“Forgive me,” he said quietly. “Inquire of Enders, and he will make arrangements for you to go ashore, so that you can carry on the noble tradition of Ptolemy and Leonardo.”
He stopped.
“Captain?”
He stared into space.
“Captain, are you well?”
Abruptly, he walked away from her. “Don Diego!” he shouted. “Find me Don Diego!”
. . .
DON DIEGO ARRIVED in Hunter’s cabin to discover the captain drawing furiously on slips of paper. His desk was littered with sketches.
“I do not know if this will succeed,” Hunter said. “I have only heard of it. The Florentine, Leonardo, proposed it, but he was not heeded.”
“Soldiers do not attend an artist,” Don Diego said.
Hunter glowered at him. “Wisely or not,” he said.
Don Diego looked at the diagrams. Each showed a ship’s hull, drawn in profile from above, with lines running out from the sides of the hull. Hunter drew another.
“The idea is simple,” he said. “On an ordinary ship, each cannon has its own gun captain, who is responsible for the firing of that single gun.”
“Yes . . .”
“After the gun is loaded and run out, the gun captain crouches behind the barrel and sights the target. He orders his men with handspikes and side tackles to aim the gun as he thinks best. Then he orders his men to slide the wedge to set the elevation — again as his eye thinks best. Then he fires. This is the procedure for each individual gun.”
“Yes . . .” the Jew said. Don Diego had never actually seen a large cannon fired, but he was familiar with the general method of operation. Each gun was separately aimed, and a good gun captain, a man who could accurately judge the right angle and elevation of his cannon, was highly regarded. And rare.
“Now then,” Hunter said, “the usual method is parallel fire.” He drew parallel lines out from the sides of the ship on the paper. “Each gun fires and each captain prays that his shot will find its mark. But in truth, many guns will miss until the two ships are so close that almost any angle or elevation will hit the target. Let us say, when the ships are within five hundred yards. Yes?”
Don Diego nodded slowly.
“Now the Florentine made this proposal,” Hunter said, sketching a new ship. “He said, do not trust the gun captains to aim each volley. Instead, aim all the guns in advance of the battle. Look now what you achieve.”
He drew from the hull converging lines of fire, which came together at a single point in the water.
“You see? You concentrate the fire at one place. All your balls strike the target at the same point, causing great destruction.”
“Yes,” Don Diego said, “or all your balls miss the target and fall into the sea at the same point. Or all your balls strike the bowsprit or some other unimportant portion of the ship. I confess I do not see the value of your plan.”
“The value,” Hunter said, tapping the diagram, “lies in the way these guns are fired. Think: if they are pre-aimed, I can fire a volley with only one man to a gun — perhaps even one man for two guns. And if my target is within range, I know I will score a hit with each gun.”
The Jew, aware of Hunter’s short crew, clapped his hands together. “Of course,” he said. Then he frowned. “But what happens after the first volley?”
“The guns will run back from the recoil. I then collect all the men into a single gun crew, which moves from gun to gun, loading each and running it out again, to the predetermined marks. This can be done relatively quickly. If the men are trained, I could fire a second volley within ten minutes.”
“By then the other ship will have changed position.”
“Yes,” Hunter said. “It will be closer, inside my point. So the fire will be more spread, but still tight. You see?”
“And after the second volley?”
Hunter sighed. “I doubt that we will have more than two chances. If I have not sunk or disabled the warship in those two volleys, we shall surely lose the day.”
“Well,” the Jew said finally, “it is better than nothing.” His tone was not optimistic. In a sea battle, warring ships usually settled a contest with fifty broadsides or more. Two well-matched ships with disciplined crews might fight the better part of a day, exchanging more than a hundred broadsides. Two volleys seemed trivial.
“It is,” Hunter said, “unless we can strike the aft castle, or the magazine and shot-hold.”
Those were the only truly vulnerable points on a warship. The aft castle carried all the ship’s officers, the helmsman, and the rudder. A solid hit there would leave the ship without guidance. The shot-hold and magazine in the bow would explode the warship in a moment.
Neither point was easily hit. To aim far forward or aft increased the likelihood of a harmless miss by all cannon.
“The problem is our aim,” the Jew said. “You will set your marks by gunnery practice, here in the harbor?”
Hunter nodded.
“But how will you aim, once at sea?”
“That is exactly why I have sent for you. I must have an instrument for sighting, to line the ship up with the enemy. It is a question of geometry, and I no longer remember my studies.”
With his fingerless left hand, the Jew scratched his nose. “Let me think,” he said, and left the cabin.
. . .
ENDERS, THE UNFLAPPABLE sea artist, had a rare moment of discomposure. “You want what?” he said.
“I want to set all thirty-two cannon on the port side,” Hunter repeated.
“She’ll list to port like a pregnant sow,” Enders said. The very idea seemed to offend his sense of propriety and good seamanship.
“I’m sure she will be ungainly,” Hunter said. “Can you still sail her?”
“After a fashion,” Enders said. “I could sail the Pope’s coffin with m’lady’s dinner napkin. After a fashion.” He sighed. “Of course,” he said, “you’ll shift the cannon once we’re in open water.”
“No,” Hunter said. “I’ll shift them here, in the bay.”
Enders sighed again. “So you want to clear the reef with your pregnant sow?”
“Yes.”
“That means cargo topside,” Enders said, staring into space. “We’ll move those cases in the hold up on the starboard railing and lash them there. It’ll help some, but then we are top-heavy as well as off-trim. She’ll roll like a cork in a swell. Make the devil’s own job to fire those guns.”
“I’m only asking if you can sail her.”
There was a long silence. “I can sail her,” Enders said finally. “I can sail her just as pretty as you wish. But you better get her back in trim before that storm hits. She won’t last ten minutes in weather.”
“I know that,” Hunter said.
The two men looked at each other. While they sat, they heard a reverberating rumble overhead, as the first of the starboard cannon was shifted to the port side.
“You play long odds,” Enders said.
“They are the only odds I have,” Hunter replied.
Firing commenced in the early afternoon. A piece of white sailcloth was set five hundred yards away, on the shore, and the cannon were fired individually until they struck the target. The positions were marked on the deck with the blade of a knife. It was a long, slow, laborious process continuing on into the night, when the white sail target was replaced by a small fire. But by midnight, they had all thirty-two cannon aimed, loaded, and run out. The cargo had been brought topside and lashed to the starboard railing, partially compensating for the list to port. Enders pronounced himself satisfied with the trim of the boat, but his expression was unhappy.
Hunter ordered all hands to get a few hours sleep, and announced they would sail with the morning tide. Just before h
e drifted off to sleep, he wondered what Bosquet would make of the day’s cannon fire inside the cove. Would he guess the meaning of those shots? And what would he do if he did?
Hunter did not ponder the question. He would know soon enough, he thought, and closed his eyes.
Chapter 30
HE WAS ON deck at dawn, pacing back and forth, watching the crew’s preparations for battle. Lines and braces were being doubled, so that if some were shot away the others would allow the ship to sail. Bedding and blankets, soaked in water, were lashed along rails and bulkheads to protect against flying splinters. The entire deck was washed down repeatedly, soaking the dry wood to reduce the danger of fire.
In the midst of all this, Enders came up. “Lookout’s just reported, Captain. The warship is gone.”
Hunter was stunned. “Gone?”
“Aye, Captain. Gone during the night.”
“It is not in sight at all?”
“Aye, Captain.”
“He cannot have given up,” Hunter said. He considered the possibilities a moment. Perhaps the warship had gone to the north or south side of the island to lie in wait. Perhaps Bosquet had some other plan or, perhaps, the pounding by the saker had done more damage than the privateers suspected. “All right, carry on,” Hunter said.
The immediate effect of the warship’s disappearance was salutary, he knew. It meant that he would be able to make a safe exit from Monkey Bay with his ungainly ship.
That passage had been worrying him.
Across the bay, he saw Sanson directing preparations aboard the Cassandra. The sloop sat lower in the water today; during the night, Hunter had transferred half the treasure from his vaults to the hold of the Cassandra. There was a good likelihood that at least one of the two ships might be sunk, and he wanted at least part of the treasure to survive.
Sanson waved to him. Hunter waved back, thinking that he did not envy Sanson this coming day. According to their plans, in an attack the smaller ship would run for the nearest safe harbor, while Hunter engaged the Spanish warship. That was not without risk for Sanson, who might find it difficult to escape unmolested. If the Spaniard chose to attack Sanson first, Hunter’s ship would be unable to attack. El Trinidad’s cannon were prepared only for two volleys of defense.
But if Sanson feared this eventuality, he gave no sign; his wave was cheery enough. A few minutes later, the two ships raised anchor and, under light sail, made for the open sea.
The sea was rough. Once past the coral reefs and shallow water, there were forty-knot winds and twelve-foot swells. In that water, the Cassandra bobbed and bounced, but Hunter’s galleon wallowed and slopped like a sick animal.
Enders complained bitterly, and then asked Hunter to take the helm for a moment. Hunter watched as the sea artist moved forward in the boat until he was standing clear of all the sails in the bow.
Enders stood with his back to the wind and both arms stretched wide. He remained there a moment, then turned slightly, still keeping his arms wide.
Hunter recognized the old seaman’s trick for locating the eye of a hurricane. If you stood with your arms out and your back to the wind, the eye of the storm was always two points forward of the left hand’s direction.
Enders came back to the helm, grunting and swearing. “She’s south-southwest,” he said, “and damn me if we won’t feel her strong before nightfall.”
Indeed, the sky overhead was already darkening gray, and the winds seemed to strengthen with each passing minute. El Trinidad listed unhappily as she cleared Cat Island and felt the full roughness of the open sea.
“Damn me,” Enders said. “I don’t trust all those cannon, Captain. Can’t we shift just two or three to starboard?”
“No,” Hunter said.
“Make her sail smarter,” Enders said. “You’d like it, Captain.”
“So would Bosquet,” Hunter said.
“Show me Bosquet,” Enders said, “and you can keep your cannon with nary a word from me.”
“He’s there,” Hunter said, pointing astern.
Enders looked, and saw the Spanish warship clear the north shore of Cat Island, in hot pursuit of the galleon.
“Right up our bum hole,” Enders said. “God’s bones, he’s well set.”
The warship was bearing down on the most vulnerable part of the galleon, its aft deck. Any ship was weak astern — that was why the treasure was always stowed forward, and why the most spacious cabins were always astern. A ship’s captain might have a large compartment, but in time of battle it was assumed he would not be in it.
Hunter had no guns aft at all; every piece of bronze hung on the port side. And their ungainly list deprived Enders of the traditional defense from a rear attack — a twisting, erratic course to make a poor target. Enders had to hold his best course to keep the ship from taking on water, and he was unhappy about it.
“Steady as you go,” Hunter said, “and keep land to starboard.”
He went forward to the side railing, where Don Diego was sighting along an odd instrument he had made. It was a wooden contraption, roughly three feet long, mounted to the mainmast. At each end there was a small square frame of wood, with crossed hairs, forming an X.
“It’s simple enough,” the Jew said. “You sight along here,” he said, standing at one end, “and when you have the two sets of hairs matched, you are in the proper position. Whatever part of your target is in the crossing of the hairs is what you will strike.”
“What about the range?”
“For that, you need Lazue.”
Hunter nodded. Lazue, with her sharp eyes, could estimate distances with remarkable accuracy.
“Range is not the problem,” the Jew said. “The problem is timing the swells. Here, look.”
Hunter stepped into position behind the crosshairs.
He closed one eye and squinted until the double X overlapped. And then he saw how much the boat pitched and rocked.
One instant the crosshairs were pointing at empty sky; the next, they were pointing into the rolling sea.
In his mind, he pretended to fire a round of shot. Between his shouted command and the moment the gunners tugged on the shot-cords there would be a delay, he knew. He had to estimate that. And the shot itself was slow-moving: another half-second would pass before the target was struck. All together, more than a second between the order to fire and the impact.
In that second, the ship would roll and bounce madly on the ocean. He felt a wave of panic. His desperate plan was impossible in heavy seas. They would never be able to get off two accurately aimed volleys.
“Where timing is paramount,” the Jew suggested, “the example of the duel might be useful.”
“Good,” Hunter said. It was a helpful thought. “Notify the gun crews. The signals will be ready to fire, one, two, three, fire. Yes?”
“I shall tell them,” the Jew said. “But in the noise of battle . . .”
Hunter nodded. The Jew was very acute today, and thinking much more clearly than Hunter himself. Once the firing began, verbal signals would be lost, or misunderstood. “I shall call the commands. You stand at my side and give hand signals.”
The Jew nodded and went to tell the crews. Hunter called for Lazue, and explained to her the need for accurate ranging. The shot was aimed for five hundred yards; she would have to measure with delicacy. She said she could do it.
He went back to Enders, who was delivering a continuous string of oaths. “We shall taste his bugger’s staff soon enough,” he said. “I can near feel that prickle upon the flower.”
At that moment, the Spanish warship opened fire with its bow cannon. Small shot whistled through the air.
“Hot as an ardent boy,” Enders said, shaking his fist in the air.
A second volley splintered wood on the aft castle, but caused no
serious damage.
“Steady on,” Hunter said. “Let him gain.”
“Let him gain. Tell me how I could do other?”
“Keep your wits,” Hunter said.
“It’s not my wits at risk,” Enders said, “but my dearest bunghole.”
A third volley passed harmlessly amidships, the small shot whistling through the air. Hunter had been waiting for that.
“Smokepots!” Hunter shouted, and the crew raced to light the caskets of pitch and sulfur on deck. Smoke billowed into the air, and drifted astern. Hunter knew that this would give the appearance of damage. He could well imagine how El Trinidad appeared to the Spaniard a listing ship in trouble, now belching dark smoke.
“He’s moving east,” Enders said. “Coming in for the kill.”
“Good,” Hunter said.
“Good,” Enders repeated, shaking his head. “Dear Judas’s ghost, our captain says good.”
Hunter watched as the Spanish warship moved to the port side of the galleon. Bosquet had begun the engagement in classic fashion, and was continuing in the same way. He was moving wide of his target, getting himself onto a parallel course just out of cannon range.
Once he had lined up his broadside on the galleon, he would begin to close. As soon as he was within range — starting at about two thousand yards — Bosquet would open fire, and would continue to fire as he came closer and closer. That would be the most difficult period for Hunter and his crew. They would have to weather those broadsides until the Spanish ship was within their range.
Hunter watched as the enemy vessel pulled directly into a parallel course with El Trinidad, slightly more than a mile to the port.
“Steady on,” Hunter said, and rested a hand on Enders’s shoulder.
“You shall have your way with me,” Enders grumbled, “and so will the Donnish prickler.”
Hunter went forward to Lazue.
“She is just under two thousand yards,” Lazue said, squinting at the enemy profile.
“How fast does she close?”
“Fast. She’s eager.”