CHAPTER EIGHT

Battle Breaks in the Harbor

IN the solemn grayness of early morning, Bristol’s prize, the Terror, entered the narrows that led to the inner harbor. In tow was the Falcon, flags and sails drooping, Amara in charge. The mist hung close to the water, almost obscuring both vessels. The breeze was barely enough to move the man-o’-war along.

From the deck of the Terror, Bristol saw the high walls of the stone fort rising sheer above them. Gaping black eyes looked down—the snouts of the “pieces of eight”—ready to deal violence to anyone who took it upon himself to attack the city of Charlestown.

Bristol had chosen his moment well. He did not have to display his flag, because this was before the morning colors, nor did he have to announce himself to the fort. In spite of the mist, it was light enough for the sentries to identify the Terror as British.

A voice came down from the battlements: “Ahoy, Mannville! Congratulations on your prize!”

Bristol stood tense at the rail. He could not reply to the officer up there. Close inspection would cause them to discover the black gunners who stood in the waist, ready at the British guns. Looking back, Bristol saw no movement aboard the Falcon. He knew men were waiting and ready there.

They slid slowly past the Point, into the quieter harbor. Evidently the officer had expected no answer. The dead, languid silence of the city was unbroken. If only this fog would hold until they could come within half a cable length of the docks!

The shadowy, silent hulk of the station ship loomed before them. Bristol coasted by. He would have to reef his sails, and that would necessitate sending his blacks up into the rigging.

“All hands aloft,” said Bristol, as quietly as he could. If only this fog . . .

The blacks swarmed up the shrouds. Canvas fluttered and billowed under the freshening breeze. A ray of sunlight pierced through and sparkled on the water, as though someone had jerked a gray curtain from the world.

In less than half a minute the harbor was clear and blue. Red-roofed buildings were thrown into sharp relief. The man-o’-war at anchor, less than a pistol shot away, was visible to her last peg.

Blacks came down in a swift rush, trying to get out of sight before they were noticed.

“Ahoy, Mannville!” cried an officer on the other deck. “What— Quarters! All hands on deck! Man the guns!”

“He’s seen us!” muttered Bristol. Looking back, he saw that the Falcon still cruised under the pressure on her mainsail and sprit.

Bristol yanked on the truck halyards. The bunting raced to the peak and whipped out to display the Black Ensign. Amara’s men, on the Falcon, went racing to their guns.

The anchored British man-o’-war was in perfect firing position. Her guns slammed back. Smoke raced across the water. Grapeshot rapped like hail on the hull of the Terror.

“Fire!” roared Bristol.

The starboard batteries crashed out, all three decks simultaneously. The Britisher reeled under the blow.

“Come about!” cried Bristol to the helm. The Terror executed a swift jibe. Her port batteries fired across the Britisher’s decks.

The Britisher, still at anchor, tried valiantly to turn. And then it became apparent that Ewell had lied. Bryce’s old ship surged away from her anchorage, slipping her hawser, and plunged out toward the Falcon. She was evidently well manned.

But Amara had learned well under Bristol’s tutelage. The Falcon swerved to meet the rush. Her starboard batteries crashed. The Britisher was instantly deluged by a hail of its own spars and rigging.

Bristol ran his ship in close to her. His port guns were ready to let drive. His black gunners held their matches in steady hands, blowing on the hemp to keep the fire going.

“Fire!” cried Bristol.

Three rows of black snouts leaped out of sight, replaced instantly by a slashing horizontal column of smoke. The Britisher was swallowed up in the stinging smoke. Bristol’s deafened ears caught a string of commands on the other’s deck. A trumpet shrilled.

Bristol’s vessel slipped away. He was running no chance of being boarded. He was undermanned. The Britisher could have swamped him in a moment, had the Britisher only known it.

The next glimpse Bristol caught of the man-o’-war, it was hurling spray from its bows, sails taut in the quickening wind, heading for the outer harbor. For a moment, Bristol thought the other was running away, and then he understood. The man-o’-war would cruise out there, lying in wait for the pirates.

It came over Bristol in that instant that he was trapped. The Terror and the Falcon could never pass through the narrows, and they did not possess enough men to storm the fort. And when they reached the sea, the waiting British man-o’-war would pounce upon them, board them, and wipe out the remainder of the pirates.

There was only one answer to that. He’d have to get up to the palace and put the fear of the devil into Sir Charles Stukely. But without a large landing party, that appeared to be impossible.

The Terror keeled suddenly. A round shot from the fort smashed against her rail, demolishing it.

Bristol stared at the shore. He could see men running back and forth, barricading themselves. Without a force of a hundred men, it would be impossible to effect a landing—and even then, the odds would be two to one.

The Terror shook again. The batteries ashore were getting the range, and although it was inconceivable that a round shot could pierce a stout oak hull, Bristol detected a sluggish lurch.

A man named Funj ran up through the smoke, shouting to Bristol, “The starboard ports are filling up! The ’tween-deck cannon are loose!”

Harassing shot came from the fort. Amara’s Falcon still cruised nimbly, returning a steady but ineffectual fire. The Terror plowed toward the white sand, going down an inch for every foot gained ahead.

“Get down!” ordered Bristol, keeping his own feet. “Scatter about, and get your cutlasses and pikes! We’ll have to wipe out the men on shore!”

The soldiers ashore grew bolder. They leaped into the open, waving their guns, running toward the spot where the ship would ground.

Bristol saw with surprise that most of these men were black. Was it possible that the planters had sent forth their slaves to do their fighting for them? Did Sir Charles think the English regulars too good to risk their necks? Disgust welled up in Bristol—disgust for a feudal system that had come down from the medieval days, when men were mere beasts of burden.

The sinking Terror came within a hundred feet of the sand. Suddenly the head slumped. The entire ship jerked over in a heavy list. Thrown bodily into the port scuppers, the blacks fought to keep their balance. Bristol held his breath, hoping that the water was too shallow for them to sink all the way under.

The ship stopped completely, leaving fifty feet of water between its prow and the beach.

“Landing party away!” shouted Bristol.

Whipping out his own rapier, he plunged forward, over the forecastle deck. In a clean dive he swooped down into the sea. The blacks came after him like an avalanche. Musket balls from shore sent long white streamers through the water.

“Landing party away!” shouted Bristol.
Whipping out his own rapier, he plunged forward, over the forecastle deck.

The savage cry of the pirates swelled up. Bodies glistening with water, they charged, wet silks clinging tight to their bodies. A black from shore tried to catch Bristol’s rapier on his musket barrel. The point slid off with a clang and plunged into the black throat.

A high wall, topped by embrasures, was at one hand. Bristol looked at it, took it to be an arsenal. Waving his rapier for his men to follow, he sprinted for the open gate. He could at least hold out in the place.

Inside the court, Bristol did not pause. He saw a tier of doors opening. Men sprang at him. His blacks stopped and stood their ground. The sunlight was shattered by swinging, stained blades.

Behind them, a sailor barred the gate.

Musket balls whined through the court. Soldiers were sniping from adjoining roofs.

A strident voice roared, “Bristol! For God’s sake, man, let me out of here!”

Bristol jerked his head around, dashing the blood from his eyes so that he could see. “Bryce!”

The pirate captain was beating with bare fists upon the door, shouting through the bars. This, then, was the jail. No wonder it had looked like a fort!

An officer was crumpled at the bottom of a flight of stairs. Bristol whipped the man over and found a ring of keys. He ran to the cells and quickly opened the locks. Bryce rushed out, eyes wild, teeth clenched.

“We’ll whip them now, Bristol! By the Lord, I’ve waited weeks for this chance!”

“But I’ve only got fifty men!”

“The hell you have! I’ve got three hundred underground in this building!”

Above the roar of cannon and the bark of muskets, Bristol heard the muted cries of men. He thrust the keys at Bryce. “Open the doors. Get them out here!”

A hammering came from the gate. Funj saluted and said, “They’re using a battering ram, sir. The gates are caving in.”

Bristol looked into the guardroom. Long boxes were scattered about on the floor, like coffins ready for their dead. On the lid of one was marked “To the Governor General of Santo Domingo, New Spain.”

“Loot from a don,” cried Bristol. He kicked the cover from one and found that it contained cavalry sabers which, though greased and gummy, would serve quite well.

Bristol and Funj threw the saber cases bodily out into the court. The blades scattered out of the broken boxes and were at once snatched up by eager hands.

The gate began to go. In a thunder of splinters, it came down. A wave of soldiers, black and white, spilled across the shattered boards into the courtyard.

The pirates howled with glee. Sabers aloft, they bore down upon the soldiers like iron shot from a broadside. It was too late for the men in the gate to go back. They stopped, tried to raise their weapons to defend themselves. The mad tide crushed them down, ground them to the pavement, and went on and through the gate into the street.

Abruptly the defenders broke into scattered segments. They took to their legs, throwing away their guns and equipment. The pirates started to follow.

“Avast!” roared Bristol. “To the palace! There’s our game!”

The yelling mob swept up through the streets toward the white building on the hill. A cannon at the palace gates rapped, carved a straight line through the attackers. The glinting snout of the gun protruded through the bars of the heavy locked gate. The men at the piece crammed in a second load of powder and canister.

Bristol reached the walls. Two of his blacks were with him.

“Up!” he cried.

The blacks grasped his waist and threw him to the top of the wall. The gun crew stared an instant. An officer reached for his pistol. Bristol launched himself. His rapier grated on bone. The crew at the gate whirled on him, drawing their swords.

A cry came from the wall. Pirates, boosted by their fellows, soared over and dropped into the court. The gun crew threw away their swords and ran.

Bristol looked at the front entrance of the palace. The doors were heavy oak, carved in a coat of arms. He tested the latch. It was securely barred within.

“The cannon!” snapped Bristol.

A half-dozen of his black gunners quickly completed the job of loading. They pulled at the carriage. The touchhole shot out sparks. Bristol leaped to one side. The round shot slammed through the lock. The doors, emerging from the smoke, were shattered.

Accompanied only by Bryce and a few of the blacks, Bristol strode toward a second set of doors. Their boot heels rang loudly on the black polished floor, their sword chains clanked.

The doors opened at a touch to disclose an ornately furnished room. Sir Charles Stukely sat behind his desk, his eyes large and fishy with surprise and terror. He was dressed in a bright blue coat, and gems sparkled on his pudgy fingers.

“C-Captain Bristol!” said Sir Charles hoarsely.

“Aye, Captain Bristol. Weren’t you expecting me?”

“Ah . . . ah yes, of course I was. I—”

“I see you’re dressed like a bridegroom, Sir Charles. Why didn’t you send me an invitation to the wedding?”

“I . . . ah, of course, Captain Bristol, I should like to have you at . . .” Sir Charles gulped audibly, suddenly realizing that he was being baited, recovering with an effort control over his wits. Bristol went on:

“But I came, anyway, and held my own wedding party. Thank you for the reception your slaves and soldiers gave us. It was greatly appreciated. But,” he added reprovingly, “I thought the gentlemen of Old England did their own receiving. I see now that I was wrong. They use their bondmen and slaves, and fight their sea battles with the pickings of a press gang. Well, no matter. When does the wedding take place?”

“Er . . . this after . . .”

“Ah, well, this afternoon. Then I’m just in time.” Bristol shifted his weight easily and the sea boots dripped saltwater into a fresh puddle. The trickle of red down his cheek had reached his collar, staining the once white shirt. “Where is the bride?”

“What are you—you going to do with me?” chattered Sir Charles.

Bristol shrugged pleasantly. “Oh, nothing much.” He reached into his rumpled sash and brought forth a snaky, writhing object which he flicked casually enough.

“The . . . the cat-o’-nine-tails!” cried Sir Charles.

“Then the idea affects you unfavorably? I thought a man of your stout heart, a man who can stand on a deck and cry ‘Give him a hundred lashes!’ would show a little more courage under the same sentence.”

“But it’s death!”

“So you knew that it was death!” Bristol regarded the flabby folds of pasty white which made up Sir Charles’ face. Bristol’s mouth curled a little in disgust. “Strip him!” he said curtly to his blacks.

The sailors, grinning, fell upon Sir Charles and jerked him to his feet. While they were stripping him to the waist, Bristol stepped to the balcony and signaled the Falcon with his waving sash. The Falcon drew off from the fort to the extreme range.

Sir Charles’ body was white and fat. The blacks held his arms. Bristol made the cat-o’-nine swish warningly on the floor. It came up and cracked down upon the cringing Sir Charles. The Lord High Governor screamed out, although the lash could not have hurt him. His voice was broken:

“Bristol! I’ll do anything you ask! Anything!”

Bristol stood in pretended indecision. Then he let the cat-o’-nine fall to the floor. “Put on your shirt.”

Sir Charles slipped quickly into the broadcloth and slumped back at his desk, his face as gray as death.

A side door of the room opened slowly. Bryce stood up straight, an amazed look flashing across his hard face. The blacks glanced up and then straightened.

Lady Jane Campbell stood in the entrance. About her were great billows of white shimmering satin, drawn in tight to her waist. A cap of pearls rested upon her yellow hair and a corsage of rare orchids matched the delicate beauty of her face. She stepped hesitantly forward, very tense. Then she ran forward.

“Bristol!” she cried.

He held her away from him, gazing at her. The orchids had been crushed against him and one of her cheeks was smudged by the blackness of his own.

“Bristol,” she said, “look in the papers on the desk for the letters he took from me on my arrival here.”

“Papers!”

“Yes. The papers I went ashore to get at Charlotte Amalie. The papers I sent to England for. The papers that cost me a bag of gold.”

Sir Charles made an effort to stop Bristol’s hands. He was brushed aside, and Bristol rifled through the stacks of documents. Presently he brought forth a packet that was sealed by the ring signet of Charles II, King of England.

Breaking the seal, Bristol read, “‘By Royal Decree I hereby grant full pardon for all the piracies of Captain Thomas Bristol, and by reason of his possible benefit to the Crown, I hereby enclose a commission as Commodore in the Royal Navy.’

“But . . .” said Bristol, “but, Jim, how did you get this?”

“You have forgotten,” she replied gently, “that I was lady-in-waiting to Catherine of Braganza, Queen of England. I sent for that months ago, and the bearer was to meet me in Charlotte Amalie.”

A little stunned, Bristol gripped the edge of the desk, staring at the seals of the commission. Then he drew in a long breath and exhaled it in a sigh. In a moment he stood up straight, all business.

“Sir Charles,” said Bristol, “can you write?”

“Why, of course I—”

“Then write, quickly. ‘To His Majesty Charles II, London, England. Because of the rigors of this climate, and with all apology for the abruptness of this decision, I, Sir Charles Stukely, your humble subject, regret that I must resign the office of Lord High Governor of Nevis.’”

“Wait!” cried Sir Charles. “You can’t—”

Bristol flashed the seals on the commission. “See that, Stukely? That means that I rank every other British naval officer in the Caribbean Sea. In case you have forgotten, there is a war in progress for the possession of these islands. This is a military necessity.”

“Yes,” replied Sir Charles meekly.

“Then proceed. ‘—that I must resign the office of Lord High Governor of Nevis.’ Got that? All right. ‘Hoping for your Royal pardon in this matter, I am leaving aboard a man-o’-war immediately for Jamaica, where I shall take passage on a merchantman. I am convinced that I owe this to my health and well-being. In command of the garrisons, and as temporary governor of the island, I am leaving Thomas Bristol, Commodore, Royal Navy.

“‘Your honorable and most obedient servant, Sir Charles Stukely.’ I will mail that letter for you. You might wish to change it en route. In that event, the King might hear of this little skirmish out here. And so, Sir Charles, I’ll save you the price of postage.”

“What about me?” said Bryce, puzzled. “I’m still a pirate.”

“Never mind,” Bristol said. “I’ll issue you special privateering papers, commissioning you to prey upon Spanish commerce and you can leave for the Pacific, where you always wanted to be anyway.”

Bristol turned to Sir Charles, smiled at him, and then walked over to Lady Jane.

“My lady,” said Bristol, “you recently came to Nevis with the object of marrying the Lord High Governor. It happens at this time, due to the fortunes of the sea, that I am that person. May I, in all humbleness, ask your hand?”

Her answer was low and husky. “Of course, Bristol.”

Bristol straightened, and his smile broke into a gay laugh. He whirled on Bryce. “Avast, you lubber! Send those pirates of yours and my crew into the barracks to clean themselves up. And spread the news through the town and the fort, and to the waiting man-o’-war, that the Lord High Governor invites them all to his wedding.”