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In the first half of the seventeenth century, the Spanish Empire rules the West Indies, but their grip begins to loosen as adventurous men from all over Europe and the Americas come swarming, looking to make their fortunes. Among them is Jean-Baptiste LeBoeuf. One of that breed of men who eke out a living hunting the feral pigs of Hispaniola. One of the buccaneers.
Driven by the Spanish from their hunting camps, the buccaneers shift to nearby Tortuga, but LeBoeuf is not looking to simply escape. Ownership of a plantation on the island has fallen into his hands, and he is intent on claiming it. LeBoeuf, however, is not the only one with his eyes on that profitable land. None other than the lieutenant governor of the West Indies, Don Alonso Menéndez, is also vying for the place, and he, and the entire Spanish fleet, will see that LeBoeuf and his band of buccaneers will not possess the Tortuga Plantation. |
The Tortuga Plantation
Chapter Fourteen
LeBoeuf brought the boat alongside his ship and Billy Solent grabbed the chains with the boat hook. LeBoeuf gave Other Dog a boost up the boarding steps and then scrambled up behind. Billy tossed him the bow line and he made it fast and the others climbed up behind him.
“I didn’t know you spoke English,” Billy Solent said in English.
“I don’t,” LeBoeuf said in French.
“Heard you speak English,” Boylan said, and he sounded as surprised and curious as Billy Solent.
“Thought I was speaking Dutch,” LeBoeuf said.
The two Englishmen looked at him, trying to decide, it seemed, if he was as dim-witted as they had always thought him to be, or if he was just acting that way. LeBoeuf did not let them ponder long.
“Come along, we have to keep those bastards on the sandbar. Tide’s falling. If they’re not off in an hour, they’re there for the next twelve.”
The other ship, Loudersong’s ship, was about six hundred feet away. LeBoeuf could see men climbing down into the boat tied alongside, and he had no doubt they meant to set a kedge anchor astern and try to haul the ship off the sand. And he meant to discourage that activity.
He considered the relative positons of the two ships. They were both pointing generally south, held in place by the last of the incoming tide. Charles Rex was astern of LeBoeuf’s ship and off her starboard quarter.
LeBoeuf’s ship, the former Spanish ship, as yet unnamed, was flush-decked, save for a quarterdeck raised four feet above the main deck. On the main deck she carried bastard culverings, cannons firing seven-pound shot, eight per side. It was possible that the aftermost gun on the starboard would bear on Charles Rex if they could train it around far enough. But it would be close.
“We’ll see what we can do with the aft gun, starboard side,” LeBoeuf said. “Get it cleared away. You know the use of such ordnance?”
The four men nodded their heads. “Good. Let’s be at it.”
This would not have been a tall order on a ship better prepared. But the buccaneers were not prepared. They had not possessed that vessel long, and they had done nothing with the guns save to sit on them occasionally. Rammers, sponges, ladles, powder, shot, wadding, match all had to be found. Le Chasseur and Boylan fell to casting off the breechings on the aftermost bastard culvering, starboard side, while the rest of them went below and rummaged around for the gear and supplies they needed.
Powder was located at last, in a small magazine all but hidden behind the cables on the cable tier. Rammers, sponges, and the other necessities were found forward, by the manger, on top of a stack of old sails. The minutes wasted in searching drove LeBoeuf nearly to madness, but eventually men and gear were all assembled on the weather deck.
They could find no powder cartridges made up, so LeBoeuf ladled loose powder down the barrel of the gun. Le Chasseur rammed a wadding after that and Billy Solent selected the roundest of the shot they had located and stuck that in next. When all was ready they grabbed onto the train tackles and hauled away, two men per side, straining to run the three thousand pound gun out the gunport. LeBoeuf leaned over and sighted down the barrel.
“Get those handspikes here, train it right around, all the way around.”
Boylan and Levesque stepped up, jammed their spikes in the deck and leaned into them. Inch by inch the bastard culvering was levered around until it was trained as far aft as it would go, it’s muzzle pointing to some place beyond Rex’s transom.
“Good, good,” LeBoeuf said. He snatched up a powder horn and spilled powder into the touchhole. Le Chasseur had managed to get the match on the linstock lit and he handed it to LeBoeuf, who continued sighting down the barrel.
Through the gunport LeBoeuf could see Charles Rex’s boat. It was under the transom and they were lowering the kedge anchor down to it, a cable run in through the transom window.
What, just getting the kedge aboard now? LeBoeuf thought. That was not very handily done, which told LeBoeuf the other ship was poorly manned, either in numbers or skill. Good to know.
Six hundred feet away the men in Charles Rex’s boat settled the kedge anchor on the davits astern and lower the oars into the tholes. They would row the anchor out astern of the ship, drop it, and then men aboard the ship would heave away. If they were lucky, they would drag the ship off the sand before the falling tide left them stuck until the next high water.
And, in rowing the anchor out, the boat would pass right through LeBoeuf’s line of fire. He had one shot, because once the boat had gone past, the gun would not train far enough around to reach it again.
“Stand clear,” LeBoeuf said, hunched over the gun. He grabbed the quoin and pulled it out an inch, raising the elevation of the barrel. He had never fired this gun, had no idea what it would do. A hit would take a damned lot of good fortune.
The boat was making way now. LeBoeuf pressed his lips together and waited. A second for the priming to burn, a second for the gun to fire and the ball to traverse the distance, it all had to be accounted for.
Still hunched over, LeBoeuf saw that the bow of the boat was now passing directly in front of the gun. He straightened and brought the match down on the touchhole. The powder fizzled and smoke and sparked, and then the gun went off with a great roar, leaping back against its breechings, missing LeBoeuf’s toes by inches.
LeBoeuf did not see the gun pass his toes. His eyes were on the boat, a cable length away. He saw the dark streak of the flying shot, saw the oars in disarray as the surprised rowers lost their stroke. He saw the plume of water shoot up as the round shot landed fifty feet beyond the boat and twenty feet to the right.
Merde, LeBoeuf thought. That was his one shot, and it was not even close.
“Load it again?” Le Chasseur asked.
“Yes,” LeBoeuf said, not because he had any hope of getting another shot to bear, but to keep the men busy while he thought of what to do next. They fell to swabbing out the barrel and ladling more powder in, and he stepped back and looked astern. The Rex’s boat was struggling against the weight of the cable as they hauled the kedge out far enough to drop. Once the anchor was down they would start heaving on the capstan, but they would not have much time.
LeBoeuf stepped over to the bulwark, pulled a spare belaying pin from the pinrail, and tossed it overboard. The pin landed with a splash ten feet away, bobbed up and down and then stopped, floating motionless, not moving in or out with the tide. Slack water.
He turned to the others who were just running the loaded gun back out. “The lot of you, start loading the guns on the larboard side. Load them all, starting aft and moving forward.”
Looks of confusion, glances at the starboard battery, but then the men were moving, racing across the deck and casting off the breechings on the two aftermost guns. They did not ask what LeBoeuf had in mind, and LeBoeuf did not know or care if they had guessed. They were doing as he told them. That was all that mattered.
He turned and ran aft. The brails that held the lateen mizzen sail up were tied off near the base of the mizzen mast. He loosened them off and let them go and the sail dropped and hung from the yard, rippling and flogging in the breeze. LeBoeuf grabbed onto the sheet, hauled it tight, and the sail quieted down as the wind caught and filled it.
The four-man gun crew had finished with the aftermost guns and moved onto the next two forward, working with admirable speed. LeBoeuf looked astern. The boat was fifty feet from the other ship, nearly in place to drop the kedge.
“It’s slack water,” LeBoeuf explained as the men worked at the guns. “Tide’s not holding us, so this easterly wind will swing us around, and these guns to larboard will come to bear as we turn. We’ll get one shot from each as we swing past.”
He saw heads nodding as he men realized what he had in mind. The wind and the turning tide would swing the ship through one hundred and eighty degrees, swinging the larboard battery past Charles Rex. That was their chance.
“Here we go,” LeBoeuf said, as the pressure of the wind in the sail started pushing the ship around. He grabbed the linstock and ran aft to the aftermost gun. No need to train it around, the ship would do that, but the elevation had to be right. He sighted over the barrel. He recalled that his first effort had put the shot too high, so he levered the breech end of the barrel up and pushed the quoin in to lower the muzzle.
The ship was turning now, very slowly. It was agonizing, but it would give LeBoeuf more time to lay each gun. He could see Charles Rex’s long boat, nearly in place to drop the kedge, and he could see it would be under his gun presently. He stepped clear of the recoil and sighted down the barrel, through the gunport.
He could see only water at first, and the beach and jungle beyond, sweeping slowly past. And then the boat was there, coming into view. LeBoeuf waited a second more, waited until the muzzle was even with the bow of the boat, then drove the match down into the priming powder.
He straightened as the priming flared, and looked out over the bulwark at the gun blasted away. He saw the ball skipping across the water, making a series of small splashes as it flew directly at the longboat. Then he saw it take one last splash, right into the side of a small wave, and it was gone.
Too low, LeBoeuf thought, and he raced to the next gun. He leaned over, adjusted the quoin. The ship was turning faster now, and LeBoeuf did not have the gun exactly where he wanted it when he saw the longboat over the barrel.
No more time, he thought. He stepped aside, put the match into the priming. Once again the gun roared and leapt back against its breeching. LeBoeuf’s eyes were on the longboat. He did not see the flight of the shot that time, did not see it fall. But he did see the midsection of the longboat disappear, like a sorcerer’s trick, as the ball struck and plowed on through. Two of the rowers amidships simply vanished, blown out the far side of the boat, and the remaining men froze in surprise and panic.
The heavy anchor cable hung dripping in a great arc from the stern of the ship to the kedge anchor hanging from the boat’s transom. With the pull of the oars suddenly gone, the weight of the cable began dragging the boat backwards through the water, losing every foot of distance the rowers had so painfully made. LeBoeuf could see the oars flailing like the limbs of some wounded sea creature.
And then the stern end of the boat was dragged under by the weight of the anchor and the water flooding in. The boat disappeared, leaving the crew clinging like wrack to the cable.
“Ha! You got them, LeBoeuf!” Le Chasseur called, loud with delight. “Good shooting!” The others were smiling as well. Pleased with themselves.
“You men did good, serving the guns,” LeBoeuf said. “Fast.”
The compliment was sincere. It was no mean task to load and run out a gun with a dead weight of well over a ton, particularly for a short-handed gun crew that had not drilled together. LeBoeuf wondered if any of these rogues were former men-of-war’s men. He knew nothing about their origins, just as they knew nothing about his. It was part of the appeal of the buccaneers.
“Shall we keep it up?” Boylan asked. Firing great guns was always amusing, but there was nothing like doing real hurt to inspire further action.
LeBoeuf, however, had already considered that question. Even if the guns would bear on the stranded ship, a bastard culvering could not do enough damage at that range to make it worth using up the powder and shot. Whatever Spaniard had supplied the ship had not been overly generous with either item.
“No,” LeBoeuf said. “We’ll save our powder until we get the main chance to go after them on the morrow. I sure as damnation am not done with Van Loudersong.”
That decision made, there was nothing left but the waiting. LeBoeuf was used to that. Waiting was always part of this sort of thing: waiting for wind or tide, waiting to see if an enemy would appear where you thought they would, waiting for a fight to commence. The waiting was always the worst of it. Save for death, or grievous wounding.
LeBoeuf had a pretty good idea of how the night would play out if things went as expected, and oddly enough, they did. The tide ran out and the sun set and the two ships remained where they were, enemies staring warily at one another across six hundred feet of water.
In the dark hours, the people on Van Loudersong’s ship manned another boat, retrieved the kedge anchor and set it again, ready to haul the vessel off when the water rose. They could hear it all, coming over the water; the clack of the capstan, the creak of the oars in the tholes, the hushed call of men trying not to be heard. Just as LeBoeuf expected it would happen.
There was no moon, and the men in the boat carried no lantern, which had to make the whole issue a lot harder, LeBoeuf guessed. But, of course, a lantern meant a target for the guns that had already claimed one boat and two men, at least.
There was some discussion among the buccaneers about shooting at them anyway, or attacking from a boat of their own, but LeBoeuf shut that down. Shooting was a waste, and the boat was too risky. One lucky blast with the falconet, and LeBoeuf’s entire crew was gone. As it was, if D’Anton and the rest of the men did not make it back before the other ship was free of the sand, there would be little they could do except wave to Van Louderson as he sailed away.
LeBoeuf set a watch, three turns of the glass for each man, but he was not too confident about their vigilance. They had managed to find some wine on board, and had put enough down their throats to dull their senses, but it did not really matter. Other Dog was standing watch as well, and her eyes and ears were better than even the most alert and sober human watch stander.
Sure enough, it was some time in the middle of the second watch, with Levasseur keeping the deck, when Other Dog began to growl, low and menacing, and pace back and forth, staring out of the gunports into the dark.
LeBoeuf was instantly awake, as was Levasseur, who had dozed off. LeBoeuf hushed the dog and listened. He could hear nothing, but that was neither here nor there. He trusted Other Dog’s senses far more than his own.
“Up, up!” he called to the others. “To arms!” They had been sleeping with their loaded muskets beside them, and now they jumped to their feet and rested the guns on the bulwark, pointing out into the dark. A moment later they could hear it; the splash of oar blades in the water, the creak of the looms. LeBoeuf relaxed a bit. It was not Van Loudersong. The Dutchman would have known to muffle the oars.
A moment later a voice called out from out over the water. “LeBoeuf! It’s D’Anton! I’m with the others!” There was no mistaking the man’s voice, his French heavy with the accent of Africa’s Ivory Coast.
“Good, good! Come along side, the lot of you!” LeBoeuf called, and the rest lowered their guns as the first of the boats materialized out of the dark. One by one the boats ran up to the boarding steps and the men climbed aboard, until all thirty or so were gathered on the deck. It was a reassuring sight. They were tough men, good in a fight. Armed and motivated.
“Here’s how it stands,” LeBoeuf said. “Van Loudersong’s found some confederates who have a ship. It’s stuck hard on a sandbar just now. You passed it in the dark. Next high water they’ll float free and be off to fetch the gold that should be ours. D’Anton told you of Van Loudersong’s treachery?”
Heads nodded. Men scowled.
“Well, we’ll put a stop to it,” LeBoeuf said. “Turn of the tide.”
“Why not attack now?” someone asked. “In the boats?”
LeBoeuf shook his head. “Don’t know how many are aboard that ship. Anyway, you can be sure they’ve made ready for us. Great guns loaded with grape. Falconets. A couple of lucky shots and we’re done for.”
Those words struck home, as LeBoeuf thought they might. These men would be happy to fight; not so happy to be ripped apart by grapeshot, and there was no more talk of a night attack. The new arrivals found places on the deck to sleep, snug beside their muskets, Other Dog resumed her patrol, and the bulk of the night passed with tranquil calm.
There was just a hint of dawn when LeBoeuf began to nudge men awake. Across the water he could make out the vague shape of Van Loudersong’s ship. Or he thought he could. But he could certainly hear activity there, the unmistakable sound of men taking up on a capstan.
“You men, get aloft, loosen off the topsails!” he said, loud enough to be heard, emphatic enough to be obeyed. Groaning, grumbling, the men stood and shuffled off to the shrouds and made their way aloft. They were bound to complain, but they had turned in relatively sober, so it was not so bad.
By the time the men came down from aloft, the light was spreading over the water, the island of Tortuga a dark wall to the north, the harbor blueish gray. Van Loudersong’s ship was moving, inching its way astern, the kedge anchor cable rising up out of the sea as the men heaved the capstan around. LeBoeuf could not tell if the vessel was floating yet, but if not, it would be soon.
His own ship was lying stern to Van Loudersong’s. High water, LeBoeuf guessed, and the tide just turning now. The wind was from the east, as it usually was, and blowing an easy eight knots. Perfect.
“Any here know how to rig the messenger on the capstan?” LeBoeuf asked.
The anchor cable itself was too thick to wrap around the base of the capstan, but they could use a thinner rope, a messenger, on the capstan with the cable lashed to that. It was a common task for a sailor, but LeBoeuf was not sure if any of these men knew how it was done. When they had won the anchor back on Hispaniola, he had simply rigged the messenger himself.
Billy Solent raised his hand, as did Le Chasseur and a few others who LeBoeuf had reckoned were proper seamen, so he set them to it. When that was done, the less useful hands were put on the capstan bars and the nippers—short lines used to temporarily lash the cable to the messenger. The men with more salt water in their blood were set to the sheets and braces.
“Should we load the great guns first?” Le Chasseur asked. He was standing amidships, the starboard foresheet in hand.
“No,” LeBoeuf said. He was not in the habit of explaining himself, and Le Chasseur could be God’s own pain in the ass, but he went so far as to add, “We’ll head for open water first. Too much chance of running aground here. Heave away on the capstan!”
Forward, the men began to walk the capstan around, and the ship began its slow progress ahead as it was hauled up to the anchor. Billy Solent, leaning over the bow, yelled “Short rope!” as the ship approached the spot where the anchor had been dropped, and then, “Up and under!” when they were right over it. He said the words in French, for LeBoeuf’s benefit, and they were not quite the right words, but LeBoeuf knew what he meant.
“Sheet home the topsails! Hands to the halyards!” LeBoeuf called and the clews of the two topsails were hauled out and the yards hoisted up the topmasts. The sails flogged until the yards were braced around, and then they filled and the ship healed a bit and began to make headway, with the warm trade wind on the larboard quarter.
LeBoeuf looked astern. Van Loudersong’s ship was free of the sand and setting sail as well, fore and main topsails.
Sea room, LeBoeuf thought.
They had to get clear of the sandbars so they would have room to maneuver, room to fight. Half a mile from shore would be enough, but they could not do battle among the shallows and the coral heads. He did not know how well trained or able the crew of Van Loudersong’s ship was, but until shown otherwise he had to assume they were better than the buccaneers were.
LeBoeuf did know, of course, that it was not really Van Loudersong’s ship. He guessed it belonged to the heavy, bearded man who had taken the helm after LeBoeuf shot the helmsman. Or perhaps he was just the ship’s master. The dark man with the red head cloth had been aft on the quarterdeck as well, but what role he played, LeBoeuf could not guess.
There was more that LeBoeuf did not know. He did not know who the heavy man was, or, more importantly, if he had friends on Tortuga. If he did, there was no saying how many of his fellows might come out to help if LeBoeuf fought him too close to shore.
They needed sea room.
“Let’s get the great guns loaded!” LeBoeuf called down the deck. “Le Chasseur, Levesque, Boylan, Billy Solent, pick gun crews and take charge of two guns each, one larboard, one starboard. Get them ready for action. Anyone else who knows the use of guns, join in. The rest, stand by the ropes! Steen, take the tiller!”
The Dutchman, Joost Steen, who seemed to have familiarity with such things, took the tiller from LeBoeuf. The rest scrambled to their various places, and fell to loading the guns or carrying up more powder or shot, or finding the ropes they would need to haul when the time came.
LeBoeuf could see the sandbars lurking beneath the surface as they slipped past, the dark shapes of the coral heads. He was sorry to not have Van Loudersong aloft, looking out this time. The man might be a bastard and a lying villain, but he had proved himself a good seaman, and for that LeBoeuf could forgive a lot.
A lot, but not everything. And that morning LeBoeuf meant to offer Van Loudersong no forgiveness.
The last of the sandbars passed astern and LeBoeuf felt himself relax. There was only open water ahead now, or so he was fairly certain. Van Loudersong’s ship was in their wake, and half a mile behind.
Soon…
One by one the great guns were hauled up to their gunports, loaded and ready. LeBoeuf looked out over the open water ahead, Hispaniola in the distance. He looked astern. Van Loudersong’s ship was gathering way. He turned his head into the wind, felt the breeze on his face.
“Set the foresail!” he called and with a little prompting the hands at the foresail gear let go the clewlines and buntlines and martnets and the sail dropped and filled as it was sheeted home. LeBoeuf felt the ship surging forward underfoot, felt it heel a bit farther over.
They stood on south, with the wind on the larboard beam, then bore up to work to windward of Van Loudersong’s ship. The yards were braced sharp up, the larboard tack hove taught as the ship drove as nearly up wind as she could. Once Van Loudersong’s ship was clear of the shallows, LeBoeuf meant to turn and swoop down on them like a bird of prey.
For nearly one turn of the glass they stood on like that, Van Loudersong’s ship creeping through the shallows and coral heads, LeBoeuf’s sailing almost directly away from them, as if trying to flee. LeBoeuf’s eyes were everywhere: on Van Loudersong’s ship, aloft at the set of his sails, looking down the length of his deck at the men standing ready at the guns and the lines, out to windward at the ripples marking the wind on the water.
“We’re going to come about!” LeBoeuf shouted down the deck. “Billy Solent, take charge of the foremast! Le Chasseur, the main! Boylan, come aft and get ready to back this mizzen when I give the word!”
It was time to turn, to charge down on Van Loudersong, but tacking was a tricky business and LeBoeuf was not certain his crew was familiar enough with the evolution to pull it off.
Reckon we’ll see.
“Steen, helm’s alee,” LeBoeuf called and the Dutchman pushed the tiller over and the ship’s bow swung up into the wind. The weather leeches of the sails began to flog and LeBoeuf called, “Mainsail, haul!” and the yard swung around and the ship, slowly, gracefully, swung her bow through the wind. Another ship might have failed to make the turn in that light air, but LeBoeuf knew this ship was a handy one, and he once again expressed his quiet gratitude for that.
They turned, almost a complete circle, until they were heading back the way they had come. LeBoeuf nodded his head slightly.
Perfect…
They were running down on Van Loudersong’s ship, and would cross her bow just as she was coming clear of the submerged near-shore hazards and into open water. They would rake her fore and aft, and the other ship unable to maneuver in the channel. One broadside and, with any luck, they might cripple Van Loudersong’s ship entirely.
“What cheer, mates, stand ready on the starboard battery!” LeBoeuf called. “We’ll pass them by, and you fire as you bear!”
Men waved. They smiled. They looked through the gunports at the enemy with whom they were closing. Enjoying themselves.
LeBoeuf put a hand on the rail and looked aloft, and then looked across the water at Van Loudersong’s ship. It felt…familiar. Like being in a home in which one spent many years, but thought never to see again.
An armed vessel, great guns charged, running down on an enemy at least as powerful. And he, LeBoeuf, on the quarterdeck, and all of it moving to his spoken word. Glory, perhaps, or death, just a few broadsides away.
LeBoeuf took a deep breath and, despite himself, he smiled.
“I didn’t know you spoke English,” Billy Solent said in English.
“I don’t,” LeBoeuf said in French.
“Heard you speak English,” Boylan said, and he sounded as surprised and curious as Billy Solent.
“Thought I was speaking Dutch,” LeBoeuf said.
The two Englishmen looked at him, trying to decide, it seemed, if he was as dim-witted as they had always thought him to be, or if he was just acting that way. LeBoeuf did not let them ponder long.
“Come along, we have to keep those bastards on the sandbar. Tide’s falling. If they’re not off in an hour, they’re there for the next twelve.”
The other ship, Loudersong’s ship, was about six hundred feet away. LeBoeuf could see men climbing down into the boat tied alongside, and he had no doubt they meant to set a kedge anchor astern and try to haul the ship off the sand. And he meant to discourage that activity.
He considered the relative positons of the two ships. They were both pointing generally south, held in place by the last of the incoming tide. Charles Rex was astern of LeBoeuf’s ship and off her starboard quarter.
LeBoeuf’s ship, the former Spanish ship, as yet unnamed, was flush-decked, save for a quarterdeck raised four feet above the main deck. On the main deck she carried bastard culverings, cannons firing seven-pound shot, eight per side. It was possible that the aftermost gun on the starboard would bear on Charles Rex if they could train it around far enough. But it would be close.
“We’ll see what we can do with the aft gun, starboard side,” LeBoeuf said. “Get it cleared away. You know the use of such ordnance?”
The four men nodded their heads. “Good. Let’s be at it.”
This would not have been a tall order on a ship better prepared. But the buccaneers were not prepared. They had not possessed that vessel long, and they had done nothing with the guns save to sit on them occasionally. Rammers, sponges, ladles, powder, shot, wadding, match all had to be found. Le Chasseur and Boylan fell to casting off the breechings on the aftermost bastard culvering, starboard side, while the rest of them went below and rummaged around for the gear and supplies they needed.
Powder was located at last, in a small magazine all but hidden behind the cables on the cable tier. Rammers, sponges, and the other necessities were found forward, by the manger, on top of a stack of old sails. The minutes wasted in searching drove LeBoeuf nearly to madness, but eventually men and gear were all assembled on the weather deck.
They could find no powder cartridges made up, so LeBoeuf ladled loose powder down the barrel of the gun. Le Chasseur rammed a wadding after that and Billy Solent selected the roundest of the shot they had located and stuck that in next. When all was ready they grabbed onto the train tackles and hauled away, two men per side, straining to run the three thousand pound gun out the gunport. LeBoeuf leaned over and sighted down the barrel.
“Get those handspikes here, train it right around, all the way around.”
Boylan and Levesque stepped up, jammed their spikes in the deck and leaned into them. Inch by inch the bastard culvering was levered around until it was trained as far aft as it would go, it’s muzzle pointing to some place beyond Rex’s transom.
“Good, good,” LeBoeuf said. He snatched up a powder horn and spilled powder into the touchhole. Le Chasseur had managed to get the match on the linstock lit and he handed it to LeBoeuf, who continued sighting down the barrel.
Through the gunport LeBoeuf could see Charles Rex’s boat. It was under the transom and they were lowering the kedge anchor down to it, a cable run in through the transom window.
What, just getting the kedge aboard now? LeBoeuf thought. That was not very handily done, which told LeBoeuf the other ship was poorly manned, either in numbers or skill. Good to know.
Six hundred feet away the men in Charles Rex’s boat settled the kedge anchor on the davits astern and lower the oars into the tholes. They would row the anchor out astern of the ship, drop it, and then men aboard the ship would heave away. If they were lucky, they would drag the ship off the sand before the falling tide left them stuck until the next high water.
And, in rowing the anchor out, the boat would pass right through LeBoeuf’s line of fire. He had one shot, because once the boat had gone past, the gun would not train far enough around to reach it again.
“Stand clear,” LeBoeuf said, hunched over the gun. He grabbed the quoin and pulled it out an inch, raising the elevation of the barrel. He had never fired this gun, had no idea what it would do. A hit would take a damned lot of good fortune.
The boat was making way now. LeBoeuf pressed his lips together and waited. A second for the priming to burn, a second for the gun to fire and the ball to traverse the distance, it all had to be accounted for.
Still hunched over, LeBoeuf saw that the bow of the boat was now passing directly in front of the gun. He straightened and brought the match down on the touchhole. The powder fizzled and smoke and sparked, and then the gun went off with a great roar, leaping back against its breechings, missing LeBoeuf’s toes by inches.
LeBoeuf did not see the gun pass his toes. His eyes were on the boat, a cable length away. He saw the dark streak of the flying shot, saw the oars in disarray as the surprised rowers lost their stroke. He saw the plume of water shoot up as the round shot landed fifty feet beyond the boat and twenty feet to the right.
Merde, LeBoeuf thought. That was his one shot, and it was not even close.
“Load it again?” Le Chasseur asked.
“Yes,” LeBoeuf said, not because he had any hope of getting another shot to bear, but to keep the men busy while he thought of what to do next. They fell to swabbing out the barrel and ladling more powder in, and he stepped back and looked astern. The Rex’s boat was struggling against the weight of the cable as they hauled the kedge out far enough to drop. Once the anchor was down they would start heaving on the capstan, but they would not have much time.
LeBoeuf stepped over to the bulwark, pulled a spare belaying pin from the pinrail, and tossed it overboard. The pin landed with a splash ten feet away, bobbed up and down and then stopped, floating motionless, not moving in or out with the tide. Slack water.
He turned to the others who were just running the loaded gun back out. “The lot of you, start loading the guns on the larboard side. Load them all, starting aft and moving forward.”
Looks of confusion, glances at the starboard battery, but then the men were moving, racing across the deck and casting off the breechings on the two aftermost guns. They did not ask what LeBoeuf had in mind, and LeBoeuf did not know or care if they had guessed. They were doing as he told them. That was all that mattered.
He turned and ran aft. The brails that held the lateen mizzen sail up were tied off near the base of the mizzen mast. He loosened them off and let them go and the sail dropped and hung from the yard, rippling and flogging in the breeze. LeBoeuf grabbed onto the sheet, hauled it tight, and the sail quieted down as the wind caught and filled it.
The four-man gun crew had finished with the aftermost guns and moved onto the next two forward, working with admirable speed. LeBoeuf looked astern. The boat was fifty feet from the other ship, nearly in place to drop the kedge.
“It’s slack water,” LeBoeuf explained as the men worked at the guns. “Tide’s not holding us, so this easterly wind will swing us around, and these guns to larboard will come to bear as we turn. We’ll get one shot from each as we swing past.”
He saw heads nodding as he men realized what he had in mind. The wind and the turning tide would swing the ship through one hundred and eighty degrees, swinging the larboard battery past Charles Rex. That was their chance.
“Here we go,” LeBoeuf said, as the pressure of the wind in the sail started pushing the ship around. He grabbed the linstock and ran aft to the aftermost gun. No need to train it around, the ship would do that, but the elevation had to be right. He sighted over the barrel. He recalled that his first effort had put the shot too high, so he levered the breech end of the barrel up and pushed the quoin in to lower the muzzle.
The ship was turning now, very slowly. It was agonizing, but it would give LeBoeuf more time to lay each gun. He could see Charles Rex’s long boat, nearly in place to drop the kedge, and he could see it would be under his gun presently. He stepped clear of the recoil and sighted down the barrel, through the gunport.
He could see only water at first, and the beach and jungle beyond, sweeping slowly past. And then the boat was there, coming into view. LeBoeuf waited a second more, waited until the muzzle was even with the bow of the boat, then drove the match down into the priming powder.
He straightened as the priming flared, and looked out over the bulwark at the gun blasted away. He saw the ball skipping across the water, making a series of small splashes as it flew directly at the longboat. Then he saw it take one last splash, right into the side of a small wave, and it was gone.
Too low, LeBoeuf thought, and he raced to the next gun. He leaned over, adjusted the quoin. The ship was turning faster now, and LeBoeuf did not have the gun exactly where he wanted it when he saw the longboat over the barrel.
No more time, he thought. He stepped aside, put the match into the priming. Once again the gun roared and leapt back against its breeching. LeBoeuf’s eyes were on the longboat. He did not see the flight of the shot that time, did not see it fall. But he did see the midsection of the longboat disappear, like a sorcerer’s trick, as the ball struck and plowed on through. Two of the rowers amidships simply vanished, blown out the far side of the boat, and the remaining men froze in surprise and panic.
The heavy anchor cable hung dripping in a great arc from the stern of the ship to the kedge anchor hanging from the boat’s transom. With the pull of the oars suddenly gone, the weight of the cable began dragging the boat backwards through the water, losing every foot of distance the rowers had so painfully made. LeBoeuf could see the oars flailing like the limbs of some wounded sea creature.
And then the stern end of the boat was dragged under by the weight of the anchor and the water flooding in. The boat disappeared, leaving the crew clinging like wrack to the cable.
“Ha! You got them, LeBoeuf!” Le Chasseur called, loud with delight. “Good shooting!” The others were smiling as well. Pleased with themselves.
“You men did good, serving the guns,” LeBoeuf said. “Fast.”
The compliment was sincere. It was no mean task to load and run out a gun with a dead weight of well over a ton, particularly for a short-handed gun crew that had not drilled together. LeBoeuf wondered if any of these rogues were former men-of-war’s men. He knew nothing about their origins, just as they knew nothing about his. It was part of the appeal of the buccaneers.
“Shall we keep it up?” Boylan asked. Firing great guns was always amusing, but there was nothing like doing real hurt to inspire further action.
LeBoeuf, however, had already considered that question. Even if the guns would bear on the stranded ship, a bastard culvering could not do enough damage at that range to make it worth using up the powder and shot. Whatever Spaniard had supplied the ship had not been overly generous with either item.
“No,” LeBoeuf said. “We’ll save our powder until we get the main chance to go after them on the morrow. I sure as damnation am not done with Van Loudersong.”
That decision made, there was nothing left but the waiting. LeBoeuf was used to that. Waiting was always part of this sort of thing: waiting for wind or tide, waiting to see if an enemy would appear where you thought they would, waiting for a fight to commence. The waiting was always the worst of it. Save for death, or grievous wounding.
LeBoeuf had a pretty good idea of how the night would play out if things went as expected, and oddly enough, they did. The tide ran out and the sun set and the two ships remained where they were, enemies staring warily at one another across six hundred feet of water.
In the dark hours, the people on Van Loudersong’s ship manned another boat, retrieved the kedge anchor and set it again, ready to haul the vessel off when the water rose. They could hear it all, coming over the water; the clack of the capstan, the creak of the oars in the tholes, the hushed call of men trying not to be heard. Just as LeBoeuf expected it would happen.
There was no moon, and the men in the boat carried no lantern, which had to make the whole issue a lot harder, LeBoeuf guessed. But, of course, a lantern meant a target for the guns that had already claimed one boat and two men, at least.
There was some discussion among the buccaneers about shooting at them anyway, or attacking from a boat of their own, but LeBoeuf shut that down. Shooting was a waste, and the boat was too risky. One lucky blast with the falconet, and LeBoeuf’s entire crew was gone. As it was, if D’Anton and the rest of the men did not make it back before the other ship was free of the sand, there would be little they could do except wave to Van Louderson as he sailed away.
LeBoeuf set a watch, three turns of the glass for each man, but he was not too confident about their vigilance. They had managed to find some wine on board, and had put enough down their throats to dull their senses, but it did not really matter. Other Dog was standing watch as well, and her eyes and ears were better than even the most alert and sober human watch stander.
Sure enough, it was some time in the middle of the second watch, with Levasseur keeping the deck, when Other Dog began to growl, low and menacing, and pace back and forth, staring out of the gunports into the dark.
LeBoeuf was instantly awake, as was Levasseur, who had dozed off. LeBoeuf hushed the dog and listened. He could hear nothing, but that was neither here nor there. He trusted Other Dog’s senses far more than his own.
“Up, up!” he called to the others. “To arms!” They had been sleeping with their loaded muskets beside them, and now they jumped to their feet and rested the guns on the bulwark, pointing out into the dark. A moment later they could hear it; the splash of oar blades in the water, the creak of the looms. LeBoeuf relaxed a bit. It was not Van Loudersong. The Dutchman would have known to muffle the oars.
A moment later a voice called out from out over the water. “LeBoeuf! It’s D’Anton! I’m with the others!” There was no mistaking the man’s voice, his French heavy with the accent of Africa’s Ivory Coast.
“Good, good! Come along side, the lot of you!” LeBoeuf called, and the rest lowered their guns as the first of the boats materialized out of the dark. One by one the boats ran up to the boarding steps and the men climbed aboard, until all thirty or so were gathered on the deck. It was a reassuring sight. They were tough men, good in a fight. Armed and motivated.
“Here’s how it stands,” LeBoeuf said. “Van Loudersong’s found some confederates who have a ship. It’s stuck hard on a sandbar just now. You passed it in the dark. Next high water they’ll float free and be off to fetch the gold that should be ours. D’Anton told you of Van Loudersong’s treachery?”
Heads nodded. Men scowled.
“Well, we’ll put a stop to it,” LeBoeuf said. “Turn of the tide.”
“Why not attack now?” someone asked. “In the boats?”
LeBoeuf shook his head. “Don’t know how many are aboard that ship. Anyway, you can be sure they’ve made ready for us. Great guns loaded with grape. Falconets. A couple of lucky shots and we’re done for.”
Those words struck home, as LeBoeuf thought they might. These men would be happy to fight; not so happy to be ripped apart by grapeshot, and there was no more talk of a night attack. The new arrivals found places on the deck to sleep, snug beside their muskets, Other Dog resumed her patrol, and the bulk of the night passed with tranquil calm.
There was just a hint of dawn when LeBoeuf began to nudge men awake. Across the water he could make out the vague shape of Van Loudersong’s ship. Or he thought he could. But he could certainly hear activity there, the unmistakable sound of men taking up on a capstan.
“You men, get aloft, loosen off the topsails!” he said, loud enough to be heard, emphatic enough to be obeyed. Groaning, grumbling, the men stood and shuffled off to the shrouds and made their way aloft. They were bound to complain, but they had turned in relatively sober, so it was not so bad.
By the time the men came down from aloft, the light was spreading over the water, the island of Tortuga a dark wall to the north, the harbor blueish gray. Van Loudersong’s ship was moving, inching its way astern, the kedge anchor cable rising up out of the sea as the men heaved the capstan around. LeBoeuf could not tell if the vessel was floating yet, but if not, it would be soon.
His own ship was lying stern to Van Loudersong’s. High water, LeBoeuf guessed, and the tide just turning now. The wind was from the east, as it usually was, and blowing an easy eight knots. Perfect.
“Any here know how to rig the messenger on the capstan?” LeBoeuf asked.
The anchor cable itself was too thick to wrap around the base of the capstan, but they could use a thinner rope, a messenger, on the capstan with the cable lashed to that. It was a common task for a sailor, but LeBoeuf was not sure if any of these men knew how it was done. When they had won the anchor back on Hispaniola, he had simply rigged the messenger himself.
Billy Solent raised his hand, as did Le Chasseur and a few others who LeBoeuf had reckoned were proper seamen, so he set them to it. When that was done, the less useful hands were put on the capstan bars and the nippers—short lines used to temporarily lash the cable to the messenger. The men with more salt water in their blood were set to the sheets and braces.
“Should we load the great guns first?” Le Chasseur asked. He was standing amidships, the starboard foresheet in hand.
“No,” LeBoeuf said. He was not in the habit of explaining himself, and Le Chasseur could be God’s own pain in the ass, but he went so far as to add, “We’ll head for open water first. Too much chance of running aground here. Heave away on the capstan!”
Forward, the men began to walk the capstan around, and the ship began its slow progress ahead as it was hauled up to the anchor. Billy Solent, leaning over the bow, yelled “Short rope!” as the ship approached the spot where the anchor had been dropped, and then, “Up and under!” when they were right over it. He said the words in French, for LeBoeuf’s benefit, and they were not quite the right words, but LeBoeuf knew what he meant.
“Sheet home the topsails! Hands to the halyards!” LeBoeuf called and the clews of the two topsails were hauled out and the yards hoisted up the topmasts. The sails flogged until the yards were braced around, and then they filled and the ship healed a bit and began to make headway, with the warm trade wind on the larboard quarter.
LeBoeuf looked astern. Van Loudersong’s ship was free of the sand and setting sail as well, fore and main topsails.
Sea room, LeBoeuf thought.
They had to get clear of the sandbars so they would have room to maneuver, room to fight. Half a mile from shore would be enough, but they could not do battle among the shallows and the coral heads. He did not know how well trained or able the crew of Van Loudersong’s ship was, but until shown otherwise he had to assume they were better than the buccaneers were.
LeBoeuf did know, of course, that it was not really Van Loudersong’s ship. He guessed it belonged to the heavy, bearded man who had taken the helm after LeBoeuf shot the helmsman. Or perhaps he was just the ship’s master. The dark man with the red head cloth had been aft on the quarterdeck as well, but what role he played, LeBoeuf could not guess.
There was more that LeBoeuf did not know. He did not know who the heavy man was, or, more importantly, if he had friends on Tortuga. If he did, there was no saying how many of his fellows might come out to help if LeBoeuf fought him too close to shore.
They needed sea room.
“Let’s get the great guns loaded!” LeBoeuf called down the deck. “Le Chasseur, Levesque, Boylan, Billy Solent, pick gun crews and take charge of two guns each, one larboard, one starboard. Get them ready for action. Anyone else who knows the use of guns, join in. The rest, stand by the ropes! Steen, take the tiller!”
The Dutchman, Joost Steen, who seemed to have familiarity with such things, took the tiller from LeBoeuf. The rest scrambled to their various places, and fell to loading the guns or carrying up more powder or shot, or finding the ropes they would need to haul when the time came.
LeBoeuf could see the sandbars lurking beneath the surface as they slipped past, the dark shapes of the coral heads. He was sorry to not have Van Loudersong aloft, looking out this time. The man might be a bastard and a lying villain, but he had proved himself a good seaman, and for that LeBoeuf could forgive a lot.
A lot, but not everything. And that morning LeBoeuf meant to offer Van Loudersong no forgiveness.
The last of the sandbars passed astern and LeBoeuf felt himself relax. There was only open water ahead now, or so he was fairly certain. Van Loudersong’s ship was in their wake, and half a mile behind.
Soon…
One by one the great guns were hauled up to their gunports, loaded and ready. LeBoeuf looked out over the open water ahead, Hispaniola in the distance. He looked astern. Van Loudersong’s ship was gathering way. He turned his head into the wind, felt the breeze on his face.
“Set the foresail!” he called and with a little prompting the hands at the foresail gear let go the clewlines and buntlines and martnets and the sail dropped and filled as it was sheeted home. LeBoeuf felt the ship surging forward underfoot, felt it heel a bit farther over.
They stood on south, with the wind on the larboard beam, then bore up to work to windward of Van Loudersong’s ship. The yards were braced sharp up, the larboard tack hove taught as the ship drove as nearly up wind as she could. Once Van Loudersong’s ship was clear of the shallows, LeBoeuf meant to turn and swoop down on them like a bird of prey.
For nearly one turn of the glass they stood on like that, Van Loudersong’s ship creeping through the shallows and coral heads, LeBoeuf’s sailing almost directly away from them, as if trying to flee. LeBoeuf’s eyes were everywhere: on Van Loudersong’s ship, aloft at the set of his sails, looking down the length of his deck at the men standing ready at the guns and the lines, out to windward at the ripples marking the wind on the water.
“We’re going to come about!” LeBoeuf shouted down the deck. “Billy Solent, take charge of the foremast! Le Chasseur, the main! Boylan, come aft and get ready to back this mizzen when I give the word!”
It was time to turn, to charge down on Van Loudersong, but tacking was a tricky business and LeBoeuf was not certain his crew was familiar enough with the evolution to pull it off.
Reckon we’ll see.
“Steen, helm’s alee,” LeBoeuf called and the Dutchman pushed the tiller over and the ship’s bow swung up into the wind. The weather leeches of the sails began to flog and LeBoeuf called, “Mainsail, haul!” and the yard swung around and the ship, slowly, gracefully, swung her bow through the wind. Another ship might have failed to make the turn in that light air, but LeBoeuf knew this ship was a handy one, and he once again expressed his quiet gratitude for that.
They turned, almost a complete circle, until they were heading back the way they had come. LeBoeuf nodded his head slightly.
Perfect…
They were running down on Van Loudersong’s ship, and would cross her bow just as she was coming clear of the submerged near-shore hazards and into open water. They would rake her fore and aft, and the other ship unable to maneuver in the channel. One broadside and, with any luck, they might cripple Van Loudersong’s ship entirely.
“What cheer, mates, stand ready on the starboard battery!” LeBoeuf called. “We’ll pass them by, and you fire as you bear!”
Men waved. They smiled. They looked through the gunports at the enemy with whom they were closing. Enjoying themselves.
LeBoeuf put a hand on the rail and looked aloft, and then looked across the water at Van Loudersong’s ship. It felt…familiar. Like being in a home in which one spent many years, but thought never to see again.
An armed vessel, great guns charged, running down on an enemy at least as powerful. And he, LeBoeuf, on the quarterdeck, and all of it moving to his spoken word. Glory, perhaps, or death, just a few broadsides away.
LeBoeuf took a deep breath and, despite himself, he smiled.
