The Following Sea (The Pirate Wolf series)

by Canham, Marsha

  "Aye-yup." Stubs returned the stem of the pipe to his mouth. "Came down myself to tell ye a mite ago, but... erm... didn't sound like ye wanted to be disturbed right at that moment."

  Dante's cheek twitched at the sight of the quartermaster's knowing smirk. "You should have disturbed me anyway."

  "Can do a body harm gettin' interrupted that way, if ye know what I mean."

  Dante snapped the glass open again and stared long and hard into the darkness. Thick fog banks were not uncommon in the tropics, especially close to land, and from what he could see... or not see... there was a large one forming, spreading out from Espiritu Santu, drifting across the water like a large black cloud, the upper reaches silvered by moonlight.

  If they could get into that cloud, they might have a chance to thwart Muertraigo’s plans for the morning.

  "Two gigs?"

  "Three," Stubs said. "In this calm she'll be a bitch to tow."

  "Three then," Gabriel agreed. "Eight oarsmen apiece. Get them in the water as quickly and quietly as you can. Wrap the cleats and winch to muffle the sound and keep the hull between us and their watchers. Bring Betts up on deck with his fiddle, and get a few men singing ditties. If their lookouts report that the crew is drunk and relaxed, they may not pay as close attention. As soon as the moon is gone, I want every man on deck, the guns primed and ready to fire. Start trimming the fore and aft riding lamps now so we don't disappear all at once."

  Stubs grinned and rubbed his gnarly hands together. "Aye Cap'n! Touch-holes are already covered to keep the powder dry, an' ye've got about three hundred men real happy to hear we're goin' to repay them damn Spaniards for makin' us wear their fancy-ass britches.”

  “I believe it was Old Bull who said: you can fight and lose, but you can never win if you don’t fight at all.”

  ~~

  As predicted, the mist thickened, skimming across the surface of the water like pale fingers before creaming up against the hull of the ship. The moon was sinking fast. Longboats had been lowered away with the strongest men on board, ready to play out the cables and tow the Endurance into the dense wall of the fog bank. The nimble-fingered Betts had played his fiddle for two hours, with much laughing and stomping for accompaniment. The men had sat under the lights and waved their pannikens and grog cups—which were filled with water—occasionally staggering to the rails to piss over the side with drunken roars.

  A few at a time, the gun crews crept back up on deck and crouched behind the ten foot long culverins. Dante had warned the crew captains they would have at best, fifteen minutes to fire off as many rounds of shot as possible before the longboats turned the ship and started towing it into the fog. They would be fully exposed for God only knew how long after that and vulnerable to returning fire from the galleons. It was imperative to do as much damage as possible in the short time they would have surprise on their side.

  Dante ordered five of the swivel guns mounted along the stern rails. After sending Eduardo to his cabin to warn Eva to dress, he had another four mortars moved to the gallery windows. They were smaller caliber weapons, mainly used for firing handfuls of small stones, but Gabriel had them loaded with nails and sharp pieces of scrap metal which would slice through flesh like knives through cheese.

  ~~

  With one eye on the moon as it sank into the blackness of the horizon, Dante prepared to give the signal to fire. Men stood ready with lit fuses, the glowing red tips shielded. When the last sliver of silvery water disappeared, he nodded to Stubs, who passed along the order to douse the deck lamps and open the gunports.

  The gunners had had more than enough time to adjust the elevation of the guns and choose their targets. When Dante's hand dropped, the entire starboard battery exploded, spitting out clouds of orange-flecked smoke, sending two tiers worth of thirty-two pound iron shot hurling through the night. As soon as each of the sixteen heavy guns fired, it was hauled in, swabbed, loaded with fresh shot, tamped, charged and run out again. The crews worked with determined efficiency, taking under a minute and a half to reload and fire.

  Across the water, the three galleons each took direct hits. The shots blasted through rails and yards as the first few rounds were aimed high with the intent to cripple the masts and rigging. Yards came crashing down, tangled in torn shrouds. One of the shots hit the top of the mainmast on the San Mateo, the crack of breaking timber echoing across the water.

  Gabriel did not allow himself to celebrate or to believe the Spaniards had been caught completely off guard, but he was modestly encouraged to see they took three full rounds from his guns before any of the galleons delivered a reply.

  The fourth broadside was loaded with incendiary shot, the fireballs arcing across the water and bursting to release a hail of fiery little tar pellets. The men on board the Endurance could hear the shouts and screams as the Spanish crew worked frantically to respond and, just as Dante's gunners had set their aim well in advance, the crews on board the galleons needed no time finding the Endurance in their sights.

  Meanwhile, the men in the longboats put their backs to the oars. It was agonizingly slow work to bring the huge ship about and turn her into the encroaching fog bank. What had seemed so close was in reality nearly half a mile away and although the oarsmen heaved and rowed for all their worth, the Endurance was slow to respond, and agonizingly slow to glide away from the Spaniard's guns.

  At such close range there was no question they would take some damage. And because the three galleons were formed in a shallow crescent, Dante's greatest concern was being caught in a crossfire between the two flanking ships. What he did count on, however, was the absolute stillness of the humid air and the fact that the smoke from his own guns would hang motionless, like a thick white curtain, helping to obscure the direction of their retreat.

  ~~

  Eva had been startled from sleep for the second time that night when Eduardo was dispatched to the cabin. The boy had not wasted time on politeness or niceties. He conveyed Dante's orders to get dressed then hustled her one deck below, placing her in a tiny sail locker with a single candle for light. His parting words, as he thrust a pistol into her hands were, "Cap'n says you know how to use this."

  When the cannons began firing, she pushed herself into the corner and stared at the candle, terrified each time the wax splashed and the flame shuddered, each time the deck jumped and the wheels of the heavy carriages rumbled overhead. She held her hands over her ears, trying to block out the sound of the tremendous concussions but she could feel each jolt through every bone in her body. She quickly became covered in the dust that was jostled loose from the planking overhead.

  Her insides turned to jelly as a particularly loud crash seemed to lift the very strakes she was sitting on. She was bounced from the bulwark into the piles of sail, dislodging one of the thick bales and sending it tumbling to the floor. Eva no sooner reclaimed her heart from her throat when the door to the locker slammed open and a body fell through, landing in a sprawl across her feet. It was one of the crewman. He had been injured on deck and was being helped below by one of his mates. When the shot struck the hull, both had been flung off balance.

  The injured man let out a scream when he fell and Eva was hard-pressed not to do the same as the front of her shirt was spattered red. Blood was gushing from a deep slash down the side of his throat where some flying debris had cut him and Eva, acting purely on instinct, reached over and clamped her hand over the wound to staunch the flow. By then the second crewman had recovered his footing and was standing in the doorway, staring down at her in surprise.

  The two stared at each other for what seemed like half an eternity, each imagining their own little horror—one finding himself in the company of the ship's supposed jinx, the other finding herself alone and without the captain's protection. In reality it was only a few seconds before the crewman gave his scraggly forelock a tug and reached down to pull his fallen comrade to his feet again.

  "Beg pardon, Miss. Lost me grip when the ship
were hit. Poor Alf, here, 'ee looks done for anyroad. 'Ee know'd it too an' asked me to take 'im to the surgery so 'ee could pass with the taste o' rum on 'is lips."

  "You mustn't move him!" Eva cried, holding the young crewman off with one hand while she kept the other pressed tight over the injured man's throat. "The wound is deep but I don't believe it is mortal. See how my fingers have stopped the flow? If the life vein had been cut, there would be no stopping it."

  "Eh? Ye know doctorin'?"

  "No. No, but I... I have helped out a time or two at the naval hospital in Portsmouth."

  The crewman clenched his hands to fight back the tears in his eyes. "Alf is me brother. Only family I got. An' 'ee's me best friend. We been wi' Cap'n Dante nigh on ten years. If ye think ye could save 'im...?"

  Eva looked at the man on the floor again and realized the two were twins.

  "You said you were taking him to the surgery?"

  "Aye, Miss. Cabin aft. Doc Podd does best 'ee can wi' a saw an' hot irons an' when 'ee sees them goin’, ‘ee makes it easier an’ gives 'em a full pint o' rum."

  Eva shuddered, having seen some of the handiwork of ship's doctors, most of whom would sooner take a leg off than set a broken bone.

  The candle flickered as another volley from the guns juddered through the ship's hull. Something caught a spark from the light and Eva glanced over to the shelf where an assortment of the sailmaker's tools, including spare needles and thick bobbins of thread were kept.

  "There," she said, pointing. "Find me the smallest needle and the finest width of thread. Then I’ll need something to tear up to use as bandaging. And water. I need to clear away the blood to see what I'm doing."

  The crewman jerked his head once to acknowledge the orders. He quickly found a needle and a length of coarse black twine which he plucked apart into several thinner threads. He shouted at someone out in the companionway, and a pan of water appeared alongside his own filthy shirt, hastily removed.

  Eva knealt over the wounded sailor. She had thought him to be blessedly unconscious, but as a lock of her hair brushed across his cheek, his eyes opened. His throat worked for a moment, as if he wanted to speak, but in the next, his brother was holding a flask to his lips and the effort to swallow the rum took precedence.

  "There now, Alf, ye're goin' to be jest fine. The mermaid is goin' ter fix ye up good as new."

  A bit of the rum spluttered over Alf's lips and his eyes rolled back in his head.

  "Bring the light closer," Eva ordered, hoping her hand would stop shaking long enough to thread the needle. She had watched wounds being stitched many a time, but had never actually done it herself. A nurse had joked that it was just like sewing a seam, but cloth did not bleed and punching a needle through flesh was not as easy as sliding it through cloth.

  Using yet another thunderous eruption from the guns to cover the way her fingers were shaking, Eva bade the crewman to hold his hand down on the wound while she threaded the needle. Her grip was slippery with blood and she had to try three times before she was successful. By then the doorway was crowded with onlookers and more were whispering out in the companionway.

  If she was wrong about the life vein, if her hand shook too badly to execute the stitches, or if the wound continued to bleed and the man died... she would undoubtedly be blamed and Gabriel Dante's protection would end in a rush of choking sea water.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  When the fighting commenced, Gabriel pushed all thoughts of Eva Chandler out of his mind. He remained in command on the quarterdeck with shots flying overhead and clouds of sulphurous smoke burning his eyes and throat. Stubs and Rowly were like wild men, shouting orders and encouragement. As much as the smoke worked in their favor, it was a hindrance as well. They could hear the shots coming back at them, but had no idea where the iron would strike until the ball whistled out of the smoke and shattered through wood and flesh.

  Men were in the yards, set to unfurl the sails in order to catch any breeze that might arise. Gabriel was reluctant to give the order until the last possible moment, for the added drag caused by the huge sheets of canvas would make harder work for the oarsmen. Instead, he passed the command to the tow boats to tack sharply to the west hoping to confuse the Spaniard's gunners.

  Gabriel heard a particularly loud scream approaching and dove onto the deck as a shot slashed by overhead, so close he felt the heat of it on his face. It blasted through the binnacle and smashed through the rail, streaking straight down the middle of the ship and exploding across the forecastle deck. Shards of flaming cinders rained down on the heads of the crew, and men worked frantically with buckets of sea water to douse any fires before they could spread.

  Smaller crews worked the swivel guns as the ship turned and the culverins became ineffective. They launched sangrenel shot—more pouches full of nails and razor-sharp metal. These were aimed and fired blind through the smoke until Dante called a halt, knowing the Spaniards would start to use the muzzle flashes to target their position.

  With a thick wall of smoke behind them and the tantalizing safety of the fog bank ahead, the Endurance was dragged through the water, widening the gap between them and the galleons. The Spaniards continued to fire, the air vibrating with each thunderous volley, but their shots were starting to go wild, striking mostly water and sending up gouts of spray. It was far too premature to celebrate, but every oar's length they gained gave Gabriel another spark of hope that they'd broken free.

  "By God, it might actually work," he muttered to Stubs.

  "Ye didn't think it would?"

  "Hell, no. I figured we'd be holed before we even moved."

  Stubs swabbed a streak of blood off his cheek with his three partial fingers and scowled. "Well I'm glad ye kept that bit o' cheer to yerself until now."

  Dante grinned and clapped the quartermaster on his shoulder after which he demanded absolute silence on deck. Shots continued to streak out of the smoky darkness searching for them, but apart from one or two lucky strikes, the Spaniard's efforts were wasted.

  In under an hour they were well away into the fog bank, where Dante ordered another course change. He did not think Muertraigo would go to the massive effort to follow him into the fog, but he was taking no chances. The Spanish pirate would likely expect him to head straight south down the Tongue to avoid the hazard of the barrier reef, but Gabriel swung the ship in a wide arc and headed directly toward Espiritu Santu. He knew there were currents closer to land that would give the oarsmen some relief. There were also dozens of islets and atolls where a ship could hide... assuming they did not lose their keel crossing the wide reef. He put men on lines sounding out the depth every five minutes and more men in the yards to alert them to any breaks in the fog.

  With the fighting hopefully behind them, his thoughts turned to the damages and the wounded. There was debris on deck that had to be cleared, guns to be swabbed and checked for heat stress. There were two dead and several dozen wounded to be taken care of—an astonishing low casualty rate, which Gabriel accepted gratefully. The rudder had taken a hit and he already had men in the water, clinging to the side by ropes, making repairs. Spare yards and rigging lines were being hoisted and bolted into place, replacing those that had been shot away.

  The fog was as thick as Cook's burgoo, and Dante had lost all sense of distance and direction after the Spaniards had stopped firing. The depth beneath the keel had changed drastically, reading less than three fathom in places, but he knew there were cracks in the reef that would allow a ship to hopefully pass through unmolested.

  He just had to find one.

  Another full hour passed before Gabriel saw Eduardo scampering past with a bucket of water and halted him.

  “You can go below and fetch Mistress Chandler from wherever you put her. Tell her it is safe to come up on deck now.”

  Eduardo wiped a smudge of grime off his brow and shook his head. “She isn’t where I put her, Cap’n. She’s in the surgery.”

  Dante felt a cold clu
tch of fear in his chest. He did not hear the rest of what Eduardo was saying; he leaped down the steps from the quarterdeck and pushed through the hatchway, which was still crowded with crewmen. He bullied his way through the crush, descending another level to the orlop deck, then snarled a path clear to the cabin in the rear.

  There he stopped, the light from within bathing his face in a dull yellowish glow. Not knowing what to expect, or what had happened to put Eva in the surgery, he had one hand on the butt of his pistol, the other on the hilt of his sword. Douglas Podd was standing at one end of the oak slab that served as an operating table, a cup of rum in his hand.

  Eva was at the other, concentrating closely on the wound she was tending on a man's arm. Her shirt was soiled and bloodied, her face gleamed with sweat. Her hair was tied back at the nape but slender curls had worked free in the heat and humidity of the airless cabin. She murmured something to the man whose arm she was stitching and… God strike all the saints from heaven if the lout was not blushing.

  "Do I dare ask what the devil is going on here?" Dante asked, arching an eyebrow.

  Podd glanced over, belched, and waved the near-empty rum jug. "I been told she 'as a lighter touch. Been told they'd ruther wait an hour fer the mermaid to stitch 'em up as 'ave me do it."

  Eva glanced up and blew a puff of breath to dislodge a curl that had fallen over her cheek. "I was of no use hiding away in a sail locker, Captain. I offered to help Master Podd and he accepted."

  Podd nodded and grinned. "'Aven't 'eard so much as a squeak of an argumentation out o' any of the men either. Specially the Kowall lads, over yon."

  He pointed to the two brothers seated on a narrow berth against the wall. Alf's throat was bandaged and his eyes were glazed from the amount of rum Podd had been generously distributing, but it was Ferg who lifted his panniken in a toast.

  "She saved me brother, Cap'n. 'Ee was dead sure as I'm sittin' 'ere. Doc Podd said as 'ow 'ee should 'ave been… would’ve been if she 'adn't touched 'is neck an' stoppered the blood.”