The events of that morning were almost too improbable to be
described. After taking on the Indian pilot, Hawksworth's plan had been
to make landfall immediately, then launch a pinnace for Surat, there to
negotiate trade for their goods and safe conduct to the capital at Agra
for himself. If things went as planned, the goods would be exchanged
and he would be on his way to the Moghul capital long before word of
their arrival could reach Goa and the Portuguese.
The pilot's worth was never in question. A practiced seaman, he had
steered them easily through the uncharted currents and hidden swallows
of the bay. They had plotted a course directly east-north-east, running
with topgallants on the night breeze, to make dawn anchorage at the
mouth of the Tapti River. Through the night the _Resolve_ had stayed
with them handily, steering by their stem lantern.
When the first light broke in the east, hard and sudden, there it lay--
the coast of India, the landfall, the sight they had waited for the
long seven months. Amid the cheers he had ordered their colors hoisted--
the red cross, bordered in white, on a field of blue--the first English
flag ever to fly off India's coast.
But as the flag snapped its way along the poop staff, and the men
struck up a hornpipe on deck, their triumph suddenly was severed by a
cry from the maintop.
"Sails off the starboard quarter."
In the sudden hush that rolled across the ship like a shroud, freezing
the tumult of voice and foot, Hawksworth had charged up the
companionway to the quarterdeck. And there, while the masts tuned a
melancholy dirge, he had studied the ships in disbelief with his glass.
Four galleons anchored at the river mouth. Portuguese men-of-war. Each
easily a thousand ton, twice the size of the _Discovery_.
He had sorted quickly through his options. Strike sail and heave to, on
the odds they may leave? It was too late. Run up Portuguese colors, the
old privateers' ruse, and possibly catch them by surprise? Unlikely.
Come about and run for open sea? Never. That's never an English
seadog's way. No, keep to windward and engage. Here in the bay.
"Mackintosh!" Hawksworth turned to see the quartermaster already poised
expectantly on the main deck. "Order Malloyre to draw up the gunports.
Have the sails wet down and see the cookroom fire is out."
"Aye, sir. This'll be a bloody one."
"What counts is who bleeds most. Get every able man
on station."
As Hawksworth turned to check the whipstaff, the long wooden lever that
guided the ship's rudder, he passingly noted that curious conflict of
body sensation he remembered from two encounters in years past: once,
when on the Amsterdam run he had seen privateers suddenly loom off the
coast of Scotland, and then on his last voyage through the
Mediterranean, when his convoy first spotted the Turkish pirate
galleys. While his mind calculated the elements of a strategy, coolly
refining each individual detail, his stomach belied his rational facade
and knotted in instinctive, primal fear. And he had asked himself
whether this day his mind or his body would prevail. The odds were very
bad, even if they could keep the wind. And if the Portuguese had
trained gun crews . . .
Then he spotted the Indian pilot, leaning casually against the steering
house, his face expressionless. He wore a tiny moustache and long,
trimmed sideburns. And unlike the English seamen, all barefoot and
naked to the waist, he was still dressed formally, just as when he came
aboard. A fresh turban of white cotton, embroidered in a delicate
brown, was secured neatly about the crown of his head, exposing his
long ears and small, jeweled earrings. A spotless yellow cloak covered
the waist of his tightly tailored blue trousers.
Damn him. Did he somehow know? Did he steer us into a trap?
Seeming to read Hawksworth's thoughts, the pilot broke the silence
between them, his Turki heavily accented with his native Gujarati.
"This is your first test. Officers of the Moghul's army are doubtless
at the shore, observing. What will you do?"
"What do you think we'll do? We'll stand the bastards. And with
Malloyre's gunners I think we can . . ."
"Then permit me an observation. A modest thought, but possibly useful.
Do you see, there"--he pulled erect and pointed toward the shore--"hard
by the galleons, there where the seabirds swirl in a dark cloud? That
is the river mouth. And on either side are many sandbars, borne there
from the river's delta. Along the coast beyond these, though you cannot
see them now, are channels, too shallow for the draft of a galleon but
perhaps safe for these frigates. Reach them and you will be beyond
range of all Portuguese ordnance save their stern demi-culverin. Then
they will be forced to try boarding you by longboat, something their
infantry does poorly and with great reluctance."
"Are there channels on both sides of the river mouth? To windward and
to leeward?"
"Certainly, my _feringhi _ captain." He examined Hawksworth with a
puzzled stare. "But only a fool would not hold to port, to windward."
Hawksworth studied the shoreline with the glass, and an audacious
gamble began to take form in his mind. Why try to keep both frigates to
windward? That's what they'll expect, and any moment now they'll weigh
and beat to windward also. And from their position, they'll probably
gain the weather gage, forcing us to leeward, downwind where we can't
maneuver. That means an open fight--when the _Resolve_ can barely muster
a watch. How can she crew the gun deck and man the sheets? But maybe
she won't have to. Maybe there's another way.
"Mackintosh." The quartermaster was mounting the quarterdeck
companionway. "Order the mains'l and fores'l reefed. And the tops'ls
shortened. We'll heave to while we run out the guns. And signal the
_Resolve_ while I prepare orders for Kerridge."
The grizzled Scotsman stood listening in dismay, and Hawksworth read
his thoughts precisely in his eyes. There's nae time to heave to. And
for wha'? We strike an inch o' canvas an' the fornicatin' Portugals'll
take the weather gage sure. Ha' you nae stomach for a fight? Why na
just haul down colors and ha' done with it?
But he said nothing. He turned automatically and bellowed orders aloft.
Hawksworth felt out the morning breeze, tasting its cut, while he
watched the seamen begin swinging themselves up the shrouds, warming
the morning air with oaths as the _Discovery _pitched and heeled in the
chop. And then he turned and strode down the quarterdeck companionway
toward the Great Cabin to prepare orders for the _Resolve_. As he
passed along the main deck, half a dozen crewmen were already unlashing
the longboat from its berth amidships.
And when he emerged again on deck with the oilskin- wrapped dispatch,
after what seemed only moments, the longboat was already launched,
oarsmen at station. He passed the packet to Mackintosh without a word,
then mounted the companionway ladder back to the quarterdeck.
The Indian pilot stood against the banister, shaded by the lateen sail,
calmly studying the galleons.
"Three of these I know very well." His accented Turki was almost lost
in a roll of spray off the stern. "They are the _St. Sebastian_, the
_Bon Jesus_, and the _Bon Ventura_. They arrived new from Lisbon last
year, after the monsoon, to patrol our shipping lanes, to enforce the
regulation that all Indian vessels purchase a trading license from
authorities in Goa."
"And what of the fourth?"
"It is said she berthed in Goa only this spring. I do not know her
name. There were rumors she brought the new Viceroy, but early, before
his four-year term began. I have never before seen her north, in these
waters."
My God. Hawksworth looked at the warships in dismay. Is this the course
of the Company's fortune? A voyage depending on secrecy blunders across
a fleet bearing the incoming Viceroy of Goa. The most powerful
Portuguese in the Indies.
"They are invincible," the pilot continued, his voice still matter-of-
fact. "The galleons own our waters. They have two decks of guns. No
Indian vessel, even the reckless corsairs along our southern coast of
Malabar, dare meet them in the open sea. Owners who refuse to submit
and buy a Portuguese trading license must sail hundreds of leagues off
course to avoid their patrol."
"And what do you propose? That we heave to and strike our colors?
Without even a fight?" Hawksworth was astonished by the pilot's casual
unconcern. Is he owned by the Portugals too?
"You may act as you choose. I have witnessed many vain
boasts of English bravery during my brief service aboard your ship. But
an Indian captain would choose prudence at such a time. Strike colors
and offer to pay for a license. Otherwise you will be handled as a
pirate."
"No Englishman will ever pay a Portugal or a Spaniard for a license to
trade. Or a permit to piss." Hawksworth turned away, trying to ignore
the cold sweat beading on his chest. "We never have. We never will."
The pilot watched him for a moment, and then smiled.
"You are in the seas off India now, Captain. Here the Portuguese have
been masters for a hundred years." His voice betrayed a trace of
annoyance at Hawksworth's seeming preoccupation, and he moved closer.
"You would do well to hear me out. We know the Portuguese very well.
Better perhaps than you. Their cruelties here began a full century ago,
when the barbarous captain Vasco de Gama first discovered our Malabar
Coast, near the southern tip of India. He had the Portuguese nose for
others' wealth, and when he returned again with twenty ships, our
merchants rose against him. But he butchered their fleet, and took
prisoners by the thousand. He did not, however, simply execute them.
First he cut away their ears, noses, and hands and sent these to the
local raja, recommending he make a curry. Next a Portuguese captain
named Albuquerque came with more warships to ravage our trade in the
north, that on the Red Sea. And when servants of Islam again rose up to
defend what is ours, Allah the Merciful once more chose to turn his
face from them, leaving all to defeat. Soon the infidel Portuguese came
with many fleets, and in a span no more than a male child reaching
manhood, had seized our ocean and stolen our trade."
The pilot's face remained blandly expressionless as he continued, but
he reached out and caught Hawksworth's sleeve. "Next they needed a
Portuguese trading station, so they bribed pirates to help storm our
coastal fortress at Goa, an island citadel with a deep port. And this
place they made the collection point for all the pepper, spices,
jewels, dyes, silver, and gold they have plundered from us. They lacked
the courage to invade India herself, as the Moghuls did soon after, so
they made our sea their infidel empire. It is theirs, from the coast of
Africa, to the Gulf of Persia, to the Molucca Islands. And they seek
not merely conquest, or enforced commerce, but also our conversion to
their religion of cruelty. They have flooded our ports with ignorant
priests. To them this is a crusade against Islam, against the one True
Faith, a crusade that has triumphed--for a time--where barbarous
Christian land assaults on our holy Mecca have always failed."
Then the pilot turned directly to Hawksworth and a smile flickered
momentarily across his lips. "And now you English have come to
challenge them by sea. You must pardon me if I smile. Even if you
prevail today, which I must tell you I doubt, and even if one day more
of your warships follow and drive them from our seas entirely--even if
all this should take place, you will find your victory hollow. As
theirs has been. For we have already destroyed them. The way India
consumes all who come with arms. The ancient way. They have robbed our
wealth, but in return we have consumed their spirit. Until at last they
are left with nothing but empty commodity. It will be no different for
you, English captain. You will never have India. It is India who will
have you."
He paused and looked again toward the galleons, their sails swelling on
the horizon. "But today I think the Portuguese will spare us the
trouble."
Hawksworth examined the pilot, struggling to decipher his words. "Let
me tell you something about England. All we ask is trade, for you and
for us, and we don't have any priests to send. Only Catholic traders do
that. And if you think we'll not stand well today, you know even less
about the English. The thing we do best is fight at sea. Our sea dogs
destroyed the entire navy of Spain twenty years ago, when they sent
their Armada to invade England, and even to this day the Spaniards and
Portugals have never understood our simple strategy. They still think a
warship's merely a land fortress afloat. All they know to do is throw
infantry against a ship and try to board her. The English know sea
battles are won with cannon and maneuverability, not soldiers."
Hawksworth directed the pilot's gaze down the _Discovery_.
The ship was of the new English "race-built" class, low in the water
and swift. Absent were the bulky superstructures on bow and stern that
weighed down a galleon, the "castles" that Spanish and Portuguese
commanders used to stage infantry for boarding an enemy vessel. A full
thirty years before, the English seaman and explorer John Hawkins had
scoffed at these, as had Francis Drake and Walter Raleigh. They saw
clearly that the galleons' towering bow and stem, their forecastle and
poop, slow them, since the bluff beamy hull needed to support their
weight wouldn't bite the water. A superstructure above decks serves
only to spoil a warship's handling in a breeze, they declared, and to
lend a better target to an English gunner.
"Your ships assuredly are smaller than Portuguese galleons, I agree,"
the pilot volunteered after a pause, "but I see no advantage in this."
"You'll see soon enough. The _Discovery _may be low, but she'll sail
within six points of the wind, and she's quicker on the helm than
anything afloat."
Hawksworth raised the glass and studied the galleons again. As he
expected they were beating to windward, laboring under a full head of
canvas.
Good. Now the _Resolve_ can make her move.
The longboat was returning, its prow biting the trough of each swell,
while on the _Resolve_ seamen swarmed the shrouds and rigging.
Hawksworth watched with satisfaction as his sister ship's main course
swiveled precisely into the breeze and her sprits'l bellied for a run
down the wind. Her orders were to steer to leeward, skirting the edge
of the galleons' cannon range.
And if I know the Portugals, he told himself, they'll be impatient
enough to start loosing round after round of shot at her, even from a
quarter mile off. It takes courage to hold fire till you're under an
enemy's guns, but only then do you have accuracy. Noise and smoke are
battle enough for most Portugals, but the main result is to overheat
and immobilize their cannon.
As the _Discovery_ lay hove to, biding time, the _Resolve_ cut directly
down the leeward side of the galleons, laboring
under full press of sail, masts straining against the load. The Indian
pilot watched the frigate in growing astonishment, then turned to
Hawksworth.
"Your English frigates may be swift, but your English strategy is
unworthy of a common _mahout_, who commands an old she-elephant with
greater cunning. Your sister frigate has now forfeited the windward
position. Why give over your only advantage?"
Even as he spoke the four Portuguese warships, caught beating to
windward, began to shorten sail and pay off to leeward to intercept the
_Resolve_, their bows slowly crossing the wind as they turned.
"I've made a gamble, something a Portugal would never do," Hawksworth
replied. "And now I have to do something no Englishman would ever do.
Unless outgunned and forced to." Before the pilot could respond,
Hawksworth was gone, heading for the gun deck.
The ring of his boots on the oak ladder leading to the lower deck was
lost in the grind of wooden trucks, as seamen threw their weight
against the heavy ropes and tackles, slowly hauling out the guns. The
_Discovery_ was armed with two rows of truck-mounted cast-iron
culverin, and she had sailed with twenty-two barrels of powder and
almost four hundred round shot. Hawksworth had also stowed a supply of
crossbar shot and deadly langrel--thin casings filled with iron
fragments--for use against enemy rigging and sail at close quarters.
Shafts of dusty light from the gunports and overhead scuttles relieved
the lantern-lit gloom, illuminating the massive beams supporting the
decks above. Sleeping hammocks were lashed away, but the space was
airless, already sultry from the morning sun, and the rancid tang of
sweat mixed with fresh saltpeter from the gunpowder caught in
Hawksworth's mouth, bittersweet.
He walked down the deck, alert to the details that could spell victory
or loss. First he checked the wooden tubs of vinegared urine and the
long swabs stationed between the cannon, used for cleaning burning
fragments of metal from the smoking barrels after each round. Fail to
swab a barrel and there could be an unplanned detonation when the next
powder charge was tamped into place. Then he counted the budge-barrels
of powder, now swathed in water-soaked blankets to fend off sparks, and
watched as Edward Malloyre, the man some called the best master gunner
in England, inspected each cannon's touchhole as its lead plate was
removed, assuring himself it had not corroded from the gases expelled
during their last gunnery practice, in the Mozambique Channel.
"Master Malloyre."
"Aye, sir, all's in order. We'll hand the Spanish bastards a taste o'
English iron." Malloyre, who had never troubled to differentiate
Portugal from Spain, was built like a bear, with short bowed legs and a
tree-stump frame. He drew himself erect, his balding pate easily
clearing the rugged overhead beams, and searched the gloom. "The
Worshipful Company may ha' signed on a sorry lot o' pimpin' apple
squires, but, by Jesus, I've made Englishmen o' them. My sovereign to
your shilling we hole the pox-rotted Papists wi' the first round."
"I'll stand the wager, Malloyre, and add the last keg of brandy. But
you'll earn it. I want the portside battery loaded with crossbar
forward, and langrel aft. And set the langrel for the decks, not the
sail."
Malloyre stared at him incredulously. The command told him immediately
that this would be a battle with no quarter. The use of langrel against
personnel left no room for truce. Then suddenly the true implications
of Hawksworth's command hit him like a blow in the chest. "That shot's
for close quarters. We lay alongside, and the bastards'll grapple and
board us sure. Swarm us like curs on a bitch."
"That's the order, Malloyre. Be quick on it. Set the starboard round
first. And light the linstocks." Hawksworth turned to count the shot
and absently picked up one of the linstocks lying on deck--an iron-
plated staff used to set off a cannon--fingering the oil-soaked match
rope at its tip and inhaling its dank musk. And the smell awoke again
the memory of that last day two years before in the Mediterranean, with
Turkish pirate galleys fore and aft, when there had been no quarter,
and no hope . . .
"Beggin' your pardon, sir." Malloyre's voice was urgent, bringing him
back. "What's the firin' orders?"
"Just fire the starboard round as a broadside, and set for the lower
gun deck."
"Aye aye, sir." He paused. "And Lord Jesus pray we'll live to swab
out."
Malloyre's parting words would have followed him up the ladder to the
main deck, but they were swallowed in the muffled roll of cannon fire
sounding over the bay. The galleons were spreading, circling the
_Resolve_ as they bore down upon her, and they had begun to vomit round
after round, jets of water randomly around the frigate as she plunged
toward the shallows and safety. Any minute now, Hawksworth told
himself, and she'll be in the shallows. If she doesn't run aground on a
bar.
Then he saw the _Resolve_ begin to come about, reefing and furling her
sails. She's made the shallows. And the Portugals' guns have quieted.
"Permission to set sail, sir. The bleedin' Portugals'll be on her in a
trice." Mackintosh stood on the quarterdeck by the steering house. And
he made no attempt to disguise the anxiety in his eyes.
"Give the Portugals time, Mackintosh, and you'll see their second fatal
mistake. The first was overheating the cannon on their upper decks. The
second will be to short-hand their crews. They're out of cannon range
now, so they'll launch longboats, and assign half the watch as oarsmen.
Here, take the glass. Tell me what you see."
Mackintosh studied the shallows with the telescope, while a smile
slowly grew on his hard face. "I'm a motherless Dutchman. An' there's a
king's guard o' Portugal musketmen loadin' in. Wearin' their damn'd
silver helmets."
They haven't changed in thirty years, Hawksworth smiled to himself. The
Portugals still think their infantry is too dignified to row, so they
assign their crews to the oars and leave their warships shorthanded.
But they won't find it easy to board the _Resolve_ from longboats. Not
with English musketmen in her maintop. And that should give us just
enough time. . . .
"Are all the longboats out yet, Mackintosh?"
"Aye, sir." The quartermaster steadied the glass against the roll of
the ship. "And making for the _Resolve _like they was runnin' from hell
itself."
"Then bear full sail. Two points to windward of the bastard on the
left. Full press, and hoist the spritsail. Keep the wind and pay her
room till we're in range."
With an exultant whoop Mackintosh jabbed the sweat-soaked telescope
toward Hawksworth, and began bellowing orders to the mates. Within
moments sails unfurled and snapped in the wind, sending the
_Discovery_'s bow biting into the chop and hurtling spray over the
bulwarks. Hawksworth kept to the quarterdeck, studying the nearest
warship with the glass. The galleon's forecastle towered above the
horizon now like some Gothic fortress, and with the glass he could make
out pennants blazoned from all her yardarms. Then he turned toward the
Indian pilot, whose gaze was riveted on the Portuguese warships.
"What's the name of the galleon on the left, the large one?" Hawksworth
pointed toward the vessel he had been observing with the glass. "I
can't read it from this distance."
"That one is the _Bon Ventura_. We know her to be heavily armed."
"I'd say she's over a thousand tons burden. I wonder how handy she'll
be with her best men out in the longboats?"
"She'll meet you soon enough, with her full bounty. It is said that
last year she caught and sank a twenty-gun Dutch frigate trading in the
Moluccas."
"She'll still have to come about into the wind." Hawksworth seemed not
to hear the pilot now, so absorbed was he in the looming battle.
As though in answer to his thoughts, the _Bon Ventura _started to heel
slowly about, like an angered bull. But the _Discovery_ now had the
windward position secure, and the Portuguese ship would have to tack
laboriously into the wind. Her canvas was close-hauled and she would be
slow. We've got the weather gage now, Hawksworth told himself, and
we'll hold it. Then he noticed that the second galleon in the row, the
_St. Sebastian_, had also begun wearing around, bringing her stern
across the wind as she too turned to meet the _Discovery_.
"They've deciphered our plan," Hawksworth said quietly to himself, "and
now it's two of the bastards we'll face. But with luck we'll engage the
_Bon Ventura_ before the _St. Sebastian _can beat to range. And the
_Bon Ventura_ is drawing away from the fleet. That bit of bravado will
cost her."
The _Discovery _was closing rapidly on the _Bon Ventura_. In minutes
they would be within range. Mackintosh was at the whipstaff now,
holding their course, his senses alert to every twist in the wind. He
involuntarily clenched and unclenched his teeth, while his knuckles
were bloodless white from his grip on the hardwood steering lever.
Hawksworth raised the glass again, knowing what he hoped to see.
"The Portugals have just made their third mistake, Mackintosh." He
tried to mask his excitement. "They've sealed the lower gunports to
shut out water while they're tacking. So after they get position
they'll still have to run out the lower guns."
"Aye. That's why two-deckers won't buy a whore's chastity on a day like
this. But they'll have the upper guns on us soon enough."
"Wait and see, Mackintosh. I'll warrant their upper guns are overheated
by now. They'll think twice about trying to prime them just yet.
They'll have to wait a bit. Perhaps just long enough for us to get
alongside. Then the upper guns'll touch nothing but our rigging."
The breeze freshened even more, driving the _Discovery _rapidly toward
her target. Mackintosh eyed the galleon nervously, knowing the frigate
was heavily outgunned. Finally he could bear the tension no longer.
"We've got range now. Permission to bring her about."
"Steady as she goes. They're slow on the helm." Hawksworth glanced at
the line of seamen along the port side, untying bundles of musket
arrows and lighting the linstock. "Bosun! Are the men at stations?"
"Aye, sir." A gravel voice sounded through the din. "Stocks were a bit
damp, but I warrant the hellish sun's dryin' 'em out. We'll give the
fornicators a fine English salute."
Hawksworth gauged the galleon's course, estimating her speed and her
ability to maneuver. Then he saw her start coming about in the water,
turning to position the starboard battery for a broadside. Gunports on
the lower deck flipped up and cannon began slowly to emerge, like hard
black fangs. Nervous sweat began to bead on Mackintosh's brow as the
_Discovery _held her course directly down the galleon's windward side.
The _Bon Ventura_'s broadside battery was not yet set, but a sudden
burst of black smoke from her starboard bow-chaser sent a ball smashing
through the _Discovery's _quarter gallery, removing much of its ornate
embellishment. Then came another flare of smoke and flame, hurtling a
second ball through the lateen sail above Mackintosh's head. The
quartermaster went pale, and looked imploringly at Hawksworth.
"Steady as she goes, Mackintosh, they still haven't fully set their
guns." The knot in Hawksworth's stomach was like a searing ball of
fire. God, for a brandy. But we've got to hold till we've got sure
range. To come about now would keep our distance, and mean a classic
battle. One we're sure to lose.
He pushed away the realization of the immense chance they were taking.
But now there was no turning back, even if he wanted. Finally he could
bear it no longer. God make it right.
"Now, Mackintosh! Bring her hard about!"
The quartermaster threw his weight against the whipstaff, shouting
orders to the two seamen on the deck below to haul the tackles on the
tiller, helping him flip the rudder. Then he turned and bellowed
commands to the mates.
"Hands to the braces. Bring her hard about."
The seamen poised incredulously in the maintop and foretop cheered as
they began to haul in the ropes securing the yards, and in moments the
sails swiveled off the wind. The _Discovery _careened in the chopping
seas, responding readily to the shift in rudder and canvas. By this
time Hawksworth was standing over the scuttle above the gun deck,
shouting to Malloyre.
"Coming about. Prepare to fire the starboard battery when your guns
bear."
The _Discovery_ had wheeled a sharp arc in the water, laying herself
broadside to the galleon, hardly fifty yards away. The English seamen
aloft stared mutely at the towering forecastle of the Portuguese
warship, most never before having seen a galleon at close range.
Although the guns on her upper deck were still silent, had they spoken
now they would have touched nothing but the frigate's tops'ls. But as
the galleon turned, the cannon on her lower deck were coming into final
position. In moments she would lay the _Discovery_ with a broadside.
Hawksworth watched her carefully, calculating, and then the knot in his
stomach dissolved like ice in the sun. The _Discovery _would be in
position seconds ahead.
Malloyre's command to fire cut the awe-stricken silence. The next
instant a low roar seemed to emanate from all the timbers of the
English frigate, while red-tipped flame tongued from her starboard
side. The ship heeled dangerously sideways, while black smoke, acrid
and searing, boiled up through the scuttles and hatch, as though
propelled on its way by the round of cheers from below decks, the
traditional salute of ship's gunners. Hawksworth later remembered
noting that the battery had fired in perfect unison, not losing the set
of a single gun by the ship's recoil.
A medley of screams came first, piercing the blackened air. Then the
smoke drifted downwind, over the side of the _Bon Ventura_, revealing a
savage incision where her lower gun deck had once been. Cannon were
thrown askew, and the mangled forms of Portuguese gunners, many with
limbs shattered or missing, could be seen through the splintered hull.
But Hawksworth did not pause to inspect the damage; he was already
yelling the next orders to Mackintosh, hoping to be heard above the
din. The advantage of surprise would be short-lived.
"Pay off the helm! Bring her hard about!"