Commander Cantrell in the West Indies(245)

Eddie conceded that that had been a nice fantasy, but he knew that the Spanish weren’t daunted by their adversaries’ courage. No, they were simply waiting for the arrival of their most decisive ally: nightfall. And once the sun had fallen beneath the far western waters, the enemy ships made their own mortal resolve quite clear.

They were not brash about resuming their attack but began circling in closer slowly. Like nocturnal sharks cautiously approaching a wounded killer whale, they could smell the blood, but knew that the immense predator still had teeth which could rip them open if they were incautious. And so, just as Eddie gave orders to douse all lights on Intrepid’s decks and in her cabins, the privateer and Spanish boats began probing at the rapidly shrinking edge of visibility. Hulls flashed here and there, but were gone before a gun could be trained upon them. And as the final hazy, gray-and-salmon smudge of sun-lit cloud bottoms also shrank down behind the arc of the wide world, they came closer and closer still.

The sound of sails luffing as the ships tacked to and fro became the typical first warning of their direct approaches. Three piraguas swept in from the north, small lights flickering along their lengths. A moment later those lights were arcing through the air toward Intrepid: flaming arrows, most of which sunk into the side of the big ship, guttering. But the oil-soaked rags affixed behind their points quickly flared again.

Svantner almost laughed. “Do they mean to burn us?”

“No,” Eddie said, restraining himself from snapping at the lieutenant. “They mean to mark us. As a target that they can all see. Get the ship’s troops to douse those damn arrows, and prepare to deal with more. Captain Gjedde, we’d best find the wind and give the Spanish a more lively target to chase until we break off and run.”

Gjedde looked aloft. “Admiral Tromp isn’t the only one whose breezes have weakened.” And it was true enough: Intrepid’s canvas was either lank or luffing, no matter how wind-master Gjedde turned her. “The Spanish have lighter ships with more canvas than hull. They’ll be slowed, too, but less so than us. And their piraguas move as much by oar as sail.”

“Well, get me what speed you can, in any direction but west.”

“That risks collision.”

Eddie shrugged. “Standing still makes us an easy target. We’ll have to take our chances. At least they are small boats.”

Svantner leaned over from working with the helmsman as they tried to find a point of wind that would give them some headway. “True, but if we hit a patache or jacht, we could be severely damaged, start taking water.”

“Which is why we have pumps. Get me a little more speed, no matter how you do it.” More arrows came out of the night, this time from off the port beam. Several found their way up into the sails, but the heavy, fluttering canvas knocked them aside. This time. A crackling of German muskets reached back along the fiery paths that the arrows had followed. If the ragged volley hit anything, there was no sight or sound to indicate it.

As men leaned over the side to pour water and vinegar mixtures down upon the arrows still burning against Intrepid’s dark hull, muskets flared in the darkness about seventy yards off the port bow. One of the fire-control party flopped to the deck with a cry, a dark stain spreading across his shirt from the vicinity of his breastbone.

The runner next to Eddie turned wondering eyes into the dark as more German rifles fired at where the enemy muskets had so momentarily bloomed. “How did they see to shoot at our men?” he asked.

Eddie leaned against the railing of the bridge, taking the weight off his cramping stump. “Probably saw a shadow in front of or at the edge of the light from the arrows. They fired at the movement. Enough muskets, and a little luck—”

“Patache, bearing on our port bow,” came a cry for the foretop.

Eddie swung in that direction and saw the enemy ship approaching, her sails luffing as she struggled to maintain headway against the shifting wind. Which bought Eddie the time he needed. “Svantner, is the port battery reloaded?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very well. If that patache comes alongside, fire the first half of that battery. Mount One,” he directed into the speaking tube, “do you have a shot?”

“Barely, sir,” replied a tinny, indistinct voice that would have been drowned out had any of Intrepid’s guns been active at that moment, “and only the quarterdeck.”

“That’s good enough. Lay open sights upon her and fire as soon as you can!”

“Yes, sir!”

The mizzen lookout cried about more boats approaching from the port quarter. “How are they coordinating this?” Svantner yelped.