The King l-4

by Dewey Lambdin

  Two twelve-pounders sat in a hollow partially dug into the slope, screened from view by a shielding wall of boulders laid loose against each other and some dry brush. There were two wide embrasures through which they could fire, and cover the entire harbor. And, being about sixty feet higher than the beach, gained an advantage in range over a ship-mounted artillery piece that might try to return fire. There was a magazine dug into the back slope, and off to one side where it never could threaten the powder supply, was a rock forge where iron cannon balls could be heated before being carried to the battery and loaded down the muzzles of the guns.

  Firewood should have been a problem, except that Stella Marts had provided tons of scrap lumber, and enough bar-iron to make the cradle-sized carrying tools for heated shot. Poor Richard had also gladly sold several barrels of whale oil with which to ignite the forge. And Alan had an idea lurking in the back of his mind about the rest of the whale oil.

  "Good morrow to you, Alan," his father said as he reached the battery.

  "And to you as well, sir," he replied. "Are you ready for a test of this contraption?"

  "Just about," Sir Hugo nodded. Several of his sepoys were hacking hull and deck planking from the unfortunate Stella Maris into kindling. "Ever used heated shot?"

  "No, sir." Alan chuckled. "Not a good idea aboard a ship at any time, and during battle, well… I'm told the French tried it but had disastrous results. Been shot at with it at Yorktown, though."

  "By my calculations, I expect to be able to fire random shot to almost the outer harbor breakers along the reef line," Sir Hugo said.

  "But there's only two fathoms at high tide out there. Anything worth shooting at would be aground that far out," Lewrie replied. One of his other ideas to keep his hands busy and out of mischief or boresome rumbling, was to survey the harbor at low tide and update Mr. Brainard's chart, correcting what he found mismarked or filling in a few mysterious gaps.

  Those mistakes and gaps were horrendous. Taking the average of noon sights with Hogue and Captain Cheney and his officers, they found that Spratly Island itself was incorrectly charted, out of its actual location by at least fifty miles! The coastline was half imaginings, and the soundings inside the harbor seemed to be the speculations of a terribly optimistic mind. It made him cringe every time he thought about how he had trusted that chart when he sailed into harbor, over that broken reef wall and through the pass, maneuvering free as a brainless sparrow over its entire length and breadth during the fight with Stella Maris. In a proper ship, such as a frigate, he'd have been wrecked half a dozen times over!

  "I'd admire a copy of that chart of yours, then," Sir Hugo bade. "Very useful for my binki-nabob. My gunnery officer."

  "I shall have it done directly, sir," Alan offered.

  "Sail ho!" the tower lookout screamed.

  "Choundas?" Sir Hugo stiffened.

  "It very well may be," Alan agreed grimly. " 'Tis the middle of April. Time enough for him realize Sicard isn't available any longer and then sail from Pondichery."

  It was a jumbled run down to the enclosed fort, then up the rickety tower's bamboo ladders to the top platform. Easier to continue to the top of the hill he was already on, which was almost as high. Sir Hugo grabbed a spy-glass and they half-ran, half-trudged up the slope to the windswept crest.

  "Where away!" Alan shouted down. He could not hear the lookout's returning shout, but the man pointed. To the east! "Bloody hell? Now who could this be?"

  "Choundas, coming back from an early meeting with his natives," Sir Hugo snapped. "He might have never gone back to the Indian Ocean, not with us on his trail. Get an early start. And reinforcements."

  Once they had gotten their breath back, and had steady hands, Sir Hugo extended the tubes of the telescope and peered at the eastern horizon.

  "Here," he snarled. "Can't see a damned thing."

  And, Alan noted, his hands were none too steady, either.

  "If I might borrow your shoulder for a rest, sir?" he asked. "And, as the sailor in the family, I might know what to look for. A sail very much resembles what you might take for a cloud. Some…"

  There was a sail out there to the east. In point of fact, there were a lot of sails. Dark tan, they looked, almost silhouetted by the early morning sun. And fairly low to the water. With the wind out of the sou'east now as a steady Trade Wind, he was looking at the cusps of someone's tops'Is, perhaps, angled to take the wind from the stern quarter, running almost free with a landsman's breeze. But there were so many of them! Almost as many as the first sight he'd had from the Desperate frigate's t'gallant yard the morning the French fleet under de Grasse sailed back into Chesapeake Bay!

  "I count at least twelve, perhaps fifteen sail," Lewrie muttered. "It could be a fishing fleet, but I doubt it. They look like praos with their one square-sail flying. If they come up over the horizon, and don't pass on by, they're coming here."

  "The Lanun Rovers!" Sir Hugo spat. "Come to meet with Choundas."

  "Come to the Spratlys for whatever purpose they have, yes."

  "Pray God they enter harbor," Sir Hugo snickered, shaking Alan's resting telescope. "With your batteries, your ship and my guns and my troops waiting ashore, we could make it damned hot for 'em."

  "Well, let me tell you, we've tangled with praos before last autumn," Alan replied. "Hold still, would you please, sir? Each one carries nearly an hundred pirates. Not much in the way of artillery, but we have to be looking at… well, closer to fifteen boats now, so that could be a force of over fifteen hundred men."

  "The more the merrier," Sir Hugo shrugged, waving the resting telescope tube about the sky, forcing Lewrie to close it and give up. "A bloody check here could ruin this fellow Choundas."

  "How the devil do you come by that?" Alan asked.

  "When you slap your invited guests in the face, they don't invite you to their house for supper any longer, now do they, lad?" Sir Hugo boomed.

  "Then we'd better make sure we leave a few to carry word back to their lairs, should we not?" Alan said, getting the drift. Choundas would not know of this until he tried to meet up with his native allies. And they just might do the English the favor of cutting the man's heart out for spite.

  "I wonder if those pirates yonder know the difference between a French and an English flag?" Sir Hugo speculated, humming some song to himself.

  "Whether they do or not, sir, I do believe you're going to get a practical test of this battery of yours before the day's out."

  Chapter 8

  By God, what a fearsome sight, Lewrie thought, pacing his tiny quarterdeck as the Mindanao pirates from the Illana Lagoon came into the harbor. No matter the surprises they'd discover once they got in range, no matter the number of artillery pieces ready to lash every inch of the bay, or the troops waiting with loaded muskets and fixed bayonets to receive them, they were a terrifying spectacle.

  Eighteen large ocean-going praos, crammed with warriors, all experts with their wicked curved swords and krees knives, with artillery and muskets. Warriors used to raiding cruises that the unfortunate Mr. Wythy said lasted up to three years. No shore in all of Asia was safe from their depredations, no native troops could stand against them if such troops stood between them and plunder.

  "Cheer 'em, boys!" Lewrie shouted with a grin plastered on his phyz. "They're your bloody allies, damn their black souls! They're going to help you take ships and make you rich!"

  "Christ a'mighty," Hoolahan whispered, crossing himself as he stood by his carronade. "But they's a passel o' the fuckers, sor."

  "Not a one of 'em half the man you are, Hoolahan," Lewrie assured him with a clap on the shoulder as he paced along down from the quarterdeck to the waist of the ship where the artillery waited, ready to fire when the word was given. "Got your swivel charges ready for 'em, Spears?"

  "Oh, aye, sir!"

  "Good lad. Now wave your hat and cheer 'em!"

  The blood-red praos breasted easily over the harbor bar through the disturbed breake
r-water and spread out, furling their single sails at long last after a long passage. They might have stopped off on the coast of Borneo, dangerous as that was even for them among the headhunters, and done the last three hundred miles to Spratly. Most of the men in the boats stood and waved back, brandishing swords, muskets or older matchlocks like Hindoo jezails, whooping fit to bust. They had livestock with them, crammed in any-old-how. And slaves to do the rowing at the long paddles. Yes, they must have replenished on Borneo, Alan decided, to have that much food aboard.

  And it appeared they'd come prepared for a long stay. Every prao was piled high below her rowing benches with bamboo logs and palm leaves with which to make huts.

  Lewrie made his way back to the quarterdeck, watching the pirate fleet advance in a ragged band, making for the beach. Steering a course for Culverin, and for Lady Charlotte. Lady Charlotte wore the French merchant flag on her stern, and her spanker gaff had been given a stuns'l boom lashed to its inside end, to make it look like the older lateen that the pirates would expect to see on Sicard's La Malouine. Culverin, too, flew an extemporized French ensign painted on one of Lewrie's bed sheets.

  "Oh, Christ, don't beach your damned ship there!" Hogue prayed as three praos angled for the inviting strand on the western peninsula. There were troops there, hidden in the rocks at the crest, with some light artillery to support them. Unlike newer naval guns, those were fired with powder-filled goose quills or tin ignition tubes to ignite the powder charges in the barrels, and that required a burning length of slow-match to touch the quills or tubes off. Slow-matches which were now lit and smouldering, giving off tiny trails of smoke. If a pirate spotted that before the ambush could be sprung, they'd have a battle-royal on their hands. And the troops could not hope for total cover in the rocks. Let someone walk up the beach a few yards, and the game would be over!

  There were thousands of the buggers, just as he had surmised, and even with modern weaponry, Sir Hugo's troops could be overwhelmed. The two ships could be swamped with fanatically enraged pirates with no hope of aid from shore.

  "Come on, you buggers!" Lewrie muttered. "Go on and beach your silly arses by the fort, where the goodies are waiting!" The plan was to wait, wait until most of the pirates had beached or anchored their boats at the fort. Canvas-covered piles of what looked to be trade goods sat out in the open, delectably available. Once between Lady Charlotte and Culve-rin's guns, and the fire-power available ashore, the trap would be sprung. Sir Hugo had enough men to cover the north shore around the fort, and part of the western headland, only able to spare a half-company to reinforce the heavy battery on the point. If the pirates tumbled to it earlier, it would be a near thing as to who would get the worst of it.

  Praos drifted by to bow and stern, some coming very close in as they passed. It was much like being in the middle of a pack of hungry sharks.

  "I think this bastard wants t' come aboard, sir!" Murray said, pointing to one prao that was rounding up below the entry port. "Do we let 'em, sir?"

  "Christ!" Lewrie hissed. Hard as the battle to take the island had been on his nerves, it couldn't hold a candle to this. There was a person of some rank among the pirate band standing on the rails of his boat, waving and shouting, demanding entry. "Ashore!" Lewrie said, pointing in that direction. "Ashore, hey? You… go… there! No come here!" He was all but wiggling his bottom, trying to get the gist of his message across. One pirate's eyes over the bulwarks to see loaded cannon and crews at the ready, and they'd swarm Culverin like a hive of disturbed bees!

  "He don't sound too happy about it, sir," Murray warned. The pirate, clad in a cloth-of-gold turban, green silk skirt, jewels and weapons, was gesticulating and swearing to beat the band, upset that his will was being defied, that his august personage was being waved off instead of catered to.

  "Oh, God, look sir!" Hogue yelped.

  Those three praos had beached themselves on the western shore and their crews were disembarking, stretching and bending to loosen muscles kept taut at sea, and were spreading out in a dense pack over the peninsula's beach.

  "Stand by with those grenadoes, Mister Hogue," Lewrie warned. "Well, if you want to come up, who am I to stop you, you little bastard?" he relented, waving and bowing for the pirate to scamper up. "All hands, stand ready! Ready to hoist the proper colors!"

  The pirate took on a smug look, having gotten his way with the infidels at last, and began to step up to the main-mast chains. The rail of the prao was not so far below Culverin's bulwarks.

  "Most of 'em past us?" Lewrie asked, going to the starboard gangway to greet his unwelcome visitor.

  "About half, looks like, sir," Hogue shuddered, like to faint with anxiety. "Only 'bout half, so far."

  "Best we'll do, then," Lewrie sighed, his own nerves twittering like a dropped harpsichord. He stood and waited for his visitor, a smile on his face. The pirate stepped up on the bulwarks and frowned when he saw what waited him. He opened his mouth to yell.

  Lewrie drew his hanger and lunged. He put the point in just around the navel and sank an unhealthy foot of steel into the man's belly. Before he even had time to shout or draw breath, he was over the side, tumbling back into the water between the ships!

  "Grenadoes!" Lewrie screamed. "Open your ports and open fire! Get English colors aloft!"

  The signal for the opening of the battle. Even as the pirates were beginning to realize their captain was dead and starting to howl with rage, empty wine bottles went over the side, with wicks burning.

  Some were filled with whale oil, some with gunpowder and cut up scrap-iron bits. When they shattered, they burst into flames among the densely packed pirates, among their galley-slaves at the rowing benches. Those that did not shatter, those wrapped about with cloth to protect them, exploded as their fuses burned out and reached the powder. They caused more panic than casualties, but it didn't do the pirates' nerves any good.

  And then the ports were open, and the carronades were firing. The light two-pounder swivel guns were spewing lethal loads of canister or grape-shot down into the boats closest alongside, scything howling pirates down in mid-cry. Praos farther off rocked and came apart at the touch of solid shot, spilling their crews into the water.

  Once the prao alongside was fended off and allowed to drift shoreward, on fire and already sinking, Lewrie ran back to the after deck where Cony waited with his personal weapons. He took the time to see Lady Charlotte blazing away with her remaining heavier long-barreled twelve-pounders, ringed with boats. The shore beyond her was almost lost in the crackle of musketry and the clouds of gunpowder produced by the infantrymen, and the firing of the light artillery. There was a blast of smoke high up the hill, as the first of the hidden battery up there fired, and a great feather of spray sprang into being next to a pirate boat farther off.

  Lewrie went to the rail with the Ferguson rifle he had obtained at Yorktown and began picking off those pirates who seemed to be leading in the nearest boats. Cony was himself a fair shot as well, and he used a.65 caliber fusil to snipe at helmsmen and gunners.

  "Aft!" Lewrie shouted. "Hands aft! Get a swivel-gun here!"

  There was a prao out there, not two hundred yards off, that was being turned with its oarsmen, aiming its two fo'c'sle-mounted guns at Culverin's unprotected stern!

  Hands came running, bearing the weight of one of the portable swivels, dropping the long spike on the base of its mount into one of the holes along the taffrail as Lewrie fired again. Bullets sang in the air as pirates let fly with muskets at impossible ranges, only a few being able to reach him.

  Lewrie sat down on the flag lockers to one side of the tiller-head, braced himself on the railing and aimed for the foredeck of the prao. He pulled the fire-lock of the Ferguson back to full cock and bent to sight on one of the gunners. Holding a little high for drop at that range, he let his breath out and pulled the trigger. There was a respectable bang as the piece discharged, a whoosh of burned powder in his face from the pan.

  But he had st
ruck his man! At nearly two hundred yards. There were only two weapons in the world that could fire that far: the American Kentucky rifle, and the Ferguson. And the Ferguson was a proper military piece. He cranked the lever under the stock one turn, dropping the screw-breech out of the way, pulled the dog's-jaws back to half-cock and bit the end off a cartouche, priming the pan with some of the powder inside. Rammed the rest into the rear of the rifle's breech, screwed the breech shut with one turn of the lever, full-cocked the weapon once more and aimed.

  Another shot, and another pirate down with a ball through his back! And then another, and another, and the pirates began to shrink away from their guns. No one could kill at that range that quickly!

  The swivel-gun went off. Spears had aimed just as carefully, and put a solid two-pound shot into the pirates' forecastle, where it shattered and crazed the air with savage shards of itself, flinging pirates right and left. That was one vessel that had lost interest in trying to rake Culverin up the stem.

  "Make it hot for 'em, Spears," Lewrie ordered, getting to his feet.

  "Bow, sir!" Hogue was shouting and waving for Lewrie to join him. And off Lewrie went, racing forward up the narrow path between the guns on the main deck, to the fo'c'sle to face another hazard. Here, he found a prao almost under their jib-boom, with a horde of raving pirates ready to board.

  "Grenadoes here! Swivel-gun with canister!" Lewrie snapped, taking a deep breath to steady his aim. He loosed a shot from his Ferguson, splattering the leader's brains on his minions, then dropped the rifle and pulled his pistols. A shot from the right weapon, then a shot from the left, while Cony lit fuses atop wine bottles and got them ready to hurl.

  "For God's sake, Cony, get rid of those damned things!"