1635: The Papal Stakes

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

Thomas North had to admit it: Harry Lefferts was not just a fine special operative, he was a fine field officer, as well. And nothing proved that so clearly, and so profoundly, as his ability to simply wait.

The pirate ship-an uncommonly large llaut, as the Mallorquin fishermen had claimed-had arrived and started its cautious approach to the Bay of Canyamel in the early hours of the morning. It put a small boat over its side when the sky was still goose-gray, and loitered behind while that skiff made its way into the bay just after dawn. Dressed as fishermen, the pirates rowed the small boat to the foot of the caves. Harry and North had watched through binoculars as they scrambled up the steep and craggy slope and then passed within, uneventfully.

That had been more than an hour ago. Many officers-both new and seasoned-would, by now, be fretting about what had happened. Under conditions like these, too many officers became convinced that it was A Bad Sign that none of their own men had emerged yet and so, started straining at the bit to go help-personally.

Not Harry Lefferts. He lazed on the stern thwart. If it was an act, it was a very good one. “Hey, owner-aboard and Captain,” North said.

“What?”

“I suppose I should inform you that there’s a movement afoot to name the ships.”

“Oh? What are the names?”

“Well, the Ragusans have always had a name for their gajeta: Zora, or ‘ Dawn. ’ The Venetians felt that the old name for the barca-longa was a bit parochial and tepid, so they changed it from the Maria to the Guerra Cagna.”

“ War Bitch? ” translated Harry. “Catchy.”

“Quite. And I renamed the xebec myself: it’s now the Atropos.”

“What?…Oh, I get it. Bravo, Mr. Hornblower. I didn’t take you for the nautical type.” Harry patted the gunwale of the scialuppa. “And what have they decided to call this bucket?”

North shrugged. “They’re leaving it with the name it always had: the Pesciolino.”

“The Little Fish?”

“As I understand it, the context is more akin to ‘the Minnow.’”

Harry’s jaw fell open. “The Minnow? Really? The Minnow?” And without any warning, he fell backward in the thwarts, laughing so hard that Thomas was concerned that some delicate mental thread in the up-timer had finally snapped.

But upon rising to check on Harry, North discovered that the captain’s malady was indeed nothing more than uncontrollable hysterics. “What in blazes are you laughing at? You’re making the crew nervous.”

“The Minnow?” Harry gasped. “Why didn’t anyone tell me this was a three-hour tour?” And then he fell back laughing again.

“What the bloody hell are you talking about?”

Harry, tears streaming out of his eyes, propped himself up and explained, since they had nothing better to do, about the strange up-time TV phenomenon known as Gilligan’s Island.

Hearing the return of calm to the back of his boat, Aurelio edged aftward to take a look at Lefferts. “He okay?” the Piombinese captain asked North.

Harry stared up at Aurelio, then pointed and chortled, “Oh. My. God. It’s the Skipper-with a mustache and an Italian accent!” In an attempt to keep his laughing more quiet, Lefferts pitched over, head between his knees, his back quaking in time with his suppressed guffaws.

Orazio joined his uncle many times removed to look at the stricken up-timer. “The captain, he is not well?”

Harry looked up, and now the laughter was coming out as choked, wheezing spasms. He pointed again, this time at Orazio. “And Gilligan. Where’s the Professor? He’ll figure out the attack plan we need. And Ginger-oh, Ginger-” He bent over again, laughing so hard that he could no longer speak.

Aurelio and Orazio looked at North, eyebrows high, eyes wide. “The captain-is he-eh, that is, has he-?”

North sighed. “The captain is fine. Just very, very amused.”

“Amused? While we wait to fight pirates?”

“He laughs in the face of death. Me too. Ha, ha.”

The Italians’ stares ping-ponged from North, to the recovering Lefferts, and back to North. Although they did not speak, their thoughts were easy to read: “Mad Englishmen.” North couldn’t blame them for thinking that; in fact, he was disposed to agree with them. Even if they did shamefully associate up-time Americans with their English progenitors. “You see, now; the captain is quite himself again.”

Which was almost true. Lefferts sat up very straight, opened his mouth to begin what would probably be a very sane, rational explanation for his debilitating fit of mirth-when one of the Venetians who had been seeded on board the Minnow hissed, “The little pirate boat has started back from the caves.”

The scialuppa was suddenly quiet. Lefferts’ rapid, easy shift into complete tactical focus was, North had to admit, enviable. “Get yourself behind the sail, Orazio, and then scan the boat using the binoculars. Don’t keep them out for more than a minute; we don’t want the pirates getting a glimpse of the lenses. Tell me what you see back at the caves. Aurelio, start taking us to windward of the pirate llaut — slowly. Nothing suspicious.”

“ Si, Captain Lefferts.” Aurelio did not like combat-he was a fisherman by both trade and temperament-but he seemed relieved at Harry’s recovery.

“Orazio, what are you seeing? Tell me everything, lil’ buddy.” Harry snickered as the uttered the last words; North resolved to view whatever episodes of Gilligan’s Island had made the journey back down-time.

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.

Thomas felt his stomach clench, but did what he had to do: he gave two short blasts on the whistle. The four Hibernians with him in the Minnow lifted their weapons and shot the pirates down where they stood.

As the Minnow and the skiff converged on the llaut, no amount of rationalizing managed to untie the knot of guilt that was constricting North’s stomach. He looked at Lefferts, whose face was not quite entirely impassive.

“We had no choice,” said the up-timer quietly. “We knew it would probably come to this.”

“Damned if that makes in any easier,” commented North.

Harry nodded and watched the first of the Venetian sailors leap across the gap between the Minnow and the pirate llaut, carrying lines to make them fast together.

North cleared his throat. “Aurelio,” he said, “go on board and tell me how fast you can get her crewed and ready to move. Owen?”

“Here.”

“Any casualties?”

“Nary a hit, not even to the skiff itself. Shall we board the corsair and take inventory?”

“Stop reading my mind. By the way, how much food did you leave behind in the cave?”

“Dinner for twenty, maybe.”

“Not worth the risk going back for it. Anything else?”

“No; every bit of gear-ours and theirs-is crowded into this wee boat.”

“Transfer it all to the llaut, then put the skiff in tow.”

“As you say, Lord Sassenach. And the bodies? What to do with them?”

Thomas glanced at Harry, who met his gaze and nodded. Thomas stood straight and called over to Owen, “Consign them to the deep.”

Two nights later, Miro arrived at the Caves of Arta, found the skiff waiting for him, and made what was now a long journey over the horizon to the re-gathered flotilla. As the little boat finally approached the lightless Atropos, he grinned up at Harry Lefferts, who was awaiting him on poop deck. “Permission to come aboard?”

“Hell,” drawled Harry, “near as I can figure it, you own this ship.”

“Why, I suppose I might. But no: it’s more proper to consider all the prize hulls common property for now, at least until we can work out the shares later on.”

“You sound way too familiar with the conventions of this piracy business, Estuban. You sure you’ve told me everything about your past?”

“Never ask a question if you’d rather not know the answer.”

“Huh. Figured. So: now what?”

North had strolled over with O’Neill and, seeing them approach Harry, Miro lost his train of thought for a second; they were truly, and naturally, comrades now. In his absence, these three very different men had finished forging the bonds that made them a team, a group of soldiers who worked well together, and even liked each other.

“Estuban? You okay?”

“Yes, Harry, just a little distracted. Tired from the journey, I expect. The rowers in the skiff briefed me on the way out, but some of the news seemed to good to believe. Did you really take the corsair without any losses?”

“Seems so,” said Harry, who rummaged about in a deck locker and produced a bottle of wine and a fistful of small pewter mugs.

Miro looked down. “A victory drink? Isn’t that a bit presumptive?”

“I think of it merely as a ‘Hey! We’re not dead yet!’ drink,” replied Harry.

Miro smiled. “Yes. We have been lucky. For a change.”

“Let’s hope that luck holds a little longer-long enough to grab Frank and Gia.” Harry gulped at his wine. “So spill, Estuban: are the Stones where you thought they’d be?”

“Yes, in the Castell de Bellver. And we’ll have all the help and supplies we need to get them out.”

“And do you have a plan finalized yet?” Thomas sounded doubtful,

“I have a plan; you will all help me polish the details. And we’ll need to do it tonight, in my cabin.”

“Why so soon? And why inside?” asked Owen.

“It must be tonight because some of you will be heading directly to a safe house in Palma by tomorrow evening.”

“Oh, and who would that be?”

“Well, actually…you, Owen. You and one of your men will be the first to go.”

“Me and-?”

“Yes. Then you, Thomas; you’ll head in a few days before the rescue operation is set to begin.”

“And may I ask why I must be shipped into Palma?”

“So that you can lead the troops into Bellver.”

“Wonderful. And how am I supposed to do that? By knocking on the portcullis and asking politely to enter?”

Miro smiled. “We’ll worry about the specifics when we’re done with the wine-and where none of the men can hear us talking.”

Harry looked around at the black seas and up at the silver stars. “Huh. Doesn’t look like a promising neighborhood for enemy informers, Estuban.”

“It’s not. But we’ll be coming close to shore soon; I trust our men, but I don’t know all of them well enough to be sure that, if they had a detailed plan to sell to our enemies, one of them wouldn’t succumb to the allure of forty pieces of silver-or much more. And with all the pre-positioning, supply pickup, and transport that we’re going to be coordinating over the next two weeks, they’d have plenty of opportunity to betray our plans to the enemy. So except for those groups who will train for the operation in separation from the others, we will not be sharing the details of the rescue with our men.”

“So you do have the basics of a rescue plan,” persisted North. “Does this mean you have also settled on a plan of escape?”

“I’m a little less certain about that part of the operation,” confessed Miro. “It can be done of course, but-” Miro glanced around at the faint, moonlit masts of their small flotilla “-but it is difficult to see how we will get so many ships safely away, without any falling into Spanish hands.”

Harry finished pouring out another round of wine. “Piece of cake. Do to them what they did to us in Rome.”

Miro frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, they had lots of vehicles too-carriages, there-but they still had us running a four-way wild goose chase while playing ‘find the pea.’”

Miro realized he was the only one not drinking, but didn’t care; Harry had shown him the answer, the way they could escape. In fact, if Miro’s rapidly evolving calculations were correct, they’d not only be able to get out all the ships and their crews, but also “Estuban,” Owen Roe seemed to say from a great distance, “what’s wrong? Why the lunatic smile?”

“Oh, nothing. Just enjoying the genius of Harry’s plan.”

Lefferts had a sour expression on his face. “Just don’t forget how my last plan ended up. Genius, my ass. If I was a genius I wouldn’t have gotten so many people killed.”

Miro shook his head. “ You didn’t get anyone killed, Harry. That was the work of a clever, deceptive, and well-prepared enemy, not you. This time, it shall be you-and the rest of us-who outwit them. And even if you insist you are not a genius-well, your escape plan most certainly is.” Miro patted him on the shoulder. “It is genius. Pure genius.”