Jonas faced his best helmsman aft. The man's task was to align perfectly his wheel center and Feather's mainmast on whichever boat Finday chose. Then he was to hold it there. Steady as a stone it had to be so that Finday need only worry over his distance.
The light winds helped and the flat sailing with little pitch allowed Finday to adjust with his elevation screw.
Accurate cannon fire was always difficult. A moving deck, slight variations in powder strength, a difference in ball weight—all were problems. To Feather's advantage, the rifled guns spun their balls, which made them fly true. And then there was Finday. Finday could shoot. Some few men had that knack. Rob Shatto, back in Sherman's Valley had it with his long rifle. Jonas got a little from his father's long training. Men that knew how might hit at extreme ranges. Finday was about to test his skills.
The mast lookout called that Gaspar's brigantine had turned and was following them south. The sailing canoe had made contact and now appeared to be heading for Redfish Pass to join in the chase. Hawk acknowledged but his mind was on Finday and his gun.
"We are ready, gunner," Jonas called. "Raise a hand and we will fine our direction. We'll hold it till you've fired."
Finday crouched alongside his gun, adjusting his elevation screw. The gun barrel lay almost flat, like sighting a rifle, Jonas thought.
Finday's other hand went to the gunlock and the pan flashed. The cannon's crack launched pelicans and seagull flocks. Gaspar would hear it and grind his teeth. The cannon recoiled along its tracks, bringing up short and positioned for reloading.
All eyes sought the ball's flight. Then it struck, a water spurt, in line but beyond its target. A crewman swore, but Jonas was undisturbed. Hits did not come automatically. Finday would adjust. Jonas suspected even their first shot had whistled alarmingly close to the ears of the pirate oarsmen.
Reloaded, the gun was run forward and the helmsman concentrated on his alignment. In the ship's bow the leadmen chanted water depth. The masthead lookout watched forward, looking down onto the water in search of shallows. Feather ghosted on, forcing pirate rowers to work to stay even. Finday was again ready.
Through his telescope, Jonas saw the second ball strike. The hit was close alongside. It shattered an oar and flung rowers about. Better, Jonas thought. If many shots did that well pirate boats would run out of oars before Feather's crew grew short of balls.
Finday's fifth shot was a solid hit. Jonas thought the ball struck exactly on the boat's stem and ripped her length. The craft fell apart and quickly swamped. A sailing boat altered course to gather survivors. One finished, Hawk measured. Many to go.
The one-sided battle continued southward. With increasing heat the wind softened and Feather answered her helm slowly. Spread widely, the pirate boats hung on. If they fell beyond range they would be out of the race, but by the end of the first hour, Finday had sunk a second craft—which proved keeping up to be dangerous.
The second sinking had been a fine shot. Discovering that they were the target, the pirate rowers had rested on their oars allowing the boat to lose ground, probably expecting the gunner to turn to another craft. Instead, Finday had waited until the pirates drifted sideways. He planted his ball solidly amidships. Splinters flew and the boat swamped. Pirates crawled onto a sandy bank and shook fists and weapons. A pair lay as though wounded.
Smoke begrimed and wearied, Finday came forward to Jonas to talk about it. They imagined the exhaustion playing among the pirate oarsmen. Early enthusiasm had overloaded their boats. Though they traded places to rest, the rowers had to heave the boats through the water. How long they could continue was an important consideration.
"I think we should take the sailboats, Jonas. The others are wearing down. The wind should build in the afternoon and only sails will keep with us."
"Agreed, Finday." Jonas winced as the ship's keel scraped the bottom. "You were right about thin water, mate, but if we can go another hour the rowers will be done. If we ground after that we'll have time to edge off—assuming you can hole those sailboats."
Jonas handed his telescope to Finday who examined the sailboats coming almost in a line.
"Can you hit them, Finday?"
"They are bigger targets, Jonas. Those rowboats don't offer much. A foot or two off and you get nothing. With the gun clean and cool we'll blow the sailboats half way to hell."
This time Jonas went up the mainmast and stood on the gaff. The lookout was perfect. He could see across Sanibel Island to where Gaspar's topman looked back at him. Behind, the pirate boats left puny wakes and, from above, Jonas could judge the rowers' short and weary strokes.
Finday's first shot fell to port and the gunner snarled angrily at the helmsman. The mate's irritation was biting and Jonas could see tension and tighter concentration as his steersman aligned wheel, mast, and the distant sailboat.
Then Finday's skills came together. A ball tore away a gaff. Another destroyed a gunnel and threw men into the water. A ball skipped and stove a bow on its way through the bowels of the craft.
Finday's shouted commands swung Feather, turning her the fraction needed to align the second sail and, with an almost careless twist of his elevating knob, Finday began destruction of the last sailboat.
The rifled gun cracked and slammed against its lashings. Men swabbed, dried, and reloaded. The lock was primed and the gun was heaved forward to crack again.
Jonas judged it to be a shot every two minutes. Naval cannon were worked faster but they were dump loaded and barely aimed. Finday fired with precision and devastating accuracy.
From his perch Jonas watched the cannon's effect with awe. Finday had ceased missing. He had the feel of it now and the pirates had no chance. Desperately, they dropped sail, hoping Feather would move beyond range. Finday never faltered. A touch higher rose his gun's muzzle and another ball crashed into the pirate. Men leaped for their lives and already burdened rowing boats came to take them aboard.
The sailboat rolled onto its side and sank with only a gunnel showing. Feather raised a ragged cheer and Jonas leaned against his mast with some contentment.
Ever farther astern the rowing boats milled. They were out of it now. Even the wind was helping as it freshened from the west and Jonas felt another knot of speed beneath him.
Not too fast, Jonas thought. With better wind offshore, Gaspar would be waiting below Sanibel. For Gaspar, Hawk's Feather would need the night.
Secrecy would be their ally. Using the dark they might slip past Gaspar's blockade. But slicing toward them like a barracuda came the sailing canoe that had visited Gaspar's brigantine. It was a fragile craft that required two men's constant attention, but it was swift. Perfect for calm waters, the canoe sailed on a breath. Jonas cursed the thing. Wherever they went, it could lurk near them to signal Jose Gaspar.
Like a mosquito the canoe darted abreast. Beyond reach of the ship's muskets the craft taunted them. Never did it become a target for fore or aft cannons. If Jonas attempted to turn his ship the canoe too would turn in perfect safety. Jonas longed for his squirrel rifle.
Finday shared his exasperated disgusted that such a cockleshell could with impunity harass them. One shot, that was all he would ask, but the pirates gave him none.
Unable to act, Jonas chose to ignore the canoe's antics, which seemed to encourage its sailors to sail even closer to their enemy. Smooth as quicksilver they darted in and away, shouting Spanish threats and promises of Gaspar's certain vengeance.
Evermore daring, the canoe sailed across Feather's bow and swept along the ship's port side while Hawk's crewmen returned the pirates' cursing in kind.
Then the canoe struck. From a swift reach it ground to a halt in half its length. The mast fell forward in a welter of sail and lines and both occupants were hurled over the bow to land and rake across a barely submerged oyster bar.
For an instant Feather was silent in astonishment. The elated roar of those who saw brought the rest running. The sight was hilarious. The gutted canoe wit
h its smashed rigging lay aground. Only feeble movements came from the pirates lying atop the oysters. Tension left Hawk's ship and men slapped at each other and stomped feet like pleased children.
Jonas shook his head almost in disbelief and Finday appeared all teeth as he grinned back. Their most immediate danger had torn itself into flotsam.
Finday said, "Jonas, that was one of the finest pieces of sailing I've laid eyes on. Maybe they would do it again if we asked."
Jonas took a look through his telescope. "Finday, those two slid across an oyster bar. Just about flayed 'em alive."
He looked far down the sound. Now there was only Gaspar.
+++
Feather had no charts to guide her passage among the bars and around the islands until she could gam safety in the Gulf. What Hawk and Finday had seen on their cannon cleaning venture was their only knowledge of the water south of Sanibel.
Swift water usually meant a deep channel or, they might ride a tide to safety. But Gaspar would be there. Before dark they had seen his sails already blockading the outlet where a large river emptied into bay and Gulf.
The pirates would wait. Feather could not. If she tried, even the rowing boats would finally reach her. From Gaspar's brigantine would come boarders in longboats and, in close quarters, the rifled guns would not hold the pirates at bay.
If a great wind came Feather might storm past, risking a single broadside. But the night was as soft as the day. Barely moving, Feather would be blasted to chips by Gaspar's guns.
Jonas suggested the way. It was daring, perhaps impossible. The idea had lurked in his mind since his time on Cayo Costa. Finday almost groaned at the risk but it might succeed. In the end, they saw no other chance. Hawk's Feather was made ready.
A dozen yards out, along most Gulf shorelines, ran a shallow gully called a swash channel. Wave action swept the hollow creating a depth that could barely be walked through. Feather drew four feet. She would float in such a channel.
Using a long cable, walking beach or shallows, the men of Feather would tow her through. While Gaspar guarded the deep, listening and watching, Feather would slide past unseen and unsuspected. Could it work? Grim-faced, Hawk's crew prepared.
Aboard ship, sails were furled. Two men with poles would assist the helmsman by pushing bow or stern as needed. Directions would be passed in whispers and progress would be deliberately slow and exceedingly quiet.
Finday and another went ahead of the towline. Only Jonas had little to do. Barefooted, he padded about Feather's deck, watching the deep water to their port and listening intently for sounds from Gaspar's ship.
Feather towed as gently as her name. Merely leaning into the cable got her moving. Then she glided almost effortlessly. If the channels held, if they were not seen or heard, they could succeed.
Again Jonas Hawk wished for a black night. As usual a perfect sky gave too good visibility, yet, by moving slowly, Feather's short masts might not be noticed against the jungle. Gaspar's attention would be on navigable water, not toward beach shallows. Could Feather gain a mile an hour without detection? How far had they to go before passing Gaspar's blockade? Hawk's guess was four miles.
Gaspar too had plans. He had sent out his longboats. Finday heard them first and his signal halted Feather's advance. Fearful even to move, the pole men held the ship against a scrape of bottom that might be noticed and men crouched as though their small presence might betray the loom of the ship they towed.
With his ship in mid-channel and a longboat scouting each way, the pirate had neatly corked the navigable water. If Feather attempted passage, longboats or ship would discover her and the brigantine would bring her array of cannon into action.
Silent as corpses—so silent leaping fish sounded loudly—Hawk and his men waited. The creak of oarlocks came clearly and when a pirate coughed, the sound seemed upon them. Jonas felt sweat break on his body and his heart beat a tattoo that must surely be heard. The ship groaned slightly in normal working and Jonas saw the helmsman's shoulders hunch in anguish.
On the water a voice commanded and the pirates' rowing rhythm altered. There was a surge of backwatering and again the creaking grind of oarlocks. A flash of disturbed water caught Jonas' eye and he thought a shape moved at vision limits.
The rowing smoothed and another voice spoke. Subdued laughter answered. Still braced into statues, Hawk's company waited, but the longboat had turned and was pulling steadily away.
Slowly tension died. Men straightened and shrugged cramped muscles. It had been as near to discovery as was possible and still escape undetected. Another stroke could have undone them. A single perceptive glance would have betrayed a skyline masthead or the dark and too solid shape of Feather's hull.
Certain that a ship could not be against the shore, the pirates had failed to see. Confidence surged in Jonas Hawk. This was Gaspar's line. Before the longboat came again, Feather would be through. Given any lead. Feather's speed would prevail. If it did not, Finday's rifled gun would.
Beneath him, Jonas felt his ship move as his men again took up the tow. Beside him the jungle moved astern. He wondered what they would have done if Gaspar had stationed a lookout ashore. It made Hawk's toes curl. Far out on the dark water something thumped and a man cursed. Nothing to do with them, Hawk's Feather was away.
+++
PART THREE
Chapter 16 - Nassau, in The Bahamas
Senior Lieutenant Wingate, Captain Wingate, through his command of HMS Frigate Hurricane, frowned back at his ship. It hung from a pair of anchors in the tidal race of New Providence Island. He hated the anchorage. Each tide the ship swung one hundred and eighty degrees. Anchors reset, bent, or slipped as powerful currents strained ground tackle. Alert watches with a spare anchor catted were essential.
The place had a history of damaged or lost vessels that should disturb any attentive captain. He wished himself at sea with a strong wind driving him away from the sticky heat of Nassau—and from his government's latest requests.
Wingate turned uphill, leaving behind Bay Street and its business squalor. Higher on the hill a breeze might stir and government house did offer more pleasant company than that of his equally bored ship's officers.
It was unseemly, a Captain of the Royal Navy huffing his way through the tropical heat, but Wingate's purse was as thin as the soles of his worn, next to best, dress shoes. Carriaged arrivals were not for him. No wealthy sponsor stood behind Lieutenant Wingate. His naval posting provided his income. Still, the civilian commissioner had, in his vague way, hinted that Captain Wingate's forthcoming meeting might fatten that officer's purse. It was enough to bring Hurricane's captain ashore and to lean, almost willingly, into his climb to government house.
Wheezing only a little, Wingate again paused on the broad porch allowing the hoped for breeze to cool him and to once more frown down on his anchored command. His posting as Hurricane's captain had come less than two years before. The ship's previous master now languished on half pay, retired before his time following the disappearance of his ship's pay chest almost as his ship had cleared its home port.
Even the thought caused Wingate to shudder. How could anyone guard against such a disaster? He too could suffer poor fortune and find himself on the beach without means of gaining livelihood.
Wingate sighed. Life itself was a risk and advantage must be seized when encountered. He stepped inside the pleasantly shadowed building allowing hat and dress sword to be taken. Lord, the place was stifling. Yet, he and his ship must remain until the hurricane season had passed. Another long month, he supposed. Anything, Wingate thought, that could alleviate the boredom would be a blessing. If he could personally profit, well . . . that possibility could make up for many discomforts. Perhaps the Crown's Commissioner in this miserable backwater station had an opportunity worth consideration. They met with a young American. Wingate did not like Americans. He considered them traitorous colonists. This one had the look of the sea but his broadcloth was fine and there
was gold at wrist and throat. The Crown Commissioner was obsequious, almost fawning in his introductions. Captain Wingate smelled wealth. His greeting too became effusive and he smiled as widely as he knew how.
Jonas Hawk, the American, was brief. He was curt to the edge of toleration. Hawk, Wingate judged, held limited regard for British naval officers. Hawk's eye was cold and his words were clipped. He held high cards in the Spanish doubloons that he casually fingered from a heavy pouch at his waist. The gold thunked solidly as it was placed on the oaken table around which they gathered. Wingate felt his focus slip as a year's pay was moved beneath his very nose as casually as cracked walnuts.
The Crown's representative, as smooth as a Syrian oil peddler, described young Mr. Hawk's circumstances. Wingate tried to listen, but Hawk's fingers maneuvering the fascinating doubloons in various patterns made concentration difficult.
"Mr. Hawk, who has close association with the Cummens firms of Philadelphia, is establishing offices for his Feather Trading Company in our city."
Wingate had seen the double-ended schooner of that name tied to new docks along Bay Street.
"Mr. Hawk can describe his requests, as they concern our Royal Navy, far better than I could, Captain Wingate."
Eyes drifted meaningfully across the doubloons arrayed along the tabletop.
"Suffice to say that Mr. Hawk's interests are our interests. Any assistance you can offer will be appreciated and noted, Captain."
Hawk began.
"There are tensions between our nations, Captain. By establishing our offices, our warehouses, and our shipyards on British soil we expect to dampen the effects of opposing political positions.
"It is my wish to provide sound leadership, sound British leadership that is, for most positions here in Nassau.
Hawk's Feather (Perry County Frontier Series) Page 12
