Jack whistled. Five thousand pounds would set a man up for life. Then he shrugged. ‘But a treasure ship does not pursue us. It’s a French privateer, which probably has empty holds and hungry men.’ They’d stopped by his sea chest and Jack pulled the key from his pocket.
‘Depends. Perhaps she is returning to port, bulging with loot; and us the transport she requires to help carry it. If we take her, she could still make us rich men.’
‘Perhaps.’ Jack dropped the paper in, re-locked the chest, stood. ‘But I have fought the French, as I know you have. They are not such sorry dogs as Link would have us believe. And with so many more men …’
Red Hugh nodded. ‘It’s true. Except I have ways of evening the numbers.’
‘What ways?’
The Irishman smiled, crooked a finger. ‘Let me show you.’
His goods were stowed further forward. When he had locked his own paper away, in a chest considerably more ancient and battered than Jack’s, he turned to a large square crate beside it. ‘Pass me that jemmy, will you, dear soul?’ he murmured.
The carpenter’s tool was handed across, its flat end pressed under the lid. The top was carefully prised up. Then each side was also pulled away, the back laid down. What looked like a mound of straw lay exposed.
Jack sneezed three times. ‘What will this do?’ he asked. ‘Make them too busy wiping their noses to fight?’
‘It’s in the nature of a Trojan horse. For what’s within …’ Red Hugh said, adding, ‘Oi! Get out of it, you beast.’ Jeremiah the goat had appeared at the scent of this new provender and received a kick in its haunches for its pains. It retired a few feet, regarding them balefully as it munched the strands it had seized. Meanwhile, Red Hugh was carefully pulling the straw aside. Soon a stack of wooden racks, three levels deep, was revealed. On each rack, spherical objects the size of small footballs were wrapped in sacking.
‘What are they?’ asked Jack stretching out his hand to the nearest one.
‘Grenades,’ said the Irishman, laughing as Jack snatched his hand back and took a step away. ‘Phish, Jack, never fear. These boys are only dangerous when they are introduced to the fuses.’ He kicked another smaller box to the side. ‘Bit like the Presbyterians and my boys back home. Only make trouble when we meet.’ He reached forward, slipping the sack off one and picking it up. The dark iron globe sat in his hand, just overlapping the palm. He mimed a lob. ‘Play any cricket, have you?’
‘I was in the team at Westminster. A batsman though.’
‘A pity. For the pitching’s much the same. Sure, I’ve taken a few wickets myself in my time.’
Jack was not sure if he was speaking in metaphors. ‘You carry grenades with you.’
It was not a question. ‘Oagh,’ came the reply. ‘You never know when you’ll have need of a good grenade.’ He noticed Jack’s look. ‘I told you I was an engineer. These are the best things for blasting through rock.’
‘Of course they are. And these are good grenades?’
‘The best. Made them up myself.’ He spun one up in the air, caught it behind his back. ‘These on the top rack are pure powder with a heavy case. Good for blowing things up. These,’ he picked one off the second level, ‘are full of shot.’ He shook one. ‘Plays havoc with tight bunches of men.’
‘Or rocks?’
The Irishman was not discountenanced. ‘Or rocks, indeed.’
‘And these?’ Jack pointed to the bottom layer.
‘Pot à feu. Have a sniff.’
Jack did and made a face.
‘That’s right. Mainly sulphur and stuff. Makes a right old whiff. Did you never make stink bombs at that fancy school of yours?’
‘We made do with the latrines.’ Jack shook his head. ‘And are these ready for use?’
‘The powder will have settled. Tends to go into its separate ingredients then it doesn’t go off. So I’ll give each one a shake in a bit, then add these fuses.’ He opened the box, and showed Jack what looked like a pipe bowl with a straight wooden stem below it. ‘When we’re up top, I’ll tell you how long to wait before you throw ’em.’
‘You mean, once they’re lit, you wait?’ said Jack, appalled.
‘Oh, aye, unless you want ’em thrown back at ye. Remember, I made each of these fuses myself. It’s a science. The right mix gives you the exact time and I’ve set each rack to go off differently. These beauties, for example,’ he waved to the ball-filled bombs on the second racks, ‘have ten-second fuses. So you hold them till the count of eight then let fly.’
‘Eight?’
‘Haven’t I held it till eight and a half if I wanted to explode it over the head of an enemy platoon. And didn’t One-Handed Tom often hold it till nine?’
‘One-Handed Tom?’
‘Well,’ the Irishman grinned, ‘he got careless.’ He mimed another lob.
‘Does one have to throw with one’s left hand?’
‘No, no. ’Tis only myself that’s shaped that way, despite the priests who tied my arm to my side to try to cure me of Satan’s sign.’ He grinned. ‘Old Nick doesn’t affect the grenade throwing. But when I get a sword in my hand, the devil’s in the blade, certain.’
Jack nodded. He had fought left-handers at Angelo’s school in the Haymarket. They were indeed devilishly tricky.
They heard a soft footfall. McRae appeared. ‘Cap’n says he’s calling us together shortly. Going to ask us if we wants to fight, I ’spect.’ He had tobacco in his mouth, gathered phlegm then leaned to the gun-port to spit, stopping when he remembered that these were caulked up. Swallowing, he continued, ‘You’ll tell him to fuck hisself, won’t you, McClune?’
‘Maybe not, boyo.’ He stepped closer to the man. ‘For hasn’t the Lieutenant recognized yon ship. Says it’s the Robuste, out of Nantes this whole year. It’ll have holds crammed with goods.’ He stepped away and Jack could see the sudden gleam in the sailor’s eyes. ‘Tell the Captain we’ll be up presently.’
‘Right then.’
As the sailor moved away to the stair, Red Hugh sighed. ‘Most lads will fight the Frogs if they think they have even a little chance. But I wish I had something other than greed with which to inspire them.’
‘Like what?’
‘Ah, lad. You should have seen me in the uniform of a Grenz Grenadier. With my Khobuk hat, my dolman, pantaloons and sash, my long moustaches and my hair done just so …’ He corkscrewed a twist of his red hair up beside his face. ‘The French usually ran the moment they looked upon us.’
Jack smiled, then remembered: he had seen the French run, at Quebec, from the impoverished line of red-clad men who had waited till they were impossibly close before they fired.
‘Red-clad,’ he murmured.
‘Aye, Jack?’ came the reply, mistaking him.
He looked at the Irishman. ‘You may not have your uniform. But I have mine.’
He turned, walked back to his own trunk. He had it open by the time Red Hugh joined him. He lifted the jacket. It was more bright scarlet than russet red, having never been exposed to weather. Jack had found a wonderful tailor in Newport and, since his old Dragoon uniform had been stripped off him by the Abenaki, he had commissioned this one. He wasn’t going to present himself to the King in the dead Lobster-back’s castaways he’d been issued with in Quebec. He’d traded the tailor ten ermine skins, a fortune, but he’d got what he paid for. The cloth could not have been bettered, nor better cut, in Jermyn Street. The silver buttons needed a polish, as did the front plate on the cavalryman’s cap, so they’d provide a brighter contrast to the black facings at lapel and cuff, the black of his regiment, the 16th Light Dragoons.
Red Hugh was peering over his shoulder. ‘You are not thinking of wearing that, are you, son?’
‘Why not? Were you not just wishing for your old uniform?’
‘But mine was green and I was dressed like hundreds of my fellows when I wore it. You will stand out, and draw bullets as fast as shit draws flies.’ He tried to pull the material from Jack’s hand
. ‘No, lad. Keep to your sailor’s gear and look like everyone else.’
Jack rubbed the material for a long moment. ‘You wish me to skulk.’
‘Blend in—’
Jack raised a hand. ‘Forgive me, sir. I will, of course, take your advice in all matters pertaining to grenades. But I have a uniform here, the uniform of my regiment. To have it and not fight in it would be a dishonour to it. To my regiment. To the name of Absolute.’ He rose and looked straight into the Irishman’s eyes. ‘This is my point of honour, sir. And I will not budge from it.’
‘By God.’ Red Hugh’s eyes filled with light and moisture. Then, to Jack’s great surprise, he leaned forward, grabbed Jack by the back of his head and kissed him smack on the mouth. ‘By God, this is indeed the spirit that conquered Canada. And I can see the half Irishman in you, plain as day. ’Twill be an honour to fight beside you – even if you’ll be drawing half their cannon and all their sharpshooters.’
He laughed and, after a moment of reconsideration, Jack did, too. ‘I’ll see you aloft, Red Hugh.’
‘Aloft, Black Jack.’
The Irishman made for the stairs and Jack began to dress, slowly, enjoying the quality of silk and serge as he pulled each item on. If the cavalry sabre he’d acquired in Newport was not of the first order, it had an edge that was keen enough and nicks that attested to its experience. And he had other weapons, too. Reaching again into the trunk, he pulled out his tomahawk, thrust it beside the sword into his belt. Then, as he heard the pipes call ‘All hands’, the cries of ‘Bundle up’ urging all men below to the deck, he stretched behind the sea chest and brought out the rifle for which he’d traded five flagons of rum with the Niantic Indians of Newport.
Not all the sharpshooters will be on their decks, he thought.
– FIVE –
The Sea Fight
A detour to the galley kept Jack from the deck. With the hot water and some rough soap he found there, he plied his straight razor, taking off his beard, as voices rose and fell above him, words indistinct, disagreement clear. He took his time, for he wanted no nicks and, as with his dressing, there was something soothing in this attention to ritual. Finally, he pulled a stock from his waistcoat pocket, the material cut from the same dark cloth as his regimental facings, and bound his long black hair into a cue.
On his way up to the deck, he spared a moment to duck into the Captain’s cabin, to the only mirror on the ship. It showed him an officer who would disgrace neither name nor regiment. Sticking out his tongue at this other self, cap tucked under his arm, he climbed the steep stair.
He emerged onto the quarterdeck, but the officers were gathered on the poop, facing that majority of the crew who were not aloft in the rigging. His movement through them brought silence, many regarding him as if they had never seen him before. He ascended to the poop deck and stood behind Link’s left shoulder, just as Red Hugh flanked him on the right.
The Captain gestured to him immediately. ‘You talk of the fiercesome French, Williams. But we have bold warriors ourselves, do we not?’
‘Not doubting their courage, Cap’n,’ the tattooed Welshman replied from the wheel, ‘but courage itself fires no shots. And the Frenchie will fire plenty.’ He looked to starboard. Jack could see how much the French ship had closed. Half the distance at least. Two glasses gone, no more than two remained. One hour.
‘He won’t, as I have told you,’ Link said, his voice strained. ‘He’ll want us fresh and unhurt. He’ll come for the grapple, sure. And that’s how we’ll beat him.’
‘With him double or triple our men?’ It was the Scandinavian, Ingvarsson, who spoke.
‘You know the way of it. Christ, most of you have served under a letter of marque or for the King yourselves.’ Link leaned over the rail. ‘He’ll board with half, leave half on his ship. So we’ll kill the half that comes, and then go get t’other over there.’
‘And that’s where the gold will be,’ said Engledue. ‘Remember, lads, she’s the Robuste, sure, and heavily laden with booty. Look how she lies down in the water.’
All looked again. She didn’t seem to move so sluggishly to Jack. But various of the seamen nodded.
‘So how will we kill the half that comes?’ McRae had stepped forward. ‘Most of us have fought before, right enough, but we had less grey in our pigtails then. And if their ship is ever so full of gold, they got it by fighting. The odds are still long against us.’
A murmur echoed agreement to this. It was an Irish voice that cut through it. ‘Well then,’ Red Hugh said, ‘won’t we just have to shorten them?’
He stepped around Link, bent at the knees, drew his hand back. Something black flew over the rail, landing with a distinct thud on the deck.
‘Grenade!’
Men yelped, scattered. As they did, Red Hugh turned to Jack. ‘Did you see the bend at the knee, the gentleness of the lob. All in ease, Jack, all in ease. Your first lesson.’ He winked, then, turning back, he shouted, ‘What do you think of those odds now, fellows, with an Irish Grenadier and an English Dragoon to back ye?’
Heads lifted. Link recognized the moment. ‘And I’ve an issue of rum now and fifty pounds later, aside from your shares, for each man who plants his feet on the enemy deck. What say ye?’
It was handsome enough. With a cheer, the men crowded around the cockswain who stood before a rum barrel awaiting this moment. Mugs were filled, drained, lifted hopefully again. The slave, Barabbas, appeared with a tray for the poop deck. Jack did not hesitate. He remembered how, before Quebec, he had turned down a tot. He wasn’t going to make that mistake again.
Red Hugh nodded approvingly. ‘That’s it. ’Tis a fine balance, much like the mix of gunpowder in a fuse. Too much rum and one’s abilities are hampered. Too little and one’s courage is restrained.’ He held out his palm, refusing a second mug. ‘I think I’ve got the mix just about right.’
Jack felt he could have had a little more. But seeing Link slurp at a second overfilled mug like a hound at a bucket, he too declined.
Red Hugh came over, placed an arm around Jack’s shoulder. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘to make sure you don’t end up like One-Handed Tom, let me apprise you of a few other things you’ll need to know about grenades.’
Engledue had been wrong or perhaps over-hopeful. The second glass had barely begun to decant its sand into the lower chamber and the enemy was already not more than two hundred yards astern. Indeed, Jack had watched the sailors there reef some sails, obviously slowing the vessel to the Sweet Eliza’s pace.
‘Why don’t she fire?’ whispered Jack from his place on the poop.
Engledue heard him. ‘French frigates don’t have a chase gun,’ he said. ‘And we have none astern to trouble him. Since he has the weather gauge he’s content to hang back and awe us with his numbers. He thinks we’ll strike before we fight.’
The Captain of the Robuste – for so she was, the name now clear in gold letters on the prow, a cloth ostentatiously removed to reveal it – had obviously ordered all hands to the rails where they jeered and shook weapons. Music blared, too, and Jack could make out several fiddles, drums and horns. Indeed, the numbers told him that the original estimate had been more likely: they were closer to triple the Sweet Eliza’s strength of forty-six men than double.
Jack licked dry lips. Wonder if it’s too late for another rum? he thought. Then he saw it probably was, for the sails that had been reefed were hoisted again and the enemy began to overhaul them.
‘Raise the portholes. To the guns!’
Men ran to their stations. The nine four-pounders on the starboard station were rolled out. Immediately the jeering redoubled on the French ship and, a moment later, their portholes were raised. But their guns rolled out not only on their quarterdeck, for their gundeck was not en flute. Double the number of barrels pointed to larboard and Jack remembered Engledue saying these were likely to be nine-pounders. Double the weight of ball, too, then.
‘Steady, lads. On my command!’
>
Jack felt bound by the order, even though the French ship was now coming into good range of his rifle. There was also a peculiar feeling that, if neither of them started the fight, it would not happen. Besides, as the ship got closer, Jack could see the enemy wasn’t quite ready to commence.
‘Messieurs! Messieurs!’
A Frenchman, dressed as if for breakfast with a napkin shoved into his silk shirt, was balanced on the bowsprit like a tumbler at the Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens. He leaned far out over the water, waving his tricorn hat with one hand casually threaded round the stay that ran to the foremast; his other hand pressed a bullhorn to his mouth.
‘Does anyone here speak French?’ called Link.
Jack looked to Red Hugh. The Irishman tutted. ‘No, no, Jack, I defer to you. Mine’s rusted and largely conned for use in taverns and brothels. I’d only offend the fellow and provoke his fire. You have a chat. I’ll just back you up.’
‘I’ll speak to him, Captain, if you like.’
‘Do so,’ said Link. ‘Damn his eyes and tell him we’ve only salt cod aboard.’
Jack nodded. He was handed a bullhorn and stepped up to the rail, Red Hugh a pace behind him. The Robuste’s prow was now nearly level with the Eliza’s stern.
‘Monsieur!’ The man shouted. ‘Parlez-vous français, monsieur?’
‘Oui. Et vous anglais?’
‘Ah yes, a little little.’ He seemed to be attempting some sort of bow then, suddenly, he sneezed very loudly. ‘Merde,’ he said.
‘Santé,’ called Jack.
‘Merci.’ Pausing only to wipe his nose on his sleeve, the man continued. ‘You are army officer, yes?’
‘Oui. Avec tout mon régiment au-dessous.’ Jack gestured below decks, to where the rest of the 16th Light Dragoons obviously lurked.
The Frenchman laughed. ‘Ah. I think you make a pleasanterie with me, hein? I think you have … les Nègres there.’
‘Non. Pas des Nègres. Seulement … le salt cod,’ said Jack. At the man’s blankness he called out, ‘Les poissons au sel.’
‘Pas seulement, je crois.’ The Frenchman gave a big smile. ‘But if you have this only, then you let us look? Si seulement les poissons,’ he shrugged, ‘we let you go, hein?’