The Butcher's Daughter, page 13
And then a yearning seized me, a desire to put to sea and explore filled my soul. I did not care about the cost. I gathered all my men and like Christopher Columbus and his expedition some eighty years before us, we set our sails and headed west, pushing deeper into the vast unknown. I was curious about the Spanish Main.
Sailing in ballast, we reached the island of Margarita first where they say pearls wash up on the beaches like seashells. I wanted to put in at the port of La Asunción, but we saw two Spanish war galleons and six armed merchantmen, naos, caravels and one sloop, anchored in her harbor. And along the docks we saw a company of men-at-arms overseeing a small army of Negro slaves neatly stacking small crates on a wooden jetty. No doubt the crates were filled with pearls destined for old Spain. Pearls, Cortés had told us, were as important to the Spanish treasury as gold or silver.
With La Asunción closed to us, we sailed around the island. Three times we put in at some deserted cove and went ashore, but we found no pearls or pearl oysters or pearl beds or anything else of interest. We stopped at La Villa del Norte, a small village of huts and one flimsy fort made of earth and wood, on the north coast of Margarita where we purchased supplies from Spanish locals and then departed quickly.
We headed due south next until we reached Cumaná, a small village on the Spanish Main nestled in-between soft rolling hills of great beauty at the mouth of the Manzanares River. The houses they say, built over the water on stilts with interconnecting boardwalks called palafitos, reminded Amerigo Vespucci of the City of Venice, or Venezia in the Italian tongue, and so Vespucci named the region Venezuela, or Little Venice in the Spanish.
In Cumaná, first settled by Franciscan friars only a few years after Columbus’s voyages and recently rebuilt in 1569 by the famous pirate hunter Diego Hernández de Serpa, we were able to do some trading with the local Indians. They are one of the Carib tribes and call themselves Cumanagotos. We traded for gold, silver, pearls and for jewelry and works of art of exceptional quality and distinctive beauty. Henry once again proved himself of great value as a translator and in helping the rest of us understand the customs and culture of the Carib peoples who dwell along the Spanish Main.
We rested in Cumaná for several days and were enjoying a trough of cooler air when fever struck my crew and struck them hard. I was the last one to succumb to the mysterious affliction. Delirious and bathed in sweat, so cold at times I prayed for death to take me, the illness laid me low for days. At the worst of it, Gilley found a Dominican priest to administer the last rites to me, the Extreme Unction, when he thought it was my end. Miraculously I survived. For weeks later though I was nothing but skin and bones. I was grateful Hunter was not there to see me.
We lost twelve good men to the savage illness. We buried our dead with the help of our Dominican priest and then we washed our clothes and scrubbed our ships down clean with strong soap before setting out again. I always carried ample quantities of soap aboard my ships, soap imported from Marseilles when I could get it as the French make the very best. My men tolerated this flaw in me, this desire for cleanliness. Soap, I am certain, has curative powers though none of my men believed me and scoffed. Still, they humored me and washed with few complaints.
With clean ships and healthy crews, we weighed anchor, unfurled all sail and left the death of Cumaná behind us. We continued our trek west, hugging the coast off the Spanish Main until we reached Maracaibo on Lake Maracaibo. The name Maracaibo, Henry told us, comes from the Carib word Maara-iwo, meaning the place where serpents abound. After we dropped anchor and went ashore we found, to our surprise, many German settlors. King Phillip’s father, King Charles I of Spain, apparently had owed some German bankers money and the bankers had agreed to take colonial rights in Venezuela as payment of the debt. The bankers had heard the stories of El Dorado, the legendary lost city of gold, and had hopes of finding this great wonder in the jungles of Venezuela. A German explorer named Ambrosius Ehinger had settled the village back in 1529, but the Spanish, being Spanish, later double-crossed the Germans and took all of Venezuela back for themselves.
We did not tarry long in Maracaibo. The senior ranking conquistador, a Spaniard named Pedro Maldonado, gave us a cool reception. A small fleet of English or French pirates, Maldonado wasn’t certain which, had only a few weeks earlier tried to sack Maracaibo. But Maldonado and his men had been ready for them. The Spanish ambushed the pirates as they landed on the beach and forced them back to their ships with heavy losses. The sight of my ships a few weeks later, armed with heavy cannon, gave Maldonado no comfort. He gave us until the next outgoing tide to resupply our ships and then demanded we promptly leave. I could hardly blame him.
My plan, if one could call it that, other than to fend off boredom and escape the heat, was to sail around the whole of the Caribbean. The excitement of exploring new lands had seized my imagination back in the Port of Spain and neither our misfortune in Cumaná, nor the hostility of the Spanish at Maracaibo, did anything to discourage me. We sailed on.
Next on my chart was Cartagena de Indias, a town in territory of Columbia. Cartagena was founded in 1533 by a Spaniard named Pedro de Heredia. Heredia had named the port town after his hometown of Cartagena, Spain, a city founded by the ancient Phoenicians well before the birth of our Lord Jesus Christ. Cartagena was far more impressive than Cumaná or Maracaibo with their crude palafitos. After a great fire destroyed the town in 1552, the Spanish rebuilt Cartagena in stone and brick, including an impressive new building called the Palace of the Town where the governor kept his offices. The governor’s power must have exceeded the Pope’s own for the church standing next to his palace was little more than a shack of mud walls, reeds and straw.
The village was clean, well-laid out and boasted a fine harbor. But, like the other ports we had visited, the town’s defenses were slim. Only a flimsy wooden wall reinforced with earthen ramparts protected by a few small cannon stood between the town and any enemy coming from the sea.
The governor of the region was a congenial man of rotund proportions named Pedro Fernández de Busto. Busto gave us a grand tour of his town once he was satisfied that we were there only to buy supplies and do some honest trading. He told us that his predecessor, Martin de las Alas, had nearly been tricked a few years back in 1568 by an Englishman named John Hawkins. Hawkins, Busto explained, had asked Alas to allow his men entry into the town so that they could sell their foreign goods in the open street bazaars. But Alas, no fool, saw through the rouse. He could see that Hawkins was no merchant and closed Cartagena’s gates to the English. Hawkins retaliated by laying siege to the town but, when he couldn’t humble Spanish pride after a fortnight, he sailed off to look for easier pickings.
Colombia is a land rich in gold and this made Cartagena a favorite target for many a pirate over the years. But not all of Cartagena’s gold came from the goldmines we learned. The Spanish had found vast quantities of the precious metal buried deep inside the tombs of dead Sinú all around Cartagena and had no qualms about robbing the dead Indians of their worldly wealth.
We spent several easy days in Cartagena introducing ourselves to potential trading partners and after we met anyone worth meeting, we returned to our sturdy ships, set our sails and headed west once more. I had a mind to visit Panama next.
“Mary. Mary. Mary, wake thyself up, Mary!”
I struggled to open my eyes and found Gilley standing over me, shaking me roughly by the shoulder. I had retired to my bunk, with its comfortable straw and feather mattress, for a quick mid-afternoon nap. I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes and tried to focus.
“What? What is it, Tom?”
“Three ships have been shadowing us for some time. Now it would seem they want to close with us.”
“We can’t outrun them?”
“Star is sailing well enough. She may not have Phantom’s speed, but she can hold her own. Godsend though is a different matter. With empty cargo holds she’s high in the water and bouncing all around on these choppy seas. She’s falling behind. Ferguson is coaxing the most out of her, but it is not enough.”
“Pirates you think, Tom?”
“I know not Mary, but in these waters...”
“Right you are my good mariner! Well, we’ll not give up the Godsend.”
“No, certainly not Mary, but you best come up on deck now. Matters might turn ugly soon.”
I quickly dressed and hurried up to the poop deck and then over to the aft rail to look out over our stern. Godsend was five hundred yards or so behind the Star and sailing poorly. Less than a half a league behind the Godsend, I saw three ships with dark sails sailing abreast and tearing after us. The ships flew no flags or pennants of any kind. Mercifully, none of them were galleons.
“How far are we from the nearest land, Tom?” I asked.
“Fifty leagues or so to the south, my lady, but the winds and currents won’t favor us if we port our helm and head back towards Venezuela or Columbia.”
Then Atwood scrambled across the main deck and raced up the aftercastle’s ladder to join Gilley and me at the helm. In Hunter’s absence he was the Captain of the Guns now.
“Madam, the ship’s been cleared for action,” he offered in a calm and confident tone. “The guns are primed and loaded.”
“Very well, Master Atwood. I see you’ve mounted the swivels too.”
“Aye, as have the lads on Godsend. Prudence dictates no less.”
“Master Hunter spoke well of your talents Master Atwood before he left our company. You may need to prove yourself very soon. Those three ships trying to run us down, what say you?”
Atwood glanced over the aft rail; he took a moment to consider our pursuers and grunted. “Anything can happen in battle. It’s the big dog that wins the fight more often than not and we’re the big dog. But a shattered mast or disabled rudder from one, lucky ball will cook our goose for certain. They’re still too far off to know how many guns they carry or how many men they are, but the Star is as fine a ship as I’ve sailed on and you’ve got a disciplined, seasoned crew. I’d say the odds favor us if those men trying to run us down mean to do us harm.”
Gilley nodded in agreement. “If those sons of bitches knew Star’s strength they’d be far less hasty in their approach. They must be after Godsend, even though she plainly sails in ballast.”
“If we must fight,” I said, glancing up at the sky, “the winds and currents will favor us if we come about and go straight at them.”
“Just so, Mary!” Gilley said as he glanced at me askew with a twinkle in his eye.
I looked up at Star’s white sails, trimmed well and billowing full, and again considered the wind and currents. I took in the sea around us and the small, puffy clouds sprinting across the horizon like so many ships racing across the waves. It was a pretty afternoon. It was a good day to live I thought. It was a good day to die. None of us can know our fate.
“Tom, how much time before their guns are in range?”
“Hard to tell, Mary. Most ships we’ve seen in the Caribbees so far, except for the galleons, carry small falconets and the like. At their present course and speed, um, I’d say a good hour before they can use their bow chasers against us, if they even have bow chasers. If they don’t have guns positioned forward then it will take them longer, two hours or better, before they can come up alongside us, before they can bring all their guns to bear.”
I had every confidence in Gilley, and in Atwood too, but I found myself wishing Hunter was with me now. His poise and self-assurance - his confidence never wavering - was like being wrapped inside a warm and cozy blanket.
We saw a puff of smoke, a tongue of flame, before we heard the report of the first cannon. The BOOM followed a second later. Gunners working a bow chaser on the lead vessel had fired off a warning shot. The ball splashed harmlessly into the sea one hundred yards or so behind us, marked by a geyser of tall, white water. Gilley had guessed well. Nearly an hour had passed before our mysterious foe could fire off a round with any hope of hitting anything.
Godsend and Star were sailing side-by-side now with less than fifty yards of water between us. Gilley and I had slowed the Star down allowing the Godsend to catch up. I waved at Ferguson to get his attention and pointed west. He understood my gesture and nodded. I decided to keep to our present course and ignore our pursuers for a bit.
The three caravels chasing after us were no more than one hundred and fifty tons apiece. That meant smaller crews and smaller guns, a piece of good luck for us.
“Those brazen rascals are fools,” Atwood offered calmly. “They plainly have no clue of our muscle.”
“Greed, Master Atwood, greed.” Gilley said. “Blind greed will often undo even an otherwise clever man.”
“Or just plain stupidity, Captain Gilley,” Atwood replied with a wry smile. “If those louts continue pressing forward to test us, they’ll rue the day they slipped from their mother’s womb once they feel our sting.”
“Bold talk from a Scot!” Gilley roared and slapped Atwood on the shoulder.
The crew on the lead ship fired off a second round with no better result than the first. The shot plunged harmlessly into empty sea with another splash. And then the gunners from the two flanking caravels fired off their forward guns in rapid succession too.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
All four shots struck empty water. Another volley soon followed and then another. All misses. But with each volley the plumes of water crept closer and closer towards us. Our enemy plainly was finished with polite persuasion. Now they were determined to stop us, even if it meant blood.
“More proof of stupid,” Atwood said and shook his head. “A waste of precious shot and powder.”
“P’haps not stupid,” Gilley offered warily. “I think they mean to intimidate us with all their bluster. They hope we’ll piss our trousers, unnerved by this rolling barrage of theirs. They hope we’ll shorten sail and yield. They still don’t know our strength. They still don’t know what men and arms we carry.”
“Nor,” I added, “do they yet know the mettle of our lads or of our resolve.”
Another thirty minutes passed before our enemy - still sailing abreast in tight formation - was able to bring his bow chasers into range. Shots began falling all around us. Some balls flew wide to starboard, others went wide to port. Shots fell short and shots flew overhead. Some shots fell in-between our ships. The aim of the enemy’s gunners was atrocious. But with their guns now in range anything was possible.
With my blessing, Atwood had men roll a pair of heavy guns from the gun deck back to the stern and into my great cabin. My gunners quickly removed my cabin’s panels and windows, pushed the muzzles out over the rudder and started blasting away at the ships behind us. They were quick to prove themselves the better marksmen. Our first salvos went wide and far or short and long, but once my gunners settled down they started hitting wood, though we inflicted no real damage.
And then next to me, CRACK! I shuddered. I thought I had been hit.
Gilley snapped his head around. “God’s blood!” he cried out as he reached down to pick up a rock the size of my hand resting at my feet. “Look’ee here, they’re hurtling stones at us, Mary. It an’t even round. That’s why they can’t hit anything. A tad more to the right though, Mary and…”
I took the rock from Gilley’s grasp and stared at the ugly thing that had nearly killed me. Before landing at my feet the rock had shattered the aft rail, ricocheted past my head - only by a whisker - and then smacked the base of the mizzen mast before bouncing back at me.
No, not by a whisker. Gilley took his scarf and dabbed the blood off a scratch along my cheek and then crossed himself. I swallowed hard, tossed the evil rock over the side and looked for Atwood.
“Jacob,” I called out to the big Scot after I spotted him down on the main deck, whipping the men up for battle with a rousing speech. He seemed to be enjoying the moment. He reminded me of Hunter. He spun around to look up at me.
“So now we know we’re in for a fight. We can’t outrun these bastards. Can you tell how many guns the caravels carry?”
“Aye, Madam,” he answered and rushed back to the quarter deck to stand with Gilley and me. “I sent Wilson to the main topgallant mast for a better view. The lead ship carries ten guns on her main deck along with a pair of small chasers at the bow and another pair at her stern. The ships on either side of her carry only eight guns apiece. Both have bow chasers, but neither ship carries guns at the stern. These pirates have nothing bigger than small falconets.”
“Twenty-six falconets against Star’s twenty-four larger periers, sakers and long-barreled falconets,” I said softly. “Plus we have Godsend’s eight falconets and we have solid iron shot to work with.”
Atwood grinned. “Aye, Madam. That’s the gest of things. We’re facing three light cruisers, not battlewagons, and I’ll wager all I have we’ve got the better gunners. I do indeed like our chances!”
“Tom, you still fancy that notion you had earlier of coming about?”
“We can’t make land Mary and there’s plenty of daylight left. Your gunners at the stern though Jacob, beg pardon, haven’t hit shit. If the sea was any smaller I fear your gunners would miss it too. Winds and currents would give us an edge Mary - briefly mind you - if we came about. I doubt our friends across the water would expect it.”
“The gods,” Atwood added with a wry smile, “often favor the bold.”
I nodded. “Do they now? Well, if I remember my gunnery lessons, at one thousand yards we’ll start hitting things, at five hundred yards we’ll start to cause some damage and at two hundred and fifty yards we can employ the swivels, load the guns with chain and grapeshot and inflict some truly brutal damage against flesh and wood.”
