FORTY-ONE
SEA DOG led the Royal Navy around Great Bahama Island, well off Matanilla Reef and into the Florida Straights. The distance to Florida was only fifty miles, so the Spanish ships would have to sail through something of a bottleneck, and Davies intended to put a stopper in the bottle. This assuming the treasure ships were out there.
On board Sea Dog, Beauty faced a problem with the doxie below, confined to the captain’s guarded cabin for fear the men would find a way to her, as men would. Beauty had spoken to her once, found her afraid and embarrassed but not ignorant. In fact, something like intelligence glowed in her eyes and Beauty softened to the woman. Still, women in her profession were a nuisance to have aboard, providing too great a temptation to men housed for months on end in a ship, especially if the temptress were willing.
The doxie’s name was Theodora, and perhaps she was not willing. She seemed to recognize her situation for the hopeless mess it was, knew that it was in large part her fault, and seemed capable enough to fend for herself against unwanted advances. Beauty made that the bargain. Theo, as she preferred to be called, could be let out of the cabin and on deck but if she once, even once, so much as batted an eye at any man aboard she would be clapped in irons for the duration of the cruise, if they survived the cruise, and set ashore God knew where. Meanwhile, she would have to earn her meals.
They shook on it. Theo was issued slops and assigned to duties in the cockpit, under the tutelage of Garrison, a surgeon’s mate from Avenger lent by Davies. In the bright sunshine, without makeup and powder, Theo was a normal-looking young woman of moderate good looks and long blonde hair, which she cut short immediately to make it clear to Beauty that she would do the work of a man. Beauty took the point and was encouraged. It was arranged that Theo would berth in Pence’s old cabin.
Sea Dog sailed on, leading the ships into the Straights, the first to cross the strong north-flowing current between Great Bahama and the coast of Spanish Florida. The schooner moved briskly along under mares’ tails in the sky. Upon turning south, however, into the teeth of the current, all the ships slowed as they took the rollers on the nose. It was a bumpy ride, the wind being generally out of the east-northeast.
Sea Dog’s best man was at the lookout, the morning was warming, and Beauty went below to have her breakfast. Now it was about waiting.
DAVIES PACED and fretted on Avenger’s quarterdeck, aware that they were leaving Great Bahama in their wake but damned if he knew what was ahead. He walked with his chin jutted out, deep in thought about outcomes.
The best outcome he could envision, assuming they were not arriving too late on station, was to sink or disable beyond repair one or two ships so that not all the bullion would reach Spain and, eventually, the French treasury.
He saw it in his mind. The flotilla would sail with the current up the Straights, likely a ship-of-the-line or heavy frigate in the van, perhaps another outside the line of ships, and perhaps still another on the other side. Like sheep dogs guarding the flock. His plan was for Harp and Avenger to attack the dogs while Sea Dog sailed among the sheep, using her expert gunnery to cripple as many ships as possible. He didn’t expect the treasure ships to pose a threat; but how many sheep dogs did they bring along?
Davies raised his telescope and saw Sea Dog bear away to take up station. The schooner was to be in the middle of the Straights, farthest south. Harp would be closest to Florida, just inside Cape Caniaberal, with Avenger closest to Great Bahama. An inverted triangle, Sea Dog the eyes of the fleet.
What would he have done if Fallon had not joined? Davies shuddered, for it didn’t bear thinking about. As it was they faced long odds of accomplishing anything against a superior force, and in spite of his outward calm to the men, he was ravaged by doubt.
“Signal to Harp, Captain Kinis: Proceed to take up station.”
The signal was given and acknowledged. They were committed to a plan now, his plan. In another hour Avenger would tack and wear to await events. Kinis was already making preparations to shorten sail and had personally inspected the gun carriages and lashings, every one, out of nervousness. In the cockpit, bandages were laid out, saws and knives sharpened, and the bucket for amputated limbs pulled out from beneath a cot. The galley fires would remain lit until further notice.
All afternoon and evening they held station. No word from Beauty. Davies went back over Cortez’s report in his mind, even going so far as to ask Cortez to repeat it, the part about the barman, for that was the part that gave him hope. When night fell, Davies took his fears to bed. He felt heavy, and alone, and truth be told, more than a little afraid.
FORTY-TWO
THE RAIN began on Sint Maarten in the late evening and, though the seas were moderate the next morning, the fishermen refused to go out. Something told them to stay home, an instinct borne of thousands of mornings at sea in every condition imaginable. It was the way the seas were making up, even without a great deal of wind, as if there was in fact a great deal of wind somewhere else pushing water toward the island. Yes, they would stay home today.
In the village, the markets opened under tarps and umbrellas, bright patches of color against a gray day. Baskets and fruits and vegetables were put out on rickety wooden platforms for the few villagers braving the rain and muddy streets to become customers.
The fingertips of the storm were just to the island, and by afternoon the rain was falling in earnest, the wind gusting to 45 knots. Hardly a cause for concern; these islanders had seen storms before. But there was something about this one, they thought to themselves, and the markets closed early.
THE AFTERNOON had grown cloudy and the wind had fallen light. The approaching storm, still hundreds of miles away, sucked the wind out of the atmosphere to feed its insatiable appetite for power. All three British captains on their respective ships looked anxiously at the sky from time to time, wondering. Certainly Fallon had been in storms before, but there was something about this one…
Aja had joined Fallon on Harp’s quarterdeck and gazed at his captain, sensing a slight and unusual nervousness in the man. Aja had come to know Fallon’s moods and feelings very well, indeed. Something felt off.
Colston, the master, was standing at the binnacle, a worried look on his face, his thumbnail tapping the Naire barometer. It was the newest design, thanks to Bishop’s purse, with gimbal mounts housed in the ship’s binnacle. Colston looked up as Fallon approached.
“Glass is dropping, sir. We’re in for something.” Colston looked around, over the side, and thought to himself, this sea feels strange. “And Captain, we’re being set northwards by this damned current. Cape Caniaberal is well south of us now.”
“Thank you, Mr. Colston,” said Fallon. “I don’t like it, and I’m sure the other captains feel the same. Keep an eye on the glass and tell me if it drops further, if you please.”
In fact, the glass dropped slowly throughout the day as the three ships tried to hold their triangular positions in the Straights between Cape Caniaberal and Great Bahama Island.
The day grew darker and rain began falling and still no sign of the treasure ships. Fallon worried that perhaps they had cut it too fine. Perhaps the missed rendezvous hadn’t happened at all. Perhaps. Perhaps.
Signal from the flag: Hold station.
Avenger’s signal came just as Fallon was about to shorten sail to have greater control over Harp. The wind was getting up out of the east and as it crossed the northward current the seas were becoming confused. A messy night ahead. And possibly dangerous.
Fallon ordered Jones to begin a series of reefing maneuvers that would continue into the evening. All hands were called time and again to go aloft, their backs wet and hair streaming, fisting the sails into submission while clinging to spiraling spars drawing great circles in the low clouds. Jones supervised each maneuver, rain dripping from his hat, his light cloak tight against his throat, his sunburned face a grimace.
Each sail change sent a sodden crew below, where it was
n’t much drier, the ship working in the seas and water dripping through the deck seams. The crew refused to complain, however, accepting the sailor’s lot to be wet and miserable. It was better than soldiering.
At daybreak, a cannon.
Both Kinis and Fallon were on their respective decks, and both grabbed telescopes to look south. In the rain and haze they couldn’t make out Sea Dog, which was probably why Beauty had fired a cannon instead of sending up a signal. Both captains ordered their lookouts to keep a sharp eye as events would now begin unfolding quickly.
Fallon was careful to parallel the coast of Florida, not wanting to inch to the middle of the Straights until he had a clearer picture of the situation but not wanting to get too close to Cape Caniaberal either. Harp was under deeply reefed sails in the building wind and seas; Fallon peered uneasily into the gloom.
“Mr. Jones, call all hands,” he ordered.
The cry went out, the drummer tatted out the call, and all hands rushed to their stations, sand and shot coming up from below. Quids were spit overboard, lucky charms found and rubbed, the hands thinking of treasure. Fallon continued to scan the horizon for Beauty. Still, no sign. For that matter, no sign of Avenger.
Minutes dragged on as all hands stood at their stations in the slanting rain, the ship moving uneasily in the swells beneath their bare feet. Silence from the masthead, a particularly lonely and miserable spot in this storm.
Then, something there. Just off the larboard bow, emerging from the gray curtain of rain: Sea Dog.
“Deck there!” yelled the lookout. “Sail ahead!”
“What signal?” shouted Fallon as he raised his telescope to look forward.
“Enemy in sight! Frigate!”
That would mean the flotilla had a frigate in the van, ranging in front to be the first line of defense. Fallon felt the hair go up on his arms; he would engage the Spanish frigate first.
“Acknowledge signal,” Fallon ordered the signal boy. “Make: Well done.”
Sea Dog was a clear picture now, and Fallon could see Beauty on the quarterdeck, hair plastered to her head, her fist raised in the air. She yelled something as their ships passed, but it was snatched away by the wind. For a moment Fallon looked fondly at his old command, my God, she was beautiful. Even reefed Sea Dog was a flyer, though he knew from experience she was a handful in these seas with this wind.
Fallon glanced quickly at Jones, and smiled to himself at the confidence in his First’s face. A lot had happened in these past weeks of drill to put it there.
Now Colston was by his side. “Wind increasing, sir. And the glass is dropping, still. I think it’s coming on to a gale of wind! Best mind your sea room.”
Good advice. Fallon looked over his shoulder for Sea Dog but she had disappeared to find Avenger, visibility making signals at a distance impossible. Turning around he saw the Spanish frigate appear like an apparition from the impossibly gray gloom of the air.
“Oh!” left his lips before he could stop it. That is a big fucking frigate!
FORTY-THREE
FALLON’S MIND immediately went to strategy.
The Spaniard was less than a mile away, off the larboard bow, under reefed topgallants and indeed looked ready for a fight. “Mr. Jones,” Fallon said, “load the starboard battery but do not run out, if you please. And then lay aft.”
Jones gave the order and the hands bent to the starboard guns. Fallon studied the oncoming frigate carefully through his telescope, holding course to pass Harp at two cables apart. The ship looked to him like a cut-down ship-of-the-line, a hybrid that Spanish shipwrights created to do battle with enemy frigates as well as heavier ships-of-the-line. Trading broadsides against so many guns, even poorly handled, would be suicide.
Jones joined Fallon and Colston at the helm. “Gentlemen, we haven’t much time. Our job is to engage and hopefully disable that frigate until Avenger can come up.” Jones nodded, rain pouring off his hat onto Colston, whose mouth hung open. “Here’s what I want to do…” They listened carefully, absorbing the points of the plan, each knowing as well as Fallon that events could dictate otherwise. But, slowly, Harp began edging up toward the oncoming frigate.
Still no sign of Davies, or Sea Dog, for that matter. Harp was being pushed around by the surging waves; Fallon could only imagine how Beauty was handling the schooner. Barely, was his guess. He looked at Harp’s sails with a questioning eye. The last thing he wanted was to lose a spar in this wind and be crippled at the moment of battle. Jones caught Fallon’s worried look and it only confirmed his own philosophy: The time to reef is when you first think about it. Jones ordered a third reef in the topgallants.
It was hellishly dangerous to go aloft in such a wind, but the rig was in danger of going over the side. Men trained to obey orders went up and up, clinging desperately to the ratlines as the ship’s masts swayed through 60 degrees. It was slow going, toes and fingers clenching the ropes as one by one the men inched out onto the yards. One slip meant a man’s death in ninety feet; his pigtail would be the last to know.
Half a mile now separated the ships. They converged on parallel paths set to pass less than a cable’s length apart now, with Sea Dog still heading up to narrow the gap. Fallon stood on the quarterdeck, the wind tearing at his clothes, his hat long ago blown over the side. Aja was nearby, a small dirk in his belt courtesy of the lower deck, appearing braver than he felt. He looked at his captain, balancing easily on the heaving and plunging deck, and though Fallon could not see it—and would not have believed it if he could—the boy’s eyes glowed with obvious pride in his captain.
The moment was at hand. Fallon had a word with Jones and the helmsman and Harp came up on the wind a bit more, ever so slowly inching over toward the Spanish frigate, not so much as to tip the hand, just so. A quarter mile, the ships closing at a combined rate of more than fifteen knots. Fallon clenched his jaw; Aja saw it and clenched his jaw, too.
“Now, helmsman, up you go,” ordered Jones, and Harp moved to come hard on the wind and cut across the Spaniard’s bows. “Run out the starboard battery, Mr. Jones!” yelled Fallon. “Give it to them, lads!”
The heel of the ship as Harp hardened up made the guns almost fly out of the ship.
“Fire!” came Fallon’s order, and the full broadside roared and hurled their shot. Every shot told, tearing into the bow and larboard side of the frigate and sending splinters into the air.
“Reload and run out!” yelled a frantic Jones, and Fallon counted the seconds. They had to make this count; firing into the vulnerable and undefended bow or stern of a ship was a good idea until you inevitably showed your own stern to the enemy. Then all hell.
“Fire!” Fallon ordered again, and he guessed it was close to two minutes between broadsides. It gave him heart, as did the sight of the Spanish frigate’s forestay parting when her jib boom exploded, her foresail torn from its hanks and sent flying over the waves.
“Good shooting, lads!” he yelled, cheering them on madly, but his words were lost in the scream of wind that seemed to increase with every second. It was backing solidly to the east-northeast, easily a gale of wind now, and it would make wearing ship dangerous, even untenable.
The Spanish capitán knew his business. The frigate came up into the wind, effectively drawing him closer to Sea Dog to prevent Fallon from loosening up and firing another broadside.
The Spaniard’s starboard guns belched their deadly fire and shot, the wind tearing the smoke away, and Harp’s fragile stern took several balls that destroyed the railings and bulwark, disintegrated the name board, and blew out all the windows on their way through the innards of the ship. Fallon shuddered at the loss of life below and wondered about damage to the hull, but he had to focus on the battle, for Harp still steered!
Estrella shot past—Fallon could read her name on the stern now—and he ordered the helmsman to fall off onto a broad reach, back on a course to intercept the main body of the flotilla.
Fallon heard another broads
ide—but behind him, by God!—as Sea Dog charged out of the gloom across Estrella’s bow, just as Harp had done, all her shot aimed at the Spaniard’s rigging. Jesus! The foremast was going over! Good shooting, Cully!
Now Sea Dog’s stern would be exposed, just as Harp’s had been. Fallon couldn’t tear his eyes off the scene, fear gripping him as he waited for Estrella’s response.
But then, Avenger! She plunged forward, loosened up and shot down the larboard side of Estrella, 36 guns out and sending a monstrous broadside into sails and rigging, cutting ropes, and sending the ship’s boats flying out of their lashings and taking men with them. Estrella ignored Sea Dog’s stern and sent a broadside of her own into Avenger, effect unknown, for Fallon was jolted out of his focus on Avenger by Jones screaming into his ear that the flotilla was coming. Fallon’s head snapped around and, by God, there it was, appearing like an apparition: five ships, one a ship-of-the-line, marching like soldiers hot-stepping it over the waves toward Harp.
Once more Colston yelled into Fallon’s ear. “Glass dropping like a stone, sir! This wind is pushing us toward the coast and the current keeps setting us north. We must keep our sea room!”
Fallon only nodded, aware of the danger but determined to execute the plan Davies had set out. He picked up his telescope and found the ship-of-the-line easily, plowing water on the windward side of the flotilla, no doubt counting on the British penchant for choosing the weather gauge in battle. He motioned for Jones.
“We will pass on the larboard side of the ships, Jones. Load with chain shot and bar. And tell the gun captains rigging only.” Davies had argued for disabling the Spanish ships rather than trying to sink them, hoping to capture at least some of the treasure. But in the face of the storm a disabled ship would very likely sink anyway. It was the best they could hope to accomplish.
The Bermuda Privateer Page 17
