Indeed, the sky overhead was already darkening gray, and the winds seemed to strengthen with each passing minute. El Trinidad listed unhappily as she cleared Cat Island and felt the full roughness of the open sea.
“Damn me,” Enders said. “I don’t trust all those cannon, Captain. Can’t we shift just two or three to starboard?”
“No,” Hunter said.
“Make her sail smarter,” Enders said. “You’d like it, Captain.”
“So would Bosquet,” Hunter said.
“Show me Bosquet,” Enders said, “and you can keep your cannon with nary a word from me.”
“He’s there,” Hunter said, pointing astern.
Enders looked, and saw the Spanish warship clear the north shore of Cat Island, in hot pursuit of the galleon.
“Right up our bum hole,” Enders said. “God’s bones, he’s well set.”
The warship was bearing down on the most vulnerable part of the galleon, its aft deck. Any ship was weak astern — that was why the treasure was always stowed forward, and why the most spacious cabins were always astern. A ship’s captain might have a large compartment, but in time of battle it was assumed he would not be in it.
Hunter had no guns aft at all; every piece of bronze hung on the port side. And their ungainly list deprived Enders of the traditional defense from a rear attack — a twisting, erratic course to make a poor target. Enders had to hold his best course to keep the ship from taking on water, and he was unhappy about it.
“Steady as you go,” Hunter said, “and keep land to starboard.”
He went forward to the side railing, where Don Diego was sighting along an odd instrument he had made. It was a wooden contraption, roughly three feet long, mounted to the mainmast. At each end there was a small square frame of wood, with crossed hairs, forming an X.
“It’s simple enough,” the Jew said. “You sight along here,” he said, standing at one end, “and when you have the two sets of hairs matched, you are in the proper position. Whatever part of your target is in the crossing of the hairs is what you will strike.”
“What about the range?”
“For that, you need Lazue.”
Hunter nodded. Lazue, with her sharp eyes, could estimate distances with remarkable accuracy.
“Range is not the problem,” the Jew said. “The problem is timing the swells. Here, look.”
Hunter stepped into position behind the crosshairs.
He closed one eye and squinted until the double X overlapped. And then he saw how much the boat pitched and rocked.
One instant the crosshairs were pointing at empty sky; the next, they were pointing into the rolling sea.
In his mind, he pretended to fire a round of shot. Between his shouted command and the moment the gunners tugged on the shot-cords there would be a delay, he knew. He had to estimate that. And the shot itself was slow-moving: another half-second would pass before the target was struck. All together, more than a second between the order to fire and the impact.
In that second, the ship would roll and bounce madly on the ocean. He felt a wave of panic. His desperate plan was impossible in heavy seas. They would never be able to get off two accurately aimed volleys.
“Where timing is paramount,” the Jew suggested, “the example of the duel might be useful.”
“Good,” Hunter said. It was a helpful thought. “Notify the gun crews. The signals will be ready to fire, one, two, three, fire. Yes?”
“I shall tell them,” the Jew said. “But in the noise of battle . . .”
Hunter nodded. The Jew was very acute today, and thinking much more clearly than Hunter himself. Once the firing began, verbal signals would be lost, or misunderstood. “I shall call the commands. You stand at my side and give hand signals.”
The Jew nodded and went to tell the crews. Hunter called for Lazue, and explained to her the need for accurate ranging. The shot was aimed for five hundred yards; she would have to measure with delicacy. She said she could do it.
He went back to Enders, who was delivering a continuous string of oaths. “We shall taste his bugger’s staff soon enough,” he said. “I can near feel that prickle upon the flower.”
At that moment, the Spanish warship opened fire with its bow cannon. Small shot whistled through the air.
“Hot as an ardent boy,” Enders said, shaking his fist in the air.
A second volley splintered wood on the aft castle, but caused no serious damage.
“Steady on,” Hunter said. “Let him gain.”
“Let him gain. Tell me how I could do other?”
“Keep your wits,” Hunter said.
“It’s not my wits at risk,” Enders said, “but my dearest bunghole.”
A third volley passed harmlessly amidships, the small shot whistling through the air. Hunter had been waiting for that.
“Smokepots!” Hunter shouted, and the crew raced to light the caskets of pitch and sulfur on deck. Smoke billowed into the air, and drifted astern. Hunter knew that this would give the appearance of damage. He could well imagine how El Trinidad appeared to the Spaniard a listing ship in trouble, now belching dark smoke.
“He’s moving east,” Enders said. “Coming in for the kill.”
“Good,” Hunter said.
“Good,” Enders repeated, shaking his head. “Dear Judas’s ghost, our captain says good.”
Hunter watched as the Spanish warship moved to the port side of the galleon. Bosquet had begun the engagement in classic fashion, and was continuing in the same way. He was moving wide of his target, getting himself onto a parallel course just out of cannon range.
Once he had lined up his broadside on the galleon, he would begin to close. As soon as he was within range — starting at about two thousand yards — Bosquet would open fire, and would continue to fire as he came closer and closer. That would be the most difficult period for Hunter and his crew. They would have to weather those broadsides until the Spanish ship was within their range.
Hunter watched as the enemy vessel pulled directly into a parallel course with El Trinidad, slightly more than a mile to the port.
“Steady on,” Hunter said, and rested a hand on Enders’s shoulder.
“You shall have your way with me,” Enders grumbled, “and so will the Donnish prickler.”
Hunter went forward to Lazue.
“She is just under two thousand yards,” Lazue said, squinting at the enemy profile.
“How fast does she close?”
“Fast. She’s eager.”
“All the better for us,” Hunter said.
“She is eighteen hundred yards now,” Lazue said.
“Stand by for shot,” Hunter said.
Moments later, the first broadside exploded from the warship, and fell splashing into the water off the port side.
The Jew counted. “One Madonna, two Madonna, three Madonna, four Madonna . . .”
“Under seventeen hundred,” Lazue said.
The Jew had counted to seventy-five when the second broadside was fired. Iron shot screamed through the air all around them, but none struck the ship.
Immediately, the Jew began to count again. “One Madonna, two Madonna . . .”
“Not as sharp as she could be,” Hunter said. “She should have gotten off in sixty seconds.”
“Fifteen hundred yards,” Lazue muttered.
Another minute went by, and then the third broadside was fired. This found its mark with stunning effect; Hunter was suddenly engulfed in a world of utter confusion — men screaming, splinters whistling through the air, spars and rigging crashing to the deck.
“Damage!” he shouted. “Call damage!” He peered through the smoke at the enemy ship, still closing on them. He was not even aware of the seaman at his feet, writhing and screaming with pain, clutching his hands to his face, blood spurting between his fingers.