THIRTY-EIGHT

THE SUN WAS LOWERING IN THE SKY AND, TRUE TO FORM IN THE CARIBbean, it would be dark very soon. Davies’ servant brought lit candles into the great cabin but did not deign to interrupt the admiral, who had thrown open the stern windows and was standing before them looking out to the harbor with a glass of wine in his one hand and a fresh Admiralty dispatch in the other.

The news was not good. British agents had intercepted a secret French communique describing plans for a siege of Gibraltar. There had been many attempted sieges of Gibraltar in the past, and none had succeeded. The last such siege had ended in 1783, unsuccessfully for the French and Spanish, but the British garrison at Gibraltar had suffered horribly. Davies had read accounts of starvation from want of fresh provisions, with fruits and vegetables in particular in short supply. Scurvy had been rampant among the five thousand troops stationed there, and in the villages nearby, as well. When at last the siege was lifted, the brittle bones of death remained on Gibraltar.

Now, it seemed Bonaparte was contemplating a fresh siege, for the Strait was of immense strategic importance. If the French could gain control of Gibraltar, Bonaparte could command all of the Mediterranean to the Levant, which was his avowed goal. That meant every military or diplomatic victory ever won by the British in that part of the world would be for nothing.

That was disturbing, certainly. But worse was that the intercepted communique was meant for the dey of Algiers. What in God’s name could that mean? thought Davies. It seemed to signal that the Algerians would somehow play a role in the siege, perhaps to supply French ships, or perhaps there was something more dangerous afoot.

Clearly, the Admiralty took the threat of a siege of Gibraltar seriously. Seriously enough to order Davies to transport Sir William Huntington-James back to the Mediterranean as soon as possible, presumably to gather intelligence for Lord Keith.

Davies thought of the ships at his disposal. A schooner would do, no doubt, but all of his schooners were scattered throughout the Caribbean except Loire and Céleste, which he would buy into the service soon but for which he had no men yet. The obvious choice was Renegade, fresh off the ways with a clean bottom.

Davies stared out the stern windows and thought of the dinner he was to have aboard Renegade the next day. No doubt Jones would be anxious for orders, expecting perhaps to cruise against pirates operating out of Guadeloupe or look in at French activities at Port-a-Prince. But no, Jones’s orders would take him far afield on a mission incredibly important to Great Britain and, it was not a stretch, the peace of the world. Davies sat down at his massive deck and began to draft orders to send Renegade into another, even more dangerous sea than the Caribbean. The same sea that Nicholas Fallon was no doubt about to enter.

By the second dogwatch Rascal’s foremast had been saved. The wind had lain down somewhat and hands could go aloft to finish attaching the new rigging and, eventually, a new foresail with new sheets. Rascal had been hove-to for over six hours while the task was done, after first sending the gig back towards the xebec to search for survivors. There were none; the ship had gone down so quickly that all hands who hadn’t been killed by the explosion had probably been knocked senseless and drowned. All that was recovered was a wooden sea chest of clothing floating forlornly on the sea, its owner gone to the bottom.

Planks and bits of ship flotsam had quickly drifted away and now Rascal came out of stays and become her old self again, gathering the wind to her chest and setting her bows to the east and the entrance to the Strait of Gibraltar.

Fallon went below to check on Little Eddy and found Visser sitting with the boy, whose face was, it had to be said, a mess. Already, his eyes and temples were black, his nose was splayed across his swollen face and his lips were both split.

“Good Lord, Little Eddy!” exclaimed Fallon. “You are the hero of the ship! How did all this happen?”

The boy tried to smile and speak but was so groggy from Colquist’s ministrations that he couldn’t really put sentences together just then.

“He told me he was looking up at the foresail when it blew away to leeward and a block dropped square on his face, Nicholas,” said Visser. “Knocked him clean out.”

“It’s a wonder it didn’t kill him, Caleb,” said Fallon, reaching for the boy’s hand to squeeze it to assure himself he was alive. “My God, what would I have told his mother?”

“I guess that he was the hero of the ship, Nicholas. But one day he will tell her himself, I’ll wager.”

Soon after, Fallon went back on deck satisfied that Little Eddy would live, though his nose and face would be awhile returning him to his original self. Beauty and Aja were checking the rigging at the foremast as the new ropes stretched into service, and Fallon found Barclay at the binnacle making notes on the slate.

“Mr. Barclay,” said Fallon to the sailing master, “when Beauty and Aja are finished inspecting the new work I would like to invite you all to join me for dinner. Caleb Visser will join us, as well. We have much to talk about before we reach Algiers.”

“Yes,” said Barclay, “I expect we do. Barring any storms or attacking corsairs I believe we will be at Gibraltar within a week. This south wind is behaving wonderfully and we can only hope it will last.”

In the event, Fallon welcomed them all to dinner an hour later. They all seemed to have gotten over the shock of the explosion that sank the xebec, though their wonder at Fallon’s audacity was evident in their faces as they re-lived the battle.

“What in God’s name made you think that would work, Nico?” said Beauty. “I mean, really, what were the chances?”

“I don’t want to think what the chances were,” said Fallon. “Or that it was our only chance. We were very lucky, this time. But we may not be so lucky the next. So I want us all to be very clear on the implications of entering the Mediterranean as a British privateer. I don’t know what that gets us now, frankly.”

“Is there a chance these were rogue corsairs, Nicholas,” asked Visser, “maybe acting on their own?”

“Yes, I guess there’s that possibility. But we should be extra vigilant all the same. I want to call at Gibraltar for the latest intelligence and report the attack before proceeding with a plan. Mr. Barclay, how far do you make it from Gibraltar to Algiers?”

“Between two and three days, captain,” said Barclay, “if the wind is from the west or really from anywhere other than southeast. If it’s a southeast wind at least five days or more depending on its strength.”

“How do we proceed once we’re there, Nicholas?” asked Visser, completely aware now that this whole adventure put him out of his depth and relying solely on Fallon for direction.

“We’ll need to find Richard O’Brien as soon as possible,” answered Fallon. “But how we do that I’m not exactly sure.”