CHAPTER NINETEEN

The men moved like a pack of wolves across the clearing between the warehouses and the fort, taking advantage of the oaks to provide cover as they ran. One-hundred fifty yards, one-hundred yards, fifty yards, and finally they were at the fort’s back wall. No alarm had been sounded. Grappling hooks had been brought, but Thorpe and Morgan were nimbly up and over the wall. A thud and grunt was heard from inside.

Just as the gates were flung open, a shout rang out followed by a gunshot. Gabe and his men poured through the gate. From a parapet, a sergeant barked orders and a volley of muskets cracked out, while off to the side a trumpet blared.

“Forward, move damn you,” Schoggins was shouting at his men.

Finding targets, the marines were firing, then kneeling as their comrades stepped around and fired. The soldiers on the wall, fewer in number now, fired a scattered volley at almost point blank range. Several of Gabe’s men were cut down, which enraged their mates. The sounds of blows and curses were heard as those firing the muskets were quickly and savagely struck down. A pistol was fired almost in Hex’s face. He turned sharply as the ball missed, but the powder singed his hair. Striking out with his blade, Hex took his foe down. Now men were pouring from the barracks, their muskets with bayonets fixed, joining the battle. The Danes may have woken to a great surprise but they had recovered quickly and fought like demons.

Snatching at Hex’s arm to get his attention, Gabe shouted to be heard. “Take some men and spike the big guns…don’t let them be used on the ships or us.”

Hex nodded and was off, grabbing men to assist as he went. Gabe quickly lost sight of Hex’s group as a man bellowed like a bull and charged at him with a musket and bayonet in his hand. Gabe struck at the barrel of the musket with his blade and then, like a dancer, did a quick side step. The move saved him. The bayonet passed a hair’s breadth from his face. With a backhanded slash, Gabe cut his attacker down. The fighting continued but was ebbing as the British sailors and marines overwhelmed the Danes.

“So much for limiting bloodshed,” Schoggins shouted.

“Aye,” Gabe replied. Seeing Dagan, he shouted, “Get some men and free our people from the dungeon.”

Dagan raised his sword in acknowledgment and was gone. Advancing to the front wall of the fort, Gabe could see Hex’s men were busy with the cannons. The last pocket of resistance seemed to be contained, when out of the melee a smallish man with flowing blond hair leaped at Gabe. Startled, Gabe parried the man’s blade out of instinct. Cursing and calling Gabe an English dog the man moved like a true swordsman.

“Surrender,” Gabe called. Seeing his opponent was an officer, Gabe stepped back and tried to reason with the man. “Sir, the battle is over. Surrender and your life will be spared.”

“Never,” the man snapped, his chest heaving as he breathed. Several of Gabe’s men had now surrounded the officer. “Sir,” Gabe tried again. “Drop your weapon and you shall live. You have fought a brave fight. There can be no shame in an honourable surrender.”

The officer’s reply was to spit in Gabe’s face and shout, “English bastard.”

The outburst was followed by a pistol shot. The man’s eyes seem to lose focus and glaze over just before he fell to the ground. It was Thorpe, still holding a smoking pistol.

As if to explain his actions, Thorpe volunteered, “I don’t let no man spit on me cap’n that way. Not respectful, ’ad no respect at all, the bugger didn’t.”

A flash from the parapet meant Hex had sent up a flare. It was now dawn. How long had the battle lasted? Not near as long as it had seemed.

“Sir.”

Gabe turned to face a man of short stature but who had a commanding voice. “I’m Doctor Robert Cornish. I will be glad to tend to your injured men if you will get them to my small facility.”

“Thank you, doctor,” Gabe replied. He then ordered Thorpe to assist the wounded to the sick quarters.

Hex returned and reported, “Our ships have entered the anchorage, sir.”

It finally dawned on Gabe the reports he was hearing were the cannons on the British ships entering the harbour.

“Good.” Gabe looked about the grounds then ordered, “Hex, find all the boats you can and get our people to the ships. Captain Schoggins, if you will assign a few men to gather our dead I want to move them out of the fort if we can.”

“That should not be a problem, sir. We’ve only lost a handful. I did take the liberty of having the fort’s people placed in their dungeon. See if they enjoy it any more than our people did.”

“You’re a devilish man, Captain…but I like it.”

“Thought you would, sir…gives them a taste of their own medicine.”

It took less than an hour to get everyone on boats and rowed out to the waiting ships. Midshipman Thomas had reported that a group of men were approaching the fort with a flag of truce.

“Have you or Lieutenant Hawkes spoken to them?” Gabe asked.

“No sir.”

“Then don’t, but fire a shot over their heads. Well over their heads, mind you, and then report back to me.”

Turning back to the marine captain, Gabe spoke again, “Captain Schoggins, I don’t want anything left behind that can be used as evidence that the British navy was here.”

“They’ve heard our voices, sir; surely they’ll know we are English.”

“They’ll know we sounded like English,” Gabe corrected. “But tell me, Captain, did you go ashore on St. Croix?”

“I don’t know that I’ve even heard of the place, sir.”

“Good man,” Gabe said. “Now let’s be off.”

***

The rendezvous back aboard Trident was overwhelming. Even Captain Sir Gabriel Anthony, who thought at this point in his career that nothing about the officers and men in his Majesty’s navy could surprise him, was amazed. While the attack on the fort had caused more of a fight and casualities than desired, the attack on the ships in the harbor was nothing short of miraculous. The British merchant vessel had been retaken, and a small American gunboat had been set afire. Then Lieutenant Davy had a master’s mate steer the retaken merchant ship close to a small Colonial privateer ship. He and a handful of tars were able to board and take that ship as well. A nifty little schooner of ten guns, the name Tomahawk was painted across the stern. Someone with a mind for the dramatic had emphasized the name by painting an Indian war ax with blood dripping off the blade. Her battery was made up of four six-pounders per side and two four-pounders on the fo’c’sle. She would need a complement of seventy to seventy-five hands.

Lieutenant Davy had not wasted his time after sailing out of the Danish harbour. By the time he reported aboard the flagship, he had made a fair inventory and inspection. “She is, in all aspects except for water, ready for sea,” he reported with a boyish grin on his face.

The presence of a British surgeon at the fort had been fortuitous; he could be assigned as Trident’s surgeon. Gabe would talk with the man after Lord Skalla had finished interviewing him about the incident in which HMS Foxfire had been taken and her captain killed…possibly murdered by one of the ship’s own crew.

Norton, the Foxfire’s first lieutenant, was one of those the doctor had been caring for in the small sick quarters at the fort. He’d tried to put up a fight when the merchant ship was taken. Hopefully, he’d survive. Most of the freed prisoners would be entered into the books on the ships in Admiral Buck’s squadron. Those merchant seamen with certificates of immunity would be given passage back to England at some point.

After most of the business had been completed, Gabe sat finishing off the last of his wine when Admiral Buck spoke, “Gabe, I’m speaking to you as a friend and not as my flag captain.” Surprised, Gabe nodded his understanding. Buck continued, “I remember when little Midshipman Davy reported aboard Drakkar looking like a drowned rat, but ready to fight at the drop of a hat. He’s come a long way since then.” Gabe continued to listen without interrupting; sure that he knew where this was going. “I’m tempted to put Davy in charge of his prize and recommend his Lordship confirms the appointment. My only question is what about Mr. Wiley?” The admiral then motioned for Chen Lee to fill their glasses and leaned back, letting Gabe catch his thoughts.

“As your friend, I think Mr. Davy is the right choice. As his captain, he has more than proved himself capable and I will support your decision whole-heartedly. Mr. Wiley is senior and is a good officer but lacks the experience Lieutenant Davy has gained these last four years or so. Battling the elements and the Americans, Lieutenant Davy showed initiative, sir. Seeing the schooner was ripe for the taking, he decided to take her. I don’t think Lieutenant Wiley would have acted so quickly and decisively. He will make a good captain soon. Mr. Davy is ready now.”

“Aye,” Buck said, leaning forward to take a pull from the recharged glass. “Our thoughts are one and the same.”

A knock at the door interrupted the conversation as the marine sentry announced, “Lord Skalla, sir.”