As Cully reached the clearing he saw the second man just disappear behind a building, and he sprinted to the spot. The man continued walking maybe thirty yards along the main thoroughfare, then cut off down a path to a cluster of low buildings. Past those was a modest-sized cottage with a view of nothing much, a dark silhouette against a darker sky. The man went inside. Cully moved like a hunting cat along the side of the building. A candle was lit inside, or a lantern, and a bit of light shown out the window not ten feet away. He inched along the outside wall and peeked around the corner window trim. He saw a plain enough room with simple furnishings, a bookcase crammed with paper and books, and a few chairs around a table where Hewes sat, just pouring himself a glass of wine.
SEVENTEEN
THE FOUR ships left before dawn three days later.
Behind them a dark village, not yet awake, under a pin-pricked sky. Ahead lay uncertainty and risk and not in-considerable danger.
They sailed north into open water, roughly in a straight line, but bearing off downwind before Maguana Island, fully committed to the leeward passage. Their course would take them through the Caicos Passage, and then past Crooked Island and Heneago Key’s dangerous shoals before they would turn roughly northwest again toward the Great Bahamas Bank.
At the captain’s meeting on Harp the evening before sailing, Bishop had been brief and direct, unsuccessfully trying to hide the fact that he was merely restating Fallon’s idea. Sea Dog would take the lead with a sharp lookout, a local man borrowed from Smithers, who knew the inside route well, day or night. The Great Bahamas Bank was shallow and could get treacherous in a strong breeze, kicking up steep waves and pushing the unwary onto uncharted reefs. Consequently, they would shorten sail at dusk in the evening, if it came to that, moving cautiously, burning blue lights off their sterns to keep track of one another: Sea Dog, then Desmond and Castille, followed a mile astern by Harp.
They had reviewed the signals carefully, with Fallon explicit on the point of staying together if attacked. In that event, the plan called for Desmond and Castille to sail ahead, in effect to run for it, while Sea Dog entertained Clayton until Bishop could sail up to them and open fire. The plan put Fallon at great risk, but he had the faster, more maneuverable ship; Bishop had the firepower. Bishop had tried to appear clever during the meeting; in fact, he intended to lie back even farther than a mile, he had said, so that Clayton would be sure to take the bait before he engaged.
THE FIRST few days had been uneventful, with Sea Dog sailing under reduced sail to keep the packets close. Thankfully, there were no sightings of any strange ships. Each night Fallon ordered the sails reefed even further, and the other ships followed suit, each burning blue lights to keep one another in sight. Mornings found them all together, to Fallon’s great relief.
The middle of the third day, the little fleet was on the leeward side of the Bahamas’ chain of islands; once around Acklins Key they were on the Bank, the shallow water growing lighter in color. They could see large turtles swimming under them and the occasional barracuda. They were on a beam reach now, Cuba on their larboard side with its many shoals and coral heads, and up ahead Verde Island, which they would need to cut inside to leave to larboard. Fallon gave the order to harden up early so that the less weatherly square-rigged ships could pass the island safely.
“Mast there,” he yelled to the lookout. “Keep a weather eye on those islands!” Fallon could feel his body on high alert, on edge, every mile seeming to prove that his suspicions about a spy on the island were absurd. But Cully’s report had convinced him he was right. Hewes was their man, a little man with a mean life toiling at the end of the world who saw an opportunity to make his fortune. Perhaps to escape. Who knew? Well, there would be time enough to deal with him when he returned to Grand Turk. If he returned.
On the chance that he might not, Fallon had left a letter for Ezra Somers with a dock boy to be placed on the next Bermuda packet. He had outlined his impressions of the Grand Turk operation, the brusque and self-important Nilson, the ferret Hewes. He had included Cully’s observations of three nights ago, knowing that Somers would know what to do in the event Fallon was not successful against Clayton. Either way, Hewes was not long for Grand Turk.
The little string of ships wound their way up the Bahama Bank on the leeward route. Past Mucares Island, Ragged Island, and Lobos Key. Other than a few small fishing boats, nothing. The tension on the ship was palpable, with Beauty thumping along with her peg leg to check tackles and stays more than once, the crew silent and tense. Up ahead was Exuma off their starboard side; it called for a decision whether to leave the three islands of Andros off to their larboard or starboard. The wind was veering more northerly here, and Fallon made the decision to leave Andros to starboard so as to comfortably weather it without forcing his charges to tack in order to pass it. He wondered what was going through Bishop’s mind. Was he hoping for battle with Clayton, or not?
Fallon trained his telescope on the gaps between the three islands, searching for signs of a mast. The wind was coming back more easterly now as they cleared the lee of Exuma, and he began to doubt himself again for his conspiracy theories. Well, damn it, he thought, what was Hewes doing at the salt pans then?
On they sailed toward a cluster of small islands, which they would leave to starboard, and then ahead was fairly open water after they rounded Great Bahama Island. The day was warm and beautiful, the air bright and warming.
A cluster of birds rose squawking from the islands ahead. Fallon was about to remark to Beauty that he wondered why they were disturbed when he found out.
“Deck there!” called the lookout. “Two sail coming out from Cat Key. One’s a ship!”
Fallon and Beauty whipped their telescopes forward. In the small, upside-down image, Fallon could see a large frigate’s bowsprit just appearing from behind the island, the other pirate ship not yet visible from the deck. Apparently, Clayton had a lookout on shore who’d seen the salt convoy approaching.
“Beauty,” Fallon called, “call all hands and signal to the ships: Enemy in sight. God help us they follow orders.”
The picture was quickly becoming clear. Renegade moved slowly out from the island, sailing as close as possible on the wind, looking dark and menacing. Close behind her came a sloop, nimble and handy and no doubt loaded with extra hands to handle prizes. Fallon studied them carefully, wondering how they would work it. He hoped Bishop could see Clayton and even then was setting more sail to close the gap, but he couldn’t take his attention off the pirate ship and her sloop; what they did would determine what he did. He had run through this in his mind, of course, and had considered his options. At all costs he had to protect the salt packets until Bishop could close; then the battle would be even. Until then, Sea Dog’s crew had to be ready for any order.
He looked at Beauty. Her face seemed strained and pale. Well, a ship coming toward you with maybe a 5-1 size and gunnery advantage would do that to you. The pirate’s sloop was a yellowish color, that was plain now. She had inched ahead, leading the way, closing at perhaps sixteen knots with the combined speeds of the two vessels. Time was running out for a decision. Fallon quickly looked back to the packets. Thank God they had followed Sea Dog’s example and had shaken out their reefs, and they were sticking together. Beyond them he could see Harp through his telescope, more than a mile away. Why was Bishop taking longer to catch up than he ought?
Fallon’s plan was to divert attention away from Desmond and Castille, harassing Clayton without being overwhelmed by boarding or losing a spar or being shot to pieces. But first, the yellow sloop.
“Beauty, hold course for the sloop’s bows, and have all guns loaded with grape. Then run out on the larboard side,” he ordered. “We’ll head up at the last moment and rake him. Elevate to sweep the decks. An extra tot for all hands if the captain falls.”
“But Nico,” Beauty objected, “do you want to signal your plan so soon?”
“Yes, I want the yellow s
loop to know,” Fallon said emphatically. “But more important, I want Clayton to believe he’s up against a nincompoop captain. Which he probably is, you know.” This with a smile, though tense. Beauty returned the smile, with a wink, getting the plan now and wondering for a moment how she ever beat this man around the buoys in St. George’s Harbor.
On they came, separated by only a quarter mile now. Time enough to contemplate your mortality, your lover, or whatever men thought about during the moments before imminent death. Beauty had put Cully in charge of the guns, while she took the helm, trusting no one more than herself to the coming maneuver. Fallon looked over his shoulder briefly, where was Harp?
One hundred yards. Fifty. Twenty-five. Now, Beauty, now!
Beauty headed up just as the two bowsprits all but touched, blowing by the yellow sloop to windward. “Fire!” Fallon ordered, and Sea Dog’s larboard guns fired independently as they bore, raking the yellow sloop’s decks with grapeshot, clusters of small iron balls flying at almost seventeen hundred feet per second. Smoke engulfed Sea Dog’s larboard side and blew across the yellow sloop as she fired her guns in response. Every shot seemed to tell, as Sea Dogs flew across the deck in the concussion of cannon fire. An arm cartwheeled over the starboard railing, its owner stunned into insensibility. Cedar splinters flew into soft flesh and blood splashed across the decks. The shock was stupendous in such close action, and Fallon fought to take in the destruction while readying for the next onslaught from the frigate ahead. Ship’s boys were helping the crew drag the wounded below, pulling the dead or near-dead to the center of the deck.
Fallon checked Beauty with a nod. The ship was battered but intact, and Clayton was almost upon them. Sea Dog’s larboard guns were reloaded and run out, but the starboard crews were at the ready, as well, their guns loaded with grape. Renegade seemed enormous, like a wooden battering ram bearing down on them, deadly and all-powerful, showing her larboard side guns. Beauty sailed Sea Dog straight toward her bows, as before, timing the move, holding her nerve until the last moment. Now! Sea Dog ducked low, her starboard guns running out with effort against the heel of the ship.
“Fire!” yelled Fallon, hoarse from excitement and rage against the odds. The iron balls flew across Renegade’s decks, through the soft flesh of human bodies and canvas sails and the wooden ship’s boats, sending splinters flying through the smoke like knives. Clayton was caught off guard by the maneuver; Fallon spotted him on the quarterdeck as the smoke blew past, wide-eyed in anger and disbelief at having been fooled, screaming at his stunned men to run out the starboard guns, but it was too late. In a flash Sea Dog was past without suffering a shot, already rounding up on Clayton’s stern, and with one carronade saved for this moment, firing into her name board and blowing the name Renegade apart.
“Hurry, you men, clear the deck of that wreckage! Reload both sides again!” yelled Fallon, mad with fighting. “Beauty, back to the ships quickly!”
Sea Dog came about on larboard as Beauty quickly tacked through the eye of the wind and behind Renegade. Fallon could see the pirate ship’s shattered stern and her men fighting to cut loose the wreckage of a lost mizzenmast. It had been a lucky shot, but they would need luck today. Up ahead the yellow sloop had swooped in amongst the packets, loosing a ragged broadside that appeared to have mostly missed the rigging, while the packets fired off their popguns to little effect, though their bravery buoyed Fallon. Sea Dog’s broadside had put holes in the sloop’s sails and dead men were being thrown overboard so, that was something.
Where was Harp? Goddamn it!
Sea Dog was on a fast beam reach now, gaining almost two feet of distance for every one of Renegade’s. Fallon did not want to overtake her, though, did not want under her guns. He looked down the deck and saw Mr. Boy by the companionway, against his orders to stay below. He was staring at Clayton’s ship, trembling, shaking his fists in the air. Fallon wanted to get him below but there was no time.
The packets would take their punishment, no doubt; even now Renegade was running out her larboard guns. But Fallon was counting on Clayton trying to dismast the packets and to shoot away rigging, crippling them for boarding later. Here was where Bishop would come into action according to the plan: a pincer attack with Renegade and the yellow sloop caught between Harp and Sea Dog.
So much war in one piece of air. The horizon was virtually blotted out by smoke between the salt ships and Renegade. The yellow sloop had rounded and was coming up the windward side of the packets, preparing to unleash another volley. Beauty eased Sea Dog’s sails out to pick up speed and made to pass between the yellow sloop and the ships, all pretense and ruse gone now, Sea Dog running out her larboard guns.
“Fire!” Fallon ordered, and the entire broadside went home. Smoke blew back over Sea Dog, blinding the gun crews as they bent to reloading, filling the air with an acrid smell. They were close enough to the yellow sloop to hear screams of agony from across the water. Then came the answer from the sloop and the world seemed to stop. Sea Dog shook from the blast of a point-blank broadside. Guns were upended, cannonballs cut down men and material, and the ship seemed a wounded thing. The smoke blew over the ship briefly before the devastation was revealed: men blown open with their bowels laying on deck, their blood splattered on the faces of the living, a seaman at Number Four gun staring stupidly at the place where his leg used to be. Boys hauled the wounded below as best they could, for no man could be spared. Pence would have his hands full down there, thought Fallon.
Fallon turned to Beauty and saw her dazed but steady, her hands like iron on the wheel. He quickly surveyed the rigging—Sea Dog still sailed! A shot hole in the mainsail but all standing rigging still stood. A weak cheer went up from the men, and Fallon looked over his shoulder at the yellow sloop—her mainmast had fallen over and she’d sluiced around, helpless, with the big spar dragging rigging overboard to act like an enormous sea anchor. Now was the time to finish her off, thought Fallon ruefully, but even now Renegade was approaching Desmond. Smithers had sensibly ordered all the crew except gunners to lie down on the deck to avoid slaughter.
Fallon scanned the horizon for Harp, who should just now be approaching the battle, running out her guns and preparing to engage. Smoke was hanging in the air and it was difficult to see ahead. But here came Smithers, bravely firing Desmond’s few guns into Renegade and in turn receiving a hail of metal into her stout sides and delicate rigging. Next came Castille, having to absorb only a partial broadside as Captain Wallace had sailed close astern Desmond, as Fallon had ordered, giving Renegade little time to reload.
The salt packets sailed past Sea Dog and on toward the yellow sloop, which was in no position to stop them. Both Castille and Desmond opened fire on her still, more in anger now than self-defense, and it cheered Fallon to see it.
Suddenly the air was rent by two broadsides screaming at once as Harp finally arrived and Renegade stood to meet her. Thwump! Thwump! Thwump! The cannon roared and echoed as the two ships fired at less than two cables’ length. Fallon had to tear his eyes from the action because his own ship badly needed his attention. Men were dying on deck and those who lived were horribly concussed and must be roused to action. Here was Cully sprawled near the mainmast, one leg useless and Mr. Boy attempting to drag him away. Becker lay near his station at the helm, his once-worried eyes staring at the blue sky, unworried at the last, his body torn in half, guts pooled like jelly. Fallon’s bile caught in his throat but his mind fought it down. Sea Dog was in a dangerous position still, well within range of Renegade’s cannon if she should break off from Harp. He had to take command.
“Beauty,” he yelled, “come about and—”
But out came Renegade’s guns on the larboard side as Sea Dog turned, exposing her starboard side to the full weight of the frigate’s metal. Eighteen guns belched fire and iron across a sliver of water, hell erupting all around the schooner as the shots told and the ship shuddered. Sea Dog’s bowsprit was blasted to kindling and fell over the side
with sail and rigging, and the ship was slowed to a crawl. Fallon wheeled around, astonished that Renegade had broken off the fight with Harp—but no! Harp had broken off, by God, broken off and was sailing away! Bishop was leaving them, Goddamn his eyes!
Beauty had given over the helm and left to take charge of cutting the fallen rigging away when Fallon saw Renegade’s guns run out again. Oh God, please not again was the last coherent thought in Fallon’s mind before the next broadside sent the world to total blackness.
EIGHTEEN
MOTHER, AM I going to die?
When young Nicholas Fallon fell out of the tree, he hit his head so hard he saw stars, or at least little pricks of light, which fascinated him momentarily and kept the news of his broken ankle from reaching his brain. He was seven years old and adventurous and the tree had begged him to climb up and take a look at the world from up there, so one afternoon he did.
His father had carried him to the pub and upstairs to his room, unconscious. The doctor was sent for, and Nico’s mother pulled off his clothes, which is when his swollen ankle was discovered and the story of his fall from grace began to reveal itself. He was still unconscious when the doctor arrived and began his examination, and he did not regain consciousness until an hour later.
His mother never left his side, stroking his hair and singing softly to him, reaching into his mind with her voice. In some way he could hear her voice still, hear the soft song calling to him to wake up, as he had done years ago, to ask the question again.
Am I going to die?
NINETEEN
The Bermuda Privateer Page 8
