PIRATE: Privateer (26 page)

‘Another two or three minutes,’ called Dan from the helm. The
Meteor
was in the jaws of the entrance. Hector was conscious of the land closing in on either side, and the gun
aimers on the hillside above him looking down, watching his every movement. He strode purposefully towards the cook’s hearth near the forecastle. Stowed there were half a dozen firebrands,
twists of oakum wound around short lengths of stick. He would light them from the wick of the lantern they had taken from the binnacle and hidden within the cook box, then distribute the flaming
torches to his crew. All pretence cast aside, they would hurry about the vessel and set fire to the tarry rags, wood shavings and dry kindling they had prepared.

He arrived at the cook’s hearth and knelt down. He reached for a bottle that was wedged there, drew the cork and sprinkled a generous dose of the contents on to the yarn of the firebrands.
The sweet smell of rum filled his nostrils. He was relieved to see that the lantern was still burning. He did not relish fiddling with flint and steel to light the firebrands. Every second was
vital.

He swung open the flap of the lantern and at that same instant felt an intense rushing, rippling sensation in the air. A split second later there was the unmistakable thud of cannon fire.
Instinctively he ducked. The lantern fell on its side, and he had to grab it and set it upright again. But the flame in the wick had gone out. He cursed and fumbled in his pocket for his tinderbox.
From behind him he heard Dan shout, ‘Hector! Stand clear! Look out, above you!’

He glanced upwards. To his stupefaction he saw that the
Meteor
’s foretopmast was askew. It was leaning at a weird angle. A severed shroud was dangling free. In another few moments
the strain of the topsail would bring the topmast down. Shocked, he looked towards the hillside and de Graff’s shore battery. A cloud of pale grey smoke was blowing away, dispersing across
the green slope. In its wake the gunners were working furiously, reloading.

Hector had a sudden sick lurch in the pit of his stomach. De Graff had not been fooled. He had seen through the ruse and guessed that the
Meteor
was in hostile hands. The man who ran down
from the hilltop must have told the gunners to aim for the supply ship, not for the pursuing
Speedy Return.

In the tense silence which followed the first salvo from the shore battery, Hector distinctly heard the high-pitched creaking sounds of twisting timber. The topmast was drooping farther to one
side. In another moment it would come crashing down where he stood. He sprang to his feet and bolted. Two of the Coromantee sailors were already crouched on the edge of the deck, sheltering beneath
the bulwark, looking upwards, terrified. The third had been on the foredeck and now he was scuttling aft. But he was too late. There was a loud crack and the topmast folded like a snapped fishing
rod. The mast top came swinging down on the deck and struck the running man. He was hurled to one side by the force of the blow, his head at an unnatural angle. Moments later the topsail settled
over his corpse as a shroud.

‘They’re firing at our rigging!’ Dan shouted. Hector looked up at the battery in time to see a bright yellow tongue of flame leap out from the muzzle of one cannon, then the
spurt of smoke. Immediately came the dreadful rushing sound as the shot tore through the air. The gun aimer had overcompensated for the downward angle. A thick gout of water burst up a few yards to
starboard of the
Meteor
, showering the midships with spray.

‘They’re using chain shot,’ bellowed Dan.

Two more of the cannon on the hillside fired in a ragged sequence, and this time they found their mark. The
Meteor
shuddered down her entire length as a pair of round shot joined by three
feet of iron links whipped across her deck and scythed away the mainmast. Now the brigantine was utterly crippled. She slowed abruptly and began to turn sideways to the breeze.

Hector heard the snap and pop of musket fire. The range was extreme but the gunners on the shore battery had also taken up small arms and were shooting down on the deck of the helpless ship.

The little skiff so carefully prepared for the escape was half buried under the wreckage of the mainmast. There was no chance of freeing it.

‘Save yourselves!’ Hector yelled at the two Coromantees still crouched behind the bulwark. He waved them to go overboard. One man gave a final glance towards where his comrade lay
crushed under the topsail. Then he joined his companion and both men swarmed over the rail and launched themselves into the sea.

Hector crouched, eyeing the mess of ropes and spars and canvas draped across the ship. He was looking for a path through the tangle that would bring him to the cook box. If he could get there
and light a torch and set fire to the ship, there was still a chance that the
Meteor
would drift down on her target and burn de Graff’s frigate.

He heard a thud as a musket ball fired from the hillside struck the deck beside him. Then came a queer ringing sound in his head and a stab of pain. He blinked, trying to focus on the chaos of
wreckage ahead of him. Defeated, he had to accept that he would never be able to get through to reach the firebrands.

Bending low, he scrambled back towards the stern. He was seeing everything through a mist. It was difficult to keep his balance. He was staggering from side to side, his legs wobbly underneath
him.

Another musket ball went whirring away past him and rapped the tiller head. Dan was beckoning to him urgently. ‘The port side,’ he said, ‘keep the ship between us and the
marksmen.’

The hem of Hector’s borrowed coat caught on a hidden snag, and he was held fast. He scrabbled furiously, lunged, and felt the fabric rip. He seized the rail and tumbled over it,
cartwheeling through the air. He landed awkwardly. The sea closed around him and he took a choking gulp of seawater. Spluttering, he came to the surface, the heavy coat already soggy and clinging
around his shoulders so that he could barely swim. He trod water, struggling to get his arms out of the sleeves, when he felt someone grab the collar of the coat and peel it off his back. He turned
in the water. It was Dan who had saved him.

‘It’ll be a long swim,’ said the Miskito.

Hector looked away to the north. There, almost a mile distant, was the
Speedy Return.
The pink was tacking through the wind. As she came broadside on, he saw the spurt of smoke that told
him that she was firing cannon towards the shore battery. But it was a single gun, a mere gesture.

‘Pray that Jezreel doesn’t come in too close. He’ll lose the ship,’ he said to Dan.

‘He’ll do what’s right,’ said the Miskito grimly. His long straight black hair was wet and plastered tight against his head. For a second Hector was reminded of how his
friend had looked when he was diving on the Spanish wreck.

Together they struck out for the
Speedy Return
. Behind them they could hear de Graff’s cannon still firing. Now there were longer intervals between the shots. They were taking their
time, aiming carefully at the distant ship. He was aware of an occasional splash in the water nearby, and guessed that the musketeers were still taking potshots at the heads of the four swimmers
who had abandoned the
Meteor
, relying on luck to make a lucky hit. Once he turned over on his back and looked at the disaster he was leaving. A longboat, probably the same one he and Dan had
seen when they were spying from the mangrove swamp, was alongside the crippled
Meteor.
De Graff’s men had rowed out to take the crippled supply ship in tow. Now they would haul her
into the careenage and unload the stores they had been waiting for. The catastrophe was complete.

*

I
T MUST HAVE BEEN
the best part of an hour later when Hector accepted that he would not be able to reach the
Speedy Return
. The blow to his head
had weakened him, and a deathly tiredness was setting in. The muscles in his shoulders ached. There were moments when a thick dark veil blotted out his vision, robbing him of sight. His head ached
viciously. He raised one hand and touched where it hurt most, and felt the gash in his scalp. With increasing frequency his mouth and nose dipped below the surface. He knew he was using his
strength to keep afloat rather than move forward. Everything was hazy and indistinct.

Then he was conscious that Dan was at his side, helping him as best he could. But he had no idea how long the Miskito had been there. In a moment of clarity he knew that Dan was also tiring. The
Miskito was a powerful swimmer, but supporting his friend in the water over such a distance was sapping his strength.

‘Save yourself,’ gasped Hector. A wave splashed into his open mouth. He choked and coughed, another sliver of energy wasted.

‘I stay by you,’ answered Dan.

Hector was too tired to argue and too feeble to insist. They were now beyond the range of the musketeers but the sea breeze had built up a small choppy sea, and he could no longer make out the
Speedy Return
. Dispirited, he wondered if they had been swimming in the wrong direction.

‘I can’t go on,’ he murmured. His throat hurt from so much salt water, and there was a ringing sound in his ears. A profound lethargy overcame him and he closed his eyes; the
sea was welcoming him.

When he opened his eyes to take a final despairing look, his vision was blurred and there was a racking pain in his head. A seal was approaching, its sleek black head and liquid brown eyes
coming directly towards him. He knew that he was hallucinating. Seals did not live in those waters. Unexpectedly, two strong hands gripped his wrists and pulled his arms forward. He reached out and
at last there was something to hold on to. Its surface was smooth and slippery but it was a support that kept his face above the water. With slow comprehension he realized that his arms were
clasped around a man’s neck, and that he was riding on a swimmer’s back. The wet, rough sensation against his cheek was a mass of tightly curled hair.

One of the Coromantees was towing him forward. He closed his eyes again and hung on.

Time passed, he had no idea how long. He was dimly aware that the swimmer changed. Another replaced the man supporting him, and again he felt the powerful movements of someone underneath him
swimming forward.

He continued to slip in and out of consciousness until a painful blow on his shoulder jolted him out of his stupor. He was looking directly up at the bow of a rowing boat. The keel had struck
him. There was momentary confusion as the rowers spun the boat, the blade of an oar banged him on the ear, and then he was being hoisted aboard, the gunwale scraping his ribs. He heard someone
shouting an order in a French accent, urging the rowers to get the boat back to the ship. He knew that the speaker was Jacques, and that the cockboat from the
Speedy Return
had saved
him.

S
TANDING FACING HIS
audience in the waist of the
Speedy Return
, Hector swallowed gently to clear his throat, still sore from taking in so much
seawater twenty-four hours earlier. His headache had subsided to a dull throb which he could ignore. All the dizziness and blackouts had gone, and Dan had stitched up the gash in his scalp left by
a flying splinter. Watching the ring of expectant faces waiting to hear what he proposed to do next, it occurred to Hector that an outsider would scarcely have been able to tell that the attempt to
launch a fireship had been such an utter disaster. The weather was just as sunny and pleasant as it had been every day for the past week, and if there was an air of disappointment aboard the
Speedy Return
, it was very muted.

‘Yesterday I had hoped that we would damage the
Sainte Rose
so badly that she would be unable to set sail. Today I propose we sink her.’

An astonished silence greeted his words. Then came the strange guttural sounds of Bartaboa translating his statement to the Coromantees. Allgood, the sailor with the missing fingers, was looking
at him as though he had taken leave of his senses. ‘Captain,’ he asked, ‘if you are so sure you can sink the frigate why did we not try that yesterday? Instead we’ve handed
the
Meteor
to de Graff and made him stronger.’

‘It is because de Graff and his men have got their hands on the
Meteor
that we can now destroy his ship.’

A general look of puzzlement spread among his listeners.

Jezreel spoke up. ‘You’ll have to explain, Hector. Maybe I’m being slow but I can’t see how that changes anything.’

Hector’s head wound had begun to itch. He resisted the urge to reach up and scratch. ‘What do you think de Graff and his men will be doing over the next few days?’

‘Celebrating their victory and getting the frigate ready for the sea with the help of fresh supplies from the
Meteor
,’ said Jezreel immediately.

‘Precisely. They will not expect another attack.’

‘And what sort of attack do you have in mind?’ asked the Reverend Watson cautiously.