“Recherche de la faiblesse,” mused Davies to no one in particular, for his eyes were closed.
“Yes,” said Fallon. “Look for the weakness. I believe this little French sloop has an important role, for she decides who goes into the Gulf of Gonâve and who doesn’t. She was quite fearless in chasing us away! Mistral is the only link between two uneasy allies, and both sides must trust her.”
“And we have her!” exclaimed Jones.
“I think that is their weakness, gentlemen,” said Davies, opening his eyes and looking around the room, and then at the chart with fresh eyes. “And it is our strength.”
Everyone nodded, but it was Fallon who spoke.
“Picture Renegade as Tigre, to all eyes, escorted into the harbor by Mistral,” he said quietly, causing the others to lean in closer. “She is arriving, a bit early perhaps, to her meeting with the first-rate’s capitaine. How far can we take this little deception?”
“Said another way,” said Davies, catching where Fallon was going, “can Renegade do more damage than just a passing broadside from long range? Is that what you’re wondering?”
“Yes, exactly,” replied Fallon. “We can do more than poke the bear. We can enrage the bear. And then maybe bag a tiger!”
A collective gasp around the cabin. All realized this took the plan in a new direction.
And then Fallon laid out a scenario that was very like a three-act play. A play with a mad privateer directing it. The storyline was really very simple, assuming the French and Spanish actors played their parts exactly as they were supposed to.
Of course, safe to say no one at the meeting believed that would happen.
FIFTY-FOUR
The capitaine of Coeur de France, Henri Ardoin, awoke the next morning wondering if Mistral had sailed in after dark, having successfully chased the schooner away from the gulf. It had been an impudent little schooner—it looked American to his eyes, and though America and France were not officially at war, the two countries were certainly in a quasi-war. He had a suspicion the schooner was sent to further ties with Louverture and to promote trade with the fledgling United States, something France was quite against. It was well known in Paris that the U.S. Secretary of State was in contact with Louverture and offered a very convincing point of view in support of Saint-Domingue’s independence. As a response, and Louverture knew this quite well, France had issued an exclusif prohibiting Saint-Domingue from trading with any country except France. It remained to be seen whether Louverture would be bound by it. Or would be bound by anything coming out of France.
Except, that is, the abolition of slavery in France’s colonies. Yet, even so, Ardoin knew there was speculation in Paris that, at some point, slavery would be reinstated by decree of the French government. It would be justified as an economic necessity. What would Louverture do then, he wondered? It was believed that Bonaparte, who was rapidly gaining power, was in favor of it. If slavery came back, every black finger in the Caribbean would be pointed to Joséphine’s influence on Bonaparte as the real reason, for her plantation family on Martinique had suffered greatly since slavery was disallowed.
No doubt Ardoin would learn more from Thomas Hedouville when he came aboard in the forenoon. France had sent Hedouville to Saint-Domingue months ago as something of a special agent. His primary mission: Drive a wedge between Louverture and Rigaud. By all accounts he had succeeded, for the country was divided by civil war. But there was more to Hedouville’s orders, of course. There was always more.
France intended to extend a hand to Spain as an ally against Great Britain, and Hedouville was to meet with the captain of Tigre, a Spanish frigate awaiting a rendezvous at Port-au-Prince. They were to establish a basis for coordinated action against the British in the Caribbean, which to Ardoin meant: You do what we tell you. He doubted that would go over well, for Spanish officers were proud to the point of arrogance, in his experience, and not to be trusted to hold up their end of a bargain.
Ardoin dressed by the light of several candles, with the aid of his steward, for he had only one arm. A romantic liaison had led to an angry husband’s challenge to a duel two years before and, though the husband had been killed, his shot had shattered Ardoin’s left arm. He stepped out of his cabin and passed the sentry, breathing in the salt air as he went. As he gained the deck he could see the sky lightening to the east over Port-au-Prince. He looked the length of his massive ship, a wooden behemoth with more than eight hundred officers and men. An enemy ship intent on mischief would face a withering hail of metal if she attempted an action on Port-au-Prince, or on Coeur for that matter.
Ardoin was not concerned that Mistral had not returned, but if she did not come sailing into the harbor today he had to assume the worst: that she had engaged the schooner and was lost. Then Tigre would miss the rendezvous, for Mistral was to escort her into the Gulf as a précaution enter amis—a precaution between friends. Ardoin did not trust Spain, and no doubt Spain did not trust France, and both sides had their reasons.
“ HOW DO I look, Mr. Barclay?” asked Fallon.
Mistral had sailed first out of Dame Marie late that morning, carrying Fallon and a small crew toward the gulf on a light breeze. She certainly looked like a French sloop that had been in battle. She had a few scars on her hull and deck, but her rigging had been set to rights and the decks holystoned to remove the blood, which had been considerable, and her officers and crew were apparently all still aboard. The capitaine’s coat was a bit short on Fallon, and the bullet hole over his heart was disconcerting, but he was comfortable enough. Barclay was playing the role of first lieutenant, his gray hair tucked up under his hat, and the crew from Avenger were all enjoying the little theatre of sailing as a French sloop.
“You look tolerably French, sir!” replied Barclay. “I see the bullet to your heart didn’t faze you, however. So surely you are actually British!”
That was the morning’s first laugh, and Fallon was still smiling as he walked to the stern of the little sloop. Behind Mistral came Renegade, her Spanish flag flying proudly, her officers in their new Spanish uniforms, and the crew in barretina caps, courtesy of the Antigua Sewing Circle. Fallon wondered if Jones was feeling awkward in the capitán’s uniform cluttered with medals and plumage, having never impersonated an enemy officer before.
Well, he thought, welcome to a privateer’s life.
COEUR’S CABIN was spectacular and lavishly appointed. No expense had been spared in the selection of exotic woods and inlays, and the rich patina of the paneling warmed the room even on the cloudiest of days in the dead of winter. Ardoin felt blessed to have his position, for it was surely the finest housing he would ever enjoy. The steward was just finishing dusting it all when Thomas Hedouville was announced.
“I take it your meeting with Louverture went as expected?” began Ardoin, beckoning the diplomat to take a seat near the gallery of windows, which covered the entire width of the stern.
Hedouville sat down heavily and sighed the sigh of the impatient.
“No, for the great general was still in the country fighting Rigaud, I was told. He plays at his little war while France tolerates it, which may not be much longer. I will go ashore yet again this afternoon when, it is to be hoped, he returns to Port-au-Prince. I want the full situation in hand before meeting with the captain of Tigre. And then I intend to leave this damned island!”
In truth, Ardoin himself was in no real hurry to leave for France, as his frequent trips ashore had familiarized him with the beauty of not only the island but also the women of Saint-Domingue. One planter’s daughter in particular had been quite forward with her glances, and he had accepted her invitation to dinner that evening. Her parents would be in attendance, of course, along with other French planters, but perhaps an opportunity might present itself …
“On the topic of Tigre,” continued Hedouville. “We must treat the captain like royalty itself. Salutes and everything are due, of course. The Spanish are very thin-skinned with their pr
ide, you know. I trust you will receive him accordingly. If we are to work together as allies to defeat Great Britain, he must feel we are equals.”
“Even though we are not,” said Ardoin with a sniff.
Hedouville only smiled.
FIFTY-FIVE
THE SUN had almost disappeared when the hail came from Coeur’s lookout that Mistral was in the offing. And she was leading a Spanish frigate into the harbor!
Capitaine Ardoin had been dressing for dinner and had just had his left sleeve pinned up by his steward when he heard the hail, and he quickly came on deck, his anxiety provoked by such an unexpected turn of events. The dimming light made the images in his telescope faint, but he could see the little sloop and her crewmen aboard and, less than two cables behind, a Spanish frigate with her officers on the quarterdeck looking through their telescopes at Coeur.
Both Mistral and the Spanish frigate made the private signal, so Ardoin relaxed. Yet he tried to piece together a likely scenario that would fit the facts before his eyes. Apparently, Mistral had successfully chased off the American schooner—that much seemed obvious, for here she was—and then perhaps she’d encountered Tigre sailing on her way to or from Santiago and decided to escort her to the rendezvous in the gulf. A little early, but why not?
Well, thought Ardoin, that explanation would do for now until he had more information in hand. He ordered a signal be hoisted from the signal book especially created so the French and Spanish could communicate—Captains repair on board—and went below to finish dressing. It would be awhile until the ships had their anchors down.
Little did he know.
An hour later the Spanish frigate had still not settled, having tried unsuccessfully to anchor directly off Coeur’s larboard side before apparently being ordered away by Mistral so that Coeur could maintain a clear view of the harbor. What a fool this capitán was, thought Ardoin. At this rate he would be late for dinner.
A full cloud cover blocked the moon and stars, and Ardoin could barely see the frigate attempting to set her anchor to the north of Coeur, between the first-rate’s bow and Gonâve Island, with Mistral hove-to nearby until the task was done. Again and again the frigate tried to get the anchor down but apparently the coral around the island extended outward to the south, for the holding appeared to be uncertain.
It was now very dark, and Ardoin was very late for dinner, even rudely late. Duty said to send apologies to shore and wait for the damned frigate to anchor, no matter how long it took. But he felt secure enough in the harbor, perhaps a bit too comfortable, yes, but the planter’s daughter was so beautiful …
At last, Ardoin picked up the speaking trumpet with his right hand and ordered the capitaine of Mistral to report in the morning, bringing along the Spanish capitán. Who knew when the damned frigate would anchor? Someone aboard Mistral acknowledged the order, perhaps Lieutenant What’s-his-name.
Ardoin carefully climbed down into his gig for the short row to shore, shaking his head at the unpredictability of war and the strange bedmates it made.
AFTER HE had answered the hail from Coeur, Fallon burned a shaded light briefly from his bow to signal Jones to get his anchor down. This task was accomplished easily enough as the holding was really very good. The light breeze out of the east meant that the newly named Tigre was lying athwart Coeur’s bows, just as Fallon had predicted, about a cable away. That done, Mistral turned her own bow for Santiago, sailing off as a lightless shape on the gulf’s black water.
CAPITAINE ARDOIN was back aboard Coeur by midnight, slightly drunk but deeply satisfied. His decision to go ashore had been the right one, as a late-night stroll in the garden with the planter’s beautiful daughter proved. At the end of a long, winding path among fragrant flowers there was a little-used garden shed and, by moving a few rakes and shovels, something of a bed was created atop several loose bales of hay. Nature, or at least human nature, took care of the rest.
Once back aboard Coeur he was met by his first lieutenant.
“Tigre has settled at last, Capitaine,” he said. “Just after you left she got her anchor down.”
Ardoin nodded, looking out into the darkness at the bare outline of the frigate offCoeur’s bow.
“And Mistral?” he asked.
“I believe she anchored on the other side of her,” said the lieutenant. “I could not be sure because of the darkness, of course. But everything is quiet now.”
Well, thought Ardoin, it would be an embarrassed capitán who showed up tomorrow morning. Or, at least, he should be. It just proved you couldn’t trust the Spanish, even with the simplest of things.
Ardoin went below without another thought. He got undressed and into his cot, mindless of the straw that fell off his coat and breeches to the cabin floor. In a moment, he was in contented sleep.
MEANWHILE, MISTRAL’S tired crew sailed for Santiago de Cuba, at least two hundred miles to the northwest. The clouds scudded across the sky to reveal stars aplenty to guide them, while the trades were their constant friend, pushing the little sloop easily along through the early morning. Fallon tried to sleep in his cabin but dozed fitfully, imagining the scene in the gulf in a matter of hours and wishing he were there. But his little play needed a director, a leader who had the ability to speak both French and Spanish convincingly. Perhaps the hardest part would be the next part. For in Santiago he must go back into secret agent mode, which meant impersonating someone, and he remembered all too well his past experience in Matanzas as an erstwhile investor.
When, at last, sleep claimed him he dreamt of home. In his dream, his father was dressed in a waistcoat, and it surprised him because he couldn’t remember his father ever being in a waistcoat before. And everyone was at church, all of his past and present crewmen. Flowers were everywhere and music was playing. He saw Ezra Somers, also formally dressed, sitting in a pew with Aja and Beauty and Elinore, with their heads down. He, the omniscient he, thought for a moment he was at a wedding, perhaps his own. The music stopped, and a priest stood at the altar and uttered a prayer for everlasting life. Everyone was praying now; no one looked up. And then it occurred to Fallon that perhaps it wasn’t his wedding. And he woke up suddenly.
FIFTY-SIX
CAPITAINE! CAPITAINE! Wake up!”
Who was that insistent voice and why wouldn’t he stop? thought Ardoin, who wanted nothing more than to turn over in his cot and find the dream he seemed to have misplaced. The one with the planter’s daughter, who was just now stepping out of her dress—
“Capitaine! There is a British frigate in the harbor!” yelled Ardoin’s steward in his ear.
Instantly, Ardoin was awake with his feet on the deck. Not waiting to dress, he sprang for the companionway in his nightshirt and grabbed his telescope, but quickly saw it was not needed.
There, not a cable’s distance away sitting across his bows was the Spanish frigate that had come in last night and had had trouble anchoring. Even in the gray light Ardoin could see she had her guns out, pointing directly at Coeur de France, and she now flew a British flag.
Merde!
“FIRE!” YELLED JONES.
Renegade’s broadside exploded in a thunderous cacophony that reverberated off the hillsides surrounding the harbor and echoed off the limestone hump of Gonâve Island in the millisecond before it tore through the bows and forward rigging of Coeur. Anyone in the heads would have been smashed to red jam where they sat. Coeur’s lovely figurehead, a golden maiden with one hand over her heart, was unfortunately decapitated and the arm lost. Quickly, Jones ordered the guns swabbed and reloaded.
Aboard Coeur, pandemonium spread like fire. Jones assumed he was dealing with a capable captain who would act quickly, leaving the mystery of a Spanish frigate becoming a British frigate overnight for later. Coeur’s predicament was clear: To get her guns to bear, the stern spring line would need to be cast off so the massive ship could swing round into the wind and become parallel to Tigre. Then the fifty larboard guns would bear. In fact, at the pre
cise moment that Ardoin’s spring line was cast off, Renegade’s second broadside ripped through his ship, cutting down men who were rushing to man the first-rate’s larboard battery.
“Give it to ’em, lads!” screamed Jones, ecstatic as every shot told, and wood and rigging blew over Coeur’s sides. The smoke cleared away quickly, revealing dead French sailors strewn about the deck. It was a glorious thing to fire and not be fired upon, but Jones knew it couldn’t last. Even now Coeur’s stern seemed to be swinging to the west, and very soon the two ships would be parallel. Not good, but not unanticipated.
“Cut the cable!” he ordered, and a seaman stationed at the bow with an axe began chopping at the cable. The cable was massive, but the axe had been sharpened to a fine edge just for this moment, and at last the bitter end of the cable slipped into the water.
“Let tops’ls fall!” Jones ordered, and slowly the northeast breeze pushed Renegade backward. Next, Jones ordered the rudder hard a-starboard and back-winded the jib so that the frigate’s bows would fall off and she would curl behind Coeur’s stern. The two ships were doing a little dance, and it would take excellent seamanship on Jones’s part to drift backward with the frigate’s stern swinging southward, eliminating Coeur’s firing angle while creating a new target for Renegade’s starboard guns: Coeur’s stern. The trick was to slip past the swinging Coeur before her larboard guns could get off a broadside. Even now the first-rate’s gun ports were coming open, but it was too late. Renegade was past and had swung round!
“Fire!” yelled Jones, and Renegade’s great guns sent their deadly balls through the first-rate’s giant stern gallery and on through the officer’s quarters and beyond. The broadside obliterated bulkheads and furniture before coming to a rest halfway through Coeur. Any Frenchman in that broadside’s path was probably, mercifully, dead in an instant.
The Black Ring Page 25
