— 14 —
The Dove was outmanned and outgunned. Charles Owen had done his best to escape the clutches of the crew on the Angelina Rouge. His plan had worked; his family had escaped and was now swimming to safety.
A shot from the Rouge went across the bow of The Dove. This was standard pirate practice. One warning shot, and then they blow you to pieces.
Charles heaved-to directly into the wind and let down his mainsail. His boat was now bobbing in the ocean.
The Rouge sailed up beside her and stopped about fifty feet upwind. Fifteen or twenty crewmembers pointed their rifles at Charles. He simply held his hands above his head and avoided eye contact.
A small rowboat with five passengers left the Rouge, made its way across the bumpy waves, and finally made it to the port side of The Dove. A line was attached to the forward and aft cleats, and soon the entire boarding party was staring Charles Owen in the face.
A man in perhaps his mid or late forties looked back at Charles. The man was tall, about six foot two. His face was thin, his hair dark and his skin even darker. A black goatee, peppered with gray, made him look Spanish. His clothes were not of the finest tailors, but not peasant garb, either. His white cotton shirt was unbuttoned, and a silver cross hung from a leather strap around his neck. The man’s face was weathered and tan, but in a good way. Crow’s feet flanked the most inquisitive, excited green eyes Charles had ever seen.
“Where is your family?” the man asked.
“They escaped,” Charles replied.
“You’re sure they’re not hiding?”
“Search if you like.”
“You think we would have done something with the women? Sold them, perhaps?”
“Yes.”
“Hmmm,” the man snorted.
He began walking around the ship, interested in the details, taking note of the lines.
“She’s a fast one. Took us a while to catch you. You’re a good sailor, my friend. You know your way around the sea.”
To this, Charles said nothing. The man had a perfect English accent, which Charles found surprising. The dialect was difficult to identify. Perhaps it was Moroccan? But, it held a distinct French flavor as well.
“It’s true, we are, as you say ‘pirates,’ and yes, we will take your ship and sell her for a nice profit. But, we are not slave traders. We are not rapists or murderers.”
“That’s not what I hear,” Charles answered to that.
“What do you hear?”
“You must be Captain Basil, yes?” Charles asked.
“That is correct.”
“I hear you’re a pillager of villages, rapist of innocent women, trader of civilians, and brutal murderer.”
Captain Basil smiled at this.
“You sound like a very smart man. You sound like a man that attended fine schools and universities growing up. I suppose you come from a rich family?” asked Captain Basil.
“My education was adequate. My family was far from rich.”
“Compared to the Queen of England? Perhaps. Compared to a peasant in Morocco, you’re a king!”
Charles said nothing to this.
“As far as my being a slave trader, a rapist, a pillager? All lies, spread by your government. I will admit to taking ships and goods that do not belong to me and selling them. However, the money from those proceeds goes directly to helping our people.”
“The British government does not lie,” Charles said, slightly angered that a peasant would lecture him about his own country, which in his mind was the greatest country on earth.
“The British government does not lie? For an educated and experienced man, you have the innocence of a child.”
“What are you going to do with me?”
“First, unfortunately for you, we are going to take your ship. Second, I am going to show you a different side to your British government. Then, we will see.”
The crew ordered Charles into the rowboat, and finally onto the deck of the Rouge. Three crewmembers stayed back and commandeered The Dove as it followed the Rouge.
Charles was taken below deck and locked in a room. It was actually quite comfortable, with a good-sized bed and cotton sheets. After an hour or so, he was brought a dinner of rice and fried mullet fish with a little rum to wash it down. Soon after, with nothing else to do, he fell into a deep sleep.
“We’re home, wake up!” a voice yelled at Charles.
He awoke with a start. He had no idea how long he had been asleep, but if felt like a long time. With hands tied, he was led to the top deck and outside. The ship was now docked, and the crew had begun unloading boxes and trunks of captured booty. Charles stood on deck and looked at the scene in front of him.
They were in a protected cove. From the open ocean, the ship was hidden by a stretch of hillside. On the beach in front of him was a sizable village. Wooden huts lay on top of one another, just off the sand and into the jungle. At the beginning of the dock, a long line of villagers stood waiting patiently.
“These are my people. Everything we steal goes to them. Some of it they keep for themselves, and the rest they sell at markets or to traveling caravans. This is their primary source of income. We used to be a thriving fishing village until your government imposed fishing restrictions on us. We can’t even fish our own waters now! Apparently, we were too good at it and your British ships weren’t catching enough fish, so the government sought to even the score.”
“Where are we?” Charles asked.
“Do not worry about that. Come, I will show you what your government has done to our people,” Captain Basil said with disdain.
With that, Captain Basil untied Charles’s hands, led Charles off the boat, down the dock, and through the long line of villagers patiently waiting for their share of stolen goods. They went past some huts, then paused and went into one.
The hut stank of rotten flesh and filth. Charles almost threw up from the stench. On tables were men with an assortment of injuries. Some were missing hands. Others had severe saber wounds down their chests. Still others were missing ears and eyes. Some were just shy of death.
“What is this?” Charles asked.
“This, my friend, is the work of your British government. These are all fisherman who defied your country’s law against fishing in our waters. Some were beaten to an inch of their life. Others had their hands chopped off.”
Charles walked up to one of the men. An old man in his sixties was missing his right hand.
“Do you speak English?” he asked.
“Yes, a little,” the man replied. He had a kind face and high cheekbones. His head was practically bald, with the exception of some gray hair just above both ears.
“What happened to you?” Charles asked. He wanted to hear an account firsthand, from someone other than Captain Basil.
“My sons and I were fishing off the coast. That is where the schools of marlin can be caught. That is how we make our living. The English captured us and killed my sons and left me for dead.”
“How did you make it back here?”
“Captain Basil found me floating on a piece of driftwood. Another five minutes and the sharks would have had me.”
Charles felt sorry for the old man. He liked him. He had gentleness about him, the simple nature of a man who has lived his entire life from one day to the next. Charles appreciated that.
“I am sorry for the loss of your sons and your hand. I don’t know who did this to you, but I intend to find out,” Charles said, shook the man’s good hand, and walked out of the hut with Captain Basil.
“Is that why you untied my hands?” Charles asked.
“You might escape, but where would you go?” Captain Basil asked.
“I can’t believe the British government is responsible for this.”
“It gets much worse. If I were responsible for one-tenth the amount of piracy I was accused of, I would have more wealth than the King of England.”
“What are you saying?”
“That British ships are acting as pirates and blaming it on me. That they are responsible for more looting and pillaging and raping than anyone else.”
“I can’t believe that.”
“Whether you believe or not, it is the truth.”
Charles looked at line of villagers in front of him. Poor people waited in turn for something they could sell to feed their family. The image of the “hospital” remained etched in his thoughts. The poor old man missing a wrist—simply for trying to fish.
Charles had always been a patriot. He loved his country and his government. In his mind, Britain was a light in a room of darkness. Yes, they were conquerors. But they also improved any conquered people. They introduced a court system, an educational system, a transportation network, and even a mercantile system of trade to any area they occupied. That was the British way. Yes, the government could be brutal, but only in the interest of progress.
What he saw sickened him. What he saw was senseless brutality and a sick abuse of power.
“I am sorry about your family,” Captain Basil said.
“What?” Charles answered, startled from his deep frame of thought.
“If you and I could have had this conversation, we could have taken you and your family to a safe port. I hope they are alive and well.”
“I hope so as well.”
“We will take you to a port where you can make it to Tangier. Of course, you won’t be allowed to see our location for our safety. But, I wanted you to see firsthand the actions of your government.”
“What about my boat?” Charles asked.
“Consider it a contribution to the poor and unfortunate. There are other boats, my friend.”
Charles didn’t like that response one bit, but he had no choice in the matter. He had cared for The Dove for almost ten years. Sanded and varnished and painted its hull and decks. Personally rigged every single line. Even sewn the mainsail. His family had spent many vacations laughing on her deck and playing in the hold. She would be sorely missed.
Just then, with the sudden impact of a lightning bolt, a shed to their right was annihilated in a loud explosion and cloud of dirt. The ground shook, and Charles was thrown to the ground by the force of the impact. Four more explosions happened around them.
Captain Basil grabbed Charles by the right arm and began dragging him to his feet.
“We are being attacked!” Captain Basil screamed.
“By whom?” Charles screamed back.
“The British Navy!”
Charles looked out and saw two British steamships just inside the harbor. They had managed to sneak up the coastline and into the cove without being detected. For once, Charles wished that Britain didn’t have the best navy in the world, or the most experienced naval captains.
Flashes from deck cannons dotted the ocean horizon. All around, chaos ensued. Explosions rocked the beach, creating a mist of sand and smoke. Villagers ran in all directions, panicked and scared. Just in front of Charles, a woman died as a cannon shell blew a hole through her.
Many more villagers died as the bombardment became more intense. Dead bodies littered the beach. Blood drenched the incoming tide. The smell of sulfur filled the ocean air.
Charles and Captain Basil began urging villagers to retreat to the jungle behind them, out of range from the ship’s cannons. It was a natural instinct for Charles to protect innocents. These villagers were not soldiers, rather people simply wanting food and shelter. He grabbed a woman and her daughter and ran them further up the beach, pushing them towards the safety of the jungle. People continued to run all around them.
Charles looked out and saw four large dinghies full of British soldiers. The bombardment stopped as the boats reached the shore. The soldiers dispatched, charging the beach and shooting or bayoneting anyone in their path.
Captain Basil and his men fired at the soldiers from behind some of the huts. A couple of soldiers were cut down and the rest continued to storm the beach. One ran right at Charles, screaming his lungs out with murder in his eyes, his bayonet blade charging toward Charles’s stomach.
Acting on instinct, Charles shifted his body and as the blade just missed his mid-section, he grabbed the rifle around the barrel and brought his leg out to trip the onrushing soldier. The soldier flipped over Charles’s leg, landed on this back on the sand, and let out a loud “uummpphh.” Twisting the rifle out of the soldier’s hands, Charles brought the butt of the rifle down on the soldier’s temple, knocking him unconscious.
A group of soldiers, seeing their comrade down, began firing at Charles from about forty feet away. Bullets whizzed by his head. Ducking for cover, he couldn’t bring himself to fire back at his countrymen; instead, he crouched down and ran toward the shacks. Bullets nipped at his ankles, his running slowed by the slick sand. It seemed like forever before he reached the shacks, briefly safe from the oncoming soldiers. Five of them had followed him up the beach and were now running in his footsteps in the sand.
Hiding behind the back of a hut, Charles quickly considered his options. He could run to the jungle and hope he wasn’t followed, or he could begin firing on the troops. He didn’t like the second option, as they were his countrymen and he was outnumbered.
He had only seconds to decide.
He decided on one last option. He would surrender.
“I’m with you. I’m a British citizen. Don’t fire,” he yelled.
The soldiers, thankfully, were running slowly in the sand and in a position to make a sound judgment. They heard Charles’s voice and saw him emerge from the back of the hut with his hands over his head in a position of surrender. Charles walked towards them slowly and kept shouting, “Don’t shoot, I’m a British citizen!”
Soon, they were on him and had him surrounded. The soldiers, all boys younger than twenty years of age, were caught a bit off-guard.
The youngest one, a boy named Will Smythe, only seventeen years of age, was full of testosterone and rage. Without thinking, he brought the butt of his rifle directly into the back of Charles’s skull, knocking him to the ground unconscious. He was about to beat Charles to death, but was stopped by his comrades.
Charles lay on the sand, bleeding profusely from the back of his head…
An hour later, Charles woke up. He was seated at a wooden table with his hands tied in front of him. On the other side of the table, a man came into focus. He appeared to be an officer, a well-dressed British officer, a Lieutenant, and he was smoking a cigarette. He had a very skinny face, slits for eyes, and a little black moustache covering his lips. The officer was looking out a window when he heard Charles moan.
“You’re awake,” he said, casually.
“Who are you?” Charles asked.
“Lieutenant Dreyfuss.”
Charles looked around; he was in a hut, most likely on the beach.
“Are you in command of this expedition?” Charles asked.
“Yes,” Dreyfuss said, extinguishing his cigarette, and for the first time, placing his full attention on Charles.
“Do you mind explaining to me why the British navy is attacking a village of innocents?”
“I’d hardly call them innocents. This is a pirate’s den. Just like clearing a wasp’s nest, we wiped them out,” the response was cool and breezy, as if Dreyfuss was explaining how he had cleaned his chimney.
“Wiped them out?”
“Well, we can’t have them returning to their pillaging and looting ways, now can we?”
“And the women and children?”
Dreyfuss didn’t like this line of questioning. He was unaccustomed to having questions directed at him. He was much more comfortable being the one doing the asking.
“Who are you?” Dreyfuss asked.
“Colonel Charles Owen. I’m a British officer,” Charles replied wearily.
“I doubt that,” Dreyfuss replied.
“Why do you doubt that?”
“You don’t have any military clothing or identification. Why would a British colonel be in the middle of Morocco with a group of pirates?”
“I was on a pleasure cruise with my family. My family escaped, while I tried to outrun the pirates. Eventually, they caught me.”
“Where is your family now?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where is your boat?”
“I don’t know that, either.”
“How convenient.”
“It’s the truth.” Charles looked Dreyfuss directly in the eye. He outranked Dreyfuss and was completely unimpressed by these interrogation tactics.
“So, you have no proof and nobody to verify your identity?” Dreyfuss asked.
“I was—am—with Cornwall’s light infantry. I was stationed in Ceylon and then Cape Colony after that…”
“Who is your commander?” Dreyfuss interrupted.
“Lieutenant General Stapleton.”
“I’ve never heard of him,” Dreyfuss responded.
“You’re the only one who hasn’t, it seems. The man is practically a legend.”
“I’m still not convinced,” Dreyfuss added, thoroughly enjoying his position of power.
“Yes, you are,” Charles answered back.
Dreyfuss took out another cigarette and took his time lighting it. For the first time, he felt intimidated by Charles. It was true. He did believe that Charles was a colonel in the British military. He had that air of superiority that only the British possess, especially British officers.
“Perhaps I am,” Dreyfuss admitted.
“Then why don’t you untie me?” Charles asked.
“Because.”
“You’re afraid I might report what I’ve seen.”
“Partially, and, you might just interfere.”
“Interfere with what?”
“I’m here on orders. My orders are to protect the interests of British merchants. I highly doubt the British press and public would respond favorably to our tactics.”
“You mean terrorizing and murdering innocent civilians in a country we’re not even at war with?”
“Very perceptive.”
“All so British nobles can line their pockets. With what? Profits from fish?”
Dreyfuss continued to puff on his cigarette.
“Not exactly.”
“Then what?” Charles asked.
“My dear friend, as much as I hate to see one of my countrymen cut down, I’m afraid you’re going to have to be a casualty of our little battle.”
“You mean massacre,” Charles corrected him.
Charles had experienced war. He had seen, firsthand, the brutality of combat. But his soldiers, British soldiers, were always disciplined. They didn’t loot. They didn’t pillage and murder. They followed an honor code that he based his entire life upon. The military had been his life since he was thirteen and a cadet at a military boarding school.
Charles watched as all his beliefs were torn down right in front of him.
Dreyfuss avoided eye contact with him, showing a sign of weakness. He extinguished a second cigarette before speaking.
“I’m sorry, but your time has come,” Dreyfuss said before standing up. He went outside to fetch a guard. No doubt, he didn’t want to do the dirty work himself.
A young sentry followed Lieutenant Dreyfuss inside. A boy, only eighteen, named Steven Terry.
“Young Seaman Terry. The man in front of you is a pirate. He is a conspirator. He is responsible for the deaths of countless innocent civilians. He has been tried, judged, and sentenced to death.”
“Yes, sir!” Seaman Terry answered.
“Seaman Terry, it is your sworn responsibility to carry out his sentence,” Lieutenant Dreyfuss barked.
“Sir?”
“You are to execute this man and then burn this hut.”
“Sir…I…?” Cadet Terry stammered out.
Charles could sense the boy’s confusion at receiving such an order. He looked the boy in the eyes. He wasn’t a cold-blooded murderer like Dreyfuss, just a young soldier trying to do his best. Dreyfuss was obviously covering his tracks. If this young man pulled the trigger, it would be his word against that of Dreyfuss if it ever got out that they had killed one of their own. Dreyfuss would have his hands clean.
“Son, I’m a colonel in His Majesty’s Service. This man wants you to commit murder.”
“Kill him, Seaman Terry!” Lieutenant Dreyfuss interrupted.
“You don’t have to do this, son. You’re not a murderer!” Charles yelled at the young man.
The young seaman, confused and scared, raised his rifle and pointed it at Charles, while continuing to look at Lieutenant Dreyfuss. He had been drilled to always, always follow orders. Not obeying orders for even the most trivial things, like shining his shoes a shiny black, could result in harsh discipline. The British military thrived on discipline, and that meant always following orders. His own conscience balked at such an order, but as a soldier he had been is brainwashed to bury his conscience somewhere deep within himself.
Don’t Think!
Follow Orders!
Always!
“You don’t have to do this, son. This isn’t part of a being a soldier. This man can’t order you to commit murder!” Charles screamed, tears welling up in his eyes.
“Do it now, Seaman Terry, or I’ll have you whipped and court-martialed!” Lieutenant Dreyfuss barked right back at him.
Charles could see he was going to lose this battle. Seaman Terry was firmly in the grasp of Lieutenant Dreyfuss. He had one chance, and one chance only.
Terry looked to Lieutenant Dreyfuss for approval one last time. That provided Charles an opportunity to lunge forward, take both his shackled hands, and hit Terry square in the jaw. The boy fell backwards onto his rear end. Charles turned right and dove through the open window. Distantly, he heard a gunshot. He felt a sharp pain in his right shoulder when his body hit the sand—probably landed on it wrong.
Springing up, he began sprinting for the jungle. He didn’t look back. He didn’t know if Terry was chasing him, and he didn’t care. All he cared about was surviving and making it to the jungle edge, where he might find some needed cover.
Sprinting through the sand and running between huts, he felt bullets whiz near him and heard shouting in the distance. No doubt more troops had been gathered to chase after him.
Thankfully, it wasn’t a long distance to the jungle. He didn’t look for a trail or opening or even a path, but just lunged through a thicket, almost losing his footing. He continued to sprint through the trees away from his pursuers. The ground below him now was dirt and mud. It was much darker now, with shade provided by the wall of trees overhead. It felt different. It felt darker.
Charles continued to sprint, hearing soldiers coming from behind him, perhaps only twenty feet away. He began to zigzag through the trees in an effort to slow them down. He was making good time, but he had no idea how many troops were following him.
For another minute it continued like this, with Charles running frantically, zigzagging, brush hitting him in the face, falling to his knees, getting up and continuing. He was beginning to get tired.
Then—disaster!
In his haste, and because the jungle overgrowth literally blocked his view in every direction, he had gotten lost. He realized had no idea where he was heading, except he was sure he wasn’t headed back to the beach. He ended up at the foot of a large embankment. Not a huge mountain, only thirty feet high or so, but he would have to scale it in order to get away. With soldiers just seconds behind him, he would be an easy target.
Turning around, with his back to the hill and his chest to the jungle, he awaited the soldiers. He didn’t have a plan. Surrender? Fight?
Three soldiers emerged from the jungle, running at a full sprint about fifteen feet in front of him. They crouched low, bayonets fixed in front of them, murder in their eyes.
There would be no surrender. These men were ordered to kill on sight.
Charles braced for the worst.
He heard gunfire. Had he been shot?
He watched as bullets ripped through the shirts of all three men, thrusting them backwards on their backs—dead!
But he was alive.
Looking around, he heard only the whistling of the wind through the jungle trees. After a few seconds, several men appeared from the jungle.
Charles immediately recognized Captain Basil.
“Do you believe me now about your British navy?” he asked.
“Of course I do. I had no idea of the level of corruption.”
“We don’t have much time. I’ll tell you everything after we have our ship back.”
“How are you going to do that? She’s surrounded and outnumbered. You’ve got a sailboat, for the love of Pete. How do you possibly expect to outrun steamer ships?”
“The same way I have for three years. By using my head instead of relying upon technology,” Captain Basil replied, smiling.
“Oh,” Charles replied sarcastically.
Captain Basil had all of nine men with him—with Charles it made ten. The small group made their way single file through the jungle towards the ocean. It was getting darker and would be completely dark in about forty-five minutes.
After half an hour, the group had made a large arc and now sat safely camouflaged at the sand’s edge. They nestled on a hill, overlooking both the village and the ocean. This perch provided a panoramic view of the British troops as well as the British ships.
“Okay, Aquina, you’re up!” Captain Basil whispered.
Aquina, the first mate, had a leather backpack. He squirreled his way past the group, down to some rocks, and was soon at the water’s edge. Captain Basil threw him the end of a tiny hose with a nozzle at the end. Aquina took the hose, placed it in his mouth, and was quickly submerged under water. The hose was hidden by the rocks and fed by another member of the crew.
“What the devil is going on?” Charles asked.
“An old pirate’s trick. Aquina has a rope; he is going to tie the anchors of the two ships together.”
“Are you kidding me?” Charles asked.
“No. The hose we have is crude, but effective—it acts as a snorkel, allowing him to breathe underwater. Unfortunately, it only works about half the time. Fortunately, even without the hose, Aquina can hold his breath for over three minutes. The ships are anchored adjacent one another, rafted up bow to bow, so luckily the anchors should be very close together,” Captain Basil explained.
Charles watched the scene unfold in front of his eyes. He was unaccustomed to such clandestine missions. Most of his fights happened right in front of the enemy. He liked this. He liked outsmarting an opponent—even if that opponent was his own government.
Twelve minutes later, Aquina emerged from the ocean, exactly where he had entered. Soon, he was back with the group, dripping wet with saltwater.
“It was no problem. The water is shallow there, perhaps only fifteen feet.”
Captain Basil smiled at this news. “Good. We wait until it’s dark and then we move. Everyone knows their job, correct?” he asked.
The crew and Charles nodded in agreement.
“Even if their anchors are tied together, it might only give us a fifteen or twenty minute head start. Surely not enough time against those ships,” Charles said.
“A storm is coming,” Captain Basil replied.
Charles looked at the sky. He saw nothing but clear skies and the emergence of just a few specks of stars.
“I don’t see anything.”
“Just wait.”
The group did wait, for another hour and a half. Lying completely motionless, they were still excited with anticipation. The plan was a simple one. Swim to the Rouge and board her under the cover of darkness. There was a southerly breeze that would allow them to hoist the sails and, hopefully, sail away without awakening the troops. If that didn’t work, they hoped they could at least get far enough to be out of range of the ships’ cannons.
Lying on his belly, Charles felt the chill in the air. He also felt the wind. Looking up, what had been a clear sky thirty minutes earlier was now covered in gray clouds.
“You were right about the storm,” Charles whispered.
“It’s going to be a gale,” Captain Basil replied.
They waited another twenty minutes until the wind kicked up into a screamer and whitecaps formed on the ocean’s surface. It was completely dark now, the clouds covering the light of the moon and stars.
“We go!” Captain Basil ordered.
One by one, the pirates and Charles entered the water, swimming about two feet from one another. They swam dog-paddle style so their arm movements wouldn’t create a silhouette against the ocean waves.
The water was difficult to swim. The current was stronger than Charles had anticipated. He felt his body lift up and down with each new wave. A couple of times, a whitecap hit him hard in the face, forcing saltwater up his nose. A few times, he even lost sight of the man directly in front of him. The fact that everyone had on a full set of clothes along with weapons didn’t help matters.
After perhaps ten minutes, the group rendezvoused at the starboard side of the Rouge. One after another, they climbed on deck, quickly ducked out of sight, and crawled along the floorboards to reach their positions. Every man knew his exact task. One man would unhitch the mainsail, and another would prepare to hoist it. Another man would unhitch the jib, and another would hoist it. Charles’s job, along with a man named Dwalu, would be to pull up the anchor. Captain Basil, of course, would man the wheel.
All the men watched Captain Basil intently; he would give them a hand sign and then it was a “go.”
Captain Basil watched both British ships. One was to port and the other starboard. Both had soldiers on watch who walked along the deck of the ship. He was going to try to time his maneuver perfectly, when both men’s backs were facing him. He spun the wheel around and allowed the Rouge to turn slowly, to about a forty-five degree angle into the wind with her bow pointed out to sea. In this way, all they had to do was hoist the sails and go without tacking.
The boat took about ten minutes to make the slow turn. Luckily, neither watchman was observant enough to notice a boat turning completely by itself.
Captain Basil kept an eye on the two watchmen, their figures barely outlined against the dark night. He was timing their marches. One reached the bow as the other reached the stern, and both made their turns with their backs to the Rouge at the same time.
He brought his arm down three times. The crew immediately went into action.
Charles and Dwalu pulled the anchor up quickly, but quietly. The minute the anchor was raised from the ground, the Rouge began to drift ever so slightly. At that moment, the mainsail was hoisted, but only halfway. To pull it up completely would have made much too much noise. Besides, in this wind halfway provided plenty of power.
After a minute, the anchor was out of the water and on the deck of the ship. The Rouge sailed out to sea, protected under the dark sky and the noise of the wind.
Within thirty seconds, she had sailed past both boats.
A young sentry named Millwall was on watch that night. He was a young lad, only nineteen, and he loved being on watch. It meant he could be by himself for a few hours—a rarity on a boat—and be out with the sea and elements. Life at sea could be so dreary and monotonous. He loved to take his time, light a cigarette, pull up his collar, and squint into the wind.
Millwall walked slowly along the deck, smoking his cigarette, shielding his face from the wind. A couple of times he looked up, but mostly he was in his own head. He thought of his friends at home and how he missed his dog. He also thought of his return, when he would stroll into the local pub, order a round of drinks, and detail his many adventures at sea. That’s why he’d joined the Royal Navy, to find adventure. It was the same reason most of the lads had joined.
He continued his walk, but something just didn’t feel right. He looked up at the town. No, that wasn’t it. He scanned the deck; everything seemed in place. He looked across at the other British ship.
Wait a minute.
Something wasn’t right.
A ship was missing.
The pirate ship!
“Oh my God!” he sputtered.
Going to the side of the deck, he looked at the open sea. He could just barely make out the sails of the Rouge, perhaps two hundred and fifty feet away. She was on a full beam reach and moving fast.
Immediately, he went to the alarm and started ringing it. The alarm was a bell with a chain that, when rung, made an insane amount of noise. Within a moment, a petty officer by the name of Briggs emerged, putting his spectacles on.
“What is it, Millwall?” he asked, annoyed.
“The pirate ship. It’s gone!”
“What?”
“It’s gone!”
Briggs looked at where the Rouge was supposed to be.
It was gone.
He looked back at Millwall in disbelief. Millwall said nothing, but pointed vigorously to the outline of the mainsail of the Rouge.
A few other hands came on deck, rubbing sleep from their eyes and wondering what the fuss was about.
“Pull the anchor! Start the engines. The pirates have taken back their ship!”
Immediately, the deck of the ship looked like ants scrambling on a dirt hill. Sailors ran to and fro, each with assigned tasks of hoisting anchors, starting engines, and preparing cannons.
“What is going on?” Dreyfuss emerged from below.
“They’ve taken the pirate ship, headed out to sea at twelve o’clock!” Briggs answered.
Dreyfuss looked at where the Rouge should have been and had exactly the same reaction as Millwall and Briggs.
He couldn’t believe his eyes.
Dreyfuss ran to the bridge and immediately took the helm. Pushing in the throttle, the engines whined in appreciation. He would be damned if that ship escaped. They had already allowed a certain English officer to escape to the jungle and had lost three good soldiers. He wouldn’t watch their prize sail into the ocean night.
The ship turned and began to chug. The steam engines took a while to warm up.
Then suddenly, his ship lurched forward and stopped. Dreyfuss increased throttle to no avail. He put the ship in reverse, gunned the throttle again, and the ship lurched forward even more violently.
Briggs noticed the crew on the other ship waving their arms and yelling. He also noticed their boat was being pulled into the waves.
“I think our anchor is stuck!” he yelled.
He went down to two crewmen who were feverishly trying to pull up the anchor.
“She’s stuck, sir!” one of them yelled.
Briggs took over, pulling on the anchor winch, but it didn’t move an inch. She just wouldn’t budge.
“What is happening here?” Dreyfuss had left the bridge and was standing in front of Briggs.
“The anchor’s stuck, sir.”
“Damn it, man—could anything else go wrong?”
“It looks like the other ship’s anchor is stuck as well,” one of the crewmen yelled.
Dreyfuss looked at the other ship. It wasn’t moving either, and a group of sailors had converged over the anchor winch, just as their crew had been moments before.
It was obvious that sabotage was at hand.
“Cut the anchor!” Dreyfuss ordered.
“Yes, sir!”
The only problem with cutting the anchor was that it was held to the ship by a thick iron chain. Cutting it loose meant the difficult task of sawing right through the chain with a hacksaw. A sailor produced a hacksaw from a nearby storage container and immediately began sawing.
On the deck of the Rouge, the sails were in full flight. Charles glanced back at the harbor as the two British ships in the distance grew smaller and smaller, and were soon completely invisible through the rain and darkness.
“How soon before we jibe?” Charles asked.
“Another five minutes,” Captain Basil replied.
Charles couldn’t believe the escape had gone as planned. It also wasn’t lost on him that the British navy now considered him a pirate and an escaped fugitive. Most men might dwell in melancholy; Charles, however, was a bit ashamed to admit he was having the time of his life. He had been an excellent military man for his entire career, and had enjoyed the many adventures and battles the military provided. But, the military life was an exercise in restraint. So many times he had questioned the methods and strategy of superior officers, only to hold his tongue and follow orders. The life itself was quite often tedious and routine. This was freedom.
“Get ready to jibe!” Captain Basil yelled.
The crew readied themselves and listened for orders. No one resented Captain Basil. The entire crew understood he was not only a capable and courageous leader, but also the best sailor, by a wide margin, of any of them. They trusted him with their lives. Charles could see his leadership qualities and his expert seamanship from the beginning. He would have made one hell of an admiral for the British navy.
“Now!” Captain Basil yelled.
The main and jib swung in as Captain Basil turned the wheel to port. The boat was turning against the wind and would now be running with the wind. They picked up additional speed, as they were now going with the current rather than fighting it.
Within moments the Rouge was sailing along at twelve knots.
“Now, it’s time to pray,” Captain Basil said to Charles.
It would be a matter of time before they knew if the ships had followed them. They were hoping to escape before the sun came up, so that it would take a wild guess for either British ship to turn exactly where the Rouge had turned.
The Rouge was a xebec, a three-masted ship designed by the Barbary corsairs for use in Mediterranean waters to outrun navies in the eighteenth century. The xebec’s design was based upon speed and maneuverability. It wasn’t the best boat for rough water, but in lighter winds it went unsurpassed. While this gale was certainly a good burst of wind, it was by no means a catastrophic hurricane or as rough as the seas in the northern Atlantic. In these winds, the Rouge was in her element. Basil had long ago mothballed all but two of the cannons for one sole purpose—to increase her speed. Without the added weight of cannons, artillery, and a full crew, the Rouge was as fast and agile as was possible for a ship of her design.
Unfortunately, she was trying to outrun a certain British ship named The Walcott piloted by Lieutenant Dreyfuss. The Walcott was actually a converted trawler of the larger Mersey design. Without a load, she weighed 438 tons and was specially outfitted with two Vickers machine guns mounted at the bow and stern. The Vickers gun was generally used by the British army on land, but its water-cooled design was perfect for use on the open sea. More importantly, it was the perfect gun for taking apart wooden ships at short or medium range. The Walcott carried a crew of thirty sailors, and although she wasn’t a large boat by any means, she could outrun, and outgun, any fishing or merchant ship in the Mediterranean waters. She could easily overwhelm the Rouge in both speed and firepower.
Finally, after ten minutes, anchor chain was sawed in two on The Walcott. The sailor, flush with sweat and out of breath, gave a crewman the order to relay this information to Dreyfuss. In a moment, the ship began to chug along, slowly making her way out to sea.
The other ship was still trying to untangle her anchor and didn’t have the judgment to simply cut it off, as Dreyfuss had. As a result, they only had one ship in pursuit, but that was more than enough to overpower a sailboat with a skeleton crew.
The boat picked up steam and was soon plowing through whitecaps. It was extremely dark and the wind was picking up. The waves steadily grew in size, bursting over the bow and soaking the crew. Dreyfuss had positioned four crewmembers at the bow, each with a set of binoculars. Their job was simple—scan every inch of the ocean in search of the Angelina Rouge.
On the bridge, Dreyfuss punched the throttle all the way forward. The boat chugged along, brazenly chopping through the open seas, frantically searching for her prey. Dreyfuss was, by nature, a highly vindictive man. He was also keenly aware of status. Twice in one day he had allowed the enemy to escape. A sense that he was somehow going to be embarrassed drove him to find the Angelina Rouge. He hated that he had been outsmarted; the fact that a glorified peasant had escaped his grip was unbearable to him.
Steadying the wheel was difficult in this rough water. Dreyfuss was breathing hard as his black eyes scanned the surface of the ocean. The boat fell and rose in the crests of the waves. Rain splattered down; softly at first, but then quickly changed into a violent, torrential downpour. Visibility became nonexistent.
Dreyfuss realized he would have to concede defeat. Finding a ship in these conditions was impossible unless they happened to run into it by chance.
“I’m turning her around and returning to port. I want the man responsible for the watch, and I want him now!” Dreyfuss screamed. Although he wouldn’t find the Angelina Rouge that night, he would take his anger and frustration out on crewman Millwall by issuing ten lashes and confining him to kitchen duty below deck for a month or more.
After an hour, there was a feeling of relief on the deck of the Angelina Rouge. The storm had kicked up, and the rains descended on the men like a baptism. They knew it would be almost impossible for Dreyfuss to find them in this mess! The crew worked diligently and silently. Every few moments, each of them looked to the stern, half expecting to see the bow of the British warship steaming straight at them.
It never happened. They had escaped.