TEN

IT WAS A TIRED CAPTAIN WHO MADE HIS WAY BACK ABOARD RASCAL JUST before dawn. The ship was dark and he dressed in his sea-going outfit by the light of a single candle in his cabin. He didn’t wash himself, for he wanted Elinore’s scent to linger on his body as long as possible.

The next two days were spent in addressing the endless tasks of getting the ship ready for sea. Fallon worked tirelessly along with the rest of the crew who came aboard in twos and threes. At night he was with Elinore, sometimes talking softly late into the night about their wedding, sometimes about nothing in particular. But, of course, it wasn’t all talk.

At last, the ship was ready for sea. Rascal weighed in the morning after all the goodbyes had been said and the promises to return safely had been repeated again and again. Elinore and Ezra Somers were at the dock to see the ship off. Elinore had been stoic all morning around her father, with no outward sign that her last night with Fallon in the fisherman’s shack had been memorable. For his part, it was an exhausted Fallon who waved from the taffrail until they were out of sight, his heart heavy as it always was at leaving.

The day turned into the night which turned into the next day and so on. The sailing was uneventful, the watches changing with regularity and the routine followed exactly by ninety men who knew their business, their ship, and their captain’s ways. It grew warmer on the third afternoon out of Bermuda as Rascal pushed further south, eating up the distance between herself and Lucille. The ship seemed to grow happier as night fell, for the next day should see them in Grand Turk.

Then the stars.

Rascal was on a larboard tack, the reliable east wind full in her sails. Fallon and Beauty stood at the binnacle together staring at the magic overhead, aware that theirs was a special world that those who plied a trade on land would never know. The winter constellations, so familiar to them now, were like signs along the road, as reliable as old friends giving directions.

The talk, what there was, turned to old times and old friends and adventures and, inevitably, to the cruise ahead.

“Did you manage to set off one of Cully’s grenados before we left, Nico?” asked Beauty. “Do they work as predicted?”

“Yes, Cully lit one and threw it inside an abandoned shack on St. David’s Road, near the old pond.”

“And?”

“And you wouldn’t have wanted to be in that room,” said Fallon. “Between the glass shards and the nails the wallpaper was destroyed. Unless the privateers are wearing armor, I must say I fear for their lives.”

Beauty could see Fallon’s teeth as he smiled, for he was an ardent foe of Frenchmen and could be counted on, in fact, not to care about their lives. Too many of his crew and friends had been taken down by French cannon and swords. Even if the war with France ended tomorrow he would be a long time caring about French lives.

Aja appeared out of the darkness and it was the three of them together, as it had so often been, standing at the binnacle balancing against the roll and heave of the ship without giving it a thought.

“Captain, sir,” said Aja. “I think Lucille would have been safer if she’d waited to sail with us.”

“Yes,” said Fallon, “but I didn’t insist. First, because it would only have frustrated Captain Pence to the point of unreasonableness. But, secondly, I believe the grenados will work—they must work if our ships are to protect themselves. Perhaps we’ll find out.”

“Aja,” said Beauty, “you must know how ants go out in search of food. The colony sends soldier ants out to find food and, once they find it, they return to the colony to let the other ants know where the food is and lead them back to it.”

“Yes,” said Aja. “I have seen this many times.”

“We’re operating like the ants,” said Beauty, winking at Fallon. “If Pence is attacked we want our pirate to go back where he came from with an ass full of glass and tell the rest of the bastards the food isn’t worth it.”

Ah, Beauty.

The morning began with a surprise.

“Beauty!” called Fallon. “All hands, all hands!” The lookout’s report of a ship in the offing had brought Fallon out of his morning routine of walking the windward deck.

“Where away?” Fallon called as the ever-present Aja handed him his telescope.

“Southeast!” called the lookout. “A schooner, I make! Now two ships!”

Every member of the crew was now in action, and Cully’s gun crews received shot and powder for the great guns. The decks were wetted and sanded so that the crew would not slip on bloody planks. In very little time slow match sparked to life in the sand tubs next to each one of 12-pounders and the long nine.

“Mr. Barclay,” Fallon called to the sailing master, “take us down to those ships,” and Barclay issued the orders that would bring Rascal into action as soon as possible. Here was Aja at Fallon’s right hand waiting for orders as a hush descended on the ship and all eyes strained to see southward, into the future.

“Aja, have Cully stand by but not run out either battery yet,” said Fallon. “Let’s see what we see before we commit.”

“Deck there!” came the call from the lookout. “Looks like t’other is a sloop! American or I’m a Chinaman!”

Now broadsides growled in the distance as Rascal edged closer, and Beauty planted her peg in the ring bolt and wedged herself against the binnacle. The set of her jaw said Let’s have it then.

The scene could just be seen from the deck. Two ships were blasting away at each other, the smoke engulfing them in a cloud of gray. The closest ship was indeed an American sloop, with the stars and stripes at the gaff, and the other ship, a schooner, was pounding her at some distance, slightly to the south of the sloop, and the tactical opportunity was not clear yet.

“What do you think, Beauty?” asked Fallon, as his first mate raised her telescope.

“I think the schooner’s French but I don’t think she’s navy; at least I can’t see any flag flying. I’m thinking a privateer.”

That didn’t surprise Fallon, or at least completely surprise him. But it would call up a sense of excitement within the Rascals and make up for the disappointment of the last cruise.

The situation unfolding before them called for a decision soon. The two ships were sailing parallel lines to the southeast and were perhaps a mile distant from Rascal.

“Nico,” said Beauty after lowering her telescope. “I think…”

“There!” Fallon exclaimed, still looking through his own telescope. A lucky shot had shattered the American’s main boom and, with the wreckage dragging in the water, she slewed around up into the wind. With her boom acting as a sea anchor the sloop was hopelessly compromised to maneuver and fight.

“We’ll drop down between the two ships, Beauty!” ordered Fallon. “Aja, up with the colors! Have Cully ready with the long nine!”

His mind was running the angles, time, and distance calculations so automatic to him now. Barclay ordered the sails trimmed just so and Rascal came thundering down on the battle, which by now was lopsided and hopeless for the American. The schooner was spilling wind to take off speed and edge closer, firing point blank into the sloop and obviously planning to board.

Rascal was less than a half mile from the scene when Cully’s long nine joined the battle with a ranging shot that was just wide of the Frenchman’s stern, upon which Fallon could now see Loire emblazoned through his telescope. The American’s stern showed Ceres.

Beauty and Barclay conferred quietly and calmly, for it was almost time to harden up and cut between the two ships.

“Ready the starboard battery!” yelled Beauty to Cully, just as the long nine roared out a ball. Now no telescopes were needed as the stern quarter of Loire exploded in plain view and at least one crewman went down. A weak cheer went up from Ceres but there was no time to celebrate, for Rascal was very nearly up to the battle and Beauty had dropped down on Loire swiftly.

Fallon could see the French capitaine rallying his men to face this new threat, temporarily forgetting the helpless American. For an eerie moment, there was no sound as both ships waited for the hell they knew would come.

Beauty ordered the helmsman to harden up and Rascal passed between the sloop and the schooner.

“Fire!” Fallon screamed, and Rascal’s starboard guns exploded a huge cough of iron balls at less than a hundred yards from Loire. The French ship seemed to stagger sideways with the impact and her crewmen were flung backwards. But her answer was immediate.

Rascal’s starboard railing blew apart like brown dust in the wind as men were hurled from their stations by the impact of Loire’s 9-pound balls into the hull, across her decks and into the ship’s boats. The cries of the wounded were pitiful but, worse, some men did not cry and lay in grotesque positions of death. Colquist was down below, no doubt nervously waiting for the wounded who would be dragged and carried to him.

“Fire again, Cully!” yelled Fallon, already hoarse with excitement and fear. Here is where training and discipline paid off as Rascal’s gun crews loaded and ran out in just over two minutes. Rascal’s starboard guns threw their charges at Loire again, and again French crewmen cartwheeled over, some blown completely apart in red explosions of blood. Fallon could see the capitaine, sword out and pointing to Rascal as he exhorted his gun crews to fire again.

In a moment of silence Fallon had a clarifying thought.

“Beauty!” he called. “Slow the ship and cross behind her stern! Cully, ready the larboard battery!”

Beauty ordered the sheets be let fly and Rascal immediately slowed so dramatically that Loire’s broadside missed her entirely and sailed out to sea. Quickly, the sheets were gotten in and Beauty let Rascal’s head fall off as the ship fell across Loire’s stern on a beam reach.

“Fire!” yelled Fallon, and Rascal’s entire larboard battery burst through Loire’s fragile stern, shattering the gallery windows and penetrating deep into the bowels of the ship, perhaps halfway through to the bows, killing anyone inside and exploding splinters up through the deck overhead into the feet and legs of the crew there.

“Now harden up again, Beauty!” ordered Fallon. “Come on the wind!” and Rascal came up on Loire’s starboard side now, catching the French capitaine by surprise and, to his horror, here were Rascal’s larboard guns being run out again before he could get his starboard battery loaded.

“Fire!” yelled Fallon. As the smoke blew past it was clear the damage was horrific, and Fallon could see no one at the binnacle of the schooner nor at the great guns on her starboard side.

“Ready boarders!” he yelled. But here was the capitaine rushing a man to the tiller as Loire had fallen off the wind and was almost upon Rascal. The two ships crashed hard together as Beauty ordered the sheets let fly and grappling hooks thrown over Loire’s railing.

Fallon jumped to Loire’s deck, only to slip in blood and go down hard against a cannon. Aja quickly helped him to his feet and the two joined the fighting, slashing at the French crew, thrusting and stabbing and pushing them back against their own railing. Pistols fired and jammed, bodies were clubbed and sliced open and the screaming of wounded men calling for help could be heard above the shouting. Men died where they stood, or crawled to the railings to try to stand, their bodies smearing a trail of blood behind them. At last, outnumbered, outfought, and out of able men, the capitaine approached Fallon, holding his sword in front of him with both hands to surrender. His face was ashen and his breath reeked of garlic and old cheese even from several feet away. It was over.

The remaining French crew fell down, or lay down where they stood in abject surrender, choosing life over death, gasping for air, some crying from fear or pain, many clutching at their wounds as their lives dribbled out between their fingers and onto the deck.

The non-wounded were locked below decks on Loire while the wounded would have to wait for Colquist to finish with Rascal’s crew, which proved to take some time as there were many wounded and several would not see morning, no matter what Colquist did for them.

Now here was a hail from Ceres, which Fallon had quite forgotten about, and she limped across the sea on a now-dwindling breeze, her mainsail back aboard and her shattered boom cut loose.

“Ahoy, captain! I am Lieutenant Micah Woodson of the U.S. sloop Ceres,” yelled a uniformed figure at the starboard rail through cupped hands. “Thank you, sir, for coming to our aid! Might we grapple onto your starboard side? You seem to be full up on the larboard! I will throw out fenders, although the wind seems to be moderating to nothing.”

In the event, the three ships were tied together and the wind did, indeed, continue to die off over the next hour until the sea laid down to a ripple of wavelets. Fallon introduced himself to Woodson but suggested they meet in the morning to exchange news as all three ships and crews needed urgent attention at the moment.

Loire herself was the picture of devastation, with upended guns and fallen blocks and tattered sails and deep creases across the decks which were still filled with blood hours later when, the three ships still bound together, evening at last crept aboard.