“By then the other ship will have changed position.”
“Yes,” Hunter said. “It will be closer, inside my point. So the fire will be more spread, but still tight. You see?”
“And after the second volley?”
Hunter sighed. “I doubt that we will have more than two chances. If I have not sunk or disabled the warship in those two volleys, we shall surely lose the day.”
“Well,” the Jew said finally, “it is better than nothing.” His tone was not optimistic. In a sea battle, warring ships usually settled a contest with fifty broadsides or more. Two well-matched ships with disciplined crews might fight the better part of a day, exchanging more than a hundred broadsides. Two volleys seemed trivial.
“It is,” Hunter said, “unless we can strike the aft castle, or the magazine and shot-hold.”
Those were the only truly vulnerable points on a warship. The aft castle carried all the ship’s officers, the helmsman, and the rudder. A solid hit there would leave the ship without guidance. The shot-hold and magazine in the bow would explode the warship in a moment.
Neither point was easily hit. To aim far forward or aft increased the likelihood of a harmless miss by all cannon.
“The problem is our aim,” the Jew said. “You will set your marks by gunnery practice, here in the harbor?”
Hunter nodded.
“But how will you aim, once at sea?”
“That is exactly why I have sent for you. I must have an instrument for sighting, to line the ship up with the enemy. It is a question of geometry, and I no longer remember my studies.”
With his fingerless left hand, the Jew scratched his nose. “Let me think,” he said, and left the cabin.
. . .
ENDERS, THE UNFLAPPABLE sea artist, had a rare moment of discomposure. “You want what?” he said.
“I want to set all thirty-two cannon on the port side,” Hunter repeated.
“She’ll list to port like a pregnant sow,” Enders said. The very idea seemed to offend his sense of propriety and good seamanship.
“I’m sure she will be ungainly,” Hunter said. “Can you still sail her?”
“After a fashion,” Enders said. “I could sail the Pope’s coffin with m’lady’s dinner napkin. After a fashion.” He sighed. “Of course,” he said, “you’ll shift the cannon once we’re in open water.”
“No,” Hunter said. “I’ll shift them here, in the bay.”
Enders sighed again. “So you want to clear the reef with your pregnant sow?”
“Yes.”
“That means cargo topside,” Enders said, staring into space. “We’ll move those cases in the hold up on the starboard railing and lash them there. It’ll help some, but then we are top-heavy as well as off-trim. She’ll roll like a cork in a swell. Make the devil’s own job to fire those guns.”
“I’m only asking if you can sail her.”
There was a long silence. “I can sail her,” Enders said finally. “I can sail her just as pretty as you wish. But you better get her back in trim before that storm hits. She won’t last ten minutes in weather.”
“I know that,” Hunter said.
The two men looked at each other. While they sat, they heard a reverberating rumble overhead, as the first of the starboard cannon was shifted to the port side.
“You play long odds,” Enders said.
“They are the only odds I have,” Hunter replied.
Firing commenced in the early afternoon. A piece of white sailcloth was set five hundred yards away, on the shore, and the cannon were fired individually until they struck the target. The positions were marked on the deck with the blade of a knife. It was a long, slow, laborious process continuing on into the night, when the white sail target was replaced by a small fire. But by midnight, they had all thirty-two cannon aimed, loaded, and run out. The cargo had been brought topside and lashed to the starboard railing, partially compensating for the list to port. Enders pronounced himself satisfied with the trim of the boat, but his expression was unhappy.
Hunter ordered all hands to get a few hours sleep, and announced they would sail with the morning tide. Just before he drifted off to sleep, he wondered what Bosquet would make of the day’s cannon fire inside the cove. Would he guess the meaning of those shots? And what would he do if he did?
Hunter did not ponder the question. He would know soon enough, he thought, and closed his eyes.
Chapter 30
HE WAS ON deck at dawn, pacing back and forth, watching the crew’s preparations for battle. Lines and braces were being doubled, so that if some were shot away the others would allow the ship to sail. Bedding and blankets, soaked in water, were lashed along rails and bulkheads to protect against flying splinters. The entire deck was washed down repeatedly, soaking the dry wood to reduce the danger of fire.
In the midst of all this, Enders came up. “Lookout’s just reported, Captain. The warship is gone.”
Hunter was stunned. “Gone?”
“Aye, Captain. Gone during the night.”
“It is not in sight at all?”
“Aye, Captain.”
“He cannot have given up,” Hunter said. He considered the possibilities a moment. Perhaps the warship had gone to the north or south side of the island to lie in wait. Perhaps Bosquet had some other plan or, perhaps, the pounding by the saker had done more damage than the privateers suspected. “All right, carry on,” Hunter said.
The immediate effect of the warship’s disappearance was salutary, he knew. It meant that he would be able to make a safe exit from Monkey Bay with his ungainly ship.
That passage had been worrying him.
Across the bay, he saw Sanson directing preparations aboard the Cassandra. The sloop sat lower in the water today; during the night, Hunter had transferred half the treasure from his vaults to the hold of the Cassandra. There was a good likelihood that at least one of the two ships might be sunk, and he wanted at least part of the treasure to survive.
Sanson waved to him. Hunter waved back, thinking that he did not envy Sanson this coming day. According to their plans, in an attack the smaller ship would run for the nearest safe harbor, while Hunter engaged the Spanish warship. That was not without risk for Sanson, who might find it difficult to escape unmolested. If the Spaniard chose to attack Sanson first, Hunter’s ship would be unable to attack. El Trinidad’s cannon were prepared only for two volleys of defense.
But if Sanson feared this eventuality, he gave no sign; his wave was cheery enough. A few minutes later, the two ships raised anchor and, under light sail, made for the open sea.
The sea was rough. Once past the coral reefs and shallow water, there were forty-knot winds and twelve-foot swells. In that water, the Cassandra bobbed and bounced, but Hunter’s galleon wallowed and slopped like a sick animal.
Enders complained bitterly, and then asked Hunter to take the helm for a moment. Hunter watched as the sea artist moved forward in the boat until he was standing clear of all the sails in the bow.
Enders stood with his back to the wind and both arms stretched wide. He remained there a moment, then turned slightly, still keeping his arms wide.
Hunter recognized the old seaman’s trick for locating the eye of a hurricane. If you stood with your arms out and your back to the wind, the eye of the storm was always two points forward of the left hand’s direction.
Enders came back to the helm, grunting and swearing. “She’s south-southwest,” he said, “and damn me if we won’t feel her strong before nightfall.”