The Moghul Part 5

"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 warships 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 ship. "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 warship 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 warships.

"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 ship 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."

"Aye. That's why two-deckers won't buy a wh.o.r.e's chast.i.ty on a day like this. But they'll have the upper guns on us soon enough."

"Wait and see, Mackintosh. I'll warrant their upper guns are overheated by now. They'll think twice about trying to prime them just yet.

They'll have to wait a bit. Perhaps just long enough for us to get alongside. Then the upper guns'll touch nothing but our rigging."

The breeze freshened even more, driving the _Discovery _rapidly toward her target. Mackintosh eyed the galleon nervously, knowing the frigate was heavily outgunned. Finally he could bear the tension no longer.

"We've got range now. Permission to bring her about."

"Steady as she goes. They're slow on the helm." Hawksworth glanced at the line of seamen along the port side, untying bundles of musket arrows and lighting the linstock. "Bosun! Are the men at stations?"

"Aye, sir." A gravel voice sounded through the din. "Stocks were a bit damp, but I warrant the h.e.l.lish sun's dryin' 'em out. We'll give the fornicators a fine English salute."

Hawksworth gauged the galleon's course, estimating her speed and her ability to maneuver. Then he saw her start coming about in the water, turning to position the starboard battery for a broadside. Gunports on the lower deck flipped up and cannon began slowly to emerge, like hard black fangs. Nervous sweat began to bead on Mackintosh's brow as the _Discovery _held her course directly down the galleon's windward side.

The _Bon Ventura_'s broadside battery was not yet set, but a sudden burst of black smoke from her starboard bow-chaser sent a ball smashing through the _Discovery's _quarter gallery, removing much of its ornate embellishment. Then came another flare of smoke and flame, hurtling a second ball through the lateen sail above Mackintosh's head. The quartermaster went pale, and looked imploringly at Hawksworth.

"Steady as she goes, Mackintosh, they still haven't fully set their guns." The knot in Hawksworth's stomach was like a searing ball of fire. G.o.d, for a brandy. But we've got to hold till we've got sure range. To come about now would keep our distance, and mean a cla.s.sic battle. One we're sure to lose.

He pushed away the realization of the immense chance they were taking.

But now there was no turning back, even if he wanted. Finally he could bear it no longer. G.o.d make it right.

"Now, Mackintosh! Bring her hard about!"

The quartermaster threw his weight against the whipstaff, shouting orders to the two seamen on the deck below to haul the tackles on the tiller, helping him flip the rudder. Then he turned and bellowed commands to the mates.

"Hands to the braces. Bring her hard about."

The seamen poised incredulously in the maintop and foretop cheered as they began to haul in the ropes securing the yards, and in moments the sails swiveled off the wind. The _Discovery _careened in the chopping seas, responding readily to the shift in rudder and canvas. By this time Hawksworth was standing over the scuttle above the gun deck, shouting to Malloyre.

"Coming about. Prepare to fire the starboard battery when your guns bear."

The _Discovery_ had wheeled a sharp arc in the water, laying herself broadside to the galleon, hardly fifty yards away. The English seamen aloft stared mutely at the towering forecastle of the Portuguese warship, most never before having seen a galleon at close range.

Although the guns on her upper deck were still silent, had they spoken now they would have touched nothing but the frigate's tops'ls. But as the galleon turned, the cannon on her lower deck were coming into final position. In moments she would lay the _Discovery_ with a broadside.

Hawksworth watched her carefully, calculating, and then the knot in his stomach dissolved like ice in the sun. The _Discovery _would be in position seconds ahead.

Malloyre's command to fire cut the awe-stricken silence. The next instant a low roar seemed to emanate from all the timbers of the English frigate, while red-tipped flame tongued from her starboard side. The ship heeled dangerously sideways, while black smoke, acrid and searing, boiled up through the scuttles and hatch, as though propelled on its way by the round of cheers from below decks, the traditional salute of ship's gunners. Hawksworth later remembered noting that the battery had fired in perfect unison, not losing the set of a single gun by the ship's recoil.

A medley of screams came first, piercing the blackened air. Then the smoke drifted downwind, over the side of the _Bon Ventura_, revealing a savage incision where her lower gun deck had once been. Cannon were thrown askew, and the mangled forms of Portuguese gunners, many with limbs shattered or missing, could be seen through the splintered hull.

But Hawksworth did not pause to inspect the damage; he was already yelling the next orders to Mackintosh, hoping to be heard above the din. The advantage of surprise would be short-lived.

"Pay off the helm! Bring her hard about!"

Again the rudder swiveled in its locks, while seamen aloft

hauled the sheets and braces, but this time the _Discovery _came about easily, using the wind to advantage. As he turned to check the whipstaff, Hawksworth heard a high-pitched ricochet off the steering house and sensed a sudden dry numbness in his thigh. Only then did he look up to see the line of Portuguese musketmen on the decks of the _Bon Ventura_, firing sporadically at the English seamen on decks and aloft.