A Call to Arms (2 page)

“Pirates, you say?” Though no one doubted Caleb's courage, he had good reason to fear pirates.

“Most likely.”

“We've seen pirates before,” Will scoffed, “and not one of them has been able to catch us. We haven't fired a single shot.” Then, hopefully, “Think we will
this
time, Mr. Crabtree?”

Falcon
carried six long 9s as armament, though she was not a ship of war. She was a double topmast merchant schooner, the fastest vessel in Cutler & Sons' merchant fleet. But most vessels in these Far Eastern waters, whatever their pedigree, carried guns for protection against freebooters and cutthroats. Despite her new brass guns,
Falcon's
speed was still the best deterrent to being attacked and boarded.

“Careful what you wish for, Will,” Agreen muttered grimly. He wasn't at all surprised that Will Cutler relished the prospect of a fight. Everyone in Hingham, Massachusetts, was familiar with the lad's fiery nature. Agreen sighed and tried to calculate a way out of this mess; he found none. “Our friends out there obviously have an interest in us. And given our circumstances, there's only one way t' discourage that interest.” He glanced at Caleb. “With your permission?”

“Of course, Agee,” Caleb said. “Do what you think is necessary.” Caleb Cutler's family owned
Falcon,
and he managed the wide-ranging commercial interests of Cutler & Sons, but he knew only too well that in
a showdown at sea, the power and prestige of his position accounted for naught. “You have command of this vessel.”

“Very well.” Agreen looked hard at Caleb's nephew. “Will, take the tiller and maintain her present course. Do not—I repeat,
do not
—alter course without a direct order from me or Mr. Weeks. Understood?” Will nodded and took the tiller. Agreen walked forward to where his mate awaited his orders. “Are the guns primed and loaded, Mr. Weeks?”

It was a rhetorical question. Although
Falcon's
crew had not yet fired the guns in anger, they had drilled with them nearly every day since leaving Boston three months ago.

“They are, Mr. Crabtree.”

“Very well. Call out the gun crews, larboard side.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

In short order, Peter Weeks had each crew of four men standing by a gun with its lashings cast off, its tampion removed from the muzzle, and its barrel loaded with a cylindrical flannel bag filled with 4% pounds of powder and a 9-pound ball rammed down the bore to the breech. Assigning men to the guns left only a skeleton crew to sail the schooner, but the wind was blowing fair from the southwest, and the lack of fetch in these sheltered waters churned only a modest chop. Behind each gun, in specially designed rectangular containers, lay additional round shot and chain shot and, for hotter action close in, canister and grape shot. Rammer, sponger, loader, and wormer: each sailor understood his assignment and awaited orders from the gun captain—who, for each gun, was Agreen Crabtree. He had learned his trade while serving as a naval lieutenant with Will's father in
Bonhomme Richard
under Capt. John Paul Jones during the war with England, and, during the war with France, under Capt. Silas Talbot in USS
Constitution.

The sun was approaching its zenith before the mystery sails closed to within view of those on the schooner's deck. Each man watched in silence as the two vessels—each with the high forecastle, lateen rig, and raked masts favored by local brigands—followed an oblique line of interception slightly ahead of
Falcon
to larboard. Beyond them, the islands of Krakatau, Sebesi, and Sebuku hovered low on the horizon before the lush green mountains of Sumatra.

“Mr. Weeks,” Agreen said when the vessels had approached to within two miles, “stand by the helm. At my signal, have Will veer two points off the wind.” He had considered sending Will below for his protection and ordering Weeks to take the helm, but that, he knew, would be problematic because the young man would refuse. Nineteen-year-old Will, the future
of Cutler & Sons, insisted on taking every risk the crew took. He had made it clear even before the cruise began that he would not accept any sort of special treatment or attention because of his name. While he did not challenge that argument, Agreen realized, as did Caleb, that beneath Will's lofty stance blazed an almost reckless desire to prove his mettle. Both men also understood that if anything were to happen to Will on this cruise, they would have to answer to Will's mother. Katherine Cutler had been none too pleased when she learned that Will would be sailing with Agreen in
Falcon.
She relented, grudgingly, after her husband intervened to explain the business rationale behind the decision.

Standing by the forward larboard gun, Agreen studied the two mystery ships through a long glass. As he had expected, they had not altered course. A swift mental calculation of distance and relative speeds suggested that they would intercept
Falcon
in thirty to forty-five minutes. Speed provided no advantage now. Convergence was inevitable. They had closed to within a half-mile: a daunting distance for most long guns. But a long 9 could be fired with greater accuracy at a greater range than a shorter-barreled, wider-bore gun. Which was why it was so often used as a bow-chaser on large naval warships.

Agreen looked aft and signaled to Weeks. Weeks relayed the order to Will, who slowly coaxed the helm up.
Falcon
veered off the wind to lie on a parallel course with the two other vessels. Agreen knelt low beside the gun and sighted its barrel over the broad stretch of glittering turquoise water. Accuracy was not the aim of this first shot. He was simply sending a message.

He stood up. “Firing!” he shouted. With a yank on the firing mechanism he struck hammer on flint. Sparks sizzled down a quill to the main powder charge in the breech, and an explosion of orange flame and white sparks sent the 2,800-pound gun carriage careening backward and a 9-pound ball streaking forward.

All hands searched for the splash, and there it was—a plume of white water gushing up between the two vessels.

“They're not convinced, Captain,” a member of the gun crew commented moments later. “They're maintaining course.” As if to underscore that remark, the lead vessel fired a blank charge to windward, an internationally recognized signal of hostile intent.

“Well, then, let's convince 'em.” Agreen walked a short way aft to the middle gun, larboard side. He knelt down and peered over the top of the brass barrel until he had the lead vessel wavering in his sights. He shook his head. On the uproll, where he could sight the best, the gun was aimed
too high. A hit to her rigging wouldn't account for much. And more likely than not he'd miss her altogether. No, he needed to hit her near where her captain would be stationed. “Pull out the quoin two notches,” he ordered a member of the gun crew.

“Better,” he said to himself when the gun had been lowered. To Weeks he shouted, “Bring her off a quarter point,” motioning with his right hand for emphasis.

Weeks relayed the order aft, and
Falcon
veered further off the wind.

Agreen suddenly held up the flat of his palm. “There! That's it! Hold her steady!” He stood up. “Firing!” he spat out as he yanked the flintlock lanyard. Another explosion. Another squeal of wheels as the red-painted carriage rocketed backward until checked by its breeching ropes. A second 9-pound ball screeched northward.

On the afterdeck, Peter Weeks raised a glass to his eye. Agreen did likewise amidships. Neither glass was necessary.
Falcon's
entire crew saw the ball strike the railing of the lead vessel halfway between her mainmast and stern. Distant screams of men impaled by shards of jagged wood echoed across the jeweled waters of the strait.

A great cheer resounded through
Falcon,
followed, moments later, by a second great cheer when both vessels suddenly wore ship and made for shelter among the numerous islands dotting the strait's western regions.

“Great jumpin' Jehosephat!” Will exulted as Agreen made his way aft. “What a shot, Mr. Crabtree!” He punched the air with a fist.

“Mind the helm, Will,” Agreen cautioned.

“Well done indeed, Agee,” Caleb said calmly. “Cutler & Sons is most grateful for your excellent aim.” Even the normally staid Caleb could not resist a smile.

Agreen grinned back.

An hour later
Falcon
hauled her wind and set a new course due east toward Cape Pujat. Tonight she would anchor in Peper Bay. Tomorrow morning, God willing, the long outbound leg of her cruise to the East Indies would be over.

V
ENETIAN MERCHANTS
trading with the Muslim sultanates on Java were the first to open Westerners' eyes to the richness of the Spice Islands. What Europeans beheld in the Far East inspired the Age of Exploration, an era during which one maritime power after another sought not to advance the teachings of Christ, but rather to control the lucrative trade routes bearing the cloves, mace, coffee, black pepper, and other luxuries that well-to-do Europeans were keen to purchase. Throughout the 1500s,
Portugal, France, Spain, Britain, and Holland fought fierce campaigns against each other and against local kingdoms to gain control. In the end, the Dutch prevailed.

The Dutch East India Company—Vereenigde Oost-indische Compagnie, in Dutch—was founded in 1602. It became the world's first mega-corporation—the first company to issue stock and the only company ever to be granted quasi-governmental powers to wage war, negotiate treaties, coin money, and establish colonies. For almost two centuries the VOC paid an annual dividend of 18 percent on investments. That handsome return encouraged additional investments in VOC and the spice trade, which the Dutch protected with all the means at their disposal. VOC merchant vessels were armed to the teeth with the latest in naval gunnery; on land and at sea VOC military personnel confronted and eliminated any threat to the company's commercial empire. By 1625 Holland held a virtual monopoly on the East Indian spice trade. Such was their resolve to control every source of supply within the 17,500 islands of the East Indian archipelago that the Dutch gave away the island of Manhattan to the English in return for the tiny volcanic island of Run in the Banda Islands where nutmeg was cultivated. The Dutch drove away, starved, or slaughtered the local Bandanese to ensure exclusive Dutch control of the island's plantations.

By the time
Falcon
sailed through a breakwater of small islands protecting the northern approaches to Batavia Bay in 1801, Holland's iron grip on the East Indies had relaxed considerably. VOC, in fact, was bankrupt and had closed the doors to its Far Eastern headquarters several years earlier. A victim of both internal corruption and external pressure exerted by the rival British East India Company and French East India Company, VOC had finally bowed to the inevitable and allowed in the competition.

Dutch influence remained strong, however, especially in Batavia, the old colonial capital on the north coast of western Java. Will Cutler stood as mute and full of wonder as the rest of
Falcon's
crew as Peter Weeks guided the schooner under reduced sail toward the long commercial wharves near the base of the city wall. He could not see much of the city proper—the smooth, ten-foot stone wall prevented that—so he took in the area around it: a flat, largely treeless area where simple stone huts and makeshift tents seemed to form a separate city; the lush tropical rainforests beyond; and, farther away, jagged volcanic mountains wisping smoke. In the harbor, boats of all descriptions swung at anchor. Many were two-masted, ketchlike vessels with rounded bow and stern; others
were larger—brigs, brigantines, and dhows—and several others were larger still. The largest of all looked more like a first-rate ship of the line than a merchant vessel.

It was another vessel, however, that demanded Agreen's attention as
Falcon
glided in toward her anchorage. She was of considerable length—Agreen estimated 150 feet on her weather deck—and displaced 800 or 900 tons. She had graceful lines and a jaunty bow and stern, and she was clearly a naval frigate: her gun port strake was painted pure white, and her sails were furled to their yards in Bristol fashion. Agreen's gaze took in her ensign halyard. There, high up on its peak, stirring to life in the awakening breeze, fluttered the Stars and Stripes.

“Well I'll be goddamned,” he muttered under his breath.

“That's
Essex,
Agee,” Caleb Cutler confirmed. He had walked forward to stand beside him by the foremast chain-wale. “I don't see
Congress
,” referring to the U.S. Navy superfrigate that accompanied
Essex
as they became the first American warships to round the Cape of Good Hope into the Indian Ocean. “Perhaps she's out on patrol, gathering up other merchantmen.”

“Stations to drop anchor!” Peter Weeks shouted from the helm. As the schooner slowly turned to the wind, the leeches on her jib and spanker began to shiver and her spanker boom jounced about. “Away anchor!” Weeks ordered when the way came off her. Sailors in the bow let go the anchor holds. The anchor rode rumbled out through the hawser hole, and the great wrought-iron fluke splashed into the harbor. The jib and spanker were quickly doused. For the first time since departing Cape Town,
Falcon
lay peacefully at a port of call.

Her entry into Batavia Bay had been duly noted aboard
Essex,
anchored several hundred feet away.
Falcon's
anchor had barely touched bottom when the frigate dipped her ensign three times.
Falcon
returned the salute. Within the half-hour a ship's boat glided up alongside the yellow hull of the schooner. An officer dressed in white duck trousers, a loose-fitting white cotton shirt, and a fore-and-aft bicorne hat climbed up the rope ladder and stepped through the larboard entry port.