Retreating to his cabin for the evening, Fallon poured a glass of wine and sat on the stern seat with pen and paper. The light was dim, but he wanted to write Elinore a letter. Instead, a verse of a sort began to appear on the paper, as if written by its own hand.
Tonight, I breathe your love
into my lungs and your lips
part over mine
and your smell
reaches
into the secret parts of
my body
until, exhausted from
holding you inside,
I exhale.
As always, he thought little of his own writing, though Elinore seemed to appreciate his efforts. Lovers can be forgiven for almost anything, he thought. Even bad poetry.
FALLON AWOKE before dawn, stiff and cramped from a night on the stern cushions, his paper and pen on the deck of the cabin where they’d fallen. His wine was untouched on the desk, as was the dinner his steward had quietly set out on the chance that he’d awake and be hungry. He was now, indeed, fabulously hungry and called for coffee and toasted cheese immediately while he shaved and shifted his clothes.
By the time he arrived on deck it was to a lightening sky behind him and a grayish bow wave forward. Cuba was out there somewhere, and even now James Wharton might be making his way to Matanzas for the rendezvous in a little over a week’s time. Fallon wondered idly whether Cuba was indeed ready to challenge Spain.
“Good morning, Captain,” said Brooks, approaching Fallon from behind to snap him back to the present. “We’re about ten miles off the east coast of Cuba, sir. Within the hour we should be off Cayo Guillermo on the larboard bow.” Brooks, ready with the answer before the question—like a good first lieutenant.
“Thank you, Mr. Brooks,” said Fallon. “Have you ever been to Cuba?”
“I have not, sir. But I’ve heard the wom—that is, I’ve heard it is very beautiful.”
“Yes, they are, Mr. Brooks,” said Fallon with a grin to a visibly embarrassed first lieutenant.
“Deck there!” called the lookout. “Sail to the west!”
Here was Aja with Fallon’s telescope, though nothing could be seen from the deck. Barclay appeared at the binnacle, as well, and all eyes looked ahead to the west. But the morning would not be rushed, and so the light took its time coming. Minutes passed slowly, until finally the lookout called.
“Deck there! She’s ship rigged. Tacking toward us.”
Fallon now found himself in the same uncomfortable position Petite Bouton had been in: a narrow strait with not much room to maneuver, though he certainly had better visibility and thus more time to decide a course of action than the French capitaine had.
“Lookout! What is she?” he yelled.
“She’s just tacked again, sir!” called the lookout. “I make her a packet of some kind!”
Well, that took the pressure off, thought Fallon. He decided to have the colors sent up and see how the packet responded. He also asked Brooks to call all hands as a precaution.
The British ensign went up and almost immediately the lookout called.
“Deck there! She’s flying British colors!”
“Heave-to, Mr. Brooks,” said Fallon. “But have the gun crews stand ready. Let’s see what this fellow has to say.”
On the packet came, tacking this way and that while Fallon paced the deck with his chin in his chest, catching a glimpse of the slowly approaching packet out of the corner of his eye. It was a ponderous thing, unhandy and clumsy in tacks, but after the best part of an hour she hove-to within hailing distance of Rascal and the captain spoke through cupped hands.
“I am Captain Stipes, and this is the slaver Plymouth just back from Havana.”
“His Majesty’s privateer Rascal, Captain Fallon in command, sir,” yelled Fallon back. “What news of Havana, pray?”
“None, sir. But very difficult to get in nowadays with the chain. Took me the better part of the day! They finally sent a boat out to check my papers. And the slaves were bellowing like cows!”
Fallon could see Stipes laughing even as his own stomach tightened. And then Stipes added something else.
“I was hailed by a Spanish frigate this morning, sir! Doncella Española, she was! On patrol for pirates attacking slavers, by God. I was empty by then but the capitán, Diaz, would have protected me if I’d been full! He said Cuba wants all the slaves it can get no matter who brings ’em to her!”
“Which way was Doncella bound?” yelled Fallon, for it wouldn’t do to run afoul of the frigate again.
“Toward Havana, I make!” called Stipes. “No hurry, mind, sailing easy under plain sail.”
A few more pleasantries and Fallon had all the information he was going to get. He bid Stipes good day and castigated himself for not sinking the slaver on the spot. But that wouldn’t be legal, and wouldn’t end slavery; in fact, it wouldn’t make any difference at all. Still, once Plymouth was away upwind and the slaver’s scent blew down on Rascal, Fallon almost reconsidered.
Brooks brought Rascal back on her old course as Fallon went back to pacing. As things stood, there was no danger of Rascal overtaking Doncella and finding herself in an unpromising situation. As a precaution, Fallon was about to ask Brooks to reef the foresail and slow the ship down when the most extraordinary idea came to him. It was in his mind and fully formed and was so counterintuitive that he forced himself to pause before he gave the order to do the opposite of what any sane schooner captain would do. He was going after a frigate.
THIRTY-TWO
MR. BROOKS!” yelled Fallon over his shoulder. “We have a ship to catch!”
Immediately Rascal came alive; all hands thrilled to the chase as the topsails were set and drawing. Rascal’s bottom was fairly clean and Fallon could only hope that Doncella, so far from home, had a foul bottom to compensate for her greater press of sail.
“Mr. Barclay and Mr. Brooks,” said Fallon excitedly, “Doncella is moving up the coast toward Havana and we must do everything in our power to catch her!” Both men looked surprised, Brooks especially, since he had no experience with Fallon and did not know his ways. For his part, Barclay knew an idea was afoot.
“Mr. Brooks, coax whatever speed you can from the ship! Put Kirby on the helm—he will know to steer small, but instruct him to head up on each lift to get everything he can out of it. By dawn tomorrow I want to be in range for the long nine. A half mile or less, just enough to pray for a lucky shot!”
It was not in Fallon’s mind to engage Doncella in a battle of broadsides, for that would be suicidal. Rather, he intended to harass and generally annoy the Spaniard from the safety of a rear action. Unless Doncella had a stern-chaser, Rascal would be in no danger and he could nip at the frigate’s heels until Havana. And then, if conditions warranted, he could spring his little surprise.
Kirby was a Welsh ex-miner who had stepped off a coal packet in Bermuda and never went home. For a rough man he had a light steering touch and was Beauty’s favorite helmsman. He steered small, in the sailor’s language, making minute adjustments instead of sweeping reactions to wind and wave with the wheel. The result was a ship that sailed faster through the water. Each time the wind veered, for it never stayed exactly the same direction, Kirby made small adjustments to keep the breeze on the starboard quarter. This was a faster point of sail than dead downwind, and the ship’s speed increased with each lift.
Barclay cast the log regularly to keep track of Rascal’s speed through the water, and he continually called for adjustments to either add more twist to the sails or less. The hands were watching a master at work, with tweaks aplenty, and with each cast of the log they nodded in agreement that Barclay and Brooks were getting the most out of the ship.
All day it went on like that, a quarter of a knot gained here, half a knot there. The hands changed watches and looked to the west but saw only an unblemished horizon. And when, at last, evening came and Barclay was sure of their position, Fallon went below to have his dinner k
nowing that everything was being done that could be done to close the gap with Doncella. Morning would tell the tale.
AT TWO BELLS in the morning watch, Aja crept into Fallon’s cabin and lightly touched his shoulder.
“Daylight soon, Captain, sir,” he said softly. “Mr. Barclay estimates we are past Cay Sal Bank and in the Florida Straits.”
“Thank you, Aja,” said Fallon, instantly awake. “I’ll be on deck shortly.”
Within minutes Fallon appeared in the gloom of early morning and peered ahead to the west, seeing nothing. He sent for coffee and settled in on the windward railing, feeling the wind on his neck as he watched the bright green disturbed water flow down Rascal’s starboard side. Why it glowed so he had no idea, but every sailor knew the Caribbean’s waters glowed green when disturbed at night. The incandescent green globs seemed to roll down the sides of the ship and spin off in her wake to disappear, slowly, in the black water left behind.
At all costs, Fallon intended to keep his ship safe and to pick up Wharton in Matanzas. But he had a day to spare for mischief, and he thought of Beauty, wishing she were with him, knowing how much she loved a good chase. This was her kind of day: a race to the finish line, a come-from-behind, all-or-nothing flyer. A day when anything could happen.
It was after Fallon had had his breakfast and come back on deck that the lookout spotted Doncella in the distance, several miles ahead. She was indeed under all plain sail, lumbering along on patrol, no doubt, without a thought of being challenged. Fallon approached Brooks at the binnacle just as he’d finished reproaching the helmsman to steer small, Brooks getting into the chase with both feet now. Fallon looked through his telescope at the frigate’s stern. He could just make out figures looking back at him. Not surprisingly, Capitán Diaz seemed unconcerned. No doubt he recognized Rascal from the battle with Renegade and perhaps felt humiliated at being tricked, but he would not act stupidly. He had the superior firepower, and thus nothing to fear from this nuisance astern.
Within three hours Rascal had eaten up the distance to Doncella to less than a mile. It was time to start the dance.
“Mr. Brooks,” said Fallon, “please ask Cully to load and run out the long nine. We’re going to try a ranging shot on the up-roll.”
“Ranging shot on the up-roll it is, sir,” said Brooks, hurrying forward to confer with the master gunner.
Fallon had no illusions about hitting anything, but it would do the men good and get the barrel hot to try a few shots. A hot barrel shot a truer ball than a cold one. In his telescope, he could see no stern chaser on the frigate, which was a comfort. Always good when the enemy couldn’t shoot back.
Cully’s crew worked in harmony to get the long gun primed and ready to fire. First, the barrel was swabbed with water to remove salt or any debris that had found its way inside. Then a flannel cartridge containing packed gunpowder was loaded into the barrel, followed by a wad of cloth, and a crewman rammed both home with a wooden rammer. Next, the gun captain poked a small wire down through the touch-hole to prick the cartridge open, shouting “Home!” once he’d done so. Cully then ordered the 9-pound ball to be loaded into the barrel and yet another cloth wad was rammed in behind it to keep the ball from rolling out. The gun was then run out, priming powder applied to the touch-hole, and it was ready to fire.
Rascal’s bow was moving up and down, rising onto the tops of waves and falling into troughs, and Cully would have his hands full sighting the gun. But he knew his business and stood patiently looking at the frigate, watching her motion and feeling Rascal’s own, and then he bent to sight the gun. On the up-roll, he fired.
All hands looked forward to see the fall of the shot. Short and left, but they were still more than a half mile from Doncella and, undiscouraged, the gun crew went through the drill again. They would repeat the process, exactly replicating each movement, again and again, Cully nodding and making minor adjustments, still getting the sense of the ship and his timing, still missing.
But getting closer with each shot.
After an hour, Capitán Diaz had had enough and Barclay noted that Doncella’s topgallants were now set and were full and drawing. There would be no catching her, and even now she was pulling away from Rascal. They were off Matanzas on a broad reach and Fallon called Barclay and Brooks together. Aja hovered nearby, within earshot, as always.
“Gentlemen, you are no doubt wondering what your crazy captain is up to with this chase, so let me tell you what I plan. First, a question: Have either of you ever raced skiffs?” And as they looked at him curiously, Fallon explained small boat racing and tactics when sailing behind the leader.
After Fallon had laid out the idea, Barclay brought the bow northward and Rascal sailed off on a 45-degree angle away from Doncella, picking up a great deal of speed as she came onto a beam reach. Fallon wondered what Diaz was thinking; hopefully he had never raced skiffs as a boy and thought that Rascal had given up and was sailing away.
Fallon ran the calculations in his head, wind and tide and speed, his racing instincts in full play. Barclay was below at the charts, running his own calculations to compare. Doncella was well out of range now, far to larboard on her way past Matanzas toward Havana, rolling and yawing with the wind on her stern. Fallon was all attention, for left too late the game was over. If he tacked too early he might come under El Morro’s and La Punta’s guns, and they would likely remember Rascal. In fact, he was counting on it.
Within an hour they had lost sight of Doncella from the deck, but Fallon was sure she was soon to wear ship and make her turn for Havana Harbor.
“I say we wear in thirty minutes, Mr. Barclay,” said Fallon. “What say you?”
Barclay had been bent over his notes and figures—well, he was always bent, in truth—and raised up with a smile on his face.
“That is exactly what I would suggest, Captain!” he said with surprise and more than a hint of admiration in his voice. “Really, most extraordinary that we should agree like that!”
“Mr. Brooks! Wear ship in thirty minutes, if you please,” said Fallon. “Then, Mr. Barclay, pray lay a course for Havana Harbor. And call me when you’ve found Doncella. Now we shall see what we see!”
Fallon went below to have a very late breakfast, for he realized he had quite forgotten to eat in the excitement of the morning. In very little time events would be upon them, and he intended to face them with a full belly.
Before he had finished his meal he heard Brooks’s order to wear ship, and he could feel Rascal come about on her new course. Slowly, she picked up speed and was once again on a beam reach, this time on the larboard tack, dashing for Havana Bay. It took all his resolve to remain below decks, but he wanted Brooks to be seen executing the plan if it should succeed. If it should fail, the failure would belong to Fallon, of course.
“Deck there! Frigate off the larboard bow!”
The lookout’s call did for his breakfast and Fallon bounded up the companionway, almost running Aja over in the process. Gaining the deck, he could indeed see Doncella off to his left, just where she was supposed to be. By sailing on a faster point of sail, even slightly away from Havana Bay, Rascal had head reached on Doncella and made up the distance between them to the harbor—a fact that doubtless had just been revealed to Diaz.
“Mr. Brooks, have Cully go back to the long nine,” said Fallon coolly. “He is to commence firing on my order. And Mr. Brooks, I want us as close to Doncella’s stern as you can get us until I give the order to come about.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” answered Brooks, who could barely tear his eyes away from the converging ships. El Morro and La Punta could both be seen easily at this point, guarding the entrance to Havana Harbor at the southern end of the bay. Doncella had completed her turn for the harbor and was even now signaling the forts, announcing her arrival. But Rascal was coming up very fast.
COLONEL GARCÍA was called from his office, where in truth he had been dozing, as soon as the big frigate made its turn for the harbor. He
could see she was Spanish through his telescope, and he could also see a British schooner sailing close behind her. This was exactly the scene that bumbling Gonzalez had described at his trial, before he’d been led away to the bowels of the prison at El Morro.
What was this? The schooner was firing a bow chaser at the frigate. And now the frigate was signaling. First the ship’s number—García quickly referred to his list of ships to identify it as Doncella Española.
Then the signal: Lower the chain.
The colonel had a moment of doubt. But events were overtaking him as Doncella’s signal was still up and the schooner was still firing, or appeared to be! This is what that fool Gonzalez had described, and he had fallen for the British trick and lowered the chain and the whole harbor had blown up.
¡Madre de Dios!
Two miles from the harbor entrance was usually the point of no return, when the chain would have to begin lowering to a depth sufficient for a large ship to pass over safely. García could feel the sweat suddenly pooling in his armpits beneath his uniform, belying the calm he was trying to show the guardavía who was awaiting his order.
García took in a slow breath. The ships were in a line for the harbor, the schooner was still firing, and Doncella was still signaling.
“Guardavía!” said Colonel García resolutely. “Signal: Chain is lowered.”
“But, sir,” said the trembling signalman, “the chain is up!”
“Yes,” said García, “but two can play this game.”
FALLON COULD quite easily see Doncella’s stern with his naked eye and, more, could see the stern windows blow out at Cully’s last shot. God knew what destruction the long nine was causing inside the frigate, but he could envision quite a bit. Men might well be dead and bleeding themselves out, and Diaz could do very little about it. If he hauled his wind to turn and fight, Rascal would simply sail away. Besides, Diaz would know Rascal would not dare enter the harbor under the guns of two forts.
The Black Ring Page 15
