Bowie's Gold

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 6 “Can you not even die properly?”

The twelve-pound bow-chaser boomed a warning shot, sending a quiver through L’Intrepide’s deck. Renato smiled as the iron ball burst through the smoke, clearing the bow of the other ship by scant yards before geysering into the sea.

He stroked the neck of the hairless cat perched on his shoulder. “What say you, Princess? Will she fight or flee?”

The brig was a two-masted merchantman, her square white sails climbing high into the azure sky. She rode low in the water, signifying a heavy cargo, perhaps sugar or cacao.

“Your silence speaks wisdom, my dear,” he told the cat. “We shall have them either way.”

Raising his gold-mounted telescope—inscribed to its previous owner by the King of Spain—Renato brought the brig into focus. She bore only three small guns per side, no match for L’Intrepide’s six 9-pounders. And instead of preparing to fight for their lives, her slack-jawed crewmen stood idle, awaiting their captain’s decision.

The cat’s needle-sharp claws pierced the wool of Renato’s coat. “What is it now, Mr. Faraday?”

The voice behind him said, “Oh! Um. Your pardon, Captain. I—I mean the men—have concerns.”

“Which is it? You—or the men?”

Faraday looked pointedly at the other ship. “She’s American.”

Renato eyed the stars and stripes flying from the brig’s mainmast. “A wondrous deduction, Mr. Faraday. However did you accomplish it?”

“It troubles the men,” Faraday said. “The American navy has largely ignored us of late, but such an attack may force their hand.”

Renato bristled. “You think I fear the navy?”

“It’s not a matter of fear,” Faraday said. “They’re bad for business. Besides, we don’t know Andre and the girl are aboard.”

“And we don’t know they are not.” Renato snapped the telescope shut. “Mark me well, Mr. Faraday. I will do whatever it takes to recover that map, and no amount of carping from you or the men will dissuade me.”

It had been a full day since the theft, and the bitter tang of the drugged wine was with him still. His rage had grown stronger by the hour, to the point he now desired vengeance nearly as much as the treasure itself.

A flurry of activity erupted on the brig’s deck, as the Americans rushed for their guns. Their captain had chosen to fight. Renato’s lips curved into a grin. “We will put a full broadside into her rigging. But take care. I wish to capture, not sink her.”

At Faraday’s order, the pirates scurried to their stations. “A surly lot,” Renato whispered to the cat. “But we require their services, like Faraday’s, for a short while longer.”

The ship came about to the music of ports creaking open and guns rumbling out. The Americans had run out their own guns as well, but the brig’s movements were sluggish. A sleek schooner like L’Intrepide could dance rings around such a heavy-laden scow.

Renato could now read the faded letters on the merchantman’s hull. Old Hickory. Named for the so-called hero of the Battle of New Orleans. Renato snorted. He himself had been as much responsible for that victory as the horse-faced General Jackson, and what had it got him? A pardon for past crimes and not a penny more. Little wonder he and his mates had soon returned to piracy.

“Starboard guns,” Faraday bellowed, “fire!”

The three 9-pounders erupted in a single explosion that shook the deck, and the cat disappeared into the hold. Renato peered expectantly through the smoke, but a moment later fell to swearing. L’Intrepide had risen on a sudden swell, and with the guns already aimed high, the chain-shot sailed harmlessly over Old Hickory’s topsails.

“Again!” he roared. “Quickly!”

Wheels rumbled and curses flew as the men heaved the guns back into position. The delay allowed Old Hickory to bring her own weapons to bear, but Renato sneered his contempt as her balls tore up the sea more than twenty yards short of his hull.

L’Intrepide’s guns answered in a rolling thunder, and a moment later, the brig’s mainsail came loose from the mast.

Renato gloated.

Orange flame billowed from Old Hickory’s side. The first ball whistled high over L’Intrepide’s deck, tearing a small hole in the mainsail. The second shattered the rail near the stern, and a man screamed.

Renato sniffed. Gunners such as those would not last a day under his command. He was still gloating when a third ball scorched the air above his head, gusting his hat to the deck. Cursing at the broken plume, he nearly fell as the ship took a sudden lurch to leeward. He spun to see the tiller roaming free. They were adrift!

Renato raced for the quarterdeck. The helmsman was nowhere in sight, and he found the tiller whipping about like a thing alive. A hideous scream brought his head about. Near the shattered rail lay the helmsman, flopping about like a giant tuna. The man clutched a bloody stump that moments before had been his left leg.

Renato stared in horror as blood spurted from the stump, spraying his own silk breeches.

“Damn your eyes!” he snarled. “Can you not even die properly?” Leaning heavily on the tiller, he thrust out a boot and rolled the wretch over the side.

L’Intrepide’s guns began firing at will. It started well, as a ball tore through the American’s foremast. Then Old Hickory rose on a swell, exposing her hull below the waterline, and Renato cursed as two shocking great holes appeared in the brig’s belly.

Old Hickory shuddered before falling heavily back to the sea, water already rushing into her hold. Knowing they were doomed, the Americans raised stricken faces to the pirate ship and scurried away like frightened chickens.

Renato swung the tiller hard to starboard, and the schooner began to close the distance. “Mr. Faraday! Is it too much trouble for you to keep a man at the helm? See to it at once, then prepare for boarding!”

As the ships came side and side, L’Intrepide’s men snatched up swords and belaying pins. Grenades and smoke bombs arced over the narrowing gap, fueling the chaos on the other deck.

“A hundred British crowns,” Renato bawled, “to the man who brings me Andre and the girl!”

Grappling hooks sailed out to snag the brig’s rail, and the ships crunched together, a plaintive shriek of wood upon wood. Screaming their bloodlust, Renato’s men flooded onto Old Hickory’s deck. A handful of Americans showed fight, but the rest hurled themselves over the rails, preferring sharks to the wild-eyed buccaneers.

The merchantman rode ever lower in the water, but the lure of Renato’s gold drove the pirates on. Faraday and a dozen others disappeared through the hatch, and Renato held his breath in anticipation.

Almost at once, pirates clambered back onto deck, all jabbering at once in a mad chorus of curses. Some held cloths to their noses, and a few staggered to the rails and vomited into the sea.

When Faraday himself appeared, Renato drew a pistol and blasted a shot into the air above their heads. All conversation ceased.

“Mr. Faraday! What is it? Have you found our fugitives?”

“No, Captain. They are not aboard.” The man spoke with a hint of rebuke. “And there is no cargo worth the taking.”

Renato choked back his anger. It would not do to challenge Faraday now.

“What, then, made her captain so eager to evade us?”

Faraday glanced down into the hold, his features wrinkling in disgust. Then he squared his shoulders and growled a single word.

“Slaves.”