And suddenly all of the fine arguments Billy Bird had made in the inn in Williamsburg seemed insane, the task before them impossible.
Whatever had she been thinking?
Chapter 22
The closer they drew to the French Indiaman, the grimmer things looked. Marlowe had purposely sent no flags aloft until they had smoked the stranger’s identity. Once they had, he ran French colors aloft, fore, main, and mizzen. It did not appear to have fooled them.
The two ships had closed to a mile or so when the Indiaman began to casually reduce her spread of canvas to fighting sail. The studding sails disappeared first, and though they were not doused with any sort of breathtaking speed, neither was the evolution the kind of slow and clumsy work that would indicate a small or poorly trained crew.
Topgallants after that, with hands sent aloft to stow, and then the mainsail was hauled up in its gear. It was all unhurried, almost leisurely, like a confident duelist who carefully removes his coat and waistcoat and sets them down with care, certain he will be putting them on again soon.
The Elizabeth Galleys watched this and they were not immune to the effect.
Not that the men who sailed under Marlowe were wanting in courage, not at all. But being ordered into battle was one thing, being able to choose one’s fight was another, and the closer they drew, the bigger and more imposing the Indiaman looked, and the less certain they became.
“She is a monstrous thing,” Bickerstaff noted. He and Marlowe were at the weather rail on the quarterdeck and not aft in their private place. The time for privacy was past. “Are they all so big?”
“Generally. Not much protection from the navy in the East Indies, and quite a bit of danger. There are the native pirates, of course, and the Great Mogul’s navy. And now these fellows on the Pirate Round, sailing out of New York and Newport and such and taking whatever they can lay hands on. Thomas Tew’s successes there in ninety-four have quite inspired those of an adventurous mind.”
“Sailors from the American colonies? Taking prizes with never a letter of marque?”
“Shocking, ain’t it?” Marlowe agreed.
“Thomas Tew, if I am not mistaken, died while holding his guts in place with his own hands, trying to replicate his famous voyage.”
“True enough, but those of an adventurous bent understand that such things could not happen to them.”
Marlowe looked forward at the grim men standing by their guns. He wondered how many of them thought they were impervious to French iron. Not many, he imagined, not anymore. Given the chance, he reckoned a solid majority would now vote to turn and run, but none of them down there was going to be the one to broach the subject, and neither was he. The die was cast.
“How do you think she is armed?” Bickerstaff asked. His was an active mind. Marlowe thought that if Bickerstaff was about to be shot in the head he would be wondering about the make of the gun, the merits of firearms over cold steel, the physiological aspects of a bullet tearing through flesh.
“Probably eighteen-pounders. Perhaps twenty-fours. I think I count twelve gunports.”
“Indeed? Heavy armament, to be sure. Much heavier than ours. Have they the men to work those big guns?”
“Good question. That might be their weakness. You see, for all their arms and man-of-war styling and such, East India companies-and this is true of all of them-are still merchantmen, which means they are parsimonious to a fault. They’ll keep crews as small as ever they can to save on wages, so it is possible that their guns make a great show, but they do not have the crews to work them.”
“If that is the case, then, this should not be a bloody day for us. Either broadsides or boarding, we should have them.”
“We should. Unfortunately, the Indiamen are often used to transport troops. If that is the case she could be packed with men. Trained fighting men.”
“Which could explain her apparent disregard of the potential threat we pose.”
“Yes it could. And damned insulting it is, I might add. I think she should be quite terrified of us.”
If the Indiaman was in fact terrified, she continued to do an admirable job of hiding the fact. The Elizabeth Galley, with all plain sail set, and studding sails to weather, ran down fast on her, but she made no attempt to run, no attempt to gain the weather gauge, no attempt to defend herself beyond reducing down to fighting sail. It was making Marlowe’s men very nervous indeed.
They were no more than a quarter of a mile apart when Marlowe saw something flash on the Indiaman’s side. He put his glass to his eye. They had opened gunports and run out the great guns. Marlowe shook his head. Now what?
“Studding sails in! Clew up topgallants and mainsail!”
That was the first thing. Now what?
They had to exchange broadsides, at least two. That would tell Marlowe how well manned they were, whether he should consider boarding, or standing off in an artillery duel, or throwing up his hands and running for the horizon.
“Get those Frenchy colors down, run up the English,” he called. “Sail trimmers, stand by. Gunners, a broadside on my command…”
He looked aloft. The French colors were coming down, those of Old England on their way up. Do this thing proper, he thought.
The English ensign hit the main truck. “Larboard your helm!” Marlowe called, and the Elizabeth Galley swung off. “Sail trimmers, meet her…fire!”
The larboard broadside went off in one great blast. The deck shook like an earthquake under their feet, the thick smoke swirled and rolled downwind, and the men, well trained by now, fell to loading again.
Marlowe saw shot fall around the Frenchman and two at least strike the high-sided ship. Now the Indiaman was turning to starboard as well, bringing her broadside to bear. More and more of her high side was revealed as she turned. Marlowe counted gunports. Fourteen per side, not twelve.
The Frenchman fired. Marlowe saw the smoke through the glass, spurting from fourteen muzzles, and he whipped the glass from his eye as the noise of the broadside and the whistle of iron and the heavy fusillade all reached the Elizabeth Galley together. Round shot whipped past, punched holes in the sails, slammed into the side of the ship, tore sections of bulwark free.
“Damn my eyes!” Marlowe said in surprise. Well aimed, and heavy shot. Twenty-four-pounders. They had to be.
“Frenchy’s tacking, sir!” Fleming called out.
The Frenchman was still turning, her bow pointing right at the Galley’s waist, and the faster of the Galley’s gun crews were able to get off racking shots, but Marlowe did not think they would do much good.
The Indiaman’s sails came aback and they hauled main and mizzen around, and despite Marlowe’s fervent wish that they should miss stays and get hung in irons, they completed their turn through the wind.
The Frenchman’s larboard broadside now came around to bear on the Elizabeth Galley and the two ships fired nearly at once, the Galley’s fire ragged, uncoordinated, with the crews loading and firing at their best speed, the Frenchman’s all as one, the preloaded guns throwing out a wall of smoke and flame and iron.
A shot hit the ship’s bell in a great clanking and screaming blast of metal. “Damn it!” Marlowe shouted, and when he saw that none of his men had been felled by the spray of shrapnel, he added, “Bloody thing cost thirteen bloody pounds!”
Two cable lengths separated the ships as they passed, the Frenchman having tacked and begun clawing her way to windward, the Elizabeth Galley still running with the wind between two sheets.
“Now we shall see how well she is manned,” Marlowe said to Bickerstaff. “See how quick she can load those fine, big guns.”
And then, as if answering that question specifically, the great guns rolled out again and fired, all fourteen at once. The section of bulwark between numbers five and seven guns was knocked flat and number seven was
