on the sluggard!" Ben heard the deadly whirr and saw the second chain shot plow harmlessly into the sea two ship
lengths behind them.
Captain Redjack finally appeared on deck after breakfasting and having his dresser's attention. He flipped a lace
kerchief from his red velvet sleeve and flicked a spot of black powder from his oyster-silk knee breeches. Turning to
the master gunner, whose name had slipped his mind, he held out a well-manicured hand and spoke. "Confound ye,
man. Don't stand there gogglin', make y'report!"
Captain Redjack focussed the telescope, which the gunner handed him, on his quarry, studying the vessel as the gunner
reported. "She's a French buccaneer alright, Cap'n, sir. I tested 'er speed with a couple o' cannon shots. She's fast.
Though I managed to wrap a chain shot round 'er stern galley, sir."
Redjack took the glass from his eye and tapped it in his palm. "Faith, did ye now? Cowardly froggy, look at him,
runnin' like a spring hare. Mistah, er, steersman, I want ye to take us right within the gun range of yon fellow. Can y'do
that, eh?"
The steersman, a lanky, gloom-faced man, tugged his forelock. "She's 'igher out the water than us, sir. By 'er lines I'd
say the Frenchie was built fer speed. But I'll do me best, Cap'n."
The privateer captain stared down his nose at the steersman. "Don't do y'best, sirrah. Do a lot better'n that, eh? Three
golden guineas for the man who sets first foot on the pirates' deck. Three stripes from a rope's end for all hands if we
lose the villain. Demme, but if that isn't a fair offer, eh?"
The crew knew Redjack to be a man of his word. A hard-faced mate began bellowing orders. "Pile on extra spritsails
an' bowsails, take cutlasses an' loose those fenders. Jump to it, ye layabouts!"
Redjack smiled benevolently at the mate and held his arms wide to give him the benefit of his outfit: Oyster-silk
breeches, white stockings and silver-buckled high shoes, his cuffs and throat frothing with cream silk lace beneath a
freshly pressed and laundered red hunting jacket. "Oddsfish, that's the style, dress t'suit the occasion, I always say!"
Not daring to venture back up the mast again, Gascon crouched on the afterdeck viewing the Devon Belle through
Thuron's telescope. "The Britisher's pilin' on canvas, y'can see he's pickin' up more speed right away, Cap'n!"
Thuron nodded. "Just keep us running with the wind on an even keel, Ludon. We'll lose him before we're halfway to
Hispaniola and Puerto Rico."
The steersman, Ludon, called back to his captain. "Can't keep 'er runnin' due east, wind's freshenin' to the south. We'll
have to tack, Cap'n!"
Thuron gestured to Ned and Ben. "Watch me, I'll show you how to tack and skim." Thuron took the wheel from
Ludon and spun it expertly, explaining his tactics to Ben. "If we can't sail dead east, the next best thing is to tack. First
into the wind, then away from it, so the ship heels over a touch and skims sideways. That way our Marie keeps up her
speed. Sailing due east in a south wind would slow us down. Gascon, what's the privateer doing now?"
From behind the captain's back the lookout answered. "The Britisher's doin' the same as us, Cap'n, tackin' an' skimmin'
like a pondfly."
Beneath his foppish posturing, Captain Redjack Teal was no fool. At that moment, he was watching the French ship
keenly. He, too, had ordered the Devon Belle into a tacking manoeuvre while alerting his gunnery master to attend the
portside cannonry. Teal reckoned he had gained a small distance on the other vessel. He waited until the moment was
right, ready to take a gamble. The opportunity presented itself suddenly when he saw that the two vessels, whilst
tacking, were broadside on to each other. Standing alongside his master gunner, the privateer captain rapped out swift
orders: "Right, sharpish now, give her a full broadside, quick as y'like man. Now!"
Ten cannon rocked back on their carriages as they went off with one frightening explosion!
All hands aboard the Marie threw themselves flat as they heard the roar of approaching cannonballs. Ben gasped as
Ned hurled himself on his master's back, protecting him. Next moment there was horrendous crashing, smoke, flames
and the sound of screaming men.
Thuron was on his feet instantly, shouting, "Run south* run south with the wind. Leave off tacking!" He hauled the
dog off Ben. "Are you alright, boy?"
With the noise still ringing in his ears, Ben jumped up. "I'm fine, Cap'n, see to your ship!"
Ben and Ned were hard on the Frenchman's heels as he hastened about, checking the damage. Luckily no masts had
been chopped down by the cannonade, the rudder was intact and the Marie had not been holed. But the entire galley
had been blown to pieces, clear off the deck. Pierre, ashen-faced, staggered up clutching a wounded arm. "Three crew
dead, Cap'n. Galley an' everythin' in it, cook included, all gone. 'Tween decks is burnin', though not badly."
Thuron ripped a swathe of lining from his frock coat and bandaged Pierre's arm as he issued orders. "Get those flames
put out! Check all the rigging! Ludon, keep her hard south. Take us out of range!"
Ben saw the captain's brow crease and his eyes narrow. "Can we still outrun them, sir?"
Thuron stroked his beard and stared back at the Devon Belle. "Aye, at a pinch, lad, at a pinch. But I've thought of a
better way than running from the enemy. I'm going to stop him chasing us. Anaconda, remember Puerto Cortes?"
The giant's face lit up in a huge grin. "Aye, Cap'n, that's where we captured little Gerda from that Hollander. Shall I
have her brought aft?"
The Frenchman drew his cutlass. "Rig a block and tackle!"
Ned sent a puzzled thought to Ben. "Gerda can't be that little, not if they need a block and tackle to raise her. Ask him
who little Gerda is, Ben."
The boy asked, and Ned was all ears as Thuron explained. "Little Gerda is a strange gun we captured from a Hollander
merchant ship bound for a garrison at the tip of Yucatan. It has a long barrel, not wide enough to fit a full cannonball
but built to fire further than a cannon. You'll see."
Little Gerda was indeed a strange weapon. Ben helped to swing it onto the stern deck and set it up on a pivot, which
was intended for the bow culverin.
The captain stroked its long barrel approvingly. "I knew this would prove useful one day. See the barrel? It is meant
for long-range firing. Gerda's magazine will take twice the normal amount of gunpowder—her barrel has seven layers
of thick copper wire bound onto it, so it won't split under pressure. The vent is too small for a proper cannonball, so
can you guess what I'm going to use, Ben?"
The boy caught on instantly. He picked up the chain shot that Thuron had left lying by the cracked rail. "This would fit
into little Gerda's mouth, I think."
The Frenchman winked broadly at him. "Right, my lucky Ben! Let's give the Britisher his chain shot back as a
returned compliment. Anaconda, Gascon, set the gun up. We'll get it ready while we're still on the run!"
Ned and Ben scampered below on the captain's orders, where they collected any old soft lengths of cloth to act as
wadding and some palm oil to soak it in. On the way back they took the rammer from the for'ard culverin to tamp little
Gerda's shot down tight.
Between them, Thuron and Anaconda were raising the gun's trajectory and sighting it right.