“I remember Harry,” she said.
THEY FOLLOWED the river all the way back to town, and along the way Fallon listened to Paloma on the topic of Cuban independence. This was not a woman who could live happily under anyone’s thumb, and clearly Spain made the rules and dictated them to her country. Even Cuba’s economy was in large part what Spain decreed it would be. In Paloma’s mind, the Cuban people were economic slaves of Spain.
It was the first dogwatch when they reached the town, and Fallon said good-bye to Paloma. And it was good-bye, for he planned to sail on the morning tide. He’d overstayed his value, as it were. Paloma had asked him to give Davies a message when he saw the admiral again though, which Fallon said he would do. At the beach, they all dismounted and Paloma tied their horses to a post. She then headed to her sister’s café, asking Aja to follow her and wait on the message. Aja had not spoken a word on their journey into the country, or back, and Fallon believed the day had scarred him badly.
The café was beginning to do business, and a few customers wandered in and out. Fallon stood outside near the horses, but he could see Aja talking to Paloma animatedly. After she had written her message for Davies and sealed it with wax from a bar candle, she gave it to him. Standing up, she waved good-bye to Fallon and disappeared into the cafe.
It was but a few moments more when Fallon and Aja climbed into the gig, which Beauty had thoughtfully sent to the beach. Fallon was somber as the crew pulled for the ship. Aja was silent, and still.
Back on board, Aja went immediately below while Beauty sat with Fallon in the great cabin as he ate cold mutton and peas and drank a glass of wine. The ship was silent above him, as if it had caught his somber mood. The image of Young David whipped at the punishment post stayed with Fallon and, as he described the barracoons and the breeding program for slaves, Beauty seemed to pale.
“It’s bigger than we are, Nico,” she said. “We can fight bigger ships with more guns and try to think our way out of situations, but slavery is different. It’s not a situation. It’s the way the world works. This is a long game and whole countries are invested up to their necks in it.”
“Yes, but it’s not a very pretty picture of humanity, all the same,” he said. “You should have seen Aja’s face when Young David was whipped. I’ve never seen that look before. It actually scared me a little.”
“Why, Nico?”
“I’ve been trying to figure that out,” he said. “I don’t have it yet.”
SEVENTEEN
HE SWUNG the machete with the force of ten thousand swings against the cane, up from the ground in a murderous arc, his powerful arm snapping out just before the blade cleaved Boss’s head in half like a coconut, his two eyes staring at each other in disbelief as the halves of his head fell away. Then Young David stripped Boss’s pants from him and cut off his manhood. As he walked past the giant dogs who were frantic in their pen he tossed the entire genital package over the fence, where they fell upon it ravenously, for they hadn’t yet had their dinner that night.
Young David went to each barracoon and pried open the locks with Aja’s dirk, quietly telling the slaves that if they wanted to escape they could come with him. He didn’t tell them where he was going or what he was going to do, which was to burn every plantation he could find until someone killed him.
Some slaves cowered in the corner of their barracoons, afraid to come out. But the rest rushed the doors and ran to the shadows of the mill. Young David motioned to them to be quiet and stepped out of the group to stand before Aja. In the moonlight, the lashes on his chest were dark with dried blood and pepper.
“Thank you for coming back,” Young David said in a mix of his native language and the elementary English he’d learned on the plantation. “I did not know who was prying the lock off the door. But I could guess. Tell me your name.”
“My name is Ajani,” he said, using his given name.
“Ajani, you are my brother,” said Young David, clasping the boy’s shoulders in his big hands. “Even if I never see you again I will never forget you. Now go quickly, for soon the sky will light up with fire.”
Aja hesitated, unsure that he had heard Young David correctly. And then he knew he had, and he began running back the way he had come, back along the river toward Matanzas, running faster and faster to get to the beach before daylight. Then he would have to swim out to the ship without drowning. And then he would have to get aboard without anyone noticing.
Just keep running, he told himself. And don’t look back at the sky.
EIGHTEEN
FALLON CAME on deck before dawn the next morning feeling troubled and alone. Between what he had seen at the Serles plantation and the feeling that he’d made a hash out of playacting as an intelligence agent, he was ready to be away. For now, he’d forgotten about the treasury lying just across the water. The tide would begin making in an hour and already Rascal was preparing to leave Matanzas.
He looked around the ship, though it was still shrouded in darkness, and then looked to the east to a glowing sky. At first, he thought it was the beginning of a glorious sunrise but he soon smelled the drift of smoke. He could imagine the story: burning sugarcane fields, runaway slaves who were desperate for freedom, the hiding and running and terror of being caught, an arm amputated and, if that didn’t kill you, back to work in the fields. Fallon watched the eastern sky grow brighter with the fires and shuddered. Yesterday he’d been right there.
Suddenly, Aja was beside him, rubbing his eyes and looking to the east as well.
“What do you think?” Fallon asked.
Aja looked at the sky’s glow and knew what he was seeing. “I think we had better leave here soon, Captain, sir,” he answered. “It is too dangerous to be black.”
Beauty had Rascal underway in short order and the ship eased out of Matanzas Bay, first around the heel and then north up the leg of the boot. Fallon gave orders to sail generally southeast along Cuba’s coast, which meant tacking against the trade winds for more than five hundred miles until—what? He had a month before he was due to be back to pick up Wharton and fulfill his obligation to Admiral Davies. In the meantime, he would look for opportunities.
On deck, Beauty posted a lookout and took a turn around the ship. Rascal seemed to delight in sailing hard on the wind, first on starboard and then larboard, the spray kicking up and over the bowsprit, soaking the hands forward, who didn’t mind in the least.
If you took away the imminent threat of an enemy just over the horizon, it was really a glorious day to be sailing. In spite of Fallon’s dark mood, Rascal was a happy ship, the men going about their business with very few discipline issues, each man believing fame and fortune, or at least fortune, were just over the horizon.
On the second day out of Matanzas, it appeared to be true.
RAIN WAS SHEETING across the deck when Fallon reached the top step of the companionway, but Aja was behind him with his cloak and hat. The rain had flattened the seas, and visibility was poor, barely a mile when the rain was pouring its hardest. A dull grayness seemed to engulf the world.
They were just passing into the narrow band of deepest water between Cuba and the Great Bahama Bank, and Beauty had her hands full tacking through such a confined space in relatively shallow water. The Mucarias shoals were off their larboard side at the southern edge of the bank, a string of coral islands off Cuba on their starboard side, and the hands were busy between the two dangers.
“Deck there,” came the hail from the lookout. “Sail ahead!”
Fallon found the image in his telescope, although it was difficult to see in the rain and mist. It looked to be a sloop sailing wing on wing, the mainsail hanging over the larboard side and the jib out to starboard. With the wind behind her it was difficult to see her flag, if she even flew one, but something about her design said French to Fallon. Of course, she could be a captured French ship.
Fallon wondered briefly where the sloop was bound, Havana presumably, but there was no real wa
y to know. The poor visibility meant the two ships were already quite close when they had sighted each other, leaving both captains with very little time to react. In the narrow chute between Cuba and the Bahama Bank the sloop would either have to pass close aboard or wear and sail back the way she’d come. It was not a good tactical situation either way if it came to a fight, and no doubt her captain knew it.
The sloop’s dirty copper was just visible at the bow, a sign of a ship long at sea. Her sails were patched in places and appeared the worse for wear. Perhaps she had come from France, or was in the vanguard of a French squadron just over the horizon. The question was: How to know?
Certainly, her orders would make all known, but any captain worth his rank would throw his orders overboard immediately if faced with capture. There was no question the sloop could be taken in battle, but perhaps there was another way. An idea began to form in Fallon’s mind, and he quickly ran through the reasons that it wouldn’t work, all the arguments against it. But what if it did work?
Now the rain was heavier, visibility again reduced, and Fallon made up his mind.
“Quickly, Beauty,” he ordered. “Have Cully load both batteries but not run them out. And then, Beauty, tack across the sloop’s course and heave-to.”
Beauty gave the orders and the crew jumped to their tasks, the ship swinging slowly into the wind as she began her tack. The powder boys ran to bring up shot and powder and slow match, and the gun crews prepared to swab the barrels of each 12-pound cannon. The men went about their duties efficiently and quickly, for each task had been practiced hundreds of times with unquestioning obedience. Except just now Beauty’s face revealed she wasn’t at all clear what Fallon could possibly be thinking.
“We’re going to put the hay down where the goats can get it,” Fallon explained, remembering a saying of his father’s. “After we heave-to, I want my gig lowered over the side, in plain sight of the sloop. And order the men to stand easy, not a care in the world, mind you. No gawking at the sloop. I want the captain’s curiosity to overcome his suspicion.”
“I get that,” said Beauty. “And if suspicion wins?”
“If he wants to fight, or tries to escape, we still have a tactical advantage,” Fallon said. “We’ll get underway quickly and be prepared to fight either side of the ship. It would be a foolish captain who couldn’t count the odds in our favor.”
As Rascal was now about to cross the sloop’s course, Beauty ordered the ship to heave-to and, when the sails had been adjusted and the schooner had settled, Fallon saw the crew assume relaxed postures as he’d ordered. He was counting on the sloop being far from home and her captain hungry for any information of the war, for news and gossip were always at a premium at sea. But for the trick to work, Rascal would have to appear both friendly and vulnerable, like a dog rolling over on his back.
On the sloop came, less than a mile away now, and Cully leaned casually against the larboard railing, his back to the sloop, and his gun crews hidden against the railing next to their guns. Aja appeared with Fallon’s sword and stood behind him; Fallon noticed he had apparently forgotten his dirk, a gift from the crew. He must remember to ask Aja about it later—if there was a later, he thought ruefully.
Fallon took off his cloak and hat, revealing that he wore no uniform, which he hoped would give the sloop’s captain comfort as he looked through his telescope. On the sloop came, and Fallon wondered briefly who was fooling whom. Perhaps the Frenchman, if that’s what he was, had not bought the ruse and was even now bearing down on the defenseless schooner who had her gun ports closed and her crew ambling about as if an impending battle that could blow them all to pieces was part of their routine.
There was still time for the sloop’s captain to wear ship and he might be considering doing that even now. Unless … unless Fallon could think of a coup de grâce. Something that underlined Rascal’s intent to parley. Something so out of the ordinary that it would beggar explanation.
“Aja!” he called. “Into the gig quickly with the crew!”
“And what is this about, Nico?” asked Beauty, with real concern in her voice.
“I want to convince the captain to come closer if I can,” said Fallon with a smile. “Then it’s up to my powers of persuasion. If that’s not enough, I may need extra persuasion. So, if you see me wave, run up the colors and run out Rascal’s guns.”
“But Nico,” Beauty objected, “why …”
“Remember George Danton’s famous words, Beauty,” said Fallon with a grin as he went over the side. Beauty would know that Danton was a leader of the French Revolution. “We need audacity, and yet more audacity, and always audacity!”
“Nico, Danton went to the guillotine, remember?”
“Oh,” Fallon yelled as the gig pushed off. “I forgot about that!”
Then the gig’s crew began to row toward the oncoming sloop. The little boat bobbed over the ocean, pulling away from safety and advancing on an enemy ship whose officers were no doubt suspiciously studying the developing situation through telescopes and who must even now be wondering what the devil was going on with this gig rowing toward them—to do what? It had to be to talk, or to deliver a message of some sort, they must be thinking. At least, that’s what Fallon hoped they were thinking.
At a cable’s distance from Rascal, Fallon nudged Aja, who ordered “oars” and the gig drifted on the placid sea. On instinct, Fallon stood up in the stern, as if impatiently waiting for the sloop to arrive. It must have made an incongruous sight aboard the sloop, and Fallon hoped it completed the picture of a man who wanted only to talk, which in its way was true. Indeed, on the sloop came, though it appeared more menacing with every yard. Fear crept up into Fallon’s throat like bile, and he was on the verge of sitting down quickly and ordering the crew to get underway and row back to Rascal when the sloop abruptly hove-to, not one hundred yards from the gig. This was as close as the capitaine wanted to go and, indeed, she ran out her guns as an extra precaution. Fallon could clearly see the French tricolor now. The next move was up to him.
“Aja, we will row to the sloop and clap on,” said Fallon calmly, as if it were to be a friendly visit. “I want to talk to Monsieur le Capitaine.”
The gig was now very close to the sloop, which looked very big from sea level. As they approached the sloop’s quarter, Fallon stood up again. He could see the capitaine and his officers looking at him curiously.
“Bonjour, Monsieur,” he called as the gig drifted even closer. His French was better than passable and might stall a precipitate move by the capitaine. “You have a fine ship, Monsieur!”
“What is it you want, Monsieur?” called the capitaine, obviously suspicious. “State your name and your business.”
Fallon could see muskets leveled at his head and gun crews standing by their cannons. The French sloop was eerily quiet as he seemed to have everyone’s attention.
“I am Captain Nicholas Fallon and I have come to offer you a trade, Capitaine,” said Fallon.
“And what is the trade, Monsieur?” retorted the capitaine, seeming to grow irritated. He was an older man in a shabby uniform but held his head at a certain angle that suggested self-importance.
Now the gig clapped on.
“No, Monsieur! State your—” demanded the capitaine, looking over the side of his ship. “Stand off!” he fairly screamed. The metallic sound of cocking muskets and pistols punctuated the air. “I will have you shot, Monsieur!”
“That would be unfortunate for both of us. But if I am to be shot,” said Fallon coolly, “allow me to wave good-bye to my ship and crew.”
Without waiting for permission, Fallon looked toward Rascal and raised his hat in the air. Instantly the British colors went up to Rascal’s gaff and twelve black muzzles pushed out of her side, cold and all business. Fallon turned back to the capitaine, whose mouth had come open.
“Kill me and you kill yourselves, Capitaine. Is that a trade you want to make?”
Fallon watched the em
otions play out on the officer’s face, rage and wounded pride in succession. Now was the moment to force resignation.
“Monsieur,” Fallon said loudly, looking directly at the capitaine but wanting every man to hear. “Your 6-pounders will do little damage at this range, but I have a very good one-eyed gunner aboard my ship who can sight the guns perfectly with his good eye. I have never seen the like! The first broadside will kill half of your men. Within two minutes the second broadside will kill the rest.” He let his words hang in the air.
“I have another trade in mind, if you would allow me to present it,” said Fallon, offering his olive branch. “I will trade your ship for your lives. Why not surrender now and save useless dying?”
The sputtering capitaine looked at Fallon, at Rascal, and back to Fallon again. The crew kept their guns on Fallon but looked out of the corners of their eyes at the 12-pounders pointing at them. And then Fallon leaned closer to the sloop and looked directly up to the capitaine and lowered his voice.
“I will put you and your men ashore on Saint-Domingue and you can live to fight another day,” said Fallon. “There is no dishonor in saving your men’s lives, sir. Worse would be sacrificing them for false pride.”
For a moment, nothing.
Every face turned to the capitaine, whose own face was rigid, pained, and pale. Even his waxed mustache seemed to droop slightly as he looked down to Fallon’s upturned face. His entire career was at stake, his reputation, his honor. After months at sea, fighting wind and sea and perhaps glorious battles, it came down to this moment, and he had to make a decision—a near-instant, life or death, decision.
He chose life.
Softly, the capitaine gave the order for the French colors to come down. Then he stepped back, and Fallon and the gig’s crew climbed up through the channel. The capitaine stiffly handed his sword to Fallon. He had made the only decision a wise man could make, saving his crew’s lives in the bargain; there had been no better option.
The Black Ring Page 9
