NOVEMBER 1713
These in thir dark Nativitie the Deep
Shall yield us pregnant with infernal flame,
Which into hallow Engins long and round
Thick-rammed, at th’ other bore with touch of fire
Dilated and infuriate shall send forth
From far with thundring noise among our foes
Such implements of mischief as shall dash
To pieces, and oerwhelm whatever stands
Adverse, that they shall fear we have disarmd
The Thunderer of his only dreaded bolt.
—MILTON, Paradise Lost
SNATCHING A FEW MINUTES’ REST in his cabin between engagements, Daniel’s mood is grave. It is the solemnity, not of a man who’s involved in a project to kill other men (they’ve been doing that all day, for Christ’s sake!), but of one who’s gambling his own life on certain outcomes. Or having it gambled for him by a Captain who shows signs of—what’s a diplomatic way to put it—having a rich and complicated inner life. Of course, whenever you board ship you put your life in the Captain’s hands—but—
Someone is laughing up there on the poop deck. The gaiety clashes with Daniel’s somber mood and annoys him. It’s a derisive and somewhat cruel laugh, but not without sincere merriment. Daniel’s looking about for something hard and massive to thump on the ceiling when he realizes it’s van Hoek, and what has him all in a lather is some sort of technical Dutch concept—the Zog.
Trundling noises from the upperdeck,* and all of a sudden Minerva’s a different ship: heeling over quite a bit more than she was, but also rolling from side much more ponderously. Daniel infers that a momentous shifting of weights has occurred. Getting up, and going back out on the quarterdeck, he sees it’s true: there are several short bulbous carronnades here—nothing more or less than multi-ton blunderbusses, with large-bore, short-range, miserable accuracy. But (not to put too fine a point on it) large bores, into which gunners are shoveling all manner of messy ironmongery: pairs of cannonballs chained together, nails, redundant crowbars, clusters of grapeshot piled on sabots and tied together with ostentatiously clever sailors’ knots. Once loaded, the carronnades are being run out to the gunwales—hugely increasing the ship’s moment of inertia, accounting for the change in the roll period—
“Calculating our odds, Dr. Waterhouse?” Dappa inquires, descending a steep stair from the poop deck.
“What means Zog, Dappa, and why’s it funny?”
Dappa gets an alert look about him as if it isn’t funny at all, and points across half a mile of open water toward a schooner flying a black flag with a white hourglass. The schooner is on the weather bow* parallelling their course but obviously hoping to converge, and grapple, with Minerva in the near future. “See how miserably they make headway? We are outpacing them, even though we haven’t raised the mainsail.”
“Yes—I was going to inquire—why haven’t we raised it? It is the largest sail on the ship, and we are trying to go fast, are we not?”
“The mainsail is traditionally raised and worked by the gunners. Not raising it will make Teach think we are short-handed in that area, and unable to man all our cannon at one time.”
“But wouldn’t it be worthwhile to tip our hand, if we could outrun that schooner?”
“We’ll outrun her anyway.”
“But she wants us to draw abeam of her, does she not—that is the entire point of being a pirate—so perhaps she has thrown out drogues, and that is why she wallows along so pitiably.”
“She doesn’t need to throw out drogues because of her appalling Zog.”
“There it is again—what, I ask, is the meaning of that word?”
“Her wake, look at her wake!” Dappa says, waving his arm angrily.
“Yes—now that we are so, er, unsettlingly close, I can see that her wake’s enough to capsize a whaleboat.”
“Those damned pirates have loaded so many cannon aboard, she rides far too low in the water, and so she’s got a great ugly Zog.”
“Is this meant to reassure me?”
“It is meant to answer your question.”
“Zog is Dutch for ‘wake,’ then?”
Dappa the linguist smiles yes. Half his teeth are white, the others made of gold. “And a much better word it is, because it comes from zuigen which means ‘to suck.’”
“I don’t follow.”
“Any seaman will tell you that a ship’s wake sucks on her stern, holding her back—the bigger the wake, the greater the suck, and the slower the progress. That schooner, Doctor Waterhouse, sucks.”
Angry words from van Hoek above—Dappa scurries down to the upperdeck to finish whatever errand Daniel interrupted. Daniel follows him, then goes aft, skirts the capstan, and descends a narrow staircase to the aftmost part of the gundeck. Thence he enters the room at the stern where he’s been in the habit of taking his temperature measurements. He commences a perilous traversal of the room, headed towards that bank of undershot windows. To a landlubber the room would look pleasingly spacious, to Daniel it appears desperately short of handholds—meaning that as the ship rolls, Daniel stumbles for a greater distance, and builds up more speed, before colliding with anything big enough to stop him. In any case, he gets to the windows and looks down into Minerva’s Zog. She has one, to be sure, but compared to that schooner to windward, Minerva hardly sucks at all. The Bernoullis would have a field day with this—
There is also a pirate-ketch converging on them from leeward, in much the same way as the schooner is doing from windward, and Daniel is fairly certain that this ketch doesn’t suck much at all. He is certain he saw drogues trailing behind her. Minerva is lying dead upon the wind, which is to say, she’s as close-hauled as possible—she can fall off to leeward but she cannot turn into the wind any farther. Since the ketch is to leeward—downwind of Minerva—falling away from the wind will send Minerva straight into the musket-fire and grappling-irons that are no doubt being readied on her decks and fighting-tops. But the ketch, being fore-and-aft rigged, can sail closer to the wind anyway. So even if Minerva holds her course, the ketch will be able to cut her off—driving her into the sucking (because heavily armed) schooner.
All of which goes to explain Daniel’s second reason for having gone to this room: it’s as far from the fighting as he can get without jumping overboard. But he does not find the solace he wants, because from here he can see two additional pirate-ships gaining on them from astern, and they seem bigger and better than any of the others.
An explosion, then another, then a lot of them at once—obviously something organized. Daniel’s still alive, Minerva’s still afloat. He flings open the door to the gundeck but it’s dark and quiet, the gunners all convened around the cannons on the larboard side—none of which has been fired. It must have been those carronnades on the upperdeck firing their loads of junk.
Daniel turns round and looks out the window to see the ketch being left behind, fine on the lee quarter.* It is no longer recognizable as a ketch, though—just a hull heaped with tangled, slack rigging and freshly splintered blond wood. One of her guns sparks and something terrible comes out of it, directly towards him—big and spreading. He begins to fall down, more out of vertigo than any coherent plan. All the glass in all those windows explodes toward him, driven on a wall of buckshot. Only some of it hits him in the face, and none in the eyes—more luck than a natural philosopher can comfortably account for.
The door’s been flung open again, either by the blast of shot or by his falling back into it, so half of him is lying on the gundeck now. Suddenly, radiance warms his tightly closed eyelids. It could be a choir of angels, or a squadron of flaming devils, but he doesn’t believe in any of that stuff. Or it could be Minerva’s powder magazine exploding—but that would involve loud noises, and the only noises he hears are the creaking and grumbling of gun-carriages being hauled forward. There’s a refreshing sea breeze in his nostrils. He takes a big risk and opens his eyes.
All of the gunports on the larboard side have been opened at once, and all of the cannon rolled out. Gunners are hauling on blocks and tackles, slewing their weapons this way or that—others levering the guns’ butts up with crowbars and hammering wedges underneath—there are, in short, as many feverish preparations as for a royal wedding. Then fire is brought out, the roll of the ship carefully timed, and Daniel—poor Daniel doesn’t think to put his hands over his ears. He hears one or two cannon-blasts before going deaf. Then it’s just one four-ton iron tube after another jerking backwards as lightly as shuttlecocks.
He is fairly certain that he is dead now.
Other dead men are around him.
They are lying on the upperdeck.
A couple of sailors are sitting on Daniel’s corpse, while another tortures his deceased flesh with a needle. Sewing his dismembered parts back on, closing up the breaches in his abdomen so stuff won’t leak out. So this is what it felt like to have been a stray dog in the clutches of the Royal Society!
As Daniel is lying flat on his back, his view is mostly skywards, though if he turns his head—an astonishing feat, for a dead man—he can see van Hoek up on the poop deck bellowing through his trumpet—which is aimed nearly straight down over the rail.
“What on earth can he be shouting at?” Daniel asks.
“Apologies, Doctor, didn’t know you’d come awake,” says a Looming Column of Shadow, speaking in Dappa’s voice, and stepping back to block the sun from Daniel’s face. “He’s parleying with certain pirates who rowed out from Teach’s flagship under a flag of truce.”
“What do they want?”
“They want you, Doctor.”
“You’re thinking too hard—there’s naught to understand—it is entirely simple,” Dappa says. “They rowed up and said, ‘Give us Dr. Waterhouse and all is forgotten.’”
Dr. Waterhouse now ought to spend a long time being dumbstruck. But his stupefaction lasts only a little while. The sensation of nubby silk thread being drawn briskly through fresh holes in his flesh, makes serious reflection all but impossible. “You’ll do it—of course,” is the best he can come up with.
“Any other captain would—but whoever arranged to put you aboard, must’ve known about Captain van Hoek’s feelings concerning pirates. Behold!” and Dappa steps out of the way to give Daniel an unobstructed view of a sight stranger than anything gawkers would pay to view at St. Bartholomew’s Fair: a hammer-handed man climbing up into the rigging of a ship. That is to say that one of his arms is terminated, not by a hand, and not by a hook, but by an actual hammer. Van Hoek ascends to a suitably perilous altitude, up there alongside the colors that fly from the mizzenmast: a Dutch flag, and below it, a smaller one depicting the Ægis. After getting himself securely tangled in the shrouds—weaving limbs through rope so that his body is spliced into the rigging—he begins to pluck nails out of his mouth and drive them through the hem of each flag into the wood of the mast.
It seems, now, that every sailor who’s not sitting on Daniel is up in the rigging, unfurling a ludicrously vast array of sails. Daniel notes with approval that the mainsail’s finally been hoisted—that charade is over. And now moreover Minerva’s height is being miraculously increased as the topmasts are telescoped upwards. An asymptotic progression of smaller and smaller trapezoids spreads out upon their frail-seeming yards.
“It’s a glorious gesture for the Captain to make—now that he’s sunk half of Teach’s fleet,” Daniel says.
“Aye, Doctor—but not the better half,” Dappa says.