Commander Sherburne stood against the bridge rail as the Kansas made her slow way along the Sonora coast. The twin beams of the searchlights probed the darkness like questing fingers, closely examining every patch of brush and the sand between. His eyes burned, glued as they’d been for the past hour to his binoculars. Suddenly a column of white light lifted and briefly angled into the black sky before dipping to land again.
“Damn your eyes, steady there.” Sherburne swung his head around and saw that the incident had been caused by the older seaman lighting his pipe. Out of respect for the man’s white hair and his previous service in two navies, the captain said only, “Concentrate, lads, concentrate.”
The sloop’s engines thudded into the night quiet and the normally talkative gun crews spoke only in low whispers. The marines maintained a disciplined silence under the stern glares of Lieutenant Wilson and Sergeant Monroe.
The searchlights illuminated the shore for fifty yards inland, bathing the land in a false dawn. Sherburne twice caught sight of skulking coyotes, their eyes gleaming in the light, but of humans there was no trace, only an endless vista of rocky shore and brush and empty desert beyond.
His nerves worn raw, the captain reached for the flask in his pocket. Damn! It was empty. He thought he saw a faint smile touch the lips of the stoical helmsman’s face. If the man had smiled, Sherburne couldn’t blame him. It wasn’t every day a seaman witnessed his captain’s incompetent leadership as he searched for a will-o’-the-wisp enemy ship that was probably already around the Horn and flying with the trades toward the African coast.
A chart lay open in front of Sherburne with the rock shoals and sandbars clearly marked. The rocks stayed where they were, but sandbars shifted and were treacherous and could easily ground the sloop. The captain worried more, beginning to question his own instincts and decisions.
Only to hear the reassuring sound of his voice, Sherburne said to the helmsman, “Another hour and we’ll swing her around, Dawson.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” The seaman was stone-faced, his voice neutral, neither approving nor disapproving.
The captain envied him. There was something to be said for simply following orders without question.
Commander Sherburne finally admitted to himself that the hunt was hopeless. There was just too much coastline to search, and the Kansas was burning coal at an alarming rate. He called Lieutenant Wilson to the bridge. “You can stand the people down, Mr. Wilson. We’re going about.”
The young officer searched his mind for something sympathetic to say, but could only manage, “I’m so sorry, sir.”
“Sorrow doesn’t enter into it, Lieutenant. I gambled and lost and there’s an end to it.”
Wilson looked to shore where the searchlights still explored the darkness. “Damned desert.”
“Damned desert, damned slavers, damned poor leadership,” Sherburne said. “Do you have any other damns to add, Mr. Wilson?”
“Damned bad luck, Captain.”
Sherburne smiled. “A captain makes his own luck, Mr. Wilson. I’ve failed, that’s all.”
“I’ll stand down the people,” Wilson acknowledged.
“Yes. If you please, and—”
A bullet burned across Lieutenant Wilson’s left shoulder at the same instant the report of a rifle was heard.
“I’ve got him, Cap’n!” the gray-haired seaman cried. The beam of his searchlight pinned a kneeling rifleman to the darkness like a butterfly to a board.
Sherburne gave the orders to stop engines and yelled, “Mr. Wilson, we have them in hand, by God!”
The searchlights exposed running, shouting men on the shore and the masts of the schooner in a narrow inlet. Rifles fired, flaring in the gloom, and bullets ticked into the Kansas, caroming off metalwork, splintering wood. A marine went down, cursing.
“Give ’em a broadside, Mr. Kane!” Sherburne yelled through his voice trumpet. “Step lively now!”
The thirteen-year-old midshipman in command of the starboard guns relayed the captain’s order. The sloop heeled to her port side as her ten cannons roared, belching gouts of scarlet flame and smoke.
Onshore, canister shot ripped into the living bodies of men, cutting them like a scythe. The foremast of the schooner shattered and fell to her deck.
The guns were reloaded, run out again, and the dreadful barrage continued. Even above the bellowing roar of the carronades, the screams of wounded and dying men could be heard on board the Kansas.
Sherburne danced a little jig of delight and called out to Wilson above the din, “Join your landing party, Lieutenant. Try to spare as many captive women as you can without endangering your men.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” Wilson saluted quickly and disappeared into the white fog of the cannon smoke.