Portete - Chapter 47
No Quarter
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.
When Rasmus Vestergaard saw the shape of the brigantine appearing in the mist, he smiled and adjusted his hat. He had heard the cannon-fire moments before and knew in his gut that Bromwell had found the pirates. The privateers were already ready at their stations with the guns loaded and ready, and the huge East Indiaman slowly turned to port to offer a full broadside as soon as the Irredeemable was in range of the heavy, short-range sixteen-pounders. The Dane could hardly believe their good fortune. He had expected to spend several days en route to Petit Goave, criss-crossing the Gulf of Gonave, examining every port and cove to flush the criminals out. And then here they were; one of them, anyway. As the pirate ship drew closer, Vestergaard could see that she was damaged. Bromwell had done good work, it seemed. Now it was up to him to finish the job.
The haze began to clear as the sun rose higher. The Irredeemable turned hard to her port to minimize exposure to the privateer’s guns. A few hundred yards behind her, the captain could see the Redoubtable coming about and pursuing. Raising his spyglass, he watched the pirates running about, fixing the rigging as best they could, the huge captain – Stephen Johnson – fuming and yelling orders, glancing back at the Draaken from time to time, gauging her approach. The next time he looked up, Vestergaard smiled and waved. Johnson made a rude gesture with his hands and went back to work.
“He’s a measured beast, that’s to be sure,” murmured the privateer. He closed his glass and moved to the forecastle. “Mister van Tillberg!” he called out in Dutch. “Come about to their stern, keeping them to our starboard side. Then come alongside them closely. I don’t want them to have a full broadside on us before we can grapple.”
“Aye, Captain,” came the reply, and the huge warship began to turn. Vestergaard saw the Redoubtable gaining on its prey, crossing behind the pirate brig and in front of the Draaken. Bromwell stood at attention alongside the helmsman, feet planted shoulder-width apart, hand placed precisely behind his lower back. The privateer could not help but chuckle to himself. Slowly, they came about to the port-side stern of the pirate ship, simultaneous with the British ship moving to its starboard. The two pirate hunters closed in on their wounded prey.
The Irredeemable was only a cable length ahead of her pursuers, and they were gaining. Del Vigo had begun arming and readying the crew for close combat, while MacDonald checked and rechecked the gun stations. Johnson took the helm and maneuvered the best he could with his damaged ship. He watched his crew, seasoned and bloodthirsty as any pirates ever to sail, and he could see their uneasiness at their situation. He didn’t blame them. A pirate’s life was made of easy prey. Weaker ships, unprotected cargo: easy pickings. They never picked a fight with a stronger foe. It simply was not worth it. Now they were being pursued not by one stronger ship, but two. And the murmurs had started that they were pirate hunters, which meant no quarter, even if asked.
But Johnson didn’t care about quarter. He never asked nor gave it. What he did care about was escape. And at this moment, that seemed unlikely. Which meant a fight, and the prospect of taking on two heavily armed and crewed warships did not appeal to him in the slightest. He wracked his brain for an answer, but none came. The pursuers were gaining, and he heard a few cracks of muskets being fired astern. He did not have to look to know the shots had no effect, but it was a tactic used to slow a pursuer and perhaps give them pause before coming closer. He did not expect it would do either in this instance.
“Captain! They are almost on us!” He could hear the apprehension in the voice, but could not identify its source. A glance back confirmed the declaration: the bow of the Navy man’o’war was even with his stern and only half a cable length away to the starboard. The Dutch privateer was mirrored on the port side. In no time at all, they would be in firing position. Johnson swore and dragged MacDonald to the helm.
“You hold her straight and true, do you hear me?!”
“Aye, Captain. What’s in your head, Stephen?”
Johnson grinned ruefully. “Not enough rum, clearly.” He produced a huge bottle from under his black coat and pulled the cork out with his teeth, spitting it to the side and drinking deeply. Then he stormed down the bulwark to the gun stations.
“All you useless whoresons listen to me! Looks like we have a fight on our hands, like it or not. Untie those guns, boys. Hack out the rails and point ‘em behind us. It’s the only way we’re going to stand a chance here. It took a moment for the order to sink in, but a wave of sudden understanding set the pirate in motion. Boarding axes were drawn, and splinters and wood began to fly. Guns were cut loose from their stations and angled sharply backward. With the sides cut away, they had more room to maneuver and were not restricted in their firing arc.
“Ready on my signal.” The captain took another long pull of liquor and tossed the empty bottle overboard. “Fire!”
The guns belched smoke and flames, lurching violently from their positions now that they were untethered. More than one sailor screamed as his foot was crushed or his leg bent at a wrong angle. But the tactic seemed to work. Cannon shot struck true on both ships, sending splinters and bodies flying. Johnson could see several of his pursuers lying dead on the decks. Both captains looked surprised at the sudden attack.
“That’s right, you goat-fucking shit piles,” he screamed back at them. “This is the goddamn Irredeemable, you sons of bitches!”
The English captain was frankly impressed with the pirate’s tactic. He had lost three good sailors, in fact. It was a desperate act, to be sure, but certainly effective. He would have to remember that in his report. Perhaps it could be used in a more regimented fashion by the Navy. The ‘Bromwell Maneuver’, he decided it would be known as. But it was not a lasting effect in this instance. They were still closing in on the brigantine, and now the guns were in disarray, and the pirates were racing to reset and reload them.
“Muskets at the ready,” he called. The sailors not manning the heavy cannons lined up along the port side rail and leveled their weapons. Some of the pirates fired their own pistols at them, but most shots went wide or low, and no one was seriously injured. They were pulling even with the ship now. “Muskets, fire!” A rapid crackle of flintlock fire went up, and screams could be heard from the enemy ship. “Cannons! Fire!” The thunderous din shook the Redoubtable, and smoke billowed below him. He heard the sound of cannonfire come again, and knew Vestergaard had given the same order. The pirates were doomed. The captain allowed himself another small smile.
As the ship doctor tended to the wounded, the privateer captain grimaced. He should have seen that one coming. No matter, they were still gaining on the pirates and would be alongside in moments. He heard Bromwell shouting and saw the flash of musket fire. Several pirates fell. And then the cannons unleashed their fury, and the brigantine erupted into pieces, blood, and smoke. Somehow, the masts and rigging were untouched, and though she shuddered and groaned, the Irredeemable continued to move forward. But with their attackers on either side, the pirates had nowhere to go.
“Grapples and axes at the ready,” he called. “Prepare to board after the broadside!”
“Aye, Captain!” came the unanimous response.
The criminals would be taken or die trying to escape. He really didn’t care which, although secretly he hoped he might take the Irredeemable as a prize.
Vestergaard gave the order to fire. It was time to finish it. The heavy guns roared, and they were surrounded by smoke and ash. He paused, wanting the haze to clear before he gave the order to board. As visibility was restored, he caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of his eye to the South, and his face fell.
“Return fire, you worthless dogs,” screamed Johnson, dodging a flaming piece of rigging that fell. “Don’t let them get the hooks over!”
Fire and smoke surrounded them. Several lay dead, and even more were wounded. Johnson quickly surveyed the damage. Half the guns were destroyed, and much of the rigging was in shreds. Miraculously, the masts were still whole. Through the smoke, he could hear his crew returning fire sporadically. They were good with the guns, so he knew they were inflicting damage on their attackers, but he also knew it would not be enough.
“Aim for the masts!” he called. “Wolf, prepare to be boarded!” No answer came, and he suddenly saw the lifeless form of Matthew Hall splayed out across the deck, his face half torn away by a cannonball. He fought the urge to wretch. “MacDonald! To me!” The kilted pirate appeared from the smoke, bleeding from his head and arm. He carried his pistol in one hand and a short cutlass in the other.
“Aye, Captain. We’re nae gonna escape them, sair. But we can sure try to keep them off our ship!” A musket ball whizzed by their heads, and the Scotsman turned to return fire, running to the port side and cursing loudly in Scots.
“Damn,” swore Johnson. “Dulci! Del Vigo, dammit, where are you?”
“Right here,” came her voice. Johnson strained his eyes and saw the Spanish woman loading one of the cannons. “It wouldn’t hurt you to help, you know!”
He rushed to her side and set the gun, aiming it squarely at the mainmast of the British warship. Del Vigo lit the fuse, and Johnson leaned his immense size into the carriage, nearly holding the 6-pound gun in place as it went off. The shot was nearly perfect, tearing away a huge chunk of the timber and sending one of the beams falling. The mast creaked, but did not fall. The huge captain and lithe pirate worked in tandem to load the gun again, squinting through the smoke and haze to aim their next shot.
The fog was finally lifting, and the sun began to burn off the remainder of the mist.
“Ship sighted, Captain!” Johnson’s eyes narrowed. David Rowles was still in the crow’s nest for some reason, this time pointing to the east.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” growled Johnson. “What now?! Spanish Galleon? Ship of the Line?”
Rowles began laughing hysterically.
“It’s a goddamned miracle, Captain! It’s the bloody Relentless!”
It must have been hell for the seamen on those ships.