PIRATE: Privateer (18 page)

It took the frigate’s crew ten minutes to carry out his order. The frigate was upwind of her target and heeling to the wind. The lids on her lower gun ports had been kept closed to keep
out the sea. Now helm and sails had to be adjusted so that the frigate sailed on a more level keel, and the gun ports freed.

Above the sound of the wind and waves and the creaking of the ship de Graff heard the lids to the gun ports swing open, one by one. They would be made fast while the guns were used. Then, like
trapdoors, they would drop back to seal up the hull when the guns were retracted. Next came the squeal of blocks and the grumble of the truck wheels as the cannon were hauled forward until their
black muzzles emerged from the ship’s side. To the Spanish sailors on the merchantman it would be a chilling sight.

His steward appeared at de Graff’s side with the turpentine-soaked rag he had demanded. Fastidiously the captain wiped his hands clean of the sticky rigging tar, making sure that nothing
soiled the lace cuffs of his shirt.

A single cannon shot and a hole appeared in the mainsail of the merchant ship. The gunner on
Sainte Rose
had either aimed too high, or he was loath to damage the target, which would
reduce its value as a prize.

In response the Spanish vessel suddenly luffed up, and a ragged sequence of four cannon shots came back. Her entire broadside. None of the cannonballs struck the frigate.

‘Fools,’ muttered de Graff. He had no wish to exchange cannonades. It was a waste of gunpowder which he could ill afford. Only three barrels of powder remained on the frigate –
another reason to head for the careenage at Providencia and wait for the re-supply that de Cussy had promised.

De Graff took a speaking trumpet from the officer of the watch. As he raised it to his lips, he saw out of the corner of his eye that the gunfire had brought his lunch guests out on deck.
Anne-Marie was standing in the waist of the ship. She was with two rough-looking sailors, whom he recognized as her brothers. Like everyone else, they were watching what the Spanish ship would do
next.

‘Main deck gunners only! Aim for her mast,’ de Graff called down. It was a way of conserving powder. The gun layers on the open main deck had a much clearer view of the target than
their comrades peering through the gun ports a deck below them. The Spaniard had a single mast. If that came down, the vessel would be crippled, and the fight would be over.

At ragged intervals the frigate’s guns fired, each cannoneer trying his skill. One round shot struck splinters from the merchantman’s rail. More holes appeared in the rigging. De
Graff wished the frigate carried some chain shot: the two cannonballs linked with a short length of chain stood a better chance of taking down the mast as they whirled through the air. But his
cannoneers had only round shot at their disposal, and most of the balls flew overhead and skipped across the sea beyond their target. All the time the gap between the vessels was narrowing. Now and
again the Spaniard would yaw ponderously and lose off a shot or two at her looming tormentor. One shot even struck the frigate’s hull, but it was lightweight, a four-pound ball and did no
damage. The men on the
Sainte Rose
jeered.

Finally the captain of the merchantman must have realized the hopelessness of his position. The vessel suddenly let fly its sheets, and the sails spilled wind. The ship was surrendering.

‘Bring her close enough to board,’ de Graff growled at the helmsman. The frigate was much the taller ship and loomed over her victim. Standing on the quarterdeck as the two ships
came together, he found himself looking down on the merchantman. He looked for the limping captain that the watchkeeper had spoken of. But he could not see him. The vessel appeared to be commanded
by a younger man. He stood on the aft deck, holding a sword and glaring angrily up at the frigate. On deck his men were milling about. They looked cowed.

The gap between the vessels narrowed. Grapnels flew. A web of ropes began to bind the ships together as the boarding party assembled on the frigate. De Graff took a quick glance amidships. The
Kergonan woman was still there, watching. She had been undeterred by the gunfire. She was clearly a woman with courage.

Laurens de Graff decided to lead the boarding party himself. He knew that he looked splendidly dashing in his blue and white uniform. He descended the companionway to the frigate’s main
deck, and made his way to the rail. ‘Do you surrender?’ he bellowed across the gap.

The young captain cupped one hand around his ear as if he had not heard clearly.

‘Surrender!’ shouted de Graff.

There was a heavy grinding thump as the hulls of the two ships touched in the swell and rebounded apart.

‘Do you surrender?’ repeated de Graff. The two ships were again coming together. He waited for the precise moment and jumped across the gap, coat tails flying, and landed deftly on
the merchantman’s deck.

The young man had left the aft deck and was coming towards him.

‘In the name of His Most Christian Majesty, I declare this ship to be a prize of war,’ de Graff announced in Spanish as the man stood quietly across the deck from him.

‘I am Luis Felipe Fonseca,’ the young man replied calmly. ‘The title of this vessel is
San Gil
. May I know your name and rank?’

It was an unexpected reply, spoken in heavily accented, clumsy French. For a brief moment de Graff was at a loss. ‘Captain Laurens de Graff,’ he answered. He could hear the thuds of
feet landing on deck behind him as his men began to jump down on to the merchantman. ‘This ship is a prize of war,’ he repeated, this time in French. Then he added, ‘You are my
prisoner.’

The young man stood only a couple of yards away, a look of incomprehension on his frank, open face.

All of a sudden de Graff became aware of a familiar smell. It took a moment for him to identify what it was. Then he recognized the distinctive stench of turpentine. For a moment he thought the
smell came from his hands where he had just cleaned them. Then he noticed a large, damp stain on the deck by his feet.

He whirled about and looked at his own ship, even as there came a muffled crash and someone shouted, ‘Fireballs! Fire below!’ There were cries of alarm from the frigate and a volley
of curses.

Too late he understood. The young Spaniard had duped him. Out-gunned, the Spaniards had prepared balls of oakum and hemp and rags, soaked in tar and turpentine, and hidden them. They had waited
until the
Sainte Rose
was close enough, then they had lobbed the burning fireballs and pots of tar into the frigate.

There was a much louder explosion, this time from within the frigate’s hull. A spout of black smoke shot up from the forward hatch of his own ship. De Graff swore. His crew had left the
frigate’s lower gun ports open. The carelessness of his filibustiers had put his ship at risk. The Spaniards had succeeded in tossing at least one firepot through an open gun port. If the
fire spread to the frigate’s powder, his ship would be blown apart.

He spun round to face the young Spaniard. Felipe Fonseca had a recklessly triumphant expression. He was proud that his ruse had succeeded. Seldom in Laurens de Graff’s long and lucrative
career as a filibustier had he been hoodwinked, and never by someone half his age. With murder in his heart he drew his sword and advanced on the young Spaniard, intending to run him through like a
chicken skewered on a spit.

His furious lunge was directed straight for the young man’s heart. There was no skill to it, just a straightforward thrust, delivered in white-hot fury. Felipe Fonseca took a half-step
back. His own sword swept up and deflected the lunge to one side. De Graff sprang forward again and lunged once more, this time a downward slant. He aimed for the thigh. He wanted to cripple his
tormentor and then deal with him at leisure. Once again Felipe flicked aside the attack with his own blade. As steel clashed, then slithered on steel, a sudden sobering awareness penetrated de
Graff’s boiling anger. He was attacking a trained swordsman. He felt it through his hand and wrist and along his sword arm to his shoulder. The young man facing him knew how to wield a
weapon. De Graff dropped his glance to his opponent’s feet. The young Spaniard had shifted to a duellist’s stance, one foot pointing towards his opponent, the other slightly at an
angle, the leading knee bent. His entire body was in balance, ready to advance, retreat, or step aside.

De Graff made a huge effort to control his anger. He backed away as he sized up his situation. Immediately Felipe Fonseca took two quick paces forward and his sword darted at the captain’s
face. De Graff jerked his head back just in time. He retreated still farther until he was safely out of killing range. The boarders from the
Sainte Rose
who had followed de Graff were
standing in a ring around the two men. They had to shuffle back hastily. It occurred to de Graff to shout to one of them to pistol the upstart Spaniard where he stood. But a spirit of pride
flickered long enough to make de Graff reject the idea. He had a reputation to protect. Laurens de Graff was known throughout the Caribbean as a crack shot and an outstanding swordsman. His enemies
sometimes surrendered without a fight because they feared him so much, and because he was known to be chivalrous and to treat his opponents well. Such notoriety was priceless. It would be lost if
the story spread that when de Graff found himself challenged to a sword fight, man to man, he had his youthful opponent shot.

Carefully de Graff eased his left arm out of his close-fitting dress coat. The fashionable long skirts, extravagant lapels and pocket flaps were nothing but an encumbrance now. He had to be rid
of it. He transferred his sword to his left hand in order to free his right arm and there was a moment when the young Spaniard had him at a disadvantage. Felipe Fonseca could have struck but
instead he merely flicked his sword tip from side to side, almost playfully. His opponent’s confidence and sense of fair play annoyed de Graff still further.

The weapons held by the two men were much alike. Both were rapiers. Fonseca’s had curling counterguards and knucklebow of steel. Like all rapiers, it was primarily designed for thrusting.
But the thirty-six-inch blade also had cutting edges for slashing blows. De Graff’s weapon had an ornate handle of carved ivory as it was partly for show. Yet it was also a killing weapon,
and though the blade was shorter by two inches than the Spaniard’s, the disadvantage was cancelled by the frigate captain’s longer reach.

For several seconds the two men faced one another. Then to de Graff’s astonishment, his opponent stepped forward boldly, rapped his blade firmly against the captain’s sword, and as
the metal rang and quivered, launched a deadly attack. The flickering point of his rapier first menaced the captain’s throat, then changed direction in mid-air and was aimed at his stomach.
De Graff gave ground, springing back, beating the blade aside. He had almost forgotten how to fight like this. Shipboard combat was very different. It was crude and bludgeoning. The weapons of
choice were cutlass, boarding axe, club and dagger, used hand to hand, chest to chest, in tight, close-packed brawls. Now he was faced with a rapier at arm’s length and fast-moving but just
as deadly. He dredged up from his memory the lessons he had learned from a fencing master when he had ambitions to become a naval officer. That was long ago, before he had turned his coat and
become a filibustier captain.

Lunge, parry and riposte – the rhythm of the rapier duel came back to him. High guard, low guard, the muscles of his sword arm seemed to have a memory of the moves and counter-moves. Yet
he was obliged to give ground all the time – stepping backwards, circling slowly, fending off the attacks. His fencing master had told him to watch his opponent’s feet. They would
signal the direction of the next attack. But Fonseca was so lithe and he moved so quickly that it was difficult to anticipate his next onslaught. Again and again, his sword only just missed his
target. De Graff was sweating with effort, hard put to maintain his defence though he was the bigger, stronger man. He tried to break Fonseca’s rapier with a smashing sideways cut, knowing
that the young Spaniard would block the blow with his blade. But the clash of metal told de Graff that Fonseca’s rapier was forged from good Toledo steel, almost impossible to splinter.

Fonseca kept probing for his enemy’s weakness. Then he found it. He made as if to strike at de Graff’s face. But it was a feint. As de Graff moved his sword to ward off the thrust,
the young Spaniard dropped his sword hand low and to the right, pivoted on his leading foot, and lunged. The tip of his rapier pierced de Graff’s left hip. An inch closer to the belly and the
fight would have ended there and then. De Graff felt the lancing pain and knew he had been hurt. In desperation he counter-attacked, delivering a slash at Fonseca’s neck, and when that was
blocked, lunged at full stretch, hoping to take advantage of his longer reach. His target was Fonseca’s leading leg, fully extended and vulnerable. Like a dancer, Fonseca drew back, rose on
tiptoe, and then a moment later his sword point was descending towards the back of de Graff’s neck as the bigger man was still leaning forward. It was only by chance that de Graff was not
skewered. He slipped and canted sideways, saving himself with a grunt. As he straightened up, he knew that he was losing the fight. It would not be long before he received a mortal hit from
Fonseca’s deadly swordplay. He threw aside all caution and made an all-out thrust at the young man’s chest. As Fonseca’s blade came across to parry, de Graff stepped forward. As
blade met blade with a clash he pressed down on his sword with all his weight until the hilts of the two rapiers slammed together. In that same moment he grabbed the Spaniard’s sword arm with
his free hand and forced it aside, twisting his sword point up into the young man’s face. He felt the tip enter the eye, and then suddenly the fight was over. The young man pitched backwards
and crashed to the deck.

Panting with exertion, de Graff stood over the body. A dull pain was spreading from his injured hip, and he was aware of the blood seeping down his breeches. A whiff of smoke in his nostrils
reminded him that the
Sainte Rose
had been attacked with fire-pots and was in danger of burning. He turned. To his relief there were only a few wisps of smoke curling up from the main hatch.
There was no sign of panic. The fire must have been extinguished. His gaze traversed the length of his ship. Standing at the rail was Anne-Marie Kergonan. She was looking down at the deck where the
fight had taken place. She was staring straight at him, her face set. But he could not tell what she was thinking – whether she was appalled at what she had seen, relieved at the outcome, or
indifferent.