The Power and the Glory (35 page)

“Well done, Mr. Jeffrey. Remind me to put in a good word with your tutor. And so, gentlemen,” he exclaimed to the room at large. “What conclusions might we draw from Mr. Jeffrey's excellent summation? What inspiration?”

Men and boys continued to stare rigidly ahead.

“Ah, well,” Talbot sighed, “it appears that once again I am forced to explain the pathetically obvious.” He was not angry. He was, in fact, having a merry time of it, which only added to his officers' general sense of bemusement. They had experienced their captain's quirky behavior before, but never to this extent.

Talbot rose to his feet and walked over to a larboard gun. “That brigantine,” he said, pointing through the open port to where they could see
Nancy
sailing close by in the golden haze of the late afternoon sun, “is our Trojan horse. She will take us into the heart of Troy, with Greeks hidden in her hold. Do you not yet see where I am going with this? ... Ah, Mr. Hull, I see that the light of day is beginning to dawn on you. On you as well, Mr. Cutler. By God, you are all basking in the glow now. Gather 'round, gentlemen, and listen to my plan.”

 

 

A LESS RISKY PLAN, Talbot was first to admit, would have had
Constitution
standing off the island of Marie-Galante until they could determine exactly who and what awaited them in the harbor of Grand-Bourg. And that they could have done by sending ashore a covert scouting expedition. But such an initiative would require time, and time was a luxury the Americans did not have.
Constitution
was recognizable even to a lubber as a likely enemy. As for the brigantine, her master had confessed to Silas Talbot that he was on his way to Grand-Bourg and was expected there. Arriving in company with an enemy frigate would raise the reddest of red flags on the island.

According to charts and to British intelligence, access to Grand-Bourg was restricted to a route approximately two cable lengths wide that snaked through a labyrinth of shoals and coral reefs stretching from an area approximately a mile offshore to a cut between two promontories onshore. On the stubbier of the two promontories stood an old stone fort that guarded the narrow entryway to the wide, oval harbor. Although bright yellow buoys marked the route, a night passage was not recommended. Better to wait for daylight when leadsmen stationed on the chain-wales could see the seabed eight fathoms down and the ship's master did not have to rely on buoys that could have shifted position during a hard blow.

At four o'clock the next morning, all hands were on deck. The sea was calm.
Constitution
was rigged for night sailing and was making modest headway in light, fluky winds. Alongside her,
Nancy
kept pace under jib, foremast topsail, and mainmast fore-and-aft sail. Eastward, the first intimations of day had softened the black gloom of night and were giving distinct form to the horizon. Just over that horizon lay the island of Marie-Galante.

At a prearranged signal of flashing lanterns, both vessels hove to.

“I daren't go in any closer, Mr. Hull,” Talbot informed his first lieutenant, who was standing at attention by the mizzenmast. “It's time.”

Hull saluted. “I understand, sir.”

Talbot returned the salute. “Good luck, Mr. Hull. I shall come for you at noon, as prescribed.”

“We'll be there, sir.”

Hull again saluted before turning to the boatswain. “Lower away the boats, Mr. Nichols. You may begin the transfer. Handsomely, now. And quietly.” That last command was issued more by instinct than necessity. Nowhere in sight was there a black shape that would define another vessel under sail.

“Aye, aye, sir,” Nichols replied softly.

Twenty-three Marines dressed in ordinary garb went over the side to join the seven Marines already on board
Nancy
. The twenty-five Marines still on board
Constitution
began handing down an arsenal of pistols, muskets, powder, shot, and grenades into the two whaleboats.

Next off, into a longboat, went a hand-picked auxiliary crew of seamen, along with the senior midshipman, a carpenter's mate, a quartermaster's mate, and a boatswain's mate. Last off were two senior lieutenants and the former master of the brigantine, a suddenly contrite, bald-headed man named Phillips.

“Good luck,” Lieutenant Hamilton said as Richard gripped the twin hand ropes leading down to the ship's boat bobbing alongside. “I wish I were going with you.”

Richard nodded in sympathy. “Understood, Robert, but you're needed here,” he said truthfully yet lamely. “I'll see you in a few hours.”

On board
Nancy
, Richard took up position beside Agreen at the helm. On deck with them, twelve able-rated sailors dressed in nondescript slop-chest clothing made ready to get under way. The others huddled belowdecks, save for Isaac Hull and Daniel Carmick, who joined the two lieutenants astern. Hull gave Richard a nod, confirming that everything below was secure. Astern,
Constitution
remained hove to, the lanterns on her weather deck gleaming ever less distinctly as her three boats were hoisted back on board and
Nancy
sliced through water stirred to life by a freshening northeasterly breeze. The breeze seemed a good omen. Rarely did the wind in the Indies pick up this early in the morning.

“Relief from the helm, Mr. Crabtree?” Hull asked. “You've been at it all night. Orrick here,” referring to the quartermaster's mate, “can take over for now. If this wind holds, we have a good two hours before you need bring her in. A little sleep might do you some good.”

“Thank you, sir,” Agreen replied. “I'll stay here, if you don't object.”

Hull did not object. There was no man that he or anyone else on board the brigantine would rather see at the helm under these circumstances than Agreen Crabtree. “Then you will be pleased to note,” Hull said, “that I have requested the galley fire lit and a light breakfast brought up to us.” He added in a weak stab at a devil-may-care attitude, “Let's hope the coffee is up to French standards.”

Conversation was spotty as
Nancy
sailed eastward. There was little to say beyond what had been said the day before. Each man understood his assignment, and each man standing on deck or crouched below in the hold had now to cope in his own way with the conflicting inner emotions that well up to near bursting when battle is nigh. For most of them, it was not the uncertainty of what lay ahead that they feared, or even the danger. It was the killing. More precisely, how the killing would have to be done. It is one thing to butcher a man two hundred yards away as the result of round shot crashing through an enemy bulwark. It is quite another to kill a man face to face, your sword ripping into his belly, his eyes bulging in unspeakable pain as the steel blade
slices through intestines and vital organs, the panic of imminent death silently screaming from a mouth agape, the sudden foul stench as his bowels give way to abject terror. And that assumes that you are the one doing the killing.

“Deck, there!” a lookout cried from high up the forecourse yardarm.

“Deck, aye!”

“It's the fort, sir, dead ahead!”

Hull raised an arm in acknowledgment. He turned to the helm. “Well done, Mr. Crabtree. Spot on target, as usual.”

He and Richard strode forward to the bow. Twenty minutes later, through a long glass, they could see the tricolor of revolutionary France fluttering from atop the single turret. Richard glanced aloft. Although the square sails on the brigantine's foremast were furled, she was making good headway on a close haul under the mainmast driver and an array of staysails and jib. Richard estimated the wind at eight knots from the northeast. It would remain so, he surmised, right to the entrance of the harbor.

Gradually the fort assumed a distinct shape. Soon they were close enough in to observe the bright yellow buoys dancing atop the waves. Even at this close distance Richard could see little on the island beyond the fort and the beaches and mangroves fringing its shoreline. Marie-Galante was as flat and treeless as any island of his acquaintance, and he found himself wondering how the island's east coast, be it anything like this, could withstand the onslaught of one of the late-summer Atlantic gales.

“Shall we reduce sail and take her in under reefed driver and jib?” Richard ventured when Hull seemed distracted by what he was observing or thinking.

Hull caught himself. “Yes, Mr. Cutler. See to it, if you will. And my compliments to Captain Carmick and would he please bring Mr. Phillips up here under guard.”

Richard touched his civilian-style tricorne hat and departed. Although equal in rank to Isaac Hull, Hull had seniority over Richard by virtue of Silas Talbot having seniority over Thomas Truxtun on the captain's list. More to the point, Silas Talbot had given explicit command of this mission to his first lieutenant.

Moments later a Marine corporal directed Seymour Phillips amidships where the officers had gathered. It was hard not to feel a pang of pity for the man, whatever his alleged misdeeds. He slouched before
them, staring down at the deck and shaking his bald head, muttering something incomprehensible. Playacting? If so, Richard concluded, he was one convincing actor.

“Mr. Phillips?” Hull intoned.

Phillips looked up with round, hollow eyes. “Yes, Lieutenant?”

“I want to review with you again the acknowledgment signal for entering Grand-Bourg. I need not remind you that the corporal here has strict orders to keep a close eye on you. That is his sole responsibility until we are back on board
Constitution
. Cross us, and he will blow your brains across this deck.”

“You needn't concern yourself, Lieutenant,” Phillips groused. “Why would I cross you? You forget that I am an American citizen struggling to feed my crew and family.”

“‘Smuggling' would seem a more appropriate word for you, Mr. Phillips. You are a traitor to your country, and that, I assure you, I will not forget. Your only hope of survival is to cooperate fully with us. If you do, I may be persuaded to speak for you at your trial. Now then, the recognition signal if you please.”

Phillips let out a long, low sigh. “It's as I told you before, Lieutenant. When we approach the fort, you dip the ensign three times. It's critical you do that
before
we reach the fort.”

“And if we don't?”

“You know the answer to that.”

Hull nodded grimly. “And the guns on the east-facing wall—on the landward side of the fort—they are as you have described them? Higher up than those on the sea-facing walls?”

“They are,” Phillips confirmed.

“And to your knowledge there are no other military installations either in Grand-Bourg or elsewhere on the island?”

“Why would there be?” Phillip's frustration was mounting. “Think on it, Lieutenant. Why would the French maintain any sort of force on an island where a fort guards the entrance to its only port? And where armed privateers are normally moored in the harbor? And where a French naval base is but a few miles away?”

Isaac Hull and Richard Cutler glanced at each other, each drawing the same conclusion. What Phillips said reconfirmed the key elements of British intelligence that lay at the heart of their plan.

“Very well, Mr. Phillips. You may remain on deck by the helm. Let those in the fort see you. You may wave to them as we pass by. And you
may respond if they hail you. But try to warn them or do anything out of line, and your life shall pay the forfeit.”

“Damn you, sir, I am an American!” Phillips vented. “I was selling food to the French, not weapons.”

“It's all the same, according to law,” Hull reminded him.

Phillips was about to say something—perhaps, Richard speculated, that since no fucking war had ever been declared between America and France, he was free to do whatever he fucking well pleased. In truth, it was a thorny legal point that remained unresolved in American courts and in the opinion of Attorney General Charles Lee. But whatever protest Phillips may have had in mind, he thought better of it and kept his mouth shut.

Her canvas reduced to a minimum,
Nancy
slowed as she entered the well-marked channel leading into the harbor of Grand-Bourg. Less than a mile ahead loomed the fort; beyond it Richard could see masts and white canvas furled on spars. He was leaning casually against the foremast with his arms folded across his chest, as though engaged in a boring routine. He set his hat low on his forehead and tried to count the number of vessels in the harbor, allowing two masts per vessel. It was hard to determine, for the vessels were still distant and were moored close by each other in an area across the harbor where the docks and warehouses were concentrated. His best guess was five vessels of consequence.

As
Nancy
came off the wind to keep within mid channel, Phillips nodded to Hull, who nodded to Roger Jeffrey.
Constitution'
s senior midshipman stood by the larboard signal halyard, dressed, like everyone else, in everyday sailor's garb. Jeffrey acknowledged, seized hold of the signal halyard, and dipped the American ensign one, two, three times. Leadsmen stationed on the chain-wales signaled clear and deep water on the route ahead to where the west-facing wall of the fort was approaching. On its highest tier, black muzzles protruded out from between embrasures. On the lower two tiers, they protruded through square-cut gun ports. As
Nancy
glided along to within fifty feet of the fort's south-facing wall, everyone on the weather deck noted six cannon set on the lowest tier trained point-blank on the brigantine's hull, their round black maws primed to fire conclusively into any vessel attempting a forced entry.

Richard held his breath as he flicked his gaze aft. Agreen nodded back, enmeshed in the same grim memories. They had already been
through this drill together—twice. The first time was on board the schooner
Falcon
as she ventured into the harbor of Algiers close by the mammoth guns of an Arab fortification. The second, later that summer of '89 as
Falcon
departed France beneath the fortress at Lorient with refugees Anne-Marie de Launay and her two daughters huddled below in the after cabin.