ONE WEEK LATER THE FRENCH VENUS CLASS FRIGATE HONNEUR ARRIVED off the mole in Algiers harbor at twilight. The dey had been alerted and clapped his hands in anticipation, for this was the sign he’d been waiting for—he was soon to be the richest man in all the Ottoman Empire.
The crew of the pilot boat—the new pilot boat—sailed out of the harbor to guide the frigate inside to an anchorage. Because darkness was closing in, they could not see Renegade lurking out of sight barely a mile away. Barclay and Beauty were aboard, having sailed in these waters before, and the sailing master aboard Renegade was glad of it as he trembled at the thought of navigating so close to the Barbary coast.
Meanwhile, in the qasba, the dey sent for his prettiest concubines and ordered a private feast to be prepared for the French capitaine. His eyes were alight with greed and seemed to burn as brightly as any torch in the Audience Hall. He had not mourned Zabana’s death because he knew him to be wicked and grasping and, ultimately, disloyal and a threat to the dey’s health. But he had grieved the loss of gold when that pernicious Fallon had escaped. Now, however, that was forgotten. The dey had demanded that Bonaparte pay him a fortune; no, two fortunes for his help in blockading Gibraltar. He’d also demanded a token payment in advance, and now came a frigate carrying it. Surely, reasoned the dey, Bonaparte would not have sent a ship if the answer was no.
The pilot boat approached Honneur with all flags and banners flying and if it seemed odd that the frigate trailed her ship’s boats behind her no one on the pilot boat remarked on it. Obviously, the French capitaine was anxious to go ashore, and who could blame him?
The twilight was giving way to darkness as Honneur sailed past the tip of the mole behind the pilot boat and, at the order from Jones, opened fire with a robust broadside at the harbor fortifications. The frigate’s bow chaser joined in with a clean hit on the pilot boat, not over 100 yards ahead. Quickly, Jones ordered the small crew aboard Honneur to reload and run out and get off another unanswered broadside, the bright flashes from the muzzles lighting up the side of the ship.
The leadsman called out the depths and Jones took note that it would soon be time to abandon ship. A minute passed, then two, and now there were bright flashes from the mole as the Algerians collected their wits and their gun crews and fired back.
“Fire!” yelled Jones and again the frigate’s broadside roared out, though where the balls landed was not clear in the darkness.
Jones found a moment to smile at the thought of the false orders Fallon had so carefully dictated and Sir William had so beautifully written and which he had secreted in the capitaine’s desk drawer.
But there was not a moment to lose. He called for the men to lash the wheel and abandon the ship. The shore batteries fired again, and he could feel Honneur stagger from several hits. Looking around, he gave the order to unlock the hatches over the holds before following the last of his men overboard into the waiting boats.
The French prisoners clambered on deck to a barrage of fire from the shore batteries and, bewildered and confused, they rushed to the familiar guns where they found shot and powder and slow match waiting. They had no idea where they were, of course, but what they did know was they were under fire and all their training said load the guns and fight back. The capitaine wasted no time in ordering his men to fire into the blackness.
Which they did, right up until the time that Honneur ran aground and they found themselves boarded by hundreds of soldiers in red hats.
For the second time in little more than a month, the French capitaine surrendered.