TWENTY-THREE

FIRST LIGHT SAW RASCAL MOVE OUT OF THE HARBOR WITH A BUILDING sea breeze and a strong ebb, Beauty at the binnacle in her accustomed spot setting the course and calling for the tacks. Rascal was alive again, lunging and dipping and throwing off spray like a wet dog. Barclay was strapped to a chair on deck, his one sleeve pinned up, snug in a blanket. He was still weak and had to be carried to his chair by his mates, for he was much too unsteady to walk. Fallon considered that his balance might very well be thrown off due to the loss of an arm and he might have to learn to move about the ship again—but that would be later. For now, Colquist thought the sea air would lift his spirits.

“Mr. Barclay,” said Fallon with a smile, “it is good to have you back again.”

“Not in one piece, as it were,” said Barclay. His personality was back, as well. “Beauty and I together make a whole sailor.”

“Yes, I thought of that,” said Fallon. “But you will be glad to know that you are still being paid in full, with no subtraction made for your, er, subtraction.”

“I would not like to lose any more parts, Nico,” Barclay retorted, “or you might change your mind. Pray do not put me in the way of another ball.”

The morning and afternoon slipped behind them, the Atlantic rollers coming easily and regularly to lift the schooner gently up and set her down just as softly. The routine of the ship was reestablished after several days in port and the hands settled into their watches without a thought.

Moments of contemplation without a care were rare at sea, for every smudge or patch of white on the horizon could be an enemy, or an opportunity. Yet the cruise to Bermuda was uneventful, even peaceful, and each mile that passed under Rascal’s keel and into her wake brought Fallon into the present in full appreciation of his ship’s sailing qualities and his crew’s abilities. Cully practiced his men at the great guns, loading and running out, until they reached two minutes between broadsides. That was an extraordinary time, and likely no ship in the Royal Navy could match it. Beauty sent men aloft to furl the topsails or strike the top masts day and night, for bad weather respected no hour or time of day. The crew seemed to delight in their exercises, not least because each man knew that their life or the lives of their mates might depend on their skill in weather or battle.

Fallon watched it all with a deep appreciation for the timing and sequence of tasks carried out so often that, at some point, routine became rule. There was both pleasure and security, he knew, in doing a thing the right way and at the right time. He stood leaning against the mainmast and thought of the ballet of battle as he watched Cully prepare for practice with the bow chaser, the long nine, the only cannon on Rascal not oriented to be perpendicular to the keel.

But Cully was about to start the dance.

A wet swab was pushed down the barrel to remove any salt or debris that might have settled there. Next, a canvas cartridge of gunpowder was pushed down inside and pierced by a metal pricker through the touch hole. A wad was then rammed home, typically a piece of canvas or old rope. Next, a ball was rammed in, followed by another wad of cloth to prevent the ball from rolling out in a heaving sea or if the muzzle was depressed. Then men heaved on the gun tackles until the carriage was run out against the ship’s bulwark. This took the efforts of most of the gun crew, as the weight of the cannon and carriage was easily two tons. Finally, the touch hole at the rear or breech of the cannon was filled with finer gunpowder and, at the order of Fire!, was ignited.

Of course, the ball had to find a target. And in this, too, Cully’s gun crews excelled. Cully’s one good eye could sight the great guns with uncanny accuracy, and he was patient in teaching his men the technique—not so easy at all—of timing the match to the touch hole on a rolling and plunging deck. Nothing could teach the men about battle, of course, except battle. The explosion of a broadside in practice was exhilarating, but in battle it was frightening and could be paralyzing, with balls coming aboard, splinters flying and your mate turning into red jam next to you. No, only battle was battle, and Fallon’s crew had the scars to prove it.

“Very good, Cully,” Fallon said to his master gunner after the last shot was fired. “Secure the gun now and a tot of rum for the gun crew.”

He looked at Beauty, who was grinning broadly. Even Barclay was smiling. No doubt they were thinking the same thing as he.

It was good Cully was on their side and not the enemy’s.

It was barely thirty-six hours later that Rascal drifted to her accustomed anchorage at St. George’s Harbor and Fallon stepped ashore on Bermuda once again. It was quite late and pitch dark as he climbed the hill up from the dock. The trip up the coast of America to Boston was behind him, the battles with pirates and the French frigate another story he could tell Ezra and Elinore, although he would attempt to minimize the danger to himself and his ship. In point of fact, he’d faced worse.

He walked towards the White Horse, more out of habit than intent; intuitively, he wanted to go home. The pub was closed, but a candle burned in his bedroom window as it always did when he was gone, the older Fallon still and always a father. He found the old man at the kitchen table reading, and after the warmest of greetings he sat down to join him.

“Tell me all about your trip, son,” his father said excitedly. “Not the sanitized version you tell Elinore, either!”

And so the events of Fallon’s trip poured out, like the reports he used to give his father when he came home from school. Somehow he was a boy again, looking for his father’s approval, not a grown man who took part in great battles in far-away places. He was a son again, and he could see in his father’s eyes that the old man was proud of him.

“And now you’re home again, safe and sound, and I bet you haven’t told me the half of what you’ve been through,” said Fallon’s father. “But I have news for you, as well. Caleb has found his gold! Or most of it, certainly. The damned bell was a wonder, Nico. It’s unbelievable, is it not?”

Fallon was dumbfounded. He never thought in a hundred years that the gold could be found. And then it dawned on him that Visser would want to continue his quest to rescue his father. But before he could quite get it all ordered in his mind his father continued.

“And now Aja is gone with Loire to English Harbor. The prize agent in Hamilton was fired or recalled to England, so Ezra sent Aja to English Harbor and the prize agent there.”

Fallon was surprised, but not surprised. It was common knowledge that the Hamilton agent was a drunk, and Ezra would want to divide the spoils from the prize as soon as possible. The men counted on prize money for a living.

“When did Aja leave?” asked Fallon.

“Just two days ago, Nico. He and the crew got the ship as good as new for the prize agent before they left. Caleb pitched in quite a bit, as well. No doubt to repay Ezra for letting him go along to English Harbor.”

“Caleb went with Aja to English Harbor?” asked Fallon. “Whatever for?”

“To find a ship to take him to Algeria,” answered Fallon’s father. “He is determined to find a way.”

That bit of news made Fallon sit up straight in his chair.

“Good God,” he said. There was both fear and apprehension in those words.