“Helm to leeward!” ordered Jacques. The helmsman obeyed, and the ship leaned into the wind. “Raise the windwards—hard astern!”
The crew obeyed with the same speed and efficiency as before, and the Calypso changed direction. Her rear sails billowed, and she moved gracefully in the new direction the captain had chosen. “Now, Master Tête-de-Fer!” Jacques exclaimed, watching the movements of his vessel with satisfaction, as a horseman follows the movements of his prize stallion. “You must steer us around the island, taking advantage of every small change in the wind to bring you closer in to the wind, and run parallel to the reef of rocks that extends from the passe des Cornes to Flac Cove.”
“Yes, sir!”
“Excellent! And now, I will bid you good night; wake me when the moon is up.”
With that, Jacques went off to sleep the untroubled slumber of those who are accustomed to treading a fine line between life and death. Within ten minutes he was as deeply asleep as the lowliest of his crewmen.
XXX
THE BATTLE
Ironhead kept his word. He guided the Calypso safely through the channel made by the sea as it passes between Coin-de-Mire and île Plate and, rounding the passe des Cornes and the île d’Ambre, brought the ship as close as he could to the coast. At half past midnight, when the moon shone south of Rodrigues Island, he woke the captain as he had been instructed.
Immediately after coming on deck, Jacques swept the horizon with the piercing gaze that only sailors seem to possess. The wind was blowing fresh and brisk east-northeast, and Port Bourbon lay nine miles off the starboard side. There was no sign of the ship that had been pursuing them, either behind them, or to the port side, or ahead of them.
Jacques had played the game perfectly. If the frigate, which they appeared to have lost during the night, had continued sailing to the east, she would not be able to make up the time at daybreak and catch up to the Calypso; they would be safe. If, on the other hand, the pursuing captain had figured out Jacques’s maneuver and followed them, they could still hide by skirting the coastline and shielding themselves in one of the many small coves that dotted it.
As Jacques peered at the horizon with his spyglass, he felt someone touch him lightly on the shoulder. He turned around; it was Georges. “Ah, so it’s you!” he said, holding out his hand.
“What news, my brother?” the young man asked.
“None, at present,” Jacques replied. “It is still too dark to see the Leicester; if she is out there behind us. We’ll know a good deal more at daybreak.” He broke off, cocking his head. “Ah!”
“What is it?” Georges asked.
“Nothing; merely a small shift in the wind.”
“In our favor?”
“Yes, if indeed the frigate is still pursuing the same course as we are. If she isn’t, the wind will benefit us both. In any case, we must take advantage of it!” He turned to the mate who had relieved Ironhead. “Hoist the studding-sails!” he cried.
“Hoist the studding-sails!” the sailor called.
Immediately five white sails unfurled and billowed out like clouds from the topsail, to be speedily tied to the port side of the mainsails. The brigantine seemed to leap forward. George noticed this and made an admiring remark to his brother.
“Yes,” replied Jacques proudly, “she is a bit like your Antrim—sensitive and responsive to the bit, and she never requires a flogging to make her gallop. Simply give her enough sail, and she will run with swiftness and style.”
“How many knots do you suppose we are going now?” Georges inquired.
“Cast out the log!” Jacques shouted to his men, and this was immediately done. “How many knots?”
“Eleven, Captain.”
“Two knots faster than we were going before. We cannot ask any more from a beast of wood, canvas, and iron,” Jacques said. “If we had any ship on our heels other than that demon of a Leicester, I would dearly love to lead her a merry chase as far as the Cape of Good Hope—and then say good night and leave her there.”
Georges did not reply. The two brothers paced the deck in companionable silence. Jacques, though, continued to strain his eyes into the darkness aft of the Calypso; finally he stopped and leaned over the rail.
The night seemed to be lifting a bit, though the first streaks of daylight were still barely visible on the horizon. Even in this faint light, like a fog dissipating to make way for bluish dawn, Jacques fancied that he could make out the form of the frigate, about fifteen miles distant, following their exact course. He opened his mouth to tell Georges what he saw, but he was interrupted by the cry of the lookout in the crow’s nest: “Sail astern!”
“Yes, yes,” said Jacques, as if speaking to himself. “I see her. They have followed our track as surely as if we had left behind a trail of crumbs. Hmm…they must have gone between île Plate and île Ronde instead of passing between Coin-de-Mire and île Plate. It cost them two hours—but nevertheless, here they are. There is someone on board who knows the sea very well indeed.”
“I see nothing,” said Georges, standing at his brother’s elbow.
“Look there,” said Jacques, pointing. “You can just make out her lower sails. And when she rises on a swell—like that, by God!—her trimmings flash in the light of sunrise. She looks for all the world like a whale rising out of the water to breathe; do you see?”
“Ah,” said Georges, nodding. “Yes. I see her now.”
“What do you see?” asked a soft voice from behind Georges’s shoulder. It was Sara.
“A beautiful sight, my love,” he replied. “The sunrise. But as there is no pleasure in this world that is not marred at least a little by pain, I must tell you that there is also a ship. Despite our hopes and my brother’s skill, we were not able to lose her in the night.”
“My dearest Georges,” said Sara calmly. “God, who has so miraculously preserved us thus far, will not desert us when we need him the most. Do not let the sight of our enemies shake your faith, my love. Watch the sun rise, instead. It is beautiful!”
Indeed, the rising sun was an awesome spectacle. The thick shadows of night gave way—reluctantly, it seemed—to a faint, blue-tinged gleam that spread upward from the horizon, gradually expanding and deepening from palest silver to soft rose, and then from deep rose to crimson. At length a violet cloud shot above the horizon like a monarch on his throne—the sun, king of the world, arriving to take possession of his vast and glorious empire.
It was the first time Sara had ever beheld a sunrise at sea. She stood as if paralyzed by the ecstasy of the moment, lost in a moment of spiritual faith, holding tightly to her husband’s hand. Georges, who had traveled the oceans enough to witness many a daybreak, was the first to look away—and gaze anew at the object that demanded their immediate attention.
The pursuing frigate was now less visible, lost in the glaring eastern light. The Calypso, on the other hand, could easily be seen; there was no doubt of that.
“So,” murmured Jacques, “he has seen us—there go his studding-sails.” He leaned over to whisper in his brother’s ear. “You might do well to prepare Sara, in some small way, for what is about to take place.”
“What is Jacques saying?” inquired Sara.
Georges smiled. “He doubts your courage, my love. I was about to set him straight.”
“When the moment comes, dearest husband, you have only to tell me what to do, and I will obey you.”
“That infernal frigate is sailing so fast that she might as well have wings!” grumbled Jacques. “My dear sister-in-law, did you ever happen to hear, at Port Louis, the name of this ship’s commander?”
“I saw him several times at my uncle’s,” the girl replied. “He is called George Paterson. But I do not think it is he who is captaining the Leicester now. Only two days ago I heard that he had fallen mortally ill.”
“Well, if they do not promote the first mate to captain when this Paterson dies, they will have done him a grave injustice!” Jacques
exclaimed. “I must say that there is a certain pleasure in dealing with such a clever fellow as this. Look how he handles his ship—like a skilled jockey on a prize racehorse, by God! If he can keep up that pace for five or six hours more, we will have quite a battle on our hands!”
“We will engage him, then!” exclaimed a new voice. It was Pierre Munier, who had just come on deck. His eyes shone with the ardor that always filled his soul in times of danger. Jacques grinned.
“Good morning, Father! I’m delighted to see you in such a mood. In a few hours we shall have need of every able hand on board!”
Sara paled slightly, and Georges felt her grip his hand. He turned to her, smiling. “Now, my dear, are you beginning to doubt your faith in the Almighty, after having so much trust in him?”
“No, of course not,” the girl replied. “Even when I hear the roaring of the cannons and the whistling of bullets, and even when I am tormented by the groans of the wounded, I will still be full of hope and faith, and certain that I will see my Georges once again, safe and sound. I cannot explain it, but there is something that tells me that we have already been forced to drink the bitterest dregs from our cup of unhappiness—and that, like shadows disappearing in sunlight, we will soon emerge from darkest night into the brilliance of day.”
“Bravo!” Jacques exclaimed. “You have a way with words, my girl! A lovely speech, indeed! I don’t see why we shouldn’t pull alongside this frigate, by God, and spare him the trouble, and us the boredom, of prolonging the chase any further! What do you say, Georges? Are you ready for such an experience?”
“I am for it,” Georges replied. “But tell me, are you not afraid that there is a British ship at anchor in Port Bourbon that might hear the cannons and come out to help her compatriot?”
“Blast it, Georges; you talk like Saint Jean Bouche d’Or! We will stay our course.” He turned as his lieutenant approached. “Ah, Master Tête-de-Fer! Your timing is perfect. As you see, we are just off Mont Brabant. Keep us west-southwest of the peak, if you please, and in the meantime we will go down to breakfast. Nourishment is always necessary, especially when one is not sure if he will ever eat again!”
Offering his arm to Sara, Jacques led Georges and Pierre Munier down the cabin stairs. Hoping to distract his guests from the immediate danger, he prolonged the meal as much as possible. Nearly two hours passed before they returned to the deck.
Jacques’s eyes went immediately to the Leicester. She was so close now that her gleaming guns were clearly visible. However, it appeared that Jacques had expected the enemy ship to be even nearer; his shoulders relaxed a bit. He looked aloft to make sure the sails were still in position, and motioned the first mate to his side. “Tell me, Master Tête-de-Fer,” he said, “do I delude myself, or have we gained a little speed during the past two hours?”
“Yes, Captain, you might say that,” the other man replied.
“What in blazes have you done to the ship, then?”
“Oh, a trifle or two. I changed our trim a bit, and ordered the men to the bow.”
Jacques smiled. “You are a credit to the ship, my dear fellow. Now, how much have we gained?”
Ironhead frowned. “Only one poor knot, I’m afraid. We’re at twelve now; I just cast the log. It will not serve us too well, I fear. They have increased their speed as well; we have a pretty clear view of their hull now. I daresay we’re dealing with a crafty old sea wolf who will plague us greatly before we are done with him! It puts me in mind of the other time we were pursued by the Leicester—Lord William Murray was her captain then, as I recall.”
A light seemed to go on in Jacques’s head. “Ah!” he cried, striking himself on the forehead. “Ye gods! Why did I not see it before? I’d bet you a thousand louis to a hundred, brother,” he said, turning to Georges, “that your mad governor himself is commanding that frigate. He is eager indeed to take his revenge!”
Georges looked thunderstruck. “Do you really think so?” he asked, rising and clutching his brother’s arm. “I confess—I will be glad if that is the case. I, too, have an insult to avenge.”
“Yes, by God,” said Jacques. “It is him; I’m sure of it now. There is not another man who could have followed our trace as he has done, the scoundrel! Quite an honor for a simple slaver like me, to do business with a commodore in the Royal Navy! Thank you, my dear Georges; you have brought me good fortune indeed!” With a hearty laugh, Jacques shook his brother’s hand.
Still, in the face of such a dangerous situation as an engagement with Lord William Murray, Jacques felt obliged to take additional precautions. He made a quick inspection of the brigantine. The hammocks had been neatly stowed; he now looked at his crew. They had instinctively divided themselves into groups, each gathered around the gun they would fire. Jacques was satisfied; his men obviously knew what to do as well as he did. No further instruction was necessary, after all. They all knew what was to come, and they were ready for it.
All of a sudden, the rolling of a drum was borne on a sea breeze from the Leicester to the Calypso. “Ah!” exclaimed Jacques. “No one could accuse them of tardiness! Come, men, let us follow their lead. The sailors of the Royal Navy are good examples indeed!” He took a deep breath and cried with all his strength, “Into the breach!” A second later the pounding of the Calypso’s own drum was heard, along with the piercing trill of a fife. The ship’s little trio of musicians emerged from the stern, made a circuit of the deck, and disappeared into the fore hatch.
The effect of this little musical display was magical. The men leapt to their posts, armed with light weaponry. Sailors climbed the masts with rifles; muskets were stacked on the deck, and cannons were readied in their portholes. Grenades were piled anywhere they could be easily seized and thrown onto the enemy ship, and lastly the boatswain ordered the decks cleared and the boarding planks hoisted into place.
Belowdecks, the activity was no less frenetic. The powder kegs were pried open, the safety lanterns lit, and the spare wheel and spars readied. Bulkheads were pulled down, and the captain’s cabin cleared of its furnishings; the two cannons it contained were rolled aft, ready for service.
Once the bustle had ceased, dead silence fell. Jacques moved around the ship swiftly and quietly, ensuring that everything was ready; every man was at his appointed post, and every piece of equipment placed precisely where it needed to be.
Still, Jacques knew deep in his bones that the engagement he was about to face would be one of the most serious of his life. His inspection was even more thorough than usual, and took a full thirty minutes. He scrutinized every detail, and spoke to every man.
By the time he returned to the bridge, the frigate had visibly gained on them. The two vessels were no more than a mile and a half apart. Another half an hour passed, during which barely a dozen words were exchanged aboard the Calypso. Her crew, officers, and passengers alike were enveloped in single-minded concentration. Each of our heroes’ physiognomies reflected their characters: Jacques looked carefree; Georges proud. Pierre Munier displayed fatherly solicitude, and Sara pure devotion.
All at once, there was a slight puff of smoke from the frigate. The British flag was hoisted aloft, floating majestically on the breeze. There was no avoiding the battle now; even if the Calypso had wished to get away, it was clear that the Leicester had superior speed. Jacques ordered his men to lower their spyglasses and turned to Sara. “Come, little sister,” he said. “You see that every man is at his post; now you must go to yours.”
Sara blanched. “My God, it is time, then? The battle is at hand?”
“It will begin within fifteen minutes, I should say,” said Jacques. “It should be quite a heated one, I wager, and anyone who is not absolutely crucial to the fight should retire now.”
“Sara,” Georges said to the girl. “Do not forget what you promised me.”
“No, dearest, I am ready to obey you, of course. But—”
“My love, I know you would not ask me to be a passive observer o
f the battle, when it is for my sake alone that so many courageous men are risking their lives.”
“No!” Sara shook her head. “I ask you only to think of me, my love, and to remember that if you die, I die with you.” She kissed Pierre Munier on the cheek; then, turning to Jacques, pressed his hand. Georges took her elbow gently, and the two of them disappeared down the cabin stairs.
He returned fifteen minutes later, a cutlass in one hand and a pair of pistols tucked into his belt. Pierre Munier was armed with the beautifully inlaid rifle that had rendered him faithful service on so many occasions. Jacques, on the other side of the quarterdeck, held a speaking horn—the symbol of command. A saber and an iron helmet lay at his feet.
The two vessels continued to pursue their mirror course, the frigate close on the brigantine’s heels. The ships were so near to each other that the sailors in the topmasts could easily watch what was happening on their counterparts’ decks.
“Master Tête-de-Fer,” said Jacques. “You have good eyes and sound judgment. Kindly climb to the foretop and tell me what is happening aboard the Leicester.”
The lieutenant sprang to this duty, and within seconds he was perched high on the mast.
“Well?” asked the captain.
“All the men are at their stations, sir, and the gunners are manning the guns. There are marines on the gangways, and the captain is on the quarterdeck. They look ready for action, sir.”
“Are there any troops on board besides the marines and the ship’s crew?”
“I don’t think so, sir, unless they’re belowdecks. All the uniforms look the same to me.”
“Good!” said Jacques. “It is an equal game, with a difference of only ten or fifteen men. That is all I needed to know, my man; you may descend.”
“Wait!” Ironhead exclaimed. “The English captain has raised his speaking horn. If we’re quiet, we may be able to catch what he says.”
This was not too likely; despite the silence that reigned on the Calypso, not a sound from the frigate could be heard on the brigantine. As it turned out, there was no need to hear what the Leicester’s captain said. An instant after he lowered the speaking horn, two jets of smoke issued from the bow of the enemy ship and two cannonballs ricocheted along the water in the Calypso’s wake.
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