The French Prize

by James L. Nelson

  “Monsieur Dauville!” Renaudin called to the first officer. “Stations for stays!” They would have to tack as well, follow the American around, try to get their broadside to bear and finish this impudent son of a whore off. He watched with satisfaction as the first officer drove the men to their stations, displaying the kind of discipline that could almost make Renaudin imagine he was back in the navy of the Old Regime.

  The American fired again and Renaudin felt the hot wind of the ball’s passing and saw it tear a nasty chunk out of the mizzenmast. He felt a warm spray and looked down at his hand and saw it was splattered with blood. He turned in time to see the helmsman, Ouellette, sans head, topple forward, adding to the great pool of blood already left in the wake of the two men before him.

  “Someone get aft and get this man clear!” Renaudin shouted, then to Beaussier, “Helm’s a-lee!” L’Armançon began her turn up into the wind, the hands on the forecastle, experienced men, letting go the headsail sheets. The sails flogged and the ship surged around, but to Renaudin’s mounting frustration, the damned Americans followed her turn, keeping on her quarter as if secured there by some unseen cable.

  The American fired again, the ball screamed past. Renaudin felt the concussion of its passing and then it struck the spanker boom, nearly at the center of the long spar. A great ragged hole was torn in the wood. The boom hung for a second as the last, tenacious fibers parted. Renaudin shouted, “Stand from under!” and he stepped forward and shoved Barère in the path of the boom just as it gave way. The heavy spar, a foot thick, came crashing to the deck, taking Barère down with it, and Renaudin thought, Very well, I’m free from that distraction.

  Beaussier had continued to hold the helm hard over, and properly so. L’Armançon turned to windward like a weather vane, so far up into the wind by then that she would have to tack or get all aback. And the American, the cursed American, was still hanging on the quarter, within a pistol shot but beyond the reach of any of L’Armançon’s great guns.

  “Mainsail haul!” Renaudin shouted and he turned to give instruction to Beaussier when the man’s chest seemed to explode in a spray of blood. Renaudin saw the wide eyes, the look of surprise, and then Beaussier crashed against the binnacle box as the force of the shot flung him forward and the abandoned wheel began to spin.

  “You bastard!” Renaudin shouted, the curse directed at the American. Four helmsmen! They had killed four helmsmen, Renaudin had never seen the like.

  And he knew in his gut what this meant. Even as he again leapt for the unattended wheel, the second time that day, he knew they were in irons. He grabbed the spokes and steadied the helm and looked forward. The headsails were flogging, the mainsails shivering, the momentum of the turn all but gone. They were stopped dead, and there was the American, still on the quarter, like one of Satan’s minions sent to torment him.

  If there was one consolation, it was that the men of L’Armançon reacted as seamen should. He could hear Dauville shouting orders, could see the men flatting in the headsails to bring the bow around again. Two men came racing aft to take up the helm, despite its being, apparently, the most dangerous position on the ship. They dragged Beaussier’s body out of the way and relieved Renaudin of the wheel. Barère had not moved since the boom had come down on him, and there was every reason to hope he was dead.

  The American fired again, the shot ripping down the length of the quarterdeck bulwark and tearing it apart. Dauville shouted for the men to haul the main braces back around to a starboard tack. Another gun from astern, and another bit of the mizzenmast gone. The American had hove to, stopped dead in the water, right astern, and was pounding away to the extent that he could, with the three pathetic six pounders in his broadside.

  Pathetic, but at least he can hit me, Renaudin thought, and then as if to demonstrate, a roundshot struck the mizzen chains on the larboard side with a shower of wood and screech of iron hitting iron. Shattered bits of deadeyes and chainplates were hurled forward and two men who were tending the fore brace were struck down.

  Renaudin wanted to shout out to Dauville to get the ship turning but the officer was doing everything he could so Renaudin clenched his teeth and remained silent. He could feel some motion underfoot, the bow starting to swing off the wind under the pressure of the backed headsails. Very well, very well, Renaudin thought. In a moment or two the larboard battery would bear on the American and then they would end this nonsense.

  But something was out of alignment and it caught his eye, something about the ship was wrong. Renaudin did not realize what it was until he saw the mizzenmast leaning farther and farther to larboard, the beautiful symmetry of masts and rigging ruined. The leaning stopped as the starboard shrouds took up the strain and held the mast in place, checking the momentum of the collapse.

  But the shrouds did not check the momentum for long. The leverage exerted by topmast, the topsail yard, and its attendant gear, not to mention the topgallant mast, yard, and sail on that lofty rig, was far more than the lower shrouds could bear. First one then the other tore from the channel with a horrible wrenching sound. Men at the base of the mast shouted and raced away and two topmen came sliding down the backstays just as the entire thing fell slowly to leeward, picking up speed in its tumble to the sea. It went by the board with a great splash as the topmast and topgallant hit the water, and the mizzen lower mast crushed the bulwarks on the larboard side of the quarterdeck as it fell across them.

  L’Armançon was stopped dead and would remain that way for hours, until she had cut the wreckage clear and could limp away. The Americans would be free to continue their cannonade if they wished, perhaps even to try to beat L’Armançon into surrender, a thing that would not happen as long as Renaudin was still alive. He pulled his eyes from the wreckage and looked astern. The Americans were done fighting. They had already hauled their wind and were racing off with larboard tacks aboard.

  Renaudin stepped over to Barère’s inert form and kicked him hard in the stomach. “I may defeat them soundly now, eh, you whore’s son, you bastard?” he shouted, and to his further and profound dismay he heard Barère groan in response.

  21

  A ship fogbound at sea is in no particular danger. A ship fogbound in soundings is quite a different matter. Making way with visibility so poor the master cannot see from the quarterdeck to the jibboom end, or perhaps not even to the foremast, is a dangerous and unnerving situation. In such a thick fog there is no chance of seeing fore or aft, to weather or lee, no point in seeing up, and so the only way of determining position is to look down, or, more correctly, to feel what is below by means of a lead line.

  To sound with a hand lead, a man stands on the fore chainwale, secured by a breast rope, and throws the lead forward, allowing the line to run out until he feels the weight hit bottom. The line is marked off at various fathom intervals, and the man in the chains sings out to indicate the depth at which the weight found bottom; “By the mark, five!” or “And a half five!” or “By the deep six!” A master who knows the waters can thus feel his way through the fog by measuring the depth, relying on his knowledge and intuition honed by years of experience.

  It was in a similar situation that Ezra Rumstick found himself now, feeling his way through the fog, though in this case it was obfuscation and treachery, and not mist, that obscured his way. The interview with Bolingbroke had parted the fog a bit, but only a bit. Jonah had confirmed that the duel was a concocted affair, arranged for reasons unknown to him by men far more powerful than he. Bolingbroke had given them one name: Ness.

  Between Rumstick and Tillinghast they knew two men of that name. One was a blockmaker in the Northern Liberties. The other was secretary to James McHenry, who was secretary of war to President John Adams, a holdover, as most were, from the Washington administration. Both Rumstick and Tillinghast had a pretty good idea of which was the Ness to whom Bolingbroke referred.

  “This whole thing,” Rumstick said, making a wide sweeping gesture to encompass the wh
ole affair, “it’s like French philosophy or some such, it doesn’t make any kind of sense.”

  Tillinghast nodded. It was the morning after they had let Bolingbroke go, and so, fortified with coffee and a substantial breakfast, they met to discuss their next move. Rumstick liked discussing things with Tillinghast, who could usually see when Rumstick was getting far off course and was not afraid to say it.

  “No sense,” Tillinghast said. “At least none that we can see. Yet.”

  “Oxnard’s no friend of the administration,” Rumstick said, trying to put things into some logical framework. “Far from it. He’s an associate of that whore’s son Benjamin Franklin Bache and all those Jeffersonian disciples.”

  “And Ness is part of the administration, and they hate Oxnard and his lot as much as Oxnard hates them,” Tillinghast supplied.

  “Right. So if Ness tries to get Jack killed, he robs Oxnard of a good captain. Hurts him,” Rumstick suggested, but Tillinghast just frowned.

  “True enough,” Tillinghast said. “But it don’t answer. Someone from Adams’s administration having the son of one of Adams’s biggest supporters in Congress killed just so Oxnard loses a good captain? Be more effective to burn his ship. No. It’s got to be something more than that.”

  Rumstick nodded and leaned back. Tillinghast was right. This was more complex by half.

  “If there is one thing I learned back in the war,” Rumstick said, a turn of phrase he used quite often, there being many things that he learned back in the war, “it’s that the bold move is generally the best move, do you see? None of this tacking and wearing and weather gauge nonsense. It’s always best to go right at them.”

  “Except those times when it ain’t,” Tillinghast said.

  “Well, certainly, except those times. But generally, right at them, I say.”

  So that was the strategy they agreed upon, if strategy it could be called. Right at them. And by “them” Rumstick meant “Ness,” because Ness was the only target in sight.

  Ness, Jonathan Ness of North Carolina, who had been with Nathanael Greene during the brutal hit-and-run fighting against Cornwallis in his home state and had fought at Guilford Courthouse, was now getting corpulent in his older years, comfortable and prosperous. He dined nearly every day at the City Tavern, and Rumstick, who also dined there on occasion, would generally see him there. They had a nodding acquaintance, and so Ness was in no way surprised to see Rumstick step into the big, low-ceilinged room and make a gesture of greeting. He was more surprised when Rumstick crossed the room to his table, just to the right of the fireplace, unused now in the warming days of spring, and, uninvited, pulled out a chair and sat opposite him.

  “Captain Rumstick, good day, pray have a seat,” Ness said as Rumstick settled himself. Rumstick had had chairs collapse under him, and he always sat with care.

  “Mr. Ness, good day,” Rumstick said, and seeing Ness had been perusing the pages of Bache’s Aurora said, “You’ve gone over to the other side, I see.”

  Ness looked at the paper as if surprised to see it there. “No, nothing of the kind. But I do like to keep up with what that seditious dog is printing. It’s the only way to stay ahead of the vermin, you know, though I do feel the need for a damned good washing up after touching the thing.”

  One of the tavern girls brought a pewter mug of ale, because Rumstick was well enough known that they did not need to ask his preference. He thanked her, took a moment to regard her with some admiration, then turned back to Ness. “Quite right, know your enemy and that,” he said. “Say, I had the chance to speak with a friend of yours just yesterday, Jonah Bolingbroke. He sends his regards.”

  Ness frowned. “Jonah Bolingbroke? Do I know a fellow of that name? I don’t recall.” There was nothing disingenuous in the reply, no note of mendacity, at least not that Rumstick could hear. He wished, as he often did, that Isaac Biddlecomb was there, because Isaac was much more adept at detecting such things. But he did not want to bring Isaac into this, not until he had a better sense of what was acting.

  “Bolingbroke?” Rumstick said. “Do you not know him? A seaman, of sorts.”

  “No,” Ness said. “I know few seamen, I must admit. Yourself and Captain Biddlecomb, of course, and a few others. Captain Barry. If one properly calls men of your status ‘seamen.’ I recall no Bolingbroke.”

  “Captain Biddlecomb…” Rumstick said. “Funny you should mention him, because this concerns him. Not Isaac, mind, but Jack, his son. Jack Biddlecomb. Just made captain of the ship Abigail. Owned by Robert Oxnard, of all people.”

  “Really? Oxnard? I should not think Robert Oxnard would do any favors for the son of Isaac Biddlecomb,” Ness said, but this time Rumstick was sure he heard something, some catch in Ness’s voice, some note that was off, just a bit, as if Ness could suddenly see where this was heading.

  “No, I would not reckon Oxnard would do any favors for Isaac, though Jack’s a damned fine seaman, make no mistake, and a good choice for master.” Rumstick leaned closer, and let his voice drop to a more conspiratorial level. Time to cast the lead. “But here’s the thing, Ness. Someone, it seems, did not care to see Jack sail, and he paid this rascal Bolingbroke to engage Jack in a duel to stop him. Do you have any notion of who might have done such a thing?”

  “Why in God’s name would I have any idea of who would do that?” Ness said, but now the note in his voice was unmistakable, and even Rumstick, who could be thick as a first rate’s main-wale, and knew it, could see Ness knew more than he claimed to know. Indeed, he could hardly know less.

  Rumstick leaned back, held up his hands. “Of course, of course, I did not mean to suggest anything. You could not be mixed up in this bloody business, I’m sure of it. But this Bolingbroke cove has become pretty talkative of late, with some persuasion, mind you, and though he certainly did not say you were in any way involved in this, he gave me the idea that some pretty important people might be. And sure, you are the most important fellow I know, in the government line.”

  Ness gave a wave of his hand, a gesture of dismissal. “I am no one of any importance, I assure you,” he said, sounding a bit flattered nonetheless. “But I’m afraid I know nothing of this affair.”

  “Very well,” Rumstick said. “I reckoned I should speak to you first, and now I’ve done so.”

  “First?” Ness said. “To whom else might you speak? If you’ll forgive the inquiry.”

  “Never think on it. The sheriff, I suppose, is the fellow to see about this. There’s something acting here, and I’ll warrant it’s criminal.”

  “The sheriff?” Ness said, his stoicism slipping a bit further still. “Not a discreet man at all.”

  “No, he’s not,” Rumstick said. He tapped the copy of the Aurora lying on the table. “Sometimes I think he goes direct to that whoremonger Bache with everything that comes his way. If I go to him, it will be all over this paper, and I don’t reckon Bache will be singing the praises of the administration. Hell, he’ll damn Adams and those who serve him for nothing, but if it happens they have some connection to this thing with Jack, I reckon Bache will find it, and then the cat’s out of the bag. But there’s nothing for it.”

  “Now see here, Rumstick,” Ness began, but then with some effort altered the tone of his words. “I may be able to make a few inquiries, ask around. People hear things, you know. Before you speak with the sheriff, I may be able to find some hint of what this Bolingbroke was about.”

  “I would be very much in your debt if you would,” Rumstick said, and he held Ness’s eyes in such a way as to convey the very earnestness of his threat. “I would be very much in your debt if you was to find something out tonight, and tell me what you know on the morrow. Here. This same time.” He tapped the Aurora with a beefy finger. He stood and left Ness open-mouthed but with nothing more to say.

  * * *

  It was another two days before Abigail dropped anchor in three fathoms of clear, aquamarine water, under the leering guns of a British sevent
y-four. They were not in Barbados, their intended destination. They had not even tried to reach Barbados. Rather, after hearing the persuasive council of Charles Frost, Jack had opted to run for English Harbour in Antigua. It was a place where Frost was well known, or so he insisted, a place where he knew the right people, people who could be of great service in getting Abigail safely to her stated destination.

  With that one happy shot into L’Armançon’s mizzen chains, Abigail had brought down the Frenchman’s mizzen and crippled her, and Jack knew she would remain crippled for a quarter of an hour at least as they cleared the wreckage away. Jack’s blood was up by then, and his ship was hove to where the Frenchman’s guns could not reach and for a moment he considered remaining where he was, pouring shot into her, beating her into surrender.

  And then he realized that was madness. How am I to take her as a prize, how would I secure the prisoners? he wondered. But even that question was insane. Prize? he thought. What in hell am I thinking? We’re not at war with France, but if I keep shooting at this fellow, we damn well will be!

  He had no notion of what L’Armançon was about, attacking them as she had, but whatever it was, he did not care to make it worse. He ordered the sails trimmed, the helm put down, and they left the shattered Frenchman in their wake.

  Abigail had not come through the encounter unscathed. Far from it. A roundshot through the great cabin windows had made a direct hit on Jack’s sideboard, obliterating all of the fine dinner service his mother had insisted he take and spilling half his wine stores on the deck, so that it looked like a butcher had been at work on the painted canvas floor cloth. The chimney on the caboose had been blown clean over the side, the mizzenmast was badly wounded, and a surprising amount of rigging had been torn up.