THE SHIPS FOUGHT EACH OTHER ALL NIGHT WITH THE FEINTS AND dodges of boxers, each jerk threatening to break a line or rip planking out of a ship. There was no sleeping in either ship as the motion was too rough and tumble and the imminent threat of disaster too present in each sailor’s mind.
When at last the low gray light of dawn revealed itself the ships were miraculously still together and the wind—merciful God—was slackening. Fallon stood by the binnacle with Beauty and surveyed their tow, now very low in the water, a wreck of a ship, to be sure, for though her mast still stood her sails were in tatters. Barclay could only estimate their position; there certainly had been no stars last night, and it looked doubtful for a noon sight.
On the stern of the sloop stood a big man, blonde hair and beard blowing about in the wind, waving his hat at Rascal and now—what?—executing a deep bow of appreciation. Fallon nudged Beauty, who nudged Aja, and they all smiled at the big man’s gratitude.
Fallon could see the sloop was pumping water over the side, and likely had been all night, yet still she was low in the water. Something would need to be done soon or she would sink behind them, threatening to take Rascal with her. The sea had lain down considerably, as had the wind, and in another few hours conditions would be better still. Fallon began making plans to take off the sloop’s crew. It would be a delicate operation, though not as frightening as taking the tow last night.
One hour passed. Then three. The wind was down to a strong breeze and the sea had stretched out her rollers. Beauty ordered the ship to heave-to and, as Rascal settled, the momentum of the sloop carried her part way up to Rascal’s larboard side. Hands on the sloop finished the job of getting their ship up to Rascal, using the capstan to winch the two ships closer. Fallon had coir fenders put over the side, as grappling hooks lashed the two boats together and the tow lines were cast off the sloop’s capstan to be brought back aboard Rascal. The sloop’s crew scrambled over the railings onto Rascal’s deck, carrying bits of clothing and personal items as best they could, amazed and exhausted. The last to come was the big man with the blonde beard.
“Caleb Visser, captain,” he said solemnly. “Or should I call you Jesus? For you have saved this poor flock in our hour of need.”
“Nicholas Fallon, sir, at your service,” replied Fallon with a slight smile. “Are all your men accounted for?”
“Yes, they are all here, sir,” said Visser. “I think we had best cast off Liberty for she will be going to the bottom soon anyway.”
In the event, the American sloop Liberty was cast adrift, sinking and forlorn, and as a reef was shaken out of Rascal’s fore and mainsail, the sloop was very soon out of sight. Beauty brought the schooner about and pointed her bows for Bermuda at last, putting the night and the miles behind her.
Sometime later, when the hands had had their dinner and the wind had moderated even further, a quiet and exhausted Caleb Visser joined Fallon and Beauty in the great cabin aboard Rascal; well, great was perhaps an exaggeration, for Rascal was only a modest schooner. But Fallon’s quarters were certainly larger than Visser’s own cabin. Elinore had improved on the design immensely, adding damask cushions to the stern seats and insisting on a proper checkerboard floor of canvas. Fit for her captain, she’d said, and indeed Fallon loved her the more for caring about the floor under his feet.
“It is only by chance and a storm that we meet like this, Captain Visser,” began Fallon, looking at the man closely as he settled in with his wine. He was about Fallon’s height but heavier, perhaps twenty-five years old or so, his hair and beard a bit shaggy and he had the air of a sad boy about him. He did his best to smile, but it was a struggle, and both Fallon and Beauty were immediately taken with sympathy for him, for the burden he carried at losing his ship was great.
“Yes, it was my lucky day, or rather night,” replied Visser with quiet gratitude. “Without your intervention my crew and I would be dead by now. I am a fortunate man, indeed, and I apologize if I do not show it.”
“Tell me, sir,” began Fallon earnestly, “where were you bound?”
“That’s a story in itself, Captain Fallon,” Visser said with a weak smile. “I hope you have enough wine!” And then he paused, the facsimile of a smile leaving his face, as he seemed to grow contemplative.
“Call me Caleb, both of you please,” he said to them, going immediately for the familiar, “for I’m but a fisherman on a mission of mercy. Visser is Dutch for fisherman, as you might know, and indeed my family has fished the waters of the Grand Banks for two generations for the Gadus, or cod which are so abundant off Newfoundland. Like many who fished those waters in all weathers for their whole lives, my father retreated at last to Boston and bought the cod instead of fished the cod, which was more profitable and easier. We had good years when our ships were protected by the Union Jack. But after the peace we lost that protection, and we lost the right to trade with Great Britain or her colonies, as well. My father pushed the boundaries in search of distant markets, and Southern Europe became our best by far. A quarter of all New England’s cod went to the Mediterranean, by God. Until… until the Barbary pirates demanded the U.S. pay tributes to the rulers of Morocco, Algiers, Tunis, and Tripoli just as Great Britain and France did. Without tributes, the Barbary states would send their corsairs out to attack American shipping.”
“I’ve heard stories about America refusing to pay tribute,” said Beauty, the color rising on her neck. “How much did the pirates want?”
“Their demands were outrageous,” said Visser. “It was millions of dollars a year. The U.S. had no money after the war, and was already deeply indebted to France, which is the source of the current enmity between our two countries. The government began paying the tributes, finally, but the payments are irregular and late and never enough. This angers the Barbary rulers, and no American ship that enters the Med can be sure of leaving.”
Fallon watched Caleb closely and sensed that the American had arrived at the point in his story where good news tips to bad. All equanimity had left his face, replaced by a squinting worry that seemed to dull his blue eyes to gray. Fallon knew Beauty saw the same thing, for she reached for the bottle to pour them all more wine.
“As you will know,” Caleb continued after a strong sip, “the Mediterranean is 4000 miles from Boston and it is normal for our ships to wood and water in Bermuda, at Hamilton. My own father left Boston nine months ago on a Visser ship to the Mediterranean but did not return. My older brother Alwin and I grew anxious, of course, and then two months ago we received word that his ship had been captured by the dey of Algiers’ pirates, who demanded a ransom for his release. The amount was staggering: $10,000!”
“What about your government?” asked Beauty. “They should skewer the bastards! Your father is American!”
Caleb was momentarily taken aback by Beauty’s reaction. It was doubtful he’d ever heard a woman speak so forcefully, and she won his respect in an instant.
“The government is in an argument between President Adams and those who want to pay for peace, and Thomas Jefferson and his followers who want war. While they argue in Washington, my father is a slave in Algeria. He is not a young man and…”
Clearly, the emotion in Visser’s voice was real and desperate. Fallon wondered if his father was even alive at this point; after all, it had been almost a year since he was captured.
“So you are on your way to Algeria to negotiate for your father, I collect?” said Fallon sympathetically, anticipating where the story was going.
“Yes, exactly. I was, you mean,” Caleb said dejectedly. “Alwin and I have mortgaged everything we have and called upon every friend and raised $12,000—in gold, as the dey demanded. We left Boston with two ships—the other is the schooner Jocelyn with Alwin in command—to bring home as many prisoners as we could. Our two ships were separated during the recent gale; we were supposed to rendezvous with Jocelyn in Bermuda but I decided to steer clear of the island, fearing for the shoals there. We attempted to run with the storm, and then tried to heave-to, but my vessel worked hard in the storm and sprung a plank, then another. We were taking on water badly and pumping around the clock. The gale blew out our sails when my helmsman was washed overboard and the ship was caught aback. We drifted, more or less sinking and out of control for some time, with no idea of our position. By yesterday afternoon I thought we were doomed. When one of the crew saw your stern light I immediately set off a rocket in hopes you’d see us. Thank God you did. And may I say that was as fine an act of seamanship as I have ever witnessed.”
“It was all Beauty, sir,” said Fallon to his blushing first mate. “But I fear your ransom is at the bottom by now. You did not think to bring it up when you came aboard?”
“Actually, there was nothing to bring up,” said Caleb somberly, the worry dark on his face.
“How so?” Fallon asked, all curiosity.
“The gold is in Jocelyn,” said Caleb. “She was the bigger ship, and my older brother the better sailor, and we thought it would be safer in the event of bad weather or attack from pirates or privateers, for Jocelyn carries four guns each side, all 9-pounders. We were in sight of each other until the storm.”
“I see,” said Fallon with a note of caution in his voice. “Let’s hope she came through the gale in good shape. That would have tested anyone, in any ship.”
Beauty and Fallon both looked at each other, a brief glance of concern on their faces, which Caleb Visser hopefully did not see.
“And where are you bound, sir?” asked Visser.
“We are on our way home to Bermuda ourselves. You and your men will be our guests, and if this wind continues to move southeast I believe we will raise the island in two days.”
“That is very generous of you, Nicholas,” answered Caleb, genuinely moved by Fallon’s kindness. “God willing I will find Alwin and Jocelyn riding at anchor at Hamilton wondering where in the deuce I’ve been.”