Part 5 (1/2)

”I'll stand the wager, Malloyre, and add the last keg of brandy. But you'll earn it. I want the portside battery loaded with crossbar forward, and langrel aft. And set the langrel for the decks, not the sail.”

Malloyre stared at him incredulously. The command told him immediately that this would be a battle with no quarter. The use of langrel against personnel left no room for truce. Then suddenly the true implications of Hawksworth's command hit him like a blow in the chest. ”That shot's for close quarters. We lay alongside, and the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds'll grapple and board us sure. Swarm us like curs on a b.i.t.c.h.”

”That's the order, Malloyre. Be quick on it. Set the starboard round first. And light the linstocks.” Hawksworth turned to count the shot and absently picked up one of the linstocks lying on deck--an iron- plated staff used to set off a cannon--fingering the oil-soaked match rope at its tip and inhaling its dank musk. And the smell awoke again the memory of that last day two years before in the Mediterranean, with Turkish pirate galleys fore and aft, when there had been no quarter, and no hope . . .

”Beggin' your pardon, sir.” Malloyre's voice was urgent, bringing him back. ”What's the firin' orders?”

”Just fire the starboard round as a broadside, and set for the lower gun deck.”

”Aye aye, sir.” He paused. ”And Lord Jesus pray we'll live to swab out.”

Malloyre's parting words would have followed him up the ladder to the main deck, but they were swallowed in the m.u.f.fled roll of cannon fire sounding over the bay. The galleons were spreading, circling the _Resolve_ as they bore down upon her, and they had begun to vomit round after round, jets of water randomly around the frigate as she plunged toward the shallows and safety. Any minute now, Hawksworth told himself, and she'll be in the shallows. If she doesn't run aground on a bar.

Then he saw the _Resolve_ begin to come about, reefing and furling her sails. She's made the shallows. And the Portugals' guns have quieted.

”Permission to set sail, sir. The bleedin' Portugals'll be on her in a trice.” Mackintosh stood on the quarterdeck by the steering house. And he made no attempt to disguise the anxiety in his eyes.

”Give the Portugals time, Mackintosh, and you'll see their second fatal mistake. The first was overheating the cannon on their upper decks. The second will be to short-hand their crews. They're out of cannon range now, so they'll launch longboats, and a.s.sign half the watch as oarsmen.

Here, take the gla.s.s. Tell me what you see.”

Mackintosh studied the shallows with the telescope, while a smile slowly grew on his hard face. ”I'm a motherless Dutchman. An' there's a king's guard o' Portugal musketmen loadin' in. Wearin' their d.a.m.n'd silver helmets.”

They haven't changed in thirty years, Hawksworth smiled to himself. The Portugals still think their infantry is too dignified to row, so they a.s.sign their crews to the oars and leave their wars.h.i.+ps shorthanded.

But they won't find it easy to board the _Resolve_ from longboats. Not with English musketmen in her maintop. And that should give us just enough time. . . .

”Are all the longboats out yet, Mackintosh?”

”Aye, sir.” The quartermaster steadied the gla.s.s against the roll of the s.h.i.+p. ”And making for the _Resolve _like they was runnin' from h.e.l.l itself.”

”Then bear full sail. Two points to windward of the b.a.s.t.a.r.d on the left. Full press, and hoist the spritsail. Keep the wind and pay her room till we're in range.”

With an exultant whoop Mackintosh jabbed the sweat-soaked telescope toward Hawksworth, and began bellowing orders to the mates. Within moments sails unfurled and snapped in the wind, sending the _Discovery_'s bow biting into the chop and hurtling spray over the bulwarks. Hawksworth kept to the quarterdeck, studying the nearest wars.h.i.+p with the gla.s.s. The galleon's forecastle towered above the horizon now like some Gothic fortress, and with the gla.s.s he could make out pennants blazoned from all her yardarms. Then he turned toward the Indian pilot, whose gaze was riveted on the Portuguese wars.h.i.+ps.

”What's the name of the galleon on the left, the large one?” Hawksworth pointed toward the vessel he had been observing with the gla.s.s. ”I can't read it from this distance.”

”That one is the _Bon Ventura_. We know her to be heavily armed.”

”I'd say she's over a thousand tons burden. I wonder how handy she'll be with her best men out in the longboats?”

”She'll meet you soon enough, with her full bounty. It is said that last year she caught and sank a twenty-gun Dutch frigate trading in the Moluccas.”

”She'll still have to come about into the wind.” Hawksworth seemed not to hear the pilot now, so absorbed was he in the looming battle.

As though in answer to his thoughts, the _Bon Ventura _started to heel slowly about, like an angered bull. But the _Discovery_ now had the windward position secure, and the Portuguese s.h.i.+p would have to tack laboriously into the wind. Her canvas was close-hauled and she would be slow. We've got the weather gage now, Hawksworth told himself, and we'll hold it. Then he noticed that the second galleon in the row, the _St. Sebastian_, had also begun wearing around, bringing her stern across the wind as she too turned to meet the _Discovery_.

”They've deciphered our plan,” Hawksworth said quietly to himself, ”and now it's two of the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds we'll face. But with luck we'll engage the _Bon Ventura_ before the _St. Sebastian _can beat to range. And the _Bon Ventura_ is drawing away from the fleet. That bit of bravado will cost her.”

The _Discovery _was closing rapidly on the _Bon Ventura_. In minutes they would be within range. Mackintosh was at the whipstaff now, holding their course, his senses alert to every twist in the wind. He involuntarily clenched and unclenched his teeth, while his knuckles were bloodless white from his grip on the hardwood steering lever.

Hawksworth raised the gla.s.s again, knowing what he hoped to see.

”The Portugals have just made their third mistake, Mackintosh.” He tried to mask his excitement. ”They've sealed the lower gunports to shut out water while they're tacking. So after they get position they'll still have to run out the lower guns.”