side of the ship.
Men swarmed on the deck of the Gran Grifon, throwing things overboard in an effort to lighten her. But to no avail. The huge ship ground to a complete halt.
"We did it!" Roz cried as Kit turned back to her, looking harassed.
"Get over this side. The battle's not done." He grasped her arm roughly. "I've ordered the ship to come about. We must take up our position to her lee so none can escape before the men on shore capture her. Our anchor will go down in a minute. I want you safely in my cabin by then. They'll bombard us with cannon for as long as they can."
Roz resisted his grasp. "I don't want to stay
in the cabin. I want to stay here and watch."
"You'll do no such thing. You'll come in ..." He froze, his face molded into wary lines.
Roz stopped her protest. Turning around, she followed the direction of his gaze. As she looked, Trenchard and the other men of the Gran Grifon launched a longboat that was piled with open barrels. An instant after it touched the water, Trenchard stepped to the side of his ship and flourished a lighted torch in one hand. He gave a mocking bow, then with a swift movement tossed the torch into the lowered boat. The blazing torch came to rest crosswise, across the top of two barrels.
A man dangling from a rope against the side of the Gran Grifon gave the longboat a mighty shove. It coursed swiftly with the tide toward the Swiftsure.
The barrels were undoubtedly full of tar and pitch, for they burst into flame. A whoosh of hot air seared the afternoon.
"Fireboat!"
The cry went up from the Swiftsure. Horrified, Roz stared at the approaching craft. Within seconds it had become a blazing funeral pyre, the steady shore breeze blowing its flames straight for the Swiftsure.
With a leap Roz vaulted back over the side onto the ship's deck, stumbling against Kit in her haste. He clutched her hand and together they sprinted for the stern as the fireboat crossed the short distance between them, sparks dancing on the wind. Its flames licked the air, yearning for the Swiftsure's dry timber and canvas.
Reaching his cabin, Kit opened the door and thrust Rozalinde inside. Without further discussion he slammed the door and was gone. Roz heard him join the men, give them orders to slip their cable. It would take them interminable minutes to accomplish the task that would set the ship free and allow them to flee the fire.
At the leeward porthole, Roz pressed her face against the glass. The fireship drew nearer as she watched. Even within the cabin she could smell the sharp odor of tar burning. The Swiftsure was lost. Turning, she fled for the door.
Pirate's Rose Page 38
