04 Terror on the High Seas

by Rick Dean

Rated: 13+ · Chapter · Action/Adventure · #2360971

The Defiance attempts to return to its home port when a Brigantine appears on the horizon.

Terror on the High Seas

The Defiance continued her steady passage east, back to St. Cruz. Her timbers creaked in the calm swells; her sails billowed in the light breeze. Off the port rail, the men of the watch could see the reassuring twinkle of The Pole Star in the night sky. Yet to starboard, they could see almost nothing. The moon produced a slight glow behind a bank of clouds which obscured the remainder of the night sky.

This far out to sea, the men relaxed somewhat with the respite from the insect-horror of tropical land. Back on St. Cruz, every mangrove, sea oat, or other waxen shrub seemed to hide a nest of spiders, snakes, mosquitoes, noxious fumes, and countless other atrocities. The sea provided a reprieve from all that. Yet nothing could provide escape from the heat. In the summer, even the ocean herself grew so warm as to provide little to no relief. You withered, you possibly died, and that was that. At night, eager to gain any possible relief, most of the men hung their hammocks up on the deck rather than sleeping below.

The helmsman kept the course through the night. A couple men stood by ready to adjust sails should Defiance require a course correction. Two more men stood aloft, keeping ever-vigilant watch. They never knew when a target might appear over the horizon. Defiance lacked the size for a true crows nest. The men sat on the top-spars and held onto the mast and the rat-lines while looking out. They would maintain that awkward vigil for a full watch – eight bells – before fresh men relieved them.

Most of the crew slumbered, save for the small detachment keeping watch. The few men who didn’t slumber and weren’t on watch fussed with their gear. The songs, dice, and rum which livened the evening had petered out. A few men tinkered with their possessions, mending trousers, cleaning pistols, sharpening knives, or whatever other make-work would keep them occupied until their turn at the watch arrived. One man prayed. His lips trembled in quiet murmur as his finger guided him through the bibles verse. Aside from the snoring and flatulence of the men, all was quiet.

“Sail!” the top-man exclaimed. “Starboard bow!”

Captain Scarlett appeared on deck in an instant, clad only in his skivvies. He produced a looking glass and gazed out at the sighting.

“Who is she?” he yelled.

“Can’t tell that yet, sir!”

“She’s close!”

“She came from nowhere! Out of the clouds!”

“How in bloody hell did she get so close?”

“The clouds, sir! Can’t see a bloody thing to starboard!”

Scarlett mumbled a curse to himself.

“All hands!” he announced. The entire crew had already awakened at the announcement of the other ship.

“Mr. English,” he continued, “clear the decks and make ready for battle. Fast. And someone identify that bloody ship!”

Chaos erupted. Before the quartermaster could give his first order, most of the men had already begun packing up their bedding. They had time, but precious little. A “normal” chase might take several hours, or even days, from the time they spotted a target until they fired their first shots. Yet this ship emerged from the night, not more than a mile away. Mr. English reckoned that if neither ship adjusted speed or course, they would close upon each other in fifteen to twenty minutes. They had much work to do and scant time to do it.

“Clear the deck!” English announced. “Prepare for battle!”

The men raced into a set of well-practiced routines. Yet this time they had a mere fraction of the usual time to complete their tasks. Half the crew stayed above-deck. The other half went down below to the hold, carrying or herding the animals. They had to carry, haul, or lead off all the livestock off the weather-deck and pen them below in the stern, out of the way. Any animals which couldn’t ride out the battle below got slaughtered.

Two men released the ship’s pinnace, freeing up more space on the deck. Defiance would tow her astern until needed.

They collapsed and felled any remaining tables, and stowed any remaining utensils. Upon a navy ship, the men would get flogged for leaving them out overnight. Men sailing on the account were far more relaxed about regulations – until combat. Now that they’d sighted a ship, the men all understood that their lives depended upon rigid discipline. The had no time for spuddling and no patience for any such crewmate.

The crew brought up the swivel-guns from below and placed them in their stanchions. Their shot would spew death and carnage to the humanity on an enemy deck. They could snap ratlines and tatter sailcloth if aimed higher, crippling an enemy ship. Best of all, swivel-gun fire would bounce off even the flimsiest hull, preventing the target from sinking. A target which sank took her precious cargo to down into the briny deep with her and yielded no profit.

One of the Scots brothers began hoisting up buckets of seawater and dumping them upon the deck. Normally he’d swab the water to help it soak into the timbers, but there wasn’t time. The better he drenched the deck and the rails, the less risk of fire. The scuppers would have to handle the dumped water. The Scot also checked each scupper to ensure nothing clogged them.

Splinters posed far greater risk than fire. Above and below, any bedding – hammocks, sheets, mattresses, blankets – all got placed against the hull in a futile attempt to protect against these lethal wooden shards.

“She’s a Spaniard!” the top-man announced. “That’s Phillip's Royal Banner!”

“God’s balls,” mumbled the captain.

“Helmsman, hard to starboard. If you can find any fog under those clouds, make for it.”

“Mister English,” he turned to the quartermaster, “stuns’ls if you would please. Any speck of canvas you can find, raise it up. Hang the bloody slop chest if you can find a spar for ‘em. That’s no prize. That’s a warship. We either run, hide, or have a long bloody night.”

He paused for a moment, then added, “if we have to fight, be ready to go to just topsails.”

“Aye,” English responded, although he knew full well to fight under topsails only. Topsails would allow the ship to make way, while still keeping the decks clear for the men to operate. Once combat started, the mainsails would only get in the way. That and they’d get shredded by enemy fire.

“The topmen climbed down the ratlines and took their assigned places on deck. The two best shots in the crew replaced them. They hauled up rifles, powder, and shot and made themselves ready to pick off enemy crewmen. Or, better yet, officers. Any fop with a salad on his chest and a gaudy hat would make for a prime target.

Belowdecks, the men had their own set of well-practiced drills. Sea chests and anything else underfoot would get stowed in the bilge, or piled up near the bow where it wouldn’t obstruct the cannons.

They opened the gun ports and rolled out the cannons. Defiance did not have any cannon larger than three pounds, and those each required a two-man crew to operate. The men rigged train tackles and lit linstock ▶︎ matches. Other men distributed shot and powder to both the cannons below and the swivel guns on the deck.

The ship’s surgeon had an out-of-the-way spot in the rear near the livestock where he set up his equipment and prepared to treat casualties. He sprinkled sand on the floor to sop up the inevitable blood that resulted from his practice.

The carpenter also made his way below. He and his men inspected the bilge pumps. Then they busied themselves making plugs and storing them alongside the ship’s ribs. There, they would be available to fill any hole from enemy cannon fire. They fashioned some of the plugs from wood. Cork, if possible. Others they wrought out of mattresses, hay, or anything else they could wad up and plug into a hole.

Once the crew had cleared the deck, and brought up the shot and powder, the hatches would all get battened down and lashed, in an effort to prevent cowardice. Each man had his assignment. Each trusted his mates to do their job. In the chaos of battle, that trust would either keep them alive or, if it faltered, send them to Davy Jones locker. A coward who fled below would wish the enemy ship had killed him. He would find no mercy from his mates.

Normally, the men would have ample time to prepare the ship, have a spot of rum, a prayer, and perhaps hear a fiery speech from The Captain. Not tonight. Tonight the hearts pounded with effort even before the battle started as they raced to make the ship as ready as possible before the terrifying fire of the Spanish guns began.

“She’s a brigantine, men,” announced Captain Scarlett, “Be grateful.” Somehow, he’d found time to dress himself. The men might fight in their skivvies, or less, but the captain had prepared himself to accept the sword of an enemy captain when the man made the wise decision to surrender. He lacked the outlandish extravagant uniform of a Spanish officer, yet still, no one would doubt that he commanded.

“She’s still too big for us,” he continued, “but thank God Himself that she’s not a galleon. We’ll not outrun her. The time has come to fight. We’ll turn and strike first. The time to strike is now, before she knows our intent. Load the cannons and pray your swords are sharp, men! They’ll rue the day they faced this horde!”

The men hadn’t ever stopped making ready, yet they cheered the captain’s impromptu speech.

“We’ll give ‘em hell!” a man added.

“Mister English, topsails only if you would, please. Helmsman, hard to port, then make ready to come about. Starboard cannons, make ready!”

The Spanish brigantine had closed to the point where they could see individual men, even if not yet their facial features. Both ships could reach the other with cannon fire with ease. Metallic flashes aboard the Spanish ship revealed swords and pistols. She intended to come alongside and board Defiance.

They could hear the Spanish yelling as they turned broadside to the enemy.

“Mr. English, fire when ready please.”

“Very well, Captain,” he replied. Then he took a giant breath and yelled “FIRE!”

The cannons belched flame and shot and the hull was instantly awash in smoke.

“Helmsman! Come about!” the captain ordered.

“Reload!” ordered the quartermaster.

They’d only just finished their orders when the enemy answered their broadside by opening up with their own guns. As the brigantine was bow-on and closing, they couldn’t bring their cannons to bear, but the swivel guns and riflemen peppered the deck with their own carnage.

The men yelled orders and answers yet most had gone deaf with the first cannon shots. Their eyes stung from the smoke and acrid snot poured out their noses. They squinted at the enemy trying to aim. Jagged splinters and shards flew everywhere each time an enemy shot hit the rail. The sounds of screaming joined the yelling. The men felt anew the terror on the high seas which comes from battle mayhem. All that seemed so orderly during the preparations turned into chaotic hell in the face of those horrible Spanish guns.

A flash of thunder filled the night sky. Rain now pelted the ships. They’d focused so much on the battle that they’d not noticed the clouds opening up until the rain pelted them.

“Helmsman, bring us alongside. Cannons, one more round before the powder gets too wet. Men, grab cutlasses and prepare to board!”

Most of the men did not have cutlasses, but they grabbed anything sharp, pointy, and metallic they could find. Those who lacked swords found knives. Those who lacked even a knife equipped themselves with belaying pins and marlin spikes. A team of men produced grappling hooks to fasten the ships together. One young man procured a cleaver and a butter knife from the galley. They would kill.

“We’ll come alongside, give ‘em one more round of cannon fire, then board them before they can board us. Bring the reign of terror to them this night! Bring them to their knees!”

Captain Scarlett turned away and sighed, hiding his grim face. Despite his bravado, he knew the fight was a desperate gamble. They couldn’t outrun the brigantine and its superior cannons would pound them to bits if the rain stopped. If it didn’t, the brigantine’s larger crew would board the Defiance and inevitably wear them down. Attacking most likely meant they would die upon the enemy deck rather than their own. Still, Lady Luck might strike the Spanish captain down in the fight and strike the Spanish colors with it. It wasn’t much of a chance, but it was the only chance he could see.

“Fire!” the quartermaster screamed, drawing the captain’s attention back to the fight.

Once again, the cannons belched carnage and chaos. Rather than hauling on the lines to wrest the cannons back into position, the crews grabbed their weapons and made for the open ports. The three Scotsmen appeared on deck in kilts, carrying wicked blades. Somehow, they’d produced blue paint for their faces, a terrifying, inhuman image.

“The time has come to die!” Captain Scarlett screamed at the Spanish ship.

Somehow, the enemy ship itself seemed to scream in return. A horrifying, painful creak pierced the night, audible even over the storm. Even through battle-deafened ears, the men heard the agonizing moan. Then, they saw it. The enemy mast had taken a hit. It groaned and snapped. Ratlines and sailcloth tore as it toppled. A torrent of splinters mauled the sailors on the Spanish deck.

“Mr English! Do not board! Put down the grappling hooks and hoist sail! Give me every scrap of canvas! Give me headsails! Canvas on the midden! I want to see sailcloth on every yard! Helmsman, get us out of this bloody wad while that brigantine is disabled!”

The Spanish captain cursed and issued frantic orders of his own. The mast had toppled overboard but the ships lines held it fast aside the brigantine. She may as well have dropped anchor. Swarthy men with knives and swords set to cutting away the rigging in a desperate attempt to make way. Yet the Spanish captain knew it was too little, too late. He unfurled the square sails of his foremast, yet without a mainmast he had no gaff sails and no topsails and thus could make limited headway. He knew the chase was futile. He knew he hadn’t failed, just gotten unlucky. Yet he would limp to Santo Domingo with one mast and likely spend his remaining days on land, if not in prison, due to his failure this night. The English dogs would live to fight another day.

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