Another round of good-natured cheers and back-slapping of Hobart got Richard to thinking, again, that the daily gun drills were essential not only for the safety of the schooner and her cargo, but for the morale of her crew as well. It gave them something to do, a healthy competition that broke up the daily routine and monotony. He was reflecting further on this when suddenly there came a cry from aloft.
“Deck, there! Sail ho!”
“Where away?” Richard shouted up. He sensed from the tone of voice that what the lookout had sighted was not a merchant vessel.
“Two points abaft the larboard beam,” the answer was shouted down. “She’s barely hull-up, sir. I can only make out her tops’ls and t’gallants.”
Everyone aboard instinctively glanced in the general direction, and saw nothing but open water. Given his height advantage of eighty feet and his excellent eyesight, Matt Cates could spot a billowing topgallant almost twenty miles away on the earth’s curvature. Those on deck could see only half that far.
“Very well, Cates. I’m coming up.”
Richard doffed his heavy woolen sea coat and handed it to Lamont.
“Steady as she goes?” Agreen asked.
“Yes, for now, Agee. I doubt she’s a pirate in these waters. Spanish or Portuguese, more likely.”
With an agility and speed that in his early days of sailing would have been unimaginable to him, given his inbred fear of heights, Richard clambered up the ratlines on the foremast shrouds to the topmast yard. Ignoring Cates’ offered hand, he swung a leg over the pine spar and secured himself against the mast. He took the glass and held it to his eye, extending and retracting it until a pyramid of stacked sails came into sharp focus. He held the glass steady until he had determined the vessel’s course relative to his own.
“What is she, sir? Can you make her out?”
“Not yet, Cates,” Richard replied, squinting into the lens. “She’s ship-rigged and flying plain sails to t’gallants. A large brig or a frigate, I’d wager.” He strained to identify the ship’s flag, but the distance was too great and the white billowing square sails on her mainmast blocked his view. Added puffs of canvas suddenly billowed out.
“She’s setting her stuns’ls,” he remarked, more to himself than to Cates, “aloft and a-low. And she’s doing it smartly.” He collapsed the glass. “She’s showing us her speed, Mr. Cates. So I suggest we show her our heels. Keep me informed.”
Grabbing hold of a foremast backstay, he crossed his legs over it and let himself down hand under hand to the larboard bulwarks. “Whoever she is,” he shouted out to the crew after jumping down onto the deck, “she finds us interesting.” He turned toward the helm. “Bring her up two points, Tremaine.”
“Two points, aye, sir,” Tremaine replied. He checked the compass. “New course: east by north, a half north.”
Since leaving Boston Falcon had followed an easterly course between 38 and 42 degrees north latitude, Gibraltar lying a little south of east of Boston. In the prevailing westerly breezes and generally fair weather, navigation had not posed much of a challenge. As they approached the Azores to starboard, Richard had ordered a course altered slightly southward to take advantage of an unusual northeast-bound current that Agreen had discovered on an earlier voyage, an offshoot of the powerful Canary Current leading south to the Cape Verde Islands and the more powerful North Equatorial Current streaming across the Atlantic to the Caribbean Sea.
“Any change in her course, Cates?” Richard shouted up.
“Aye, sir,” Cates shouted down. “She’s dropped her leeward stuns’ls and is heading east.”
“Can you make out her flag?”
“Not yet, sir.”
“Very well. Keep me informed.”
Due east, on the frigate’s course, lay the Strait of Gibraltar, the eight-mile stretch of water separating the southern tip of Spain from the northern tip of Morocco. As much a pathway connecting Europe and Africa as a seaway linking the Atlantic to the Mediterranean, the narrow passage had served as a stepping-stone into the heart of Europe for the Muslim armies that swept across North Africa and northward in the eighth century. For seven hundred years the North African Muslims—or Moors as people of mixed Arab and Berber descent were called—held sway on the Iberian Peninsula, dispelling the barbarism of the Dark Ages by introducing literature, science, and medicine that the Arabs of Babylon and Damascus had inherited from the ancient Greeks and Persians. Not until 1492 were Spanish and Portuguese forces finally able to break the stranglehold of Muslim occupation by capturing the city of Granada, the last outpost of Islam in Europe. Since then, Spain and Barbary had continued the fight—at sea—for control of the Mediterranean, with no meaningful peace treaty signed until 1785, just three years ago.
“Appears that we’re both headin’ for the Strait,” Agreen commented, peering through a spyglass at the topsails of the mystery ship, which had come into view for those on deck.
“So it would seem,” Richard agreed. Though the odds were long that this frigate was a pirate vessel, he would take no chances, not with the treasure Falcon carried in her hold. His eyes went aloft, searching for a flutter or a luff anywhere among the schooner’s press of canvas to indicate a slight loss of wind power. He found none.
Throughout the rest of that day the two vessels held their relative positions. By nightfall Falcon seemed to be gaining ground. At dawn the next day, the sharp eyesight of Matt Cates confirmed that indeed they had gained ground, though the frigate—or whatever she was—remained visible through the spyglass and did not alter course when land was sighted and coastal traders were suddenly everywhere, sailing in and out of the busy Spanish port of Cádiz. Falcon sailed swiftly through a gathering storm past Cape Trafalgar, through the Strait, and toward their destination, barely visible through the drizzle and fog: a 2.53-square-mile spit of land dominated by a monolith that since 1713 had been a British territory and was reputed to be the most heavily fortified piece of real estate in the history of the world.
Falcon’s entry into Algeciras Bay was duly noted by the Royal Navy. As the schooner approached Gibraltar from the west, a British gunboat sailed out to reconnoiter. She was an odd-shaped, beamy vessel rigged with two masts, each with a four-sided lugsail. Her rounded bow and sturdy construction reminded Richard of a Dutch herring-buss he had once seen in the English Channel. Except that this vessel carried a 24-pounder gun mounted on her bow and what looked to be long nines mounted amidships, one on each side.
When the gunboat was close alongside, an individual dressed in a heavy blue sea coat cupped a hand to his mouth. “What vessel is that?” he called up, his crisp patrician accent announcing him as an officer.
Richard identified himself and his command.
“Yes, Mr. Cutler, we’ve been expecting you,” the man replied cordially. “Welcome to Gibraltar. I am Lieutenant Hollingsworth, at your service.” He pointed toward a massive limestone structure looming eerily through the fog above a small indentation along the western edge of the spit. “You may take station over there, sir. Rosia Bay is that cove you see beneath the fortress. You needn’t concern yourself with the tide—it’s of minor consequence in these parts—but do mind the depth. It’s twelve fathoms. Rather a sharp drop-off, you see. But it affords good holding for your anchor, and you’ll find no currents there. Am I understood, sir?”
“You are, Lieutenant,” Richard called over to him.
“Very well, Captain. If there is anything I might do for you, you need only ask anyone you see to have me summoned. My name, again, is Lieutenant Charles Hollingsworth, attached to His Majesty’s ship Guardian. Captain Hardcastle insists you be shown every courtesy during your visit here. I am off to inform him of your arrival. He will be sending further word to you shortly. Good day to you, sir. Again, my warmest welcome.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant,” Richard said, touching his tricorne hat in deference to the officer’s rank. “You have been most kind. We shall proceed to the cove directly.”
<
br /> Agreen had watched this exchange with ever-widening eyes. “Well slather me with butter and fry me up brown,” he muttered as the gunboat sailed away toward the Mediterranean Squadron anchored to the north. “There you go again, Richard. I’ve never seen anyone dive so deep and come up so dry. Next thing you know, they’ll be floatin’ out a red carpet t’ parade you in. Sure must be nice, knowin’ people in high places.”
Richard gave Lamont the order to steer for Rosia Bay, then turned to look at Agreen. “This has nothing to do with me, Agee,” he said. His relief at finally having his vessel under the protection of Royal Navy guns was immeasurable. “Credit goes to the Hardcastle family.” He smiled wistfully. “Except for the father. He’d as soon fire a broadside into me.”
An hour after Falcon dropped anchor in the horseshoe-shaped cove the British officer had indicated, the mystery ship that had pursued her rounded up unchallenged into the bay, the red cross of Saint George on her ensign fluttering listlessly in the damp, heavy air.
Six
Gibraltar, August 1788
“BOAT COMING ALONGSIDE, SIR.” That’s the navy for you, Richard thought to himself: an underling advising a superior officer of the blatantly obvious. He and Lamont were standing amidships watching a gig approach Falcon. Eight oars worked together in nearly perfect synchrony. Each oarsman was dressed in a blue-and-white-striped jersey, white duck trousers, and a straw hat bound with a wide strip of blue cloth around the middle, its sparrowtailed ends hanging over the rim. A midshipman served as coxswain at the tiller. Beside him sat what any farmer from Concord could readily identify as a British sea officer.
Richard maintained a deadpan facial expression. It was he, after all, who had insisted on following naval regulations aboard Falcon. “Thank you, Mr. Lamont,” he said. “I shall welcome the boat myself.”
“Toss oars!” they heard the coxswain shout. At his command, eight oars, their blades striped in blue, rose as one into the air seconds before the gig gently bumped against the hull of the schooner. Moments later, an elegantly dressed officer stepped through the larboard entry port.
Richard bowed slightly. “Welcome aboard, sir,” he greeted the officer. “My name is Richard Cutler. I am master of this vessel. This is my mate, Micah Lamont.”
The officer bowed to each man in turn. “I, sir, am Edward Cobb, second lieutenant of His Majesty’s Ship Invincible, at your service. I trust you had a pleasant voyage from Boston?”
Richard had recognized the name of the ship as his brother-in-law’s command. “It was uneventful,” Richard replied, “therefore pleasant.”
“Just so.” Cobb cast an eye about the schooner, his gaze settling first on the six guns bowsed up against the bulwarks. He then took in the sails furled tight on their booms and yards; the halyards, sheets, and braces coiled neatly on their pins; finally, the clusters of crew scattered about the deck, regarding him curiously.
“A fine vessel you command, sir,” Cobb said, with genuine admiration. “I have long praised American shipwrights. They make graceful ships. Fast ones, too. This one even outran her escort.”
“Her escort, Lieutenant?”
“Quite.” Cobb’s pewter gray eyes twinkled with mirth. “Redoubtable, the frigate you surely noticed attempting to overhaul you. She’s the fastest vessel in the squadron, so her officers claim, though apparently not the fastest vessel currently in Algeciras Bay. I must say, you put quite the twist in Captain Swanson’s knickers.”
“I apologize, Lieutenant. I don’t take your meaning.”
Cobb stepped closer, his tone turning serious and confidential. “It was by Captain Hardcastle’s order, Mr. Cutler. He advised all ships patrolling the Atlantic to keep an eye out for you, and if sighted, to escort you in. Can’t be too careful these days, can we, what with Spain’s peace treaty with the Barbary States and with Portugal in the pirates’ pocket. Algerine corsairs are now free to sail out into the Atlantic, boldly as you please, to do their dirty work.”
“I see. I must thank Captain Hardcastle for his thoughtfulness.”
“Which, sir, he hopes very much you will do this evening,” Cobb said, stepping back, his tone again light and airy. He reached into an inside pocket of his uniform coat and drew out a square piece of paper, folded to form an envelope. Impressed with a signet ring where the four flaps met in the center was a seal of red wax with the Hardcastle family crest of twin stag antlers and a shield. “It’s an invitation to supper,” he said, handing over the envelope, “in his cabin at three bells in the second dogwatch. May I respond favorably on your behalf?”
Richard broke the seal, unfolded the paper, and scanned the invitation. “You may indeed,” he said.
Cobb’s gaze shifted beyond him, and Richard turned to see Agreen and Lawrence Brooke approaching. “Ah, there you are, Agee. I was wondering where you’d gone off to. And I’m glad to see you up on deck, Doctor.” He indicated the British officer. “This is Lieutenant Edward Cobb, of His Majesty’s ship Invincible. Lieutenant, I introduce you to my sailing master, Mr. Agreen Crabtree, and our ship’s surgeon, Dr. Lawrence Brooke.”
Cobb clicked his heels together and bowed. “Delighted, I’m sure.”
“Lieutenant,” Agreen acknowledged. He thrust out his hand in greeting. Cobb hesitated a moment, then shook it firmly, as he did the hand of Lawrence Brooke, who said in formal fashion: “Welcome aboard, Lieutenant. We are honored by your presence.”
“The honor is mine, Doctor.” Another bow, then: “I must be getting back to my ship. We will send a boat for you this evening, Mr. Cutler. Good day to you, gentlemen.” He touched his hat, then turned toward the entry port.
Richard stopped him. “A word, if you please, Lieutenant.”
Cobb turned back. “Yes, Captain?”
“I have a favor to ask. A procedural point, actually. We’ve had a long voyage and my crew could do with some shore leave. How does one go about obtaining permission for shore leave?”
Cobb smiled. “Permission is not required, Mr. Cutler. Gibraltar is at your disposal. And as a former navy man, you may be interested to note that this is one of the few bases where the Royal Navy does not allow ‘wives and sweethearts’ aboard a ship out of discipline. There’s no need for such allowances,” he explained when Richard seemed not to comprehend. “Sailors here are free to take shore leave whenever they’re off duty. There’s no place for them to run to, you see, do they have a mind to desert,” he explained further. “As to your procedural point, I can verify from personal experience that you will find both the alehouses and the ladies of Gibraltar most accommodating.”
With that, he was off.
The prospect of spirits and loose women had not eluded Micah Lamont. “Might I inform the men of their shore leave, Captain?” Lamont asked, trying hard to mask his own anticipation.
“Yes, do. But make certain it’s only half the crew at a time. And make certain everyone is back on board by the start of the second watch. I’m holding you responsible for that, Mr. Lamont. The men must understand that we are guests here. I will not tolerate disorderly conduct ashore. Anyone brought up for disciplinary action will have his privileges suspended.”
“I’ll tell them, sir,” Lamont acknowledged. He saluted, more in appreciation of Richard’s words than as a requirement. Richard had not pushed naval discipline that far aboard Falcon.
“What are your plans for the evening, Agee?” he asked more casually after Lamont had disappeared down a forward hatchway and Dr. Brooke had strolled forward to stretch his legs. “Are you going ashore?”
Agreen gave him a bewildered look. “Are you kiddin’, Richard? Me, pass up an opportunity like this? You old married fart, don’t you realize what’s sittin’ in some alehouse over yonder, just waitin’ for a bloke like me? Damn right I’m going ashore.”
Richard grinned at that response.
“Yep,” Agreen went on in a quieter, absent sort of way, “I know exactly what’s waitin’ for me. Some good shore cookin’, that’s
what. It took some doin’, but I finally lured the good doctor out of his grotto. Reckon we’ll go find us a place in town and while away the hours discussin’ whatever it is that men like us discuss when forced t’ make conversation with each other. It won’t be doxies, though. Brooke doesn’t seem t’ have much interest in women. Even if he did, I doubt he could do much about it, if you catch my drift.”
Richard studied his friend. “You’re not abstaining because of me, are you, Agee? I don’t give a hoot in hell what you do.”
Agreen chuckled. “Because of you, Richard? I don’t think so, matey. An’ seein’ as how you’ve got no qualms with any o’ this, I suggest that after you’ve filled your belly with the fine food and wine your Royal Navy chums are serving up, and I’ve finally managed t’ ditch Lawrence, you and I meet at some cathouse ashore. Don’t matter which one. They’re all pretty much the same. We’ll find us a pretty little knob an’ do the jig with her together, the way real shipmates do. I’ll even pay the chippy if you think you’re up to it, so t’ speak.”
When Richard remained expressionless, Agreen laughed out loud and slapped him on the shoulder. “Ease your sheets a little, wouldja, Richard? I’m just kiddin’ around! Enjoy yourself, and don’t you worry about your sailing master. He’s fixin’ t’ have a grand old time cavortin’ ashore with the doctor!”
AT PRECISELY SEVEN that evening, the captain’s gig from HMS Invincible slid alongside the yellow hull of the American schooner. A sailor standing in the bow caught a deadeye on the larboard main-chains with his boat hook and held the small boat steady. Up on deck, Richard stepped through the open entry port, then swung around and lowered himself into the sternsheets by way of a makeshift ladder secured to the schooner’s side. Once aboard, he settled in next to the midshipman at the tiller and waved to Pratt, Hobart, and Howland peering down at him from the bulwarks.
For Love of Country Page 10
