The Roots of Betrayal (21 page)

Carew and his men fought against the wind that day. While it came from the southeast their progress was fast, but toward midday it died down and they were almost becalmed. Then it shifted, and the next breeze came from the southwest, which made progress difficult. Carew ordered a change of tack every few minutes, so the ship beat its way into the headwind. He had little time for conversation with Clarenceux, who either stayed on deck, nursing his wounds, or paid attention to the gunners' lessons on how the cannon were to be fired.

“Unlike older ships, we have standard sizes of guns,” Dunbar declared. “There are three sizes aboard: four demicannon, which fire thirty-two-pound shot; four sakers, which are five-and-a-quarter pounders; and four little falconets, which use a ball of just one pound. They all fire cast-iron cannonballs that fit exactly—we do not use stones to be chipped to an irregular shape and size. Each cannonball fits neatly into the cannon and the pressure as it explodes is even, lessening the chances of the cannon exploding in your face. That used to happen with the old culverins, especially if they were loaded with stone—but not anymore.”

“What is the range?” asked Clarenceux.

“Of the demicannon? Half a mile or so. The sakers are almost as long in the barrel but fire a much smaller shot, so their effective range is three times that, depending on what you want to do. At a mile and a half you could tear down the sails of a ship—but you'd be damned lucky to hit anything at that distance. A blow from one of the demicannon at a hundred yards might well go through the main deck of the ship and out the other side. If you want to sink her, you need to drive the cannonball through the water and through the hull.”

“And the falconets?”

“Best part of a mile. But that would be missing the purpose. Imagine the biggest handgun you could possibly fire by yourself. Very versatile.”

The southwesterly wind brought with it a worsening of the weather. The men on deck fought with the lateen sail, swinging it across the sterncastle each time. The waves grew bigger so that by the early evening every change of tack resulted in the ship wallowing in a figure-of-eight pattern, from side to side and forward and back, so that Clarenceux felt quite sick. He went up on deck and leaned over the side of the ship, gazing at the heaving sea, unable to watch the young men scampering up the rigging. They climbed along a yard even though the ship was cavorting about like a large cork tossed on the water.

Clarenceux was still on deck at dusk, when the rain began to fall and a call came from the rigging. Snatched words of conversation soon alerted him that the shout from aloft had been serious. He saw Carew jump down from the sterncastle and start climbing a rope attached to the main mast, his strong arms lifting him so quickly that he barely touched the rope with his legs. A few seconds later, Carew was standing on the platform looking out to the southwest horizon. Then he climbed higher to the platform above, the crow's nest. Clarenceux turned away. The movement of the ship, wallowing in the waves, made the act of watching Carew at the masthead a sickening experience. He turned back to look at the seaweed-streaked blue-green water rising and falling before the ship.

Half an hour later, the swell had turned to black. It was still possible to see the masts and rigging stark against the sky, but not much else. He heard a sail flapping like a flag as they changed tack again. The calls of sea birds had long since ceased, leaving only the sound of the waves splashing against the hull as the ship rocked its way onward.

He heard someone approaching. “Lost your sea legs?” It was Hugh Dean.

“I thought I would have been used to it after a few days.”

“This is choppy. It's been serene up until now. You want to see what it's like when the waves are higher than the ship. Out in the ocean, your heart fails, and your very bones turn to despair.”

Clarenceux looked back across the deck. “Why are there so many men still up here in the rain? Why don't they go below?”

“Out there on the horizon, there are several ships. At least three, perhaps four. Large square-rigged vessels, like this one or bigger. They appear to be sailing together; it is a warning.”

Clarenceux nodded. He was in darkness at sea. That in itself did not frighten him, but he had never before been aboard a ship in the darkness when it was under risk of attack. “Where is Carew?”

“Below on the main deck, talking to the gunners. He has ordered most of us to stay up on deck—in case those ships take advantage of the wind and come upon us in the darkness. You keep an eye out too. Yell if you see anyone coming aboard.” Dean walked away.

Clarenceux closed his eyes as the ship rolled over another wave. If they were hostile and waited for the morning, they would be rested and the men aboard the
Davy
exhausted. If they attacked in the darkness…His mind recoiled from the thought. Three ships attacking in darkness was too much to contemplate. There would be no distinction. Carew and his men would be destroyed as pirates. But what was the alternative? To plunge over the side and swim in black sea toward the shore? He could not even see which way the shore lay.

With the rain coming down harder in the darkness, and the wind slapping the ropes against the mast, Clarenceux knelt down. He could not easily be seen against the forecastle. He would pray in silence.

Thursday, May 18

Clarenceux hardly slept. Throughout the night there were movements of men up and down from the deck and the sound of wind whistling through the open hatch and in the rigging. The ship was tumbling on the waves and his own mind followed its turbulent course, running through the possibilities of attack after attack. He tried to remain calm, telling himself that Carew was simply taking a precaution; but he still felt his heart beating fast. In the long hours of the short night, watching the candle flames sway behind the lanterns' glass, he asked himself searching questions. What if the ships attacked? Was he going to fight with Carew's pirates or against them? Was he going to seek refuge with the attackers or defend these men?

One question above all burnt in his mind: was he doing God's work or following the agency of the Devil? As he lay there, gazing at the flame, hearing the creaking of the boat, he sought the answer to that question. No answer came. Never before had he had reason to doubt, but now he was among renegades and killers—pirates by anyone's reckoning except their own. And the captain was a godless man.

He sat up, flexing his wounded right hand. He wanted to know how tightly he could grip a sword. The question had been lurking at the back of his mind for some time. Throwing off the blanket, he searched across the deck for a weapon. There were normally some to be found lying around. Not now. They had all been gathered up, betraying a readiness of which he had not been quite aware.

Was
this
a
sign? That he should take no part in the fighting?

He went to the ladder and climbed aloft. It had stopped raining. The night sky was cloud filled and starless, and the cold wind hit his face. Even so he could make out the men on the wet deck, huddled in groups.

“Where's Captain Carew?” he said to a figure standing by the ladder to the sterncastle.

“Up here. Asleep. Best not to wake him.”

“He sleeps? How can he?”

“Ask him—when he wakes up. We are sure that the ships have come closer.”

Clarenceux shivered and looked at the eastern sky. It would soon be dawn. “Where can I find a blade? I need something to defend myself with if they come aboard.”

“They are probably all taken,” replied the man guarding the ladder to the sterncastle. “Besides, Captain Carew said you're not expected to fight. You're not one of us.”

“What does he expect me to do?”

“Tend to the wounded, I suppose, or look out for boarders. That's what the women do.”

“I am not one of the women.”

“Lucky you,” said the man grimly.

The wait for dawn was a long, cold one. Clarenceux sat with his back to the gunwale, wishing he was on land. He clasped his arms around him and considered going back down into the warmer heart of the ship and reclaiming his blanket, but he did not want to leave the fresh sea air. It was reassuring to him: it was a reminder of Creation and the company of God—the essence that meant to him that, although solitary, he was not alone. He watched others going about their business, and he listened in case anyone took news to Carew. Otherwise he shielded himself in his corner of holy reflection.

Carew. He was the one person to whom Clarenceux wanted to speak at that moment. Not that he had anything to say; he just wanted to know what the man was thinking. He trusted him; he did not understand why, but he did. Even though the man had caused a knife to be plunged through his hand, Clarenceux had confidence that Carew would see them through any and all adversity. He was like an irreligious miracle worker.
Does
one
have
to
believe
in
God
to
work
miracles?
But how could he work this particular miracle? God would surely not favor a man who cared nothing for Him against the threat of the approaching ships, led by a pious captain.

He was startled out of his reverie by a shout from the masthead. A moment later, a figure leaped down from the sterncastle, not bothering to climb down the ladder, and started pulling himself into the rigging by his arms. Clarenceux struggled to his feet and went across to the other side of the boat. Four ships—not three—were dimly to be seen to the south and southwest, in a line, several miles away. He could not make out from this distance whether their sails were unfurled, but there was no doubt that they were the cause for alarm.

“Prime the guns, all others to the deck,” shouted Carew from aloft, tugging at the ropes fastening one of the sails to the main yard.

People started running. Men emerged rapidly through the hatch from the deck below. Clarenceux looked again at the ships. For a moment he could not make out what was going on. The wind had changed direction, coming from the south, and the Davy was trapped between the vessels and the coast, five miles away. One of the ships already had its sails unfurled and full; two others were unfurling theirs. And there was the fourth ship on the horizon, further south-west, where they had first seen the fleet, ready to cut off their escape.

The air was filled with shouts of shipmen's jargon that Clarenceux did not understand. Kahlu leaped up the ladder onto the sterncastle and started untying the rope that fastened the lateen sail. Clarenceux was surprised to see it turn so that it was sending them toward the ship waiting for them to the southwest. He climbed up the ladder to the sterncastle himself and was about to speak to Kahlu when he saw the man look hurriedly to the east. He turned around—and understood. There had not been four ships, there had been five. During the night one galleon had sailed up the Channel and around to the east. It was now between three and four miles away and approaching fast. They were hemmed in, with ships coming at them from the east, south and southwest.

It was a hopeless situation—one in which any normal commander would have counseled surrender. But these men could not surrender, for they would simply be hanged. They had to fight to the death. In that instant, seeing the prow of the ship to the east bearing down on them, Clarenceux realized what he had to do. God's will was that he should fight, that he should survive. It was not a decision that he could have made in the silence of the night. It was not a question that could have been decided by looking at the silent doubt of a candle flame. It was an understanding that could only have been reached in sight of the cannon's mouth.

Carew was still aloft, shouting. The
Davy
was heading northwest, heaving up and down on the waves, trying to outrun the surprise ship from the east and at the same time avoid the three ships coming from the south. They were moving fast, with the wind fully behind them. Men bustled around him, but this, Clarenceux realized, was merely the calm before the killing started. Discreetly crossing himself, he shut his eyes and said a prayer.

A fizz in the air and the simultaneous boom of a cannon made him open his eyes. There was a splash in the sea not far away, to the west of the ship. He looked at the vessels to the south; these were still out of range. The galleon in the east, however, was less than a mile away. He saw a flash from its port side as a second gun fired. This too missed, splashing into the sea just short of the
Davy
. He heard Carew shouting and looked aloft, not understanding the jargon and wishing there was something he could do to help. He did not even have a weapon. He could not sail a ship—he did not know anything about managing sails. He heard the third report of a cannon and the fizzing sound in the air, then screams as two men fell from the foremast and part of the rigging snapped and recoiled.

He did know a little about guns.

Below in the dimness of the main deck, Dunbar, the master gunner, was measuring out charges of gunpowder into pots. Clarenceux said, “I've come to assist.”

Dunbar continued measuring out the gunpowder. “You've been watching the demonstrations?”

“Yes.”

“Ever fired anything bigger than your arm?”

“No.”

“Main thing is to swab the barrel after every use. Put a charge of gunpowder down the barrel when it's still hot and fiery inside, and it'll ignite and blow the ramrod straight through your guts. The demicannon need six men to run them out, but you”—he looked Clarenceux up and down—“take that falconet.” He turned and pointed. “Nick will show you what to do. Aim for the sails and the rigging—we need to slow them down.”

Clarenceux went across to the gun that Nick Laver was heaving out beyond the gunport.

“Loaded?” asked Clarenceux, seeing Nick attach the ropes to stop the recoil.

“Aye, though I'm not sure about hitting anything. We wallow and rise too much.”

Clarenceux bent down and forced down the rear of the gun, bringing back the wedge beneath the front of the barrel. Nick was right; the rolling of the ship from side to side made it difficult to aim. He looked along the four-foot barrel and searched around for the linstock. It was as yet unlit, lying alongside the cannon. He picked it up in his right hand, determined that the wound would not disable him, and turned to the lantern attached to the base of the foremast.

“Wait, I haven't primed the fuse yet,” shouted Nick, clutching a flask of the fine gunpowder used for the firing. But at that moment there was an almighty burst of air and sound and the whole ship shook. Clarenceux was thrown against the base of the foremast. Splinters of oak lay all around, and there was a gash in the side of the boat where a heavy cannonball had struck. On the far side there was another hole where it had departed, splitting the strakes of the vessel and allowing a jagged brightness into the main deck. The ship in the east was almost on them. He knelt down and looked through the falconet's gunport. It was at forty-five degrees to their direction of sail, less than a hundred yards away.

There was shouting and more cannon fire. Men were running and stooping, yelling and cursing. Clarenceux looked around for where he had dropped the linstock and found it on the deck. The lantern was extinguished, its glass broken by the blast. There were flames flickering here and there, so his first reaction was to relight the lantern from the flames. His next thought was that the gunpowder was scattered. He shook his head, not thinking clearly. Two more loud booms came from the ships to the south.

A scream of pain rose from the far side of the deck. A man had been knocked out by the blast, had come to his senses, and felt the agony of the splinters of oak that had shredded his arm and the side of his face. There was a shout of warning nearby; a cannon fired and recoiled. Clarenceux looked at the wounded figure and saw it was the apprentice shipwright whom he had seen once or twice in the dark of the orlop deck with Alice. He turned to see where Nick had gone. The lad was on his back, lying over a crate, with half his head blown away, the brain exposed and a lifeless eye hanging by a nerve. Clarenceux crossed himself and turned away.

Dunbar was pouring gunpowder from the pots into linen pouches as steadily as he could, with the movement of the ship. Eight others were pushing out two of the long-barreled demicannon on the starboard side, and ten or eleven men were firing those on the port side. The man firing the other falconet on this deck was loading his gun with grapeshot and aiming high, to tear down the sails off the chasing ships.

Turning back to his own falconet, Clarenceux grabbed the flask of fine gunpowder from the next gunport and filled the priming hole. He refastened the flask and hung it on a hook above his own gunport and took up the linstock. The wounded man was still screaming on the far side of the ship; other men were yelling all around him. Clarenceux lit the linstock from that of another gunner nearby, and, having looked once more along the barrel, he stood to one side, waited till they were at the low point of the ship's wallowing, and applied the linstock to the priming hole.

The falconet burst with life, shooting back against the limit of the thick rope. Quickly Clarenceux looked through the gunport to see where the cannonball had gone. There was smoke all around the other ship; a moment or so later, he saw that the lateen sail had fallen. Whether it was his shot or that of another cannon he did not know, but the ability of the other ship to change direction was severely limited. Encouraged, Clarenceux shouted to Dunbar for another charge of gunpowder for the falconet and started the process of loading it again.

For the next hour and a half, Clarenceux lost himself in a frantic ritual of loading and firing this one small gun, putting a half-pound charge of gunpowder into the barrel, ramming it home with wadding, inserting the cannonball, and ramming that home with more wadding. Smoke filled the deck; shots that tore apart the oak sides of the hull sent splinters flying dangerously across the confined space. The smell of burning gunpowder filled the air. Shot by shot he mastered the technique of aiming and firing the weapon. A falconet might be a small gun, he realized, but as it was light enough for him to run out singlehandedly, he could take charge of the whole process and thus find his own rhythm. His third shot tore through the mainsail of the ship; his fifth smashed into the sterncastle. A two-inch piece of red-hot metal passing through did untold amounts of damage: that was obvious enough from those that hit the
Davy
. He fired fifteen shots, sweating and grimy with the effort, deafened from the explosions, wounded from the splinters and scorched from the burning of the hull.

With the swab in his hand, washing out the barrel of his falconet for the sixteenth time, he felt as if someone had suddenly placed their hands over his ears and tried to pull his head off. Thrown suddenly against the hull, he could see nothing. His head hurt, much more than his hand. A man was crying somewhere nearby, another howling. The ship was rolling from side to side even more than before. Clarenceux struggled to his feet and looked at where his gun had been. There was a gash in the side of the ship and the falconet was rammed into the wood. The wood had splintered outward, however. The cannonball had come through the ship from the other side and hit his falconet. He looked at the gaping hole in the opposite side of the ship. He turned back to his gun. It was now useless.