Banners

by Diane Carey

  Some time after noon, Dieter approached him again, somewhat tentatively. Boyle saw him out of the corner of his eye.

  Dieter didn’t speak.

  Against the stern, water lapped like a big dog drinking out of its bowl.

  The first mate waited.

  “There,” Boyle spoke after a time. “Look there.”

  Dieter squinted out over the water, saw movement against the still land, climbed up into the shrouds for a better look, and hung there like a candle sconce on a wall. “I’ll be damned…”

  Boyle handed him the spyglass and asked, “How many?”

  The other man steadied his feet on the ratlines and peered into the brass tube. “Four sets of sails … a brig … a full-rigger … another brig … and in the rearguard that Portuguese ship. Sails are set for a southeastward course, I think. East-southeast.”

  “That’s what I see too.”

  “Seems he wasn’t quite forthcoming with us. How did you know?”

  “What time is it?”

  “Almost three.”

  “Note the sighting in the log. Let’s let them get another league or two out from land. Then make all sail and sheer up close. Call hands and get the guns loaded. Both round shot and grape. Quick march.”

  “Quick march, aye!” Dieter shot away to follow that command with specific orders to the gun crews, and to get the deck cleared for action. “All hands!”

  “Hoist ‘stop your intentions,’” Boyle said. “Let’s see what he does.”

  Not more than one hour later, the Portuguese man-of-war floated between the Comet and the three other vessels, which were obliged to trice up and wait to see what would happen. The three-masted cargo vessel and both two-masted brigs made a pretty picture floating so near each other against beautiful sky and the streak of jungle in the distance. Boyle took a moment from his calculations to enjoy that picture and wish he were a painter.

  The foreign ships had done as the stop intentions signal ordered, and Boyle wasn’t quite sure why. That man-of-war was big and could be intimidating if its captain wished, but the affirmative flag had been raised and they seemed to be complying with his order.

  The Portuguese man-of-war dispatched a boat to approach Comet, and in it was the officer whom Boyle had just this morning signaled, being rowed over by only one uniformed man. The Jacob’s ladder went over the side and the officer nimbly climbed aboard, where Boyle and Dieter stood waiting with the phalanx of Marines standing ready behind them, just for show.

  “Boa tarde, senhor,” the man said immediately, facing Boyle. “May I call you by name?”

  “I’m Captain Thomas Boyle. Boa tarde.”

  “I am Vascouselos de Millo, capitão of the Man-of-War Libra.”

  “The Privateer Comet welcomes you aboard, capitão,” Boyle offered. “What is your ship’s purpose in these waters, sir?”

  “We are a Portuguese national vessel, sir.”

  “Yes. What is your armament?”

  “Twenty thirty-two-pound heavy guns. One hundred sixty-five men-at-arms.”

  “You’re bristling indeed. What is your mission? Why are you sailing with these three cargo ships? What is their nation of origin? They are flying no banners.”

  “They are under our protection. Our government’s protection, I should rather say.”

  “Their nation of origin, please?”

  “They are … the ships themselves are of English origin.”

  Now it came out.

  “They are bound for Europe, not England,” the Portuguese captain quickly added.

  “Are the crews English?”

  “Oh … yes, most of them.”

  “Names of these vessels?” Boyle’s tone communicated to the other captain very clearly that he thought it inappropriate and sneaky that the English vessels quite purposefully bore no name boards or identification pennants.

  De Millo paused, deciding, then pointed at the nearest brig and evenly said, “That is the Bowes. The other brig is the Gambier, and the three-masted ship is the George. Why do you wish to know this information? You say you are a privateer?”

  Boyle nodded once, firmly, and went into his favorite speech. “I am an American cruiser in a time of war, sanctioned to subdue English merchant vessels on the high seas. The seas are the international highway of all nations and the United States claims as much right to use the open waters as any other nation. In time of war, we will capture English vessels if we can, and confiscate them, their cargo, and their crewmen.”

  “Disturbing,” the other captain said. “Show me your authority to engage in such molestation.”

  “John, if you will,” Boyle called.

  Dieter instantly produced the letter of marque, which he had kept tucked inside his trouser belt at moments like this. He whipped it into Boyle’s waiting hand without taking his eyes off those of the Portuguese captain.

  Several quiet moments went by as Captain de Millo studiously read the letter of marque with the patience and interest of a historian. His eyebrows went up and down each time something fascinated him in the wording of the document, until finally he scanned the signatures of the president and the secretary of war.

  “You see now,” Boyle began, “that I am authorized to restrain shipping involved with English trade. As a Portuguese-flagged vessel, you have no right to protect English merchant ships.”

  “In fact I do, sir. Those ships carry Portuguese-owned cargo. They are not carrying goods bound for England. You will not be seizing the stuffs of English commerce—”

  “Then Portugal should not be engaging in deals with the English while England is at war. It is interference.”

  “Portugal has no strife with England. You are one ship, sir. We are four, armed, ready. Like you, I have no desire to engage in unpleasantness. Portugal wishes to be friendly with America, of course. As such, I am an ambassador of my country, charged to make only the most benevolent of gestures.”

  “Nor is it our plan to harass Portugal,” Boyle said. “Your ship will be allowed to pass freely through these waters. However, the English ships must heave to and surrender to us.”

  “Does America have this allowance? To molest the trade of anyone it targets?”

  “As much right as any nation at war. We have the right to harm our enemy. Captain de Millo, you look confused.”

  “You say you are a privateer.”

  “Yes.”

  “But you talk of nations and enemies. If there is firing of guns, there will be damages done to all our vessels—”

  “Certainly.”

  “—and thus damaged the ships will not likely make port so far away as the United States. You will have no profit from them. Why would you risk so much for a low return?”

  “We are privateers, but we’re also patriots. Americans defending America. Tactically, we seek to deprive England of those three ships.”

  “So you are soldiers.”

  “At home, I was company commander of Baltimore’s 51st Regiment,” Boyle said lightly. “I liked the uniform.”

  The other captain smiled, and even laughed. “A man of all seasons!”

  Boyle smiled too. “A few seasons, anyway. I didn’t care for the hat, though.”

  They chatted briefly about anything other than business—the weather, fine for sailing, the passage from Lisbon, uncomfortably warm, the harvest season of plump fruits enjoyed by the Libra’s crew and replenished in Pernambuco. There was a brief—very brief—tour below decks to look at the configuration of the cabins and the hold, deliberately a distraction from touring the deck and counting ammunition and marines. Both captains knew what was going on, and both played the game. Boyle showed off his new collection of signal flags, without a single frayed stitch, de Millo marveled over the manly woodwork of Boyle’s cabin, done by the expert hand of the ship’s carpenter, who in private life was a decorative woodcarver for Baltimore’s wealthy. And finally, unavoidably, back to the subject of the day—that their missions were mutually exclusive. />
  “Then we are at an impasse,” de Millo said as he was escorted back to the Jacob’s ladder. “I regret any unfriendliness that should pass between us, Mr. Boyle.”

  “If it does, you will be the aggressor,” Boyle promised. “I will not fire first. As you can see, my ship is well appointed for such events and we will not shrink. Better that your charges should surrender themselves and their cargo rather than engage in a costly battle.”

  “My vessel is a man-of-war, built to engage in battles,” de Millo responded reasonably. “The English vessels are armed also and prepared to defend themselves. They carry fourteen, ten, and ten guns, a formidable force when combined with my twenty. I shall go aboard my ship and convey this communication to my officers and to the English ships. Will you do the same? Confer with your officers?”

  “Of course.”

  “Be honest with them about their chances of catastrophe. Then also convey to them that they will be attacking ships carrying wheat to the nation of Portugal and would be harming Portuguese investors and the people of Portugal, not the English.”

  “You have my word.” He held a hand out again to John Dieter, who produced a long-necked bottle with a ribbon tied around the neck. “Please accept this wine as a gift. It’s from the cellar of a prominent Maryland doctor who is an oenophile and a valued friend. Good body, round, toasty, with a lingering finish. It’s my favorite.”

  “Elegant,” de Millo said as he held the bottle up to the sun. “A rich color. After all is over, perhaps you will swim over and join me in a glass.”

  “If your raft is big enough, I’ll be there.”

  De Millo smiled again. The two men shook hands as if they had known each other for years.

  “Ready about!”

  The fifth tack. Turn, turn, turn, the Comet tacked and jibed again and again. She was simply much faster than the Libra and the English ships, and not loaded down with cargo. That and one aspect usually regarded as a good thing, today rather a hindrance, and that was Boyle’s own brilliant sailing ability. He knew he had it, everyone said he did—and he didn’t mind saying it himself, for it was his greatest accomplishment and he was proud—still he couldn’t eliminate the quickness and teamsmanship of his officers and the crew they had unremittingly trained. When Comet approached the convoy and made a formal demand that they back their topsails and heave to, the schooner then shot past them like a raging rocket and was forced to twist around and come back. The only hole in his system was that Boyle hadn’t figured out how to dial down their efficiency at the right moments. The maneuvers were purposefully threatening, designed to show the English ships and their Portuguese guard that they couldn’t hope to outrun the privateers.

  The three English ships bunched together on the rolling ocean water in some kind of effort to pool their firepower or protect each other, but that only helped Boyle. They weren’t trying to run, but huddled together as the shark of Baltimore circled them, assuming the Libra would take on the Comet and do their defensive work.

  By now it was eight o’clock and soon the sun would dip and darken. The sky was clear and he hoped there would be a bright moon.

  De Millo was true to his word—he did not fire his guns yet, but held his temper and tried to maneuver the much-larger battleship between the schooner and the English vessels. This proved impossible, because like a fly the Comet could spin around and be everywhere at once, while the man-of-war could not shift position that quickly, but opportunity was a living thing and had its own idea. Finally, inevitably, when Comet came abeam de Millo shouted a muffled order and the Libra opened up her starboard guns on Comet.

  Solid iron balls and hot grape shot blasted into the Comet’s yellow sides. The tremendous blow shook the whole ship and made her stumble. Half the men were knocked to their knees, but the aim was low so the deck wasn’t raked nor was the rigging damaged. Cries of pain and surprise erupted, but almost instantly faded as the men controlled themselves, even the injured. Part of the training, yes, but also pure bravery. They gritted their teeth and held their voices even as they watched their own blood flow, for they were experienced fighting men now and knew orders had to be heard. The wounded were dragged below very quickly and even the Marines took their places if necessary, so no position went unmanned as the schooner blew forward.

  De Millo had made a tactical error—he had fired while Comet sped between Libra and one of the brigs. Some of the man-of-war’s fire blew past Comet’s stern and smashed away two of the brig’s gun ports.

  Finally free of his promise not to fire first, Boyle called, “John, right now!”

  “Both sides, fire!” Dieter shouted.

  Comet shuddered to her bones as both batteries opened up. But this was a different kind of shudder, a controlled and useful kind. Because both sides fired at the same time, the schooner’s way was not disrupted and she shot forward out from the gauntlet of the two vessels, leaving behind a dirty mess of wreckage. Through the smoke Boyle could see that the Bowes’ fore and main channels were both shattered and several shrouds had come undone, leaving both masts unevenly supported and waving as if they were sick. Nothing was so disarming to any sailor than to see masts wobble that way.

  And on the Libra, her high sides were in splinters. Boyle’s stumpy, powerful carronades had pounded her bulwarks as if she were a punching bag, cracking planks and smashing deadeyes. The choice in armaments was making a big difference at close range.

  “They’re trying to move apart,” he said as the English vessels bobbled around, disorganized, probably hoping to give Libra more room to move. He glanced at Wade. “Circle him when I say.”

  “Standing by,” William Wade assured from where he and two other men worked the tackles that moved the heavy tiller this way or that.

  Even though Dieter was forward at the jibs, flashing about like an animated figurehead, he saw immediately what Boyle was up to and ordered the heads’ls dumped again, but faster this time since the schooner wasn’t going to make a complete tacking maneuver, and also brailed up the fore long enough for the ship to twist to a new course.

  The men’s arms spun like wheels, the foresail shot out again and caught the wind, the headsails were sheeted home and filled so smartly that each actually made a loud snap. The Comet jumped forward, slicing through the water with her nose down and a purpose in her heart. She shot past the other ships before another shot could be armed and fired.

  “Ready about!” With one hand Boyle gave Dieter the signal they’d agreed upon to dump the headsails during the maneuver. “Helm’s alee!”

  While Wade and a deckhand worked together on the tackles to haul the big tiller to leeward, the men at the headsail sheets cast off, dumping the air out of the staysail and jibs. Those huge headsails whipped violently, but the men at the lazy sheets on the other side did not haul in yet. Instead, they held on to those mad sheets and waited for Dieter’s signal.

  The Comet spun around on her keel in the manner of a weathervane, seeming almost to lift itself from the water, turn, then drop in again. Once she was around and pointing back between the Libra and the Bowes, the sail handlers hauled in the sheets. The jibs and stays’l cracked full of air again and drove the ship nose-down like a hunting dog charging into a quail’s nest. Given those seconds, the gunners had reloaded.

  The Comet came around so fast that the English ships almost bumped each other in trying to stay away, obviously shaken by Boyle’s fearlessly tight approaches at such speeds. The schooner skated past them like nearby lightning, causing the men to duck and cower in case the guns went off or the marines opened fire.

  Gratified to see the English crews cowering, Boyle bit back a smile.

  The Bowes and the full-rigger George tried to separate, probably to give the man-of-war room to fight, but it didn’t work. Bowes turned without allowing enough room for the other brig, the Gambier, to also get out of the way, and those two nearly bumped. Boyle took the moment of wild confusion when the Bowes’ crew was distracted, to fire a broad
side into the full-rigger, almost beam-on.

  The George’s starboard mizzen shrouds dissolved, making the mizzen sails useless and forcing the crew to quickly trice up and hope the mast held long enough without snapping. They succeeded, but maneuvering by the stern was almost impossible now.

  Boyle’s crew gave a little cheer, then immediately got back to work.

  The breeze grew suddenly stiffer as night approached and the sun’s warmth dropped away. He watched the Libra, which was being blown downwind. Square-rigged, she simply couldn’t come back against the wind and would be forced to go around in a big circle. In desperation the man-of-war fired its stern chaser guns at Comet, which did some damage, but only to the name board.

  “God love a schooner,” he said, and patted the Comet’s rail. “De Millo has never fought one of us.”

  “And his first one had to be you,” Dieter said from over his shoulder.

  Boyle looked back and up, to see John Dieter standing on the main boom, hanging on to the mast hoops even while the sail was right out behind him. He wore a gray striped shirt with the arms cut off, giving his long tattooed arms a good audience and allowing him to move freely in all his thousand mate’s duties.

  When had he come aft? The man was a phantasm.

  From here Dieter was surveying the damage on the other ships.

  “What do you think?” Boyle asked.

  “Keep shooting. Don’t let ’em breathe.”

  “Reload all.”

  “Already done.”

  “Let’s hammer the full-rigger,” Dieter suggested. “They’re already crippled, with the mizzen shrouds blown. Let’s go for the main.”

  “The main on the other side,” Boyle refined.

  “Mighty!” Dieter plunged through the crowd of deckhands and Marines.

  Only then did Boyle recognize that the Marines were all armed and ready, and clearly annoyed that they hadn’t been able to shoot yet.