Texel Island
August, 1633
"My ship. My first ship." Those words filled Michiel Adriaenszoon's thoughts as the crew heaved at their oars, and the boat bounced along on the slight waves.
It had all happened so suddenly. Only a few days ago, he was a steersman, the first mate of the Northern Company whaler Groene Leeuw. Now, he was the captain of a brand-new East India Company ship. After years as a merchant and sailor, it was hardly how he expected to have his first command.
The boatman, sitting by the tiller of the rented boat taking him to his new ship, cleared his throat. "Choppy today, there's a good breeze coming out of the south. No one's going to be getting out of the roadstead today," The roadstead in question was the Texel Roads. Texel was one of several islands ringing the Dutch coast that divided the inland Zuiderzee from the North Sea. The island's shape formed a natural deep-water sheltered anchorage on the inland side under the watchful eye of the Fortress de Schans' imposing ramparts. It was a useful place to shelter and load ships that were too deep to traverse the Zuiderzee heavily-laden, as well as a place for them to wait for the right winds that would take them through the Mars Diep strait and out to sea. As usual, ships large and small filled the roadstead: lines of warships, Indiamen, and local traders and fishing vessels in various states of action and repair.
Michiel's eyes scanned the ships at anchor, trying to pick out his from the mass.
As if reading his thoughts, the boatman asked, "Busy times with Tromp and his fleet in the roads. Which one is yours, cap'n?"
Michiel looked back at him as the boat rocked on the water. "Company ship Arend. Are you familiar with it?"
The boatman laughed and nodded, "Aye, I know her. Strange, strange ship, she is. Ain't seen anything like her before." He called out in a louder voice suddenly, "Stoffel, don't think I don't see you dawdling. Pull, or you can find a different boat to crew!"
During his meeting with Dirck Hasselaer, one of the Company's Directors, the older man had told him in a moment of confidence that no one else wanted to take the Arend on a long-distance sea voyage. Scraps of futuristic plans out of Germany formed the ship's basis, but they required a significant amount of guesswork and intuition to complete the design. Dutch shipbuilders were some of the best in Europe, but even they were unsure and unconfident of how such a radically different design would operate afloat. It had been under construction by the Amsterdam Admiralty as an experiment to test the radical new design from Thuringia.
Due to the yacht's uncertain nature, they gave it to the VOC in exchange for the loan of two East Indiamen that were now sitting in the Roads with the rest of the squadron outfitting for battle as tensions flared with the Spanish. Michiel's pride had immediately caused him to agree. Still, as soon as he had left the company headquarters and traveled down the street to make arrangements for supplies and personal effects, he had a nagging tug of suspicion in the back of his mind.
As he sat there and scanned for his ship, that thought continued. He gave up after a few minutes. He knew his new ship was a futuristic design and different from anything else, but he still couldn't pick it out of the tangle of hulls and masts dotting his view in the busy roads.
As Jan had promised, the way was rough even with the wind behind them. The water was choppy as a current flowed across the roadstead. Michiel could feel his pulse quickening as they drifted closer and closer to the tapered stern of a galliot floating at anchor, clearing the rudder by less than a rod with a deft application of the boatman's practiced steering. Soon they approached a single ship anchored between a bulbous fluyt and a towering Admiralty two-decker warship. Michiel's heart raced again as he took it in. It really did look strangely futuristic, slung low, and with only a low forecastle and quarterdeck with much less sheer to her lines and a shorter head. What was most astonishing to him were the masts. He craned his head back to take them in. They rose so far into the sky above him, peppered with so many yards and lines that he could hardly keep track. He had never seen a ship with so many yards before.
"She's a sight, ain't she, cap'n?" The boatman's grin was audible in his voice, even with Michiel's attention drawn by the ship. He nodded, one hand gripping the gunwale with a hand while they slid in closer to the varnished side of the ship. He eyed the steps attached to the hull, getting a sudden image in his head of missing and slipping into the water between the two.
The boat wallowed under him while he placed his foot upon the gunwale for leverage, and he waited for just the right moment to leap forward. He didn't realize he had been holding his breath until he felt the rough, fresh wood of the steps under his fingers, and he scrambled up the side of the ship.
The deck was pure pandemonium when he stepped on board, as a gang of sailors at the waist carefully guided a heavy keg of water through a narrow hatch, using one of the ship's yards as a crane. Michiel stood there carefully out of the way for a few minutes, watching them before the young sailor in charge, probably one of the boatswain's mates, stepped over to him, "Excuse me, do you have business aboard"
Michiel's face betrayed a small grin of amusement as he looked around the crowded gundeck. "Oh, right. Is the first mate aboard? Oh, he is? Aft." He stepped off in that direction, pausing a moment to tighten the screws just a bit more. "By the way, you should pass the word that your captain has arrived."
He enjoyed the sailor's display of both anguish and astonishment before making his way aft towards the ship's stern and under the quarterdeck. On most vessels of this size, the stern structures rose in multiple levels that tapered and curved high into the air, but on this one, the single raised level was low, squat, and extended nearly halfway along the ship's length. If there were any sense to the ship's design, that would be where he would find his cabin.
The deck was dark, with light filtering through the open squares of gunports pierced along the ship's sides. Large, ominous-looking cannon filled the ports, and more space was taken up along the centerline by masts, the large rotating block of the capstan, hatchways to the lower decks, and other fittings.
Michiel dodged past a group of sailors carrying some fresh line from the hold as he made his way back. There were several tiny cabins with canvas walls and thin wooden doors on either side and a more ornate door towards the stern. Reasoning that this was his cabin, he rapped his knuckles on the wood and heard a call from inside. "Enter."
As Michiel opened the door, he stepped inside, removing his hat in the process as he looked around the room. There was a large open area in the center, with a long table surrounded by chairs, upon which sat a lone figure hunched over papers. He was almost impossible to make out, silhouetted as he was by the large windows that made up the far wall. Only the faint flicker of a single candle by his hand made a vain attempt to illuminate his face.
The shadowed face turned to him and looked him over. "You must be the new understeersman. I've been expecting you."
Until the previous days, Michiel had been a steersman himself, the first mate on a ship, and he still dressed the part. He had one set of formal clothing and a single ruff. After he met with Hasselaer, he packed them away safely and wore the loose-fitting and comfortable clothes that marked sailors in almost every European nation. He didn't allow himself more than a moment's passing irritation before shaking his head. It wasn't like the navy, with their blasted nobleman captains who didn't know their spankers from their butts and had a ceremony for everything. He was a merchant sailor, and he came dressed like one.
"No, but I do believe you are in my great cabin."
A shot from a musket could not have gotten the man to his feet faster. "I'm sorry, sir. I didn't realize it. We hadn't received word of a new captain yet."
Michiel waved his hand dismissively as he stepped over to the table and placed his hat and gloves on it. He reached out his hand and shook the other man's. "Michiel Adriaenszoon. Just returned from a whaling expedition to Jan Mayen."
"Douwe Aukes. I apologize for using your table, Captain. There were many ledgers to go through and more room to spread out up here."
"Hmmm, diligent." Michiel looked down at the papers and back up to the man who would be his second-in-command for the next few years. He stood a few inches taller than Michiel and looked to be a few years younger, with a lean and youthful appearance.
"You seem rather young for a steersman," Michiel remarked as he glanced back down at the ledgers and shuffled through a few of the ones on top.
"I originally signed on as the understeersman. Our steersman got recruited by the navy, and I advanced into his position." Douwe shrugged his shoulders. "That's why I thought you were my replacement for that position."
Michiel nodded. "Ah, I see. Well, much experience then?"
"My father is a captain in the Company. I went to sea at a very young age and haven't stopped yet."
"Oh, he was? In that case, Jan Company blood flows through your veins," Michiel said, referring to the East India Company's nickname. "I've sailed as a steersman as well, so I'll expect the best from you."
Douwe's face broke into a small grin. "I wouldn't have it any other way, sir."
Michiel felt some relief. At least his first mate seemed competent. That was one concern, but there was another pressing one as well. "Has the merchant arrived yet?"
This time, Douwe's expression darkened, and he shook his head. "No, the undermerchant has been supervising the loading of the cargo. The merchant is still ashore, I believe in Haarlem." He went on to add, "Most of the rest of the ship's council is aboard already, however."
"Would you like to get settled since you just arrived, Captain?"
Michiel looked up at him. He felt energetic standing in the cabin of his first command, and he was not inclined to rest. "No, there is much work to be done."
They spent the rest of the day familiarizing Michiel with the ship under his command. From bow to stern and quarterdeck down to the bilges in the hold. They even made the long climb up into the rigging to examine the far more complicated network of masts, yards, lines, and sails that would propel the ship at sea, but threatened to capsize it without hesitation if handled without understanding their limits.
By late afternoon, Michiel and Douwe were seated in the great cabin, eating a quiet meal of bread and porridge served hot by the ship's cook, along with a refreshing mug of beer. Once he finished his porridge, Michiel leaned back against his chair.
"A week ago, I couldn't have seen myself sitting here."
Douwe spoke up after chewing on a piece of buttered bread. "Where were you a week ago, Captain?"
Michiel eyed him for a moment, but with a full belly, he was feeling very ebullient. "Oh, a week ago, I was in your position, steersman on a whaler called the Groene Lowe. We had just returned from Jan Mayen Island when all of this conflict was starting."
He glanced out the glazed windows along the stern of the ship towards several warships anchored along the shoreline. "Figured there was an opportunity in the navy, so I applied, but there was nothing available, so I joined the Company instead. I am the son of a beer hauler; I am not a fighting sailor. I have never had any naval ambitions, nor have I ever even been in a naval battle. Just on land."
"You fought in the army?" Douwe asked.
"Once, over a decade ago now. I was a musketeer under Prince Maurice, fighting the Spaniards when we relieved Bergen-op-Zoom. After that, I was a merchant working for the Lampsins brothers until I signed on with the whaler. Mostly based in Dublin, but I also traveled around the Mediterranean working for them. When we came back to Amsterdam after our whaling expedition—with all the preparations for war underway, I went to see if there were any officer posts available in the navy. There weren't any, so I went to East India House instead and joined the Company." It might be safer and make him more prosperous, he reflected, but it was the home of the destitute and damaged, anyone foolish enough to leave home looking for a fortune in the Far East.
Michiel had to be honest with himself. He certainly was interested in those riches. A few years in the East, and he could come home, purchase a good house in a fancy neighborhood, and live like a king. He'd be able to start his own company, buy shares in ships, join the city guard, enter politics; the sky was the limit. He came from humble beginnings, and no one who knew him would accuse him of being unambitious.
Besides which, less than two years had passed since the death of his wife and daughter. In the time since his feet had barely touched Dutch soil. Yes, he thought to himself, it would be quite good to go abroad once more.
"I, for one, am looking forward to leaving Europe for a few years," Douwe said as he interrupted Michiel's thoughts. "Things are getting a little too unstable here for my liking."
Michiel raised his mug. "Now that I will drink to. I just wish it was in a more tested ship. She is remarkable, a ship of wonder. But none of us knows how to sail her, her limits, how safe or stable she is, or how she will sail on the open water. New technology and innovation is one thing, but throwing all of it together in something as alien as this ship . . ."
"I don't think they would put you in command if they didn't trust you to sail it safely. The Gentlemen XVII aren't known for making bad investments lightly."
That remark drew a laugh from Michiel. "Well, if this is a ship of the damned, we will have to do our best to at least get over the horizon before we capsize. I think a nice, easy beginning will give us a chance to shakedown the ship and get a feel for her."
A flurry of activity stretched across the entire anchorage the next morning. Douwe was supervising the loading of sections of a prefabricated ship called an afbreekboot, which would be reassembled upon arrival at Batavia. Michiel was below in the cockpit, personally seeing to the stowage in the hold. The balance of cargo and stores could affect the trim of the ship and how it sailed. Unlike some captains, he dismissed the formal clothes that went with being in command and dressed more practically instead, indistinguishable from other sailors on the ship.
A sailor passed along a request for Michiel to come on deck. As he climbed up onto the quarterdeck, he approached Douwe, who was standing by the starboard rail. "I thought you would want to see this, Captain," he said as he gestured with his hand.
All around them, the anchored fleet was getting underway. Large white sails billowed like clouds, and tricolored flags and banners streamed in the early morning breeze as the ships slowly moved towards the channel out to sea.
"Those Spanish bastards don't stand a chance," Michiel said with an air of confidence as he clapped Douwe on the shoulder. "Just look at those. Pride of the seven provinces, they are." He pondered for a moment and reached for a speaking trumpet. Turning towards the rest of the ship, he brought it to his lips and spoke loudly.
"Three cheers for the Admiral and his fleet!" he called out. The sailors paused in what they were doing and crowded along the side of the ship, cheering on their fellow tars sailing off to battle.
The Texel Road was virtually deserted with the fleet gone except for Arend, several other Company ships, and the usual local small boats and ships.
The ship's loading with the food, water, and other supplies they would need for the long voyage ahead was nearly finished, as well as a small amount of cargo that would be used or sold in the Far East. The ship took on its contingent of soldiers as well. They were quartered deep in the ship's hold on the orlop deck below the waterline, away from any interaction with the ship's passengers.
The passengers were the usual assortment for this kind of voyage. A predikant with a predilection for lecturing at the table was on board. He was traveling with his family to a position in the Indies to bore some poor local congregation, no doubt. There was also an assortment of Company employees and several wives going to join their husbands in the East.
What had been a quiet table had now grown full in every meal. The senior members of the crew, as well as the highest passengers, were all filling seats. Between meals, the table was used by Michiel, Douwe, and the undermerchant to handle all of the paperwork the Company required. The ship floated on a sea of ledgers and receipts.
In the middle of the afternoon, just a few hours after lunch one day, Michiel sat at the table, scribbling his signature on several ledgers. Hogsheads of beer, barrels of salted beef, ropes and paint and spare wood, candles, and many more had passed his table in recent days. During his time as a merchant, he signed many of these, but that felt like a fraction of the paperwork he now had to handle.
A sense of relief washed over him when he heard a sailor call a warning from the deck above. That was unusual when anchored in a safe port, and it piqued his curiosity. He leapt to his feet suddenly and abandoned the receipts to instead make the climb up to the quarterdeck. There he witnessed another astonishing sight.
Several Dutch warships were sailing through the channel into the Zuiderzee. Michiel reached for a spyglass and brought it up to his eye, turning it towards the nearest ship. The Dutch flag flew from the mast triumphantly, and the ship's sides were pock-marked, and her sails had several patches in them.
By this time, Douwe had appeared by his side, and Michiel handed him the spyglass. "They aren't coming to the roads," he commented. Something was wrong; he could feel it. He had never served on a warship or privateer, nor fought in any naval battles, but he had years of sailing experience and instincts.
Douwe made his own observation. "That's the Zeeridder for sure. She was anchored next to us." He pondered for a second as he looked again. "They all look damaged. Maybe they are going straight into port for repairs."
"Where are the rest of them then? And Spanish prizes too. I have a bad feeling about this. Something doesn't feel right."
Those fears were confirmed a few days later when a messenger clambered aboard the ship to deliver a message to Michiel in the Great Cabin in the middle of the ordinarily boisterous noon meal. As he held the letter in his hand, his blood ran cold. He sagged into his chair at the head of the table. He dropped his hat on the table and let out a deep sigh.
After a few moments of nearly oppressive silence, he looked at the dozen eyes turned towards him. He coughed to clear his throat. "Haarlem has fallen. Spanish troops seized the city."
"How? Why?"
"It must have been the survivors from the battle. I thought it was damn strange when they didn't drop anchor here in the roads."
Michiel held up his hand, interrupting the recently-arrived understeersman and the steersman, "Gentlemen, that is all the note said. I have no more information. I will be going ashore to find out, however."
He swiveled his head around the table, stopping to look at each of the men there, his mates, the merchant, and the various professionals who ran different parts of the ship before he continued. In each of their expressions, he could see reflected the same feelings of despair and uncertainty he felt.
"There is much work to be done and no time to do it in. Barring orders to the contrary, I want to put to sea as soon as possible, so take stock of what that will take. Supplies, cargo, personnel, passengers, everything we need."
The meeting took place in the star-shaped Fort de Schans that overlooked the roads. There were a half-dozen VOC ship captains besides Michiel, and little was accomplished besides worry and the consumption of a vast quantity of beer. He sat quietly through the meeting, being the juniormost of them. The captain of one of the jachts, the Hazewind, stood up at the table with a mug in hand and declared his ship ready to sail, and he would leave at the earliest opportunity to avoid any blockade. Even if the Spanish showed up, they could outrun them. This triggered a round of cheering, but all Michiel could do was sit there glumly and dread their chances.
The next morning, Michiel and Douwe borrowed a pair of horses from the garrison. They rode past the village of Horn to the cape that marked the corner of Texel, facing out towards the main shipping channel and the sea. It was still early when they arrived, but the lithe Hazewind was already navigating towards the open water.
Michiel was still nursing his sullen mood and didn't feel much like conversing with his steersman as they rode. The pair dismounted and walked down onto the wide, sandy beach, guiding the horses behind them by their reins. A crisp breeze came off the water, and the waves lapped at the shoreline with a slow, steady rhythm. Besides the gulls flying overhead, the only sign of life was the receding shape of the jacht under a cloud-like mass of sails.
"You don't think they have a chance, do you?" Douwe asked as they stood there near the water, taking the reins of Michiel's horse. "That's why we are out here this morning."
Michiel pulled out his brass spyglass and snapped it open before holding it up to his eye with a grim expression on his face. "I have a hunch," he gave in cryptic reply. "I just want to see if I'm right."
As soon as he looked through his spyglass, he could see a mass of sails off to the right. "Looks like a Spanish squadron standing off 't Land Diep. Hazewind has to see them; they're angling south to Spaengers Gat," he described as the ship navigated the complex and ever-changing network of sandy shoals and channels that made entering and exiting the Zuiderzee rather tricky.
He scanned the horizon in front of the jacht. The sun was behind them, and the early morning land breeze had already faded. As he watched, two shapes began to appear on the horizon as the Hazewind started to pick up speed.
"The Spanish," Michiel stated as he continued to watch. "Two of them, moving to cut her off at the entrance to Spaengers Gat. With the shoals on either side, once they are committed to the channel, they won't be able to maneuver to escape. Crafty bastards."
The two vessels, swift-sailing pataches, moved in concert with each other, trapping the Dutch ship like a pair of pincers. Their blood-red-on-white Burgundy cross flags were flying, and the ports along the sides of the ships were open, revealing the muzzles of deadly cannons. Even at this distance, Michiel could make out the mass of armored Spanish soldiers crowding the deck of each patache. The Dutch were heavily out-numbered.
Douwe muttered next to him as he watched. "Come on, . . . come on . . ." but Michiel knew it was too late. The Spanish had the jacht trapped.
Puffs of smoke erupted from the bow of each patache as they fired their forward cannons, followed a few moments later by a dull rumble that echoed across the beach. It was only a matter of minutes before the Dutch captain struck the tricolor flag in defeat without much resistance. Michiel lowered and closed his spyglass as the two ships moved in to board the Dutchman from both sides. It was all over.
"Let's go back to the ship," he finally spoke after a somber moment. "What a waste."
It was late in the morning before Michiel and Douwe stepped back on the Arend's deck. There was a hushed and tense atmosphere on the ship as the sailors worked to prepare it for departure. Michiel attributed it to the recent fall of Haarlem as he walked back to the Great Cabin. He was sweating and dusty from the ride. All he wanted to do was relax in his cabin for a bit and reflect on what he had witnessed that morning. What he found instead was the last thing he expected.
A man was sitting in his chair at the head of the table. He was older, thickly built, with a pointed beard and thinning hair that had already shifted to grey. There were two mugs of beer next to him on the table and a plate of cheese.
"I wasn't expecting one of the Gentlemen XVII to be waiting for me, Mr. Hasselaer," Michiel spoke after a moment before he crossed over to the table. The man held out one of the mugs to him, and Michiel gratefully accepted it as he sat down. "Thank you. I needed refreshment after this morning. Saw one of our ships taken by the Spanish."
Dirck Hasselaer, one of the board members that ran the East India Company, nodded grimly. "So I have heard. That is part of what I wanted to talk to you about." Michiel was curious, but before he could ask what the man meant, he asked suddenly. "You have a unique honor in the Company right now. This ship is based on plans coming out of Germany that are claimed to be from over a century and a half in the future. So how are you finding it? Settled in yet?"
Giving Hasselaer a wary glance as he settled tiredly into a chair, Michiel took another swig of the mug in his hand and carefully weighed the answer in his head before responding. "She seems to be a good ship but complicated. The crew and passengers are mostly assembled, and they take pride in having something different. Like it is a badge of honor."
"Don't mince words, Michiel Adriaenszoon. I don't want your political answer; I need the honest truth. Your position is not at risk." Hasselaer's sharp rebuke stunned Michiel for a moment, and he fidgeted in his seat and looked down at the beer.
"We're not ready. We have no idea how to sail this ship or how she will handle out on the open sea. We had to invent names for half the sails on board because we've never seen them before. We don't know how we should trim the hull or masts in a ship like this or if we can even set full sail without the ship capsizing. It has a wheel to steer the ship! We don't even have a merchant yet."
Michiel looked up at Hasselaer, expecting . . . well, he wasn't sure what he was expecting, but the older man looked at him with an unconcerned expression. He rattled off even more details about the changes than Michiel described, some that even he hadn't realized yet as captain. "I trust you and your crew to figure it out. Now, along with that trust, I have an important mission for you and your ship that must succeed."
"A mission? We are already scheduled to sail for Batavia," Michiel spoke up before being silenced by the older man's upraised hand.
Hasselaer shook his head. "That isn't changing. You will still make a voyage to the East as before. However, circumstances have changed, and I have a new cargo that I want you to take alongside it. You might even call it an emergency."
That was unusual this late in preparations for a voyage. The Company had very strict rules on this. Cargo was carefully manifested, and additions were usually not allowed, both to maximize company profits and cut down on private smuggling by officials. Not that Michiel wouldn't have an assortment of his own goods if he had more time to prepare for this voyage. There was a certain level of bitterness in being denied that prerogative, of course. It was a common way for captains and merchants to make some money, and of course he wanted a piece of that.
"In your cabin, you will find several sealed strongboxes containing a rather large amount of silver riksdollars and ducats. These were earmarked to be shipped with the next fleet. With the Spanish practically at the gates of Amsterdam already, we cannot delay, and I want to get it out of the country before they ransack and loot everything."
Michiel stayed silent as Hasselaer continued to speak. "It is vital that this silver make it to Batavia instead of Spanish hands." The older man shifted in his seat and leaned forward over the table towards him.
"When you came to us asking for a ship, we hired you on your reputation as a sailor and as a navigator. I believed then, as I believe now, that you possess the skills to handle this ship, regardless of how unusual her design and technology are."
What elation Michiel might have felt from that praise was quickly subsumed by the reality of the situation. Not only would he have to run a Spanish blockade, but he wouldn't even get a percentage of this additional cargo due to it being Company goods. "All of this is academic, however. There is still a Spanish fleet blocking our passages to the sea."
"I know you've never fought in a battle before, but you must get your ship and this cargo past the Spanish. How soon can you depart?"
"We are virtually ready now. Just a few final tasks to set in order and waiting for the merchant to arrive." Michiel said while he reviewed their needs in his head. "We have enough hands to sail safely otherwise."
"Your merchant is not coming. He was still in Haarlem when the city fell, and there is no time to appoint a new one. You must depart immediately, and I am permitting you to sail without one."
Unlike many ships, one person did not command a ship in the VOC. Michiel might be the captain, but a committee comprised of himself, the merchant who was his equal, the ship's officers and senior specialists, and other company officials technically ran the ship by process of voting. Without the merchant, it meant unusually broad scope for Michiel to do as he pleased.
"I understand, sir," Michiel said, rising to his feet before Hasselaer waved him down and shouted for his secretary. The man shuffled into view and laid a thick pile of inked papers in front of Michiel.
He looked up at the older man, who gave a hearty chuckle despite the tension. "Paperwork. You aren't sailing until you sign receipts for all of that silver in your cabin."
Michiel sagged back into the seat in utter defeat. More paperwork to do.
After Hasselaer departed, Michiel called a meeting of the ship's council and laid out what the gentleman had explained to him. The half-dozen-odd men sitting around the table all looked up at him as he stood at the end of the table with expressions of shock or despair. It was the boatswain who spoke up first.
"Can't be done, not with the Spanish out there waiting to pounce on us. We all heard what happened to the Hazewind this morning." He spoke in a thick Frisian accent.
Even with all the radios and telegraphs and other fantastical objects, there was no faster way for information to disseminate than the sailor's grapevine on a ship. Michiel almost wanted to smile, but he bit it back. "Gerit, there is a way out." One could speak much about the infallibility of captains; Michiel knew he had to have a plan, and even if he didn't have one yet, he had to appear as if he did.
Douwe leaned back in his chair hard enough for it to creak loudly. "We know they have a fleet stationed off of our main passage in the Marsdiep, probably near Camperdown, and they have other ships blocking the northing channel by Terschelling."
Michiel looked down at the chart spread over the table in front of him. It showed the intricate shapes of the islands that formed the barrier between the inland Zuiderzee and the open sea, the sandbanks, the few deep passages, and recorded depths. Texel Island was the southernmost of the island chain, and the main channel they used lay between the southern end of Texel and the mainland at Den Helder. A second northern passage lay between two of the larger islands as well. The rest of the gaps in the islands were either virtually absent at anything but a high tide or small enough only to be useful for coastal vessels.
Unless.
"Is the yawl still tied alongside?" Michiel asked as he snapped his head up to look at them. "Douwe, sent the boatswain's mate ashore to find this man." He scribbled a name down with a quill on a scrap of paper. "Tell him to do it promptly."
It took less than an hour before the old boatman who had taken Michiel out to the Arend when he first arrived now stood with him over the map. Long, scraggly greyish hair covered his head, and he nodded and fiddled with the neckerchief tied around his neck as he listened to Michiel's plan.
"How much does this'n jacht draw?" the boatman, Jan Janszoon, asked. Michiel looked over to Douwe, who thought for a moment. "About 12 feet or thereabouts," Jan answered with a grunt as he held his finger down at a spot on the map. "I think it could work, Cap'n. Barely, but with a good tide, you should be able to skirt by."
Michiel nodded and looked around at all of them. "Then that is what we will do. We will tow the ship down the channel behind Texel to Ezerland Gat, between Ezerland and Vlieland." He tapped that spot on the map sharply with a dramatic flourish. "That is where we are going to make our escape. Hopefully, it will catch them off-guard when we suddenly appear in the gap between their two squadrons."
That is if a hundred different things go right, and this isn't all one big mistake, he thought to himself as the room filled with the council's comments and questions. He raised his voice to gain control of the room again. "Alright, everyone. I know everyone has questions, and there is much that needs to be done, but we do not have much time. If we are all in agreement on the plan, I wish to weigh anchor tonight." All the heads at the table bobbed, and Michiel looked to the boatman. "It will be a long pull to the gat, and I was hoping we might have a few of the local boats helping."
Jan gave a casual shrug, "If it's to outsmart the Spanish, I think you'll have plenty of volunteers. My own boat included. High tide is just before dawn, but we will get you there on time." Michiel clapped him on the shoulder. "Excellent! With your help, we stand a good chance of making it through this. We must. For our sake and for the Company's."
The rest of the day quickly passed by in preparation for the attempt. By early evening, several small boats filled with local boatmen floated in front of the ship, each attached by a long line to the bow.
Near the front of Arend's quarterdeck, a mass of sailors gathered around the capstan, ready to start winching in the massive anchor that kept the ship in place at the roadstead. Others took very long wooden oars down from storage racks along the bulwarks. Each of these was over thirty feet long and would extend from the gundeck to the water, allowing the sailors to row the ship slowly when there was no wind or the ship needed to maneuver a specific way.
In the bow, a leadsman stood by the anchor crew, casually swinging the weighted lead that would enable him to measure the depth of water beneath the ship's keel, which would be vitally important as they traversed the cramped, shallow passages. His counterpart was in the lead boat, scouting the path ahead to make sure they didn't run the ship aground. Michiel and Douwe stood on the quarterdeck as they made final preparations.
Michiel walked over to Jan, who stood by the helmsman at the wheel. The boatman and his crew's neat and efficient actions preparing the ship for towing had impressed Michiel. He gave the boatman a nod in greeting as he stepped up to him. "I want to get underway. Are you ready?"
The boatman would be piloting the ship through the channel, directly guiding the helmsman. "Aye, ready when you are. It's a strange ship, though. I don't much care for this wheel. It has too much slack and a dead spot in the center. A tiller and whipstaff would give you a much better feel."
He wasn't wrong. That was just one of the many new and mostly untested systems aboard the ship, and Michiel was nervous about how they would fare, both now and when they got to the open sea. In all of his experience in ships large and small, traders, fluyts, whalers, he had never handled something like this before. On the other hand, he couldn't discount growing excitement as well. "Well, we will have to make do. I trust you can guide us through this safely." He looked to the steersman, "Up anchor."
With a nod, Douwe stepped to the break of the quarterdeck. "Hands to up anchor!" he shouted into a speaking trumpet, setting off a flurry of activity at the bow. Simultaneously, the boatswain shouted at the men at the capstan, "Man the bars and heave round!" They slowly pushed the long handles, rotating the capstan and pulling the narrow messenger cable attached to it. The thinner rope wrapped around the drum, drawing the thick, slimy anchor cable with it. The ship pulled forward as the slack was taken in, and with a firm push, the anchor broke free from the ground, accompanied by the shout of "Anchor's aweigh!"
The men continued to strain against the capstan bars, drawing up the anchor inches at a time. As they did, the oarsmen prepared the long oars, the "sweeps," in their sockets between each gunport. Several men were assigned to each sweep, but even that power would only be sufficient to propel the ship at a crawl.
By the time the anchor broke through the water's surface and hung from the cathead a-cock-bill, the ship was already underway. The oarsmen in both the ship and the ones filling the boats ahead soon fell into a practiced rhythm in the growing darkness.
Michiel paced the windward side of the quarterdeck impatiently and did his best to quash his nervous energy. Douwe had convinced him to go below for a small evening meal, but otherwise, he couldn't tear himself away. He knew it wasn't good for the crew to see a nervous captain, and he forced himself to move at a measured pace instead of constantly checking on the ship. He paused regularly as he paced, counting off the steps, to sweep his spyglass over the dark mass of the island off to the left.
It had been several hours since the ship's departure. It currently slowly glided across the water to the northwest after rounding the island's easternmost point, slow enough to barely leave a visible wake behind. It was a dark night, illuminated by a partial moon, the lights of the village sited on the cliff, and by a light on the quarterdeck for the pilot. Besides the soft sloshing of water against the hull and the creaking rope and wood, the only sound was the leadsman in the chains as he called out the water depth regularly.
A table brought from below earlier in the day stood on the quarterdeck near the binnacle. One of the precious Company maps lay spread out on it. The lantern's light at the binnacle bathed it in flickering yellow light but made it easy enough to read. Jan hunched over it and murmured orders to the helmsman at the wheel next to him. Like the oarsmen, Michiel had the helmsman replaced regularly, but Jan never left his post.
"Almost time for the turn to starboard," Michiel commented as he approached the boatman. He spoke it ambiguously, neither an order nor a question. Jan nodded. "Aye, just about. I have ta say, Cap'n, some of these maps are screwy. This Irish one . . . it doesn't even show the Zuiderzee at all! It's all filled in with land."
Michiel dismissed it with a shrug, "It's supposed to be from the future. I guess we got a little carried away with reclaiming land." Jan gave a derisive snort. "More like putting my kind out of business." He looked over to the helmsman. "Helm two points to starboard." Within moments, a call came from the bow that the boats were steering to starboard as well.
"Good timing," Michiel said with honest admiration for the maneuver. Jan gave him a grin through his bushy beard, the hair and wrinkles all highlighted in the orange lantern light. "My son's in the lead boat. Good lad. He knows his trade. At least I'll be able to retire knowing he can carry on the family name."
Arend ghosted along the coastline through the still night. The only sounds were the water lapping against the hull, the oars slicing through it, and the occasional shouted command or call from the leadsman. With the skies to the east barely starting to illuminate with the early false dawn, the ship already approached the entrance to the channel. A span of water about two-thirds of a mile connected the two low-lying sandy islands, but Michiel knew that only a narrow portion in the middle might be deep enough for his ship. Of course, if it weren't, then the Spanish would easily see them stranded after daybreak, and they would be easy pickings.
Michiel stood near the starboard rail, giving the pilot and helmsman relief from his hovering, but he could feel his nervousness rising as they approached the most hazardous portion of the endeavor. Despite the late summer warmth, even at this hour, he still felt chilled. He could feel the dampness of a cold sweat trapped between his forehead and his hatband. The effort to guide the ship through the night had been difficult enough, but the water had never shallowed significantly along their path. Now, however . . .
"A quarter four!" the leadsman called suddenly.
The water level had been consistently between five and six fathoms during the passage, and now it was beginning to rapidly shoal. Jan guided the helmsman, adjusting the ship's position and taking it down the center of the channel, at least as far as he remembered it since the shoals changed regularly over the years.
The depths continued to shrink, and Michiel clenched his jaw out of nervousness. Four fathoms, a quarter less four, half three, quarter three, onward the waters shallowed under them. Still, the men rowed on, and Arend slowly started to emerge from the channel. They were almost free when disaster struck.
Michiel had to cling to the railing to keep his footing as the entire ship staggered. There was chaos on the gundeck as the oarsmen fell in the middle of a stroke, and they were left in a tangled mess of sweeps and men. Jan smacked his hand on the table. "Damn. We must have run aground. So close too."
The ship was silent and immobile now, lacking the usual slight rocking motions it made even in calm water. Michiel found the deck sloped towards the bow as he worked his way over to the helm. "We must have caught the stern on the sand. Look how the ship is tilted. At least it's sand, and the hull should be fine. Rudder?" The helmsman rotated the wheel first one way, then the other, "Rudder's still free, at least. I can feel resistance, so we didn't shear it off."
Douwe picked up Michiel's hat from the deck and handed it to him. Looking at him in confusion for a moment, Michiel reached up and felt just his hair. "Thank you. It must have fallen off when we ran aground."
"What do we do now?" Douwe asked. "Try to pull off? Kedge? The water isn't going to get much deeper than this in time, we're past high tide, and it is starting to ebb." There weren't many other options, so it was an easy decision for Michiel to make. "We'll kedge. Break out the stream anchor and bring in one of the pilot boats. That will save us time."
He gave the orders, and Jan's son, Stoffel, brought one of the boats near the bow of the ship. The crew carefully lowered a smaller kedge anchor down with a block and tackle and attached it to the boat's stern. The sky was brightening already, and by the time the boat's crew dropped the anchor into the water a few hundred yards ahead of the ship, the first rays of the sun were already visible.
Every moment the sky became slightly brighter, and Michiel could make out more of the deck and masts. A lookout sat at his post in the crosstrees of the mainmast before dawn. He soon reported what Michael had been dreading. "Ships on the horizon to backboard and starboard. A whole mess of them!"
With the ship marooned on the sand, every hope Michiel had for his plan was starting to sink. They were correctly placed and, had the ship been free, they would have sailed right between the Spanish without issue. But now, every moment meant that opening was closing fast. "We must get this ship afloat again," he told Douwe as they stood on the quarterdeck. "Take a crew down to the gundeck and unlash the stern-most guns and bring them to the bow."
"Because they are useless facing away from the enemy with us aground?" He asked, but Michiel shook his head. "No, because I want to trim the ship by the head, and every little bit helps. If it raises the stern an inch, that is an inch less we have to pull against."
The boatswain harried amongst the crewmen gathered at the capstan, striking out with his starter, "Faster, heave! Do you want to end up in the bowels of some Spanish prison?" And so the men pushed, but no matter how hard they did, the ship remained firmly stuck.
A distant cannon fired off, and the lookout reported from above. "Looks like a signal gun from one of the ships to starboard. The ships to backboard are steering towards us! I think they're pataches."
Below him, the decks of the ship rumbled with the sound of Douwe and his men hurriedly pushing a half-dozen guns towards the bow. Jan stepped close to him, speaking quietly. "We can get your passengers and any valuables you don't want the Spanish to capture if you'd like."
It was a tempting offer. If they could get the Company silver back ashore, it still had a chance to do something useful instead of swelling the Spanish coffers. Michiel thought about it but brushed it aside. He didn't much like the idea of failing his first command and his first mission with the Company, not when he had just barely started and hadn't even gotten a chance to do anything. He turned to look at Jan and gave him a grim smile, "Thank you, but we haven't been beaten yet. There's still a chance we could escape."
As if the ship was waiting to hear that, it finally lurched in its sandy prison. It wasn't free yet, but it was a start. The Spanish were beginning to close in on them, but Michiel could feel the relief flooding through him. Instead of a trapped animal about to be slaughtered, it had become a race.
Buoyed by that movement, the crew at the capstan and the men in the boats pushed harder. The Spanish ships were visible now on the horizon, a pair of sleek, low-slung wolves ready to pounce their Dutch prey as they had the Hazewind previously.
The sudden cry from the helmsman quickly dashed Michiel's growing relief. "Wheel's getting loose! I can barely feel the rudder." Michiel snapped his head over to the understeersman. "You, quickly, go to the fantail and check the rudder."
The young man scrambled to the stern of the ship and climbed onto the railing between the stern lanterns. A seaman quickly grabbed his feet as he leaned over, holding him in place. He came back up quickly. Rudder's still attached, Captain. It's moving, but not much."
"Then the tiller ropes must have been damaged as we came off the sandbar," Michiel replied while his brow furrowed in concentration. "Take a detail down below and rig the relieving tackle before we lose control completely. We will steer the ship manually from the tiller."
As the mate slipped off to follow his instructions, Jan snickered for a moment. "I told you that wheel'd be nothin' but trouble. They come up with all this new'n technology without asking us sailors for advice. Maybe we oughta put the owners or designers in our shoes for a bit?"
The ship was picking up speed as the sails billowed and went taut with the wind. Michiel had never seen a sight like that before. So many sails and so much rigging, it almost defied belief. "Mind your helm!" he called off to the helmsman. "The bow is drifting to leeward. Steer us back into the wind."
"I'm trying, captain, she's hard over, and I'm just barely getting anything," the beleaguered helmsman replied as he pushed against the freely-rotating wheel. Jan stood over by the starboard mizzen chains and looked out over the water, "If we don't get steering way, this wind is going to push us right back into Terschilling," he called, pointing out at the island on the north side of the passage they had just traversed.
A loud humming filled the air around them on the quarterdeck. Michiel glanced up at the rigging, and he could see how tight and strained the ropes were. They were pulled so tightly that they vibrated like a lute. Too tight, and they could come apart, and without the braces supporting the masts, they would snap like kindling. Then the ship would be helpless, and it would be a race between the currents pushing it towards the lee shore or the Spanish to determine who would finish them off.
They had to reduce the strain immediately. Michiel seized the speaking trumpet and called out in a loud, calm voice. "Hands aloft to reef courses!" The courses were the bottom row of sails on the foremast and mainmast. They were largest, and by reefing them, they could draw them up closer to the yards and lower the amount of pressure they were applying. It seemed strange not having bonnets to attach to the sails instead, but that was just another of the ship's quirks.
As the men began the climb up the shrouds into the masts, Michiel turned to Jan. "Your boat is still alongside. Do you think you could tow the head around into the wind? I want to luff to help save this rigging."
Jan grimly looked around the ordered chaos on the quarterdeck as they prepared to adjust the sails before he nodded. "Aye, I'll get her around meself, cap'n. Before I go, I have one request, though." Michiel nodded at him to continue. "Things're gonna get messier here before they get better with the Spanish. I was wonderin' if ye'd take my boy to the east too. He's a good hand, knows all his sailorin' skills."
That wasn't an unusual request, and he had seemed like a good sailor from what Michiel had seen, so he nodded. "We're short a few men anyway, so he would be welcomed, along with any others who wished to come. I could use a good coxswain, and I see he knows how to handle a boat."
Jan's face lit up with a broad smile. "Oh, thank ye, Captain, thank ye. I really appreciate it." The coxswain commanded the captain's boat crew, so it was a position of higher privilege and pay compared to a normal sailor.
There was a sudden crack like thunder on the quarterdeck. A sailor fell to his knees, clutching at the bloody stump of what had been his left arm. The mainyard was the lowest and longest of the yards on the mainmast in the center of the ship. The seventy-foot-long length lurched and pivoted around the mast until the left tip bounced forward and the right towards the stern. A handful of sailors were already crawling along the yard, and they clung on for dear life as it bucked and strained against the wood and rope holding it in place.
"Quickly!" Michiel snapped at Jan, who was already making his way to the steps amidships. He looked back up and quickly examined the rigging. The yards holding the sails were pivoted around the mast and trimmed to keep the wind most efficiently propelling the ship forward. A pair of braces, large ropes attached to the ends of the yards on either side of the ship, controlled their angle with the wind. The main yard had broken free and rotated almost all the way forward until it strained the ropes holding it up. In the process, though, the connected ropes between the yards cranked the topsail yard above it and the yard above that over as well until all the sails on the mast were warped. The brace on the weather side that had parted hung limply in the air. Michiel realized it must have parted close to the deck, and the pressure caused that end to snap like a whip and slice right through that unfortunate sailor.
"Get that man below!" Michiel shouted at two sailors who were kneeling round the wounded man. This was not the first injury that Michiel had seen in his life as a sailor, but as he watched one of the injured sailor's messmates pick up the severed limb and toss it over the quarterdeck rail into the sea, he knew that it was different. He was a captain now; these were his men, and his responsibility felt like a father's to his children. He had never been in a naval battle before, and his stomach turned at the thought of causing that harm to his crew. They had only been together a short time, but he couldn't be reckless or callous about their lives. Today was not a day to stand and fight.
By this time, Douwe had worked his way back to the quarterdeck again. Michiel turned to him, putting on a nonchalant air. "Ah, there you are. I'm afraid I need you to put one of those cannons back in the stern. We might need them shortly. Have the master gunner prepare fire arrows and extra breeches for the smaller breechloading cannons as well. Might as well load the bowchasers if you can spare the men."
Douwe's face betrayed his confusion at the new orders. "If we can get this sail fixed, I intend to flee still," Michiel told him. "So, I need something to shoot back at them." Of course, the best thing to do would be to disable their sails so they couldn't keep up. "Oh! Don't forget the chainshot."
Arend's bow slowly swung into the wind as the boatmen rowed as hard as they could. On the askew yard, a sailor slowly crawled along the top of the yard, clinging with a death grip from his arms and legs as it shook under him. Michiel stared up at him from the deck. He was still a sailor at heart, and he had made that climb into the rigging himself many times before. But still, right now, he felt a nervous heaviness in his stomach for the man as he reached the tip of the yard and reached down and started working the parted rope of the brace through the wooden block pulley that connected it to the yard.
"Haul forward the lee main top bowline! Weather main clew garnet, let go the tack! Haul up!" Michiel barked out orders through the speaking trumpet. "Haul out the reef tackles, haul up the buntlines!"
They needed to reduce pressure on the yard so the crew could quickly repair the brace. Now they were pulling in the main course sail and bracing the yard with other lines.
The boatswain ran between gangs of sailors on the quarterdeck, encouraging them on as they hauled on the lines. Michiel stepped over to him and put his hand on the man's shoulder to draw his attention. "Gerit, you're the best with the ropes on the ship. I want you to splice the main brace. Give it a short splice, quick as you can. We need to get back underway."
Gerit grinned, clearly in his element now with all doubts from earlier cast aside. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a long, stout iron marling-spike. "I'll have it done for ye, captain, and fast too."
The parted end of the mainbrace was hoisted down to the deck and carried back by a sailor to meet up with the other end. Sailors held both ends steady, and Gerit looped his leg over one end and his arm around the other before using the spike in his hand to separate the strands of the rope. He deftly intertwined them with the skill only many years at sea could generate.
Michiel turned away as he tried not to hover over the repair. It wouldn't do anyone good to see him nervously watching again. Instead, he looked out over the lee railing, the side facing away from the wind, to gauge how far they were from running aground again. There was still a little sea room to work with, but not much. A close lee shore, while a ship was out of control, was every sailor's nightmare. With the wind on the other side of the ship, it would inevitably run aground and wreck.
"Captain, we're ready," the boatswain called as he climbed off the rope. Michiel stepped over to them. "Take up the main brace," he snapped at them sharply. He was going to be damned if he ran his ship aground on his first day at sea.
Even as a steersman on a whaler, Michiel had done his fair share of rope handling. His hands hadn't gotten soft as they had during his time as a merchant in Dublin, where he was on land for months on end. He took up the line alongside the other sailors. The rope felt rough and familiar in his hands. "Haul away!" he shouted and pulled back with the others.
The rope dug into his hand, and he threw his entire weight into the effort. His feet skidded slightly on the deck before gaining traction, and with each agonizingly arduous step, the gang of sailors on the line slowly inched the yard back into place.
Sweat poured down Michiel's brightly flushed face by the time the yard was in position and the brace secured. He ordered the line to be doubled for extra strength while he silently weighed his options.
In any ship propelled by the wind, there were two options to steer it, tacking or wearing. The first of these involved turning into the wind. It was the shorter and neater maneuver, but it required both enough forward momentum and strong enough rigging as the ship pointed directly into the wind for a short time. Without those, the ship could be caught in stays and immobilized in the middle of the turn. It might even lose the foremast over the side entirely. Michiel wasn't confident about either of those at the moment. That left only turning away from the wind as his best option.
Wearing was a longer, but generally easier, maneuver. Even pointing straight downwind, the ship couldn't lose headway as it could tacking, and it caused much less stress on the rigging. Unfortunately, it was difficult and dangerous to do on a lee shore like the one looming off to starboard. Still, it was the only chance they had.
"Prepare to wear ship! Clew up the fore course!" Michiel's voice boomed over the quarterdeck. Heads snapped over to stare at him. They all knew how close the lee shore was. He knew exactly what was going through their heads. "Now! We haven't a moment to lose!" he shouted.
With the ropes to the wheel damaged, the crew had rigged up control ropes directly to the tiller attached to the rudder down on the berth deck two decks below him. They would have to communicate through a chain of sailors. He moved to one of the hatches down to the gundeck. As he anticipated, a sailor was standing at the bottom of it. "Tell the understeersman to prepare to wear ship to starboard on my command."
The sailor shouted to his unseen companion, and Michiel could hear the order repeated down to the deck below. The rest of the crew took their places in the rigging and on deck. "Put up the helm," he shouted down the hatchway, then turned to the others with the speaking trumpet, "Up mainsail and spanker. Brace in the afteryards!"
The sailors set the sails as instructed, with the mainmast and mizzenmast aft of it both losing wind. The foremast sails remained taut and full of wind, and slowly the bow of the ship started turning towards land.
Minutes passed, and there was nothing Michiel could do but wait for the right moment. The crew was ready, waiting for his orders themselves. He could feel the wind move behind him now as the stern passed through the eye of the wind, and the narrow pennant flying from the top of the mainmast pointed ahead. "Lay the headyards square. Shift over the headsheets!"
The sailors pulled and set the yards in their new orientation as the ship continued to pull through the turn. The bow was pointed straight towards the shore now, and Michiel could feel a growing hollowness in his stomach at the thought of ramming it. The wind was off to starboard, though. "Man the main tack and sheet, spanker outhaul! Clear away the riggings . . . haul out!"
While the crew manipulated the sails, Michiel stepped over to the backboard gangway, which was facing towards the island now. Thundering roars of cannon fire erupted from the enemy ships, but there was nothing to do about that right now. They shot wide, and the ship was out of danger from them for now. He pulled himself up into the netting-like shroud that reached up the side of the mainmast. Wrapping his arm with practiced ease through the netting, he looked down at the sea where the nearer danger lay.
They were close. The water was shallowing quickly, and Michiel cursed himself for not having a free sailor to spare to place in the chains with a lead. Arend wasn't a warship with a crew of that size, though; it was a Company vessel.
The shore approached steadily closer and closer, and the water was so shallow now he could see the sand at the bottom. There couldn't be more than two feet or maybe half a fathom below the keel now, and the island was so close he thought he could take a belaying pin and probably throw it all the way to land.
A quick glance forward told him the bow almost pointed in the right direction. If they timed this right, they'd just make it out. "Brace headyards! Overhaul weather lifts. Haul aboard!" The ship, which had maintained a steady pace through the turn, started to pick up speed slowly as the headsails at the bow and the masts started retaking the wind. The ground was receding now, and he hopped back down to the deck and quickly walked to the hatch. "Pass the word. No higher. Meet her! Good, let her come to handsomely."
Michiel issued the crew orders to trim the sails and steady the ship on its new course. She was pointing with the wind off the backboard bow, sailing on a close reach. The two pataches were much closer now, well within cannon range, but they hadn't had a chance to reload in the few minutes since Arend's swift wear brought them facing the ships. They should have held their fire until they were much closer when it could do some real damage.
He couldn't fault them that, but the bow of his ship was pointing close to one of them. "Ease off the rudder," he called down to the helm. Turning to the nearby Frisian, "Bosun, keep us pointed at the backboard patache." There was no one else to issue orders to on the quarterdeck, so he passed forward, walking by the boatman's son and a handful of other volunteers who took advantage of the ship's slow pace to climb on board.
Michiel climbed down to the gundeck and went into the darkness underneath the forecastle. In the bow of the ship were two long bronze culverins, both roughly twenty years old. They were the heaviest cannons on board the ship, and, like all ship's guns from their era, they were immobile, requiring the ship to steer to aim them, and only capable of firing once or twice an hour.
When he got to the bow, Michiel found a small group of men around the starboard gun. One of their number, one of the ship's gunners, nodded to him as he approached. "Captain, starboard chase piece is loaded and ready. We didn't have time for the other gun."
"Very well. Stand by to fire." Michiel ordered as he leaned over the barrel to peek out the bridle port nearest the bow. One of the pataches filled his view, and they couldn't be more than a hundred or so yards away now. He stepped back, seeing the crew in place. Timing the movement of the bow in his head, he raised his arm and let it drop, "Fire!"
The cannon barked and bucked against the carriage that held it in place on the deck. It had no wheels and no recoil, so the ship's structure absorbed it instead. The bow filled with smoke, and Michel couldn't see anything out the port now, so he took his leave and hurried back.
"This is ridiculous," Michiel muttered under his breath as he huffed his way back to the stern. "I could do with a half-dozen or so more mates." He approached the great cabin, which had vanished with the old, replaced now with a clear deck and guns. The sailor passing along his helm commands stood near a hatch, and he could make out the boatswain's feet standing above. He spoke loudly to both of them, "Luff the helm. I want to pass in between them."
Douwe stood near an iron gun sticking out the stern of the ship. Michiel approached him. "Are you ready? We will be passing near one of the Spaniards in a moment, and I want you to aim for his rigging."
"Yes, sir, we're ready. I wish you had called me on deck to help wear ship." Douwe replied, his voice a little hurt. Michiel shook his head, "I needed you supervising here. Do you really believe what the Swedes said about how fast this gun can fire?"
Douwe shrugged, "Only one way to find out." This gun was part of a set purchased by the VOC's traditional suppliers in Sweden. Michiel remembered Hasselaer's claim from their meeting the day before, that the cannons were futuristic designs from the Americans in Thuringia and could fire as quickly as a round every five minutes. Douwe had a large crew assembled, and rope tackles were set up on the gun, allowing it to be moved inboard for reloading.
"Well, fire as you will. Let's see if we can shock those Spaniards with follow-up shots," Michiel said before moving back up to the quarterdeck.
When he emerged from the hatchway, it was to the sound of musket fire. The patache's cannons were not in use, but the soldiers on board were still firing.
The boatswain sagged to his knees, clutching a bloody wound on his shoulder as Michiel came on deck, falling almost directly against him. He set the wounded man down and glanced around. Several of the small breechloading swivels were in place along the starboard side and firing as quickly as the sailors could install a newly loaded breech.
"Steady as she goes," he called down to the helm. They only had to withstand a few minutes more of this before the patache passed alongside. Its companion veered away, a sizable hole in the foresail bringing a smile to Michiel's face. That would slow down any pursuit by that vessel, which meant they would have only one on which to focus.
The fusillade of musket fire tapered off as the patache passed by to the stern. Michiel could imagine Douwe and his gun crew lying in wait, the heavy iron piece filled with gunpowder and deadly chain shot. Suddenly the cannon fired, the chain shot, two cannonballs connected by a chain and designed to tear through sails and rigging, sped harmlessly between the patache's masts.
Damn, they had missed. Michiel clenched his jaw and turned to watch. Minutes passed, and the ships grew further apart. The patache was nearly stern-on them now, only starting to tack itself now. True to his word, Douwe fired the cannon again, only minutes after the first shot, and this one had a much more dramatic effect. The balls and chain tore through the enemy rigging, and the large diagonal lateen yard on the mizzen mast collapsed to the deck, taking its sail with it and ripping through part of the mainsail ahead of it.
The other patache barely avoided crashing into it, and both were soon falling behind practically in irons and immobilized as Arend gained speed. Douwe came back on deck a few minutes later. Sailors carried the wounded below, and inspections for damage began.
Michiel turned to Douwe, who looked nearly as energized as he was. "That was a successful morning, I would say. Let's get everything squared away and make our course south-southwest. There are probably Spaniards at sea, so we will hug the coast until we get to Walcheren and then turn out to sea."
Douwe nodded. "What about the crew then? Do we keep them at their stations?" Michiel pondered that for a moment. He needed a crew ready in case Spanish ships lurked to intercept them, but at the same time, they needed to rest.
"Let's get a hot meal in them then and break out the Spanish brandy as well. After splicing the main brace, wearing ship, and skirting by those Spaniards, I think a tot of that would be an appropriate reward. Nothing like spirits to keep the spirits up, eh?" Michiel chuckled at his joke before turning back aft towards the receding Spanish ships. After that narrow escape, he felt almost giddy.
Douwe left to carry out those orders, leaving Michiel Adriaenszoon standing alone on the weather side of the quarterdeck. With a moment to relax now, he looked up at the vast expanse of canvas and rope above him. A smile grew on his lips. She was temperamental and feisty, but maybe, just maybe, this ship wasn't such a curse after all.
****