CHAPTER SEVEN

Black Ensign Against
Red and White

NEVIS stands out of the sea like an inverted cone, rising more than three thousand feet above the ringing sparkle of white surf. Bristol gave the visible upper half a disgusted study. The Falcon was making slow enough progress up against the wind, and now it appeared that her progress would be wiped out completely.

A British man-o’-war, a seventy-four gunner, from outward appearances, was boiling down the waves with the wind abeam. The white and red naval ensign whipped defiantly from the truck, and the taut sails presented a solid pyramid of white.

The Falcon was more than a match for the man-o’-war, but the English ship would carry nothing by way of loot, and besides, Bristol had other things in mind.

The well-trained black gunners were stacking pikes and cutlasses, and making certain that the “pieces of seven” cannon were ready. They worked swiftly and smoothly, showing neither excitement nor fear. But Bristol knew that an engagement would weaken him considerably, and even before the first broadside rang out, he had altered his plans.

He would have to go ashore and try to smuggle Lady Jane out of Charlestown. As much as he would have liked to give Sir Charles a lesson, Bristol was certain that he would have to forgo the pleasure.

A quartermaster sent a wad of dark bunting rocketing up the trucks. It burst there into the Black Ensign.

“Port a bit,” said Bristol to the helmsman.

The Falcon swerved a little to meet the charging man-o’-war. In the waist, the black gun captains were blowing on their sputtering matches, ready to ignite the touchholes.

Bristol tossed off his sea cape and loosened his rapier in its scabbard. The wind whipped against the wide brim of his rakish hat, raising it in front. Bristol’s lean face was impassive, although he recognized this ship to be the Terror. If the Terror was back in British hands, then what of Bryce?

Up the British truck went a set of signal flags. The other ship was so close aboard that Bristol needed no glass to read them. The two-pennant combination, bright and whipping against the blue sky, read “Come alongside.”

“Stand ready with your matches!” roared Bristol to the gunners. “Port again,” he told the helm.

The man-o’-war luffed and coasted nearer, sails fluttering. The Falcon went cautiously toward her. After a moment, less than twenty feet separated the two vessels.

“Ahoy, Falcon!” cried Lieutenant Ewell from the man-o’-war’s rail. “I call upon you to surrender!”

Bristol’s mouth twisted into a hard smile. “My broadsides are ready. If you have anything to say to me, say it!”

Lieutenant Ewell glanced back at the man who stood behind him—Captain Mannville. Then he shouted through cupped hands, “Bryce is a prisoner at Charlestown. If you surrender, you will be granted the King’s clemency.”

Bristol was shaken. If Bryce had been taken, then he would probably have to fight additional ships in the harbor. And he would have to attack, fortifications or no fortifications. He owed that to Bryce.

“My broadsides are ready!” cried Bristol. “I’ll give you ten minutes to clear away from me.”

On the other deck Captain Mannville raised his hand and brought it down in a swift jerk. The British gun captains applied their matches and scampered away from their cannon. A cloud of smoke and sparks leaped up from the touchholes.

“Fire!” snapped Bristol.

Ducking into the protection of the rail, the black crew watched their gunners whip their own matches into place.

The man-o’-war’s broadside was deafening. A cloud of bitter smoke shot out, covering up the Falcon. Iron smashed into the pirate’s hull. Splinters geysered, as deadly as bullets.

The Falcon’s own guns exploded as one. The rail was high and the hail of twenty-eight-pound shot ripped great holes in the man-o’-war’s rigging, made havoc of the decks. Bristol saw his helmsman go down and snatched at the spinning spokes. The Falcon, shrouded in the greasy powder fog, lunged for the Britisher’s rail.

Both ships jarred under the impact of bulwarks.

“Boarders away!” bellowed Bristol.

Blacks swept out of the waist, over the rail, and aboard the man-o’-war. Cutlasses flashed. Muskets hammered from the rigging. Gun crews snatched up weapons and dashed into the fight.

Bristol, rapier in hand, went over the side of the Falcon and sprinted along the Terror’s rail like a tightrope walker. Men hacked at him from below. His rapier was a darting snake’s tongue, everywhere at once. Bristol pressed on aft.

Mannville stood on the quarterdeck, pistols in hand. He saw Bristol. The pistols came up. Bristol leaped down to the deck. The shot whistled over his head. Springing up again, he tried to press Mannville back against the sterncastle.

Mannville, his face quite pale, dropped back, trying to avoid the rapier point that menaced him.

“Strike your colors!” Bristol ordered.

The blue and white ensign with its red cross of Saint George slid swiftly down to the deck. Bristol blew three shrill blasts on his boatswain’s pipe. The tumult died in the waist.

Eight of Bristol’s blacks were stretched on the man-o’-war’s planking. Others clutched wounded arms and heads, grimly determined not to groan. Of the man-o’-war’s crew, more than ten were dead.

“Now,” said Bristol in a very calm voice, “what were you saying before you forgot yourself and fired before you had ended your truce?”

“One of these fine days,” said Mannville, “you’ll meet your match, Bristol.”

“Captain Bristol to you. Now what happened to Bryce?”

Ewell hesitated a moment and then said, “He was surprised off Martinico by a British squadron a few weeks ago, and both his ships were taken to Charlestown. Bryce will stand on Execution Dock within a week—and good riddance.”

“Watch your tongue!” said Bristol curtly. “Those blacks know you fired out of turn. They’d like nothing better than to string you up by your thumbs and beat you with that cat-o’-nine over there.”

Ewell sagged, incredulous. “But . . . but you wouldn’t! You’re not a barbarian, you’re a gentleman! What of the white prestige?”

“I’m glad you found out I was a gentleman. Quick, Ewell! How many ships are there in Charlestown harbor, and how many guns at the fort?”

“A man-o’-war in the harbor. Bryce’s ships have not been manned because of”—Ewell gave a despairing look at Mannville, then at the cat-o’-nine—“because we’re short-handed there. But the fort batteries, Captain Bristol, are armed with thirty eight-thousand-pound cannon.” A bit of belated bravado came into his voice. “That’s one point you’ll never pass. Those ‘pieces of eight’ will sink you!”

“Ah, well,” said Bristol, “it must be chanced. Amara! Get these prisoners under the hatch.”