"Take your time, now," said Flint. "This ain't a race. See if you can't sink me one o' them blasted boats!"
Soon the other two ships were firing: a deeper boom from Hercules — a pair of them — for she mounted two nine-pounder bow-chasers and Bentham brought both to bear on the enemy.
"Let's see, now…" said Flint, aiming his glass on the frigate's bow. There was a big, gaudy figurehead — some monstrous creature of ancient Greece — and beneath it her name in gold leaf: Oraclaesus. And… yes… there was a pair of bow-chasers mounted, one to each side of the bowsprit. Come on, my boys, thought Flint, stand to, now!
For half an hour Walrus, Hercules and Sweet Anne pounded away. Shot screamed through the air, smoke rolled, the thud of the guns bounced across the flat sea. A flew splashes were seen, but no hits. This was not surprising, for the range was great, especially for the smaller guns, and even a nine-pounder was reaching a long way.
"Cap'n," said Allardyce, "can't we try that savage's belt? Can't do no harm, can it?"
"If you must," said Flint, barely noticing, still studying the frigate.
"It's in your pocket, Cap'n, beggin'-yer-pardon. Where you put it."
"Bah!" said Flint. There was no limit to the nonsense seamen believed, nor to Flint's contempt of them for it. He pulled out the belt and threw it on the deck at Allardyce's feet.
"Thank'ee, Cap'n," said Allardyce, snatching it up and running forward to bind the belt round the smoking gun, just behind the swell of the muzzle. "Go on, lads," he said, "give her a try with that!"
The gunners swabbed, reloaded and ran out. The gun captain took aim. He stood aside and dipped his linstock…
Boom! said the gun. Boom-Boom, said the two long nines in the same instant…
And delighted cheers rang out as a shot ploughed fair and square down the length of Oraclaesus's longboat, smashing flesh and timbers and sending broken oars overboard in a shower of fragments. The big boat slewed sideways and lost way. Groans and cries came over the water, the towline parted at the longboat's stern and — she being next to the frigate — the entire chain of boats was rendered impotent.
"Got 'em!" cried Allardyce. "How's that for Indian magic?"
But there were cheers too aboard Hercules and men clambering up on her taffrail, to drop their breeches and show their buttocks to the navy, claiming credit for the hit.
"Good!" said Flint, and looked at the activity around the frigate's bow-chasers. "At last!" he said. And soon… white smoke, followed by: Thud-bang! Thud-bang! VWOOOOOM as shot flew overhead. But in the boats ahead of the frigate, men staggered under the concussion of the guns, fired so close over their heads that they were surrounded by the flattened ripples beaten into the sea by the shockwave.
Now pull, you swabs… if you can! thought Flint. He'd been hoping for this. An actual hit was a bonus, but Flint wanted mainly to sting the frigate into firing, confidant that her boats couldn't tow half so well while she did. And he was right. The combined effect of the lucky hit — if luck it was — and the frigate's own fire so hindered her men that Walrus, Hercules and Sweet Anne pulled ahead another half mile before the frigate was properly under way again, with the towline re-rigged, and the ruined longboat cast adrift. And even then, the loss of their best boat and the hammering of Oraclaesus's guns meant that the tars were badly shaken, while Flint's, Bentham's and Parry's crews were pulling their hearts out, encouraged by the rumour that Indian magic was on their side, and they were hitting the enemy with every shot.
Scott-Owen, meanwhile, had seen his boats' crews cringe and falter when his guns fired, and eventually gave the order to cease firing. The range was too great now anyway. With the guns silent, the tars picked up stroke, pulled for England, and within an hour the navy was closing the gap again.
And then… all matters of boats and stern-chasers became irrelevant. The surface of the sea shivered and the rigging whispered as the weather changed again. The sky darkened, the wind returned but sultry and gusting, with squalls striking sudden and hard, the masts bending to the strain, such that no wise man set too much sail for fear of losing it.
At least there was no more towing to do. As the sails filled, exhausted men were driven — on all sides — to a different drill. No time for hoisting in boats; roles were reversed as each ship took hers in tow, recovering her men, while sails were trimmed. Flint put Walrus to her best point of sailing, leaving Bentham and Parry to follow as best they could. He didn't care if they kept up or not, for his life was on it, and there'd be other chances for the treasure if they got lost.
But they didn't. Danny Bentham wanted his share far too much for that.
Well and good, thought Flint, but what wasn't well and good was the brand-new, copper-bottomed frigate coming on under full sail like the angel of death. She was a magnificent sight, a thing of majestic beauty, with acres of canvas spread. It was obvious from the start that she could outsail Walrus, Hercules and Sweet Anne all three.
Van Oosterhout took the first possible opportunity to show Captain Foster the error of his ways. It was a necessary precaution, because once the Patanq men were taken out of his ship, Foster became a different man, and so did his crew. They breathed easy, they forgot their fear of the tattooed warriors and swaggered round the ship, shouting in big manly voices at the women and children — especially the women.
Van Oosterhout had guessed what would happen sooner or later, and had the good fortune to come up on deck from his calculations in time to catch Foster licking his wet lips and running a hand up the skirts of an Indian girl he'd got backed into a corner, with his crew laughing merrily all around him.
Ah, thought Van Oosterhout, all together. Good! and he darted through the crowd, seized Foster by the scruff of his shirt, twisted the cloth under his chin, and swung him round and down so Foster's head hung, pop-eyed, across Van Oosterhout's knee, and the rest of him struggled so hard and fierce that he throttled himself without putting Van Oosterhout to the trouble. Foster's crew stood astonished at the ease with which it was done, and each looked round hoping some other would baste the bloody Dutchman.
Van Oosterhout kept an eye on them, and when he thought they'd had enough — them and Foster — he dropped Foster's head with a clunk on the deck, stood up and looked around. He was not a particularly big man, but he had great physical presence. He was bony and muscular and quick in his movements, with fierce sandy moustaches that curled up on either side of his nose like the tusks of a boar.
"So!" said Van Oosterhout, and looked them all in the eye. He'd faced down Flint's men and didn't expect much trouble from this shipload of ruptured ducks. But you never knew with seamen. Cowards didn't go to sea. So he glared at them, waiting for a challenge. But none came. Foster's men muttered a lot, but they didn't do anything.
"Good!" said Van Oosterhout, and pulled Foster to his feet, where he stood red-faced and choking, weeping tears and rubbing his throat.
"Why'd yer do that?" he said, in deepest self-pity.
"To save you from skinning," said Van Oosterhout.
"What?"
"The Indians take the skin off any man who insults their women."
"The skin?"
"Yes. From here — " Van Oosterhout pinched the loose skin at Foster's neck. "Agh!"