While surveying the local waters one day, in keeping with the primary article of our plan to prevent intruders, we glassed a ship that appeared to be closing on our island. This a routine survey, the captain was ashore and I was in command. Believing we'd not ourselves been spotted, I instructed the helmsman to bring us about at once and take pursuit from the west. They were a sleek ship and cutting in excess of five knots. They were pushing real hard to be somewhere, fast. 'Tis probably why they'd not spied us. But we'd be hard pressed to catch them, if they kept up that pace. 'Course we were not looking for a prize, so if they sailed on past Nemusmar (at a respectable distance), then no harm be done. Should they make land, on the island, we'd be on them soon enough.
As we closed on them, I realized their haste was purposeful; they were themselves closing on a Spanish galleon near landfall on our island. Now, that was a predicament! Two ships filled with armed men, within spitting distance of Nemusmar. I worried we were not up to the challenge, but I determined to forge ahead. I considered that was the course the captain would choose. What made me mind for me were the distances betwixt ships. We were still long from closing on our target, but they seemed totally unawares of us, being intent on catching their prey. To delay would give them time to discover us and react. Right now, we had the advantage, and I was certain options would present themselves.
The galleon was no match for the corsair. She tried to come about for cannon shot, but the corsair outmaneuvered her. The brigands did not even attempt to fire on the galleon's masts. She was full trapped. Where could she go? The corsair moved in on the galleon's starboard and commenced to board "visitors." Close quarters combat ensued, and the Spaniards were getting the worst of it–appeared they'd be quickly overrun. Through me glass, I could see the flare of a hundred small arms, being fired from both sides, and the blast of a dozen grenades. Then there was such a cloud of smoke, I could not determine the action.
As we closed on that melee, I determined me strategy would be to bring me port cannons to near point-blank range of the corsair, disable her masts to prevent flight, and endeavour to sink her without boarding, if possible. The Spanish were of no immediate concern to me, being otherwise occupied. Were I successful in sinking the corsair, and the brigands abandoned her for the galleon, I'd have more concerns; they'd have new wood to guard them and fresh guns to fire at me! But I was no visionary, like the captain. I must go one step at a time. So–not to worry–we still had the advantage, and–once again–I was certain options would present themselves.
When in perfect position, at me command, the swivel gun and first battery of cannon were fired, bringing the masts toppling like saplings in a hurricane! This grabbed the attention of those boys still aboard the corsair. But afore their brains could even fathom what the hell was going on, I loosed me second battery of cannon into their hull, shaking the beams of that ship and causing her keel to rise several feet toward port afore righting herself. T'was not a man left on his feet, aboard that corsair, as I prepared to fire me next volley. Some of those in the corsair as scrambled to their feet might've wished they had not, as our blast caught them full aface! It seemed this conflict was less troublesome than I'd predicted; if we could keep knocking them down and away, like this, 'twould be more like a game of bowls than a battle.
Their captain, who–at present–was "visiting" aboard the galleon, gave the order to abandon ship, realizing, no doubt, I'd never let them near their starboard guns. They made haste for the galleon, which was not yet secured, and some were got by the Spaniards. It appeared these brigands were not novices. Nor was their captain. Tactically assessing their situation, instantly, he issued a slew of commands to ready the galleon for defense, while still grappling with the remaining Spaniards for control of the ship. I could not hear his words, but I could spy him. And seeing his crew scurry to implement his orders, put me mindful of our very own crew, under the command of our captain.
Interesting as this was, I was not amused. While the corsair was afloat, it provided them a shield, and time to plot a course of action. The masts of that galleon–aye, the whole ship–were still quite intact. They might attempt a run–or feign a run and come about on the attack. Or they might hold fast while I'm sinking the corsair, and fairly blast me out of the waters, at first opportunity. As I'd predicted, options were indeed presenting themselves; but it was their options, not me own! I could not be certain what to do, only what not to do. I could not back away.
I was snapped back to me senses by the clap of cannon fire–and it was not our own! Could those fools be trying to blast us through the corsair? Again, the cannon's roar! And I saw the galleon's mizzenmast topple. And the flash of powder had come from onshore. It was our lads, blasting away at the galleon! When the smoke cleared a might, I could see longboats filled with our men, making towards the galleon. Me befuddled mind was now as clear as the course of action I must pursue; I'd blast that corsair out of the waters, hammer at the galleon's broadside, continue to close and utilize every cannon and firearm aboard to clear the decks of that scum, so me mates could board her, unmolested.
And so it occurred, in a smoke-filled, bloody riot of events. The enemy thought to put their port cannon to our land fortifications, then to the longboats–but with no success. Either they couldn't figure the angle of fire for those Spanish cannons, or–more likely–the panic had set in. 'Twas evident their situation was quite precarious: being closed from port and starboard, with land and ship guns assailing them from either side. And for certain it was the panic that caused them to open up their starboard cannon. Not a shot reached us! They were simply hammering the corsair from one side, as were we from the other. And timbers went airborne, now! I was more concerned for me crew being harmed by flying beams and planks than cannon shot.
By now, I felt exhilarated! I'd caught that first whiff of victory! Do you know what I say? The uninitiated would dismiss it as the smell of sulphur and gunpowder, but a campaigner knows that odour. It may contain some of the particles of battle, but it has also a sweet smell. And amidst the choking dust of combat, it comes to you as clean air; and you breathe it deeply! Then, somehow, you know–you just know–you will not fail. That scent of victory motivates you; it draws you like lust for a woman. Only a novice–or a fool–would settle back to savour this aroma. An old campaigner knows this smell of victory grows stronger, sweeter, clearer and cleaner as you press on to final victory. Then 'tis time to savour!
And so, all hands pressed to. I could tell me mates relished the prospect of combat with this foe. These were not so many merchants guarding their purses; nor were they soldiers fighting someone else's battles. These were true campaigners–freebooting warriors like ourselves. No other combatant could ever prove as worthy an opponent, to such as ourselves.
The shore guns became quiet. From this I knew–'though I could not see them–that the longboats must have closed on the galleon to the point where boarding preparations were in order. There was not much left to the corsair: just a hull and a charred hulk teetering in the wind, as she burned to the water line. Me mates were itching for combat and anxious to get a hand in; and I believed I might have an opportunity to come around aft of the corsair remains and provide "visitors" to the galleon across rope ladders.
But first, I must follow through the plan I'd set in motion. Every gun as could be aimed towards the galleon was positioned to clear the decks. Every man what held a firearm was directed to find a living target. This all was done in the quick-to, as our mates in the longboats were now most vulnerable. The guns ashore could not assail the galleon without a risk of hitting our own. 'Though request for surrender would be shouted to them, 'twas given, these brigands would never accept. And they'd pound our lads with all they had! Me responsibility was to prevent that, and to clear those decks without delay; otherwise, I'd be shooting me own as they attempted to board.
So we were ready in the quick-to, and all fell absolutely sile
nt for a few moments. Our entire complement held their breath–and their aim. Upon me command, "Fire!" we loosed everything as one gigantic crack of thunder and lightning! Even through the billowing smoke, I could see bodies and pieces of bodies jettison the galleon. Higgins, me bo's'n, provided me a word with which I was unfamiliar, to describe the event. Carnage, he called it; and carnage it was.
As now we were pulling about, to come around the smoldering hulk of the corsair and meet just aft of the galleon, I spied the first of me mates from the longboats climb aboard the galleon. Most as by nature–and as one would suspect–the first aboard was Orke! With a cutlass in one hand, and an extended, double-edged dirk in the other, he was slicing a clean path through the remainders of that crew as came to "greet" him. I achieved me destination and me lads heaved our ladders and began to scurry onto the galleon. A dozen or more from the longboats were already upon their decks. The brigands were being encircled by our lads, amidship. I glanced towards Orke, still hacking and stabbing–eyes looking as red as the blood of his victims. And these "victims" were uniformed soldiers. There were still some Spaniards alive?!
Orke had disposed of most of these "remnants" and was pressing on towards the real enemy: the brigands. His eyes diverted by the flash of their captain's pistol (intended for him, but passing wide of its mark), Orke almost failed to see the thrust of a sword by one last Spanish soldier. Yet, by good fortune, he did see; bringing his cutlass down like an executioner's axe to a chopping block, he severed the man's forearm! He did not, however, see the man behind him who thrust a dagger into Orke's right shoulder, causing the cutlass to fall from his hand. Orke swung about to confront his assailant with his dirk, but another of our lads had already taken him down with a club laid upon his skull.
Orke and his boarding party now gave their undivided attention to their "host," the brigand captain, and his band of intruders. Our men closed and tightened the circle of combat. The brigands were forced to fight back-to-back. Orke made his way through the clamourous throng of our mates to confront the brigand captain, directly. The wound to his shoulder seemed to be a problem, as his good, right hand just hung by his side. But his cutlass he wielded in his strong, left hand. I was not concerned, as Orke's second best was better than most men's best!
This captain held a cutlass in his good hand, the blade glistening scarlet from the blood of several others. In his off hand, he held a pistol–spent and useless. He appeared to be a youngish man, for a captain; I'd place him somewheres afore twenty-five. He had a short-cropped, black beard, sharp blue eyes, and a perpetual grin on his face. As their lot worsened, that grin seemed to grow, in proportion: an adventurer after me own heart!
As if they were a crowd on a dance floor, the mob of combatants pulled back, widening the circle to make room for the dancers. The "dancers," who took centre to engage each other, were Orke and the brigand captain. The captain let the pistol slip from his hand, and one of his own passed him a dagger. This put him up on Orke as they each looked for an opening. The captain feigned an opening with his cutlass, then thrust to the heart of the matter (Orke's, that is) with his dagger. Orke raised his cutlass to fend off the captain's cutlass, but–ever awares–he noticed the man shift his weight, and brought his cutlass down just in time to carve the daggered hand. As that blood-drenched dagger slapped the deck, it was obvious that hand would never hold another.
But that captain was a strong man. He but flinched a bit, winced from the pain and started flailing with his cutlass to put Orke back a ways from him. To reflect on a wound, in the midst of battle would be fatal. Having put Orke at a distance, the captain stepped back hisself, cocked his head to the sky and drew a deep breath. When his head came back down, there was that devilish grin, again. Orke allowed the man this moment, and hisself, drew long, deep breaths. As the parties reconvened hostilities, each seemed a bit more cautious; each now had a gauge of the other man.
'Twas as watching a fencing duel, if you can imagine fencing with cutlasses as foils. And each man was backed by scores of "seconds," each urging his own man, and chafing at the bit for his chance at the action. This captain was young, but, obviously, a seasoned warrior, skilled with a blade. Our Orke was a phenomenon. He seemed, as if by magic, to know where to defend, just where to place his blade, afore his opponent had thrust. He did this by studying a man totally: the movement of his eyes, facial twitches, tensing of the muscles, a switch in position or a shift in weight. I swear, Orke's greatest weapon was his brain!
And, thus, it continued: thrust–parry–thrust–parry–the clash and clang of metal striking metal with brute force! And garments were ripped and skin was snagged and scratched, but neither man could achieve a killing blow. Each moved about in a semicircle, trying to outmaneuver the other. While doing so, and searching for that perfect opening, each took caution that his back was not displayed to his enemy's companions. Even amongst an assemblage of saints, could lurk a dishonourable soul (the Lord had His Judas); and this was no assemblage of saints. 'Twas evident to me, that even though both were wounded–and Orke was fighting with his off hand–these two warriors were a fair, even match. And only the wearing of time, effort and tiredness would draw the outcome and produce a victor.
When that moment came, I–as most all present–realized it, afore the culminating blow was delivered. The brigand captain exerted all his near-spent energy into a thrust of his cutlass that barely missed skewering Orke's throat. That was alarming! Orke was tiring, and his reflexes were slowing. But what truly demonstrated to me that the climax was at hand, was the slow, hesitant way that captain recovered from his thrust, and the look of total exhaustion on his face. We all knew, 'twas over.
As if merely an instrument of fate, proceeding to a foregone conclusion, Orke harpooned the brigand captain. Everything stopped as the man stood there full stunned, hunched a bit, with Orke's cutlass run through him. He fell back upon the deck, and Orke's blade, still firmly in that strong, left hand, reappeared from out of the captain, coated in crimson. That man had to be in excruciating pain; but he looked up at Orke and grinned. Orke stepped up to the captain, bowed, kissed the hilt of his cutlass and delivered the coup de grace: which was the honourable thing to do.
And then did all hell break loose! Those brigands tore loose from their confinement and tore into me mates, screaming like Indians in a war party. From the savagery of their attack, I thought for a moment they might surround and overcome our lads. But it soon was evident, the fire was gone from their campaign. They were fighting in response to the hurt: like wounded animals. And, as with badly wounded animals, they gave in suddenly, and all at once.
Our boys quickly disarmed those brigands what still held weapons. Then they were all herded amidship and bound together with whatever rope as was available (including some rope ladders). What followed was a most peculiar scene. Having secured the brigands–who no longer offered any resistance–in a bound, huddled cluster amidship, our lads pulled back a few yards from them and went to sitting, leaning and sprawling on the deck, in sheer exhaustion.
The two groups of belligerents–just moments from being mortal enemies–lounged there, staring across at each other, emotionless. Doubtless, we were as drained of emotion as we were of physical strength. As I'd predicted, these campaigners had proved the most worthy of adversaries. Still, 'twas something to contemplate that with all we'd just been through, we'd end up like this: silent, gaunt-spirited, not a shred of malice, and no inclination on the part of me mates to truly savour our victory. We passed considerable time in this fog-like state. (Frankly, I've never attended a sermon where men sat so quietly for so long.)
As with all the others, I was caught in this odd moment, to the point of neglecting me duties to secure from battle stations and repair from the galleon. This was brought to me attention by the commanding voice that cut through and lifted that fog that bound us in limbo, "And what the hell is this, Mr. Crockett? Were you
conducting a prayer meeting on your watch? Do you expect the saints and the Holy Spirit to secure your ship for you?!"
Our captain's sarcasm could cut through any fog: physical or spiritual. And speaking of spiritual, how came he aboard without notice?
Chapter X
A Captain's Prerogative
Annalea, Princess of Nemusmar Page 11
