A Sea Unto Itself (47 page)

“Very good shooting, Tully,” Charles said. “I couldn’t have done better myself.” At this Tully struggled to suppress a smile.

“What did you find?” Bevan said, having satisfied himself that Aviemore could manage with the signal halyards. “My word,” he said as he saw the bright pool in front of the warehouse.

“That’s right,” Charles said happily. “Wine, barrels and barrels of it.”

“Pity to let it go to waste,” Bevan said.

The flotilla of transports burned fiercely, devouring ship after ship to their waterlines. The sky to the west turned dark with smoke, flames showing farther and farther in the distance as the inferno spread. Winchester’s boats returned first. Charles ordered the launch left in the water alongside, the jollyboat hoisted onboard. Beechum and the cutters, who had a greater distance to row, arrived within the hour and the boats stowed away. The sun, watery through the blackened haze, glared from overhead. The once full harbor of seagoing ships lay oddly bare, a vast floor of charred ribs and planking only inches above the water. Every few minutes the remnants of one would slip under the surface with a hiss of steam. The rest, still smoking, presented a scene from Dante’s Inferno. There were a few still whole craft at odd places on the periphery that had escaped the conflagration, but the collection was nothing anyone was going to transport an army with.

“Are we finished?” Bevan asked.

Charles had two questions he wanted answers to. He knew whom to ask. “Not yet. Send up a white flag, if you please. Have the launch manned and brought around to the starboard side.”

The signal for parley ran up Cassandra's halyards. There was at first no response from the town. With his guns trained to sweep the quayside, the space remained empty except for the forms of the dead infantry cut down in their ranks. “It’s no good, Charlie,” Bevan said. “We’ve hurt their feelings, and now they won’t speak to us. It’s how people get when you destroy their invasion fleet. I know I’d feel the same.”

“Fire another gun into that warehouse. That might encourage them.”

“Sir, look,” Sykes said, pointing with his arm. Charles looked. Several figures advanced across the waterfront. One held a white cloth tied to a standard. He recognized the others as Governor Bellagio and his translator, Signora Teresa de Correglia. A lump came to Charles’ throat in spite of himself. “Send the marines into the launch. I am going across.”

The marines climbed the ladderway onto the wharf first, Lieutenant Ayers in the lead. Charles followed, Augustus behind. Seen close up, the carnage on the quay’s surface turned his stomach. The hundreds of iron balls had cut through the French with horrible effect, pulverizing some into unidentifiable hash. Dark swarms of flies covered the flesh and drying pools of blood. He had no feeling of triumph. Charles looked to Bellagio, who returned his gaze with a kind of belligerent resignation, then to Teresa. She stood, head bowed, with her hands clasped in front of her. The blouse she wore was buttoned to the neck. Charles could find no feeling in his heart for her. Her eyes rose to meet his. “What do you want? Everything is destroyed. There is nothing more,” she said.

“I have come for Mr. Gladfridus Underwood, to arrest him on the charge of treason against his king and country.”

Bellagio turned, awaiting a translation. Teresa answered in English instead. “He is not present in Massawa.”

“I have it in my power to bombard the town, in particular the warehouses, if he is not delivered to me,” Charles said coldly. “Tell the governor that I demand his surrender.” He knew it to be a bluff; Cassandra had expended all but a few broadsides of her powder and shot, but the Italians could not know this.

Teresa shrugged defiantly. “Do what you must. You have burned our boats. Now you will destroy our food, our houses.” Her expression hardened into anger. “You may even wait here in the harbor to see us starve. That should please you.”

The words stung. “You have no right to such a statement. You betrayed me,” Charles said.

Bellagio looked from speaker to speaker without comprehension. “Di che lei parla?” he demanded.

Teresa ignored him. “It is my duty. I did not do so happily,” she said.

Charles looked closely at her. Her expression was one of distress; he had to steel himself. “It doesn’t matter now. I want Mr. Underwood.”

“He is not present. You have my promise on this.”

“Che dice?” Bellagio said loudly.

“Tell him to shut up,” Charles said. “Where is he?”

“He has gone away to Mocha,” Teresa said reluctantly. “I should not say this to you. You must not follow.” She turned to the governor and spoke sharply to him in her language. Bellagio scowled, but did not speak. Charles thought he must have understood some of the exchange—words like Underwood and Mocha.

“Why must I not follow?” Charles said softly. But he already knew.

Teresa brushed a strand of hair back from her eyes. She glanced uneasily at Bellagio then returned to Charles. “Because Signore Underwood is transported on a very large warship. Much larger than yours, more powerful than any Inglese boat with cannons in the Red Sea. She left here only yesterday. If you meet her, you will surely be defeated. You shall swear to me that you will not do such a thing.”

“I’m sorry,” Charles said. “It is my duty.”

*****.

Charles bent over the form of Adolphus Jones, lying on the cot in what had formerly been Beechum’s cabin adjoining the wardroom. Constance stood anxiously beside him. Jones appeared to be asleep, his breathing regular if shallow. “Does he have much pain?” he asked.

“Not these past few days,” Constance said. “At least, he doesn’t complain of it. He eats better also.”

Charles had been informed by Mr. Owens that Jones had been shot, probably by a pistol, probably at close range. The ball struck the clavicle, shattered it, and traveled downward into the torso. There was no exit wound and exactly where it rested, no one knew. The injury was two weeks old. The surgeon entered the now full cabin. “What are his chances?” Charles said.

“If he’s lived this long, it’s likely he’ll live longer,” Owens answered. “There’s no sign of putrefaction and he improves daily. Yesterday’s bombardment didn’t help. He needs rest and quiet.”

Jones’s eyes blinked open. They moved from Constance to Owens and rested on Charles. “You have knowledge of Gladfridus Underwood’s whereabouts, I understand,” he rasped.

“I do,” Charles answered.

“What are you going to do about him?”

“I don’t know yet.”

Jones shook his head as if it didn’t matter. He beckoned Constance to bend close. “Kill the bastard,” Charles overheard him whisper. “You’ll find a way.”

“Of course I shall, my darling,” Constance answered, her lips touching his forehead. “I’d already decided on it.”

Charles found the intimacy both touching and frightening.

“You must both leave,” Owens ordered. “I am about to change the dressing.”

Instead of returning to his quarterdeck, Charles went forward through the crew’s mess and down by the ladderway to the magazine. There he found Benjamin Willis, the gunner, who was responsible for Cassandra’s supply of powder and shot.

“We’ve no more powder in the keg,” Mr. Willis responded to Charles’ query. “Every last grain is made up into cartridges. After that, there ain’t no more.”

“I see, Charles said. “And how many cartridges would that be?”

“I’ve made ‘em up in proportion for each size o’ gun. In addition to what’s in ‘em now, there’s sixty-two for the twelves, sixteen for the six-pounders, and twenty-one to the carronades. By St. Cuthbert’s bones, that’s the truth of it.”

“Thank you for such a precise report.”

“Given what it is, it weren’t hard to count, sir.”

Including the cannon as they were presently loaded, he could fire off six broadsides from one side of the ship, seven if he drew the charges from the unengaged side. He muttered an obscenity as he turned to go topside.

*****.

At first light the lookout called down that masts were visible forward of the bow—tall masts, ship-rigged masts, masts that might well be those of a French seventy-four-gun ship of the line. Cassandra, being the faster under all the canvas she could carry, had made up ground on the more cumbersome Raisonnable, which Charles judged to be not more than twenty miles ahead. An already merciless sun inched skyward over the harsh Yemeni highlands in the distance to port. The Mocha roads, and whatever force Blankett had retained there, lay just over the horizon southward. They would be visible from the French ship’s mastheads by now.

Charles knew that Raisonnable was committed to either attacking the English ships off the port or passing them by. Cassandra firmly held the wind gage, and the French ship could not turn to attack. If she hove to or came about to challenge, Charles would heave to and wait at a respectful distance, or come about and flee into the wind. He alone would decide when, how, or indeed if the two ships would engage. Guessing what Blankett would decide at Raisonnable's unexpected appearance was more difficult. He hoped the admiral would cut his cables and run to the south, but he doubted it. Blankett could not know there was no invasion fleet following in the seventy-four’s wake. He would also not know that Cassandra had almost no powder and shot remaining.

Charles’ fingers beat a relentless tattoo on the railing cap. Perhaps the greatest service he could render would be to maintain a safe distance until the confrontation and its inevitable result was over, or he could sail past to Bombay or Cape Town to report the danger of invasion past. The mission for which he had been dispatched by the Admiralty had been achieved, and the fate of Blankett and his squadron no longer mattered. There was no point in sacrificing his own practically defenseless ship to no purpose.

“Sir,” Sykes said, coming from the foremast shrouds.

“Yes?”

“The fort north of Mocha Bay is visible from the masthead. The lookout says he can just see two sets of masts off the harbor. He thinks one might be dropping her sails.”

“Thank you. I would appreciate regular reports as we progress.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Sykes returned to his station.

Charles clasped his hands behind his back and paced the length of the windward side of the quarterdeck, then back again. “Christ,” he muttered. He stopped his walk. “Daniel,” he called.

“Aye?” Bevan said.

“Have the sergeant at arms set up his wheel in the waist. We will sharpen all of the hand weapons.”

“You’re planning to board her?”

“I have no plan at the moment, except to keep every option open. If you would see to this.” He withdrew his sword and handed it over. Boarding the two-decker was not a promising prospect. She would have a crew at least twice, maybe three times the size of his own. He looked up at the spread of canvas above. Cassandra was making as much speed as she was capable of.

“The lookout can see fair well into the harbor, sir,” Sykes voice said excitedly.

“Charles turned. “What does he see?”

The midshipman screwed up his face in concentration. “Leopard and Daedalus are present. Daedalus has put on her canvas to come into the wind, he says. Leopard appears to be at anchor. The Frenchie’s almost up to them.”

What did that mean? The frail Daedalus was the same size as Cassandra. Was she moving to attack or escape? Did Blankett intend that Leopard fight from anchor? Maneuver was his only hope. “Thank you,” Charles said. “Send for Hitch and Aviemore. You may report in turns.”

Looking forward along the coast he made out the old fort on its low peninsula marking the northern edge of the harbor. If he squinted he could see the masts of three ships. The sea air proved hazy close to the surface. Better visibility would be had by the lookout higher up. Ten miles, he guessed. He would be on them in an hour’s time, more or less. He distinctly heard the distant crash of a heavy broadside, long and drawn out as it reached across the water. Sykes came running toward him.

“The seventy-four has fired into Daedalus. She’s lost a foremast.”

“Thank you,” Charles said. A second rumble like distant thunder reached his ears. Sykes turned to run forward. Charles saw Hitch coming aft. He also saw Mocha’s north fort clear on the port bow and two sets of masts in the roadstead.

Bevan arrived at the same moment as Hitch, who cannoned into him, then held on to keep from falling down. “Daedalus has lost her masts! All of ‘em! Frenchie’s making for Leopard!”