Barclay had Mistral on the starboard tack and intended, when they reached some invisible mark on the water, to come about for the final tack into the gulf. Fallon swept the sea with his telescope, but it was empty save for Tigre. That gave Fallon pause in spite of the fact that Rascal, Renegade, and Avenger were not exactly supposed to be seen—yet. He cursed himself for turning into a superstitious fool. What was happening to his confidence?
Well, his was a complicated plan with many moving parts. And this final bit depended on the French capitaine’s temper and courage, which were unknowns. But surely the French wouldn’t have sent a nincompoop on such an important mission in a first-rate! Would they? Fallon had to be careful here not to fall into the fatal trap of hubris, for the Royal Navy believed there were no captains on earth as smart and brave as their own. It had cost them many ships and was partially responsible for the loss of at least one war, that being with the United States.
In two hours they were inside the entrance to the gulf. It was time.
“Sir, we are ready to come about,” said Barclay with confidence.
“Very well, Mr. Barclay,” replied Fallon. “We’re about to see what we see.”
“Aye, sir!” said Barclay, a bit too loudly, for his own nerves were showing a bit.
Mistral went smoothly about on the larboard tack, the hands hauling on the sheets until the big booms swung across and the ship settled on her new course directly toward Coeur’s last known position.
Mistral plunged into the Gulf of Gonâve just south of the centerline between its northern and southern coasts. Port-au-Prince was hidden by Gonâve Island by both distance and angle, as was Coeur. Well, hopefully she was still there. They sailed on for at least two more hours, seeing several small fishing boats about, but most were deeper inside the gulf and had not come farther out to fish.
Fallon exhaled, unaware that he had been holding his breath off and on for some time. The third act of the play was about to begin without him knowing how the second act had gone. He could now see Coeur as a faint image in his telescope, and presumably the French lookout could see Mistral as well. It was not a surprise to see the first-rate still there, although he would have liked to have seen some damage. Well, it was too far away; he could only hope. He ordered the ship to heave-to and await Tigre, who was coming up fast astern. Now if Coeur’s capitaine was still angry …
As Tigre came up, Fallon took off his French capitaine’s hat and doffed it to Ramos, who hesitated, and then doffed his back. No doubt he was a bit confused at Mistral stopping short of leading him all the way in, but there was the French ship ahead so perhaps Giroux felt he’d fulfilled his orders. And so Tigre sailed by, beautiful in the afternoon light, her Spanish flag standing out stiffly in the trade wind.
“Mr. Barclay, let’s get underway for the far side of Gonâve Island, if you please,” said Fallon, eagerness in his voice. “And Barclay, once Tigre is out of sight I believe we can take off these damn uniforms!”
BEAUTY HAD stationed a hand with a telescope on the island to look west, and at the first sighting of Fallon and the Spanish frigate he had climbed down from his rocky perch and rowed out to Rascal to report. When Beauty had judged the time right, Rascal weighed anchor and began to nose out from around the island—only to find Mistral sailing like thunder toward her.
That fucker, Beauty thought, he pulled it off!
Somers stood beside her, his wispy white hair blowing about, pistols in his waistband, and watched Mistral come closer. He, too, was smiling, and thinking exactly what Beauty was thinking.
“Aja,” Beauty said to Rascal’s new second mate, “I think we can now bring up powder and shot. And bring up some of those new fire arrows. You never know!”
“Powder and shot it is! And fire arrows!” said a laughing Aja. And then: “Fire arrows, Cully!”
“Look at that, now!” laughed Somers, and Beauty looked to see what he was pointing to. “But don’t look too closely, Beauty!”
Fallon’s crew seemed to be throwing their uniforms overboard! Laughter broke out as the Rascals momentarily stopped their duties and lined the railing to look at Mistral, her crew mostly naked now, laughing and waving at their old shipmates.
Beauty simply shook her head in wonder. Fucking Fallon!
SIXTY
CAPITAINE ARDOIN was shaking his head in wonder as well, for no sane Spaniard could think the same trick would work twice! Yet Mistral had been reported in the offing, and here came a Spanish frigate, the private signal flying, and although it did not appear from this distance to be the same frigate that attacked Coeur before, it might be, for it had been dark then. Perhaps the capitán was returning, hoping to find a cripple to finish off. No matter, Ardoin would not be fooled by a Spaniard again.
Quickly, he ordered seamen with axes to be standing by to cut the anchor cable, thereby releasing bow and stern lines. He then ordered his marines to climb the rigging, and for cutlasses and pistols to be handed out to the sailors in case the fighting got close. Finally, he ordered the larboard guns to be loaded and run out. Ardoin would be ready this time.
TIGRE SAILED briskly past the western point of Gonâve Island, toward Coeur, and Capitán Ramos intended to round up in a flourish and drift to an anchorage close by. It was meant to be a show of Spanish seamanship, a little something to impress the French, yes?
At one-half mile he saw the marines climb Coeur’s rigging. This gave him pause, but perhaps it was to welcome their Spanish ally. Then, at two cables, Coeur opened her gun ports and, before Ramos could grasp what was happening, fifty guns erupted flame and smoke from the first-rate’s larboard side and sent their balls hurtling toward his beloved Tigre, plunging into her hull and shattering her railing and cascading splinters into every man standing there. Men who had been about to wave on his orders.
“Come about!” Ramos shouted.
Tigre began to tack, bringing her bows through the eye of the wind and pointing to Gonâve Island, with not much room to spare before the coral shoals presented themselves, but Ramos wanted time to get his guns to bear. Then he could fall off and retreat. Fighting a first-rate beyond a single broadside for honor would never do.
As the frigate came about he ordered the starboard battery loaded and run out. He turned to look at Coeur just as smoke and flame erupted from the first-rate again. He felt Tigre shudder as the shots came aboard. Men screamed and collapsed in death. One of the helmsmen not ten feet from him went down in a bloody mess, and rigging snapped with a sound like musket shots. He looked the length of his ship and saw more dead seamen than he had time to count. But he saw his guns were ready at last.
“Fire!” he yelled, and now the thunder came from his ship! He saw with satisfaction at least some of the balls hit home, but he had no time to gloat as the island was close aboard.
“Fall off!” he ordered, and slowly, slowly the big frigate swung her bows west, each of her massive spars set in a controlled maneuver practiced thousands of times. But never under the guns of a first-rate, which made the discipline of the thing the more impressive.
“CUT THE cable! Cut the cable!” ordered Ardoin. He was mad with rage at the insolent Spanish alliés and had all but forgotten Hedouville, who might be even now at the beach, expecting to board soon and watching in horror. Well, he could see for himself what an ally Spain was, thought Ardoin. This was an affront that would not go unanswered. The honor of France was at stake! Not to mention, his own.
The cable was cut and, moments later, the spring line was cast off, which let Coeur’s head fall off before the wind. The ship’s topsails were let fall, and her courses set along with the jib and fore-topmast staysail, the fore staysail, and all of the myriad other sails—21 in all—seemingly all at once but not quite; eight hundred men who knew their jobs made it organized and orderly. The big ship gained speed with each yard through the water, her angry capitaine looking through his telescope at Tigre, which was less than a mile away. Ardoin wondered where she would go—Santiag
o, or up the coast of Cuba to Havana? Or perhaps she would sail to a port in Santo Domingo. He ordered more attention to the topgallants and then seethed in silence.
THE SITUATION aboard Tigre was serious but not dire. She still had her spars and rigging, though some of it would need to be spliced, and quickly. One gun had been upended by the last of Coeur’s broadsides and, as a consequence, four seamen had been added to the list of dead; all of them had been thrown overboard, along with what could be gathered up of the unfortunate helmsman. Many more sailors were below with the surgeon; perhaps some would live.
Ramos looked astern at Coeur trimming her topgallants and wondered how clean her bottom was for a long chase. She had just recently arrived from Europe, or so his orders said. But he didn’t believe his orders anymore, so it didn’t matter.
He thought rapidly of his options, Santiago or Havana, and decided on Santiago. He would have the wind on his quarter, which was a fast point of sail for his square-rigged ship. And, more important, Santiago was closer by far and, though he was comfortably ahead of Coeur now, that could change.
Ramos looked up and saw every inch of sail was drawing. It would be a race to safety now, and he felt he could win if nothing untoward happened.
SIXTY-ONE
RASCAL CLEARED the western tip of Gonâve Island and kicked up her heels like a colt out for a gallop. Fallon stood next to Beauty and reveled in the ship’s speed and power. He had Tigre in sight ahead to the southwest, apparently making for Santiago as he’d hoped. The closeness of a friendly port was just too much to resist. Off to the west was Renegade, out of sight at that moment, but presumably dropping down farther south to intercept Tigre.
Now here came Coeur, looking like a massive, malevolent bully with every stitch of sail she possessed up and drawing. Through his telescope, Fallon could see that Coeur’s bows were patched, if not handsomely, at least adequately, given the little time that had passed since Renegade had mauled her. Rascal was to the north of the big French ship, several miles away, appearing to innocently sail along without care. And behind Rascal, bearing along handsomely, was Mistral with Second Mate Ajani in command. Fallon smiled to himself, thinking this must be every parent’s hold-your-breath moment: Letting your child take that first step away from your hands. He had given Aja a strict order to lay back and stay out of the fighting, however, for a sloop would have no chance under fire from much larger ships. He’d better obey that order, thought Fallon.
ONCE TIGRE had every sail drawing, it was clear that Coeur would not catch her, in spite of her greater press of sail. Ramos could breathe at last; he had no doubt Coeur would eventually see the chase was futile and, honor served, give up. Later, Ramos could try to understand what had happened, and why, but it had to have been a trick ordered by Coeur’s capitaine and executed by Giroux. He wondered, not for the first time, if Spain and France were still allies. Or if they ever were.
Coeur was still several miles astern, but game enough, her big shoulders rolling in the following sea. Ramos could see a schooner off to windward of the first-rate—where the hell had she come from? And behind her was Giroux in the French sloop. Were they working together?
¡Madre de Dios!
He was about to turn back to the binnacle when the cry came from the lookout.
There was a frigate off the starboard bow! And she was Spanish!
ARDOIN GRITTED his teeth at the futility of the chase and forced himself to admit it was over. Or should be, for there was likely no way to catch Tigre. Barring a catastrophe aboard the Spanish frigate he stood no chance; the frigate was simply too fast and his own ship’s bottom too foul. There was no dishonor in admitting that.
For some time, he had been aware of a schooner off his starboard bow, which was curious if nothing else. Certainly, it was no cause for concern, but he wondered at it.
“Deck! Ship ahead, Capitaine! A frigate! I think it’s … it’s Tigre also!”
What was this now? wondered Ardoin in alarm, slapping his forehead with his right hand. Another trap! How many Tigres were there?
“Deck! Another ship astern, Capitaine!” called the lookout.
Ardoin’s head snapped around and he raised his telescope to balance it on the nub of his left arm. There, several miles to the southeast, was a ship-of-the-line flying British colors and an admiral’s pendant.
Merde!
The British ship astern was sailing close-hauled to cut Coeur off from retreat—Ardoin could see it now! And the forward frigate, perhaps the forward two frigates, would soon come about to put the stopper in the bottle. Now the British and the Spanish were working together!
Ardoin’s mind fought for clear air, and he found it: Better to fight one ship than two.
He ordered Coeur to tack and begin the retreat to Port-au-Prince. Slowly, ponderously, the massive ship began her turn. To have anything carry away would be disastrous, and every man on board knew it. Ardoin shuddered as he thought of sitting defenseless as Spanish and British ships battered his own ship from every direction. At last, Coeur’s bows turned to the east, her larboard braces were hauled, and she began to pick up speed, every sail drawing on her new course back to Port-au-Prince.
Ardoin looked over his shoulder to see if the frigates would follow, but surprisingly they had not tacked yet. Off to larboard the schooner had tacked to mimic Coeur and was now beginning to edge down on her. And, he should have seen this immediately, she was British!
Ardoin’s mind exploded. What was happening?
“Deck!” came the call from the lookout. “Mistral is behind the schooner!”
He raised his telescope and could see that Mistral had been hidden behind the schooner. She was now flying British colors, as well, and was sailing westward toward the frigates. Ardoin threw up his hand.
Sacré bleu! Where did all these ships come from? he thought. I am surrounded!
This was too much, too much by far to even begin to absorb. Ardoin had Spanish frigates to the west, a British ship cutting off his retreat to the east, and a British schooner and his own sloop—captured—doing who knew what.
“Mon Dieu!” he screamed. My God!
SIXTY-TWO
RENEGADE FELL off the breeze and sailed on a broad reach to intercept the Spanish Tigre, who was making excellent speed for Santiago. The frigates were still several miles apart, Renegade closing fast and still flying Spanish colors, and Jones could feel the perspiration running down his sides under his capitán’s uniform. It was long odds that Tigre’s capitán had heard of Doncella’s sinking, even though she had called at Santiago. Havana and Santiago were at opposite ends of Cuba, and news travelled slowly overland. At this point, Jones was committed to his role in the little play and, he had to admit, things were going damned well so far. Now, if only Tigre thought Doncella was coming to help …
At a mile, Jones saw Coeur give up the chase and head for Port-au-Prince. Immediately Renegade hoisted a Spanish signal for Tigre: Are you in distress?
Tigre didn’t hesitate in replying, asking for the frigate’s private number.
Jones sent up: Hold course, and Renegade began to drop down on the Spaniard; soon enough only a half mile separated the two frigates.
Jones had not deigned to make Doncella’s private signal because he didn’t know it, of course. But he knew telescopes were on him—thank God for the Antigua Sewing Circle’s uniforms. On Renegade sailed, continuing to drop down slowly on Tigre … three cables apart … then less.
It was then, through instinct or suspicion, that the capitán of the real Tigre smelled a rat. He had been fooled already by the French sloop, who now was flying British colors. Could this be another trick?
He opened his gun ports to find out.
“Hoist the colors and run out!” yelled Jones in response, and Renegade’s well-trained crew jumped to their duties. The British ensign was hoisted, and a lusty cheer rose up from the men. The chance to die in a hail of iron was, ironically, what British seamen lived for.
; “Fire!” ordered Jones, and Renegade’s great guns boomed out in chorus and sent a storm of iron across less than a cable’s bit of water into Tigre’s starboard hull, a hull already battered by Coeur. Tigre’s guns replied, and Jones watched in stupid amazement as his men were flung backward at their stations, some completely across the deck. The frigates were evenly matched, and it seemed most of Tigre’s shots found their mark. Renegade’s hull was pockmarked and her deck was blotched in red.
“Again, lads!” Jones called, and in less than three minutes Renegade’s guns roared again, the smoke blowing over Tigre and making it hard to see the effects. But the fog cleared, and Jones could see dead Spaniards hanging over the starboard railing, some being thrown over the side by their shipmates. Now Tigre’s guns belched smoke and fire again, and again a withering broadside came aboard Renegade. Jones was thrown backward and landed on a dead seaman who had lost most of his head, his neck spurting blood into the air instead of his brain.
“Load with grape! Load with grape!” Jones yelled as he rose. “Prepare to board!”
This madness had to stop or there would be nothing left of either ship, and Jones wisely decided to risk it all on the main chance.
“Make right for them, helmsman!” he ordered, and Renegade’s bows swung south. Jones could see Spanish sailors standing on Tigre’s deck like wheat before the scythe. The ships were very close now, and Jones could see Tigre’s gun crews loading their guns again.
“Helmsman, lay her alongside,” ordered Jones. “Ready the grappling hooks!”
The gunners signaled they were ready as the ship came alongside Tigre.
“Fire!” yelled Jones as the ships came together, just as Tigre’s crew prepared to fire their own broadside. Spaniards fell like wooden pins in a child’s game. Men were down and bleeding as two-inch balls tore through their clothing and organs in a brutal spray of iron.
The Black Ring Page 27
