“He’s unconscious.”
“My fault, I expect.”
“I’m sure he deserved it; of his own doing he’s not a popular young man. Just do me a favor and don’t kill him until we’re back in Ireland; I’m under orders to keep him out of trouble until then. If I weren’t under this obligation, I’d have let him risk his neck in a duel with a damned lawyer in London. But the parson’s up, I heard him praying frantically in his cabin.”
“The more the merrier,” Edward said dryly. “We can shove a blunderbuss in his hands if necessary.”
The crack of a second shotted gun was followed by the captain’s cursing.
“Dammit, Mrs. Hardy, I need no more petticoats on deck! You and your maid go back below, now!”
“I have come to help, sir!” she shouted back, followed by a phrase or two in Dutch.
“Madam, you’re a damned fool in a dress!”
“Maybe, but I’m no coward!” Mrs. Hardy retorted, then proved she could curse as well as any seaman in English or Dutch. “If those two women can be on deck, then so can I! I’m no weak vessel!”
“Madam, they’ve been in action before; they can help us fight this ship. You and your maid, however, are useless to us. To be plain, the only Dutch I want to see on deck right now is ‘Dutch courage!’”
“That, sir, is a slander! A dishonorable calumny! The Dutch don’t need brandy to make them brave, but I guess the English do! You should name it ‘English courage’ instead, that brandy and rum you drink to make you brave!”
“I fought in the Dutch wars, madam! Do you remember who came out on top?”
“I remember the Dutch fleet in the Medway!” she swore back.
“A clean palpable hit,” Edward said aside to Fielding.
“Hell of a woman,” replied the lieutenant. “Are you married?”
“No, my present philosophy won’t permit it.”
“I hear she’s wealthy.”
“I’ve a theory that until I’ve made my fortune I need to steer clear of fortune-hunting women and of hunting women for their fortunes,” Edward said, watching the crew carefully to make sure any likely mutineers did not attempt to seize the ship while Cronow and Mrs. Hardy argued.
“Maybe Captain Cronow should marry her, then.”
“He’s already got a wife. You?”
“Yes. And two mistresses.”
“You live dangerously.”
“Indeed? So says the man who’s about to fire on a ship that outnumbers us by how much?”
“At least twenty-five to one in guns, probably fifty to one in weight of broadside, and at least a dozen to one in men, probably more.”
“And you think wooing a rich widow is too dangerous? It’s a strange philosophy of yours, Captain MacNaughton,” the lieutenant said, shaking his head in friendly disbelief.
“It’s a matter of perspective, Lieutenant. When we fire on the privateer, she can only bring her two bow chasers to bear. In other words, the odds right now are much more even than they appear. On the other hand, Mrs. Hardy will have the odds greatly in her favor in every circumstance. You can see that Cronow has her desperately out-gunned and out-manned, yet she may well carry the day. Further, to woo Mrs. Hardy for her fortune might make Fortune herself angry; to woo her for her beauty might make Fortune jealous; yet to woo Fortune—to follow the sea as a gentleman of fortune—while also wooing Mrs. Hardy might make the widow angry and jealous.”
“I wish we had more time to discuss your philosophy and its curious logic, Captain. Perhaps when victory is ours; or if not, then in a French prison. Good luck; may your aim be true!”
As soon as Lieutenant Fielding took his place on the quarterdeck, Mrs. Hardy, red in the face, strode three steps to Edward and struck a commanding pose, hands on hips.
“Captain MacNaughton, will you be my champion in my dispute with this Julius Caesar on the quarterdeck?”
“Mrs. Hardy, I can’t, because I happen to agree with him. You must obey his orders and go below,” he said politely, suppressing a grin. “There’s nothing you can do here, and it will be quite dangerous soon.”
She made no reply, suddenly busy shoving her upset maid to the rail while berating her.
“The leeward rail!” Edward said sharply. Seeing Mrs. Hardy’s questioning look, he stepped quickly to the maid, grasped her around the waist, and carried her on his hip to the opposite rail, where he held her so she would not fall overboard. The ship rolled suddenly over the crest of an unusually large swell, dipping the maid’s head and shoulders in the sea and soaking her head to thigh as seasickness got the better of her. Edward did not escape a partial drenching either, but ignored it, concerned only with the priming of his pistols.
“I’m soaked!” Maria cried, “I’ll catch my death of this cold, wet ocean!”
“But at least you’ll have had a bath,” Edward noted wryly. “Mrs. Hardy, take your maid below now, and remain there!”
Gone was any pretense of being polite.
“I will not! Let her make her own way below! If nothing else, I’ll take charge of the brandy—by God, I’ll show the lot of you what Dutch courage is! I will do something useful here, sir!”
Edward glanced knowingly at Lieutenant Fielding, as if to emphasize that he had just proved the point of his philosophy.
“Goddamn you, woman,” Cronow shouted, “stay if you please, for I’ve no men to spare to carry you below, but I swear to you that if a bullet takes off your head, I’ll by God have one of your maids swab your blood from the deck, for I won’t waste one of my jackanapes on it!”
Edward firmly moved Maria, her voice trembling with fear and cold, yet her eye alluring, toward the hatch and told her to go below and dry off, then turned his attention once more to his duty.
“The gun is yours, Captain MacNaughton,” Cronow said finally, glad to avoid further address to the doughty widow.
“Thank you, sir,” he replied, then, noting with surprise that the parson was now on deck too, said, with just a touch more honesty than sarcasm, “Ah, God’s servant is finally here. You impress me, sir. I feared you would leave us entirely to ourselves to plead our case with God, sea, and enemy.”
“God will always send me where I am needed,” he replied with timid dignity. His knuckles were white, like bleached bones, where he gripped the rail. He could not take his eyes off the large French ship.
“Doubtless,” Edward replied. Likely the man had never been in harm’s way before.
“Let us pray—”
“Damn your prayers, sir!” bellowed Cronow. “Or keep them to yourself! My crew have bloody work ahead and need no distractions! David never fought a more one-sided battle than we do against this Goliath today, and God helps those who help themselves, or so I hear you black-coated, dark-visaged, Malmsey-nosed soul-drivers preach! I’ll have no public prayer aboard my ship! When the wind is good it’s not needed, and when it’s storm or battle my crew have more important things to listen to, namely me!”
“In a calm, pray or pick oakum,” Edward intoned, quoting a well-known seaman’s proverb, “but in a storm, serve God, serve devil. Pray as you please, sir, no man will fault you for that. But do so in silence, for the crew have duty enough to occupy them.” A fair number of seamen were in practice an agnostic lot, religious only in ceremony; others, though, were quite devout.
He joined the gun crew in the waist to supervise a business he knew all too well. The seamen under his command grumbled to themselves about the parson, muttering that he was a Jonah and all would be better off if he were thrown overboard to test his standing with God. That the parson considered the seamen a pack of heathen jackanapes had not gone unnoticed.
Edward felt much the same as they did. He preferred to rely upon courage, skill, and intellect, and upon the demonstrable reality that Fortune usually favors the bold, although she may later seize payment in return; thus his philosophy of leaving her, and her messengers, out of his plans as much as possible.
The ma
te turned to make his report to Edward, linstock with lighted match in hand.
“’Tis loaded with double-head, and my gang have drunk their spirits and are ready to fight.”
“Very well. Perhaps ‘Dutch courage’—your pardon, Mrs. Hardy—will see us through.” Edward called to the captain on the quarterdeck. “Your permission to fire when I please?”
“Aye, sir, aye. May your aim be true, God willing, and if not, let the Devil himself take up our cause.”
“Captain Cronow, I object to your impertinent wish!” ejaculated Parson Waters. “It’s bad enough that you allow women on deck to do a man’s work! And one of them a papist, too!”
“Shut up, sir,” replied Cronow. “Today I’ll accept help from any who offer it, women, papists, Jews or David Jones, or even that God-damn’d Old Roger himself. If you don’t want to meet that soul-buggering, cleft-footed Leviathan today, then make your prayers heard—but silently!”
“Mr. Foxcraft, let’s see how this wandering sea maid can claw a buxom vixen,” Edward said. “The range is more than pointblank, but it won’t be a waste of powder, since we’re shooting at her rigging. Point at her foretop, perhaps we’ll part a stay or put her topmast by the board.”
He stood back to give the mate room to do his job. His gun crew was not as well-trained as one aboard a man-of-war or privateer, so he gave commands for each step.
“Handle your crow and handspike!” he ordered.
Two of his gun crew stood by with the levers.
“Haul up the port and belay it!”
One seaman shoved the port lid open with a handspike, while another hauled on the port rope until the port was fully open, then belayed the line. The next commands and actions came quickly:
“Run out the gun!”
“Lay the gun to pass in the port!”
“Point to dismast!”
One of the gun crew employed a hand-crow lever to raise the breech as another drew the quoin aft. A third then used a wooden handspike to shift the carriage slightly, per the mate’s signals. Here the mate took over. He blew on the lighted end of the match, removed the lead apron over the vent, and waited to time the roll of the ship for the required elevation, then stepped back and placed the match to the small train of crushed gunpowder that led from the base ring to the vent.
The powder flashed into the vent, then again like a vertical blade of flame. The gun made a loud, ear-ringing Crack! as it jumped back, spewing forth flame, smoke, and iron. The carriage creaked and whined as the breech rope took the strain, and the wind blew a cloud of thick, whitish smoke across the deck. It was a moment before Edward could follow the shot. Unfortunately, an errant swell had struck the ship just as the gun fired, sending the shot wide. From the dark ship came the sounds of jeering Frenchmen.
“God’s blood! Ream me with a marling spike!” the mate cursed. “Begging your pardon, sir, but I look the fool now. It won’t happen again.”
Edward sniffed the air, breathed deeply, and smiled. He liked the smell of burned powder, and could not comprehend those who did not.
“You need make no apology, Mr. Foxcraft. Try again.”
“Aye, sir.” Foxcraft waited as his gang reloaded the minion. Again, he timed the roll. Again, he fired the cannon. It was a fair shot, but it did no apparent damage and the ship sailed on.
“You’ve let some daylight through her mains’l, but that won’t stop her. Make ready your piece, we’ll fire at least twice more,” he ordered.
Foxcraft reloaded the minion himself this time and again gave fire.
Again, a hit.
And again, nothing.
Edward was not surprised. Indeed, he would have been amazed if they did do any significant damage. Ships of any size could take quite a battering to hull or rigging before being distressed, much less put out of commission. He put his perspective glass to his eye and could see the French crew jeering, laughing at them, waiting to pounce, a cat playing with a mouse until she tires and crushes its skull in her mouth.
The Peregrinator fired her fifth shot. Almost immediately one of the Frenchman’s chase pieces returned the compliment. Edward caught a glimpse of a black speck, then his hand flew up from the rail, numb. The eight pound shot had passed through the bulwark beneath the rail where his hand had rested and was lodged in the opposite side. His heart pounded, excitement tinged with fear surged through his body. He made a fist; his hand was stiff, but had no broken skin, no blood. His fingers and wrist still worked, although painfully. He pretended nothing had happened. Several of the crew looked surprised, and several more were unaware anything had happened. Splinters lay across the deck and a jagged bit of wood jutted out from the bulwark an inch from his groin. He took a deep breath, held it, let it out slowly. It was always good to be reminded that this was no game.
“Captain,” he called, “with your permission I’d like to salute the Monsoor twice more.”
“Twice more, then I put up the helm if nothing comes of it.”
From aloft came a sudden cry: “A sail! A sail! From Kinsale! Nay, two sail of ships!”
Immediately Edward put his glass to his eye and made out topsails. Men-of-war, surely! Lookouts at Charles Fort would have alerted any navy ship in harbor. But his elation quickly passed, as did the crew’s. It would take too long for the men-of-war to sally from Kinsale.
“Ne’er mind them!” barked Cronow. “They can’t help us—can’t you see which way the wind blows? But stick to your quarters, my hearts!”
By now the French privateer was within one hundred and fifty yards. Within minutes, French musketeers would begin firing their long-barreled fusils boucaniers, and it would take only a volley or two to clear the Peregrinator’s decks. That way, they could capture the valuable prize with hull intact—mostly—and full cargo.
“Mr. Foxcraft, this time give fire when your piece comes to bear with the foretop,” Edward ordered, as he climbed onto the gunwale, steadying himself with one of the main shrouds. He wanted to get a better look at the privateer, to find any conceivable way out of their predicament.
“Aye, sir,” Foxcraft replied.
“Bougres anglais!” Edward heard, among other vulgar insults as the French crewmen brandished muskets, boarding pikes, pistols, and cutlasses. Their commander waved with his sword, an order to strike amain—to lower topsails as a signal of submission, of surrender. Out of habit Edward drew his backsword and waved it in defiance. By way of reply, a musket ball whizzed over his head, then another. One bounced off the mainmast with a thunk!, then off a yard and ricocheted again off some unknown spar above, like a lead die rattled in a wooden pannikin. His pride would not let him abandon his post on the gunwale, even though he was making himself an obvious target. He must wait a minute or two to prove he scorned their shot. He swore he could hear the pounding of his heart.
On the heels of the musket shots came another round shot. It struck the bow and sent splinters across the deck, but both shot and splinters missed everyone—good Fortune, indeed. Splinters accounted for more injuries in battle than did the round shot that caused them, but lubbers seldom believed this until they witnessed it.
Edward wondered why the privateer was not firing at the rigging instead, then thought he shouldn’t question Fortune too closely. Quite possibly, the privateer’s captain realized that if he shattered the Peregrinator’s rigging, he wouldn’t be able to repair it before the sallying English men-of-war appeared on scene.
Some of the crew now looked frightened to the point of inaction, or worse, of fleeing below the deck. Edward glanced around for the parson, intending to order him to say a bold prayer aloud or, barring that, sending him below to rid the deck of a perceived Jonah. But the soul driver, as the seamen called him, had already retreated below to the hold, probably after the first round shot struck the ship.
“Follow my commands and load the gun, Goddamn your eyes!” the mate shouted suddenly at his gang.
Edward looked down at the gun crew, then dropped to the de
ck, his left hand instinctively seeking the butt of one of the pistols hooked in his belt. He kept his sword in hand, but let the back of its blade rest casually against his right shoulder.
Three of the crew stood mutinous, refusing all orders; most of the rest looked to be unsure which side they might take.
At least none has yet laid hand to their weapons, Edward thought.
Cronow cursed and drew a pistol from his belt and drew it to full cock, while Foxcraft picked up a hand crow from where it lay on the deck and brandished it menacingly. There was no doubt Cronow would use his pistols if necessary, and surely the crew knew that the mate had no compunction against crushing heads with the hand crow. After all, wasn’t his nickname Kill Turk, earned defending a Portuguese slave ship against a Sally rover hoping to turn the crew of white slavers into white slaves? Foxcraft, cutlass in one hand and hand crow in the other, had cut and bludgeoned a dozen Barbary corsairs down as they tried to board.
“Avast!” Edward ordered. “At least for the moment, Mr. Foxcraft. Cracked skulls can’t man guns, and these men didn’t sign aboard to fight a fifty-gun privateer.”
He feared the blatant threat of force might cow these men into complete inaction, and inspire others likewise, long enough for the Frenchman to capture them all. Swift persuasion, backed by the veiled threat of force was needed, and quickly. He opened his mouth, but he was cut off by one of the navy wives.
“And you call yourself English seamen!” she sneered at the men whose fear had overcome their alcoholic courage. “Jack tars, you pretend to be! By God, a crew of women could give that poxy French whore more cause for fear than you have! Stand off, then, you cowardly hussies, and leave the women to make the slaughter!”
The men said nothing, their faces red.
“Here, lads,” Edward said confidently, taking advantage of the pause. The woman’s sneer had turned shame to anger, and now he wanted that anger aimed at the Frenchmen, and not at the women or officers. “What’s this across the water but a Monsoor about to run himself aground and keep the wreck-mongers busy? Keep to your piece, we’ll be no worse off for warming our hands on a gun barrel. Kinsale is in sight, a pair of English frigates venture forth to fight, and the Peregrinator’s owners will reward you for your brave service.”
Fortune's Whelp (Fortune's Whelp Series Book 1) Page 7
