A Sea Unto Itself

by Jay Worrall

  Cassandra heeled gently in the calm seas as she wore to take the wind on her port quarter, all plain sail aloft. The bulkheads and furnishings of what would normally have been the captain’s cabin were struck below, as were the living animals and partitions for the manger forward. The cook doused the galley fire, raked out the embers, and tossed them overboard. The gundeck soon became a single unobstructed expanse from stem to stern, occupied by Cassandra's main armament of twenty-six twelve-pounder cannon. Six additional six-pounder long guns were shared between quarterdeck and forecastle, as were eight short-barreled twenty-four-pound carronades. The decks around the guns were sprinkled with sand to improve footing, then wet with buckets of seawater to discourage fires starting from spilled gunpowder.

  Charles noticed that Adolphus Jones, Mrs. Jones, and Constance had come onto the quarterdeck to stand by the far rail, which they must have done since their cabin was now dismantled. It would not do to have any of them killed before they even reached Egypt. He thought to cross and tell them they would have to go below when he saw Sykes approaching along the gangway.

  “Sir,” the midshipman panted, breathless from his rush to what was nearly the very top of the mainmast and back down again.

  “Take a deep breath,” Charles said. There was no great urgency; he could see no sign of either ship from the deck as yet.

  “I seen them clear,” Sykes managed. “She’s the same French frigate as before, I’m sure of it. The same number of guns and the shape at the beak. The other is medium-sized, maybe three-hundred tons. I’m not sure what she is, but she ain’t no dhow like you’d find hereabouts.”

  “What sort of craft to you make her to be?”

  “From her looks I’d say a pink from the Mediterranean,” the midshipman said, scratching at his chin in thought. “I seen the like at Genoa, but I don’t fathom what she’s doing here. She’s not armed that I can tell.”

  “Her course?” Charles asked. He didn’t know what to make of Sykes’ opinion of the smaller ship, or if it mattered. A pink was a common enough type of merchantman along the southern coast of Europe. They normally carried triangular lateen sails, which might lead to mistaking her for an Arab trader.

  “I’d say to the southwest, sure enough. Into them islands forward, anyway. There’s a mass of them when you look from the crosstrees. They go on as far as you can see.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Sykes. Have you been able to ascertain anything of their purpose? Could you tell if the frigate was in pursuit, for example?”

  Sykes furrowed his brow in concentration. “It might be, sir,” he said hesitantly. “The Frenchie was following by about two cable lengths. I didn’t see no cannon fire though.”

  “I see,” Charles said. He thought it unlikely the frigate would fire into anything she was hoping to capture except as a last resort. She might fire warning shots though. “Thank you. If that is all, you may assist Lieutenant Beechum forward.”

  “There is one more thing, sir.”

  “What?”

  “The warship, she’s seen us. She’s braced her sails up tight to come into the wind. You should see her masts from the deck soon. The other has gone straight on. It’s possible the frigate means to have at us, sir.”

  “I expect you’re right. Again, thank you, Mr. Sykes.”

  Before Charles could seek out Bevan to speak with him, he saw the boy Aviemore fidgeting anxiously, waiting for his turn. “What have you to say?” he asked.

  “Twenty fathoms, and . . .”

  “Mr. Aviemore, you know how to make a proper report. Do so, please.”

  “Yes, sir. Mr. Beechum’s respects, sir,” the midshipman said laboriously. “The sea depth is at twenty fathoms and shoaling, sir.”

  “Very good,” Charles said, feeling he had been unnecessarily abrupt. “That was nicely done. I apologize for being sharp with you. My respects to Mr. Beechum and please ask him to keep me informed.”

  “Oh, it weren’t nothing,” Aviemore squeaked and left at a run to return to the bow.

  Twenty fathoms. Charles knew that it would become shallower. He remembered from the very few soundings on his chart depths as shallow as a single fathom far from any land, although five and six were more normal. Before they had turned westward, there had been no bottom on a hundred-fathom line. Cassandra’s keel would be nearly three fathoms below the waves, slightly more by the stern as she was newly provisioned. The added complexity of having to fight in uncertain waters gnawed at him.

  Looking forward he could see the first of several low-lying islands in the distance over the sparkling water. He saw something else as well. Picking up his own glass he found L'Agile's upper masts wavering in its lens. He opened his watch and looked at it. With the wind as it was, it seemed likely they would meet sometime in the evening and there should still be enough daylight to do his business. In all probability there would be little opportunity for maneuver. It would be best to lie close to, very close to, where superior gunnery would tell. They might even come aboard and try her by main force if the opportunity presented itself.

  He went over to Bevan near the wheel. “I want all of the cutlasses, axes, and pikes sharpened.”

  The lieutenant nodded his comprehension. “You plan to board?” he said.

  “I don’t know. We’ll have to see as the situation develops. I’ll tell you this, I don’t want a long drawn out exchange of broadsides if it can be helped. I’d rather it were over with quickly.”

  “Wouldn’t we all, Charlie,” Bevan answered dryly.

  Charles ignored the comment. “In about an hour’s time you may send the men below and feed them,” he said in clipped tones. “Something easy—cheese, biscuits, whatever the cook has to hand. No spirits.” Without waiting for an acknowledgement, he turned and hurried along the gangway to speak to Beechum in the bow.

  “By the mark eighteen and a half,” he heard the starboard leadsman call out loudly, repeated by the seaman in the larboard chains. From forward everything looked closer, the islands and the enemy frigate’s masts.

  “Mr. Beechum,” Charles said, “a word, if you please.”

  “Sir,” the lieutenant said, looking up from his paper. Charles saw that he had sketched out their course and the small islands ahead, neatly penciling in the soundings as they were given. A transit lay on the deck beside him, which he assumed Beechum was using to take bearings with which to fix the positions of the islands.

  “Do you see those French masts there?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “I’m thinking you might take note of her course as best you can. She has to have deep enough water under her to swim in. It may come that we will need to use the same path.”

  “I’ve thought of that," Beechum said seriously. “Here, you can see where I’ve made a line. She altered her course a trifle to starboard a quarter hour ago.”

  Charles smiled. He had a fondness for the young lieutenant, and thought him to have the makings of a more than competent officer. “Very good,” he said. “Please carry on.”

  The boatswain’s call piped the men to their supper. Charles returned to the quarterdeck to pace nervously back and forth, occasionally looking forward to judge the steadily decreasing distance between himself and the Frenchman. He did not like the situation he found himself in. There were too many unknowns. The lay of the seabed was one. L'Agile was the faster ship; why hadn’t her captain decided to run? Why had he chosen to sail into the archipelago instead of the safer waters in the center of the sea? .

  By degrees, the base of her masts and then the line of the frigate’s hull became visible over the edge of the sea. She angled obliquely toward a gap between two small islands, little more than lumps covered with low scrub, near to where the two ships’ courses would intersect. Five miles separated them, he guessed, maybe less; the islands were three or four miles distant. The enemy frigate’s hull appeared hard and dark between the pale blue sea and paler sky. She flew her topsails and topgallants, bright white under the glare o
f the descending sun. Charles took up his long glass again. Snapping it open, he trained it on the Frenchman, forward near her bow. He saw no sign of anyone in the forechains tossing a lead to take soundings. Her captain must have better charts than his, or some foreknowledge of where the channels ran. His unease increased.

  He could just hear the leadsmen in the bow calling out the depth, “by the mark ten,” but Aviemore and Hitch ran back at regular intervals to inform him anyway. It had been at a more or less steady ten fathoms for the past half hour.

  Augustus appeared noiselessly by his elbow. “Won’t you have somethin’ to eat, Cap’n? It may be a spell before the chance come again.”

  Charles had to think. He felt no desire for food. The muscles of his stomach were already tight from anxiety. “Bring my uniform jacket, if you would. Put a few ship’s biscuits in one of the pockets.”

  Augustus nodded and left to go below. As Charles watched, L'Agile slipped between the two islands, spilled her wind as she hove to, and began to take in her sails. Broadside on, she came to a halt in the water only a mile or a little more ahead. He saw a small splash by her bow and then her stern.

  “She’s dropped anchors fore and aft,” the lookout in the tops shouted down.

  Charles suspected the anchorage had not been chosen at random. The positions of the islands left few options, and he would bet his eye teeth that there was an underwater barrier, a reef or a bar, between them. Possibly the French captain hoped that his English opponent would rush forward in all haste, only to run aground and rip his bottom open, all without his having to fire a shot. Charles ground his teeth. There would be no boarding, or even a gun duel at close range where the issue might be decided relatively quickly. He was not happy about it. Feeling his way around the obstruction to come up from the other side would take hours. The setting sun squatted, huge and orange, just above the horizon. No, if this was the ground the Frenchman wanted, he would have to give it to him. It was time to get some of Cassandra’s way off.

  The crew began to come back on deck after their meal. He spoke to Bevan, “Daniel, get the topsails in. We will proceed under topgallants alone. When that is done you may beat to quarters.”

  “Aye, aye, Charlie.”

  “Mr. Beechum’s respects, sir,” Midshipman Aviemore said, coming to a halt and touching his hat formally.

  “Cut all the folderol,” Charles snapped. “What's the depth?”

  “Six and a half, sir. The bottom’s rising rapidly.”

  “Mr. Aviemore, listen to me carefully. Go back and stay by Beechum. When the depth reaches to three-and-a-half, come running as fast as you can.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  Augustus appeared with the uniform jacket, which Charles slipped into without speaking.

  Cassandra slowed noticeably as her lower sails were put up in brails. The marine drummer marched stiffly to his place at the fore of the quarterdeck and raised his sticks. The long drum roll rattled menacingly across the decks. Charles raised his telescope again and stared hard at the frigate less than a mile in front. He saw that her gun ports were open and cannon extended. As he lowered the glass he again noticed Jones and his two women standing together by the far rail.

  “We will employ the starboard battery,” he said to Bevan. “Be prepared to come about on my command. Have the ship’s boats put over the off side. We will also anchor fore and aft.” Without waiting for an answer he crossed the deck to speak with his passengers.

  “You must go below decks now,” he said. “I suggest that the orlop is the safest place.”

  Jones nodded in apparent unconcern; the elder Mrs. Jones in agreement. The sound of L’Agile’s broadside thundered across the water. Several balls screeched low through the rigging; a number splashed close alongside, throwing up tall geysers. At least one struck home somewhere forward. “I will not,” Constance said. “I want to watch.”

  “If you please,” Charles insisted politely. “It will be dangerous. I am ordering you below.”

  The younger Mrs. Jones folded her arms across her chest, eyeing him defiantly. “I won’t,” she repeated.

  “If you do not do as you are told immediately,” Charles growled, “I will have you carried to the hold and put into restraints. If you wish to be useful, you may assist the surgeon.”

  Constance glared at him as if she’d been insulted. “You mean that I might tend to the wounded? Me? What kind of woman do you think I am?” She might have said more but Mr. Jones took her firmly by the arm and the three started toward the hatchway. Charles looked forward to check L'Agile’s position, saw that she was at almost two-cable’s distance. He also saw young Aviemore racing aftward along the gangway, hatless, his coattails flying.

  “Bring her to bear,” he shouted at Bevan.

  Cassandra slewed to port, her starboard cannon confronting the frigate. The men on the topgallant yard fisted in the remaining sails to tie them off.

  “Fire!” he yelled at the top of his voice.

  Cassandra’s guns exploded in a single outpouring of cloud and flame, the reverberations of the guns’ recoil jarring the ship. Before the smoke had blown clear, the Frenchman fired a second time. Round shot filled the air, snarling, buzzing, screaming as they passed. Several told against the hull, which Charles could feel through the timbers of the deck. In one part of his mind he heard the splashes of anchors at the bow and stern.

  “Sir, sir!” Something was pulling at the sleeve of his jacket. He looked and saw Aviemore frantically trying to get his attention. “Mr. Beechum’s respects, sir,” the midshipman began, his eyes shining with excitement.

  Charles wondered if Aviemore had any comprehension of the dangers flying all around him. “Thank you, I am aware that we have come to our assigned depth,” he said. “I appreciate your reporting so promptly.” He saw the quarterdeck carronades being pulled forward on their slides. Their crews seemed to be handling the weapons as well as he could expect. On the six-pounders, the wads were only just being rammed home. The carronades discharged almost as one with their high-pitched barks, at the same moment the crews serving the long guns heaved on their tackles to run them out. Cassandra trembled with the tearing broadside from the twelve-pounders in the gundeck and the six-pounders on the quarterdeck and forecastle. He watched carefully through the drifting smoke for the fall of the shot and counted only four striking the sea surface. The sun touched the horizon beyond.

  As the battle settled into a steady exchange Charles paced the quarterdeck, his eyes intent on the enemy with a growing sense of unease. The distance between them when Cassandra had come to anchor was a little more than a cable and a half’s length. It was an unsatisfactory distance for an engagement. At this range, the larger guns did not have the destructive power they would display at fifty or even a hundred yards. Most shots told, of course, as both ships were stationary, and he could see evidence of damage on L'Agile, a section of broken railing, scars to her sides, trailing rigging.

  L’Agile fired off her guns as one, clouding herself in gray-black smoke, an orderly row of angry orange sparks showing through. A section of hammock netting burst inward between two guns, hurling a seaman backward across the deck. Two others writhed in pain, pools of red on the deck boards. Bevan quickly ordered the men taken below. The carronades again jerked back as they fired, their crews already moving to sponge out and reload. Before Charles could take a full breath, the remaining guns discharged in a drawn out series of rending explosions as the quicker crews fired before the slower. Again, he counted four splashes close alongside the enemy hull. It became clear to him that the whole thing was a waste of time and powder. Nothing was going to be decided while the light lasted.

  Charles found the fingers of his left hand tapping impatiently against the hilt of his sword. To still them he slipped the hand into his jacket pocket where he discovered the ship’s biscuit Augustus had placed there. He raised one of the biscuits to his mouth and began to chew. L'Agile's cannon blazed out once more. He saw two
strikes to the bulwarks along the gangway and some fresh-cut rigging snapping from the impact. Cassandra maintained the faster rate of fire, he determined; probably four to the opponent’s three and the Frenchman would be suffering proportionately. Still, it wasn’t enough; it wasn’t near enough. Charles looked out at the sun, more than half buried beneath the horizon. He began to think of options. There would be no moon until after midnight. That would help.

  His own increasingly ragged broadside sounded out, first the carronades, then the easier to manage sixes. The gundeck armament exploded in a satisfying roar, only two or three trailing afterward. A small cheer went up from forward and Charles saw the main topsail yard crack on L'Agile, the yard arms dangling at an awkward angle from their stays. He took another bite of the biscuit. A silence came from the frigate as she reloaded, then both ships’ guns boomed out together. He thought he noted a gap in the otherwise orderly row of fiery tongues from her side. That was promising, he thought, but nothing that couldn’t be repaired overnight. The sun dipped lower, a golden sliver on the sea. He knew that darkness would follow quickly.

  As the long-range fusillade continued, Cassandra sustained added damage to her hull and bulwarks. A twelve-pound cannon on the gundeck dismounted with a loud clang, its carriage shattered. From reports he received, ten men had been taken below to the surgeon, three were dead. He ordered Hitch and Aviemore, who held no particular duties except to carry his messages, to collect buckets of fresh water to carry from gun to gun so the men could refresh themselves. Charles noted with little satisfaction in the last of the daylight that the enemy’s main topgallant mast had cracked at its step to hang upside down beside the broken yardarms. It was a hell of a weight of round shot for so small a result, he thought.

  The French ship’s form became indistinct against the darkening sea and sky. L’Agile’s position soon revealed itself only when she fired, and then as a line of yellow-white flashes in the distance.