Chapter Sixteen
“I don’t much care for a night action, Mr. Wilson,” Commander John Sherburne commented. “What does she have in hand?”
“Half a league, sir,” Lieutenant Wilson answered. “She’s a fast ship, like all damned slavers.”
Sherburne slanted his second-in-command an irritated don’t tell me what I already know look. “Then steady as she goes, Mr. Wilson,” he said finally, his brass telescope to his eye. “We’ll catch her soon enough.”
“Sir, perhaps I could do something with the long gun forward.” Wilson was young, eager, with a round, open face.
“We’ll get a little closer, Mr. Wilson.” Sherburne smiled. “And then you can have at it.”
Apart from the helmsman, a stoical, weather-beaten old hand, the two officers were alone on the quarterdeck. The sloop of war Kansas battled an oncoming sea, and great breaking waves crashed over her bow. The ten carronades on each side of the ship were lashed down tight, but their well-drilled gun crews could clear for action in less than two minutes.
Sherburne reached into the pocket of his peacoat and produced a silver flask. “A brandy with you, Mr. Wilson?”
The lieutenant shook his head. “Regrettably, I must refuse, Captain. Before I left for sea, Miss Edna Coffin, my betrothed, bade me promise that my lips would ne’er touch strong drink, nor would I indulge in the sinful pleasures of loose women.”
“You weren’t on the beach today, Mr. Wilson.”
“No, sir. On your orders I remained on the ship.”
“Trust me, if you’d seen what I saw, you’d want a drink.”
“Yes, sir. Perhaps, sir.”
Sherburne sighed and tilted the flask to his mouth. After a hearty swallow, he put the flask away and returned the ship’s glass to his eye. “She has every scrap of sail set, Mr. Wilson, but God willing, we’ll catch the rogues before nightfall.”
“The long gun, Captain?”
“Soon, Mr. Wilson.” Sherburne stroked his black, spade-shaped beard. “It won’t be long now until we’re in range.”
“She’s a sloop of war, great lord,” Hassan Najid said, his black eyes troubled. “An American steamship. Allah curse it to Hades.”
Sheik Abdul-Basir Hakim glanced at the billowing sails and realized he could get no more speed out of his schooner.
“Ten carronades a side,” Najid said as if his thoughts ran parallel to his master’s. “She can stand off and blow us out of the water, damn her.”
“Aye, and they’ll have a long nine forward.” Hakim studied the sloop through his glass and nodded. “She’ll be in nine-pounder range soon.”
Najid thought for a moment, then said, “We can throw the women overboard, lord. The sloop will stop and try to save them.”
“Will they?”
“They’re Americans. They won’t sail past drowning women in a shark-infested sea.”
Hakim nodded. “You’ve given me an idea.”
“When do we toss them into the sea, lord?” Najid grinned.
“We don’t, but bring the women on deck. I have other plans for them.”
“But . . . but my lord . . .” Najid said hesitantly.
“You’re right about Americans, a soft people. Will they loose a broadside on us with captive women lined along the deck?”
Najid’s expression changed from doubt to glee. “A fine plan, great lord.”
“Then let it be done.” Hakim stared across a mile of churning gray sea to the oncoming sloop. “Hurry, Najid, there is no time to be lost.”
Commander Sherburne put the speaking-trumpet to his mouth and yelled, “Belay the long gun, Mr. Wilson, and report to the quarterdeck.”
Lieutenant Wilson arrived breathless and before the captain could speak he said, “The wind is dropping, sir. I believe I can hit her stern and disable her steering.”
Sherburne passed his telescope to Wilson. “Look. On deck.”
Wilson was not by nature a profane man, but he swore loud and long. “The fiends. No Christian man would do such a thing.”
“Very effective though,” Sherburne said. “Don’t you think?”
“I still believe I can reach out to her with the long nine, Captain. If I disable her steering, she’ll wallow like a sow.”
“And if you miss, what then, Mr. Wilson? I rather fancy dead women all over the deck and questions to be answered when we get back to port.”
“I await your orders, sir,” Wilson said humbly.
“We’ll overtake her and then you can try the long gun,” Sherburne said. “We’ll need to be close to avoid hitting the women.”
Wilson saluted. “I understand, sir.”
Sherburne glanced at the graying sky and the slowly dying light as the afternoon shaded into evening. “You may pipe the hands to dinner, Mr. Wilson. It will be yet a while before we can risk a shot with the nine.”
“A most singular situation, Captain,” Wilson replied.
“Indeed, Mr. Wilson, most singular,” Sherburne agreed. “And I fear it will get even more so if darkness overtakes us.”
“She’s holding her fire, lord,” Hassan Najid pointed out.
“Yes,” Sheik Abdul Basir-Hakim murmured. Then after some thought, “Her captain wishes to get closer before he risks a shot.”
“But he’d kill the women,” Najid said.
“Perhaps.” Hakim grabbed Najid’s arm. “Put the woman in the bridal dress at the stern where she can be seen. The Americans might try to disable our rudder but with her there, they’ll think twice.”
Najid rushed off to carry out the sheik’s order, and for the hundredth time that afternoon, Hakim stared at the sky. The wind was falling and the sloop was gaining fast. He needed the darkness. Why wouldn’t it come?
“Damn it, Captain, where did that come from?” Lieutenant Wilson pointed to the wall of blue-gray fog rolling toward the stern of the Kansas and her prey with the sullen persistence of a rainsquall.
Sherburne said nothing.
Wilson stepped to the rail and looked back to the stern, where the sloop’s fast-spinning screws churned the water to a V of white foam. “The fog is closing in on us fast, Captain.” His voice rose in agitation.
“Get for’ard to the long gun, Mr. Wilson. Try a shot across the schooner’s bow. Maybe we can convince them that lowering sail would be a sociable thing to do.”
Wilson saluted. “Aye, aye sir.” He hurried forward, calling on the gun crew to ready the nine-pounder.
The port rail was lined with idlers who were watching the beautiful ship in the distance and exchanging opinions on how the captain would handle this latest crisis. The opinion of the majority was expressed by a red-bearded, Scottish seaman who said, “I say the cap’n should blow that slave scow into matchwood, women an’ all, afore the haar gets here.”
Mutters of agreement were drowned out by the roar of the long nine. A moment later an exclamation point of sea and foam rose twenty yards off the schooner’s port bow.
“Damn them,” Sherburne said. “They’re not slowing.” As far as he could tell there were almost fifty women on deck, lined up along the starboard rail and one, the bride from the village, lonely and vulnerable at the stern.
Did the destruction of an Arab slaver justify the killing of their captives? Sherburne wrestled with the question while Mr. Wilson, for’ard at the long gun, looked back expectantly for an order.
The captain’s orders were to engage and sink any foreign ship, boat, barge, or galley that posed a threat to the United States. A slave ship so close to the California coast was an obvious threat and his duty was clear—he must engage and sink the vessel. Sherburne was about to order Wilson to pound the schooner with the long gun and clear the carronades for action.
The fog bank took the matter out of his hands.
A thick gray mist enveloped the Kansas and within seconds, visibility was reduced to a dozen yards.
Sherburne cursed the vagaries of the Pacific weather, then left the quarterdeck and hurried forward. “Did you mark her last position, Mr. Wilson?”
The lieutenant’s ruddy face was ashen behind the veil of the fog. “I did, captain.”
“Lead her fifty yards and fire.” Sherburne turned to the seamen around him. “Listen for the fall of shot, lads.”
The breach loading long nine roared, belching flame and smoke, and its carriage recoiled back on the hooking ropes with mindless savagery.
Sherburne raised a hand for quiet, and he and the crew listened for the fall of shot. A faint splash sounded in the distance, no louder than a rock thrown into a pond. Then silence.
“Shall I try again, Captain?” Wilson said.
“No,” Sherburne said. “We’ve lost her, by God.” He looked around at his seaman. “But we’ll find her, lads, never fear.”
A few of the hands cheered. Then the only sound was the thud-thud of the sloop’s engines, a small ship dwarfed into insignificance by the vastness of the lonely sea and sky.