seamen along the port gunwales touched musket arrows to the lighted
linstock and took aim. Streaks of flame forked into the tattered
rigging of the _Bon Ventura_, and in moments her canvas billowed red.
Again the Portuguese were caught unaware, and only a few manned water
buckets to extinguish the burning shreds of canvas drifting to the
deck.
They were almost alongside now, but no Portuguese infantry would pour
down the side of the forecastle onto their decks. The galleon's decks
were a hemorrhage of the wounded and dying.
"By Jesus, 'tis a sight for English eyes." Edward Malloyre's blackened
face, streaked with sweat, bobbed up through the hatch over the gun
deck, and he surveyed the wreckage of the _Bon Ventura_. "Had to give
'er a look, Cap'n. See if my lads earn'd their biscuit." He beamed with
open pride.
"Malloyre, how does it stand below decks?" Hawksworth yelled from the
quarterdeck.
"Starboard side's swabbed out. How shall we load 'em, sir?" Malloyre
leaned backward to gain a better look at the galleon, which now towered
above them.
"Round shot, and run them out fast as you can."
"Aye, sir. An' no more close quarters if you please. Ne'er want to be
this close to one o' the bastards again." Malloyre started to retreat
through the hatch, but then he turned, paused for a second, and yelled
at Hawksworth. "Beggin' your pardon, Cap'n. I knew all along 'twas best
to pull alongside and lay 'em wi' crossbar. Just wanted to give the
lads a bit o' a scare. Keep 'em jumpin'."
Hawksworth waved his hand and watched as Malloyre's pudgy frame dropped
through the gun-deck hatch like a rabbit diving for its warren.
Mackintosh was standing on the main deck, his tangled red mane
blackened with smoke, watching as the _Discovery _drifted slowly toward
the side of the bobbing galleon. Then, when they were only feet away,
he signaled the bosun, and a line of English seamen lit the waiting
fuses and began to loft clay powder pots across the waist of the _Bon
Ventura_, now almost above their heads. When they had finished, he
passed orders and the _Discovery _began to pull away, before her sails
could ignite. Then one by one the powder pots started to explode,
spewing burning sulphur over the Portuguese vessel's decks.
Hawksworth watched the carnage, and asked himself if he had been right
to do what he'd done. They'd have sunk us. Cut down the men and taken
the officers and merchants to a Goa prison. And then what? We couldn't
have sunk them with cannon in a week. The only choice was fire.
Then he turned to see the _St. Sebastian _making toward them. Her
cannon were already run out, and at any moment she would start coming
about for a broadside. Again he felt the throb in his thigh, and it
triggered a wave of fear that swept upward from his stomach. The Indian
pilot stood next to him, also watching the approaching galleon.
"I have seen a miracle, Captain. Allah the Compassionate has watched
over you today." The pilot's face showed none of the strain of battle.
And his clothes were still spotless, oddly immune from the oily smoke
that blackened all the English seamen. "But I fear there cannot be two
miracles on the same morning. You are about to pay for your fortune.
Perhaps there is still time to strike your colors and save the lives of
your men."
"We surrender now and we'll rot in a Goa prison forever. Or be pulled
apart on the _strappado_." Hawksworth glared back. "And I seem to
recall the Quran says 'Do not falter when you've gained the upper
hand.'"
"You do not have the upper hand, my Captain, and the Holy Quran speaks
only of those who trust in Allah, the Merciful. . . ." His voice
trailed off as he turned to stare at Hawksworth. "It is not common for
a _feringhi_ to know the Holy Quran. How is it you--?"
"I just spent two years in a Turkish prison, and I heard little else."
Hawksworth turned and was testing the wind, weighing his options. The
_St. Sebastian _was almost on them. Her cannon were already run out,
and at any moment she would start coming about for a broadside. He
could still hear the trucks of the cannon below decks, as the starboard
battery was being run out, and he knew the portside crews were only now
beginning to swab the last glowing shreds of metal from the cannon
barrels.
Good God, there's no time to set the ordnance. They'll blow us to hell.
He deliberated for a long moment, weighing his options. As he watched,
the _St. Sebastian _began to shorten sail, preparing to come about and
fire. Only minutes remained. Then he noticed that the wind on the
burning _Bon Ventura's _superstructure was drifting her in the
direction of the approaching _St. Sebastian_, and he hit on another
gamble. They've shortened sail in order to come about, which means
they're vulnerable. Now if I can make them try to take their bow across
the wind, with their sails shortened . . .
"Mackintosh, take her hard about! Set the courses for a port tack."
Once again the _Discovery_ heeled in the water, her stern deftly
crossing the wind, and then she was back under full sail, still to
windward of the burning galleon. The sudden tack had left the burning
_Bon Ventura _directly between the English frigate and the approaching
galleon. The _Discovery _pulled away, keeping the wind, forcing the
galleon to tack also if she would engage them. Hawksworth watched,
holding his breath as Portuguese seamen began to man the sheets,
bringing the _St. Sebastian's _bow into the wind.
It was fatal. The approaching galleon had shortened too much sail in
preparation to come about for the broadside, and now she lacked the
momentum to cross the wind. Instead the sluggish, top-heavy warship
hung in stays, her sails slack, her bulky bow fighting the wind,
refusing to pay off onto the opposite tack. All the while the _Bon
Ventura_ was drifting inexorably toward her, flaming. I was right,
Hawksworth thought. She didn't have the speed to bring her bow around.
With his glass he watched the galleon's captain order her back to the
original tack. But time had run out.
Blinding explosions suddenly illuminated the gunports of the burning
_Bon Ventura_, as powder barrels on the gun decks ignited, first the
upper and then the lower. In only moments the fire found the powder
room aft of the orlop deck, and as the English seamen looked on
spellbound the galleon seemed to erupt in a single cloud of fire,
rocketing burning timbers and spars across the sea's surface. The
mainmast, flaming like a giant taper, snapped and heaved slowly into
the fo'c'sle. Then the superstructure on the stern folded and dropped
through the main deck, throwing a plume of sparks high into the morning
air.
Although the _St. Sebastian _had righted herself, she still had not
regained speed, for now the sails had lost their luff and sagged to
leeward. Why isn't she underway, Hawksworth asked himself, surely
she'll circle and engage us? He looked again with the glass and the
reason became clear. The Portuguese crewmen on the _St. Sebastian_ had
begun throwing themselves into the sea, terrified at the sight of the
_Bon Ventura's _blazing hull drifting slowly across their bow. The wind
had freshened again and was pushing the burning galleon rapidly now.
The blaze had become an inferno, fueled by casks of coconut oil stored
below decks on the galleon, and Hawksworth involuntarily shielded his
eyes and face from the heat that, even at their distance, seared the
_Discovery_. As he watched, the drifting _Bon Ventura _suddenly lurched
crazily sideways, and then came the sound of a coarse, grinding impact,
as her burning timbers sprayed across the decks of the _St. Sebastian_.
In moments the second galleon was also an abandoned inferno, her crew
long since afloat in the safety of the sea, clinging to debris and
making for shore.
"Allah has been merciful twice to you in one morning, Captain. I had
never before known the extent of His bounty. You are a man most
fortunate." The pilot's words, spoken softly and with pronounced
gravity, were almost drowned in the cheers that engulfed the decks and
rigging of the _Discovery_.
"The battle's just begun. Boarding parties are at the _Resolve_, and
there are two more galleons." Hawksworth reached for the glass by the
binnacle.
"No, Captain, I doubt very much the Portuguese will trouble you
further. Your luck has been too exceptional. But they will return
another day." The pilot squinted toward the shore, as though confirming
something he knew should be there.
Hawksworth trained his glass on the two galleons that still held the
_Resolve_ pinned in the shallows. They were heeling about, preparing to
run southward on the wind under full press of sail. He also realized
their longboats had been abandoned. Some were following futilely after
the retreating galleons, while others were already rowing toward the
river mouth. The English frigate had been forgotten. Then he noted that
although pennants no longer flew from the yardarms of the galleons, the
large, unnamed vessel had run out a brilliant red ensign on her poop
staff. He studied it carefully, then turned to the pilot, extending the
glass.
"Take a look and tell me what the colors are on the large man-of-war.
I've never seen them before."
The pilot waved away the telescope with a smile. "I need no Christian
device to tell you that. We all know it. With all your fortune, you
have failed to understand the most important thing that happened
today."
"And what is that?"
"Those are the colors of the Viceroy of Goa, flown only when he is
aboard his flagship. You have humiliated him today. The colors speak
his defiance. His promise to you."
As the pilot spoke, Mackintosh came bounding up the companionway to the
quarterdeck, his soot-covered face beaming. "What a bleedin' day! _What
_a bleedin' day!" Then his eyes dimmed for an instant. "But a man'd be
called a liar who told the story."
"How many dead and wounded, Mackintosh?"
"Two maintopmen killed by musket fire. And a bosun's mate took a
splinter in the side, very bad, when the bastards laid us wi' the first
bowchasers. A few other lads took musket fire, but the surgeon'll sew
'em up fine."
"Then break out the last keg of brandy. And see that Malloyre's men get
the first tot. . . but don't forget to send a tankard to the
quarterdeck."
Mackintosh broke an appreciative grin and headed down the companionway
ladder. The sun was baking the decks now, and a swarm of locusts had
appeared from nowhere to buzz about the maintop. The wind was beginning
to slacken in the heat, and silence slowly settled over the
_Discovery_. Hawksworth turned his glass one last time to the large
galleon. He could still make out the ensign over the crests of surf,
blood red in the sun.