Cast Off (17 page)

'Twas the dark time before dawn and a steady rain beat the decks. Pa'd already stowed his hammock and was tying on his belt. So was Petra, only instead of hammers and nails, her belt was strung with medicinal stuff—needles, thread, bandages, small scissors and the like. Plus she had her short knife on her hip.

“You think we gave the pirates the slip?” I asked.

“Too soon to tell,” Pa said.

We three headed to the fo'c'sle and waited for dawn with the rest of the crew. The muggy wind was steady as the rain, and a tarred jacket and breeches didn't keep the water from running down my neck and soaking my woolens. But 'twasn't the weather that was giving me the shakes. If the pirates had followed us south, 'twould be my first battle.

Up on the quarterdeck, the captain and Oak was grave as us crew. We squinted into the gray light, watched it smear the horizon and spread up. Soon we could see more of the
Lion
and, minutes later, the pirate ship.

Hounds of hell.

She was heaved to a quarter mile leeward, stripped of all but her fighting sails, black flag waving from the maintop and black pennants flying from her yardarms. She looked to be a fourth-rate three-master, but was fitted out like no ship I'd seen before. She was painted black all over—sides, rails, even her yards and masts. In the dim light, she might've been a shadow, 'cept for the gleam of muzzles crowding her sides like a mouth of iron teeth. Stranger still, they'd made her flush. She'd no quarterdeck or fo'c'sle, just one flat main deck from bow to stern. And no wonder: Flat's better for fighting. The pirates would have no trouble moving round and about all those cannons that lined the deck.

Soon as she saw us, she dropped sail.

“Duivel,”
the captain swore. “All hands to stations!”

“All hands to stations!” shouted the bosun.

Louis's drum popped like firecrackers, and the crew took up the cry: “To stations!”

All my hairs pricked up. The pirates only wanted the
Lion
and her cargo—they'd waste no time tossing her men overboard. Me, I just wanted to keep my skin.

The Lions was all worked up.

“Let's sink those lousy curs!”

“Hack and hew 'em!”

“Bunch a yellow shag bags, that's what they are!”

“Lousy cacafuegos!”

I swallowed hard and looked at Petra. It'd be her first battle too. “You'll do fine,” I said.

“It's not me I'm worried about. I won't be anywhere near the fighting.”

Me, on the other hand, I'd be in the thick of it. “Right, well, see you after.”

She looked like she wanted to say something more, but I wasn't sure I wanted to hear it. I turned to go to my station, but Pa pulled me back.

“Stay close to me, Brammetje.” Pa would captain one of the cannons and I'd be a powder monkey, running in fresh gunpowder. “Look to me. To me or Jaya and no one else, you understand?”

“Yes, Papa.”

He searched my face. “It's good you're afraid. Makes you smarter.”

In the sick bay, Clockert was spreading sawdust on the floor. He held out the bucket.

“Lay it thick. We'll need it.”

I choked on the breakfast that rose in my throat.

“That you, Albert?” Barometer Piet called from the sick bay.

“It's me,” I croaked.

“Oh, how I wish I could get out of this blasted bed. Doc Clock! Let me up, will you? What good am I down here, hey?”

Now that the fight was upon us, Piet was eager to join it.

“Mister Pietersen,” said the surgeon, “you may consider leaving the bed when you can piss and dung out unassisted.”

I finished spreading the sawdust and went to sit by Barometer Piet. “Have you ever been in a battle?”

“Loads of 'em,” he said. “But I imagine you ain't, so here's how it'll go. We two ships'll get real close, close enough to see the sweat of fear on the other man's face. We line up, broadside to broadside, and let loose the great guns. I tell you there ain't no sound more beautiful than the blast of them cannons and no smell finer than fresh gunpowder. De Ridder will aim high, so's to wreck the pirate's sails and rigging so she can't steer. Then once she's crippled, he'll blast her hull. If she's smart, she'll surrender before we sink her.”

“But what if the pirate wrecks our rigging and sails first?” I asked.

“Ain't gonna happen. It's true, she's faster and lighter. But we're Dutch.” He grinned. “We got God on our side, don't you know?”

The
Lion
groaned. She didn't much care for going top speed under full sail in rough water. I squatted next to a twenty-four-pounder, rubbing my frozen hands. Not a whiff of air broke the stink of sweat and burning match cord. 'Twas just light enough to see the crews crowded around their guns, waiting for the call to fire. I wanted to get on with it already. I'd also be happy to wait forever.

The pirate was closer now. I could see her through the porthole over the barrel of the gun. She turned and her name stood out red on her black transom. I couldn't read the letters, but I knew the picture of the three-headed sea devil on her flag:
Lusca
. I'd heard tell of 'em. Arms like an octopus, teeth like a shark, bigger than a whale. They could eat a man in one swallow if they wanted, but they liked to chew 'em first.

Jaya hawked betel juice into a spitkid. Lobo whistled a shanty. I jiggled some nails in my pocket.

“Quiet!” shouted Johann Majoor, his voice cracking. I didn't envy him his job, commanding five teams of men, all older and more battle scarred than himself. But his lucky birth made him an officer, be he fifteen years or fifty.

Jaya squinted through a porthole. “Two hundred yards . . . one hundred fifty . . .”

Oh Lordy, here she comes.

“Ready about!” shouted De Ridder from the quarterdeck above us. The
Lion
made a hard turn windward to show her broadside to the enemy.

“Gunners!” yelled Majoor.

Pa poured powder into the touchhole and picked up a match. We could hear Louis Cheval up in the waist, those skinny arms beating the drum with all his might. My own heart was near as loud.

“Aim high, gentlemen,” Majoor directed.

The gunners planted their feet.

“Fire!” shouted De Ridder.

“Fire!” shrieked Majoor.

The gun captains brought matches to the touchholes. A hiss filled the cabin.

Iron balls exploded out the muzzles of the cannons. The recoil was so strong the gun next to me snapped off its ropes. Four thousand pounds hit the wall, crushing O'Brian's arm. I wiped his blood off my cheek.

The men cheered for joy of landing the first shot. Pa whipped around and let out a long breath when he saw me still standing.

“Man down!” shouted Lobo.

A couple of mates carried O'Brian down to Petra and Clockert while swabbers stuffed wet rags down the barrels so's to cool the embers inside. Gunners poured in fresh powder and rammed wads of cloth in after. Two balls, more powder, and in under four minutes the crews was ready to fire again.

But the pirates hadn't been lazy. Before we Lions could get off another round, they let loose a volley of chain shot.

“Foregallant sail's down and most of the rigging!” shouted Tixfor, who was messenger to the gun decks.

“Fire!” screamed Majoor.

This time Dutch and pirate guns went off together. Two balls smashed the hull of the gun deck. A splinter took out the sword keep's eye—now he'd be half-sighted as well as tongueless. Another sliced Gos's forehead open. I gagged on the sour taste of other men's blood.