Pirate Latitudes

The galleon rocked madly, a crazy upward heave as all thirty of her cannon exploded in a volley. Hunter was thrown back against the mainmast with a force that knocked the breath from him. He hardly noticed it; he was watching for the downward movement, to see what had happened to the enemy.

“You hit her,” Lazue said.

Indeed he had. The impact had knocked the Spanish vessel laterally in the water, swinging the stern outward. The profile of the aft castle was now a ragged line, and the entire mizzenmast was falling in a strange, slow motion, sails and all, into the water.

But in the same moment Hunter saw that he had struck too far forward to damage the rudder and not far enough forward to hit the helmsman at the tiller. The warship was still under control.

“Reload and run out!” he shouted.

There was much confusion aboard the Spanish ship. He knew he had bought time. Whether he had bought the ten minutes he needed to prepare a second volley, he could not be sure.

Seamen were everywhere in the aft of the warship, cutting the fallen mizzenmast away, trying to get free. For a moment, it looked like the debris in the water would foul the rudder, but that did not happen.

Hunter heard the rumbling beneath his own decks as, one after another, his cannon were reloaded and run back to the gunports.

The Spanish warship was closer now, less than four hundred yards to port, but she was angled badly and could not get off a broadside.

One minute passed, then another.

The Spanish ship came under control, her mizzen with its sails and rigging drifting away in the wake of the ship.

The bow swung into the wind. She was coming about, and moving to Hunter’s weak starboard side.

“Damn me,” Enders said. “I knew he was a clever bastard!”

The Spanish ship lined up for a starboard broadside, and delivered it a moment later. At this closer range, it was miserably effective. Spars and rigging came crashing down around Hunter.

“We cannot take any more,” Lazue said softly.

Hunter had been thinking the same thing. “How many cannon run out?” he shouted.

Don Diego, below, peered up onto the deck. “Sixteen ready!”

“We will fire with sixteen,” Hunter said.

Another broadside from the Spanish warship hit them with devastating effect. Hunter’s ship was shattering around him.

“Mr. Enders!” Hunter bellowed. “Prepare to come about!”

Enders looked at Hunter in disbelief. To come about now would bring Hunter’s ship through the bow of the Spanish ship - and much closer.

“Prepare to come about!” Hunter shouted again.

“Ready about!” Enders yelled. Astounded seamen ran to the lines, furiously working to unsnarl them.

The warship closed.

“Three hundred fifty yards,” Lazue said.

Hunter hardly heard her. He no longer cared about the range. He sighted down the crosshairs at the smoky profile of the warship. His eyes stung and blurred with tears. He blinked them away, and fixed on an imaginary point on the Spanish profile. Low, and just behind the bowline.

“Ready about! The helm’s a-lee!” Enders bellowed.

“Ready to fire,” Hunter shouted.

Enders was astonished. Hunter knew it, without looking at the sea artist’s face. He kept his eye to the crosshairs. Hunter was going to fire while the ship was coming about. It was unheard of, an insane thing to do.

“One!” Hunter shouted.

In the crosshairs, he saw his ship swing through the wind, coming around to bear on the Spaniard…

“Two!”

His own ship was moving slowly now, the crosshairs inching forward along the warship’s hazy profile. Past the forward gunports, onto bare wood…

“Three!”

The crosshairs crept forward on the target, but it was too high. He waited for a dip in his own ship, knowing that at the same moment the warship would rise slightly, exposing more flank.

He waited, not daring to breathe, not daring to hope. The warship rode up a little, then-

“Fire!”

Again his ship rocked under the impact of the cannon. It was a ragged volley; Hunter heard it and felt it, but he could see nothing. He waited for the smoke to clear and the ship to right herself. He looked. “Mother of God,” Lazue said.

There was no change in the Spanish warship. Hunter had missed her clean.

“Damn me to hell,” Hunter said, thinking that there was now an odd truth to the words. They were all damned to hell; the next broadside from the Spaniards would finish them off.

Don Diego said, “It was a noble try. A noble try, and bravely done.”

Lazue shook her head. She kissed him on the cheek. “The saints preserve us all,” she said. A tear ran down her cheek.

Hunter felt a crushing despair. They had missed their final chance; he had failed them all. There was nothing to do now but run up the white flag and surrender.

“Mr. Enders,” he called, “run up the white-”

He stopped cold: Enders was dancing behind the tiller, slapping his thigh, laughing uproariously.

Then he heard a cheer from belowdecks. The gun crews were cheering.

Were they mad?