Wind and the Sea

by Marsha Canham

  “Then Adrian’s mother died. He did not hear about it until six months after the funeral, and when he finally did manage a furlough home, he was met with every gun the family could bring to bear. His father claimed illness despite the fact that Samuel Ballantine has never been sick a day in his life. He also claimed Adrian’s brother, Rory, had squandered most of his personal fortune and his incompetence was starting to erode the Ballantine company profits. His two sisters had supposedly both married dandies whose primary concerns were gambling and drinking. In other words, they tried every form of pressure they could invent, hoping he would relinquish his commission and rejoin the family business.”

  Matt stopped and snorted. “Their plan might have worked if the war along the Barbary Coast had not begun in earnest. Adrian left to resume his duties in the Mediterranean, but not before his father had won a promise out of him to seriously consider serving out his term and going home to Virginia permanently. Somewhere along the line he also managed to get himself engaged to Samuel's business partner’s daughter. Adrian was not particularly pleased with either commitment, so you can imagine his frame of mind when he woke up one morning and saw young Alan’s grinning face by the side of his berth.”

  Rutger winced as he tested the tightness and pain in his shoulder muscles. “It was about the same time he walked headlong into the trouble with Sutcliffe.”

  “Sutcliffe?”

  “Captain of the Revenge, and Adrian’s commanding officer.”

  “And?” she prompted.

  “And—" He frowned as if realizing he had said far too much already. “And if you add everything together: duty, guilt, honor”

  “A fiancée,” she supplied dryly.

  “Yes. That too. Perhaps that most of all.” Matt shook his head slowly, his expression altering slightly, becoming almost wistful. “Deborah Longworth Edgecombe is rich; she is beautiful. She has an elegance and grace that take your breath away.”

  Courtney bristled. “They sound like the perfect couple.”

  “If you saw them together, you would think they were. And in time he might be able to convince himself the sedentary life is what he wants.”

  “You sound as if you have doubts.”

  “I doubt he can be sedentary in anything he does. Look where he is now, despite being ordered to stay in his cabin. What he definitely does not need is another court-martial.”

  Courtney’s curiosity raged. “Another court-martial?”

  Matt grimaced again and his frown deepened. He waited for a particularly loud scramble of footsteps on the deck overhead to pass before he muttered, "You have me spouting off like a fishmonger’s wife at market. If you want to know anything else about Adrian, you are going to have to ask him. I happen to value my neck.”

  More running footsteps pounded on the deck, and both Matthew and Courtney tilted their heads up.

  “Right,” he said. “That hangs it. Help me stand up, I think I can make it this time.”

  “But you are not—"

  “Either you help me, or you get out of my way!”

  Courtney swore mildly and grasped him under an arm, wrestling with the limited space beside the berth to help him to his feet. Dickie Little raced to assist but Matthew gestured instead to the sea chest.

  “A shirt,” he gasped and mimed with his hands. “And my breeches.”

  “You will not make it as far as the door,” Courtney warned.

  Her prediction proved to be accurate, but for very different reasons. Matt had not taken a single step away from the rumpled cot before the ship lurched suddenly. A loud crunching roar burst into the space surrounding them, and the four walls seemed to implode inward, hurling all three occupants of the cabin to the floor in a shower of splinters.

  Chapter Ten

  Jennings and Falworth were studying the horizon through long brass telescopes when Ballantine emerged from the hatch directly below the bridge. The wind had a sharp, biting edge, and the ship’s motion was choppy as she rode the tall swells. The waves were flecked with whitecaps, and the sky above was a smoldering gray smudgepot, churning with thunderclouds. It was easy to pick up the curl of straining white sails off the larboard side; the sky behind the approaching ship was an ominous, lightning-cracked black.

  Falworth was the first to notice Ballantine’s arrival on deck. The lieutenant was in full uniform: white breeches, navy broadcloth tunic, high black kneeboots. His brown eyes raked disdainfully down Adrian’s open-throated, rumpled shirt.

  “You are looking a little rough for wear this morning, old boy. Restless night?”

  Adrian was not afforded an opportunity to reply as Jennings lowered his glass and stared down at him. “I believe you were confined to quarters, were you not, sir?”

  "I was told there was a ship coming up fast in our wake," Adrian explained. "And that she was not showing any colors."

  Falworth bristled. “Naturally you assumed only you would be competent enough to determine if it is friend or foe?"

  “Tut, tut.” Jennings held up a hand. “Perhaps we should permit the lieutenant an opinion, since it may well be one of his last times on this bridge. Come along then, Mr. Ballantine. Dazzle us with your wisdom and insight.”

  Adrian mounted the brief flight of steps to the raised bridge and took the proffered spyglass, noting Falworth's fury at being undermined yet again. Jennings was an insufferable bastard, but he was not stupid. He knew Ballantine’s instincts were invaluable.

  Adrian raised the glass to his eye, and the distant line of the horizon came abruptly forward, as did the sleek form of the advancing ship. She was running with the wind behind her, presenting a narrow silhouette and making any but the most rudimentary identification difficult. She was a frigate, carrying fore-, main-, and mizzenmasts. Her hull was painted black, making it impossible to count gun ports, had they been visible, or to judge her armaments. She was fully rigged for speed, her canvas sheets straining, filled with wind, but there were no flags, no pennants visible on her tops.

  Adrian swept the glass across the seascape but he could see nothing other than roiling seas and sporadic flickers of lightning behind the frigate.

  He lowered the glass slowly.

  “Well?” Jennings snapped impatiently. “What do you make of her?”

  “It is hard to tell anything at this distance. Has she replied to our signals?”

  Falworth pursed his lips. “We have raised the accepted hailing codes, as well as a request for identification, but as yet she has chosen to ignore us. Of course, it is possible that she does not see us yet, what with the land at our back.”

  “Unless her crew is dead or stone blind, she sees us." Ballantine raised the glass again, this time to starboard and what he saw caused him to lower the telescope with a gasp of disbelief.

  They were following the Moroccan coastline, but instead of the usual four to five leagues of clear water between the Eagle and shore, there was less than one. And the gap was closing as rapidly as the wind could push them.

  “Who the bloody hell ordered the course change?” he asked harshly, with no deference to Jennings.

  Falworth’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I did. I thought it was prudent in light of the approaching squall.”

  “Prudent! There are hidden shoals and unpredictable currents all along this section of coastline. And as soon as that land mass sucks up the draft, we will lose half of our maneuvering power.”

  “Maneuvering power,” Falworth scoffed. “For what?”

  Ballantine swing the glass around to open sea. He was alarmed to see how much the stranger had gained on them in the few short minutes since he had come on deck.

  “Have the decks been cleared for action?” he demanded. “Have the gun crews been alerted?”

  Jennings looked from Ballantine to Falworth, “Gun crews?” then back to Ballantine. “You believe it to be a hostile vessel?”

  “I do not know what to believe, and will not until I see some form of identification.”


  “Mr. Falworth is of the opinion she is a Sicilian merchantman.”

  “Mr. Falworth,” Adrian said through his teeth, “has taken the liberty of placing us in an untenable position. We are too damned close to land. We have forfeited the weather gauge even before we have begun. We have no room to maneuver or turn, and we do not have nearly the speed to make a run for it. On the other hand, our visitor not only has the wind, but also the choice of how to use it.”

  Jennings frowned and turned to his second lieutenant. “Mr. Falworth, have you any reason to reconsider your strategy?”

  Falworth reddened. “I am perfectly content with my decision. The lieutenant is, as usual, being overly dramatic. We have our backs protected in the event the ship turns out to be a hostile—which I strongly doubt! She hasn’t the look of a Frenchman, or a Spaniard, and she is definitely not one of the seagoing deathtraps the local wogs seem to prefer. And what commander in his right mind would attempt to engage another ship with heavy weather closing in? The chap is probably running hell-bent for shelter, just as we are.”

  “A reasonable deduction,” Jennings nodded and glanced askance at Ballantine. “One with which I must concur. Good heavens, we are a day’s sail out of the Straits. No one would dare attack an American ship this close to our base.”

  “Colors!” A man called from the crow’s nest. “She is running up her colors, sir!”

  “Ahh,” Jennings craned his neck to look up. “Now we shall have the mystery solved.”

  “Stars and Stripes, sir!”

  Jennings grabbed the glass out of Ballantine’s hand and leaned over the rail as if the stance would help the magnification. Falworth’s eyes locked with Adrian’s and his mouth curved triumphantly.

  “Thus, Lieutenant,” he murmured, “as I said, a compatriot seeking company to ride out the storm.”

  “Has she replied with the proper codes?” Adrian asked urgently.

  “Thursday is five and six,” Jennings mused. “A solid red and a red-on-white triangle. The reply should beha! There are the flags: solid white, white-on-red. Is that correct, Mr. Beddoes?”

  “Aye, sir,” the quartermaster replied after consulting with the code book. “Solid white, white-on-red. She is one of ours.”

  Jennings lowered the glass and rubbed his hands together in the morning chill. “Good. Perhaps she will have news from home. And fresh meat. Some lunatic took it upon himself to throw the livestock overboard yesterday in all the panic, and I had to make do with salted fish last evening. Well, Mr. Ballantine? Have you nothing to say? Would you still prefer to fire a warning shot across her bows?”

  Ballantine gazed out over the water. The speed of the other ship was easily twice that of the Eagle. She was giving no indication of taking in sail, even though she was safely within reach of shore. She was also coming into range for any heavy armaments she might be carrying.

  “Why did the captain wait so long to identify himself?” he murmured aloud, despite the derision in Jennings’ voice. “And why has he not taken in sail?”

  “Why can you not accept what your eyes plainly tell you?” Falworth countered. “The ship belongs to one of our compatriots."

  “The ship is flying an American flag,” Adrian corrected him. “That is one of the oldest ploys on the sea—especially in an arena filled with pirates.”

  “The captain has also responded correctly to our codes,” Jennings interjected with some annoyance.

  Ballantine refrained from remarking on the confidentiality of the so-called secret codes, and instead turned to Beddoes. “Have the decks cleared for action and pipe the gun captains to the bridge.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Hold up there!” Jennings moved away from the rail. “How dare you countermand my orders. The helm is no longer yours to command, nor are the officers obliged to obey you.”

  “Tacking to larboard!” came the same excited voice from above. “She is assuming a parallel course...there’s...there’s men on the guns, sir! Ports are opening...! They're running out—”

  The rest of the warning was lost to the horror of seeing the stranger present her larboard battery to the stunned observers on board the Eagle. Without any preliminaries the guns erupted with clouds of white smoke and blazing tongues of orange fire. Being well within range, it took only seconds for the shots to find their marks. Spouts of white water rose alongside the Eagle. Shots slashed through sail and rigging, plowed into her decks and rails, and left the men in panic as they scrambled clear of the flying, flaming debris.

  Ballantine's breath was knocked from his lungs as he was thrown heavily into the deck rail. Beside him, Beddoes raised a bloodied stump where his right hand and arm should have been and screamed in agony. Adrian tore the bandanna from the quartermaster’s neck and used it to tie off the stump, then he hastened over to where the captain and Otis Falworth were sprawled near a gaping hole in the rail. Jennings’ face was sliced on one side from a flying splinter; Falworth bore a deep gash on his thigh. Both were dazed with shock.

  Adrian shouted for assistance before he went in search of Danby, the chief gunnery officer.

  A second broadside struck with deadly precision. Chunks of spars and planking exploded through the air, raining down on the unprotected heads of the scrambling marines and sailors. Ropes twanged apart as chain shot and bar shot ripped through the rigging; sails collapsed and the vessel reeled under the staggering impact of the bombardment.

  “Helmsman!” Adrian kept one eye on the men rushing frantically to arm the Eagle’s guns, the other on the sleek, graceful marauder. “Helmsman—hard to starboard! Get those topmen aloft! I want all the sail on that she will hold! Move on those guns! Move! Move! Move!"

  His shouts were drowned under the roar of another broadside. He saw two crewmen blasted into crimson fragments as he trained his glass on the enemy ship, aware that the Eagle was responding sluggishly to his commands. The rough sea was making it difficult to hold a course or to execute any kind of swift, evasive move. But she was spirited and willing to try. A great hollow groan along the beam heaved the bow skyward, and the frigate hung for a sickening moment over the crest of a wave. Spray burst above the rail as she slewed sideways and seemed on the verge of careening. The wind grasped at her sails and filled them, hurling her forward into the trough. The sea rose in a wall and spewed a foaming cascade of water down upon her decks, but the Eagle shook herself free and thundered steadfastly into the next wave.

  Hoping to have bought some badly needed breathing space, Ballantine was astounded to see that the raider had backed her topsails and had drawn to a near standstill in the water. She tacked nimbly across the Eagle’s stern, and Adrian watched helplessly—and admittedly in awe of the daring maneuver—as she came within hailing distance and caused the American warship’s sails to gasp for breath. The Eagle floundered long enough to absorb the shock of several cannonades down her exposed length. The stern bulwark was blown to eternity; the bridge disappeared in a fountain of bloodied splinters. Spars were torn from their braces, carrying lines, canvas, and men to their fiery death as shot after shot exploded on deck. A wildly snaking cable swept the boatswain overboard. The helm spun against the opposing thrust of the wind and sea, and the Eagle found herself back in line with the hungry guns of the raider.

  The enemy ship was now within pistol shot—fifty yards—and her gunners unleashed obliterating rounds of grape and canister shot into the Eagle’s masts and rigging. When the wind fanned the smoke clear, there were pieces of the dead scattered everywhere. The decks were slippery with blood, and even the faces of the seasoned veterans paled at the extent of the carnage.

  Adrian felt the madness surging through him like a fever. Blinded with rage and heedless of the danger, he threw himself at one of the nine-pounder bow guns. With superhuman effort, he single-handedly trained the gun on the looming enemy; he loaded it with double shot and fired, loaded and fired again and again, until his hands were blistered from the heat of the iron barrel. The
stench of smoke and blood coated his nostrils. Waves of roiling, scorching air swirled inboard after each salvo, stinging his eyes, choking into his throat, but he had thoughts only for the raider and the murderously brilliant tactician at her helm. The ship was close enough for Adrian to see onto the deck, where the half-naked gunners were firing coolly, continuously, seeming to take the time to fire each salvo in tune with the roll of the ship so that few rounds went wild or splashed harmlessly into the sea.

  On one smoke-filled breath Adrian cursed Otis Falworth like he had cursed no other living human being before. They were boxed in flush against the land with no room to tack away or to avoid the deadly assault. With the next breath, he conceded a small gasp of thanks that because of their proximity to the land, the enemy was equally hampered. The attacking ship could not maneuver between the Eagle and shore and would need to turn away and tack into the approaching squall in order to make a second pass.

  As if the marauder was privy to Ballantine’s thoughts, the gleaming bow sheered away, having passed beyond the effective angle of fire. To his disgust, Adrian saw that she was barely scraped, that few of her sails were being hauled in for replacements, that none of her guns appeared to be smoking wrecks. He uttered a violent curse when he saw that a second tier of gun ports had indeed been cleverly concealed by the black paint on the hull. His earlier, hasty estimate of eighteen guns he now adjusted upward to thirty-eight, possibly more. And judging by the damage suffered to the Eagle’s hull, a good number of those guns were thirty-two pounders that, when fired at such close range, could crush a three-foot-thick hull as if it was tinder.

  Suddenly, the Stars and Stripes were pulled down and a new set of flags were run up the masts. Riding proudly atop an ingratiating demand for surrender was a pennant bearing a scarlet wolf's head on a black field.

  Ballantine’s mouth went dry, and the blood drained from his face.

  It was not possible.

  He scrubbed the smoke and sweat from his eyes, but the flags did not change. The scarlet wolf's head was known and dreaded along the entire Barbary Coast.