CATCHING A TARTAR.
ONE bright morning the _Damsel of Lyme_ cast off from the quay at
Plougastel and headed for the open waters of the vast Bay of Biscay.
The number of our crew was now increased by two, the new hands being
two drunken Breton fishermen who had been induced to serve aboard the
pinnace under no false pretences. Fishermen they were termed, yet I'd
wager that they were wreckers.
With stores replenished and the men flush with money--for the _Damsel
of Lyme_ had weighed directly the proceeds of the booty had been
apportioned--the pinnace sailed with a definite object in view.
A rich convoy was expected at Corunna from the Indies, and, since
'twas almost certain that the merchantmen would straggle, Captain
Cleat hoped to be able to cut off one of the deeply-laden craft
without much chance of being discovered. So a course was shaped
towards Cape Finisterre, where more express news might be obtained as
to the expected arrival of the Hispaniola Fleet.
For five or six days the _Damsel of Lyme_ cruised off the north-west
Spanish coast. Several small coasting craft were judiciously
questioned, for Captain Hannibal Cleat was a born play-actor, and
adopted the role of a pilot of the Douro River to perfection. Thus,
without causing alarm, he was able to obtain all the information
possible, though 'twas not sufficient nor definite enough to please
him.
At length, above the long regular rollers of the Atlantic appeared
the topsails of a large fleet, straggling over more than ten miles of
sea.
The wind was north-west, and the ships were sailing as close to the
wind as possible. This was to our advantage, since those that made
the worst leeway tailed off the farthermost from their escort.
"'Tis the silver fleet, sure enow!" exclaimed the Captain. "We'll lie
close, and ere morning yonder caravel will be ours."
He pointed to a cumbersome-looking high-sided vessel that, unable to
sail within a point of the next worst ship, had already drifted a
good league from the rest of the convoy.
A look of malevolent joy passed over the features of the rascally
crew. There was determination written on their faces; they meant to
take the marked ship at all costs. Some of their number might fall
and could ill be spared, but, after all, what mattered? The larger
would be the share of the spoil.
Running well before the wind the _Damsel of Lyme_ passed a good two
leagues from the caravel, and, as darkness set in, turned her course
towards the twinkling poop-lanterns of the unsuspecting Spaniard.
Captain Cleat's plans were well laid. The three pieces of ordnance
were crammed to their muzzles with scraps of iron, the arquebuses
were carefully charged and primed, while every man, stripped to the
waist, had decorated his bronzed face and body with weird designs in
red ochre and white chalk.
"Mark well what I say, boys," ordered the Captain; "when we board do
you remain here. Recharge all three cannon and keep your matches
ready for instant use."
Although the pinnace was a pirate ship the Spaniards are our natural
enemies; thus I had no compunction in carrying out my instructions
with a good grace.
At about two hours after midnight the pinnace crept within
pistol-shot of the caravel, yet not a sound betrayed our presence to
the careless watch on deck.
We could see her tall masts and faintly-drawing canvas standing out
against the darkness of the night, the phosphorescent swirl from her
rudder, and the curling bow-wave from her bluff entry. Occasionally
we could hear the quick chatter of a pair of quarrelsome sailors, or
the twang of a mandolin, while through her brilliantly-lighted
stern-gallery windows came the clatter of the dice, for her officers
were playing far into the night.
Motioning the helmsman to keep an even course, Captain Cleat sprang
into the main chains on the larboard side. For a few moments he
watched, then his stentorian voice awoke the stillness of the night.
"Surrender, you Spanish dogs!"
He spoke in English, knowing full well that the officers, as well as
most of the common seamen, would readily understand the stern
summons.
'Twas all confusion. Men rushed hither and thither, but for the most
part they clustered in the bulwarks, ready to repel with pike and
sword any attempt at boarding.
This was exactly as Captain Cleat wished, for when the crush was at
its height he gave orders to open fire.
The iron hail tore gaps in the dense mass of men, then ere the
survivors could recover from their surprise, the two vessels were
rubbing sides, and every man aboard the pinnace discharged his
arquebus, then leapt for the lofty bulwarks of the caravel.
All this while we were not idle, for we placed double charges into
the culverin and the two sakers, filling up their gaping muzzles with
a mixture of death-dealing missiles.
Just as we had completed the task I suddenly became aware of a
strange lull in the conflict. Then, with a yell of rage and pain,
Captain Hannibal Cleat's enormous body leapt from the bulwarks of the
Spanish craft right on to our narrow deck.
"Let 'em have it!" he shouted to me, at the same time running forward
with an axe.
The blinding flash of the culverin and the death-dealing storm of
iron checked those of the Spaniards who would have jumped aboard us.
The first saker cooled their ardour still more, and, ere I could
bring the match to the third piece, Captain Cleat had severed the
rope that held us to the caravel, and instantly the gap betwixt us
began to widen.
"Bravely done, lad!" shouted my master, as he came aft for the
tiller. 'Twas the only sentence of admiration he had ever addressed
to me since I set foot aboard the _Damsel of Lyme_, and the pleasure
of hearing him speak thus made me forget that I was aught but an
Englishman fighting 'gainst the might of Spain.
Once more another irregular volley whizzed around us, but the pinnace
was already slipping through the water, and beyond a few splinters
and the severing of a rope or two no great damage was done. This
discharge was followed by a desultory fire till the last report
echoed across the sea.
The _Damsel of Lyme_ was lost to the sight of our foes in the
blackness of the night.
Beyond the few words Captain Cleat had uttered when he regained the
deck of the pinnace not a word had been spoken. He remained at the
helm, his huge body leaning heavily upon the massive oaken tiller and
his head slightly inclined as if lost in thought. Owing to the
darkness I could not distinguish his features, but the exertion had
evidently told upon him, since I could see his broad shoulders
heaving regularly in the effort to recover his breath.
'Twas certain that the _Damsel of Lyme_ had met her match. The
attempt to board had been repulsed, and, with the exception of
Captain Cleat, every man of her crew who had set foot upon the
Spaniards' deck had either been captured or killed.