NINETEEN

BARCLAY’S HORRIFIC INJURY CAST A DARKNESS OVER FALLON THAT BLUE skies and brisk sailing could not improve. Colquist had done—was still doing—all he could for the man but poor Barclay was slow to recover from surgery, his age no doubt a factor holding him back. That, and perhaps his general contrariness. Colquist had amputated his left arm above the shattered elbow and, so far at least, infection had been held at bay. The surgery saved his life, but war had collected its fee.

Beauty did her best to manage the ship and the packets while Fallon was below with Barclay, holding his lone hand and offering encouragement for hours on end. Gradually, the swelling in the stub of his arm began to recede and the stump was less inflamed. He would recover, it seemed, whether he was amenable to it or not.

Rascal caught up with the packets in very little time, sailing along without a care, the captains unaware of the price defending them had levied. Fallon asked Beauty to signal them to heave-to, for he wanted to review the charts they had and go over the signals once again if they should be attacked. What worked once might not work again, and they would no doubt want assurances that they were safe from other pirates now that they had left the Caribbean behind and were off the U.S. coast, assurance which he could not give. He wondered the same thing himself.

The meeting in Fallon’s cabin went as well as could be expected, for both Pence and Ashworthy sensed Fallon’s low mood. They were exuberant, however, in offering praise for the grenados and gave their first-hand accounts of the battle with the pirate sloops, which were remarkably similar. Each ship had some sixty grenados still aboard in case they were needed again, which both captains sincerely hoped they would not be.

Signals were reviewed once more, and both captains noted the effects of the powerful current just off the U.S., which they were now to ride up the coast to Boston. Fallon wondered if it would be that easy and, in his dark mood, knew it would not.

By some miracle, for it ran contrary to his contrariness, Barclay began to slowly improve. He was still confined to Colquist’s care, and weak, but as his fever subsided he began making increasing entreaties to resume his old duties. Fallon would not allow it, however, for Colquist considered that the chance of infection and even gangrene were not past. A bump here, a scrape there, and things could be much worse.

As the little convoy approached Cape Hatteras, the air grew colder and the sky turned to leaden layers of gray. The fast-moving current continued to carry Rascal along with its silent force, but the motion was choppy. The lookouts reported a few sails, mostly fishermen, and the southern horizon remained clear.

Without Barclay and Aja, Fallon had taken over the navigational duties and Beauty managed the ship, and one of them was always on deck. Just now Fallon was down below studying the charts of the U.S., such as he had, particularly the area around North Carolina’s infamous shoals and banks. In an hour he would signal the packets to move further out to sea, just to be safe. They were now perhaps a half mile north of Rascal, the ships easily seen even under the gray dome of cloud that seemed to engulf the world. It was unseasonably cold, and Fallon could smell a storm in the air.

He rolled up his charts and called for two cups of coffee to take on deck, for Beauty would no doubt be shivering and would appreciate something warm. He had been rather uncommunicative with his first mate for several days due to his time with Barclay and this was a small attempt to return to something approaching normal.

As he gained the deck and turned to look forward he saw a line of squalls in the distance. These could have freezing rain or even snow within them, and they could be carrying their own wind, as well. He heard Beauty prudently ordering the topsails furled and a reef in the fore and mainsail as he walked aft to hand the coffee to her at the binnacle. That’s when the lookout yelled down.

“Deck there! Ship to the southwest!”

Fallon and Beauty turned quickly, spilling their coffee, but there was nothing to see from the deck. Even their telescopes showed nothing but low, gray clouds with dark ripples on their bellies. Neither spoke, for there was no point in conjecture until more was known.

Within half an hour the first squall was upon them, a snow squall that obliterated everything. The wind picked up within the squall, blowing the snow sideways. The packets could not be seen, of course; in fact, Rascal’s bows could barely be seen for a few moments as the heavy flakes swirled and darted about the ship. It would have been delightful, a childlike moment of fantasy, but for the strange ship behind them.

Fallon and Beauty stood silently, deep in their own thoughts, both muffled up in their tarpaulins. What was the damned ship? Fallon wondered. He feared he knew.

The squall lasted for perhaps fifteen minutes and then moved on, taking the stronger wind with it, and Beauty ordered the reefs in the fore and mainsail shaken out. The packets could be seen again from the deck, still holding station and behaving like obedient children, shaking out their own reefs. Beauty was right, Fallon thought with a rueful grin, he must have put the fear of God in them.

It would be several minutes before the lookout could see more of the strange ship astern, for even though the squall was traveling fast it had yet to reach her.

“What do you think, Beauty?” Fallon asked, for he hoped she had thought of something he hadn’t.

“I think we’re not in a very good position, Nico, depending on who’s back there,” said Beauty with her usual honesty. No sugar on the words for her. “The ship’s seen us and has probably seen the salt ships, as well. And she will make much better speed through the water than we can behind those lubberly packets.”

“I know,” replied Fallon. “I’m hoping she’s American, a merchantman or even navy.”

There was nothing to be seen astern, the squall had seen to that. Fallon paced and stomped his frozen feet, occasionally looking over his shoulder at the dark horizon and wondering how to get out of the predicament he was sure would be upon them.

“Deck!” called the lookout. “She’s a frigate! Two miles!”

The squall had passed over the distant ship and it was not the news Fallon had hoped for, though it was what he’d expected. Damn and hell, he thought. It was doubtful the Americans had many frigates. Micah Woodson had made it seem like his country was too poor to build them. But he had said there was a French frigate sailing the coast. Damn and hell, Fallon thought again.

The ship could still not be seen in the gloom from the deck as Beauty and Fallon fidgeted in the cold by the binnacle.

“What about asking Cully to bring the long nine to the stern?” asked Beauty, obviously searching for answers. They couldn’t very well leave the packets and they couldn’t change course. “If she’s not friendly, we might at least get off a lucky shot.”

“Yes, we could try that,” answered Fallon, slowly thinking it through. “But by the time we manhandled the gun back to the stern and hacked away the taffrail and jury rigged a way to lash the carriage, well…” He let his voice trail off. They both knew that, even if successful, a rear action with a stern-chaser would likely only delay the inevitable.

Soon enough another snow squall was upon them, swirling and mesmerizing, as the ship sailed in a white cocoon, safe and quiet.

Now here was something, thought Fallon. The snow had given him an idea, or part of an idea, but he couldn’t get it to fully form in his mind. What were the pieces to the puzzle? A frigate behind them. Packets in front of them. Snow about them. What else?

At last, Rascal sailed out of the squall and Beauty ordered the reefs shaken out. It was important to keep all the speed they could commensurate with the packets, of course. Fallon looked ahead and could see at least 2 more squalls on the horizon. He raised his telescope and could see the packets shaking out their reefs now, and he wondered if they’d seen the frigate.

“Deck! The frigate is French!”

Both Fallon and Beauty whirled around with their telescopes and yes, coming out of the last squall like an evil apparition was the frigate, proudly flying the tricolor. She was now something under a mile away, setting her topgallants, and Fallon was about to remark on the fact that she’d shown her colors so soon when there was a puff of smoke from the frigate’s bow, and the sound of a cannon firing. A bow chaser!

“Now what do you think, Beauty?” asked Fallon, looking for the fall of the shot but seeing nothing.

“Well,” she said slowly, “I’m trying to think of what we do next, you know, to get un-fucked.”

Ah, Beauty.

Now the French were firing that damned bow chaser again, and again Fallon couldn’t see the fall of the shot, but presumably they could, and they would keep firing until they found their range.

“It was about half a cable off starboard and short,” said Beauty, filling in the blanks. “They’re getting their gun hot.”

Soon the situation would be untenable, Fallon knew. Surely the packets were aware they were all being followed, and that Rascal was being fired upon; the packet captains must be wondering about Rascal’s fate—and their own.

Fallon looked the length of the ship at his men, some flapping their arms to shake off the snow or to stay warm. He thought briefly of Elinore, perhaps sitting by her fire reading, or having tea. It was a comfort to think of her thus, warm and safe, while at any moment he could he dashed to nothing by a random shot. His responsibility to the two lumbering packets weighed on him; he couldn’t try to evade the frigate and save his ship while leaving the packets to be taken.

The last squall was almost upon them when he turned to take a bearing on the frigate once more. She was noticeably closer; he could pick out the gun crew on the bow as shapes moving to their task, which was to cripple the schooner sailing ahead of them. He heard Beauty order the log cast and the hail of eight knots in return; the stream was pushing them along nicely but pushing the frigate along nicely, as well. In fact, Fallon estimated the frigate must be making a good ten or twelve knots, for the gap between them was closing rapidly. Beauty was looking at the frigate with her telescope, no doubt estimating her speed just as he was.

Fallon looked at the oncoming squall, white and engulfing, and heard Beauty order a second reef in the fore and mainsail as the wind continued to pick up rather dramatically with each squall. In a very few minutes the world would be a swirling blur of white again. Fallon looked through his telescope at the frigate surging along behind them, seeming to get closer with each minute or each second. She rode high on her lines, no doubt light of stores after so long away from home.

Then came the familiar tingle on his arms as the hair raised to precede the idea that had not made it to his conscious mind yet. But now it came: if this, then that, and then quickly the other. But God it was risky, perhaps too risky, but was there a better plan?

He decided no.

“Beauty,” he said hurriedly, “I have in mind to circle back and attack the frigate under cover of the squall. It’s no good to continue like this. When the squall fills in around us I want to harden up to the east. Figure we sail a quarter mile or so, your call, then tack back towards the west, towards the frigate. You have to do this on instinct, Beauty, like racing skiffs on St. George’s harbor.”

“But Nico,” interjected Beauty, trying to get some sanity into the conversation. “We won’t exactly be able to see the frigate!”

“I know, I know,” said Fallon. “But you’ve got the best instincts of anyone I know, Beauty. Feel when you should tack, feel it, and then bring us up to cross the frigate’s stern if you can. You can do this, Beauty.” He looked at her closely. “Plus, we don’t have another option.”

The snow was just starting to get heavy again as Beauty turned to study the frigate in her telescope, judging her speed and course once more just as the bow chaser belched a puff of smoke and sent a ball—where? A hole appeared in the mainsail.

That brought some urgency to the situation, and now Beauty looked at the oncoming squall in a different light, its snow a welcoming shroud of disguise if she could just get the tack right.

Fallon called Cully aft quickly, and the one-eyed gunner hurried to the binnacle. Something was up and he knew it, and the crew knew it, for Fallon would not stay long under another ship’s guns without fighting back.

“Cully,” Fallon began, “when this next squall covers us I want you to load the starboard battery, double-shot the guns, do you hear? We’re going to harden up and sail east before we tack back towards the frigate. Cully, we’ll get this one chance. She’s high in the water, you see, and we’re going to try to cross her stern and try to shoot her steering away. Make every shot count, go gun to gun and sight each one yourself. Right at the waterline, Cully. Blow her rudder to bits and cut her tiller ropes!”

In seconds the squall crept over the bows, bringing more wind as Rascal bore up close-hauled, Beauty still studying the frigate for as long as she could see it. She was all concentration now, not speaking, her eyes squinting, trying to see it all unfold. The starboard battery was being loaded, as Fallon had ordered, and then the ship slowly hardened up to the east, cloaked in snow.

Rascal sailed in a world of her own now, Beauty standing at the binnacle Sphinx like, rigid and white with the clinging snow. Fallon watched her as the ship kept her course away from the packets—God knew what Pence and Ashworthy would think when the squall cleared and there was no Rascal behind them. A minute. Then two. And then instinct took over and Beauty called for the ship to come about and all hands jumped to the command as Rascal’s bowsprit swung through the wind and the ship kept turning, her speed slowing noticeably as her big booms were hauled out to leeward, totally in control, and Rascal settled before the east wind.

And now Fallon ordered the guns run out.

Still, there was nothing to see. Only the swirling snow zig-zagging like white motes to land on every surface, every rope and rail and every eyelash. The slow match hissed in the buckets beside the starboard guns as Cully stood at the most forward gun, peering to the west. Very soon now… very soon.

And then, just there! A shape off the starboard bow… was it? No. Yes! For a moment Fallon thought Rascal was too soon and would spear the frigate through her hull, but Beauty had it right. Damn! And even now Fallon saw that Rascal would pass the frigate’s stern with yards—yards!— to spare.

Suddenly, they were so close Fallon could see men on the frigate’s deck, their eyes open in surprise, mouthing French words of panic and confusion but it was too late to do anything. Even now Cully was standing up from the first gun.

“Fire!” he yelled. And then “Fire!” again and again as he went down the line of all the 12-pounders. Fallon stood at the starboard railing and watched the frigate’s rudder explode at the waterline as 18 balls tore into her stern at such close range that chunks of wood came aboard Rascal. He looked up to see her name, Josephine—he knew where that name had come from!

And then they were by. Fallon ordered Rascal to come up on the frigate’s larboard side as Cully loaded the guns again. The squall was moving well past by the time the starboard battery was ready and Fallon thought Josephine would be too far ahead for the guns to bear—but wait! The frigate was coming up into the wind, her bow facing east, the ship in irons, and now her sails were aback as the French crew desperately tried to control the ship. Spars snapped and rigging flew into the air and sails blew out before the wind.

“Bring her up, Beauty! Pass close on her larboard side!”

Rascal turned hard on the wind, gathering speed as she sailed up to windward and the floundering French ship. They were past her shattered stern and soon would pass her larboard side, for the frigate was turning away to the southward now, totally out of control.

“A broadside to her bows, Cully!” yelled Fallon, and Rascal’s starboard guns screamed their shot into Josephine’s larboard bow, obliterating her bowsprit and no doubt much of the interior heads of the ship. Now Rascal was pulling away from the defenseless frigate, which was now drifting by the stern towards the southwest and the outer banks of North Carolina, that notorious graveyard of ships.

All hands looked towards Fallon, for their fighting blood was up now and it was time to finish off the frigate while she couldn’t fight. But Fallon looked at Beauty and their eyes locked in wordless communication. The packets were now miles ahead and the coast was still dangerous and they must get back to their duty.

“Secure the guns, Beauty, and fall off towards the packets,” said Fallon. A hard decision, but the right one. “And may I just say that was as amazing a thing as I will ever see. How did I ever win a race against you?”

Beauty smiled, the worry off her face now.

“It didn’t happen often, Nico,” she said.