The Huma.

Adam Horne stood to windward on the quarterdeck of the Huma, spyglass directed south, studying the gunfire from the Tigre booming towards the frigate which flew the French colours. He was relieved to see the Tigre tack after venturing perilously close to the finger of the third reef. Had Babcock and Groot forgotten the last obstacle? The rocks were not visible through Horne’s spyglass but he remembered enough of the destroyed chart to know that Babcock had reached that perilous position.

A roar from the French frigate’s guns told Horne a fight was underway, that Babcock’s challenge had been accepted by the enemy. Judging from the size of the three-masted vessel, he feared that Babcock might be out-matched.

Telling himself he must concentrate on the challenge waiting for the Huma, he turned his spyglass to the cove, where the Calliope was anchored off the sandy shore. Jingee’s information had been correct. Horne only hoped that the transfer had not yet taken place, that the war chest was still aboard the small brig.

His mind on Jingee, he raised his glass up the tall cliffs backing the shoreline. The barren plateau showed no sign of life, the skyline broken only by a few shapes of trees—certainly not suspicious from the enemy’s vantage point.

Horne turned his attention back to his own plan of attack.

* * *

As the Huma passed through the north cove’s wide mouth, Horne studied the trim lines of the Calliope, remembering that stormy morning when she had escaped him, abandoning a skeleton crew on the Tigre to fend for themselves.

Stuffing the spyglass into his waistband, he held both hands to his mouth, ordering, ‘Set course northwest.’

Jud stood tall at the wheel, his mahogany-brown face a blend of determination and amusement, moving his lips as if he were talking to some invisible companion.

Horne turned his head, calling, ‘Mind the jib.’

A map showed the north cove to be a deep-water harbour, but Horne saw from the cliffs and snug shoreline that manoeuvrability would be tight if the Calliope gave him a battle. He must not fool himself about the available sea room which would be further reduced by the wind force cutting down from the surrounding plateau.

‘Jud, firm towards the southern shore; those cliffs there.’

‘Aye, aye, sir.’

As the frigate slid windward of the brig, Kiro reminded him, ‘Sir, larboard guns ready.’

Horne gauged the approach; as the brig drew closer, he decided to begin the peppering of grapeshot, foregoing the usual ranging shot.

Hands cupped to his mouth, he ordered, ‘Prepare larboard guns to fire …’

Horne studied the brig through the spyglass; he was close enough to see the pandemonium aboard the enemy ship, the French crew frenzied by the sudden appearance of the Huma in the cove. Their surprise, he hoped, would be incapacitating.

Did the Calliope recognise the Huma from their last encounter? Was Captain Le Clerc aboard with the crew members he had taken from the Tigre? If so, what identity was he assigning to Horne’s ragged band of men in the pirate ship? Did Le Clerc have any clue that they were after the war chest? Had he guessed by now that this attack had been carefully orchestrated to catch him unawares, unprotected?

Another question which preoccupied Horne was whether or not Captain Le Clerc had spotted that it was his former ship, the Tigre, leading the French frigate from the cove’s mouth. Le Clerc would enjoy a clear view across the natural harbour to where Babcock was at work.

The Calliope had weighed anchor and was opening her gunports as she caught the wind. Horne abandoned his musing to gauge his position before calling orders to fire. Through his spyglass he saw the French topsails blossom like a flower.

Another pattern of whiteness attracted his attention: a puff of smoke from the gunports. Then came a splash between him and the brig. Had Le Clerc fired a ranging shot? Or had he lost his composure and fired too soon?

Reminding himself that waiting was the most important element of battle, Horne felt the Huma tilt on her course across the cove, lining to give a clear range for the cannon.

The moment to fire was coming closer and, his heart beating faster, Horne shouted, ‘Prepare to fire and …’

The moment must be right or all was wasted. Each second was an hour. But each wasted shot was an invitation to defeat.

‘… Fire!’

The Huma trembled from the explosion.

‘Stand by to go about,’ shouted Horne through the smoke cloud.

He called to Jud, ‘Head to the wind.’

‘Aye, aye, sir,’ answered the bass voice through the scattering cloud.

Kiro reported from larboard, ‘Gun crew prepared for orders, sir.’

Horne risked, ‘Men to starboard.’

Pleased, he listened to the rush of bare feet across deck; he knew Kiro had had no time to have the deck sanded to avoid slipping.

Had he ever conducted a battle so makeshift? Horne forgot about his improvisations as the Huma caught the wind, lying over no more than a few degrees. With an exhilarating lurch, the shrouds sighed, yards shivered from the quick tug and stress.

As the topsails bellied against the plateau wind, Horne saw the French brig catching the breeze, tacking southeast, bringing her head to the wind as she set a course straight for the Huma.

‘Set course for northeast,’ he called to Jud.

‘Aye, aye, sir.’

‘The wind’s more powerful than you think,’ cautioned Horne, eyes on the cove’s northern perimeter.

‘Aye, aye, Captain.’

Horne gauged the point inside the cove at which the two ships would pass. ‘Tops’ll short.’

The enemy brig, closing the gap between herself and Horne, fired another ball.

The enemy was as out of range on the new tack as they had been from the anchorage. Horne wondered how nervous Captain Le Clerc was.

‘Steer firm, Jud.’

‘Aye, aye, sir.’

Two cables distant, Horne studied the French ship on her course to pass abeam the Huma. The space between the two ships was shortening as they continued on a parallel course, their prows closing.

Raising his hand to Kiro, Horne shouted, ‘Prepare guns to fire and …’ He waited. ‘… Fire.’

Kiro’s cannons belched flames, blue clouds of smoke rising in thick puffs.

Feeling the deck tremble, Horne heard timbers crash, sails rip, the screams of men pierce the air.

The two ships continued past one another, timbers groaning, smoke spreading in their wake.

Realising for the first time that sweat was pouring from his brow, that he was burning with body heat, Horne pulled off his shirt. Towelling his face with the garment, he shouted, ‘Stand by to go about.’

The men needed no urging.

The spokes of the wheel spun through Jud’s hands; the topmen were ready to head into the wind, sails thundering, canvas snapping. The activity aloft was matched by Kiro stampeding his crew back to the larboard guns.

The Huma, catching her stays, did not move quickly enough for Horne’s liking, and he bellowed, ‘Hang her up in that wind, men.’

Listening to the ropes scream, blocks groan, water creaming in the frigate’s wake, Horne realised how lucky he was to have the few good men he had. But he knew he could not push them so hard for long.

Kiro reported, ‘Larboard guns sponged and loaded, sir.’

‘Canister on round shot?’

‘Aye, aye, sir.’

Horne saw Le Clerc’s brig tacking, preparing to return for the Huma.

At the moment when an idea began forming in his mind, Jud shouted, ‘Captain, look ashore. Above the brig’s position.’

Horne raised his eyes and, there on the cove’s southern plateau, he saw a cloud of dust rise along the rim, the cloud becoming stronger as—yes, it looked like an army storming down the incline to the harbour.

Jingee was doing his job. Was it making Le Clerc hesitate?

Snapping open his spyglass, Horne looked to see how Babcock was faring with the enemy frigate outside the cove. Before proceeding with his strategy for the Huma, he must know the exact progress of all the Marines—inside the cove, outside it and above on the ridge.