It took a moment to absorb Fallon’s thinking, but then one by one each officer smiled until everyone in the cabin was smiling, Fallon included.
“You have given us a true privateer’s perspective, Nicholas!” said Davies. “Thrust and parry, deceive and attack and sow confusion. The devil is in the details, of course. But let us put our heads together now to flesh out this extraordinary idea.”
And so they did. For the best part of the next three hours. And when at last Fallon climbed down into his gig to be rowed back to Rascal, it was agreed among the remaining officers and Admiral Davies that they wouldn’t want that particular privateer for an enemy.
For Fallon’s part, he wasn’t about to let this idea go to sea without him.
IT WAS FOUR BELLS in the forenoon watch when Fallon climbed aboard Rascal to be met by Beauty, a grin on her face.
“Your majesty,” she said with exaggerated deference. “While you’ve been hobnobbing with royalty on the flagship, Cully has been getting ordnance aboard, and he’s made the most amazing discovery. Would you like to see it?”
“Why, yes, I would,” said Fallon, mystified.
“It’s best seen on deck,” Beauty said. “So, let me fetch Cully from below to show you what he’s found in the magazine ashore.”
Soon Cully appeared carrying a projectile of a kind that Fallon had never seen before. It was a solid iron canister, out of which protruded a short spear with a barbed point. Wrapped around the shaft of the spear was pitch-soaked canvas. Cully was as happy as a child at Christmas holding a new toy.
“And what have we here, Master Gunner?” asked Fallon.
“This they call a fire arrow, Captain,” answered Cully proudly. “I found these in the magazine—something new from the Admiralty—and brought some aboard. The idea is that when the gun fires, it ignites the wad around the arrow.”
“Really!” exclaimed Fallon. “That is most extraordinary. The barbed tip sticks into the ship’s side and the ship hopefully catches fire! By God, I’d hate to see these coming across the water toward my ship!”
“Exactly,” said Beauty. “Of course, we don’t know for sure that they really work. We’re the first to try them out here. But maybe we’ll get the chance …”
Yes, thought Fallon, as he held the fire arrow in his hands. Another little trick might be good to have. He handed the fire arrow back to Cully, who took it gingerly and left to return it below.
“Beauty,” said Fallon tentatively, turning his attention to his second mate. “There is a plan afoot to strike a blow against the French and Spanish alliance. A little something to sow mistrust and confusion. I am going to present it to the crew, and anyone who wants to go home instead of sailing with Rascal can take the next packet to Bermuda. I wouldn’t blame anyone for leaving, and they will lose no favor with me. I know you are especially ready to go home to Bermuda, and I don’t blame you, either—you’re still recovering. So, I will arrange passage on the next—”
“Well, you can forget that, Nico,” interrupted Beauty. “I swear, sometimes I think you are the dumbest smart man in the world. The crew will vote to stay with the ship. This has been a profitable cruise, but there’s always more money to be made. And you know I’m not staying here on shore. You sailed off without me once, Nico. It won’t happen again.”
“Well, I just thought it was best,” said Fallon, outmaneuvered. “But we should see what Dr. Garón says.”
“Tell me, Nico,” said Beauty, ignoring the condition Fallon laid down. “Whose crazy plan is it?”
Fallon looked at her, smiling now, old friends who knew each other so well.
“Right,” she said. “Now I know I’m going.”
LATER THAT NIGHT, Fallon helped Elinore down into his gig and pushed away from the quay. The gig was not built to be rowed by one person, but he managed to get it out to the center of the harbor with a slow grace born of a lifetime at sea spent in all manner of boats. The moon had not yet made its appearance, and the sky was splashed with a dome of stars that illuminated the world, or at least the English Harbor part of it. He could see the flagship against the sky, her towering masts perfectly still on this windless night. The only sound to be heard was the gurgling water disturbed by the gig’s oars.
Elinore sat in the stern, her blonde hair loose about her shoulders, her face at peace. Fallon’s fear was that what he had to say would destroy that peace, for he had to tell her he was leaving on yet another mission for Davies. And it had been his idea. He was a coward at times like these, weak in the face of disappointing someone he loved.
Elinore trailed a hand overboard; her eyes were closed when she spoke.
“What’s on your mind, Nico?” she said softly. “I can sense you are preoccupied.” This was to have been a romantic tête-à-tête, their first opportunity to be alone together since returning to Antigua. And already she knew. Fallon shipped the oars and let the gig drift.
“Elinore, I know you are ready to go home; in truth, my whole crew is as well. They are wealthy enough to live their whole lives and never go to sea again. And you have been through so much anguish and disappointment that you must long for Bermuda.”
“But?” she asked in a small voice, barely above a whisper.
And then she answered her own question.
“But you are a sailor,” she said. “And sailors go where the wind blows them. And the wind is blowing you somewhere else instead of Bermuda.”
Fallon hung his head to his chest, wondering not for the first time how she could read his mind. But the thing was out and had to be seen through.
“We have a plan to turn Spain and France against each other in the Caribbean. I will be sailing on Rascal to help facilitate the plan, not to take part in it, per se. That is the truth, Elinore. There is much to do before we can leave, but once we sail I expect to be gone only a few weeks, if that.”
If Fallon could have seen Elinore’s face better he would have seen her eyes were moist. But she would not cry. Would not, in fact, do anything to keep Fallon from going to sea. It was a pact she’d made with herself when she’d fallen in love with him.
“I have no intention of not coming home to you, Elinore,” Fallon said quietly. “And in one piece. Remember my promise to you about having lots of babies? I intend to keep that promise!”
He was hoping for a smile. Something to lighten her.
And then she did force herself to offer a brave little smile, the kind of smile wives and lovers of sea captains the world over give their men to send them off.
“Well, let’s get started then,” she whispered.
Elinore unbuttoned her dress and wriggled her way out of it, almost tipping the gig over and causing Fallon to laugh out loud as he steadied the boat. She spread out the blanket she’d brought from his cabin to cover the floorboards of the gig and watched in anticipation as Fallon got undressed. No words were spoken, for what could they say?
Elinore guided Fallon onto his back and she lowered herself to sit astride him. Slowly, carefully, she began running her fingers over his chest, over his various scars and wounds, new and old, getting to know his body again. She took her time, smiling, and when at last she was ready she mounted him and began a slow back and forth dance, torturous in its patience, prolonging the ecstasy of the finish for the delicious agony of expectation. The boat drifted and rocked, the stars kept their quiet vigil overhead, and Elinore’s glistening white body pumped faster, desperately faster, and then suddenly—paused. She threw her head back and arched her back and screamed a scream so full of rage and release it was a wonder candles weren’t immediately lit in every home in English Harbor.
Well, perhaps they were. But there was nothing to be seen from the houses. Only a small boat adrift in the harbor, and no one appeared to be aboard.
FIFTY-ONE
EVENTS IN ANTIGUA began to take on a certain urgency.
Fallon had volunteered Rascal to be the eyes of the fleet, ranging ahead of Avenger and the newly renamed Rene
gade as they crossed the Caribbean in search of their French or Spanish enemies. He was not to go into battle under either enemy’s guns, but rather to be the first line of defense—or offense, as the case might be—scouting ahead and reporting back. Somers understood and even approved, knowing Fallon was a warrior at his core and could not simply sail back to Bermuda and leave his plan lying on the chart in Davies’ cabin. He needed a role, if only minor.
Señora Garón volunteered to lead the seamstress contingent and, based on the uniforms of several captured Spanish officers currently confined on Antigua, she began gathering material and braid and flourishes. Fallon cautioned that the uniforms need not be perfect replicas, only good enough to pass muster when seen through a telescope on a moving ship.
Aboard Rascal, the crew signed on for the new mission without hesitation; after all, though they were rich they could always be richer, and no matter Rascal’s presumed role, Fallon had a way of finding opportunities. The new hands from Matanzas were drilled at the great guns by Cully and instructed in sail handling by Beauty until they were so weary they could drop. Still, they were cheerful enough. They were free men, free to leave if they chose, and most of them had never been free to do anything else in their lives.
Beauty had secured Doctor Garón’s permission to go, on the condition that she would not take the wheel and would get only modest exercise each day. She readily agreed, but she would have left with or without his permission, and Fallon and Garón both knew it.
Renegade took on stores, and Jones supervised the painting of Tigre on the stern, making up the design himself. Fallon gave him a Spanish flag, and Jones had it raised to gauge the effect for himself. His arm was nearly healed now; anyway, he would have concealed any discomfort if it wasn’t, and his exuberant spirits were shared by his men, who saw their own redemption in the plan. They knew their role in the coming weeks would be critical.
Davies was particularly enamored of the idea of a quick strike on the French ship-of-the-line at Port-au-Prince. But there were contingencies to work through, for none of his experienced officers expected things to go as smoothly at sea as they were imagined in port. What if the French ship had flown? What if the ruse failed and the French ship attacked Renegade instead of vice versa? What if?
Davies could leave the fitting out of Avenger to Kinis, and this allowed him to spend time with Paloma, at least when she wasn’t busy in the Antigua Sewing Circle, as Elinore called Señora Garón’s seamstress group. Elinore herself found sewing the barretina caps wonderfully therapeutic, and it allowed her to get to know Paloma on a deeper level as they passed the afternoons together. They could often be seen on the porch of the Pegasus Inn, finished red caps stacked around them, bolts of red cloth nearby. They understood men, and they understood war, and they understood men had to go to war. But neither was the type to wring their hands over it, not if their hands could be doing something useful to the effort.
“Do you ever get used to Nicholas leaving?” Paloma asked Elinore as they sewed. “Does the idea of … you know … injury or—”
“Death?” interrupted Elinore. “Does it worry me? Of course, but I can’t show him. Otherwise, he might decide not to go. He tried that once, working in my father’s office a few months, and it changed him. And not for the better.”
Paloma nodded, putting herself in Elinore’s position in her mind, thinking of Davies about to leave. Already steeling herself to say good-bye.
“When I fell in love with Nico,” Elinore continued, “I had to accept that he was who he was and love him just that way. And I do. But he’s also different from the other captains who leave Bermuda for trading or war. He’s very romantic, for one thing. Do you know he writes me verse?”
“Really?” said an obviously surprised Paloma. “What kind of verse?”
“Oh, I can’t tell you that,” said Elinore, giggling like a schoolgirl. But the flush in her cheeks gave up the answer.
Paloma looked at her new friend affectionately. “Listening to you reminds me of how young Cuban girls describe the perfect man.”
“How is that?” asked Elinore with a smile.
“Café de la parte superior de la taza y chocolate de la parte inferior. It means: Coffee from the top of the cup and chocolate from the bottom.”
“Yes,” said a laughing Elinore. “That is Nicholas Fallon. He knows the way to a woman’s heart is chocolate!”
Their conversation was interrupted by gunshots coming from west of the village where, on a long, flat beach, Ezra Somers was practicing with his pistols. He had no intention of staying in port while Rascal went to sea and, as he owned the ship, there wasn’t going to be an argument about it. Besides, he was a crack shot and Fallon knew it. He might be old, but he was a man you could count on. Most mornings he could be seen limping along the beach carrying a satchel of pistols and ammunition. His gout still flared from time to time, though he found if he cut down his nightly wine consumption it seemed to subside slightly. Still, he reasoned, that was a steep price to pay.
Evenings found Fallon and Elinore busy with each other, and Paloma and Davies were not to be seen either, so Somers gradually developed a friendship with Doctor Garón and enjoyed their deep and often philosophical discussions. The doctor was well read in the classics and had a passing acquaintance with Descartes’s Meditations, but he knew nothing of the great Greek philosophers. He was, however, a font of information on Spanish and Cuban thinkers of the day. Books and opinion consumed their after-dinner walks.
The days and nights passed thus, until a week and then another were gone. When at last the uniforms and hats were delivered to the newly named Tigre, and the shot and stores were aboard all three ships and the contingencies all addressed satisfactorily, Davies called for departure at first light on the morrow to catch the tide.
The last night in port would be a night for lovers, for final embraces and more, for heartfelt promises to wait and earnest pledges to return. Both Fallon and Davies slept out of their ships; Jones and Beauty fidgeted in their respective cots; and Somers slept like a baby.
FIFTY-TWO
THE THREE SHIPS weighed and sheeted home, gradually leaving Elinore, Paloma, and the Garóns waving good-bye in the strengthening light of early morning. They all put on brave faces, but no one could predict the future. That was, no doubt, just as well. At sea anything could happen, and quite a bit of it was bad.
Once clear of the harbor, Fallon turned his attention to Barclay and discussed once again the course that would take them to the open Caribbean. The trades were reliably behind them, and Beauty ordered the helmsman to bear off whenever possible to keep the wind on their quarter so as to stay ahead of Renegade and Avenger. Meanwhile, there were several islands to navigate, though all of them were colonies of Great Britain, or at least neutral.
Beauty thumped about the ship on her peg leg as if completely healed, although Fallon guessed she hid whatever pain she still felt. She seemed to relish being aboard a ship she knew so well, with a crew she clearly trusted and who trusted her. The color had returned to her cheeks, and she could be seen smiling with Aja and Barclay at the binnacle as the schooner threaded her way through the islands toward the open sea. All was well for now, but tomorrow could be entirely different, of course. Fallon mulled the possibilities as he walked the length of the ship and back, again and again. While Rascal was not to have a fighting role against more formidable foes, he knew needs must when the devil drives.
At last, they broke into open water and Rascal could have her head, with Beauty taking advantage of each slant of wind in the otherwise predictable trades. It was good to exercise the crew and to immerse the new hands in the working of the ship. Cully practiced loading and running out with his gun crews, and Barclay and Aja took their noon sights religiously for comparison each day. Somers watched it all from his chair at the stern of the ship, set up just for him, like a royal personage with gout.
Two days out of English Harbor, Avenger and Renegade were left beh
ind; Rascal was totally, wonderfully alone on the deep blue. The ship was thirty miles south of Bahia Yuma, a small bay on Santo Domingo’s southern shore, sailing west with no vessels in sight. Tomorrow would see them at the mouth of the Gulf of Gonâve, looking for a French ship; there was a good chance she was still there, either negotiating with Louverture or provisioning for the long journey back to France. Or, up to something more sinister.
Fallon had conferred with Beauty during the forenoon watch about Aja, and they were both in agreement that it was time. He had proven himself again and again as a natural leader, much respected by the men, with the complete trust of Fallon and Beauty. They made plans to honor him at dinner and, of course, invited Somers, Colquist, Barclay, and Cully to join them.
For the event, the cook prepared a suckling pig with potatoes and leeks and some soft but still serviceable carrots. The claret was passed around, and around again, and by the time the pig arrived on the scene it was a happy party, indeed. Cully, in particular, was in rare form and told jokes with an Irishman’s wink, and the table laughed themselves silly.
At last, the dishes were cleared and the duff pudding made a grand entrance, with Barclay making a toast to duff pudding and all puddings in the world, for he was a pudding aficionado.
Then it was time for Fallon to do the honors. He stood and held his wine glass up and looked around the table, a smile on his beaming face.
“Two years ago, some of you will remember, we were aboard Sea Dog heading south toward Grand Turk Island, and we came upon an utterly destroyed and sinking slaver. A pirate had taken off the hands he wanted and slaughtered the rest. But this is not meant to be a sad story. For down below, Cully found a young boy who was still alive, having cleverly hidden behind barrels to escape the pirates. We brought him aboard Sea Dog, but he would not speak. Not a word, mind you.”
The Black Ring Page 23
