How Dark the Night (13 page)

“Good morning, Bob,” Richard returned. “Yes, so it would seem.”

Richard glanced at the binnacle; the compass arrow was floating between 85 and 95 degrees. To the south and southeast lay the Spanish-held island of Cuba. Ahead to the east-northeast lay the Spanish-held territory of Florida. Due north was the Gulf of Mexico and, beyond it, the vast territory of Louisiana recently purchased for $15 million by the United States from Napoléon, who desperately needed the money to finance his war in Europe. Although Louisiana was now a U.S. possession, its southern reaches, particularly in and around the port city of New Orleans, remained predominantly French. That population had recently been fortified by an influx of French men and women who had fled the civil
war on Haiti and its aftermath. Toussaint L'Ouverture, a self-educated former slave, had waged a brilliant campaign against the French and won independence for his country in 1801. Soon afterward, Napoléon betrayed him and had him taken to France, where he languished in prison for two years before dying from neglect and starvation. When word of Toussaint's death reached the Haitian capital city of Port-au-Prince, the last remnants of the former French settlement on the island—both the whites and the mulattoes, the
gens de couleur
—decided to get out, and quickly, especially after an 1802 expedition led by Napoléon's brother to reclaim Haiti as a French colony ended in humiliation for France.

Many of Haiti's French population had fled first to Cuba, bringing with them their knowledge of sugarcane cultivation. But when Napoléon invaded Spain, the Cuban colonial government ordered everyone of French pedigree off the island on pain of death. From Cuba these émigrés fled to Louisiana, a land born to French culture and named in honor of the French Sun King, Louis XIV.

If trouble was brewing, as his sea sense told him it was, Richard suspected that it would more likely come from the French than the Spanish. Peering into the still-dark sky to larboard, he could make out little beyond the few feet illuminated by the cutter's lanterns. He was not surprised when an image of Agreen Crabtree sprang to mind. He would have been glad indeed to have his old friend and shipmate by his side this morning. No one was more reliable in a tight spot. He found himself wondering if Agreen's tender of resignation had wended its way through the Navy Department. Odds were that it had. I won't be far behind you, Agee, he thought.

“Good morning, Mr. Cutler,” a voice greeted him at the railing. Richard was relieved to see Frank Bennett looming in the darkness. Frank wasn't Agreen, but he was a reliable and competent sea officer who demanded much from himself and his crew—which is why Caleb had been so eager to sign him on at Cutler & Sons. Plus, he was pleasant to talk to and in general a good man to have around.

“We should have light in another thirty minutes or so. Dawn comes early in these latitudes. If there's anyone out there,” Bennett added, reading Richard's mind, “we'll spot him soon enough. Shall I send below for some coffee? The water's hot, and I could use a cup myself. I had Turner stoke up the stove before the start of the watch.”

“Yes, do, Frank. And a long glass, if you please. I'm going aloft with the lookouts. And Frank,” he added, “at first light have the men standing by the guns.”

A half hour later Richard climbed the ratlines, secured himself within the hempen cords attached to the mainmast crosstrees, and trained his glass northward across a mottled sea quickly transforming from ebony black to pewter gray. There was indeed a vessel out there, just as his instinct had told him. She was a good distance downwind of
Dove
—perhaps five or six hundred yards—on a parallel course and closing. He lowered the glass, studied her with his naked eye, and then raised the glass anew, focusing the lens in and out until the image grew clear and unmistakable. “Damn!” Richard cursed under his breath. Captured in the lens of his glass was a single-masted vessel boasting a triangular fore-and-aft sail on her single raked mast with a square topsail above, still furled to its yard. At her bow, three large triangular foresails were set on a jib-boom that was perhaps twice the length of
Dove
's. It was the exceptional length of that boom—in alliance with her trim lines, deep hull, and narrow beam—that pegged her provenance.

And what a provenance it was. The speed of a Baltimore clipper such as
Dove
was legendary, but if any other type of vessel could outsail a clipper, it was a Bermuda sloop. Like the one he was looking at now. The Royal Navy's respect for these Bermuda-built vessels was such that it had commissioned large numbers of them into the service. They were ideal for reconnoitering and for chasing smugglers. They were also ideal for communicating important information to other ships both distant and near—and to shore, as HMS
Pickle
aptly demonstrated when she raced from Gibraltar back to England in record time to report the stupendous victory at Trafalgar and the untimely death of Horatio Nelson.

Richard could not immediately determine the sloop's nationality; she flew no ensign. But he noticed that she had six guns run out on her starboard side and three-man gun crews standing by each of them. He climbed down to the weather deck and was about to speak to Frank Bennett when a lookout above called down that the sloop had fired a blank charge to windward. The heavy thud of the discharge washed over
Dove
several seconds later.

“That should dispel any doubt,” Richard muttered, “if ever we had any.” A gun fired to windward was an international signal of malice.

“Fucking pirates,” Bennett snarled. “They must have spotted us late yesterday and shadowed us through the night. You were right, sir: we should have doused our lanterns.”

“It's too late to worry about that now,” Richard said. “We don't know who these people are yet, and we don't know their intentions. Besides, as
you correctly pointed out, dousing our lanterns would have exposed us to other sorts of dangers.” He squeezed Bennett's arm. “Chastising ourselves serves no purpose, Frank. The question is what we do now.”

Bennett nodded grimly. “I say we set all sail and show them our heels,” he stated emphatically. “The wind is freshening and the men are ready.”

Richard set his jaw and considered his limited options. In this stretch of water there was not a friendly port for hundreds of miles, and there was virtually no possibility of outrunning the sloop over such a distance. His only other option, beyond immediate surrender, was to stand and fight. Although his training as a naval commander demanded he take such action, he was hesitant to fire on a vessel that heavily outgunned and outmanned his own, especially with his wife and nephew on board. But he had to make a decision, and he had to make it now. The sloop was closing fast.

He summoned Robert Jordan, who had yielded the helm to another sailor and was standing by for orders, and looked at Captain Bennett. “I want you at the helm, Frank,” Richard said. “We'll come off the wind and bear up. When the sloop shadows our move, I'll give her a broadside. I'll aim for her mast and rigging—and who knows, we may get lucky. As soon as our aft gun is fired, we'll come off the wind, clap on all sail, and resume our present course. If we do that smartly, Bob, we can put some distance between them and us while they're trying to get back on course. Have the men stand by to dump everything portable overboard, and that includes our guns and supplies. Understood?”

Both men saluted in crisp naval fashion. “Aye, aye, sir,” they said in unison.

Richard hurried below to warn Katherine and Joseph to remain in their cabins. He gave his wife a quick summary of what was happening. “We can expect a return volley or two,” he said in conclusion. “But not to worry. I've never known a pirate who can shoot straight at a hundred yards. If it turns out we can't outrun them, then so be it. I will not put you and Joseph in further jeopardy.”

Katherine nodded her understanding. “What are the odds?”

“Slim, I'm afraid.”

“Be careful, Richard,” she pleaded.

Richard nodded and closed the door.

Topside, the Bermuda sloop continued to close as
Dove
bore off the wind and her three larboard guns were run out. The gun crews looked expectantly at Richard, who was on a knee by the forward larboard gun,
peering through its sight, waiting for the sloop to bear up. Two hundred yards narrowed to a hundred yards, and still the sloop continued to come at them bow-on. A sickening feeling washed over Richard as he realized that she had no intention of turning. He was losing valuable time—and distance. He had to shoot now, and pray to hit a pole a hundred yards away.

The sloop drew into
Dove
's sights, dead-on to her single mast.

Richard stood up and to the side. “Firing!” he cried out, and jerked the gun's firing lanyard.

The gun carriage screeched inboard as a 6-pound ball exploded from the gun's muzzle through a viper's tongue of orange flame and white sparks. Richard was already at the mid-ship gun when the gun captain of the first gun reported a miss.

“Firing!” Richard shouted again, and the process was repeated, and then once again at the aft gun.

He snatched a long glass and surveyed the arena of battle. Nothing of significance caught his eye. The sloop's flying jib had a hole torn through it, but apparently the shot had not struck the mast behind it. The mast did not wobble and the sloop did not lose speed. White foam continued to cream off both sides of her cutwater.

Richard understood the futility of his position. Because the sloop had not presented her broadside to return fire, and had instead kept coming straight at them, the advantages he had hoped to gain from superior gunnery and seamanship were gone. The sloop was only fifty yards downwind. Were
Dove
to show her heels now, the race would soon be over and the victor declared.

“Strike our colors and heave to,” he called to Frank Bennett standing by the helm.

“Captain?”

“You heard me,” Richard said hoarsely. “Heave to. That's an order!” Despite himself, he could not keep outrage and disgust from his voice. He had gambled and lost, and now he
had
put his wife and nephew in danger. Whoever these pirates turned out to be, he suspected they would be none too pleased to have been fired upon.

“Aye, Captain,” Bennett said reluctantly. He ordered
Dove
's sails set to counteract each other, and in short order the clipper was hove to and bobbing up and down on the sea in a lazy drift. The sloop, meanwhile, had tacked across the clipper's stern and had come up parallel on her windward side, the maws of her six larboard guns trained point-blank on
Dove
's hull. The sloop's spokesman, standing amidships, wasted no time getting down to business.

“American
vaisseau
,” he shouted through a speaking trumpet, “I am sending over a boat with a
pilote
and four men. These men are armed. You will send me, in return, your
capitaine
and four of your sailors.
Comprenez-vous?
”

“
Je comprends très bien
,” Richard muttered. He looked at Bennett. “So be it,” he said. “I'll go.” But when he made to answer through his own speaking trumpet, Bennett clamped a hand on Richard's arm and forced the trumpet down.

“By your leave, Captain Cutler,” he said. He held out his hand, and Richard slowly surrendered the trumpet.

Bennett raised the trumpet to his lips. “I am the captain of this vessel,” he shouted back. “I understand your message. Four of my crew and I shall come on board as you requested. May I assume that my vessel is then to follow yours?”

“
Oui
,” was the curt response.

“Thank you, Frank,” Richard said as he watched a boat being lowered away beside the sloop. Seven men jumped nimbly down into it. “You didn't have to do that.”

“With respect, Captain, I did,” Bennett responded. “I will not see you separated from Mrs. Cutler. Besides,” he added with a sketchy grin, “I
am
the master of this vessel.”

The exchange was made and soon both vessels were sailing north on a broad reach, the still unidentified sloop in the lead. Not only did she show no flag, Richard noted, she bore no name.

“I'm sorry I got you into this,” he said to his wife, who, with Joseph, had joined him on deck at the first exchange of words between the sloop and cutter.

Katherine brushed away his remark with a flick of her hand. “Nonsense, my dear. Neither you nor anyone else is to blame for getting us into whatever ‘this' turns out to be. I
am
curious, though: what do you think they intend to do with us?”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Richard said. “If it's our cargo they're after, they will be sorely disappointed. Our hold carries only ballast.”

“But they didn't even look below,” she pointed out, “to see what cargo we
might
be carrying. Why wouldn't they at least do that?”

“It's a mystery,” Richard agreed. In the back of his mind, however, a notion was festering that this was no mystery at all. But he dared not share that notion with his wife.

As the two ships cruised northward, Richard had plenty of time to take stock of their situation. The four French sailors—if indeed they were
sailors—stood in pairs at each end of the cutter, each with a cutlass and pistol held at the ready or tucked into the waistband of his trousers. The pilot, dressed like his comrades in homespun cloth, manned the helm. To Richard's surprise, however, they seemed quite relaxed, as though intercepting an American merchant vessel was nothing out of the ordinary for them.