TWO

EZRA SOMERS ARRIVED AT HIS OFFICE ON AUNT PEGGY’S LANE IN ST. George Town at the height of the gale, fighting to walk against the fist of wind that hit his chest and the rain that needled his face. He had work to do. He arrived sodden and flushed at his usual time, just past 8:00 am, and sat at his massive partner’s desk, dripping upon the ledgers, correspondence, tally sheets, and shipping directions so necessary for the operation of the Somers Salt Company.

The windows rattled and a shutter banged like repeating shots, and it put him in mind of the recent spate of attacks on his salt ships by the French privateers and pirates in the Caribbean and along the east coast of the U.S.

Difficult times, difficult times, he muttered to himself. Most of the eastern ports of the United States were still clamoring for salt but, in truth, he had to admit that New England’s orders had fallen off rather dramatically. Well, he thought to himself, add that to the million mysteries of the world.

He rose and limped across the room to look towards St. George’s harbor, a favorite view for a man who made his living from trading by sea. But today visibility was limited to fifty feet outside his window and he could see nothing of the harbor. His foot hurt, for he suffered from gout, which he knew intellectually could be helped by reducing his nightly portion of wine but which he refused to do. Stubborn was a word often used when fellow Bermudians described Ezra Somers. In his mind, however, the trade-off simply wasn’t worth it.

Somers’ office was lined with books on all manner of subjects, for knowing was of particular importance to him. Well into his sixties, Somers fought old-ness; his mind raged against it. He was still as curious as he’d been as a boy turning over rocks or wading in shallow pools of water at low tide to study the creatures trapped there. He wanted to question the world, physically and philosophically, and beneath his wispy white hair was a fecund mind that never rested.

It was unusually cold for early spring in 1800, and a fresh gust of wind seemed to shake the building and might have moved his books a fraction of an inch. He thought of Nicholas Fallon, even now sailing home on his return from the Caribbean, and wondered at the day and perhaps night he would have to face battling wind and sea. Fallon was captain of Rascal, an American-made schooner that sailed for the Somers Salt Company to protect his ships, and also carried a letter of marque from the British Admiralty. This meant Fallon could legally attack Great Britain’s enemies—notably French and Spanish—and not be hung as a pirate. He was free to sell his captured prizes to the Admiralty, and Somers, Fallon and the crew would all profit.

For the past two weeks Fallon had been patrolling north of Hispaniola in hopes of a prize or two. What he did not know was that his return to Bermuda would be brief, for Somers had, at last, received a substantial order for salt from New England. Given the dangerous situation along the American coast, Somers wanted Rascal to guard the salt ships to be certain they got through safely. One ship—Lucille— under Captain Pence, was in St. George’s now and eager to be away to the south to pick up her load of salt at Grand Turk. The other—Eleuthra— under Captain Ashworthy, was already loading her salt in Grand Turk and would await Lucille’s arrival. Thence they would both sail in company with Rascal to Boston.

Certainly Rascal was a well-found ship, and Fallon had an excellent crew of 90 plus the incomparable Beauty McFarland as first mate. With Rascal as escort, Somers had no concern for the convoy reaching the U.S., but as a roaring gust once again seemed to shake the floorboards under his feet he did have concern about Fallon making it through the gale. He said a silent prayer under his breath, turned from the window and limped back to work.

It was, indeed, an eventful day for Fallon at sea, with the gale keeping the crew occupied for twelve hours straight. Rascal was hove-to for most of it, lying some 200 miles southwest of Bermuda. Cully, Rascal’s one-eyed master gunner, had double lashed the guns hours before the worst of the storm whitened the world with spume and blowing wave-tops, and none of the massive cannons had careened across the deck. A 3200 pound wandering cannon could easily crush a man or take him right through the side of the ship into the boil below.

Even hove-to, Rascal took a beating from the gale and Colquist, the surgeon, had treated several of the crew for contusions and concussions and at least two for broken bones. Colquist had come aboard as a temporary surgeon, initially borrowed from a ship laid up in ordinary in Bermuda, but he had become permanent. He was serious and moderate in his habits and had saved and treated enough men aboard Rascal to be respected by the crew and valued by Fallon.

Rascal had sailed south as far as Santo Domingo, but it had not been a successful cruise, for the privateers who normally worked around that island had apparently gone to ground. Once or twice the lookout had reported a sail, but nothing had come of it. So it was not a particularly happy ship that was currently riding out the storm, and every man aboard felt the loss of potential prize money keenly. And yet, they would not for all the world challenge Fallon on the subject, for he was a lucky captain who had always taken care of them in the past. He would again.

Rascal was a privateer of eighteen 12-pounders and a long nine in the bows, a fast and capable ship if handled with alacrity, at which Beauty McFarland excelled. She was a strong woman, short and roundish, with close black hair and black eyes that could look through a man bent on challenging her authority. Though women could be found at sea on occasion in menial work, Beauty was the exception in a position of responsibility. She and Fallon had been childhood friends on Bermuda, as well as ferocious competitors racing skiffs on St. George’s harbor. Fallon had only occasionally bested her, for Beauty’s mind was above all else tactical and decisive at that moment when the path to victory or defeat formed an imaginary fork on the water. She stood now lashed to the binnacle with her peg leg planted inside a ring bolt that had held it secure most of the day. Gangrene had crept into an infection when she was 16, and a mere coral scrape had resulted in a painful amputation. Fallon had held her hand throughout the operation, and in difficult times she could feel him holding her hand, still.

She looked at Fallon now, holding tightly to a shroud, his black hair tied in a matted club. He was giving the storm all he had, never going below to rest, reassuring the men that Rascal would hold them in her arms safe as houses. He was tall and lean, with green eyes that were kind when not in battle. His upper body was muscled, if scarred, and Beauty thought him handsome. Apparently, Elinore Somers thought so, as well, for they were to be married later in the spring. She thought of Elinore briefly, tall and blond and spirited, with the kind of spit that Beauty admired in a woman. Her own lover was demure and reticent and even fragile, and Beauty did her best to protect her from the prying eyes and gossip on the island. But their relationship was of course known, even somewhat tolerated, no doubt out of respect—or fear—for Beauty. Well, she could be ferocious in protecting those she loved; she had killed fighting for Fallon, of course, and would do whatever it took to protect young Ajani—Aja, as he preferred to be called, her particular favorite aboard.

Aja was just going around to the men, slowly and cautiously, checking each one with a word of comfort. He was lean and dark black and his arms were shadowed with muscle. But it was his eyes that held the men’s attention, for they were bright with curiosity and concern. He was rescued from a sinking slaver as a boy and had taken to Beauty and Fallon over time, learning seamanship and navigation and the possibility of goodness in humanity. He became practiced in Fallon’s ways, adopting his sense of caring and concern, and the men accepted him as one of their leaders. It was remarkable, really, but then Fallon insisted leadership was earned, not granted, as was so common in the Royal Navy. Aja had earned his place as second mate aboard Rascal.

The glass continued to drop throughout the day, and by the first dog watch, about 4:00 pm, the wind quite unbelievably increased. By the second dog the seas had grown truly monstrous and Rascal was constantly taking green water over the bows. It grew prematurely dark, the storm sucking the light out of the day, and it was a miracle that the lookout was able to spot a small light to the east, although only for an instant, and he hesitated to report it—but there it was again.

“Deck there!” came the call from above. “A ship off the starboard bow!”

Fallon had been wedged below in his cabin trying to eat his dinner when Aja came to get him. He quickly pulled on his tarpaulin and hat and made his way up the companionway. It was an angry sea by now, malevolent and black and grasping, and Fallon was struck by its power as it seemed to pull Rascal down into its troughs before suddenly releasing her. He could see Beauty by the binnacle next to Barclay, the white haired sailing master, all eyes to the northeast straining to see some sign of a ship. It was there, looming as a black shape, nothing more. It could be anything, of course, but it could also be an enemy. Battles had been fought in these conditions; in fact, Fallon had fought them.

There! A signal rocket! That ship was in trouble and had likely seen Rascal’s stern light and was asking, begging more like it, for assistance. Fallon judged the distance to be two cables or more; it was difficult to tell in the dim light. He could barely see the ship’s stern lantern.

“Nico!” Beauty called. “What can we do?” Concern was etched on her forehead as she stared at Fallon.

Clearly not much could be done. To approach another ship in this storm was impossible and might well prove fatal. Yet it was a ship in trouble, and to ignore a plea for help ran counter to every instinct in Fallon’s body, not to mention the law of the sea.

There, another rocket!

The ships were arguably closer now; no doubt the other ship was making quite a bit of leeway, drifting down on Rascal with each wave. Something would need to be done immediately. Fallon’s mind said sail away, but his heart felt the pull of duty.

“Beauty, we must get alongside her!” yelled Fallon. “Get us underway and get your best man with a heaving line made fast to a hawser. Get us closer!”

Beauty nodded, astounded at the audacity of the order, for maneuvering in that sea and wind would be nearly impossible. And to get close enough to heave a line against the wind was doubly impossible. As Rascal began to slowly gather way the storm laid her over sharply and the men on deck fought to grab anything solid and handy to keep from going overboard.

“Nico!” yelled Beauty. “I’m going to try to get ahead and to windward of her. Do you hear? I am coming over top of her and then we’ll throw a line!”

That was absolute madness. Fallon and Barclay and anyone save Aja, who had never seen such a thing, knew it would never work. But Beauty set her jaw, set her peg in the ring bolt and ordered the helmsman to head up as much as possible, though Rascal’s double reefed fore and main sails seemed to barely move the ship. Harris, who had done some boxing in a checkered life, prepared the heaving line and brought it to the stern. The outline of the drifting ship could just be seen now, her stern light disappearing and then reappearing, noticeably closer each time she got on top of a wave.

Harris made his way aft with a monkey’s fist, a small ball of rope tied around a heavy grapeshot at the end of a thin messenger line of about 50’ to which was attached a much larger 6” hawser. The idea was to throw the monkey fist to the other ship’s crew, who would haul on the messenger line, bringing the hawser across the water. Well, that was the idea.

Rascal was edging closer now, Beauty on the wheel with the helmsman; the timing of the thing was critical or the drifting ship might well come hurtling down onto Rascal, very possibly sinking them both. Fallon watched in amazement as Beauty seemed to run the calculations of drift and wind and boat speed in her mind, her face immobile as Rascal’s bow rose higher and higher up the face of a growler and there! The drifting ship—Fallon could see she was a sloop—was almost on top of them. They were going to crash together! Yet Beauty held on, her eyes riveted on the sloop as she fell into a trough and Rascal just edged past her bow and up to windward.

“Now Harris!” Beauty shouted, her face now mobile and anxious as Harris threw the monkey’s fist high into the air off Rascal’s stern, well out to windward of the sloop. The wind shrieked and blew the line back across her bows. There were hands there to claw at the messenger line and Beauty called for Rascal to heave-to quickly as the line ran out. Rascal drifted down to leeward now, not quite matching the drifting sloop’s speed but close enough so that when the thickest part of the line, the 6” hawser, was at last secured to the sloop’s capstan the other end could be made fast to a bollard on Rascal’s stern without pulling the deck out of her. Perhaps 100’ of distance separated the two ships, tethered as they were, jerking and wrenching apart, drifting together, and jerking apart again.

Fallon had watched the whole thing happen in rapt amazement, astounded at Beauty’s seamanship. But there was no time for wonder as both ships were now in peril and at any moment the line could break. Such was the strain on it that its 6” had been wrung tight to 3”. Something must be done to relieve it quickly. The drifting sloop was now directly downwind of Rascal and Fallon staggered up the deck to the binnacle.

“Beauty!” he shouted. “Get Harris to throw another line if he can. We’ll tie off on larboard, as well.”

Beauty nodded and called for Harris to again prepare a heaving line and monkey’s fist. Another 6” hawser was brought on deck from the cable tier and precious minutes passed with all eyes on the straining line running out from the stern. Harris worked methodically, judging the distance to the drifting ship against the strength of his arm—aided by the force of wind that shrieked in the rigging.

At last, he had his monkey’s fist ready and stood on the stern, balancing carefully against the roll and plunge of the ship, watching the drifting sloop to leeward edge closer before sliding down a wave and backing away. Beauty ordered the mainsail eased to spill wind and Fallon could see hands aboard the sloop waiting in the bows but would not for all the world break into Harris’ concentration. The man was stronger and better in this situation than Fallon would ever be.

Now Rascal rose up, and up farther still as a giant mountain of a wave rolled under her. And now the monkey’s fist was in the air, lofted high into the wind, and it sailed—would it be short?—no! It was across, by God! The hands on the sloop quickly hauled on the line until the messenger’s end was aboard and the 6” hawser could be brought across and was secured to the capstan with the other hawser. Rascal’s hands then tied their end of the rope to a bollard on larboard, effectively splitting the strain with the other rope.

Now Beauty let the schooner fall off and the mainsail was brought in and Rascal, snugged down as she was, began to sail, however clumsily and slowly, off to the northwest. From behind them they could hear the sloop’s crew cheer, and Rascal’s own crew joined in, for it was very likely no one aboard either ship would ever see the like of it again.