A Sea Unto Itself (28 page)

“Wouldn’t we all, Charlie,” Bevan answered dryly.

Charles ignored the comment. “In about an hour’s time you may send the men below and feed them,” he said in clipped tones. “Something easy—cheese, biscuits, whatever the cook has to hand. No spirits.” Without waiting for an acknowledgement, he turned and hurried along the gangway to speak to Beechum in the bow.

“By the mark eighteen and a half,” he heard the starboard leadsman call out loudly, repeated by the seaman in the larboard chains. From forward everything looked closer, the islands and the enemy frigate’s masts.

“Mr. Beechum,” Charles said, “a word, if you please.”

“Sir,” the lieutenant said, looking up from his paper. Charles saw that he had sketched out their course and the small islands ahead, neatly penciling in the soundings as they were given. A transit lay on the deck beside him, which he assumed Beechum was using to take bearings with which to fix the positions of the islands.

“Do you see those French masts there?”

“Yes, sir?”

“I’m thinking you might take note of her course as best you can. She has to have deep enough water under her to swim in. It may come that we will need to use the same path.”

“I’ve thought of that," Beechum said seriously. “Here, you can see where I’ve made a line. She altered her course a trifle to starboard a quarter hour ago.”

Charles smiled. He had a fondness for the young lieutenant, and thought him to have the makings of a more than competent officer. “Very good,” he said. “Please carry on.”

The boatswain’s call piped the men to their supper. Charles returned to the quarterdeck to pace nervously back and forth, occasionally looking forward to judge the steadily decreasing distance between himself and the Frenchman. He did not like the situation he found himself in. There were too many unknowns. The lay of the seabed was one. L'Agile was the faster ship; why hadn’t her captain decided to run? Why had he chosen to sail into the archipelago instead of the safer waters in the center of the sea? .

By degrees, the base of her masts and then the line of the frigate’s hull became visible over the edge of the sea. She angled obliquely toward a gap between two small islands, little more than lumps covered with low scrub, near to where the two ships’ courses would intersect. Five miles separated them, he guessed, maybe less; the islands were three or four miles distant. The enemy frigate’s hull appeared hard and dark between the pale blue sea and paler sky. She flew her topsails and topgallants, bright white under the glare of the descending sun. Charles took up his long glass again. Snapping it open, he trained it on the Frenchman, forward near her bow. He saw no sign of anyone in the forechains tossing a lead to take soundings. Her captain must have better charts than his, or some foreknowledge of where the channels ran. His unease increased.

He could just hear the leadsmen in the bow calling out the depth, “by the mark ten,” but Aviemore and Hitch ran back at regular intervals to inform him anyway. It had been at a more or less steady ten fathoms for the past half hour.

Augustus appeared noiselessly by his elbow. “Won’t you have somethin’ to eat, Cap’n? It may be a spell before the chance come again.”

Charles had to think. He felt no desire for food. The muscles of his stomach were already tight from anxiety. “Bring my uniform jacket, if you would. Put a few ship’s biscuits in one of the pockets.”

Augustus nodded and left to go below. As Charles watched, L'Agile slipped between the two islands, spilled her wind as she hove to, and began to take in her sails. Broadside on, she came to a halt in the water only a mile or a little more ahead. He saw a small splash by her bow and then her stern.

“She’s dropped anchors fore and aft,” the lookout in the tops shouted down.

Charles suspected the anchorage had not been chosen at random. The positions of the islands left few options, and he would bet his eye teeth that there was an underwater barrier, a reef or a bar, between them. Possibly the French captain hoped that his English opponent would rush forward in all haste, only to run aground and rip his bottom open, all without his having to fire a shot. Charles ground his teeth. There would be no boarding, or even a gun duel at close range where the issue might be decided relatively quickly. He was not happy about it. Feeling his way around the obstruction to come up from the other side would take hours. The setting sun squatted, huge and orange, just above the horizon. No, if this was the ground the Frenchman wanted, he would have to give it to him. It was time to get some of Cassandra’s way off.

The crew began to come back on deck after their meal. He spoke to Bevan, “Daniel, get the topsails in. We will proceed under topgallants alone. When that is done you may beat to quarters.”

“Aye, aye, Charlie.”

“Mr. Beechum’s respects, sir,” Midshipman Aviemore said, coming to a halt and touching his hat formally.

“Cut all the folderol,” Charles snapped. “What's the depth?”

“Six and a half, sir. The bottom’s rising rapidly.”

“Mr. Aviemore, listen to me carefully. Go back and stay by Beechum. When the depth reaches to three-and-a-half, come running as fast as you can.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Augustus appeared with the uniform jacket, which Charles slipped into without speaking.

Cassandra slowed noticeably as her lower sails were put up in brails. The marine drummer marched stiffly to his place at the fore of the quarterdeck and raised his sticks. The long drum roll rattled menacingly across the decks. Charles raised his telescope again and stared hard at the frigate less than a mile in front. He saw that her gun ports were open and cannon extended. As he lowered the glass he again noticed Jones and his two women standing together by the far rail.

“We will employ the starboard battery,” he said to Bevan. “Be prepared to come about on my command. Have the ship’s boats put over the off side. We will also anchor fore and aft.” Without waiting for an answer he crossed the deck to speak with his passengers.

“You must go below decks now,” he said. “I suggest that the orlop is the safest place.”

Jones nodded in apparent unconcern; the elder Mrs. Jones in agreement. The sound of L’Agile’s broadside thundered across the water. Several balls screeched low through the rigging; a number splashed close alongside, throwing up tall geysers. At least one struck home somewhere forward. “I will not,” Constance said. “I want to watch.”

“If you please,” Charles insisted politely. “It will be dangerous. I am ordering you below.”

The younger Mrs. Jones folded her arms across her chest, eyeing him defiantly. “I won’t,” she repeated.

“If you do not do as you are told immediately,” Charles growled, “I will have you carried to the hold and put into restraints. If you wish to be useful, you may assist the surgeon.”

Constance glared at him as if she’d been insulted. “You mean that I might tend to the wounded? Me? What kind of woman do you think I am?” She might have said more but Mr. Jones took her firmly by the arm and the three started toward the hatchway. Charles looked forward to check L'Agile’s position, saw that she was at almost two-cable’s distance. He also saw young Aviemore racing aftward along the gangway, hatless, his coattails flying.

“Bring her to bear,” he shouted at Bevan.

Cassandra slewed to port, her starboard cannon confronting the frigate. The men on the topgallant yard fisted in the remaining sails to tie them off.

“Fire!” he yelled at the top of his voice.

Cassandra’s guns exploded in a single outpouring of cloud and flame, the reverberations of the guns’ recoil jarring the ship. Before the smoke had blown clear, the Frenchman fired a second time. Round shot filled the air, snarling, buzzing, screaming as they passed. Several told against the hull, which Charles could feel through the timbers of the deck. In one part of his mind he heard the splashes of anchors at the bow and stern.

“Sir, sir!” Something was pulling at the sleeve of his jacket. He looked and saw Aviemore frantically trying to get his attention. “Mr. Beechum’s respects, sir,” the midshipman began, his eyes shining with excitement.

Charles wondered if Aviemore had any comprehension of the dangers flying all around him. “Thank you, I am aware that we have come to our assigned depth,” he said. “I appreciate your reporting so promptly.” He saw the quarterdeck carronades being pulled forward on their slides. Their crews seemed to be handling the weapons as well as he could expect. On the six-pounders, the wads were only just being rammed home. The carronades discharged almost as one with their high-pitched barks, at the same moment the crews serving the long guns heaved on their tackles to run them out. Cassandra trembled with the tearing broadside from the twelve-pounders in the gundeck and the six-pounders on the quarterdeck and forecastle. He watched carefully through the drifting smoke for the fall of the shot and counted only four striking the sea surface. The sun touched the horizon beyond.

As the battle settled into a steady exchange Charles paced the quarterdeck, his eyes intent on the enemy with a growing sense of unease. The distance between them when Cassandra had come to anchor was a little more than a cable and a half’s length. It was an unsatisfactory distance for an engagement. At this range, the larger guns did not have the destructive power they would display at fifty or even a hundred yards. Most shots told, of course, as both ships were stationary, and he could see evidence of damage on L'Agile, a section of broken railing, scars to her sides, trailing rigging.

L’Agile fired off her guns as one, clouding herself in gray-black smoke, an orderly row of angry orange sparks showing through. A section of hammock netting burst inward between two guns, hurling a seaman backward across the deck. Two others writhed in pain, pools of red on the deck boards. Bevan quickly ordered the men taken below. The carronades again jerked back as they fired, their crews already moving to sponge out and reload. Before Charles could take a full breath, the remaining guns discharged in a drawn out series of rending explosions as the quicker crews fired before the slower. Again, he counted four splashes close alongside the enemy hull. It became clear to him that the whole thing was a waste of time and powder. Nothing was going to be decided while the light lasted.

Charles found the fingers of his left hand tapping impatiently against the hilt of his sword. To still them he slipped the hand into his jacket pocket where he discovered the ship’s biscuit Augustus had placed there. He raised one of the biscuits to his mouth and began to chew. L'Agile's cannon blazed out once more. He saw two strikes to the bulwarks along the gangway and some fresh-cut rigging snapping from the impact. Cassandra maintained the faster rate of fire, he determined; probably four to the opponent’s three and the Frenchman would be suffering proportionately. Still, it wasn’t enough; it wasn’t near enough. Charles looked out at the sun, more than half buried beneath the horizon. He began to think of options. There would be no moon until after midnight. That would help.

His own increasingly ragged broadside sounded out, first the carronades, then the easier to manage sixes. The gundeck armament exploded in a satisfying roar, only two or three trailing afterward. A small cheer went up from forward and Charles saw the main topsail yard crack on L'Agile, the yard arms dangling at an awkward angle from their stays. He took another bite of the biscuit. A silence came from the frigate as she reloaded, then both ships’ guns boomed out together. He thought he noted a gap in the otherwise orderly row of fiery tongues from her side. That was promising, he thought, but nothing that couldn’t be repaired overnight. The sun dipped lower, a golden sliver on the sea. He knew that darkness would follow quickly.

As the long-range fusillade continued, Cassandra sustained added damage to her hull and bulwarks. A twelve-pound cannon on the gundeck dismounted with a loud clang, its carriage shattered. From reports he received, ten men had been taken below to the surgeon, three were dead. He ordered Hitch and Aviemore, who held no particular duties except to carry his messages, to collect buckets of fresh water to carry from gun to gun so the men could refresh themselves. Charles noted with little satisfaction in the last of the daylight that the enemy’s main topgallant mast had cracked at its step to hang upside down beside the broken yardarms. It was a hell of a weight of round shot for so small a result, he thought.

The French ship’s form became indistinct against the darkening sea and sky. L’Agile’s position soon revealed itself only when she fired, and then as a line of yellow-white flashes in the distance.

“Cease firing, Daniel,” Charles ordered, satisfied that both ships were now firing blind.

Bevan bellowed out the order several times before the cannon fell silent. Men, spent from their exertions, sat on the deck, their backs propped against bulwarks and gun carriages. “Christ,” the lieutenant said in frustration. “This has been just about goddamned pointless. We’ll have to find some way to close the distance if we’re going to start again in the morning.”