The Jew looked down and saw a giant splinter had passed through the seaman’s cheek and upward through the roof of his mouth. In the next moment, Lazue calmly bent over and shot the man in the head with her pistol. Pinkish cheesy material was flung all over the wooden deck. With an odd detachment, the Jew realized it was the man’s brains. He looked back at Hunter, who was staring at the enemy with fixed gaze.
“Damage report!” Hunter shouted as the next volley from the warship pounded them.
“Foresprit gone.”
“Fore sail gone!”
“Number two cannon out.”
“Number six cannon out!”
“Mizzen top blown!”
“Out below!” came the cry, as the mizzen top spars came crashing down to the deck, in a rain of heavy wood and rope rigging.
Hunter ducked as spars crashed around him. Canvas covered him and he struggled to his feet. A knife poked through the canvas, just inches from his face. He pulled back and saw daylight; Lazue was cutting him free.
“Almost got my nose,” he said.
“You’ll never miss it,” Lazue said.
Another volley from the Spanish warship whistled overhead.
“They’re high,” Enders screamed, in insane jubilation. “Blimey, they’re high!”
Hunter looked forward, just as a shot smashed into the number five gun crew. The bronze cannon was flung into the air; heavy splinters of wood flew in all directions. One man took a razor-sharp sliver through the neck. He clutched his throat and fell to the ground, writhing in pain.
Nearby, another man took a direct hit from a ball. It cut his body in half, his legs falling out from beneath him. The stump of torso screamed and rolled on the deck for a few moments until shock brought death.
“Damage report!” shouted Hunter. A man standing beside him was struck in the head by a tackle block; it shattered his skull, and he fell in a pool of red, sticky blood.
The fore top spar came down, pinning two men to the deck, crushing their legs; they howled and screamed pitifully.
Still the broadside came from the Spaniard.
To stand in the midst of this injury and destruction and keep a cool head was almost impossible, and yet that was what Hunter tried to do, as one volley after another slammed home into his vessel. It had been twenty minutes since the warship opened fire; the deck was littered with rigging and spars and wooden splinters; the screams of the wounded blended with the sizzling whine of the cannon balls that snapped through the air. For Hunter, the destruction and chaos around him had long ago merged into a steady background so constant he no longer paid attention to it; he knew his ship was being slowly and inexorably destroyed, but he remained fixed on the enemy vessel, which moved closer with each passing second.
His losses were heavy. Seven men were dead, and twelve wounded; two cannon emplacements were destroyed. He had lost his foresprit and all her sail; he had lost his mizzen top and his mainsail rigging on the leeside; he had taken two hits below the waterline, and El Trinidad was shipping water fast. Already he sensed she rode lower in the water, and moved less smartly; there was a soggy, heavy quality to her forward progress.
He could not attempt to repair the damage. His little crew was busy just holding the ship on a manageable course. It was now a question of time before she became impossible to control, or sank outright.
He squinted through the smoke and haze at the Spanish ship. It was becoming hard to see. Despite the strong wind, the two ships were surrounded by acrid smoke.
She was closing fast.
“Seven hundred yards,” Lazue said tonelessly. She had been injured already; a jagged shaft of wood had creased her forearm on the fifth volley. She had quickly applied a tourniquet near the shoulder, and now continued her sightings, oblivious to the blood that dripped onto the deck at her feet.
Another volley screamed at them, rocking the ship with multiple impacts.
“Six hundred yards.”
“Ready to fire!” Hunter shouted, bending to sight along the crosshairs. He was lined up for a midships hit, but as he watched, the Spanish warship moved forward slightly. He was now lined on the aft castle.
So be it, he thought, as he gauged the rocking of El Trinidad through the crosshairs, getting a sense of the timing, up and down, up and down, seeing clear sky, then nothing but water, then seeing the warship again. Then clear sky as El Trinidad continued her upward roll.
He counted to himself, over and over, silently mouthing the words.
“Five hundred yards,” Lazue said.
Hunter watched a moment longer. Then he counted.
“One,” he shouted, as the crosshairs pointed into the sky. Then the ship rocked down, quickly passing the outline of the warship.
“Two,” he called, as the crosshairs pointed into the boiling sea.
There was a brief hesitation in the motion. He waited.
“Three!” He called, as the upward motion began again.
“Fire!”
