Portete - Chapter 46
Ambush
NOTE: This story contains some harsh language, violence, and mature themes that might be upsetting to some readers. They are pirates, after all. Ye have been warned.
Want to start at the beginning? Welcome to Portete.
The mist was warm over the Gulf of Gonave, dancing across the swells of the water and obscuring the surface in places. Captain Johnson stood at the bow of his ship and smoldered as he peered out at the haze in front of him, searching for a glimpse of the horizon. The visibility around the Irredeemable was poor, maybe only a hundred yards or so, and Johnson had ordered sail to be taken in to slow their speed. It would prove disastrous to run aground or veer off course for lack of visibility. He tried to remain focused on the water and the mist, but his thoughts kept returning to earlier in the day, facing off against MacRorie. He did not like being at odds with one of the few men he actually trusted and could stand the sight of. It made him angry. The angrier he became, the more he thought about killing MacRorie. His fingers tightened into fists, and he slammed them down on the bow railing, letting the dull pain flow through his arms. He closed his eyes and savored the sensation for a moment. His reverie was suddenly shattered by a cry from aloft.
“Ship sighted, Captain!” Johnson’s eyes snapped open. Young David Rowles was in the crow’s nest, pointing to the west. “British man’o’war two points to larboard! To arms!”
“Goddamn it,” cursed Johnson, squinting into the fog. “Where the hell did you come from?” The sails of the warship were at full canvas, and the flag of the Royal Navy whipped atop the mainmast.
“To arms!” Johnson strode quickly to the helm and shouted orders. “Ready the guns! Mister Hall, hit’em with chain in half the guns. This is one fight I do not want to have.”
“Aye, Cap’n!” Matthew Hall ran from gun to gun, handing out orders.
“Mister MacDonald!”
“Aye, Captain?”
“Lose anything that can be lost. I am going to try to get to shallower waters and lose them. We have the wind on our side.”
“Aye, but we’re nae gonna be able to outrun their guns for a wee bit, sair. If that’s what I think it is, they’ll have the long nines on us in a flash.”
As if by cue, the roar of cannons was heard, and the Irredeemable shuddered with the impact. Smoke and splinters flew. Johnson ducked just as a piece of rigging flew past his head.
“Damn you to hell, you fucking bastards!” he shouted, enraged. “Mister MacDonald! Get us out of here! Mister Hall! Return fire!”
“Aye, Captain!”
The pirates’ cannons bellowed and sent a mix of chain-shot and other debris towards the attacking vessel. However, the warship appeared unharmed, other than a few tears in the sails and some splintered planks. Johnson grimaced as he saw the English sailors line up with their rifles at the rail and take aim. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he admired their discipline and precision. The crack of musket fire sent the pirates running for cover and positioning to return fire as the ships passed one another.
“Prepare another broadside and fire at will,” he called.
Cannon fire went off, punching holes in both ships, and the screams of the men below could be heard. The Irredeemable took the worst of it.
Johnson began to turn her to starboard, trying to put the man’o’war to his stern and out of the arc of fire of her long guns. She was bigger than the pirate brig and so needed more time and space to turn around. The huge captain hoped it would be enough time. They continued to pick up speed, and Johnson kept looking over his shoulder, watching the larger ship come about, trying to work against the wind. The pirates had worked fast and furious to get full sails up and tighten the sheets to maximize speed. At this point, running aground was a better fate than trying to trade shots with a fully armed and crewed ship of Her Majesty’s Royal Navy.
For a few minutes, it looked like the tactic had worked. The man’o’war seemed to struggle to make the turn as quickly. The distance between them was widening. Johnson began to smile. Until another ship appeared out of the fog: a huge East Indiaman flying Dutch colors.
Bromwell could not believe his luck. Between the haze and the seemingly haphazard manner of Vestergaard’s planning, he had not held out much hope of finding the pirates between Tortuga and Petit Goave. He had been especially annoyed at having to wait at Port-de-Paix, amid the effete French officers, while the Danish mercenary cavorted about in Tortuga. The captain suspected Vestergaard enjoyed his “reconnaissance” a bit too much. But he had to admit, it had paid off, and now he was bearing down on the Irredeemable with loaded guns and a seasoned crew.
“Lieutenant Miller.”
“Yes, Captain?” The young officer stood at attention.
“See that all the guns are manned and ready, with muskets to follow.”
“Aye, Captain!”
“I intend to keep them square to our port, firing staggered broadsides, understood?”
“Yes, sir. I will inform the gun crews, sir.” Miller gave a quick salute and ran to carry out his orders. The sailors aboard the HMS Redoubtable were all well-trained and disciplined, and the officers were top-notch. Every man knew his duty and performed it well. Bromwell watched in satisfaction as the crews rolled out the guns, loaded the powder and shot, and made ready to fire on his command. He lifted his glass again, watching the activity aboard the pirate brig, and chuckled to himself. Men were running wildly about the deck with no apparent rhyme or reason, grabbing whatever they could and stuffing it into the mismatched cannons. His smile faded when he saw chain shot go into several of the guns. That would not do at all to have one of his masts broken by these brigands. It would not do at all.
The ships were now only a few cable lengths apart when he had an idea. Bromwell ran down from the forecastle and called out, “Lieutenant!” Miller, who was walking among the crews calling our orders, turned and stood at attention.
“I want you to fire a full broadside before we come fully abreast of them.”
“Captain?”
“Trust me, Lieutenant.”
“Of course, Captain.” Miller saluted again and ran to the portside gun crews to relay the change in tactic. Bromwell ascended back to the helm and watched the distance close. They would pass on the port side, about twenty yards apart. While the man’o’war outgunned the pirate brig nearly two to one, all it took was one or two lucky shots to turn the advantage, and the captain was not about to let that happen.
“Port crews prepare to fire!” He bellowed over the deck.
“Prepare to fire!” Miller echoed the order.
Thirty yards and closing. Twenty. Ten. Bows passing.
“Fire!”
“Fire!”
The British guns thundered their greeting, sending a barrage of iron at the front half of the pirate ship. Half of the shot went wide to the bow, splashing harmlessly on the far side of the ship, but the seemingly premature attack served its purpose. Almost immediately, the pirates returned fire, but did little damage, having been surprised into an equally premature retaliation. None of the chain shot struck any vital part of the ship, and the accompanying shrapnel caused only superficial damage to the Redoubtable’s hull and crew. Already, the sailors were reloading the guns and waiting for his signal to fire again.
“Crews one and five! Fire!” Explosions followed, and holes were torn in the side of the Irredeemable’s hull.
“Crews three and seven! Fire!” Again, the guns belched fire and smoke with a deafening roar, and rigging came crashing down on the enemy ship.
The return fire was scattered and imprecise, and only minor injuries were being suffered by the navy crew. The ships had completed their full broadside pass, and Bromwell gave the order to come about.
“Keep them to our port guns, helmsman!”
“Aye, Captain,” came the reply. “The wind is fighting us, to be sure, but we’ll not let them escape!”
Bromwell could see they were coming about too slowly, though. With the wind coming from the west, the pirates had a good chance of getting out of range before he could get another clear shot at them. He cursed under his breath at his error… at his helmsman’s error. He strode to the port-side stern and watched the smaller, faster ship put distance between them. And then the grin he usually kept in check crept across his face as he saw the bright orange colors emerge from the mist. He smiled smugly to himself as he gazed through his spyglass, first at the pirate hunter standing on the bow, a funny little hat on his head and a pipe hanging from his mouth, then watching the pirates’ panicked reaction to his appearance. The Draaken had arrived.
