The Command - Brian Jacques - Flying Dutchman 02

Redjack smiled benevolently at the mate and held his arms wide to give him the benefit of his outfit: Oyster-silk breeches, white stockings and silver-buckled high shoes, his cuffs and throat frothing with cream silk lace beneath a freshly pressed and laundered red hunting jacket. “Oddsfish, that’s the style, dress t’suit the occasion, I always say!”

Not daring to venture back up the mast again, Gascon crouched on the afterdeck viewing the Devon Belle through Thuron’s telescope. “The Britisher’s pilin’ on canvas, y’can see he’s pickin’ up more speed right away, Cap’n!”

Thuron nodded. “Just keep us running with the wind on an even keel, Ludon. We’ll lose him before we’re halfway to Hispaniola and Puerto Rico.”

The steersman, Ludon, called back to his captain. “Can’t keep ‘er runnin’ due east, wind’s freshenin’ to the south. We’ll have to tack, Cap’n!”

Thuron gestured to Ned and Ben. “Watch me, I’ll show you how to tack and skim.” Thuron took the wheel from Ludon and spun it expertly, explaining his tactics to Ben. “If we can’t sail dead east, the next best thing is to tack. First into the wind, then away from it, so the ship heels over a touch and skims sideways. That way our Marie keeps up her speed. Sailing due east in a south wind would slow us down. Gascon, what’s the privateer doing now?”

From behind the captain’s back the lookout answered. “The Britisher’s doin’ the same as us, Cap’n, tackin’ an’ skimmin’ like a pondfly.”

Beneath his foppish posturing, Captain Redjack Teal was no fool. At that moment, he was watching the French ship keenly. He, too, had ordered the Devon Belle into a tacking manoeuvre while alerting his gunnery master to attend the portside cannonry. Teal reckoned he had gained a small distance on the other vessel. He waited until the moment was right, ready to take a gamble. The opportunity presented itself suddenly when he saw that the two vessels, whilst tacking, were broadside on to each other. Standing alongside his master gunner, the privateer captain rapped out swift orders: “Right, sharpish now, give her a full broadside, quick as y’like man. Now!”

Ten cannon rocked back on their carriages as they went off with one frightening explosion!

All hands aboard the Marie threw themselves flat as they heard the roar of approaching cannonballs. Ben gasped as Ned hurled himself on his master’s back, protecting him. Next moment there was horrendous crashing, smoke, flames and the sound of screaming men.

Thuron was on his feet instantly, shouting, “Run south run south with the wind. Leave off tacking!” He hauled the dog off Ben. “Are you alright, boy?”

With the noise still ringing in his ears, Ben jumped up. “I’m fine, Cap’n, see to your ship!”

Ben and Ned were hard on the Frenchman’s heels as he hastened about, checking the damage. Luckily no masts had been chopped down by the cannonade, the rudder was intact and the Marie had not been holed. But the entire galley had been blown to pieces, clear off the deck. Pierre, ashen-faced, staggered up clutching a wounded arm. “Three crew dead, Cap’n. Galley an’ everythin’ in it, cook included, all gone. ‘Tween decks is burnin’, though not badly.”

Thuron ripped a swathe of lining from his frock coat and bandaged Pierre’s arm as he issued orders. “Get those flames put out! Check all the rigging! Ludon, keep her hard south. Take us out of range!”

Ben saw the captain’s brow crease and his eyes narrow. “Can we still outrun them, sir?”

Thuron stroked his beard and stared back at the Devon Belle. “Aye, at a pinch, lad, at a pinch. But I’ve thought of a better way than running from the enemy. I’m going to stop him chasing us. Anaconda, remember Puerto Cortes?”

The giant’s face lit up in a huge grin. “Aye, Cap’n, that’s where we captured little Gerda from that Hollander. Shall I have her brought aft?”

The Frenchman drew his cutlass. “Rig a block and tackle!”

Ned sent a puzzled thought to Ben. “Gerda can’t be that little, not if they need a block and tackle to raise her. Ask him who little Gerda is, Ben.”

The boy asked, and Ned was all ears as Thuron explained. “Little Gerda is a strange gun we captured from a Hollander merchant ship bound for a garrison at the tip of Yucatan. It has a long barrel, not wide enough to fit a full cannonball but built to fire further than a cannon. You’ll see.”

Little Gerda was indeed a strange weapon. Ben helped to swing it onto the stern deck and set it up on a pivot, which was intended for the bow culverin.

The captain stroked its long barrel approvingly. “I knew this would prove useful one day. See the barrel? It is meant for long-range firing. Gerda’s magazine will take twice the normal amount of gunpowder—her barrel has seven layers of thick copper wire bound onto it, so it won’t split under pressure. The vent is too small for a proper cannonball, so can you guess what I’m going to use, Ben?”

The boy caught on instantly. He picked up the chain shot that Thuron had left lying by the cracked rail. “This would fit into little Gerda’s mouth, I think.”

The Frenchman winked broadly at him. “Right, my lucky Ben! Let’s give the Britisher his chain shot back as a returned compliment. Anaconda, Gascon, set the gun up. We’ll get it ready while we’re still on the run!”

Ned and Ben scampered below on the captain’s orders, where they collected any old soft lengths of cloth to act as wadding and some palm oil to soak it in. On the way back they took the rammer from the for’ard culverin to tamp little Gerda’s shot down tight.

Between them, Thuron and Anaconda were raising the gun’s trajectory and sighting it right.

A crewman aboard the Devon Belle stood dutifully by with tray, decanter and goblet. Captain Redjack Teal took his morning measure of Madeira wine, asking a seaman who was relaying observations from another stationed in the crow’s nest, “You fellow, what’s the froggy doin’ now, eh?”

The seaman shouted up to the lookout. “Cap’n wants to know what the French vessel’s doin’!”

The lookout yelled back down. “Runnin’ due south with the wind, clearin’ up the mess we made o’ their midship decks!”

The seaman reported back to Teal, who had already heard the lookout’s reply. “She’s runnin’ due south, sir, makin’ runnin’ repairs as she goes.”

Sipping Madeira, Teal dabbed his lips and smiled. “Stap me, that’s a good un, eh? Makin’ runnin’ repairs whilst runnin’ away. Very droll indeed!”

The lookout called down again. “I think they’re riggin’ a cannon up at the stern, can’t make it out properly though, sir!”

The seaman turned to his captain. “He says, he thinks …”

Redjack dismissed him with a haughty glance. “Go away, sirrah, y’sound like an echo in a cave. I heard him. Gunner, get up an’ see what that oaf’s blitherin’ about, will you?”

The master gunner climbed obediently up the mast into the crow’s nest with the lookout. Shading his eyes, he peered at the Marie.

Teal called up testily. “Give him the demned glass!”

The gunner took a sighting through the telescope lens. “Looks like a long-nosed culverin, sir. We’re well outta range. ‘Twon’t shoot half this distance, Cap’n, sir!”

Teal held out his goblet for more wine. “Well, let the silly Frenchies amuse themselves by tryin’, eh? Haw haw haw!”

There was a distant echo of a sharp crack, followed seconds later by a whirring scream, ending in a loud crash!

Shorn off by chain shot, the Devon Belle’s foremast swayed crazily for a moment, then fell.