Chapter VII: Catching a Tartar

ONE bright morning the _Damsel of Lyme_ cast off from the quay at Plougastel and headed for the open waters of the vast Bay of Biscay.

The number of our crew was now increased by two, the new hands being two drunken Breton fishermen who had been induced to serve aboard the pinnace under no false pretences. Fishermen they were termed, yet I'd wager that they were wreckers.

With stores replenished and the men flush with money--for the _Damsel of Lyme_ had weighed directly the proceeds of the booty had been apportioned--the pinnace sailed with a definite object in view.

A rich convoy was expected at Corunna from the Indies, and, since 'twas almost certain that the merchantmen would straggle, Captain Cleat hoped to be able to cut off one of the deeply-laden craft without much chance of being discovered. So a course was shaped towards Cape Finisterre, where more express news might be obtained as to the expected arrival of the Hispaniola Fleet.

For five or six days the _Damsel of Lyme_ cruised off the north-west Spanish coast. Several small coasting craft were judiciously questioned, for Captain Hannibal Cleat was a born play-actor, and adopted the role of a pilot of the Douro River to perfection. Thus, without causing alarm, he was able to obtain all the information possible, though 'twas not sufficient nor definite enough to please him.

At length, above the long regular rollers of the Atlantic appeared the topsails of a large fleet, straggling over more than ten miles of sea.

The wind was north-west, and the ships were sailing as close to the wind as possible. This was to our advantage, since those that made the worst leeway tailed off the farthermost from their escort.

"'Tis the silver fleet, sure enow!" exclaimed the Captain. "We'll lie close, and ere morning yonder caravel will be ours."

He pointed to a cumbersome-looking high-sided vessel that, unable to sail within a point of the next worst ship, had already drifted a good league from the rest of the convoy.

A look of malevolent joy passed over the features of the rascally crew. There was determination written on their faces; they meant to take the marked ship at all costs. Some of their number might fall and could ill be spared, but, after all, what mattered? The larger would be the share of the spoil.

Running well before the wind the _Damsel of Lyme_ passed a good two leagues from the caravel, and, as darkness set in, turned her course towards the twinkling poop-lanterns of the unsuspecting Spaniard.

Captain Cleat's plans were well laid. The three pieces of ordnance were crammed to their muzzles with scraps of iron, the arquebuses were carefully charged and primed, while every man, stripped to the waist, had decorated his bronzed face and body with weird designs in red ochre and white chalk.

"Mark well what I say, boys," ordered the Captain; "when we board do you remain here. Recharge all three cannon and keep your matches ready for instant use."

Although the pinnace was a pirate ship the Spaniards are our natural enemies; thus I had no compunction in carrying out my instructions with a good grace.

At about two hours after midnight the pinnace crept within pistol-shot of the caravel, yet not a sound betrayed our presence to the careless watch on deck.

We could see her tall masts and faintly-drawing canvas standing out against the darkness of the night, the phosphorescent swirl from her rudder, and the curling bow-wave from her bluff entry. Occasionally we could hear the quick chatter of a pair of quarrelsome sailors, or the twang of a mandolin, while through her brilliantly-lighted stern-gallery windows came the clatter of the dice, for her officers were playing far into the night.

Motioning the helmsman to keep an even course, Captain Cleat sprang into the main chains on the larboard side. For a few moments he watched, then his stentorian voice awoke the stillness of the night.

"Surrender, you Spanish dogs!"

He spoke in English, knowing full well that the officers, as well as most of the common seamen, would readily understand the stern summons.

'Twas all confusion. Men rushed hither and thither, but for the most part they clustered in the bulwarks, ready to repel with pike and sword any attempt at boarding.

This was exactly as Captain Cleat wished, for when the crush was at its height he gave orders to open fire.

The iron hail tore gaps in the dense mass of men, then ere the survivors could recover from their surprise, the two vessels were rubbing sides, and every man aboard the pinnace discharged his arquebus, then leapt for the lofty bulwarks of the caravel.

All this while we were not idle, for we placed double charges into the culverin and the two sakers, filling up their gaping muzzles with a mixture of death-dealing missiles.

Just as we had completed the task I suddenly became aware of a strange lull in the conflict. Then, with a yell of rage and pain, Captain Hannibal Cleat's enormous body leapt from the bulwarks of the Spanish craft right on to our narrow deck.

"Let 'em have it!" he shouted to me, at the same time running forward with an axe.

The blinding flash of the culverin and the death-dealing storm of iron checked those of the Spaniards who would have jumped aboard us. The first saker cooled their ardour still more, and, ere I could bring the match to the third piece, Captain Cleat had severed the rope that held us to the caravel, and instantly the gap betwixt us began to widen.

"Bravely done, lad!" shouted my master, as he came aft for the tiller. 'Twas the only sentence of admiration he had ever addressed to me since I set foot aboard the _Damsel of Lyme_, and the pleasure of hearing him speak thus made me forget that I was aught but an Englishman fighting 'gainst the might of Spain.

Once more another irregular volley whizzed around us, but the pinnace was already slipping through the water, and beyond a few splinters and the severing of a rope or two no great damage was done. This discharge was followed by a desultory fire till the last report echoed across the sea.

The _Damsel of Lyme_ was lost to the sight of our foes in the blackness of the night.

Beyond the few words Captain Cleat had uttered when he regained the deck of the pinnace not a word had been spoken. He remained at the helm, his huge body leaning heavily upon the massive oaken tiller and his head slightly inclined as if lost in thought. Owing to the darkness I could not distinguish his features, but the exertion had evidently told upon him, since I could see his broad shoulders heaving regularly in the effort to recover his breath.

'Twas certain that the _Damsel of Lyme_ had met her match. The attempt to board had been repulsed, and, with the exception of Captain Cleat, every man of her crew who had set foot upon the Spaniards' deck had either been captured or killed.