This time — as Billy Bones would have said — them as die'll be the lucky ones.
Chapter 26
Commodore Richard Scott-Owen was such a splendid officer that he was a little too aware of his own splendidness.
He owed everything to talent, coming as he did from a modest family of Deptford ship builders; prosperous but plebeian craftsmen who'd sought gentility for their brightest son by getting him into the king's sea-service, where his progress had been gratifyingly rapid. Blessed with the good fortune to be a lieutenant on HMS Baltimore under "Black Dick" Howe — one of the best-connected officers in the service — he so distinguished himself as to become Black Dick's favourite protege and an instant and popular choice to command the elite squadron sent after former-lieutenant Flint.
Scott-Owen had thereby acquired so much self-assurance, that he remained calm when the Charlestown thunderbolt struck:
Flint himself had actually been in harbour — anchored within sight of the squadron — while Scott-Owen was dancing at a ball, and now had taken fright and sailed!!
According to Governor Glen a patriotic merchant named Pimenta had, by chance, discovered Flint's activities and informed the authorities. On hearing the news, Scott-Owen calmly ordered the squadron to sea, and left the bawling and hauling to those beneath him. He had fine ships, fine officers, and could walk the quarterdeck, hands clasped behind him, while the squadron got under way at the speed of the Devil with his arse on fire.
He further remained calm while his sloops stopped every ship in Charlestown roads to enquire after Flint's whereabouts, and learned that he was travelling in the company of fellow villains Bentham and Parry. Having discovered where they'd gone, and set off in chase, Scott-Owen continued pacing his immaculate quarterdeck among glittering brass, shining steel, towering canvas and hundreds of subordinates who treated him with more respect than Catholics did the Pope.
He remained calm all the while, and serious too, because that's what he thought a sea officer should do. There was no place for vulgar displays of emotion in the king's service. Inwardly, though, Richard Scott-Owen was leaping up and down and turning cartwheels for such a perfect realisation of his chosen profession as few men could dream of.
He was only twenty-nine, after all, and was constantly attended by Lieutenant Hastings and Mr Midshipman Povey, who were even younger than he and buzzing with excitement at being close on Flint's tail. These two had once been Flint's shipmates. They'd been cast adrift by him in a longboat, a torment they'd miraculously survived, having been picked up by the Spaniards off Trinidad. As a result, they hated Flint something poisonous.
So Scott-Owen could hardly contain his excitement. Only the world and the oceans were his limits. Only God and the wind could stay his hand. There was no squadron equal to his, from Newfoundland down to Brazil. It was wonderful, wonderful, wonderful. But then… calamity. God and the wind did stay his hand. With Flint in sight from the maintop, the wind failed and it was boats-away and rig for towing. And when that wasn't enough, a word from Scott-Owen — still calm — set the entire squadron's boats towing Oraclaesus alone, to ensure an advantage in speed over the pirates. The sloops could always catch up later. Having spent endless hours exercising his gun-crews, Scott-Owen was keen to give them their first opportunity to fire in anger. And what could be more congenial than firing into a proper enemy, one deserving a pounding and yet too weak to be dangerous in return, with all the world praising you for doing it?
Wonderful indeed.
Alas, it was then that God really turned nasty. After a tow lasting a day and night, and the longboat smashed and men lost to a chance hit, the wind returned and Oraclaesus began overhauling the pirates hand over hand. As Scott-Owen gave the order for boarders to stand by, Flint had the impertinence to bring his ship broadside on, firing off his pop-gun battery without so much as a drop of harm, when suddenly the weather turned foul. In a matter of minutes the squall had carried away everything above the topsails on both fore and mainmasts. It snapped the forestay, unstepped the foremast and threw Oraclaesus into chaos… thus ruining Scott-Owen's entire wonderful world.
"Move your fucking bastard sodding selves!" shrieked Scott- Owen, laying on with his speaking trumpet across the backs of the tars as they scrambled to clear the appalling wreckage of smashed spars, tangled rigging and heavy canvas that lay across the ship's lee side. "It's all your bloody fault," he screamed at the sailing master, "for carrying so much sodding sail, you sodding bastard. I'll bloody-well break you for this, you bugger!" The ship rolled heavily as the sea hauled on the trailing wreckage. "Get out of my fucking way!" yelled Scott- Owen at Mr Midshipman Povey, who happened to crash into him as all aboard staggered and stumbled.
Scott-Owen stamped and screamed and swore. He dredged up every foul curse and dirty word from his memory. He ran around shoving men to their duties who were already doing their best. They needed no orders. They knew what to do. They cut away the remains of the royals and stunsails. They fixed and spliced and mended. They made good. They jury- rigged. They brought up fresh spars. They worked all night, until men fell exhausted at their labours and had to be dragged clear of harm's way. They were an exceptionally fine crew. They were prime seamen to a man. They did their duty. They put their ship in order.
And Scott-Owen sulked horribly.
Morning came: grey, red-eyed and stubbled. The ship — temporarily — was at peace with herself and the elements. All had been done that could be done. She had sail aloft, she was answering the helm, and the Atlantic was no longer coming aboard over the rail.
Thus Scott-Owen stood on his battered quarterdeck, attended by his equally battered, equally tired officers, while the ship's people peered back nervously from the waist. Some two hundred and fifty men — mostly in their twenties, and all of them volunteers — awaited his judgement on the damage. Scott-Owen sighed. There might be no serious leaks in the hull, but the totality of reports from the ships specialists — bosun, gunner, carpenter, sailmaker, blacksmith, and the rest (including the much-abused sailing master) — was that urgent repairs were needed in port. She was good for fair weather, but another blow like last night's would take the foremast out of her.
Scott-Owen, now himself once more, was ashamed. He'd been eighteen years afloat and knew that the sea was his worst enemy, far more dangerous than the Frogs or the Dons, and there was no point complaining. He sensibly made no reference to any harsh words he might… perhaps… possibly… just… have uttered, and the crew sensibly forgot them and forgave their captain for losing his temper. He was, after all, a very splendid young man and they were proud of him.
"Charlestown, gentlemen," said Scott-Owen. "We are fortunate to be so close to a major port. We shall refit there."
"Aye-aye, sir," they said, and touched their hats.
As word spread, a deep groan rose among the foremast hands, their happy thoughts of prize money fading away. They all believed that Flint's ships — being pirate ships — must be crammed with Spanish dollars, and it was bitter hard to lose them.
Three days later, Oraclaesus anchored in Charlestown harbour, accompanied by Leaper, Bounder and Jumper. It had been a slow passage, for the frigate had been forced to sail tenderly, taking care of her wounds, while the three sloops had been required to live up to their names and dash about the ocean to find Scott-Owen. Their entry into harbour was less showy with a damaged flagship, but still neatly done. And the commodore was relieved to see a sheer hulk in the anchorage, for this highly specialised vessel would be vital in lifting out and re-seating the foremast.