Pirate Latitudes

“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 he 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.”