A Sea Unto Itself (18 page)

That night a gusting wind came up from the southeast. By morning it had steadied, shifting easterly, and held all day. At latitude eight degrees south Cassandra exited the doldrums.

*****.

“Stop!” Sykes called, holding the fourteen-second sand glass up before his eyes and watching carefully as the last grains had dropped into its lower chamber. The seaman in the forechains pinched off the log line, stopping it from running out freely to the southeast, then studied the knots tied along its length. “Two knots, one and a half fathoms, I make it, sirs,” he reported.

Charles, Bevan, and Cromley stood together near the bow. The foretopsail above had been backed against its mast, causing the ship to lay to, resisting the force of the wind. That the log line ran forward indicated that only an ocean current could have carried it along.

“What is your opinion, Mr. Cromley?” Charles asked.

The master shifted uncomfortably. “It might be the Brazil Current.”

“What else could it be?”

“Well, it probably is the current,” Cromley asserted. “I think.”

“Thank you,” Charles said. “We are agreed.” He turned to Bevan: “We will brace the foresail around to resume, if you please.”

As Charles started back toward his quarterdeck he paused on the gangway to consider his circumstance. The French frigate and her larger consort lay just over the horizon in front of them. More significantly, after passing the Trindade and Martin Vaz Islands off Brazil, they had turned their course toward the southeast, the same as his own. This indicated an intention to make for the strong westerly winds near the fortieth parallel to carry them beyond the southern tip of Africa and into the Indian Ocean. Where they might be bound beyond that he could only speculate.

A source of irritation was that the French ships, or at least the seventy-four, now impeded his progress. Charles had ordered that the royals, studdingsails, and even the main course be taken in to avoid overhauling them. He might bend southward and go past, but he disliked having the frigate to windward. He also disliked the idea of following patiently behind while the enemy went on their way unmolested. He began to think whether there might not be some way he could prick at them, if for no other reason than his own satisfaction. There was the previous meeting south of the Canaries to atone for. His crew had improved their performance at the guns. They still lacked experience firing for accuracy, but something could be done about that. Actually firing into an enemy would be a welcome change from hours of dry practice. With Cassandra solidly established to windward, he had the initiative as to how and where any engagement might take place. If there were damage, he could make repairs at Cape Town; the French would have to continue all the way to Mauritius in the Indian Ocean. The more he thought about it, the more it appealed. He decided that the first thing he should do was to announce his intentions.

Charles resumed his way aft. He found Winchester standing officer of the watch near the binnacle. “Stephen, pass the word for the carpenter to make up a raft with a small mast to hang a flag from. For this afternoon’s practice we shall attempt a target with powder and ball.”

Winchester nodded his head toward the horizon forward of the bow. “The sound will carry, you know.”

“I’m sure their lookouts can see us as well as ours can them. I want to remind them we have teeth.”

“May I ask why?”

“I am considering running down on them,” Charles answered, still working the plan out in his head. “In the morning we will move two of the six-pounders forward and have at them from long range. Then we’ll see what they do.”

“What they’ll do is send the frigate back to settle our porridge,” Winchester said.

“They probably will. Have you an opinion as to how we should respond?”

“Attack her,” the lieutenant said without hesitation. “The men are up to it now.”

“And, if the other, the seventy-four, comes to her assistance, what do we do then?”

Winchester hesitated. “We could draw the frigate away, then attack her,” he said.

Charles shook his head. “I think it would be better if we kept our distance. If either of them turns back, we will stand off to windward.” It was not a plan he was altogether happy with, but at the moment it seemed the most prudent.

Winchester nodded his acceptance, if not his agreement. Excusing himself, he went to find the carpenter to have the target for the day’s gun practice prepared. Charles stood where he was, still thinking. What if the French frigate was ordered back to confront him? It could be an opportunity. Perhaps Winchester had a point; what if he could draw her far enough from the protection of the seventy-four? He would have to wait and see what situation presented itself.

The afternoon rang with the explosions of the twelve- and six-pounders, singly and in pairs, as the gun captains laid their cannon carefully, adjusted the quoins, then pulled the lanyards to spark the powder. As the guns leaped inward, all eyes turned outward to mark the fall of the shot. Sudden geysers spouted up around the bobbing raft that was being towed well behind the jollyboat, a cable’s length to starboard. Some skipped along the water with a diminishing series of splashes like a stone cast across a pond. More were long or short than significantly wide. It was easier to peer along the barrel to sight the guns than to judge the elevation for distance. Charles found himself pleased with the two hours of effort and several hundred shot expended, despite that the raft was hoisted back onboard as undamaged as when it had first been put into the water. After the sun had set he ordered the main course sheeted home, but not the studdingsails or royals. He hoped to increase their speed sufficiently to close during the night, but not so much that he might run aboard one of the French ships in the dark.

Charles and Bevan stood together in silent anticipation on the forecastle in the last minutes before dawn the next morning. Both men stared intently at the growing hint of gray to the east.

“Deck there!” the call came down from the tops as he knew it would. “Both t’em Frenchies, dead on the bow.” It was almost an unnecessary announcement. Within minutes he could see the silhouettes of the warships’ sails against the edge of the lightening sky.

“Can you tell which is closest?” Charles asked.

“The seventy-four,” Bevan answered promptly. “I’m thinking she’s not more than five miles. The frigate’s almost hull down, say, two more.”

Charles thought that looked about right. He guessed that he would be close enough to begin in about two hours. “Send the men to their breakfast. Afterward we will clear for action.” The first sliver of sun showed above the line of the sea, illuminating the distant sails a brilliant white.

The crew came up from their morning meal to begin preparing the ship for battle. Everything unessential was struck below, the decks cleared, wetted, and sanded. The sun had by now fully risen. The enemy seventy-four lumbered onward over blue-gray seas two and a half miles ahead, seemingly disdainful of the smaller enemy following in her wake. With his glass Charles could easily make out the name Raisonnable across her transom. He saw a cluster of officers looking back at him with their own telescopes. On an impulse, he raised his hat in greeting. No one on the French quarterdeck returned the gesture.

“Mr. Beechum’s compliments, sir. The forward six-pounders are prepared as you requested,” Sykes reported, appearing at his elbow.

“Thank you,” Charles answered. “If you would be so good as to run up our colors.” It would be a breach of the etiquette of war to fire on an enemy without showing one’s own national flag first. In this circumstance it was also an announcement that Cassandra intended to open with her guns.

Almost as soon as the union flag broke out aloft, the red, white, and blue tricolor of France showed on the warship’s mizzen peak. The distance between them had shrunk to a mile and a half, with Cassandra closing. The maximum range of the six-pounder guns was just under a mile. At that distance Charles knew that he would be lucky to hit anything, and if he did it would be a miracle if they did any real damage. But he wasn’t hoping to cripple the two-decker, only to irritate her captain and redeem his own ship’s honor. Charles thought he saw some activity at her stern. Raising his glass he saw two gun ports below the taffrail open and the barrels of cannon emerge.

“I am going forward,” he said to Bevan. “Take the courses in when we begin firing. Mind that we don’t get up any closer than necessary. I wish to stay at long range. If she shows any sign of heaving to we will bear away.”

“You can be assured on that score,” Bevan answered.

At the forecastle he saw Beechum standing with the crews to the two six-pounder long guns, now moved into the bow to fire forward. The French seventy-four appeared larger from this vantage—large enough that she might be just within range. As he watched, twin gray-black clouds bloomed from her stern. An instant later two geysers spurted upwards on the surface of the sea, followed closely by the reports of the guns. Both splashes were to port, one even with the bow, the other a hundred yards short.

“Good morning, Mr. Beechum,” Charles said. “As you command the forecastle, you may do the honors.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” Beechum responded with a grin. “On my command,” he said to the two gun captains, standing well behind their weapons with the lanyards to the flintlocks in their hands. Charles could see that the quoins for both guns had been entirely removed for maximum elevation. Cassandra’s bow rose as her cutwater breeched a wave.

“Fire!” Beechum shouted.

The two guns exploded inward, their smoke joining into a single cloud as it trailed forward.

“Sponge out.”

The balls arced across the water as diminishing black specks to splash down in a direct line with Raisonnable’s rudder, forty yards short. “That was good shooting,” Charles said.

Beechum grinned in response. “Load with cartridge,” he ordered to the gun crews. “Wad and ram home.”

“Home!” both captains shouted almost simultaneously, feeling with their wire pricks into the touch holes for the felt powder cartridges.

The French warship fired her stern chasers again. Charles guessed they were nine-pounders from the size of the splashes alongside, one about thirty yards off, the other twice that. “Run ‘em up,” Beechum ordered. He paused waiting for the bow to rise.

“Fire.” The cannon jumped back, their muzzles smoking. Immediately the crews fell to work on them. One ball landed close alongside Raisonnable’s quarterdeck with enough spray that it might have doused her officers. Charles smiled. He looked farther forward to see that the French frigate maintained her station two miles ahead.

Comfortable that all was in good hands on the forecastle, he interrupted Beechum long enough to say that he was returning to the quarterdeck. Halfway back along the gangway he heard the guns boom out again, followed by a cheer from the bow. He turned to look.

“We hit her with one!” Beechum yelled happily. “Square on the poop.” An angry buzzing screech passed close alongside to port, the splash coming fifty yards forward of the stern. He looked and saw signal flags running up Raisonnable’s halyards. Before he reached the quarterdeck, a shout came down from the lookout aloft, “T’ frigate’s falling off with the wind. She’s wearing ‘round!”

“You heard?” Bevan said.

Charles nodded. “Maintain our course for the present, but begin to shorten the sails. If the seventy-four shows any sign turning back, we will do the same.”

The forecastle guns sounded again. Charles decided he’d made his point. It was time to break off. He looked around for Sykes, didn’t see him, but noticed Hitch watching expectantly. “Run forward with my compliments to Lieutenant Beechum,” he said. “Tell him I would be pleased to cease firing and to have the guns replaced as they were.”

Charles looked for the frigate and saw her head on, her sails braced tight as she came into the wind. Through his glass he could see her men aloft on the yardarms taking in the courses. She was readying herself for battle. Within the half hour she would pass the seventy-four, still holding to her original course. He’d accomplished what he’d wanted—firing into the line of battle ship and actually hitting her. He should be satisfied, even pleased with himself. He could turn away and allow the French ships to continue eastward as they pleased, but he wasn’t satisfied. He recalled the earlier encounter with the frigate, how smartly she had handled her sails and guns while his own has floundered in confusion. If he wore around to escape it would appear to all the world—at least to the enemy and to his own crew—that he was running away, afraid of a ship no larger than their own. He looked once more at the two French men of war. The seventy-four showed no sign of turning. By the time the smaller one was up to him, the larger would be five miles or more down wind. That was good enough.