Aja lowered his head, embarrassed, having no idea what was coming but moved because it was coming from Fallon.
“In the time since, we’ve watched him grow into a capable top man, a fair hand with a sword, and a better than average navigator—watch your back, Barclay! He’s a fellow who is always there, in thick or thin, just when you need him most. But I must say, more than any of that, he is a leader. You all know how the men respect him, how the men follow him.”
Now there was banging on the table and Hear! Hear!
“So, I want to propose a toast to someone utterly remarkable. Someone wise beyond his years. Someone whose loyalty to the ship and to the crew and to me can never be questioned. Only, I cannot make this toast to Aja.”
Fallon smiled as Aja’s eyes looked up in confusion.
“Instead,” said Beauty rising from her chair, “let’s raise a glass to our new second mate, Ajani!”
Hear! Hear! rang out around the table again as Aja now put his face in his hands with an involuntary cry from the effects of the toast; certainly, it was not from wine, as he’d had none. Suddenly the table shook with a whunk! When Aja raised his head and made to dry his cheeks with his sleeve, he saw a beautiful, bejeweled dirk stuck in the table. It was the very dagger Fallon had taken from the capitaine’s cabin on Petite Bouton. Aja’s eyes opened wide and he looked at it a moment and then around the table, and finally at Fallon.
“I believe you lost your other dirk,” Fallon said with a wink. “Be careful with this one.”
AT DAWN the next morning, First Mate Beauty McFarland and Second Mate Ajani toured the ship to be sure all was well, Aja carrying his new dirk proudly. His uniform hadn’t changed; well, there was no real uniform aboard a privateer. But those crew who were on watch saw a confident bearing in his stride and knuckled their foreheads in respect as he passed. All hands agreed the promotion was deserved.
Fallon was on deck as the ship rounded the southwest corner of Saint-Domingue. Several hours should see them at the outer entrance to the Gulf of Gonâve, and he scanned the horizon with his telescope to no avail. There were no sails to be seen.
The wind was on Rascal’s starboard beam until, at last, they hardened up and began working their way to Port-au-Prince on the far eastern shore. They made their tacks crisply, but as the gulf was quite long it would be several hours before the hail from the lookout came.
Satisfied that all was well for the moment, Fallon returned to his cabin to study the chart for the gulf carefully, noting the small bays and indentations along the shoreline. Who knew how accurate the charts were? Well, it was all he had, and he memorized what he saw before moving his attention to Gonâve Island.
The island had been the inhospitable home to hundreds of runaway slaves who escaped Saint-Domingue before Louverture’s revolution. It was arid and made of limestone and scrub. Most of the slaves who reached the island died trying to live there. Fallon stared at it now, a paper image, and tried to imagine the misery of the place. When some time later he had the features of the gulf in his mind, he rolled up the chart and was just leaving to gain the deck again when the lookout’s call came.
“Deck there! Ship at anchor. French, I think! She’s a first-rate!”
Good God, thought Fallon, that meant three gun decks and at least one hundred guns. If France was delivering a message to Louverture, it was a serious damn message! There was certainly no need to deliver a simple letter with a first-rate.
He climbed the ratlines and raised his telescope to have a look for himself. The French ship was anchored fore and aft between Gonâve Island and the southern shore of the gulf. All fifty guns on her larboard side were behind closed gun ports. But the angle of the ship—athwart the wind with her larboard side facing the entrance to the gulf—told Fallon the capitaine knew his business, had set a spring line, and was prepared for any surprise. That would be something for Jones to consider, certainly, and it might change the plan.
“Sir!” said the lookout just as Fallon had started to descend to the deck. “A sloop coming out! She’s flying French colors!”
Quickly, Fallon raised his telescope to see a sloop putting her nose out from behind Gonâve Island, apparently to investigate this nosy schooner. The sloop was no doubt acting as the first-rate’s sentry while in harbor and, though she was still several miles away, Fallon would need to decide what to do. If he withdrew, would the sloop follow? For how long? If he stayed and fought, would it provoke the first-rate into weighing in order to join the fight?
Fallon hung onto the ratlines to think. He assumed the sloop had preceded the French ship into the gulf and Rascal’s lookout couldn’t see her when the big ship had been spotted weeks ago. Well, no matter, the sloop was very visible now and Fallon had a decision to make.
He climbed down to the deck and was met by Beauty and Aja, who were looking at the oncoming sloop with their own telescopes.
“What do you think, Beauty?” asked Fallon, mindful of precipitating action that would put the existing plan with Renegade-now-Tigre in jeopardy.
“I see the problem, Nico,” she said, reading his mind as she so often did. “But what’s the opportunity?”
The question caught Fallon off guard, and for a moment he could think of no opportunity, no way to turn this negative into a positive.
“That is a very pretty sloop, Captain, sir,” said Aja. “It is a very good size for me, I think.” And then he smiled at Fallon.
And, slowly, Fallon smiled back, and then nodded.
“Beauty,” he said, “come about and sail off to the west. Not too fast, mind you, we want this Frenchman to follow us and not lose us. We must keep him encouraged.”
At all costs, Fallon didn’t want the eyes of the first-rate on the battle, for it had to be seen that the sloop was driving Rascal off. Well, in a sense, it was true, he thought. For now.
Rascal came about and steadied on course to the west, back the way she’d come, as if retreating. The French sloop, in turn, gave chase, was almost obligated to give chase as a show for the first-rate, and Beauty sailed just loosely enough to let the sloop keep up with Rascal. She wanted the terrier to feel very proud of herself running off a bigger dog. Fallon kept a constant eye on the sloop, the wind, and their relative positions, and when they were well away from Gonâve Island, and the first-rate’s lookout, he deemed it time.
“Beauty, I want to wear ship in two minutes and point for her bows,” said Fallon with a grin. “We’re going to see what this capitaine is made of! And then hoist our colors, please. Let’s tell him who he’s fighting!”
Somers had been watching Fallon as he stared at the sloop and wondered if Fallon had a plan. Well, whatever it was, he planned to do his part, and he went below to get his satchel of pistols. He was limping a little, but not that much, and he wanted to be ready. He looked over his shoulder as he got to the companionway and saw the sloop was noticeably closer, and Beauty would be ordering the ship to wear soon.
FIFTY-THREE
THE SHIPS had a bit more than a mile between them when Rascal wore ship smoothly, coming up into the wind close-hauled on the larboard tack and sailing back toward the French sloop. The wind was out of the east-northeast, shifting slightly here and there, and the sloop sensibly had the breeze on her starboard quarter. Her guns were still behind her gun ports.
Fallon and Beauty studied the tactical situation closely. The obvious thing would be to sail low and rake the sloop on her larboard side, for Rascal was being pushed down slightly to the south as it was. But that meant Rascal would have to suffer a broadside, and Fallon wanted to protect his men at all costs since they should really be on their way home to Bermuda at this point.
“Beauty, time the lifts,” he said with a hint of excitement in his voice. “Like the old days racing on the harbor. The capitaine won’t notice them but we need to know when the wind comes more north.”
Beauty nodded and looked away to study wind and water. The wind never stayed in exactly the same dire
ction, but oscillated through several degrees in a fairly predictable pattern. By timing the lifts they could anticipate them, and catching one would enable Rascal to sail closer to the wind than she was sailing now and claw up more to the north.
“Ask Cully to load the guns with grape,” said Fallon, an idea turning into a plan. “Then at three cable’s distance we’ll run out both batteries.”
Beauty looked at him quizzically. Here was something new.
“I want the capitaine to have that same look on his face!” said Fallon with a smile. “Stay on his bows, and whatever he decides we must be prepared to do the opposite of what he expects. I think he will expect to engage us on his larboard side, believing we can’t get up any higher, but he may not. That would be logical, though.”
Beauty cackled, for her captain delighted in doing the illogical thing whenever possible. She gave the necessary orders; the crew was told off and went to their positions, standing by to execute her commands when they came. The sloop was almost three-quarters of a mile away now, and a cast of the log indicated the two ships were probably closing at a combined speed of almost twenty knots. Fallon did the math in his head: When Rascal’s batteries ran out at three cables, the French capitaine would have less than a minute to make up his mind what to do.
“Ezra!” Fallon called, “please set up in the bows.” And then Fallon yelled out: “A guinea says the capitaine falls to his pistol, lads! Who wants the bet?” Fallon could hear several calls from the crew and saw Somers grin. Betting on him was never a bad idea.
Aja was by Fallon’s side, his new dirk at the ready, eager to do what was asked.
“Aja,” Fallon said. “Organize a boarding party and be ready with grappling hooks. We’re going to take that ship!” Fallon was mad with the fight now, his eyes dancing in his face, his mouth set in determination.
Beauty had been timing the lifts, satisfied that they were coming roughly two minutes apart. But that raised an important question.
“Barclay,” she said to the sailing master, “how long until we reach the sloop?”
Barclay scratched his head and judged the distance and speed of the two ships. He scribbled on the slate, rubbed his chin, and then looked up.
“I make it almost three minutes, give or take,” he said confidently, though trying to hedge a little. Beauty nodded, and looked in the distance, searching for any changes in the wind on the water’s surface.
“It will be a near thing,” she said at last to Fallon, who was watching her face closely. “If you’re thinking what I think you’re thinking.”
At five cable’s length, still over a thousand yards, both ships were still sailing straight for each other. Beauty was calm, but Barclay and Aja fidgeted in spite of themselves. The ships came closer still, but the Frenchman still would not commit. Now little more than three cables separated the two ships.
“Run out the batteries!” Fallon ordered, and there came the deep, unmistakable rumbling of a ship preparing for war. Both starboard and larboard batteries ran out, stiff black wings hovering over the waves. Seconds went by. More seconds.
Suddenly, the French sloop’s larboard battery ran out; the capitaine had made his decision.
“When can we head up, Beauty?” asked Fallon as calmly as he could, but the tension was in his voice.
“A moment, my Captain,” she replied, fighting her own nervousness. And then under her breath: Come on wind!
There! She both felt the wind shift on her cheek and saw it on the water. She hesitated, one eye on the sloop, which was almost upon them, and one on the foresail.
“Now!” she said as she touched the helmsman’s arm. “Come up! Ride her up!” The wind indeed had shifted momentarily, more from the north, and the helmsman carefully guided Rascal up to it … up, up … it wouldn’t do to stall … a little higher still …
Then the lift petered out, the wind came back to its old direction, and Rascal had to fall off—but she was heading down the sloop’s starboard side!
“Stand by the starboard battery, Cully!” called Fallon. “Rake her!”
The French capitaine could do nothing but look on in disbelief. His starboard guns were behind their gun ports, loaded or not, and there was no time to run them out.
Rascal’s starboard battery thundered and the startled French crew was cut down, spinning to the deck with arms and legs flailing as a thousand iron balls tore across a very few feet of water. No, a thousand and one, for Ezra Somers was at the starboard bow as Rascal swept out of the smoke, and he took careful aim at the French captain’s heart. The capitaine died with surprise on his face, though whether from Fallon’s trick or the impact of the ball in his chest would never be known.
“Wear ship, Beauty!” yelled Fallon, for the sloop had rounded into the wind and was going nowhere, her helm deserted and her deck a cemetery of dead bodies. Beauty put Rascal alongside the sloop, and Aja grappled on to lead a boarding party onto her deck. The dead lay in all manner of grotesque postures, Cully’s gunners having done their job beyond well, and Aja met little resistance. In a moment, the remaining French crew surrendered, the few officers still alive offered their swords, and the ship was taken. Not a single shot came aboard Rascal, and her crew was deeply grateful, many shaking their heads in disbelief. Colquist would have no British seamen to tend to. French wounded, however, were another story.
Beauty smiled broadly and complimented the helmsman repeatedly, for he had taken Rascal as far as she could go but no farther, which would have stopped the ship in her tracks. Heaven knows what would have been the result of that, but it didn’t bear thinking about. Victory was to be celebrated, not questioned.
It was the work of an hour to move the wounded below decks on Rascal. The prisoners were transferred over as well, while the dead crew was thrown overboard with a brief prayer by Fallon. The French officers were stripped of their uniforms, which were given to the cook and ship’s boys to wash while the blood was still fresh on them.
The sloop’s name was Mistral. While Beauty organized a crew to put the little ship to rights, repairing rigging and such, Fallon rifled the capitaine’s cabin. He was looking for a signal book and any clues as to the late capitaine’s orders or, more important, orders for the first-rate, whose name he discovered was Coeur de France—Heart of France.
He read in the ship’s log that Mistral had sailed from Les Sables-d’Olonne on the Bay of Biscay as Coeur’s tender and dispatch vessel eight weeks before, arriving in the Caribbean two weeks ago, and proceeded immediately to Port-au-Prince. Mistral’s orders did not mention what the purpose of the mission was, but Fallon’s eyes fell on the last paragraph and his eyes widened reflexively.
“Good God,” he said aloud in the empty cabin. “This changes things!”
THAT NIGHT Rascal was to rendezvous with Avenger and Renegade off Dame Marie, on the far southwest tip of Saint-Domingue, and it was early evening when Beauty rounded into the wind near the ships and ordered the anchor down. Aja, following behind in command of Mistral, did the same. Davies ordered: Captains repair on board. The gigs were lowered and the captains were rowed to the flagship; Aja was rowed over as well, for the plan would now change somehow and might well involve Mistral.
“You just can’t seem to resist taking a prize, can you, Nicholas?” said an amused and impressed Davies as they all settled in his great cabin. “Tell us the story, please, for we are all fascinated to hear it!”
Fallon described the scene in the Gulf of Gonâve and the presence of a first-rate lying athwart the wind. Jones swallowed hard, for that meant the ship was prepared. Then Fallon recounted the sudden appearance of Mistral. He compressed the story of the chase and gave all credit to Beauty’s boat handling, Cully’s gunnery and, of course, Somers’s marksmanship. He even noted that Aja had led the boarding party, which made the young second mate smile self-consciously. But he was a smart young man, and the manner in which Fallon gave credit to others was not lost on him.
“Excellent!” excla
imed Davies. “For a noncombatant on this mission, you’ve drawn first blood! But surely this might affect our little plan?” This, a statement as much as a question.
“Yes, I believe so, sir,” said Fallon. “I found Mistral’s orders in the capitaine’s desk, which revealed her as a tender for the first-rate, Coeur de France. But here is the complication: The orders state that Mistral is also to escort Tigre into Port-au-Prince!”
The cabin grew quiet as each person attempted to calculate the implications of that bit of news. It was Davies who broke the silence.
“Why should Tigre trust Mistral? I know they are nominal allies, but unless this has all been arranged beforehand …” His voice trailed off as he looked at Fallon.
“Yes, I believe that is so,” said Fallon. “I found two signal books aboard Mistral containing a common set of signals so the French and Spanish could communicate among themselves. There can be only one reason for that. I believe they intend combined action of some sort, probably against Louverture or Great Britain.”
Fallon looked at each of their faces carefully, seeing the shock come to their eyes, for though France and Spain were allies they had never joined forces literally. Fallon wondered if they could see what he was seeing as an opportunity.
“Where and when is Mistral to rendezvous with Tigre?” asked Kinis. “That may alter things for us, I would think.”
“Yes, Mistral is to meet Tigre in Santiago de Cuba, where she is wooding and watering, in four days,” Fallon explained. “Thence they are to sail to Port-au-Prince to meet with Coeur. The French aren’t taking any chances on a surprise. And Spain gets assurance of their frigate’s safety by following Mistral into the Gulf of Gonâve.”
“I see,” said Davies. “Mistral’s role is to be the go-between between two suspicious allies, one of which has one hundred guns!”
Davies’ steward appeared with glasses and several bottles of wine, and one ginger beer for Aja. The group drank the King’s health and scratched their chins and pulled their ears deep in thought. It was very dark outside before anyone spoke.
The Black Ring Page 24
