The Tigre
Babcock hurtled down the quarterdeck ladder, taking four rungs at a time. Crossing the gangway, he leaped over the forecastle, hurrying to the bows to inspect what had caused the crashing timber.
The ripping sound had ceased and the brig was sailing soundlessly through the slightly-lapping water, but Babcock feared they had entered the second reef before he and Groot had suspected they would. The Tigre had struck uncharted boulders and he was worried that they might encounter more.
He called to Mustafa, ‘Send a boy below to check for damage.’
Hearing Groot shouting, Babcock looked over his shoulder and saw the Dutchman frantically waving his blue cap, pointing across the bows.
Gripping tightly to avoid falling overboard, Babcock peered down into the water. He saw long strands of weed trailing into the translucent depths, with shapes of oddly-striped fish swimming unafraid near the surface. But there was no sign of underwater snares, no submerged ridges, no continuation of a reef pattern.
Looking back at Groot, Babcock was surprised to see him still pointing, bewildered to hear him shouting, ‘Reef …’
Confused, he turned back to the surf.
This time, he noticed that the sea bed was shoaling quickly. He looked farther out to sea and saw what Groot was pointing at.
Jagged shapes lay beneath the water’s ruffled surface.
They must be approaching shoals from the second reef sooner than he had anticipated; Babcock waved his hand, signalling Groot to steer to starboard.
Groot was already spinning the wheel and shouting to Raji overhead in the rigging; a chorus of voices spread through the masts and spars as canvas snapped and lines groaned.
Feeling the brig slope from the coastline, Babcock kept his eyes on the pattern of sharply-toothed reefs, waiting to hear a crack at any moment. He heard only the slap of the waves, the brig cutting forward on its eastward tack.
Leaning over the rails, he saw sharp boulders only a few feet away from the hull, the brig gliding between a range of submerged peaks.
He tried to remember the chart, recalling patterns in the shape of a ‘T’, a channel which ran perpendicularly between the first and second reef. Believing they were approaching the T’s crossarm, he waved for Groot to move in a straight line out to sea.
The Tigre remained angled to the coastline.
Frustrated, Babcock looked over his shoulder to see why Groot was disobeying the order. The Dutchman Groot stood stalwart at the wheel, stubbornly shaking his head.
Babcock boomed, ‘What the hell’s the matter, you cheesehead?’ He was angry. Wasn’t this ship under his command? Would he have to discipline Groot for insubordination?
Groot nodded in the direction in which Babcock had pointed.
Babcock ran along the gangway, looking into the water. He finally saw what Groot had meant—an underwater rock formation like a tabletop, a shallow flatness extending at least twelve feet wide and probably thirty feet in length.
Wiping beads of perspiration from his forehead, he could only feel relief at Groot’s stubbornness. The Tigre would have scraped bottom, wrecking her hull.
* * *
More cautious as he proceeded towards the third reef, Babcock remembered that Horne had given strict orders for the Tigre not to sail too far out to sea after clearing the third reef and so risk being spotted too soon by the French frigate which might be anchored at the cove’s mouth. Horne wanted Babcock’s brig in a clear position to lead the enemy frigate to sea, clearing the cove’s mouth so that Horne could sail into the cove and attack the Calliope.
As they moved towards the third reef, he checked to see that Groot was gaining sea room.
Groot’s face still glowered from their near miss.
Uncaring that the Dutchman might be angry—or had even lost trust in him—Babcock leaned back over the railing and looked down into the ruffled water.
Seeing nothing, he guessed that if they kept to sea, they would escape the last reef.
‘Starboard,’ he waved, motioning Groot seaward.
The slant of the ship told Babcock that Groot was following orders. Good. He was pleased that they agreed on their recollection of the reef pattern, and glad that he would not have to kick Groot’s butt for insubordination.
Off the pocked shoreline, a saw-toothed range rose above the water, convincing Babcock that they were passing—escaping—the third reef.
His spirits lifted; the nightmare was coming to an end; he could concentrate now on the enemy.
Groot shouted from the wheel.
Wondering if Groot was becoming temperamental, perhaps even smug over his good performance, Babcock wearily raised his eyes to see what the trouble was this time.
A frigate lay directly in front of them.
‘Sail ho!’ called a voice from the mast.
Leaping to his feet, Babcock shouted, ‘Bloody hell. The frogs.’ He had been concentrating so hard on the reefs that he had forgotten about watching for the point when they would round the island’s southeastern tip.
‘Mustafa,’ he ordered, ‘prepare those bloody guns.’
The mainmast hailed, ‘Signal flag, ahoy.’
The French recognised the Tigre as one of their ships. Horne had prepared Babcock for such an event. He had also advised the American not to waste time by simulating fraudulent flag calls.
Turning, Babcock boomed, ‘I got a message for those frogs.’
To Mustafa, he shouted, ‘Grape on top of round shot.’
Mustafa, rope garrotte in hand, cursed the men into action.
Babcock called to the helm, ‘Swing around this bloody tub, Groot, and give me a good aim at that bleeding frigate.’
He felt himself gaining more confidence. There was nothing like a good fight to get a man’s blood up.
Behind him, a voice reported, ‘Water coming through the hull, sir.’
Babcock turned, remembering the Asian boy whom Mustafa had sent to check the damage caused by the rock scrape.
‘How serious is it?’ he asked.
The boy wore only a dhoti, and his face was smudged with soot. ‘The French sailors down there are keeping it out with the bilge pumps.’
‘Good.’ Babcock nodded. ‘That’ll keep them busy and out of trouble.’
He turned back to the frigate, feeling as if the situation was in his favour.
* * *
The Tigre tacked, parading her gunports to the French frigate; the guns boomed, shaking the deck, enveloping the brig with smoke.
As the black cloud lifted in the wind, Babcock looked toward the enemy and saw that Mustafa had scored a broadside without firing a ranging shot.
‘You did it, Ugly,’ he shouted. ‘You did it. You got ’em right in the belly.’
Mustafa grinned, snapping the rope between his clenched fists.
Determined to score a succession of three strikes before leading the frigate to sea, Babcock ordered, ‘Go for her a second time. Get her right in the guts like last time.’
The cords stood out on Mustafa’s neck as he shouted at his gunners, swinging his garrotte in the air; the cannons exploded, making the brig’s board chatter and the men fall back from the thunder.
Babcock was euphoric. ‘Look. Those frogs are smoking like a tuppenny pipe.’
With one last strike to score before heading seaward, Babcock looked to the wheel. He was surprised to see Groot labouring the spokes; glancing overhead, he saw the brig in a tack.
He muttered: What the hell? Why’s Groot moving so early?
‘You idiot,’ Babcock shouted at Groot. ‘You’re ruining our third broadside, you cheesehead.’
Groot’s eyes remained on the rigging, his hands spinning the wheel.
Ready to explode at Groot for such cavalier behaviour, Babcock looked back across the bows.
To landward, waves lapped a long, rocky spur.
Babcock felt his legs go limp. Damn it to hell. Groot was right again.
The third reef clawed into two formations, fingers which thrust from the cove’s mouth into the Indian ocean. In his jubilation, Babcock had forgotten.
* * *
It was pitch-black down in the hold of the Tigre, the flames in all lamps aboard ship having been extinguished at the outset of battle.
Water rose from the reef snag in the hull, the bilge pumps no longer able to keep out the flood as the guns roared overhead.
Gerard Ury squatted on a bench, his calloused hands working a wooden pump as he listened to the other French seamen around him anxiously discussing the battle.
‘I say—let’s mutiny,’ one argued in French.
‘Don’t be stupid. We’re outnumbered five to one.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ said a third voice in the darkness. ‘Who do you think this ship’s fighting? One of our ships, that’s who. French. I say mutiny and help put a quick end to it.’
A Marseilles accent cut through the clank of the pump in the darkness. ‘How do you know it’s French? If these men are pirates as I think they are, then they could be fighting a British ship. If we mutiny, we’ll be helping to put ourselves in the hands of King George.’
Ury liked the idea of mutiny, if for no other reason than to get out of the humid, wet darkness.
He volunteered, ‘I’ll go and see.’
The voice next to him said, ‘When you get on deck, Ury, the first thing you should do is look for the flag on the enemy ship.’
Another man offered, ‘Then look to see if we can attack these pirate scum.’
‘But beware,’ cautioned the voice from Marseilles. ‘There might be a guard on the hatch.’
‘If there is, I’ll say the flood’s worse,’ suggested Ury. ‘That water’s pouring in faster. That these old pumps can’t cope.’
‘Good. That should panic them.’
‘Good luck,’ whispered the men. ‘God be with you.’
Ury felt his way in the darkness, keeping his head low as his bare feet sloshed through the water.
Gripping the ladder, he climbed carefully up, up, up the slimy rungs. The ladder shuddered as another strike bombarded the brig; Ury paused, waiting for the ladder to steady.
An overhead glint of daylight caught his eye and he resumed climbing, his heart beating in excitement. What flag would he see flying across the waves—England or France?