Birds of Prey - Smith Wilbur (полная версия книги .TXT) 📗
In order to meet Hal's charge the colonel had turned his back on Aboli, a foolhardy move. As he trapped Hal's thrust and shifted his feet to lunge, Aboli rushed at him from behind. For a moment Hal thought he would run him through the spine, but he should have guessed better. Aboli knew the value of ransom as well as any man aboard: a dead enemy officer was merely so much rotting meat to throw overboard to the sharks that followed in their wake but a captive was worth good gold guilders.
Aboli reversed his grip, and brought the steel basket of the cutlass hilt cracking into the back of the colonel's skull. The Dutchman's eyes flew wide open with shock, then his legs buckled under him and he toppled face down on the deck.
As the colonel went down, the last resistance of the galleon's crew collapsed with him. They threw down their weapons, and those of the Lady Edwina's crew who had surrendered leapt to their feet, wounds and exhaustion forgotten. They snatched up the discarded weapons and turned them on the beaten Dutchmen, herding them forward, forcing them to squat in ranks with their hands clasped behind their heads, dishevelled and forlorn.
Aboli seized Hal in a bear-hug. "When you and Sam Bowles set sail, I thought it was the last we would see of you," he panted.
Sir Francis came striding towards his son, thrusting his way through the milling, cheering pack of his seamen. "You deserted your post at the masthead!" He scowled at Hal as he bound a strip of cloth around the nick in his upper arm and knotted it with his teeth.
"Father," Hal stammered, "I thought, -" "And for once you thought wisely!" Sir Francis's dark expression cracked and his green eyes sparkled. "We'll make a warrior of you yet, if you remember to keep your point up on the riposte. This great cheese-head," he prodded the fallen colonel with his toe, "was about to skewer you, until Aboli tapped his noggin." Sir Francis slipped his sword back into its scabbard. "The ship is not yet secure. The lower decks and holds are crawling with them. We'll have to drive them out. Stay close to Aboli and me!" "Father, you're hurt, "Hal protested.
"And perhaps I would have been more sorely wounded had you come back to us even a minute later than you did."
"Let me see to your wound."
"I know the tricks Aboli has taught you would you piss on your own father?" He laughed, and clapped Hal on the shoulder. "Perhaps I'll give you that pleasure a little later." He turned and bellowed across the deck, "Big Daniel, take your men below and winkle out those cheese-heads who are hiding there. Master John, put a guard on the cargo hatches. See to it there is no looting. Fair shares for all! Master Ned, take the helm and get this ship on the wind before she flogs her canvas to rags."
Then he roared at the others, "I'm proud of you, you rascals! A good day's work. You'll each go home with fifty gold guineas in your pocket. But the Plymouth lassies will never love you as well I do!"
They cheered him, hysterical with the release from desperate action and the fear of defeat and death.
"Come on!" Sir Francis nodded to Aboli and started for the ladder that led down into the officers" and passengers" quarters in the stern.
Hal followed at a run as they crossed the deck, and Aboli grunted over his shoulder, "Be on your mettle. There are those below who would be happy to stick a dirk between your ribs."
Hal knew where his father was going, and what would be his first concern. He wanted the Dutch captain's charts, log and sailing directions. They were more valuable to him than all the fragrant spices and precious metals and bright jewels the galleon might be carrying. With those in his hands he would have the key to every Dutch harbour and fort in the Indies. He would read the sailing orders of the spice convoys and the manifest of their cargoes. To him they were worth ten thousand pounds in gold.
Sir Francis stormed down the ladder and tried the first door at the bottom. It was locked from within. He stepped back and charged. At his flying kick, the door flew open and crashed back on its hinges.
The galleon's captain was crouched over his desk, his cropped pate wig less and his clothing sweat-soaked. He looked up in dismay, blood dripping from a cut on his cheek onto his silken shirt, its wide fashionable sleeves slashed with green.
At the sight of Sir Francis, he froze in the act of stuffing the ship's books into a weighted canvas bag, then snatched it up and rushed to the stern windows. The casements and glass had been shot away by the Lady Edwina's culver ins and they gaped open, the sea breaking and swirling under her counter. The Dutch captain lifted the bag to hurl it through the opening but Sir Francis seized his raised arm and flung him backwards onto his bunk. Aboli grabbed the bag, and Sir Francis made a courteous little bow. "You speak English?"he demanded.
"No English," the captain snarled back, and Sir Francis changed smoothly into Dutch. As a Nautonnier Knight of the Order he spoke most of the languages of the great seafaring nations, French, Spanish andpo-rtuguese, as well as Dutch. "You are my prisoner, Mijnheer. What is your name?"
Timberger, captain of the first class, in the service of the VOC. And you, Mijnheer, are a corsair," the captain retorted.
"You are mistaken, sir! I sail under Letters of Marque from His Majesty King Charles the second. Your ship is now a prize of war."
"You flew false colours," the Dutchman accused.
Sir Francis smiled bleakly. "A legitimate ruse of war." He made a dismissive gesture and went on, "You are a brave man, Mijnheer, but the fight is over now. As soon as you give me your word, you will be treated as my honoured guest. The day your ransom is paid, you will go free."
The captain wiped the blood and sweat from his face with his silken sleeve, and an expression of resignation dulled his features. He stood and handed his sword hilt first to Sir Francis.
"You have my word. I will not attempt to escape."
