The Privateersman (A Poor Man at the Gate Series Book 1) by Andrew Wareham Read Free Book Online

month of near idleness had led to any number of
second thoughts among the crew, to doubts about the wisdom of penetrating the
Caribbean – they knew that Britain was losing the war, that the American rebels
and, more importantly, their French allies were winning on land and that the
French, Spanish and Dutch were in loose alliance at sea. For the first time in
a century the oceans were not an English domain; it would not last, that
was for sure, the navy would organise itself and restore the proper order of
things very soon, but, for the while, the enemy might be found anywhere. Of
course, that was why privateering was profitable at that moment – many more
French and Spanish merchantmen were at sea than would be the case if the navy
was snapping them up whenever they showed their noses outside of their
harbours; even so, the possibility of escorts and patrols had to be borne in
mind – they might be about to stir up a hornet’s nest. In the Mediterranean,
for example, the Spanish had to keep a very careful eye on the Barbary pirates
whilst watching what the Austrian Empire might be doing in the Italian states;
Atlantic waters gave the Spanish another set of problems, the English
particularly, the net effect being that they could not devote a great deal of
attention to the activities of one little privateer. In the Caribbean they
might have nothing better to do than protect their traders…
    They closed the coast of a bright afternoon – dawn
would have been better but their precise position posed a slight problem –
Smith had no navigation at all and Captain Blaine had some difficulties taking
a sextant reading with his hands shaking so. It had been thought better to hold
well away from where the shore should have been in the hours of darkness.
    They spotted eight separate sail of merchantmen
making for the port, all unconcerned and pottering quietly along, one man and a
dog on watch – evidently sure that no English ships would be about and that the
few small pirates remaining would be holding a safe distance from the naval
base.
    Two brigs and a schooner were of a hundred tons or
more, would be profitable captures – Admiralty Court fees in England ate up the
value of smaller prizes to such an extent that they were more bother than they
were worth. Each surrendered to a single shot across the bows, surprised and
indignant to discover a corsair in their own back yard, but certainly not about
to argue with loaded guns pointing very directly at them. Star turned her head
northwards, towards Antigua, shepherding her chicks in front of her – rations
demanded a port sooner rather than later and the manpower for prize-crews was
not there.
    “Five quid a share, at least, Tom, when we get them
to court. The lads will be better for a good piss-up in English Harbour,
cheaper there than in Poole.”
    Tom nodded, not entirely sure why that should be the
case but unwilling to argue about anything so unimportant to him.
    Dawn off Martinique brought them a bright, clear,
sunny morning, the mountains of the volcanic island fresh-washed and black to
their west, a large merchantman to their east, hove-to and waiting full
daylight to close the coast and signal for the pilot cutter. Blaine was called
immediately, staggered bleary-eyed on deck and peered about him in puzzlement
until Smith nudged him in the right direction.
    “French West Indiaman,” Blaine announced. “Far too
big for us to handle, except we get lucky. Load all.”
    Three minutes to cross the stern of the big ship,
four times their size, two-decked, her rails at least ten feet higher than
Star’s, taken unawares for expecting no trouble within sight almost of a great
naval base. First stirrings of surprise turned to panic as the three prizes
conformed to Star, seemingly a whole squadron of privateers, or, much worse,
pirates.
    Star fired her broadside, high on the roll, skimming
across the poop and spreading a few splinters and a great deal of roaring. A
few