Buccaneer by Dudley Pope Page A

under ’em.”
    The first they knew of the shots was a row of red eyes winking at the end of the jetty and a moment later a popping like a dozen corks shooting from bottles of fermenting wine. Then the musket balls hit the Griffin ’s side, some sounding as though a man was punching the planking, others whining away in ricochet after hitting metal fittings with the loose noise of a blacksmith shaping a horse’s shoe.
    Both Ned and Saxby instinctively dropped to the deck, below the level of the bulwarks.
    “The provost marshal,” Ned muttered angrily, sliding over to the pile of muskets and pistols beside the mast. “He ran into Wilson, stopped once he knew we no longer heard the horses’ hooves and then doubled back along the beach.”
    “Yorke,” they heard him bellow. “I’ve warned you of the hue and cry so surrender yourself. You can’t sail with no wind. I’ll have a hundred men here in half an hour.”
    Saxby snatched up the speaking trumpet and already Ned could hear the pounding of feet as his own men rushed on deck, eager to get at the muskets and pistols.
    “Settle yourselves behind something proof against musket shot,” Ned warned them. “This may last a long time. You’ve two minutes before they’ll have reloaded.”
    “You want a musket, sir?” Saxby asked.
    “No. I’ll be dodging about. Pity we can’t use one of our minions to sweep the jetty.”
    “Ah,” Saxby said regretfully. “A few pounds of langrage would settle the provost marshal’s account.”
    By now the Griffin ’s men were in position with their muskets and pistols. “Open fire when you’ve a target,” Saxby called.
    “That’s the trouble, sir, we can’t see no one,” a seaman grumbled. “They’re hidden in the shadows at the back o’ the beach. Now there’s more cloud coming up to hide the moon.”
    Another crash of musketry and the pummelling of the lead balls hitting the Griffin ’s planking led to one of the Griffin ’s musketeers shouting: “They’re all bunched up behind that clump of sea grape bushes in line with the end of the jetty.”
    “Fire at ’em, then!” Saxby bellowed. “Come on, let’s smell our powder!” He looked up at the sky and nudged Yorke. “Look up there, sir; there’s a few gallons of rain in that – we’ll have to be sure to keep our powder dry!”
    Low on the eastern horizon a broad band of billowing and tumbling dark cloud was approaching, bringing the heavy showers so frequent in the tropics between midnight and three in the morning.
    A single musket fired on board the Griffin , then a second and third. “They’re taking careful aim,” Saxby commented.
    “Could a shot penetrate our planking?” Ned asked.
    “Quick!” Saxby said. “Mrs Wilson – get her out of the cabin and put her forward with Mrs Judd: that transom won’t stop shot, leastways, the sternlights won’t.”
    Ned bolted for the companionway, just able to see his way from a single lantern. The cabin was deserted. He worked his way forward, calling her name and hearing her replying from amidships. He shouted back a reassuring phrase which was interrupted by yet another volley from the shore, and heard a shot ricocheting around the cabin he had just left.
    What the devil could he do? With no wind, the Griffin was sitting alongside the jetty like a crate of pigeons being shot at by a mad sportsman. His own men were firing spasmodically but he knew they were shooting at shadows. He felt hot with anger and embarrassment when he thought how the provost marshal had so successfully tricked him. Stevens was not the sort of man anyone should trust, even to collect a dozen eggs from a market.
    As he climbed back up the companionway he heard Saxby calling him urgently and by the time he reached the deck his ears had warned him of what Saxby would have to say. The drumming along the track at the back of the beach told him that dozens of horsemen were galloping up to help Stevens.
    While Saxby reported and gave