If Orazio noticed Harry’s strange form of address, he gave no sign of it; he was too intent on his job. “I see our men in the boat, dressed in the pirates’ clothes and gear. The number in the boat equal the number of pirates killed in the cave, plus those who approached in the skiff. As you instructed.”
“Excellent. Are they rowing or-?”
“Yes, they are rowing, but now they are also putting up the step sail. Captain, I am thinking they will be out here in ten, maybe fifteen minutes?”
“Except that the pirate doesn’t seem disposed to wait that long,” commented North. “Look.”
They did: the pirate llaut had come about briskly, heading in toward the Bay of Canyamel, evidently determined to rendezvous as quickly as possible.
Harry smiled. “Guess they’re getting antsy out here.”
“Or don’t want us close enough to observe what happens when they meet,” offered North.
“Probably both,” Lefferts replied with a grin. “Aurelio-”
“ Si, Major; you want me to use the llaut ’s change of position to work more to windward of them. And then close the distance. Slowly.”
“You read my mind, Skipper. I’ll have Mary Ann bake you a pineapple pie.”
“Eh?”
“Never mind. Look to the sails. Thomas, it’s probably about time for us to bring out the tools of our trade.”
“Fishing rods?”
“Well-rods, I guess,” commented Harry. Keeping it below the level of the gunwale, he unwrapped his SKS. “And appropriate for us fishers of men.”
“My, that’s awful grim for a Yank,” commented North. “And improbably poetic. Are you sure you’re not becoming English?”
Thomas, who had only been in a few shipboard fights over the course of his career, was once again struck by the almost surreal pacing of them.
First, there was a long cat-and-mouse game as each of the three ships tried to feign a false identity and purpose. The small skiff affected the appearance of being filled by busily rowing fishermen-or disguised pirates, depending upon the intended audience. The corsair llaut attempted to create the impression of a fishing boat lazily approaching the shore. And the Minnow mimicked the irregular course changes of a boat trying to find the best spot in which to let down nets. Throughout this ballet of deception, the skiff and llaut closed with each other slowly; the Minnow, having the advantage of the wind at its back, was able to approach indirectly and at a positively glacial pace.
But then, as the boats drew within a few hundred yards of each other, everything seemed to speed up. The skiff angled aside to bring the breeze more over its beam. This changed its approach to the llaut from a gradual yet direct rendezvous, to a speedier, but oblique course that would ultimately bring it across the bows of the larger ship: “crossing the T” as the admirals of later, up-time centuries had put it.
At the same time, the llaut had raised her yard a bit, putting more sheet to the reaching wind. The ship would call more attention to itself that way, but the pirates were probably preparing to abandon their efforts at mimicking a legitimate fishing boat. This close to the mouth of the bay, they probably wanted speed more than anything else; their goal was now to reach the skiff, take it and its men on board, and swing about toward open water where-if Spanish patrol boats put in a surprise appearance-the corsair could maneuver and evade.
Meanwhile, the Minnow began swinging slowly around to catch the wind from the rear starboard quarter. Given the way she was rigged currently, that pushed her forward at maximum speed. North heard the occasional, swell-cutting whispers of the prow mount into the hoarse, bumping rush that betokened speed great enough to generate a true bow wave.
Soon after, someone on the llaut obviously saw something suspicious in the oncoming skiff; wild gesticulations in its direction summoned two more observers into the bows, who hurriedly gestured to turn about.
The llaut veered off-but within moments discovered that it was directly leeward of the no-longer innocent looking scialuppa, which was now bearing down on them, its crew crouching low behind its gunwales. At approximately two hundred yards, the pilot of the pirate craft must have recognized the same speed and directness of course that he had set many times himself when attempting to intercept prey. Trapped, the corsair veered again, back toward its old course, simultaneously trying to cheat close to the wind, keep speed, and run out from between the two ships that were now clearly operating in concert.
But the prize crew on the skiff had foreseen and planned on this. Rather than giving direct chase when the llaut had first veered away from them, it had held its oblique course, continuing to push directly out of the bay, step sail raised high. And now the stratagem behind that maneuver became clear: when the llaut came around to avoid the Minnow, it found its prow aiming straight at the side of the skiff. The llaut no longer had enough room to avoid both of the ships; it would have to pass at close quarters with one of them, at least, or head deeper into the bay.
Seeing the small, overloaded skiff as the only thing standing in his way, the pirate captain made the predictable choice: to head straight for it. It was a sound tactic: on the one hand, it minimized the effect of the one volley its occupants might get off by making sure the spray of bullets came over the sheltering bow, rather than over the beam. Additionally, the ketch either had to move out of the llaut ’s way, or be smashed by its almost vertical prow and then shattered under its rushing keel. For a vessel larger than a llaut, there would have been no reciprocal danger involved, but in this case, it was a somewhat bold move: the pirate hull was not so large that it was impervious to damage. But as it turned out, this calculated risk was in fact a fatal mistake.
Thomas North clenched the athletic whistle between his teeth and sent out a shrill blast that carried over the sound of the gentle swells and the hulls that were hissing and frothing through them.
From the skiff, the stentorian voice of Owen Roe O’Neill barked out orders. A moment later, the little boat nearly came to a stop, offering its waist to the onrushing llaut. When the separating range had diminished to seventy yards, six men rose up in the skiff, weapons snugged against their cheeks as O’Neill roared for the oarsmen to steady the hull as much as possible.
The pirates came on, confident that they would soon be past a single storm of lead and then smash the enemy craft to flinders. That was when the weapons of the six men-four. 40–72 lever actions and the task force’s two SKS-Ms-began their rolling torrent of sharp, percussive fire.
The SKS’s alone pounded out fifty rounds in less than twenty seconds. The. 40-72s fired at a slower pace, but there were four of them, and when one was dry, Owen handed that rifleman a fresh weapon. Fired from one moving, pitching, platform to another, the majority of the shots were misses, many quite wild.
But at least a score found their marks. Pirates kept sprawling, falling across their oars, under the thwarts, two going over the side. The one who had been heaving mightily on the yard collapsed; the yard tilted down, the sail sagged. The corsair captain, resolved to return fire, scrambled to the bow, raised his wheel lock-and had three bullets go through his chest before he could fire his own weapon. The man at the tiller stood to see what had happened, was shouting orders when a round hit him in the shoulder. It spun the steersman about, but he kept hold of the sweep and was still giving orders when a second bullet went in his left temple and emerged in a bloody gout from his right ear.
The llaut, tiller free and sail hanging, began drifting back in toward the bay, pushed by the currents and the wind. As the Minnow closed in on it, there was movement visible along the gunwales and then a few survivors rose up cautiously. A quick look at the bodies piled in their boat told them all they needed to know: that there were not enough crew left to man her. The survivors looked at each other, and then began to raise their hands over their heads.