He glanced out the window. Scores of local Bretons had emerged from their homes and shops and were cautiously approaching the coach, drawn as much by their natural curiosity as by the pistol shot. He looked across at Anne-Marie. She held a hand of each of her daughters, both girls wide awake now, and wide-eyed with fear.
“Put the pistol away, Richard,” she commanded in a half-whisper. “I will not tolerate gunfire. I will not put my children at such risk; nor these innocent people outside. Put the pistol away.”
“I’ll put it away,” he said, “in a moment. Keep the children close to you and brace yourself. You too, Gertrud.”
He clicked open the coach door and stepped outside, closing the door with a loud bang.
“Driver!” he barked up in French. “Step down from there this instant!”
Aubert gaped down at him. “Monsieur?”
“You heard me, damn your eyes! Get down from there!” He raised his pistol, aimed it. “I mean now, monsieur!”
Aubert climbed down. When he was on the ground next to Richard, he said in a voice laced with spleen, “There is no need for such words, Monsieur Cutler. And no need for the pistol.”
Richard grabbed a fistful of Aubert’s shirt and pulled him in close. His mouth twisted in a sneer as he bent to address the man. He kept his voice low, conspiratorial, as he held the pistol against the Frenchman’s head. “Forgive me, my friend, but there is a need. I want these Bretons to bear witness that I am forcing you at gunpoint to surrender your coach. It may save your life, Aubert. If you have any wish to save mine, delay the militia as long as you can when they get here.” With that, Richard shoved Aubert in the chest so hard the driver staggered backward and fell down. “Now back off!” he shouted out loud. “I warn you, monsieur: make no further attempt to stop us!”
Richard tucked the barrel of the pistol under his belt and clambered up the footholds leading to the driver’s seat. Releasing the reins from their hold, he raised them high and flicked them with all his might.
“Vite! Vite!” he commanded the horses. The coach surged forward. “Allez! Vite!”
TWO HOURS LATER, aboard Falcon, Agreen Crabtree trained the lens of a long glass on the semaphore soaring above the fort guarding the southern approaches to Lorient’s harbor, clearly visible a quarter-mile away down an ever-widening estuary from the town’s center. For greater stability in these relatively calm inner-harbor waters, he had the glass set up on a tripod erected on the after deck. Through the lens he could clearly see the semaphore’s outstretched bony arms moving in spasmodic gestures up and down, sideways this way, sideways that way. But since he had no knowledge of the code, he could not determine what message was being relayed to the authorities in Lorient from the next-closest semaphore.
He swung the glass to his left, focused the lens until the steep-sided rocks and sandy beaches of the Île de Groix leapt into view. Yes, she was still out there. The French frigate he had noticed earlier continued to stand off and on at the entrance to Lorient Harbor, between the fort and the strip of island a mile or so offshore. Her sails were full and white, making it difficult to discern the white Bourbon flag fluttering high on the wind abaft her ensign halyard. Was she on maneuvers, Agreen wondered, or was there another reason for her presence there? He glanced up from the glass to the American ensign snapping above him. The breeze had strengthened, he noted, and was blowing at perhaps fifteen or twenty knots. Of greater significance, it continued to hold steady from the west-northwest.
“Coach-and-six approaching from across the river, Mr. Crabtree.”
Agreen wheeled about. He saw the coach before his name was out of Micah Lamont’s mouth.
“And unless my eyes deceive me,” Lamont’s voice rose in excitement, “that’s the captain driving it.”
“Your eyes do not deceive you, Mr. Lamont.” Agreen snatched a speaking trumpet from its becket on the binnacle and held it to his mouth. “Stations t’ set sail! Stand by t’ weigh anchor!”
As quickly as naval protocol allowed, Agreen walked forward to the bow of the schooner and directed the trumpet to starboard, to the long stone jetty ashore and the schooner’s gig bobbing alongside, its four oarsmen sitting on the thwarts. He had originally assigned six oarsmen to the task, to transport Richard as quickly as possible over to the schooner, but the French soldier Stéphane had informed him a short time ago of the other passengers in the coach who would be coming aboard as well. The gig would be considerably slower than he had hoped, but nothing could be done about that.
“Whiton!” he shouted to the coxswain. “Stand by, the captain!” He gestured to where the coach was approaching the jetty. It was moving at a much slower pace now, weaving in and around the shore traffic afoot and in carriages, winding its way down the wide cobblestone street set between the harbor and the low-lying wooden structures with large, faded block lettering that announced in peeling paint the name of the bankrupt owner: La Compagnie Française des Indes Orientales.
Abel Whiton waved back in reply. He removed the gig’s forward line from a bollard and held it in one hand, waving with the other at the coach. Aboard the gig, the two starboard oarsmen slid their oars between their thole pins and held the blades in the water.
Agreen swapped the trumpet for a short spyglass and held it to his eye. The carriage had stopped a hundred feet or so shy of the jetty, stalled by the waterfront congestion. Good, Richard had seen the gig. He was waving back at Whiton. As Agreen watched, Richard climbed down from the driver’s seat and opened the carriage door. A woman stepped down, followed by another woman. Two little girls followed, helped down by the first woman—the younger one—their mother, presumably. Together, hand-in-hand, the small party ran up the street toward the gig.
“Look there, Mr. Crabtree!”
Agreen slid his gaze to where Isaac Howland was pointing. Seven men a-horse, five with muskets strapped across their backs, had bypassed the town of Lorient and were riding at a hard pace along the dirt road leading to the fort at the southern entrance to the harbor. Compared with the other dangers Falcon now faced, their firepower was negligible. To get free of land Falcon would have to pass within point-blank range of the fort’s great guns, three tiers of them on the east-facing wall, perhaps thirty cannon total, most of them 32s or 64s, the dreadnoughts of shore batteries. One well-placed cannonade from that east-facing battery could reduce an admiral’s flagship to kindling wood.
“Heave the anchor short, Howland,” Agreen said. “We’ll be under way in a few minutes.”
“Aye, Mr. Crabtree.”
As the party ashore scrambled into the gig and her starboard oarsmen backed oars to point her bow toward Falcon, Agreen scanned the deck and top-hamper. All was primed for departure. The two square sails remained furled—the ship would be on a starboard tack leaving the harbor—but the two giant fore-and-aft sails had been released from their stops, and the foresails lay loose on the foredeck and bowsprit. Amidships, the small capstan creaked and groaned under the pressure of the anchor rope being heaved aboard; only the anchor itself now rested on the harbor bottom.
The gig bumped against the schooner’s larboard side, and sailors leaning through the open entry port helped Anne-Marie, Gertrud, and the children aboard. Richard was up next, with his gear, his eyes sweeping the deck before alighting upon Agreen. They shook hands as the four tired oarsmen and Abel Whiton clambered aboard.
“Whiton,” Richard said, “show these women to my cabin. And have my gear stowed below in Mr. Crabtree’s cabin. Dr. Brooke, good to see you, sir. I’d advise you to go below as well. Cates,” he ordered the sharp-eyed topman, “lay aloft and keep me informed about everything you see. We’ll tow the gig behind,” he said to Jacobs, one of the oarsmen, “and sway her aboard later. Now, lads, let’s get her to sea!”
The anchor was up and was being catted to the starboard side of the schooner as sailors in the bow backed the jib to windward, forcing the bow to swing to leeward until the ship was headed southward toward the harb
or entrance. Falcon’s two great sails, hoisted up their masts moments before and thundering in protest as the schooner made her turn, had caught the wind and had fallen silent, their clamor replaced by the more pleasant gurgles and splashes of a vessel moving smoothly, rapidly through water.
“What do you make of our situation, Agee?” Richard asked. They were standing together in the bow by the jib sheets, peering ahead at the fort through a glass. It was clear sailing only in the sense that, at the moment, no other vessels were sailing in or out of Lorient. They noted only the French frigate on patrol outside the entrance. “By the way, in case I forgot to mention it, it’s goddamn wonderful to see you again.”
“Likewise, Richard,” Agreen replied. “And I’m glad t’ see you haven’t lost your taste for beautiful women. Can’t wait t’ hear this story. Now, then, t’ answer your question, those Frogs know what we’re about. Before you arrived, the arms of that semaphore were movin’ around like an old hag givin’ her husband what-for. Whatever the message was, it hardly matters now. Whoever was chasin’ you has arrived. I saw them ridin’ south toward the fort.”
“I saw them too. There’s nothing for it but to wait and see what happens. Unless you have a better suggestion.”
“We could run out our guns,” Agreen offered, “an’ scare the livin’ shit out of ’em.”
“We could,” Richard acknowledged, “though I doubt that’s the choice I’ll make.” His expression turned sober when he thought he detected movement on the fort’s parapets and below at openings cut out of the stone façade near sea level. Cannon positioned on that lowest tier could prevent even the smallest vessel from stealing in or out of the harbor beneath the arc of those placed higher up.
Richard cupped his hands to his mouth and looked up. “Anything to report, Cates?”
“They’re running out their guns, sir,” Cates shouted down.
“Damn,” Agreen cursed under his breath.
“What else would you expect, Agee?” Richard pointed to the flag fluttering above the fort. “See that? That’s the Bourbon flag. King Louis’ flag. They may run out their guns, but would the French Royal Army fire on an American vessel?”
“You bet your life,” Agreen remarked as a puff of smoke issued from one of the cannon ports, “because that’s exactly what they’re doin’.”
The roar of a cannon resounded throughout the estuary, sending scores of gulls and terns screeching into the air in protest. Orange flame belched from the massive black muzzle of a cannon protruding through merlons on the battlements. Twenty yards ahead, off to the left near the opposite shore, a menacing plume of water spewed up.
“A warning shot, Agee? Perhaps, but I’m not so sure,” Richard said, answering his own question. He walked aft along the starboard rail until he had Micah Lamont in sight.
“Steady as she goes, Mr. Lamont,” he shouted the order.
“Steady as she goes, aye, Captain,” Lamont shouted back.
They were close up to the fort now, no need for a spyglass to scrutinize details or movement ashore. As Richard’s gaze swept the embankment, he saw the seven militia soldiers who had pursued the coach, standing on foot now, outside the north-facing wall of the fort. They were watching Falcon’s progress, though the massive fortress wall was about to obstruct their view. Why, he wondered, had they not been allowed inside the fort? He had a hunch, and he was playing that hunch for all it was worth.
His speculations ended with the deafening blast of a cannonade. Instinctively he grabbed for the railing, bracing himself against an impact that could reduce his ship to driftwood within seconds. But . . . no. The waters ahead were roiled into white spume, but not one ball had landed near Falcon. A glimpse ashore confirmed from vanishing clouds of acrid smoke that the shots had been fired from cannon placed on the three tiers farthest away from them, at the southern edge of the wall. The cannon closest to them, and now bearing on them, had remained silent.
“Richard,” Agreen barely managed to ask, “are you thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’?”
“I dare not think,” Richard said.
Just then, another series of ear-splitting explosions rocked their senses. Cannon shot whined and shrieked overhead like demonic prehistoric birds swooping in on a defenseless prey. Again Richard seized the railing, but this time he glanced ashore as he did so. To his extreme satisfaction, he noted that the shots fired came from the highest tier of cannon, too high to have an impact on so small a vessel as a schooner sailing so close to shore. The shot lobbed over them fell harmlessly far off to larboard.
“We’re through,” Agreen breathed moments later. And they were. With her sails full in the stiff breeze, Falcon lunged out of the estuary into the mildly choppy waters of the Bay of Biscay. White froth spewed from her yellow stem.
“Mr. Lamont,” Richard shouted aft. “Fall off two points and round the island to southward.”
That decision, he realized, would bring them close to the French frigate, which was now standing some distance away to southward of the entrance to the Lorient estuary. But to round the Île de Groix to northward would bring Falcon into range of the fort’s south-facing cannon. Despite what had just happened, dealing with a frigate seemed preferable to again challenging the proclivities of the soldiers stationed within the fort. At least with a frigate, seamanship might play a hand. Falcon was a fast vessel, though slowed a knot or two by the gig trolling in her wake.
“Remember the charts of this area?” Agreen cautioned. “Off the south end of that island there’s a mess of reefs and shoals.”
“I remember, Agee. It’s why we’re falling off. We could use the tops’ls on this tack had we time to set them, but we don’t. We have to round the island ahead of that frigate. Ship to ship, in a race, we’ll show her our heels. And I’d wager that frigate captain has orders to remain inshore, on station. She won’t pursue us for long into the Atlantic.”
Richard walked aft to the helm, never taking his eyes off the French warship bearing down on them to larboard. As Cates had reported, she had hauled her wind and was giving chase.
Richard squinted through a long glass. He could clearly see the press of sails but could not make out, at this distance, much about her hull or deck.
“Deck, there!” Cates yelled from above. “Shoals ahead, to starboard!”
Richard cursed under his breath. The damned shoals extended farther out from the island than he had calculated. He had no choice. He had to fall off further, toward the frigate. Whatever the French navy had in mind for them, what the reefs and shoals had in store was not in question.
“Bring her off another point, Mr. Lamont.”
“Another point, aye, Captain. New course: southwest by south, a half south.”
Agreen joined them by the helm. “Damn, Richard,” he said, his gaze following the frigate closing in fast off to larboard. “For a rube from Maine, this here’s a little too much excitement for one day.”
“I have to agree, Agee,” Richard replied, squinting through the glass. “But stay with me. The excitement will be over, one way or another, in a few minutes.”
“I’ll stay. Where else would I go?”
Just then, a hundred yards away across a white-capped span of seawater, the frigate veered off the wind to present her starboard battery.
“Captain!” came the cry from above.
“I see it, Cates,” Richard shouted up. He held the glass on the frigate as he held his breath. When he focused the lens, his head jerked back at what he saw. He brought the glass down to chest level, stared out at the frigate with his naked eye, then brought the glass up again. “I’ll be goddamned,” he exulted. He handed Agreen the glass. “Her ports are closed, Agee. Have a look.”
Agreen looked. A gun roared. And another. And then a third, in perfect sequence. Three discharges, yet nary a trace of smoke swept across her deck, as should have been the case with the wind on her starboard beam. What smoke there was flew off quickly from the larboard side.
“
Sweet Jesus,” Agreen breathed when he realized the implication. “That frigate just saluted us!”
Richard bowed his head and gripped the larboard railing with such intensity that the sunburned skin on his hands turned pale. For long moments he could not speak. A full minute passed before the naval commander in him finally took control.
“Dip our ensign in reply, Agee. It’s the least we can do. Mr. Lamont, bring her up full and by once we’ve cleared the shoals.”
“Where are you going, Richard?” Agreen asked after Lamont had repeated the order.
“Below. To see our passengers. I’m bunking with you on this cruise, you lucky devil. Though I doubt I’ll see much of you. You’ll be too busy reading.”
“Reading what? A letter?” Agreen inquired eagerly. “Lizzy sent me a letter?”
“Not a letter. A sack full of letters. Enough to sink us if we’re not careful.” He disappeared down the after hatchway. At the doorway to his cabin, he knocked softly.
“Entrez,” a tentative voice called out.
Richard opened the door. Ducking his head, he stepped inside and removed his tricorne hat. Anne-Marie was sitting on the edge of his bunk with her arms gathered protectively around her children. They had been crying but, disciplined aristocrats that they were, had composed themselves to an admirable degree by the time he entered. Gertrud sat nearby on a chair by the writing desk, white-knuckled hands clutching its armrests.
For Love of Country Page 29
