The East Indiaman Read online

  As the hours passed, Kite watched as the American schooner drew closer and closer. Noon came and went, the afternoon drew on and Madeira faded from view. Kite began to hope that they might be able to hold off their pursuer until nightfall when some sudden alteration of course might throw the Americans off their scent. Then a new dilemma confronted him: should he start all the water casks and toss the guns over the side to lighten the schooner? His chances of escape would be proportionately increased if he did so, but he would be compelled to beat back to Madeira to top up with water and would almost certainly run into the arms of the Americans a second time. On the other hand, if he held onto his water, he might make the Cape Verde Islands before matters reached an extremity of want.

  Making up his mind he called Harper aft again and ordered half their ordnance thrown overboard. ‘It’s our only chance,’ he explained.

  ‘Begging your pardon, sir, but have you seen over the side, sir?’

  Kite shook his head and went forward to where, staring down into the rush of water past the hull, he caught the gleam of copper sheathing torn back and dragging in the sea.

  ‘That shot must’ve torn it off, Cap’n,’ Harper said and Kite grunted his agreement. ‘I don’t think jettisoning the guns will do more than prolong the agony sir. Why not let him come up and we’ll fight it out?’

  ‘Because he’ll be stuffed with men, Zachariah…’

  ‘Not is he’s sent most of ‘em off in prizes,’ countered the mate.

  ‘We’ve no guarantee of that,’ responded Kite quickly. ‘No, I cannot risk the lives of all these women…’

  Kite stared astern, havering. It was time to abandon all hope as futile. They must face the fact that Spitfire was about to be overtaken and they would all be taken prisoner. Kite sighed. ‘I’m sorry Zachariah, I’m not a lucky man and neither, it seems are you for taking up with me…’

  ‘Belay that gob-shit, Cap’n Kite!’ Harper cut in sharply. ‘See how she’s running directly in our wake…’ Harper nodded astern and Kite sought out his meaning. ‘He’s going to try and run us aboard! He’s got no powder, d’you see? Or not enough to engage us! He can’t afford a prolonged engagement; he’s foregoing the chance of crippling us with his bow chasers and doesn’t think we can get a stern chaser aft quick enough to damage him before he runs up alongside our quarter!’

  Kite saw what Harper meant. ‘Pray heaven you’re right, Zachariah, and look, he’s assembling his sharp-shooters to pick off the likes of you and I!’

  A cluster of men were forming about the knightheads of the pursuing schooner and Kite ordered all to seek what cover was available, taking the helm himself. He called to Sarah who, with Harper and the best shots Hooker identified among the dacoits, soon took cover behind the taffrail and, with others loading for them, began to send enough musket fire over the enemy’s bow as to disrupt this tactic for a while. In the few moments of grace this small triumph brought them, Kite suddenly realised he possesses a single opportunity. If Harper was correct in his assumption that the Yankee commander really had run his stock of powder low, and it was quite probable that he had done so, then there was one manoeuvre he might try. If backed by gunfire of his own, it was just possible that they could yet escape! The only things it depended upon was the Yankee commander holding onto his own course and his marksmen missing Kite himself.

  ‘Bosun!’ he called, and as the man came aft, ordered him to man the larboard after guns and then go forward and, concealing himself behind the fife-rail, stand-by with a knife to cut the forward peak halliard.

  ‘Aye, aye, sir!’ the man acknowledged and, going forward again directed the men huddling in the waist to load and run out the after, larboard 4-pounders. As he was thus occupied, Kite shouted aft to Harper.

  ‘I’m going to try one last ruse, Zachariah. Do you and Sarah and the others keep them pinned down. I have to expose myself and I’d be obliged for your cover.

  ‘Aye, aye, sir!’

  Kite caught Sarah’s eye. She was pale with anxiety, but he flashed her a smile. She turned away, took a reloaded musket from a bearded dacoit and, levelling it upon the schooner looming over their stern, bent over the firelock.

  Leaning against the heavy tiller Kite glanced astern. He was aware of a ball flying past him with a malicious buzz and wondered, in an distracted second, where it would end its wild trajectory. Then he looked up at the mainmasthead to where a tell-tale pendant streamed out to leeward. If he was to achieve anything he must watch his steering and judge matters to a perfection he felt himself incapable of. He swallowed and looked up again, then leaned on the tiller and steadied Spitfire on a slightly adjusted course. Turning he stared astern. The American vessel’s foresail was boomed out to larboard, her main to starboard. He hoped her commander’s view of the Spitfire was sufficiently impeded.

  The chasing schooner’s bearing began to broaden on the larboard quarter and the distance between her masts opened a little; but perceiving this slight alteration in his quarry’s course, the American commander adjusted his own. The sight gave Kite hope: Harper was right!

  Between glances at the compass, the masthead pendant and his pursuer, Kite watched as the American closed the distance. While following close, to run aboard, his enemy would have to voluntarily draw a little aside, in order to come up on the vulnerable quarter. Then, Kite guessed, he would devastate the Spitfire’s decks with langridge from his bow guns before running her aboard and releasing his boarders. In a moment this prolonged and agonising chase would be over. Suddenly Kite saw the two masts open. This was the moment that the American commander had so carefully prepared for and, as if to confirm the hunch, Kite could see the men mustering on the enemy’s foredeck.

  He swung forward. ‘Stand by the guns and fire when you will! Bosun! Cut-away!’

  Kite turned swiftly back to watch the enemy, but he felt the jar as the peak halliard gave way and the heavy gaff drooped from the throat of the sail. The loss of effort slowed Spitfire and increased the relative motion of the overtaking enemy. As Kite had hoped, the American vessel apparently leapt forward through the water. Suddenly the Yankee’s foremast was passing their quarter and, as the gun crews bent to their touch-holes, the Brirish schooner lived up to her name and spat fire from her after guns. As if on the signal of their discharge, Kite threw his weight upon the tiller.

  The Spitfire began to turn, then with a shout, the American came round too, following as he sought to make contact and get his men aboard. They crowded the rail, brandishing cutlasses, pistols and tomahawks, and giving intimidating Indian whoops, all wearing wide grins as their fire kept the heads of Sarah, Harper and the dacoits below the rail. Kite felt a sudden pain in his shoulder, but at that instant he succeeded in passing the leach of Spitfire’s huge mainsail through the eye of the wind.

  With a whoosh and a clatter of blocks as the wind caught the opposite side of its canvas, the heavy mainsail swept across the deck in a wild gybe; Spitfire heeled suddenly and, to Kite’s jubilation, its iron-bound boom-end crashed across into the enemy’s fore-rigging. As the would-be boarders were swept from the rail the starboard shrouds of the enemy’s rigging parted like fiddle strings. There was confusion and shouting on the American schooner’s deck and then, as her foremast went by the board, Spitfire drew away.

  Free of his tormentors Kite offered up a silent prayer and laid a course for the Cape Verde Islands. As they left the American schooner astern someone amidships piped up in an inimitable Liverpudlian accent: ‘Three cheers for Cap’n Topsy-Turvy!’

  Chapter Six

  Thunder in the Bay

  The Spitfire had not escaped unscathed from her encounter with the American privateers. In addition to the shot-hole in the hull and the torn copper sheathing, her the beaten-in bulwarks, damaged boat, rent foresail and wounded main boom, her main topmast was found to have a ball embedded in it and the morning following the action announced the fact by carrying away. A second ball was found in the lower mast which fortunately stoo
d the strain after it had been fished.

  Thus shorn of her main upper spar and labouring under an over-full bilge, the British schooner sought a refuge in Porto Grande in the Cape Verde Islands, where Kite knew he could take water. There was, as far as Kite could see of the barren looking mountains of the island of São Vicente, precious little verdant about them, but he was able to work Spitfire inshore, anchor and careen her sufficiently to get at the shot-hole. Anticipating a prolonged stay in Indian waters he had also taken aboard a quantity of copper and from this prudently laid-in stock, replaced the missing sheets which had been torn away during the ten day passage from Madeira to São Vicente.

  Unfortunately he was was short of a spar suitable to replace Spitfire’s heavy lower mainmast. However, hearing of the arrival of a large British convoy under the escort of a naval squadron at the neighbouring island of São Tiago, he ordered Spitfire under weigh as soon as she was fit for sea and arrived there on 12 April, hoping to purchase a suitable spar from one of the convoy.

  Porto Praya Bay was crowded with anchored merchantmen and their escort, a small squadron of men-of-war. Besides frigates and sloops, Kite counted five ships-of-the-line, the chief of these being the 74-gun Hero, flying the broad pendant of a commodore. Passing through the anchored shipping, Kite brought Spitfire up to her own anchor close inshore and then, having hoisted out the repaired boat, made the rounds of the nearest merchantmen. He soon learned that the expedition was commanded by Commodore Johnstone and was bound for the Cape of Good Hope with the intention of taking that province from the Dutch. The merchantmen in convoy were therefore almost exclusively troop-transports or military store-ships and well provided.

  Kite had little trouble finding a master willing to sell him a spar and in due course had this hoisted over-board and towed back alongside Spitfire. He then set the hands to work. The new spar was pulled ashore and drawn up onto the beach. Here, amid a curious little crowd of on-lookers, it was cut to the appropriate size. Meanwhile on board the old mast was stripped of its rigging and all accessible iron-work and this latter was then taken ashore to be fastened to the replacement. By the evening of the 15th, having entirely stripped down the damaged mast and erected a short sheerlegs across the deck of the schooner, Kite’s crew prepared to withdraw it the following morning. The transfer of the upper iron-work, once completed, would ready the new spar for substitution and these two tasks were expected to take the whole of the 16th, the hoisting in of the new mast and re-rigging being completed two or three days later. It was thus in considerably high spirits that all hands turned in that night. Kite lingered a while on deck, staring up at the distant constellations wheeling over head. Beside him stood McClusky, less impressed by the firmament than his master, but pleased that Captain Kite had acknowledged his ability.

  ‘You shall keep our anchor-watch while we employ the people so busily throughout the heat of the day, Michael,’ Kite had said, ‘and we shall turn you into a second mate before we reach Bombay, should you so desire.’

  The quondam clerk, who alone among the Spitfire’s people had regretted the failure of the American privateersmen to board and allow him to prove his personal valour in hand-to-hand combat, expressed the fact that he should like nothing better.

  ‘Is it true that the Indian Seas are as warm and pacific as these hereabouts, Captain Kite?’ he asked, for the novelty of standing on deck at midnight in his shirt-sleeves impressed McClusky.

  ‘I am given to understand they are warmer, Michael, though, like the West Indies they are occasionally subjected to wild and boisterous hurricanoes.’

  McClusky did not think there was much to worry about in a wind described as wild and boisterous, and what he had gleaned during his years in Captain Kite’s counting house about the West Indies, suggested that much money and rum were the chief exports of such tropical places. He expressed his satisfaction and gratitude to Kite who, giving the matter little thought, wished McClusky a good night and left him to his lonely vigil.

  Michael McClusky, whatever dreams of glory had been hatched out of his new situation in his imagination, remained at heart a counting house clerk. He possessed no ingrained instinct as a seaman and was incapable of remaining absolutely alert throughout the night. Nevertheless he was not irresponsible and woke from a fitful slumber on the after grating, gritty eyed and possessed of a sudden anxiety. He could not at first say where this apprehension came from; it was not entirely his own guilt, for he was not that sensitive to such matters, but he felt a genuine unease worming in his guts. Rubbing his eyes he stared about him: it was already light but the sun had yet to rise. The deck looked as it had at midnight under the light of the lantern. Then he knew why he had woken and what had woken him, for the thunder came again, rolling across the bay so that McClusky jumped to his feet and stared wildly about him.

  To seaward, beyond the veritable forest of masts and yards that marked the anchored British shipping, the pale squares of sails stood into Porto Praya Bay. Two ships approached, each flanked by blooms of smoke, evidence of their hostile intent. The fact that they were grossly outnumbered seemed not to deter them, for they had caught Commodore Johnstone and his men-of-war napping. From where he stood, McClusky could see only the bold vanguard of the enemy, unaware that other enemy vessels were offshore. Nevertheless, the noise of the guns spurred him to action and he called all hands on deck.

  There was little that anyone aboard the Spitfire could do; they were mere spectators as the two large French ships-of-the-line, followed by a frigate, came to their anchors amid the British shipping. The most advanced opened a furious cannonade on the British ships anchored on either beam, while the second, penetrating deeper into the road, anchored ahead of his commodore, but then seemed less anxious to get into action. The frigate’s part was less spectacular as she engaged an Indiaman from the convoy and then, having grappled her, withdrew to seaward. Far in the distance two other ships-of-the-line could now be seen, identified through the tangle of the anchorage by the pale rectangles of their wind-filled sails.

  The engagement did not last long. Once the British seamen had manned their guns and returned the cannonade, the French ships weighed, set sail and retired, taking with them a solitary prize of the grappled Indiaman. The ships offshore never got into action and the mood in the anchorage was one of jubilation that the ‘impudent Frogs’ had been driven off. Owing to their preoccupation in drawing the damaged mainmast and preparing its replacement, less thought was given to the morning’s thunder in the bay aboard Spitfire than in any other British ship assembled off Port Praya.

  But in fact the apparently indecisive action in the Cape Verde Islands was to have a profound effect, for Commodore Johnstone had been discomfited. He remained at Porto Praya for a further fortnight and then, aware that the French would beat him to the tip of Africa, he threw up his intention of taking Cape Province from the Dutch and headed for home. The French Commodore, a certain Pierre André de Suffren, had scored a notable success over the Royal Navy of Great Britain. It was not to be the last.

  The action off Porto Praya was soon forgotten aboard the Spitfire. If it kindled further dreams of glory in the heart of Michael McClusky that was because he was no seaman and had little or nothing to do with the stepping and rigging of the new main-mast. In fact as the crew toiled, McClusky retired to his hammock, having stood the night watch alone. Here he lay for a while, contemplating the future and wondering whether he might reap some real profit from his master’s adventure until he fell asleep.

  For Kite, Harper and the schooner’s company, the intense labour of refitting the ship filled all their waking hours. With the new mast stepped, the standing rigging had to be set up and rattled down. Then the topmast had to be sent aloft and its rigging set up, before the score or so of blocks were moused and then the halliards and topping lifts rove through them. Next, the throat halliard was used to lift the heel of the heavy boom and secure it to the goose-neck, situated on the lower mast about a man’s height above
the deck. Once the boom was in position and its outer extremity topped up onto the gallows, the gaff saddle could be lodged about the mast, the mainsail relaced, hooped and tensioned along the boom prior to hoisting. At last, in the fresh breeze that blew constantly down from the heights of the island and kept the anchored vessels head to wind, the sail was set flapping.

  Kite and Harper regarded it and pronounced themselves satisfied, but that was not the end of their labours. When the hands had completed this complicated and laborious task it was again necessary to top up their water casks before sailing. While Kite and the schooner’s company had been busy, Hooker, his wife and Sarah, taking Maggie to attend them, had, on the invitation of a Portuguese merchant, made an excursion into the island, dining with Senhor Soares and his family. Soares offered them a few days welcome hospitality and here, on the eve of their departure, Kite joined them for dinner, enjoying for a few brief hours the riches of the shore.

  After dinner, looking down over the bay from the cool elevation of the merchant’s house, Kite stared at the anchor lights of the mass of shipping twinkling in the velvet darkness of the tropical night. From his vantage point at the window he was seeking out the glim in Spitfire’s forward rigging.

  ‘Cannot you forget the ship,’ William, Sarah called softly from the bed.

  He turned and saw the pale shape of the netting over the bed and through the gauze, the stirring figure of his naked wife.

  ‘Sarah…’

  ‘Come, my darling…’ She parted the netting and, slipping off his breeches, he slid beside her as she reached up for him and prompted a ready tumescence. It was the first time they had made love since the death of little Emma.

  From São Tiago they carried the north east trade winds south towards the Equator. In latitude 8º North the wind faltered and then died. They had entered the Doldrums and after a few days in the stultifying heat, the lack of a breeze and any progress shortened tempers and brought to a head a simmering matter of contention.