Commander Cantrell in the West Indies(244)
The majority of the ship’s troops—German and Swedish musketeers—were already on the weather deck, stalking along the gunwales, watching. Most of their attention was directed into the darkness behind the Intrepid’s stern, where dusk had already pulled all the light away from the eastern horizon. That was the direction from which small privateers, and a few Spaniards, too, had been trying to surprise them, running dark. Several had almost chased in under the arc of the steamship’s guns.
The patache that had approached from the port quarter was the boldest of this group of ships that increasingly tested and baited Intrepid’s gunners as the sun’s rays ceased to glint off the swells of the wide seas. However, at sixty yards range, the Spaniard’s sails still caught a good amount of the dying light and the cries of her gun crews told Gjedde that they were preparing to fire. He did not give them the chance. “Portside battery, fire all!” the Norwegian cried.
The volley had a few trailing discharges. Probably the forward guns were a second late, being muscled into rearward angles to fire before the enemy ship drew fully abreast of them. Of the fourteen regular eight-inch projectiles, five struck along the hull of the ship, which quite literally came apart. There was no dramatic explosion or burst of flames. The tremendous overlapping force of those hits—along with several more that ripped through masts, sails, and rigging—simply shattered the frame of the ship. The strakes and deck-planks split even where they had not been hit: the shock waves, traveling through the wood from two opposed directions, met and tore them apart. The ship rolled even as its keel started groaning; she was at beam-ends within twenty seconds.
Gjedde’s voice was anything but elated. “Our carronades were at minimum elevation, resting on their bases. Because so many of their ships sit so low upon the water, we will be fortunate to put any shot on the smallest of them if they reach twenty yards.”
Eddie nodded. “That is undeniably true, Captain.” The mitrailleuse at the starboard bow was once again stuttering into the setting sun. A sloop that had approached to one hundred yards listed, taking water as the high-velocity .50 caliber bullets punched a trail of splinter-edged holes in her hull and deck.
Svantner was standing just over Gjedde’s shoulder. “Shall I ask if the chief has raised enough steam, yet?”
Eddie shrugged. “Might as well.”
“You do not think that this might be a wise time to withdraw?” Gjedde asked with one silver-white eyebrow raised.
Eddie sighed. “Oh, I think it would be a great time—Mount One! Jacht inbound on port bow! Acquire solution and fire!—but we can’t withdraw yet.” When Gjedde’s other cloudlike eyebrow rose to join the first, Eddie handed him the note that the runner had pushed into his palm just before the modified Dutch jacht had made its starboard approach. Eddie recited it from memory. “Amelia to Intrepid. Message begins. Winds from east weaker and less favorable. Stop. Neither side possesses wind gauge. Stop. Combat continues. Stop. Uncertain if we will break free before night falls. Stop. Resolve will not arrive in time to accelerate outcome. Stop. Need an additional hour to secure escape. Stop. The fleet salutes you and your heroic crew. Stop. Tromp, commanding Amelia. Message ends.”
Svantner swallowed. His eyes were much larger than they had been before Eddie had started reading the message. Gjedde simply looked off into the approaching dark. “How long ago was that sent?”
Eddie shrugged. “About twenty-five minutes ago. In thirty more, we can show these jackals our tail. But until then, we must hold this patch of water. If they are allowed to start southward any sooner, they could catch the rest of our fleet during the early hours, or sometime tomorrow. Between the two Spanish vans, they could keep our conventional ships tangled up long enough to inflict damage to the supply ships and transports, or even our warships. And then we’d no longer be a force they’d fear.”
Gjedde nodded. “Within months, we’d see their sails approaching St. Eustatia.”
“Exactly. So we have to keep that from happening.” Eddie looked to where the sun was finally setting. “Meaning that we have to pin them in place, have to stay here for another thirty minutes.”
Gjedde looked down into the lightless depths. “Let us just hope that duty does not mean that we shall stay here permanently.”
The next ten minutes were unusually calm, as though the Spanish and their privateer allies had heard the resolute words and tones of the Intrepid’s command crew and had slunk away from any further battle with so determined an adversary.