A Sea Unto Itself (37 page)

“Load with cartridge. No hurry, whenever you’re in the mood,” Bevan continued. Charles glared at him in annoyance. Midshipman Hitch handed him the felt bag with its four pounds of black powder. Charles fisted it into the mouth of the gun then heaved to ram it in with the reverse end of the sponge. His hands came away blackened from the filth on the sponge end.

“Wad,” Bevan said. “You know, as in ‘wad’ you want for supper?”

Beechum laughed, then struggled to smother his mirth. Charles angrily tossed the rammer to him. “Here, see if you can do any better.” The lieutenant quickly rammed the wad in place, Sykes rolled in the twelve-pound ball, followed by another wad, which Beechum quickly jammed home. Charles saw that the other working cannon had been pulled up against the bulwarks and was awaiting orders to fire.

“Run out,” said Bevan with an anticipatory chuckle.

Charles took up his place on the line and heaved. Sweat ran from his scalp and down his back and chest. The line was slippery in his hands. The monstrous brute inched forward. He looked at the gun crew in frustration. Augustus seemed to be making barely any effort. “Goddamnit, pull,” he growled at his servant.

“Yes, Cap’n,” Augustus answered with a hint of irritation. He threw his weight on the tackle, his muscles bulging. Immediately the carriage slewed to the left, the barrel jammed against the side of the gunport. The movement caught Charles off balance. As he sidestepped, his sword caught between his legs and he crashed to the deck.

“You there, no taking a break now,” Bevan said. “Get back on that line or it will go hard on you.” Then he burst into laughter.

Charles fumed in embarrassment.

Bevan took out his watch and looked at it. “Eleven minutes between broadsides so far,” he managed between guffaws. “I imagine we got that Frenchman shaking in his boots. Come on, if we apply ourselves, we can get the full evolution done within the quarter-hour. That’ll show him English gunnery.”

Silently, Charles picked himself up and took the line in his hands. “Pull back a little so we can straighten her out,” he said to the others, not daring to look at any of them. Something tapped on his shoulder. “Begging yer pardon, sur,” a voice said.

Charles turned his head, then let go the line and turned fully around. He saw Sherburne’s open face, struggling unsuccessfully to assume a serious expression. Others of his seamen stood just behind. Charles stared, holding his breath.

“This be my gun, sur,” Sherburne said. “Ye’r in my way.”

“Of course,” Charles said. In spite of himself he grinned. “Thank you.”

“Ain’t but naught, sur.” The regular gun crew levered the cannon into position with practiced ease. Charles looked out the gunport again. The French frigate was a mile away, making slow but steady progress into the breeze. It came to him that she had not returned any of Cassandra's fire (such as it was) with guns that could surely have been moved into the bow by now. The remainder of his crew were loosening their cannon and removing tompkins.

Charles turned toward Bevan. “Don’t open any more gun ports or employ additional guns,” he said. “Just these two.”

“Why not?”

“I’m still thinking,” Charles said. He turned back to Sherburne. “Keep up a steady fire, if you will. Aim is more important than how fast you go. In fact, take your time. Try to hit her beak.”

“Aye, aye, sur,” the gun captain said.

A flood of thoughts came into Charles’ head. Why hadn't L'Agile fired? What had her captain witnessed so far? What would he deduce from this? He looked upward at the untended canvas snapping loosely from their yards. The disorder offended him, then it didn’t. Only two guns had managed to be brought into action; and those, he admitted, were sloppily handled. The French commander could easily conclude that the English ship was in some dire difficulty. What would he do then? If it were himself, Charles knew, he would come close alongside to demand surrender, or, even better, he would board straightaway. Gunplay would merely damage an already certain prize.

The two cannon went off nearly together. Charles came to a decision. “Stephen,” he called to Winchester. “No one is allowed above this deck but by my order. I want the quarterdeck and forecastle kept clear.”

“Aye, aye,” Winchester answered.

“Mr. Beechum,” Charles said next, “if you would see to it that my cabin is struck below and that the gundeck only is cleared for action. Do it quickly.” Without waiting for a reply, he waved at Sykes to approach.

“Sir?” Sykes said.

“Go topside. Stay below the gunwales so you won’t be seen. I want you to report to me what you can make out of any activity on the frigate’s deck.” The boy left.

“What are you thinking?” Bevan asked as soon as Charles was alone. The two twelve-pounders fired again, one a few seconds ahead of the other.

“I’m thinking, hoping, that they will decide that we are in some way incapacitated and will bring her bow right up to our side.”

“And then?”

“At half a cable’s length we will disabuse her.”

Bevan smiled.

Charles looked out the gunport again, the merest glance. L’Agile came on, as close to the wind as she would lie, a thin wash of white curling back from her stem. One of the twelve-pounder cannon lurched inward, accompanied by a pall of smoke. In an instant, the second belched fire. A cheer went up from the latter gun’s crew as their shot struck home.

Charles considered the effect. It could hardly have done crippling damage and it wouldn’t discourage the French captain. It might annoy him enough, however, to override any caution he retained. He would want to get the thing done as quickly as possible.

One-half mile, Charles judged. Four cable lengths.

“Lieutenant Winchester. You have command of the gundeck. See that the armament is double shotted and you may position your men beside their weapons. I needn’t remind you to make every shot count.” Winchester began bellowing the orders.

“Mr. Beechum,” Charles called. He felt a thrill of anticipation up his spine at what was about to happen. “You will assemble the forecastle gun crews at the forward ladderway.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” Beechum said.

“They may go up on my command. The first broadside will be as the guns are currently loaded. The second will be grape on ball. After that grape or canister only. Aim to clear any men preparing to board.”

Beechum touched his hat gravely and went to call his men around him. Charles stole a look outward: a cable’s length and a half; L’Agile’s bow almost filling the gunport.

Sykes came scrambling down the forward ladderway. “She’s nearly on us, sir,” he said with some excitement. “There’s a mass of men at her forecastle.”

“Thank you,” Charles said, swallowing to relieve a sudden dryness in his mouth. “Collect the quarterdeck gun crews, if you will. We’ll go up in a minute.”

The two operating cannon continued to hammer regularly away, connecting in the rapidly narrowing range with every shot. Another glance at the oncoming Frenchman. It was time. “Open your gun ports,” he yelled loud enough to be heard the length of the deck. “Stephen, you may commence firing. To your weapons!” he shouted at the others.

The gundeck exploded, the line of black cannon flinging themselves inboard in a resounding crash. Charles raced for the stairs to the quarterdeck. He looked to starboard as soon as his head cleared the coaming. The French frigate filled his view. L’Agile came on, but her bowsprit had broken, tilting downward, her head shattered. There were indeed a very large number of men at her forecastle, confused, staring around them.

In a thrice the quarterdeck and forecastle guns boomed out, including the carronades with their heavy twenty-four pound balls. Two at least sliced through the Frenchmen on the forecastle, parting them like wind through a field of wheat. Her foremast cracked, angled forward, and swept down, pulling the main topgallant mast with it. The frigate’s head began to fall off on the wind as Cassandra’s gundeck thundered out again, a dense cloud of smoke drifting across the gap. She was close enough that Charles could have thrown a stone all the way across her, if he had one. She had not yet opened her gun ports.

It ended almost as soon as it had begun. With her foremast and bowsprit useless, L’Agile lost steerage and steerageway. Her men, those that remained from preparing to board, ran toward their battle stations, or for cover. Ball and grape scythed her decks, punching in her bulwarks at point blank range. The remainder of her mainmast collapsed, falling to port. As she drifted sideways her broadside came to bear. Charles held his breath. Three gun ports levered open, then one fell shut. Two cannon poked out and fired.

Cassandra’s guns replied in a savage outpouring, beating in gun ports, chasing those still living above decks down her ladderways. Her quarterdeck had been abandoned, her forecastle a shambles. L’Agile continued her uncontrolled turn, drifting on the wind, her stern windows coming into view.

“Baker! Where’s the boatswain?” Charles called. To Bevan he said, “Slip the anchor cable. We’ll come back for it.”

The boatswain arrived. “Refasten the sheets, then take in the courses. Draft as many men as you need. Mr. Cromley, as soon as we are under sail we will bear down on her.”

Cromley signaled his understanding. The moment Cassandra’s sails filled and her head began to turn, someone on the frigate braved the quarterdeck to cut a halyard on the mizzenmast, the only mast remaining, and the flag of France fluttered to the deck. “Cease firing,” Charles said to Bevan. “Send Winchester with Ayres and the marines across. I should think the surgeon and his assistant would be useful as well.”

Alone for a moment, he stared soberly at the battered opponent, not believing that it was over so quickly. He smiled tightly. Through no intention on his part she had been caught wrong-footed, overconfident at Cassandra's apparent floundering—and she had paid.

*****.

Having captured the French frigate, the problem was what to do with her and her crew. She had no prospect as a prize, battered and slowly settling as she was, even had there been a friendly port within two thousand miles where she might be towed. L'Agile's crew, those that remained, would have to be taken off and the ship scuttled. Where to put them? Charles had given much thought to this. He suspected that if transferred to the mainland, their existence would be short-lived. The local inhabitants would have little love for their European conquerors. It would be possible to carry them on board Cassandra to Mocha for Admiral Blankett to decide their fate. The small squadron had no facilities to tend to such a number however, and Charles sensed that Blankett would not be pleased by the imposition. There was one remaining possibility. He called Bevan from across the quarterdeck.

“You want to have another go with the guns? I’m more than happy to serve as captain,” Bevan greeted him. “We did so well that last time.”

“That will not be necessary, thank you,” Charles answered, not wanting to be reminded of the incident. “I want the French crew put on that little island over there.” He pointed toward a low-lying lump of sand with a few palm trees, two miles to the south. The place was about a mile and a half long, baked by the sun, and clearly uninhabited.

“You’re going to maroon them?” There’s no water or shelter. They’ll die.”

“I’m hoping they won’t be there long. I’ll let them take off their own water and food, canvas for tents, whatever they want.”

“Why won’t they be there long?”

“We will inform the authorities at Koessir of their whereabouts as we pass by.”

“And the ship?”

“Run a length of fuse down to her magazine. It should be a spectacle.”

Bevan left to put his orders into motion. Cassandra’s boats would have to be employed, since L’Agile’s had been beaten into matchwood. The unwounded remnants of the French crew would do the heavy lifting and rowing. Charles had one further duty to attend to before his ship could resume her course southward. He had also considered this carefully. He pushed himself off the railing where he had been leaning and went down into the gundeck.

“Sherburne,” Charles called to get the man’s attention. “A word if you please.” The hands were largely occupied with replacing the partitions to his cabin and otherwise putting the ship back into order after she had been cleared for action. There was not a scratch of damage from the battle.

The seaman approached cautiously and knuckled his forehead. “Sur?” A number of others gathered nearby, close enough that they might overhear what was said. Charles gestured that they were welcome to come closer.

“I wanted to thank you, all of you, for stepping up when you did. I’ll make it up to you as best I can.”