There was a ragged scatter of firing from the Spanish ship, and a spent musket ball struck Trinity's mainsail, dropped onto the deck, and rolled towards the scuppers. Jezreel reached down and picked it up. The bullet was still warm. 'Here, Jacques, you might return the compliment,' he said, tossing the bullet to his friend.
Bartholomew Sharpe was watching the gap between the two ships carefully, gauging the distance and the speed of the two vessels. 'Hold her just there,' he told the helmsman when Trinity was level with the Spanish ship, a hundred yards away and upwind, close enough for the buccaneers to pick their individual targets. The figure of the Spanish captain was clearly visible. He was darting back and forth among his men, obviously encouraging them to stand firm. 'You would have thought they would see sense and surrender,' Sharpe muttered to himself. Hector remembered how Sharpe had tricked Jezreel into shooting an innocent priest, and was surprised by the captain's reluctance to press home the attack. The captain, it seemed, was capable of compassion as well as savagery.
The Spanish had once again reloaded their single cannon and this time the shot struck Trinity amidships. Hector felt the hull quiver, but a moment later the carpenter came up on deck to report that no damage had been done. The cannonball had been too light to penetrate the heavy planking.
'Open fire! Clear their decks!' ordered Sharpe after a pause, and the musketry began. Almost immediately the figures on the deck of the Spanish ship began to fall. Their captain was among the first to be hit. He was making his way towards the entrance to his cabin at the break of the poop deck when a musket ball struck him for he suddenly pitched sideways and lay still. Seeing their commander go down, the two steersmen abandoned the helm and ducked into cover. The Spanish vessel, no longer under control, slowly began to turn up into the wind and lose speed.
'Close to fifty paces,' Sharpe told his steersman, and Trinity moved into even easier range for her musketeers. Trinity possessed the advantage in height, and her marksmen were shooting downwards on their targets now. In a short time not a single Spanish seaman was visible. They had all fled below hatches, leaving only their dead and badly wounded on the deck. Their vessel slowed to a halt, the wind spilling from her sails, the canvas flapping uselessly.
'Call on them to surrender,' Sharpe ordered Hector, handing him a speaking trumpet. 'Say we will do them no harm.'
Hector took the speaking trumpet and had to repeat his shouted instructions three or four times before a small group of sailors emerged warily from the hatches and made their way to the sheets and halyards. Minutes later they had brailed up the sails and the Spanish ship lay rolling on the swell, waiting submissively for her captors to take possession.
'The sea's too rough for us to go alongside. We risk damaging our ship,' observed Ringrose.
'Then lower the pinnace,' Sharpe told him, 'and go across with half a dozen men and see what we've caught. Take Lynch with you as interpreter.' Sharpe was looking satisfied with himself for he had not had a single one of his own men killed or injured, and the Spanish ship appeared to be a juicy prize.
As Hector helped ease the pinnace into the water, Jezreel appeared beside him, carrying his smallsword. 'I think I'll go with you in case it is a trick. The Spaniards gave up all too easily. I'm suspicious that they've merely retreated below deck and are waiting to ambush us.'
Hector murmured his thanks, and the two friends helped to row the boat across to the waiting prize. As he approached the Spanish ship, Hector looked up at its wooden side and, as always, was struck by the fact that the vessel which had seemed so low in the water from a distance, was much higher and more awkward to board when seen from close at hand. Timing his leap, Hector jumped for the rail of the ship, caught hold and swung himself aboard. Jezreel, Ringrose and three of Trinity's men armed with muskets and cutlasses followed him.
The body of the dead Spanish captain was the first sight that met Hector's eyes. It lay where it had fallen, close to the break of the poop deck. The captain had dressed in a faded blue uniform jacket which was now soaked with blood. His hat had rolled off, revealing wisps of grey hair surrounding a bald patch of scalp. One hand was flung out as if still reaching out to open the door to his cabin. Standing beside the corpse was a thin-faced young man, no more than Hector's own age, and he was pale with shock. Hovering in the background half a dozen sailors were casting nervous glances at the boarding party.
'Who is in charge?' asked Hector quietly.
There was a pause before the young man answered shakily, 'I suppose I am. You killed my father.'
Hector glanced down at the corpse. The face was turned to one side, and the profile was enough for him to see the resemblance.
'I'm very sorry. If you had not opened fire on us, this would not have happened.'
The young man said nothing.
'What is the name of your vessel?' Hector enquired as gently as possible.
'Santo Rosario. We sailed from Callao yesterday morning.' The young man's voice was thick with misery.
'With what cargo?'
Again the captain's son did not reply. Hector recognised the symptoms of deep distress and realised that there was little point in asking any more questions. 'There will be no more bloodshed if you and your men cooperate peacefully. We'll search the ship, and after that my captain will decide what is to be done.'
Behind him he heard Jezreel warning the other members of the boarding party to watch out for hidden surprises. Then came the sounds of the men opening up the hatches to the cargo hold.
Searching a captured ship was always a tense time. No one knew what might be found in the darkness of the hold, a desperate sailor lurking with a knife or cudgel, or someone holding a lighted match near the gunpowder store and threatening to blow up the ship unless the boarders withdrew. Ringrose kept a pistol pointing at the crew of Santo Rosario while he and Hector waited to learn what the ship had been carrying.
There was disappointment on the faces of the buccaneers as they re-emerged from the hatchways. 'Just some sacks of coconuts and a few bales of cloth which might be useful for sail-making,' one of them exclaimed. 'The ship's in ballast. There are several hundred ingots of lead in the bilges.'
'If it's lead, then that will make the quartermaster happy,' commented Ringrose. 'Bring up a sample so we can take a closer look.'
When the buccaneer returned, he was cradling a misshapen lump of some dull grey metal in his arms. Ringrose took out his knife and scratched the surface of the ingot. 'Not lead, more like unrefined tin,' he announced. 'Gifford will be disappointed. But at a pinch it just might do for making bullets. We'll take one of them back to Trinity to try it out.'
Hector turned to the young man. 'My captain will want to see the ship's papers,' he said. 'And any other documents such as bills of lading, letters, maps, charts. Also I need to speak with the pilot.'
The captain's son looked back at him with grief-stricken eyes. 'My father took charge of everything. This was his own ship, held in partnership with friends. He had sailed these waters all his life, he didn't need a pilot or charts. Everything was in his head.'
'Nevertheless I must examine the ship's papers.' said Hector.
The young man seemed to accept the inevitable. 'You'll find them in his cabin.' He turned and walked to the stern rail, where he stood, staring down into the sea, lost in his private wretchedness.