Page 23

“ W ell, she’s a Spaniard, no mistake,” Spence pronounced.

“Six hundred tons or more, to judge by the size of her.” Dante stood on the deck beside Jonas Spence, his hand raised to shield his eyes against the glare of the sun. “I make out two tiers of guns, probably perriers and quarter-cannon—impressive, but only if they get within decent range.”

The swift excitement that had brought him to the rail had waned somewhat when it became clear the ship they had sighted on the westerly horizon, running parallel to them, was not the Talon.

It was therefore with a more critical and practical eye that he continued, pointing disgustedly at the huge silhouette, dominated fore and aft by castellated superstructures.

“They pile up six storeys worth of fancy cabins all gilt and mahogany, filled with furniture as fine as any king’s courtesan ever graced, and expect to draw more than eight knots from the wind.

Even the balconies on the stern galleries are painted with gold and carved by the same men who fashion their cathedrals and churches.

“At the same time, they have to keep them as deep and broad as possible in the belly to hold the several tons of cargo as well as the three or four hundred soldiers they ferry around. Another hundred or so sailors are needed to crew her and the same again to man the guns, for God forbid any among them should know how to do two jobs. The soldiers sit with their hands warming their cockles until the sailors bring them into grappling range. By then the gunners are spent and have to take their leisure while their fancy conquistadores wave swords and slash throats in the name of the Catholic Christ. Stupidity, if you ask me. Sheer mindless stupidity.”

“Aye. We could circle her half a dozen times,” Spence snorted derisively, “before she could even line her guns on us.”

“We have a fair wind behind us,” Dante mused, almost to himself. “How much speed do you think we could put into the sheets?”

Spence turned to his left and frowned at Simon Dante. “Fifteen. Eighteen if we mount extra canvas on the tops an’ fores—an’ if the ship’s in the mood.”

The pale blue eyes narrowed. “What would it take to get her in the mood?”

Spence arched his brows. “A bitch the size o’ that one comin’ over the horizon will surely do it. We’ll be able to outrun her without raisin’ a sweat.”

“Assuming you were of a mind to outrun her,” Dante said quietly.

Spence stared at him for a moment, then glanced at the approaching galleon. “Ye’re not suggestin’ we could go up against her alone?”

“The Virago went up against six of them alone—not as large as that bitch, to be sure, but daunting nonetheless. Had she been sound or had we a fellow captain with a spine sturdier than Victor Bloodstone, we would have sunk the lot on the first pass. You can see for yourself, she’s slow and wallowing.

Slower than usual and wallowing more because of a full hold than because of a few fancy cabins.

You said your bays were unhappily emptier than you like to see them.

Would it improve your humor to see them filled with crates of Spanish ducats? ”

“Spanish ducats?” Spence’s tone changed instantly. “Ye think she’s carryin’ treasure?”

“I think—calling on some measure of experience in such things—she is not out here for a pleasure cruise. If it is true the King of Spain is building an invasion fleet, he will no longer be able to afford the luxury of having his full flota of treasure ships linger in Panama until all their holds are filled. My guess is, as soon as three or four galleons are loaded, they are sent on their way back to Lisbon, with only a small escort, relying on their size and firepower to frighten off any mad-minded freebooters. This one has obviously become separated from the flock by some means or another.”

“At least ye’ve used the right term to describe yerself,” Spit grumbled, mindful of keeping Spence’s bulk between them as a shield. “Only a madman would take on a ship four times his size.”

Spence was still mulling over Dante’s opinion of Victor Bloodstone’s spine. “I’ve ten guns. She has”—he lifted an enormous, hairy paw of a hand and smoothed it over his bald pate—“thirty or more!”

“You’re forgetting my demi-cannon. You can pepper her from three hundred yards out while our papist friends can only spit vitriol past eighty. What’s more, double shot my bronze beauties with incendiaries and you’ll have the Spaniard’s sails down and her decks burning by the second pass.”

“There wouldn’t be somethin’ more in this, would there? Like sailin’ home to England with a bloody big prize in tow so ye could thumb yer nose at the Queen’s counsellor’s nephew?”

Dante’s face hardened. “I have already told you my quarrel with Victor Bloodstone is my own.”

“Aye, an’ it’s a quarrel ye’ll not have a penny’s worth chance o’ resolvin’ at sea if we take time out to shake our fists at yon Spaniard.”

“With no insult to your ship or crew, the chances of catching him in open water were slim at best. That being the case, the decision is yours whether you sail home with a few tuns of Indies Gold … or with your flags raised and your guns blazing to call the guild merchants to the quay.”

Spence locked the younger man’s gaze with his own until his eyes began to burn. The lure of Spanish bullion was surely tempting, but they were outmanned, outgunned …

“Spit?”

The wiry little man grumbled and scratched savagely at the spikes of hair that grew across the back of his head. “I think ye’d be madder than a Bedlam inmate if ye tried to take on a lumberin’ Goliath the likes o’ that out there. She’ll chew us up an’ spit us out like fodder.”

Spence squinted into the sunlight. “Mad, eh? Jaysus an’ all the saints be damned, but I’d piss blood to have a little taste o’ madness about now. How are we for shot an’ powder?”

Spit swore under his breath and glared at Simon Dante. “We’ve plenty o’ both to have ye pissin’ blood, if that’s yer pleasure.”

“It might well be. Beau!”

She was right behind him. “Aye, sir? ”

“Do ye think it would be possible to take us on a few turns around that comely Spanish sow?”

The first shadow of hesitation flickered in Dante’s eyes as he glanced her way and Beau could see the doubt, the stirrings of an objection, even as she stared him down through her reply.

“The wind is steady from the west. The seas are moderate, the horizon clear in all directions. Aye, sir. I can give you as many passes as you need, as close or as wide as you order them.”

“And spines?” Spence shouted over his shoulder. “Do they stand sturdy enough, do ye think?”

An eager cheer of approval went up from the crew.

Those close enough to have overheard the conversation on the forecastle had been relaying it word for word to those behind and their excitement was almost palpable.

After five days of being regaled with the bold adventures of the Virago , if Simon Dante said the Spaniard carried gold and if he thought the risk worth taking, who were they to stand in the way of a possible fortune?

“Clear the decks, then,” Spence roared. “Gunners, ready yer stores. Helmsman, set every square o’ canvas she’ll carry an’ bring me alongside her beam at three hundred yards, not a lick less.”

“Aye, sir!”

“Six hundred bloody tons,” Spence muttered as chaos erupted around him. “I hope ye’re right about this, Cap’n Dante. I’ve no desire to set my teeth against the bite o’ an Inquisitor’s crimpin’ iron.”

The pirate wolf grinned. “Your permission for Pitt and me to take charge of the demis, Captain?”

“Aye. Ye have it. Take what lads o’ mine ye might need on the tackle if some o’ yer own are still shy on strength.”

“Never on courage, though, as you will see. ”

“Make those monsters spit fire, lad; that will be worth all an’ more to see.”

Within fifteen minutes the Egret had changed her course to intercept and raced with her nose held high under a swollen pyramid of sail.

Her decks were cleared for action. The gunports were opened, the lashings taken off the muzzles of the culverins, and sturdy breeching tackle attached.

Buckets of sand and ash were spread on the planking for added traction, barrels of seawater were hauled on board and set between the guns in case of fire.

Sponges, crowbars, linstocks, and handspikes were laid alongside the gun carriages; the wooden wheels were given an extra smear of grease, and the trolleys were stacked high with iron shot in varying weights and calibers.

The Spaniard, within the next quarter hour, had been identified by her silhouette and fittings as the San Pedro de Marcos , indeed a treasure ship, and one that had likely been in the small fleet that had cleared Hispaniola a fortnight before the Egret .

The captain-general of the San Pedro had equal time to prepare, for there was no way to misread the Egret’s intentions, though it was doubtful he would know the identity of the merchantman beyond the Cross of St. George she flew.

With predictable insolence, and being nowhere within range, the San Pedro fired the first shot, its main purpose being, Spence declared in a contemptuous bellow, to frighten them away.

He ordered a temporary course change, one that presented his broadside for a brief snub, then gave the helm back to Beau, who tacked efficiently into the wind again.

Someone on board the Spanish galleon must have recognized the insult for what it was— either that or he realized the Egret was not going to be so easily discouraged—and ordered another volley, this time a full salvo from both tiers of guns, fired almost simultaneously so that the leviathan was lost for a moment behind a dense cloud of smoke.