The Flag of Freedom (33 page)

Apart from the coaster and the fishing boats there was little sign of life either at sea or ashore. Directly opposite
the island, on the farther side of the bay, there was a distinctive hill like the hump of a camel, rising out of the flatness of the shore and topped by a substantial building of stone which Nathan thought was another fort but which Spiridion said was a caravanserai – a kind of hostelry for the caravans that trekked across the deserts between Alexandria and points East – Persia, India and beyond. In times past they had brought the silks and spices that made Venice the great trading power of the world, but now the caravanserai looked as deserted as the rest of that forsaken shore.

There seemed little point in lingering, the fort so moribund Nathan was reluctant to waste powder in a formal salute, but then, as he was about to give the order to wear away and begin trawling the coast closer to Alexandria, there was a shout from the lookout in the foretop and he followed the direction of his outstretched arm and saw the bare poles of a three-master just beyond the headland, previously masked by the bulk of the fort.

She was schooner-rigged with a green flag at her mizzen and thirteen gunports painted along her sides. And as Nathan studied her through his glass, conviction grew to certainty. She was the
Meshuda
.

N
athan studied the schooner through his glass as the
Swallow
rode the gentle swell in the mouth of the bay. Their approach had provoked a bustle of activity on board the
Meshuda
, but no obvious signs of panic. She did not cut her cables and make a dash for the open sea. She did not waste powder and shot in a vain attempt to deter them at such a range. But her guns were run out and she swung at her anchor to follow the
Swallow
's every move – a sure sign that she was moored on a spring cable. She had boarding nets rigged along both sides and her tops were crammed with men armed with muskets and swivel guns. She looked a tough nut to crack, but the real problem, from Nathan's point of view, was the bay itself.

The schooner was moored in what looked like clear water about halfway between the headland and the mouth
of the Nile. But according to Cathcart's chart she was very close to a large sandbank, barely two fathoms under the surface and extending over much of the inner bay. Spiridion supposed that she must be in one of the channels created by the interplay of tide and current; such tide as there was in this part of the world. But to reach her would require a local pilot, or a much more accurate chart than the one they possessed. The
Swallow
's draught was a mere fourteen feet, but even where they were now, well out to sea, they could see the seabed quite clearly beneath their keel.

The only alternative was to fire on her from long range, or attempt to cut her out with small boats – by night. Both of which raised serious tactical problems.

Nathan had been agreeably surprised by the range of the carronades. At the maximum elevation of 11 degrees, with a full charge of powder, they could hurl a 24-pound round shot to a distance of about 2,000 yards, almost as far as cannon of the same calibre. But they were woefully inaccurate. In the admittedly few live practices he had permitted – firing at a raft made of empty rum casks – they had come nowhere near to hitting the target at even half that range. Their chances of hitting the
Meshuda
from the outer reaches of the bay were minimal, and the schooner could fire almost as far and with much greater accuracy with her 6-pounders.

Then there was the question of the fort.

The Turkish Commander was unlikely to remain neutral while an unknown man-of-war attacked a Muslim vessel anchored peaceably in his own waters – especially as she was flying an Ottoman flag. And Murad Reis would
hardly have told them he was conducting a survey for the French.

Nathan viewed the guns through his glass. They were probably culverins, he thought, firing an 18-pound shot. With the advantage of their height above the water they would easily reach him at 2,000 yards, and the effect on the thin timbers of the sloop, especially if the shot was heated, did not bear thinking about.

The only other approach – a night attack with the ship's boats – was fraught with difficulties of its own. There was no chance of taking the
Meshuda
by surprise – not now – and according to Spiridion she carried a crew of well over 300, twice as many as the
Swallow
– veteran fighters, who specialised in boarding operations. Nathan's own crew were fine enough sailors, but they were untrained and untested in battle. They would be cut to pieces.

‘We have to find some way of bringing her out,' he said to Tully.

But he was damned if he could think of one.

Imlay, of course, had his own half-baked solution. ‘If it looked as if we were making an attack, prepared for battle, guns run out and all – might it not spur them into some kind of a response?' he proposed. And before Nathan could make a sufficiently scathing reply, he went on: ‘Surely they would not wish to remain at anchor. They would cut their cable and try to find sea room. Just as you did – or intended to do – when you thought the
Meshuda
might catch us moored off the
menshia
in the Bay of Tripoli.'

‘This is true,' Nathan conceded, ‘but unlike us in the Bay of Tripoli, the
Meshuda
is moored on a spring cable.'
He saw that this meant nothing to Imlay. ‘This enables her to swing at her mooring,' he explained patiently. ‘She could cover any approach we make and hit us again and again with her broadside before we could bring our own guns to bear.' And in case this did not impress him: ‘Besides which, if she lies where she is at present, she is covered by the guns in the fort. Between them they would pound us to pieces before we approached within a half-mile of her. And if we were to run aground, heaven help us. She would come out then all right, and we would be helpless to defend ourselves.'

But even as he spoke, the germ of an idea was forming in his mind. He rejected it at once. It was absurd. Tantamount to suicide. But it refused to be so lightly dismissed.

He leaned over the rail and peered into the translucent depths below the keel. He could see the seabed with remarkable clarity, the gently waving seaweed, the colourful fish darting to and fro, even a crab scuttling across the sandy bottom – a hermit crab, carrying its home on its back, like a barnacle with spider's legs. It stirred a dim, half-forgotten memory from his time as a midshipman in the South Seas.

And suddenly he knew how it could be done.

He gave orders to take them out to sea, far out of the sight of prying eyes. Then he explained to Tully what he had in mind.

It was mid-afternoon before they headed back into the bay – with the gun crews at the guns and the topmen in the tops and a solitary seaman in the bows swinging the lead. The wind remained steady from the west, blowing almost
directly across the bay but still so mild as to scarcely ruffle the surface of the water. The only hint of a breaker was where the sea broke on the rocks between the islands and the headland, and a very small hint it was, like the lazy curling of a lip. But it showed how shallow the waters were thereabouts. Hopefully they were almost as shallow on the seaward side of the islands. Nathan's plan depended on it.

At about 2,000 yards, seeing that the shoals had not deterred them, the fort fired a warning shot. It sank about a cable's length off their starboard bow. Nathan gave the order for the gun crews to lie down beside the guns. But his prime concern was not the shot from the fort, not as yet.

‘Four fathoms five,' sang out the seaman with the lead.

They were now almost directly in line with the fort, with the twin islands almost masking them from the guns.

‘Very well, Mr Cribb,' Nathan nodded to the sailing master.

The Genoese and the Portuguese worked efficiently enough but Nathan was gnawing on his bottom lip as he watched them, willing them to work faster, and restraining an urge to bawl them out for their indolence or impudence, or both, for they still chattered away like parrots, even with the prospect of dying in the next few hours.

‘Four fathoms four,' came the voice from the bows.

Up came the maintopsail. Up came the foresail and the foretopsail.

‘Four fathoms two.'

Down came the forestaysail and the mainstaysail.

‘Three fathoms five.'

They were almost past the islands now and the
Meshuda
was exactly where they had left her, with her guns still run out and her boarding nets rigged.

Nathan leaned over the starboard rail and peered down into the clear blue waters. Was he wrong? Had he stayed too far out? Then he saw the sudden swirl of sand and felt the slight tremor under his feet.

‘Port your helm!'

She was very sluggish answering, but round she came until the bowsprit was pointing almost directly at the mouth of the Nile, with the
Meshuda
lying at an angle of about 45 degrees off their starboard bow. Still coming round – too far now. He opened his mouth to instruct the helmsman.

‘Three fathoms three.'

Then she struck.

They had taken the precaution of doubling the stays, but the foretopgallant mast broke away at once, toppling almost elegantly forward across the bows and bringing down jib and staysails with it in a hopeless tangle of canvas and rigging. Nathan feared that the maintopgallant would follow, but it held and the Genoese were already hauling in the remaining canvas at maintop and mizzen with the waisters under Mr Lamb hacking away at the shambles in the bows.

The islands masked them from the fort but not from the
Meshuda
and she fired almost immediately – a rippling broadside that fell a little short of their bow, a single shot skipping up and ringing off the bower anchor.

Now came the real test. Was she going to stay there, potting shots at them at long range, or was she going to
come out? It was all down to the vanity – or the courage – of one man. Peter Lisle, the former seaman turned Admiral of the Fleet.

‘Oh, he will come out,' Spiridion had declared confi dently. ‘He is a corsair and a Scot, he will not be able to resist. Think of the glory, bringing you back in triumph into Tripoli.'

Nathan stared out across the bay towards the schooner, wondering what he might do in the same circumstances.

‘Start out the water,' he said to Tully. If Lisle saw that they were trying to lighten the ship, it might convince him they truly were aground. If ditching the water did not wash, they might have to sacrifice a couple of guns.

Another broadside. This time two or three shots struck the hull, but they were firing at extreme range and the shot bounced harmlessly back into the sea.

Then Spiridion let out a shout. The canvas was mushrooming out from the
Meshuda
's spars and stays, and through his glass Nathan could see the long teams on her decks hauling on the halyards.

‘She has slipped her cable,' O'Driscoll announced, unnecessarily.

They watched as she began to move slowly off her mooring, heading away from them at first with the wind directly abaft, but then round came her bows and out she came.

Nathan fought down the sudden euphoria; there was a long way to go before he could allow himself to feel exultant. And for a few minutes indeed he thought she was steering clear of them, heading for the far side of the bay. He brought the glass up to his eye, focusing on the
figures at her stern. He could not make out Lisle, among the group of officers – if they
were
officers, for they seemed to wear no particular uniform. He imagined the debate they must be having. To play safe and steer for the open sea, or take the prize that was so temptingly offered. He caught Spiridion's eye but the Greek's face was ex pression less. Confident, assailed by doubt? It was impossible to tell. Then he saw the ghost of a grim smile, and looking back towards the
Meshuda
he saw that her bows had come round and she was heading straight towards them.

His exultation was shortlived. An instant later, the two long nines at her bows opened fire – with remarkable accuracy at 1,000 yards or more. The first shots skimmed the water a few yards off his larboard bow, but the next smashed into the rail just abaft the mainmast, hurling lethal splinters about the gundeck. Nathan heard the screams and the groans of the wounded and watched them carried below to the tender mercies of Mr Kite. Others, beyond his torment, were thrown overboard without ceremony. But the men kept their nerve, waiting, silent and remarkably steady, beside the guns.

And the others, with their axes, poised and ready, in the waist.

Nathan could see Mr Wallace, the engineer from the Carron Company who was acting as their gunner, and it occurred to him that this was probably the first time he had been in action. He looked tense, but then so did they all, and beside him, among the starboard carronades, was the immensely reassuring presence of George Banjo, who had slipped easily into his old role of gunner's mate.