 | CHAPTER III. Ringwood the rover |  |
3. CHAPTER III.
Well was it for the buccaneers, that the wind
died away, which had brought into sight so rapidly
the Spanish caravellas; for had the four tall frigates,
which, deserted by the sea breeze, were
soon obliged to drop their anchors at the very
entrance of the bay, four miles at least from the
vessels of the pirates—been able to run in, the
small light picaroons of the Rovers, heavily
armed, although they were in proportion to their
rate and burthen, would have stood but a sorry
chance, hemmed in between the heavy batteries
of those floating castles to the seaward, and the
yet heavier cannon of the ramparts, should they
attempt to run into shoal water.
It was evident, moreover, that the newly arrived
ships were already in no small degree suspicious
of the character and intentions of the squadron
moored in shore; as appeared from the quick interchange
of signals, between the Spanish flagship,
which was the first to anchor, and her comrades.
In obedience to these signals, the four
tall vessels came to anchor, all nearly in a line,
at equal distances across the harbor, so as to render
escape difficult if not impossible—and in a
few moments afterward, in consequence of a fresh
flag shown at the mast-head, a second cable was
carried out from the stern of every frigate, and
she was warped round, till she lay broadside to
the bay with all her frowning batteries commanding
the long expanse of water, across which the
picaroons must sail exposed to their raking fire,
if they should seek to force a passage. The distance
and the apparently hopeless position of the
buccaneers preventing the Spaniards, as it would
seem, from sending their boats' crews to ascertain
their character, if not to cut them out and
capture them.
It must not be supposed that it took the keen
and practiced intellect of Ringwood so long a
time to apprehend his own position, and the intentions
of the enemy, as it has occupied us to
describe them. On the contrary, they had not
dropped their anchors, before he had envisaged
fully the extent of his own danger, and calculated
accurately the chances of effecting his escape, under
circumstances which seemed so unpromising.
Forming his men into four columns, he commanded
them to retreat by turns, one body facing
the ramparts with leveled harquebuse, and pike in
rest, while another fell back, till they had all
reached the gravelly margin of the bay. Then
judging from the movements on the walls and
above the gate, that a sally was about to be attempted,
he strode out alone, till he was within
earshot, and then shouted aloud—
“Beware!—beware how ye raise gate, or
lower bridge, or do but so much as to threaten
our retreat!—for as ye do so, by Him who knoweth
all things! the fate of your crushed clay,”—
and he pointed with a meaning smile to the dead
body of the young Melendez—“the fate of this
crushed clay shall be a lot of perfect bliss compared
with that which shall light on your sweet
daughter!” And with the words he fell back
slowly to his men, the greater part of whom were
already on board their boats, leaving the Spanairds
dispirited, and faint, and sick with hope
deferred. Within a short half hour, the whole
flotilla was in motion, dashing up the clear azure
of the peaceful bay, with hundreds of strong oars;
and ere the hour was well accomplished, each
picaroon had received its complement, had hoisted
in its boats, and lay, all hands at quarters, ready
for action.
When Ringwood reached the deck of his felucca,
ordering that his captive should be conveyed
without delay to his own private cabin, he
took to his perspective glass and gazed steadily
and long toward the Spanish caravellas, and far
beyond them toward the open sea.
“A mist!” he cried anon, after examining both
sea and sky with anxious scrutiny—“a mist,
coming in slowly from the seaward!—masthead
there!—signalize the captains of the squadron to
come aboard me here to council,”—and with the
word up went three balls to the masthead, and
bursting as they reached the summit, streamed out
Within five minutes after, a little cutter might be
seen to be launched from the side of every picaroon,
and darting toward the principal felucca, as
fast as oars could urge it through the water; yet
still the Rover swept the horizon round and round
with his telescope, minutely watching every sign
and symptom of the weather, fixing his gaze most
constantly on a point directly landward, where
just above the tree-tops one small dark cloud with
snow-white edges was visible—quite motionless—
and unconnected, as it seemed, with any mass of
vapor, the single frown of the bright laughing
heavens—the single frown, full of dread menace.
Just as the first of the small pinnaces came alongside,
his scrutiny was ended, and he closed his
glass, saying to himself with a quiet smile of
satisfaction,
“A mist forthwith from the seaward—and
when the sunset is fully passed, a hurricane and
land tornado! Ha! Master Cunninghame,” he
added as his second in command stepped on board,
a handsome, fresh complexioned, fair-haired Saxon,
“Ha! Monsieur Le Fort—welcome, good
friends and comrades—Winslow and Drake! welcome,
friends all! I have convoked you hither
to study how we may escape scot free from these
toils, that now seem set so close about us. And before
heaven!—I hold the clue, my masters. See
ye, how dark this sea-mist is now gathering? The
Spaniards must lie still till it blow over—and then
look yonder, to the bright edges of you black
cloud. Ere midnight we shall have a land tornado—then
must you Spanish lubbers slip their stern
cables, and swing head to sea; and then will we
run up to them under slight storm sails, and, it
may be, slip by them unperceived in the deep
gloom—if not engage them and force passage.—
Lo! here my masters, when I shall fire a bow gun,
hold all ready to cut or slip your cables! and
when I hoist three lanthorns on my main, then
run! You, Drake and Winslow, since that your
vessels draw least water, steer you betwixt the
headlands of the bay, on the right hand and left,
and those two outward frigates. I will steer
straight between the central two; ye, Cunninghame
and Le Fort, make good your way between
the others, on either hand of me—when ye are
all at sea, fire each a weather gun, and burn a
blue light and three rockets—then each make all
sail for the inlet, and so huzza for home! And
one word more, my friends, before we part—it
will blow sturdily, I warrant me—send down all
masts and yards—have your ships snug and easy,
with naught abroad but a small rag of head sail,
so to steer. Have out your sweeps, too,—to get
yourselves before the wind, if need be—none may
tell certainly where the tornado may strike first—
farewell, be brave and fortunate, and see ye reach
your vessels ere this fog commence; since of a
surety ye scarce will find their berths, when once
the mist gets settled. So, my friends, once more,
fare ye well!”
And with these words, accustomed long ago to
place complete reliance on the opinion of that
skillful navigator, and to yield with instinctive
readiness to his least mandate, his four commanders
entered their boats, and hurried to their several
vessels, although in truth they saw no symptoms—even
when pointed out by his unerring
judgment—of the approaching changes in the
weather which their great chief prognosticated so
decidedly. Not long was it, however, that they
doubted; if indeed it may be said that they did
doubt at all; for though they marveled, and
looked anxiously about to note some confirmation
of their leader's prophecy, they did not for a moment
presume to doubt their leader's accuracy—
for ere they had all reached their vessels, the thin
haze which had for some time floated on the extreme
horizon's edge, grew thick and heavy—and
by and by came rolling onward in damp and ponderous
masses, although no breath of air could be
discovered, by which it was urged landward; and
the whole atmosphere grew damp and watery.
Then one by one the caravellas of the enemy
were swallowed up in the dense gloom, and when
their own low rakish picaroons became so indistinct
and dim, that those which lay farthest from
the felucca of the great English buccaneers were
not reached by their officers, without much difficulty
and some hazard. Long before sunset, nothing
was visible from the deck of any one of that
small pirate squadron, but the calm surface of the
unmoved sea, and that within a circle of only some
fifty yards at the utmost, beyond which all was one
dead drowsy mass of impenetrable vapor. Yet
so well had the officers taken the bearings of the
enemy, of the headlands, and of their consort,
that there was not one of their number who was
not as fully acquainted with the position of every
thing about him, as he could have been had the
whole scene been laughing out in clear broad sunshine.
All day the crews were mustered, and toiling
at their several stations, and night was advanced
somewhat, ere all the preparations were completed;
the loftier masts sent down, the yards
housed safely, and the lighter sails unbent, the rigging
all repaired, and the masts fortified with extra
stays against the coming tempest; the guns run
out and loaded, the matches lighted, and the armed
crews at quarters; the heavy sweeps already in the
water and ready, at a word's notice, to be worked
and his stout mates, prepared with their broad
axes to sever the strong cables at a blow, and let
the gallant barks shoot seaward!
The sun had long since sunk into the waves and
the deep palpable obscure of night been added to
the gloom of the thick fog-wreaths—no stars were
in the sky, no moon, “hid in her vacant interlunar
cave,” hung forth her silver lamp in the dark
vault; for clouds, heavy and packed and solid, had
long since overspread the sky, though not a human
eye had marked them, swelling from out that one
small spot of vapor, till they had blotted out each
light of the broad empyrean, from the horizon
upward to the zenith. Midnight was near at hand
—when a deep, rumbling roar, as of ten thousand
chariots rolling upon a strong causeway, rushed
up from the landward; and, after filling the air
for some short space, sunk gradually down into a
faint, sick moan—unlike to any sound of earth, or
air, or water. It ceased; and as it did so the
sharp and ringing discharge of a long brazen culverin
burst in a sheet of flame from the lee bowport
of the Rover's galley—and scarcely had its
echoes died away, before a wide, blue sulphurous
glare seemed to rush downward bodily from the
black skies, with such a roar of thunder, crash
upon crash, and peal succeeding peal, as stunned
the sternest soul. In a moment, in the twinkling
of an eye, the misty wreaths were swept seaward
and vanished; leaving, however, the night quite
as dark as ever; and as they did so, up shot to
Ringwood's mainmast head three glittering lanthorns—sparkled
there for a moment—and were
quenched instantly, by the fierce whirling breath
of the tornado. Bearing on its mad pinions huge
limbs fresh-rent from the tall forest trees, whirling
the level surface of the calm bay into a series
of huge and snow-capped billows, and anon
sweeping away the heads of those vast waves,
and beating them down bodily into the deep, till
the whole bosom of the sea was one wide, white
expanse of scattering, hissing spray—roaring and
howling—yea! yelling in its furious might—soon
came the tropical tornado! But every cable was
cut sheer, before it struck the water, throughout
the Rover's squadron—the sweeps were out and
manned; the picaroons all underway and steering,
when the fierce blast fell on their raked spars and
scanty canvas, and drove them, like beings full of
fiery life, bounding across the waters.
When the mist cleared away, the Spanish caravellas
were descried, not by their outlines—for no
human eye could trace an outline against the
swart gloom of the sky—but by the broad glare
of the battle lanthorns, gleaming out from their
open port-holes, as they lay broadside toward the
bay, all manned and cleared for action; so that
her course was definite and clear to each one of
the picaroons.
But when the dreadful howl of the tornado
came raving through the tortured air, their stern
cables were all slipped at once, and they came
heavily round, head to sea, upon the instant; and
more line was paid out; and though they rolled
and labored fearfully, yet they rode still secure,
amid the frightful uproar.
No light was seen, no voice or sound was heard,
on deck of any one of Ringwood's squadron; as
driving with the speed of light before the raging
hurricane, they neared the lofty Spaniards—but
loud and violent was the confusion and the din
aboard the castled caravellas. Unseen and unsuspected,
leading the van of his little fleet, the Rover
rushed into the space between the central
frigates, and so rapidly did he shoot through, betwixt
those motionless and vast masses, that the
scared crews had scarcely time to note his transit;
yet did the fearful volley, which he poured forth
from each broadside, as he rushed past, plunge
fatally and fast into their clustered masts—and
when they sprung in turn to their guns, and fired
their answering salvos, the picaroon had shot already
a cable's length ahead, and the two Spanish
ships received each other's shot, thinning their
crews more fatally than had the Rover's broadside,
cutting away their rigging, piercing their castled
sides, and shearing their spars fearfully of their
dimensions. Under the cover of this disastrous
chance, Cunninghame and Le Fort passed undiscovered,
with their guns undischarged, within
half pistol shot on the outside of these same two
caravellas; and when the Rover, half a mile now
to seaward, fired his weather gun, burnt his blue
lights, and sent his rockets up kindling the murky
skies with their clear sparkles, these two responded
on the instant, with ready tokens of their
safety. Almost at the same point of time a heavy
cannonade was heard from the two outward caravellas,
and scarce ten minutes later, the two remaining
picaroons signaled their comrades through
the gloom.
Such was the desperate and daring feat, long
famous as the master deed of naval warfare
in that remote and early age, by which the English
buccaneer ran, with five petty picaroons, the
gantlet of Spain's noblest caravellas, in safety
and triumph—losing no man, no spar, no rope,
how trivial it might be soever, bearing his captive
with him, and leaving to his baffled foes sorrow,
and anguish, and despair.
Ere long the hurricane subsided, but still the
breeze blew swift, and sure, and steady—and
swiftly danced the roving barques before it. All
the deck, but when the daylight broke over the
foaming ocean; and when he swept the free horizon
with his glass, and saw his consorts dancing
merrily behind him, and not a sail save theirs in
sight, whether of foe or stranger, he gave his deck
in charge to the next officer, and sought his private
cabin, and his unhappy captive.
| CHAPTER III. Ringwood the rover | |