The Power and the Glory (36 page)

When they were safely past the fort and lying to, Richard studied the harbor more closely. It was as the British and Phillips had described it. The commercial pulse of what appeared to be a modest Breton town of white stucco buildings with red-tiled roofs was clustered at the opposite end of the broad, oval harbor, where the privateers—or merchantmen, it was hard to determine which—rested side by side, stern in. Their bows faced
Nancy
as she rounded into the wind under a double-reefed driver. Richard glanced up at the fort's east-facing wall. Phillips had told the truth. The cannon up there, on two tiers, were placed too high to bear down on the harbor. Their purpose, apparently, was to protect Grand-Bourg against an assault by land.

Better yet, on the stubby promontory and flat ground between the fort and the town about a quarter-mile away, gray canvas tents and wooden stalls had been erected. Citizens dressed in their Sunday finest were milling around there while listening to merry tunes scratched out by gaudily clad accordion and hurdy-gurdy players. The Americans had known that this festival was under way—it lay at the core of their plan—but its scale was considerably greater than they had anticipated. They could see uniformed military personnel, presumably from the fort, sprinkled in among the civilians. None of them appeared to be armed, but why would they be?

Presently two boats came out toward
Nancy.
A bowman on one of them called out instructions in broken English to douse all remaining sail and heave a towing line out to both boats. He hailed the brigantine's master visible amidships.

“
Bonjour, Monsieur Phillips. Il est bon de vous voir même si vous êtes un américain!”

His fellow oarsmen started laughing. Phillips waved and smiled back good-naturedly, as though long accustomed to such jocularity. He lifted his tricorne hat over his head and held it there in traditional French fashion.

As they were being towed in toward an unoccupied stone quay where dockers were making ready to warp
Nancy
in sternfirst, the well-laid plan suddenly changed. Richard, at the bow, had been scrutinizing the
moored vessels as they neared the docks. It was not the sight of a captured American merchant schooner that made him suddenly flush hot with anger. They had expected to find her there, forewarned by intelligence that a Royal Navy frigate captain had gleaned from a Swedish lugger he had detained after the lugger had sailed from Grand-Bourg. What Richard had not expected to find in Grand-Bourg was the vessel moored two quays down from the schooner, one of uniquely French design that he had seen once before, two years ago in the icy waters of Nantucket Sound.

He strode briskly aft to where Isaac Hull was conferring with Daniel Carmick. “Mr. Hull,” he interrupted them, “do you see that armed brig moored over there, the one with the raked bow and angel figurehead?”

Hull scanned the docks. “Yes. What about her?”

“She's an angel of death and I have a score to settle with her.”

Hull narrowed his eyes. “Oh? A personal score?”

Richard struggled to control his emotions. “I admit that I have personal reasons for wanting to destroy her.”

“Then what I believe you are saying, Mr. Cutler, is that you have a score to settle with her captain. Who may no longer be in command. I mean no disrespect, and I am sorry to disappoint you, but I cannot compromise our mission for a matter of personal revenge, no matter its basis. You of all people should understand that.”

“I do understand that, Mr. Hull, and it's why I ask you to reconsider.” Richard's voice carried the weight and quality of cold steel. “That privateer, whoever her captain may be, has preyed on American commerce for years. God knows how many of our ships she has seized, how many of our sailors she has taken prisoner or tossed overboard. But never mind that. We need a diversion, do we not? I can give you a far better diversion than the one we have planned.” He pointed at the brig. “And I can do it using her own powder.”

When Hull hesitated, Carmick spoke up. “He's right about the diversion, sir.”

Hull pursed his lips, mentally weighing the pros and cons. His decision made, he nodded at Richard. “Very well, Mr. Cutler,” he said. He checked his watch: five minutes past nine. “How many men do you require?”

Thinking quickly, Richard answered, “Four, sir. Mr. Jeffrey and three Marines.”

“Agreed. Mr. Carmick, please select the Marines.” He checked his watch again as
Nancy
bumped gently alongside a stone quay edged
with thick hemp to prevent damage to a wooden hull. Mooring lines secured her in tight. “Keep in mind that we absolutely must keep to the schedule. We
must
be out of here on the ebb tide, even if that means leaving someone behind. Will eleven o'clock serve?”

“Perfectly, sir. I'll go below and make the arrangements.”

For the next forty-five minutes Richard sat crouched in a sweaty, crowded hold rife with the lingering stench of salted fish despite the hosing down at sea. Close beside him, Midshipman Jeffrey sat against a Marine sergeant named Kendall, who sat near two Marine privates named Reeve and Jackson. From outside on the quay they heard someone ask in a heavy French accent if Phillips required assistance in unloading his cargo. Phillips shouted back that yes, he would appreciate assistance, but could it please wait until later in the day, mid-afternoon perhaps? They had had a difficult passage from Puerto Rico and he had granted his crew a brief respite at the festival.

“
Bonne idée
,
capitaine
,” the voice responded. “
À bientôt, ensuite
.”

After that, all was quiet outside, save for the occasional stamp of footsteps on the deck above and the more distant sounds of music and merrymaking. Suddenly, the hatchway above slid open, allowing in a waft of blessed fresh air. Two of the Marines stood up and threw over their shoulders short, white canvas bags such as a sailor or lubber from any country might tote around in port. “Good luck,” Richard whispered to them, to which one Marine replied with a salute. Richard immediately admonished him. Out there in the town and on the promontory, he reminded the Marine, they must act like ordinary seamen. Any show of military discipline or deference to rank, until called for, was forbidden. The Marine nodded his understanding and followed his companion up the short ladder leading to the weather deck and down the gangplank onto the quay.

During the next forty-five minutes, pairs of Marines left at five-minute intervals, each dressed as the others, each toting the same sort of canvas bag looped tight at the neck and with only slight noticeable bulges. By 10:15, twenty Marines had left the hold to fan out on the stubby promontory and mingle among the crowd. Belowdecks, within the dank confines of the Trojan horse, six Marines remained in addition to the three assigned to Richard and the corporal. Also remaining below were the ten auxiliary crew members, who had little to do but wait.

They did not have to wait long.

Richard checked his watch: 10:29. He nodded to his small party. Time to go.

ON SHORE, the five Americans walked down the deserted waterfront past a series of long, low, mostly windowless wooden warehouses with hogsheads, barrels, and hemp sacks stacked out front, then turned right and walked past three vessels secured against a quay. First in line, the captured schooner
Rebecca Ann
out of Newburyport lay quietly on her mooring lines, water reflections flickering on the name scripted in black letters on her stern. Second in line was a handsome single-topsail sloop armed with four swivel guns mounted on Y-brackets, two to a side. Next to her, her larboard side snug against a quay ten feet away, was their quarry,
Le Léopard
, the bold gilt lettering on her stern a stark reminder of the riches she had garnered at the expense of American and British merchants. Beyond her, toward the open western arc of the harbor, were smaller quays with brightly painted workboats either tethered to them or pulled up onto the docks.

Richard hand-signaled the three Marines and Jeffrey to stay put and strolled alone up the quay alongside
Le Léopard
. Despite his loathing for her captain, he found it impossible not to admire her gracious lines, the jaunty rake of her two masts, and the length of a jib boom that could support an impressive array of foresails. He counted eight 6-pounders on her weather deck, their black muzzles protruding through ports cut out of the bulwarks.

At the gangway leading from the quay up to the entry port amidships, Richard hailed the vessel in French. In short order a hulking man wearing a red-striped shirt shuffled over and looked down at Richard.

“
Que voulez-vous
?” he demanded. He slurred his words, suggesting that he had pumped on board his own form of celebration earlier that morning.

“
Bonjour, monsieur
,” Richard replied amicably. “
Votre capitaine, est-il à bord
?”

“
Pourquois voulez-vous savoir
?”

“
J'ai une lettre pour lui
.” As proof, Richard held up a small folded piece of paper.

“
Une lettre
?”

“
Oui. D'une femme en ville
.
Une femme très belle
,” he emphasized with a suggestive grin. “
Elle m'a demandé de le lui donner
.”

“
Vraiment
?” Clearly the sailor was intrigued by the prospect of a beautiful woman sending a letter to his captain in such a manner. “
Per-mittez-moi de l'avoir
.
Je vais le remettre à lui
.”

“
Merci
.” Richard walked up the gangway holding out the paper in his right hand. As he stepped through the entry port, he handed it to the
sailor, who stood there turning over the blank paper in his hands. When he looked up, baffled, Richard punched him in the solar plexus, doubling him over, then jerked his knee hard into the man's face, straightening him with a faint crunch of bone before striking a blow to his jaw that sent him reeling backward. The Frenchman crumpled onto the deck, blood spurting from his nose. Richard seized the man's chin in his hand and jerked it from side to side. No reaction. He glanced around. A weather deck that had been deserted save for this one man remained deserted. No one had sounded an alarm either from the other vessels or from shore. He beckoned to the others, who sauntered toward him.

“Right,” Richard said when they were together on the brig's deck and he had distributed the pistols from the white canvas bags. He tucked two of them into the front of his trousers, behind the belt, covering the butts with the hem of his loose-fitting shirt. “Jeffrey, you come with me. Kendall, you and your men wait for him by the magazine. You know what to do when he gets there.”

“Count on us, sir,” the Marine sergeant whispered. Crouching low, he turned toward a hatchway leading belowdecks, followed by the two Marine privates, each brandishing a pistol at half-cock. Please God they don't encounter anyone lurking down below, Richard prayed. If they did, they would have to spring a contingency plan of much greater risk and danger. He was gambling, however, that they would find none of the crew belowdecks. The festivities were in full swing ashore, and since the fort guarded the harbor, there hardly seemed a need to keep hardworking sailors from enjoying themselves. And he had a further assurance. The last thing Agreen had told Richard before Richard left
Nancy
was that he had observed but one man on the brig's deck during the past hour, and that man now sprawled unconscious in front of him. Besides, by this hour of the day in the tropics, with the heat and humidity on the rise, belowdecks was hardly a place anyone would choose to be—unless, of course, he happened to be in the more comfortable ambience of the captain's cabin.

Richard and Jeffrey waited a moment before creeping down the same ladder, listening intently for any telltale sound or cry of alarm. None came. All was quiet forward in the crew's quarters and on the orlop. So far, so good. At the bottom step they turned and stole aft.

When they reached the captain's cabin, they stopped. Richard glanced at Jeffrey and then knocked on the door.

“
Entrez
,” a bored voice beckoned.

Richard opened the door and stepped inside a snug yet attractive space. Oil paintings of pastoral landscapes graced the walls. The leather chairs, sandalwood desk, and twin teak sideboards appeared to be of high quality. Richly inlaid glass windows gracing the stern and the two quarters confirmed the good taste of whoever had decorated this cabin. Only the heavyset man sitting behind the desk seemed out of place here. He glanced up and took in his two visitors through black, expressionless eyes set amid an unruly shock of red-orange hair, beard, and eyebrows.

“
Bonjour, Monsieur du Bourg
,” Richard said softly, menacingly. He removed his tricorne hat. “
Vous souvenez-vous de moi
?”

At first the privateer captain did not recognize him. Then a slight shift in his eyes indicated that he did. His right hand slid toward a side drawer.

Richard eased a pistol from his waistband and thumbed back the hammer two clicks.

“
Je ne conseillerais pas de le faire, monsieur
,” he hissed. “
Je prendais le grand plaisir de vous tuer.”

Whether it was what Richard said—that he would take great pleasure in killing him—or how he said it, the privateer captain froze. He raised both hands before him and then gently placed them palms down on the desktop.

Richard stepped forward to the desk. “The key to the magazine,” he demanded in French.

The man hesitated, his eyes riveted on the unwavering barrel of the pistol.

“The key,” Richard spat out. “I will count to three.” He brought the barrel of the pistol six inches from the man's brow and began counting.
“Une . . . deux
. . .”