The Star suddenly came alive. Reefed sails dropped, sheets tightened, the canvas bulged with air. The Spanish brig swung about and raised its starboard ports, ready to trade running broadsides out of the cove. Within two minutes the Star was within range, but it suddenly bore full to starboard as if it would break for sea without engaging. As it turned, and each cannon came to bear briefly on the enemy ship, the Star fired in succession. Mentor simply moved from one loaded piece to the next. A wide swath of scrap metal and nail flew at the brig with an elevation such that the metal careened about the weather deck and forced the men to seek cover. Simultaneously, the men in the Star’s rigging fired their rifles but aimed only at the poop, forcing the captain and the officers to drop to the deck.
Jack recognized the confusion the Star had caused aboard the brig, but none of the Star’s tactics would seriously damage the enemy vessel. As the captain gave the order for the first broadside, he must have rejoiced in the prospect of his ship-killing projectiles tearing into the fabric of the American pirate. But his joy was to be short-lived. Jack heard the captain stifle his order to reload. The brig lurched. Knowing he couldn’t have possibly run aground, the captain would be questioning the helmsman. The man’s panicked voice carried across the water, “Madre de Dios, Capitán—”
Jack heard the shriek and rattle of chains tearing across the brig’s rudder bearings. Almost the entire length of line from the Star cleared the water as the hawser tightened and pulled the floating barrels into the far side of the brig’s rudder like a cannon shot. Jack motioned to Hansum, who, standing ready with an axe, chopped through the taut line before it ripped open the stern of the Star.
As the Spanish ship swerved crazily to port, clearly out of control, a cheer went up from the crew of the Star. Klett and the others on the forward deck lowered their trousers and waved their bare derrieres at the officialdom of the Spanish colony, while Quince broke into a brass-arm-above-his-head jig.
“Take her north,” yelled Jack, as they cleared the cove and gathered speed. He turned to examine the damage from the enemy’s broadside, which had “torn up the furniture but done no real harm” in Mentor’s view, when his sideways glance spotted the sail of a larger ship that had just beat its way out of Habana harbor. It was a large Spanish merchant that Quince surmised had been converted from a fifth rate, allowing it to carry a good array of guns while using the main gun deck for stowage of goods.
The ship was clearly not heading for them but seemed to be making for the Gulf Stream, the standard route for a return trip to Europe. The Stream would give it a boost on the northerly portion of its trip back to the Old World. Jack’s first inclination was to pass it without incident, which would certainly suit the merchant. Homebound for Spain, it would have “plenty to lose,” in Quince’s parlance. Most likely silver from the Potosí mint, porcelain and silks that had made their way to Acapulco from the Manila trade, then over land to—“Sweet Christ, Jacob, what the hell is that pennant she’s flying?”
Jacob, looking through his glass from the crow’s nest, yelled back down, “It’s that same damned design we saw at de Silva’s hacienda…. Blimey, Jack, that’s the damn Cubano Agresor, de Silva’s ship!”
No one needed orders from Jack. Red Dog locked the helm with the holding lines after setting an interception course for the ship. He had both hands free to inspect the two pistols in his jerkin, ensuring the powder was dry and the lucky chicken foot he had purchased in a strange dark shop in Habana was secure around his neck. Without question, the Brotherhood was in for another scrap.
The Agresor reduced sail and turned to meet the fast-approaching smaller three-master. Quince, who had been staring intently at the water separating the two vessels, turned to Jack. “Act like you’re going to cross the T.”
“What? I don’t—”
“Just do it, Jack. Please.”
Knowing Quince would never insist on something without good reason, Jack complied and began the classic naval maneuver of heading directly across the bow of the enemy, so he could fire his broadside in sequence at the ship, which would then only have bow chasers to bring to bear on the Star. In this situation, however, the move could be easily countered by the enemy turning to starboard and bringing about her own much larger broadside. Then Jack too caught sight of the streak of light green. “Lord, Quince, there’s a reef there…. I had no idea.”
“Neither does he, lad.”
Though most eyes on the larger ship were distracted by the Star’s maneuver, the lookout on the Agresor must have spotted the danger. Jack could hear him screaming to his captain. Seconds later there was a scraping sound—audible even on the Star—and a crunch. The Spaniard was on the rocks and probably had her hull holed beneath the waterline. Yelling carried over the water—some of it seemed to be in English. The Star jibed and headed toward her stern quarter, avoiding the fixed position of most of the other ship’s cannon, and let go with a broadside.
The larger ship returned fire from the ordnance she could still bring to bear, then suddenly stopped. Jack saw a white flag raised on her mainmast. “What in hell,” he said aloud. “They must have more fight in them than that.”
Then the full extent of damage from the collision with the reef became apparent. The Agresor’s port side fell slowly to her bulwarks. The men on the Star were transfixed by the sight; all firing had ceased as the result of Quince’s tactical genius. Men were already climbing into lifeboats or jumping ship. Jack heard the captain of the Agresor order his officers to shoot the deserters, but they seemed reluctant to do so.
When it seemed the drama could be no greater, the great ship suddenly groaned again and began to turn port down into the waves.
“Jesus, she’s sinking,” muttered Red Dog. There was another screeching sound, and the men of the Star could hear the ballast shifting in the hull. Much of it crashed out of the lowered port side, along with wares and goods. The ship’s cannon tore loose and plunged into the sea. Five minutes later the Agresor seemed to tilt bow down and settle on the long, sloping reef, her stern partially out of the water at a crazy angle.
The surface was eerily still. Full lifeboats were being rowed toward the Cuban shoreline—perhaps a dozen miles away—and several heads bobbed on flotsam in the water between the downed ship and the Star.
“Pick up the survivors!” yelled Jack.
As he turned to consult with Quince, he heard a commotion from the lifeboats.
“Hey, Jack, you won’t believe what kinda human trash we found here.”
Jack’s heart went to his throat, praying it was de Silva. But as he ran to the port side, he could see it wasn’t. The ugly blob of humanity dragged into the Star’s launch was Cheatum. Minutes later he was on deck, mumbling words of pure terror, then defiant curses.
Jack stood over him. “Men, cut off one of his fingers,” he said, “every minute he doesn’t tell us something we want to know about that ship. Then throw his balls to the sharks.”