Peter Wicked

by Broos Campbell

  “All hands to make sail,” I said. “Sheer off, Gundy.” We got our courses and topsails abroad, and as we dropped down the wind, Lamb gathered his little flock together at the rail. Their voices came along the waves in Paine’s “Adams and Liberty,” the burden of which runs:

  And ne’er may the sons of Columbia be sla-aves,

  While the ea-earth bears a pl-a-a-a-ant,

  or the sea

  ro-o-olls

  its waves.

  Its tune was stolen from “To Anacreon in Heav’n,” which somebody must’ve left lying around, as it is a miserably unsingable air, and using the tune of an English drinking song for a patriotic hymn is just plain simple anyway. Worse, it reminded me of Peter in Le Cap. I was about to shout across that Lamb could stow his song and be damned, but then I saw Gundy and Eriksson and even Wright the water-only man were standing unnaturally straight, like it was an anthem or something, and I could swear I saw tears in their eyes. My eyes stung, too, but maybe it was just the wind.

  “Mr. Peebles,” I said. “Let’s give ’em a salute.”

  He grinned all over. Puppies weren’t in it. “Please, sir, may I use the carronade?”

  “Why not. Simpson and Hawkins, rig the fire engine.”

  The merchant sailors must’ve gotten their hats cheap, they way they throwed them in the sky and cheered their heads off when the carronade flashed and boomed. I got to say, though, I was glad for all the smoke, elsewise I’d have had to find some other excuse to put my handkerchief to my eye.

  “Come abaat an’ fetch the island, zur?” said Gundy.

  “With a sendoff like that? How you talk. Put her on the la’board tack and steer sou’east.”

  Maybe the frigate and the sloop were bound for Guadeloupe. Maybe they weren’t looking for Birds Island. Maybe they were there already, and the Tomahawks all taken prisoner. Maybe you’re an idiot, I told myself in disgust. And maybe we should go back and see, I shot back. My head hurt.

  We wore around to the southwest at noon, put ourselves on a pleasant beam reach to the northwest at four bells, and bore southwest again at the beginning of the first dogwatch, making a series of long, two-hour legs on the way back to the island. I had give up expecting to find the frigate anymore, and the more I thought about it, the less I wanted to find her. Let them be heroes as want to, I thought; that’s my motto. We made better time with the wind abaft the beam, and I shot the sun each time to fix our position, chalked up the result on the slate, and marked our movements with the pegs and spunyarn on the traverse board.

  At the beginning of the second dogwatch I again turned to the northwest, intending to make one last leg till the ocean twilight had faded into full dark; then I would bear away westward, making for the island and so admit defeat. I was wearing Juge’s hat, with its curled brim and jaunty red-and-white plume, and I toyed with it while I thought, tipping it to the back of my head like I was cheerful about something and then shoving it forward, low on my brow to shade my eyes from the sun and maybe even make me look ferocious. Juge never gave up while he lived; but what could I do? It was a good joke that Peter had saved himself by getting captured—assuming he was still alive, of course. And it was a good thing he spoke French, too, as he’d have to avoid English-speaking countries once hostilities ceased.

  And then I had a pleasant thought. Maybe my job was done after all, and the enemy had unwittingly saved me an ocean of trouble. All I had to do now was pick up the rest of the Tomahawks and head for home with the more valuable goods from the island. Mr. Campbell, the naval agent in Baltimore, would be pleased to see what I’d brung him. I’d have to question Doc more closely before I left, too. If Peter had hidden the barrels of silver coin on the island, the one-legged cook might know more than he’d been telling. I wondered what eight barrels of dollars would look like, poured out in a big shiny heap on the floor in the front parlor of my very own house. A man could live pretty comfortable on that much money. And that wasn’t even counting the gold that was supposed to be buried under the British grave. And then I touched Juge’s hat again and realized those things didn’t bear thinking about. Wrong is wrong, and no two ways about it.

  Eriksson at the masthead saved me from finding a way around that by singing out, “Sail ho! Deck dere, two sail!”

  “Where away?”

  “T’ree points off sta’board bow, sir. It’s dot frigate and a friend.”

  Shit and perdition! I ran aloft to see for myself. There she was, sure enough, bearing maybe just a point west of north, with the sloop ranging before her as they reached southeast on the larboard tack. And then, to a signal that I couldn’t see, they both turned west—away from us, but on a course that kept the weather gauge for themselves and intersected our own.

  “We been spotted, sir,” said Eriksson, astride the yard beside me.

  I rebuked his familiarity by not bothering to reply. I was thinking, anyway, and not liking what I was thinking. With the wind on her quarter and enough sea room, the frigate would inevitably sail us under; her loftier sails, deeper keel, and longer hull would all conspire to see to it. But I ain’t a-gonna give you enough sea room, Johnny Crappo.

  “All hands ahoy,” I called. “Ready about!” I let myself down the windward backstay and looked at the compass and traverse board. “Come four points to larboard, Gundy. Steer due west. Mr. Peebles, give ’em a hand at the braces.”

  I hauled out the sextant. While I shot the sun, burning low in the west, I said, “Gundy, how much daylight you reckon we got left?” I knew the time of sunset to the second, according to the tables, but sunset and darkness are different things.

  He chewed his teeth for a moment before deciding. “An hour, zur. Maybe a little maar avore the daark of evenen.”

  The wind veered south. It didn’t help nor hinder the frigate any, her with her lofty square sails, but with the wind astern of us we had to get in our fore-and-aft sails and shake out the square foresail. She rode easier that way, with less danger of driving herself into the back of a sea. The wind picked up, too, and we bore away with both sheets aft.

  “Eriksson,” I called aloft, “how do they lie?”

  “Dey gather on us, sir.”

  I carried a sextant up with me, but even before I took my sightings I could see Eriksson’s eye had told him true. The frigate and sloop were forereaching on us; more importantly, they were edging in with us, too. I noted the angles of their masts to their heading, which would tell me their exact course, and their positions and headings relative to our own. I went down the backstay again. It would need retarring soon, the way I was mistreating it.

  I took another look at the traverse board and slate. “Call me if anything interesting happens,” I said, and went below to strap on my sword with its steel memento mori on the hilt. “Remember you must die,” I whispered. Not that I expected to stick anybody with it, but a sword’s handy for pointing at things.

  All fires were out, and I squinted at the charts in the dimness of the cabin. I was sure as certain about our position, and my sightings told me theirs. If the frigate continued on her present course, she would pass harmlessly by the island. I needed to get her farther north. But we couldn’t hope to fight her by ourselves, and tangling with the sloop at the same time was right out. My duty was simple, then, and so was my plan: catch-as-catch-can and no holds barred. It’s always the bigger man that insists on a clean fight, anyway.

  It was getting tarnal gloomy out by the time I went on deck again, but there would be enough light to see by for a little while yet. The sloop was near, but still under the frigate’s lee, like a dog that couldn’t be trusted to run free. They were both still out of gunshot, but too close for comfort. There was an orange flash and then a distant pop as the frigate fired a gun on the near side.

  “He wants us to heave-to, sir,” said Peebles.

  “Oh, say it ain’t so.”

  He thought about that. “Any reply, sir?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Hoist X-Y-Z. Let ’em
stick it in their pipes and smoke it if they can.”

  I hopped up on the weather rail and hooked an elbow through the main shrouds. “Shipmates,” I called, and then I stopped, surprised by the power of my own voice. Brass trumpets weren’t in it; and here I’d expected it to come out a squeak. But everyone was looking at me.

  “Shipmates, I aim to close the sloop. They’ll think we mean to board ’em with our mighty horde, but you’ll be sad to hear we ain’t a-going to oblige ’em.” They gratified me with a laugh. It weren’t much of a laugh, as laughs go, but all six of them joined in. “Instead we’re going to give ’em a bellyful of iron.”

  A mutter ran through the little crew. “We’ll pay ’em in full,” said Simpson.

  “Nah, mate,” said Hawkins, giving him an elbow in the ribs. “Let’s give it ’em free, gratis, and wi’out charge.”

  “Aye, that’s the right price,” said Wright.

  “An’ wif in’rest, too,” said Hawkins.

  “Compound in’rest,” said Simpson.

  “Nay, mate,” said Wright. “Compound interest is usury.”

  “An’ what if it is?”

  “Iss,” said Gundy. “Us’ll make they drink it to the dripshams.”

  “Dot’s easy for you to say,” said Eriksson. “Speaks anyone English here?”

  “Oh, please be quiet,” said Peebles, putting his hands to his head.

  I waited till they minded me again. “And while they’re stowing it”—I swept Juge’s hat dramatically toward the enemy—“we’re going to put a finger in that frigate’s eye.” Gundy led them in a cheer while I hopped down from the rail and settled my hat firmly on my head.

  “Mr. Peebles,” I said over the hoo-roar, “load chain on top of round shot and run the guns out. Let’s show ’em how Yankee Doodle do. Er, does.” I hoisted the colors myself.

  The frigate proceeded calmly under battle sails beyond the sloop, disdaining to reinforce her stays and slings with chain, screened by her escort but imperturbably lethal nonetheless. As if by clockwork her larboard gun deck ports opened, and a dozen large guns poked their snouts out. Four lighter guns, nine-pounders maybe, appeared along her fo’c’s’le and quarterdeck bulwarks.

  We shook out our fore-and-aft sails, braced the topsails right around, and hauled our way up on the larboard tack toward the sloop as she edged down to meet us. She was Breeze, without a doubt—she that had been the pirate sloop La Brise when the Rattle-Snake took her in the Windward Passage last spring, and lately the Suffisant— with Frenchmen manning her once again.

  “Fall not off,” I said as our topsails come a-shiver.

  Gundy touched her to the wind, pointing her as close as neverno-mind.

  The Breeze yawed to bring the four guns of her larboard broadside to bear. I could’ve sworn I seen the handsome Monsieur Corbeau on her quarterdeck, tipping his hat to us in the formal salute, but I was a tad busy right about then and couldn’t return the favor.

  “Gundy, let her fall off a couple points and show her our teeth. When your guns bear, Mr. Peebles,” I said as we came around, “you may—”

  “Fire!” he yelled.

  The Breeze fired at the same time, and the air filled with smoke.

  “Stop your vents,” Peebles called. “Sponge your guns!” He strutted down the line like a banty rooster, making sure the guns were swabbed clean of any burning residue. “Load your guns!” It was slow going with only four men and him to work three guns and a carronade. Breeze put two holes in our mainsail before Peebles could get to “Prime your guns!”

  “Mr. Peebles,” I called. “When you’re finished loading, run ’em out and secure ’em.”

  “Aye aye—”

  His voice was lost in the banging as the Breeze fired again. The mainsail jerked as they shot another hole in it. I ran my eyes across the rigging. Nothing important had carried away yet.

  “Gundy, I’m going to put her on the starboard tack and give ’em what for. Mr. Peebles, is the carronade ready?”

  “Canister on round shot, sir!”

  “Good! I’ll want you to paste ’em with it in a minute. Ready about! Stations for stays!”

  Eriksson and Wright ran forward to ease the jib sheets, and Simpson and Hawkins got ready to haul the fore-and-aft booms amidships.

  “Keep her full for stays, Gundy. Ready! Rea-eady! Ease down your helm! Helm’s alee!”

  Simpson and Hawkins hauled the booms across, keeping the sails full for as long as possible; the fore-topsail came a-shiver and then flattened as the bow swung through the wind.

  “Haul taut! Main topsail haul!” We paid off to larboard. “Let go and haul! Haul of all—get it all, there!” Eriksson and Wright braced the fore-topsail around; we filled and drew, and gathered way on the starboard tack.

  “Stand by the carronade!”

  Peebles was already there with the others, squinting along its short barrel as Eriksson and Wright trained it around. He said something to them, they stood back, and he looked at me with his fist in the air. “Ready, sir!”

  “Go it, little man!”

  The Breeze had turned with us, and we stood broadside to broadside. I had time to note that it really was Corbeau on her quarterdeck waving at me like a ninny in a yacht. And then he fired sixteen pounds of iron into us, and we gave him twelve in change.

  Something gave way in the Breeze. She flew up into the wind.

  “Caught her flat aback, ha ha!” said Wright.

  “Stop your vent!” called Peebles. “Sponge! Here, Wright, ply that sponge.”

  “Gundy, come up a point. Meet her! Simpson, Hawkins, man them braces!”

  “Handle your cartridge! Put it into the gun!”

  The Breeze hauled out her jib to pull herself around on the larboard tack and keep us from raking her.

  “Wad to your cartridge,” Peebles called. “Dog gone it, handle the rammer—” He looked up at me, his eyes bright in his powder-streaked face. “Sir, I can’t traverse enough—”

  “Gundy, meet her there!”

  I heard Corbeau calling orders in his rich and fruity voice, and then all at once her topsail yard sagged in the slings, her sails commenced to flapping like a loaded clothesline on a windy day, and the air was filled with the horrible groaning of round shot and grape. Our hull shook as something slammed into it, and a horrid shriek rose over the din. One ball ricocheted off the water and bounded up in an arc so lazy that I had time to wonder if it was a twelve-pound ball or an eighteen.

  The frigate had fired through the Breeze. With her headsails shot away, and no longer balancing her, the sloop rounded on the frigate and lodged herself in her fore shrouds. Axmen in the frigate began hacking Breeze’s jib boom away in their eagerness to be at our throats.

  The light was nearly gone.

  “Gundy, has anything carried away?” First things first.

  “Nay, me cabbun.”

  “We took a hit. I felt it.”

  “Below, zur.”

  “Very well. Bring us around—” I looked at the compass in the failing light and glanced at the fluttering dog-vanes. “West by south a half south. Hands to the braces.”

  We settled safely on our new course, and I could ease up a little. Time to deal with the killed and wounded. “Mr. Peebles, is anyone hurt?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Someone screamed. Who screamed?”

  “Dunno, sir. Sounded like it came from below.”

  “Then get below and look.”

  I counted noses. All seven of us were accounted for, and all of us standing. Standing around like loobies, that is.

  “You, Simpson, light the stern lamp for me. Don’t you let too much light show, now. When you’re done with that, light that dark-lantern and give it to Wright in the bows.”

  Peebles ran back up on deck. “We’re pierced through and through, sir!”

  “Where?”

  “Your cabin, sir.”

  “Are we taking on water?”

  “No, sir, b
ut your furniture’s all ruined.”

  “Furniture! You mean my hammock and thunder mug? Glory, what’ll I do!”

  While they laughed I looked astern. The frigate had disentangled herself from the sloop and was bracing her yards around. And here she came, with the wind on her quarter and whitewater at her forefoot, abandoning her prize in pursuit of us. I stood in the weather shrouds to give them a good look at me. “You’ll have sand in your ears before morning, m’sieur!” I shook my fist and patted my rump, and then thumbed my nose for good measure.

  “That ain’t entirely genteel,” I said to Peebles, “but I want to make sure he chases us.”

  “I have no doubt he will, sir,” he said, looking up at me with gleeful terror.

  It was full dark now. Lanterns rose to the Frenchman’s mastheads, lighting up the several Tricolors flying there—an awful sight, a majestic sight, that was about as cheerful as a damp shroud. Then she sent an iron ball our way with her bow chaser.

  “Hey now, time her, Mr. Peebles.”

  “Aye aye, sir.” He stared at his watch in the light of the binnacle until the Frenchman fired again. “Three minutes exactly, sir.”

  “Very well.” She wasn’t in range yet, anyway, but she was closing.

  She fired again. I watched the white winks on the dark water as the ball skipped along toward us and then sank in the sea.

  “Two minutes fifty-six seconds, sir.”

  I found myself staring at the Frenchman, waiting for the next little spurt of flame. That wasn’t the way to do.

  “Here, let’s have a song,” I said. “How about ‘The Yankee Man-o’war’? C’mon, Mr. Peebles, d’ye know that ’un?”

  “Yes, sir,” he said, and sang in a sweet soprano of John Paul Jones in the long ago: