The Fallon Blood, page 34
part #1 of Fallon Series
Martha caught her as she nearly fell. “You come with Martha, Miss Gabrielle. Oh, your hands! Your poor hands! What you want to do your hands like that for?”
Gabrielle held her hands up in front of her face and stared at them. Ridged blisters criss-crossed the soft palms. But she didn’t feel a thing. How odd. The sky was turning gray. Almost dawn. If they could only hold out till dawn. “The fire, Martha. Get in line.”
“The fire finished, Miss Gabrielle. They done got it penned up; it done for. You come with Martha now. I fix you a nice bath, and some ointment for your poor hands.”
She let Martha lead her away, stumbling down the drive. The smell of burned buildings was heavy in the air, and suddenly she was aware of every pain. Her legs screamed, and her hands were on fire. The night, the pain, everything, was suddenly more than she could bear. Sobs wracked her, and tears coursed down her cheeks. The house was safe. That was the important thing. The house was safe, and Michael would come home to it.
Byrne, Petrie, and young Oliver sat around Michael’s table in the stern cabin of Hussar, frowning at the chips of wood he was laying out, three columns of them.
“There,” he said, setting the last one down. “That’s the way the convoys are running now. If there are two escorts, one is ahead, and one astern. With three, it’s one ahead and two astern, outboard of the columns.”
Byrne nodded glumly. “Aye. And they won’t chase you out of sight of the convoy. They just won’t be drawn off anymore. We’ve done too good a job—scaring the bloodybacks till they shepherd the merchantmen like sheep.”
Mr. Oliver, the baby-faced young officer, shifted nervously and cleared his throat. “Ah, I—Well, sir, I was wondering why we don’t stick to picking up stragglers. There are always a few.”
“Which of you wants to answer him. Mr. Byrne?”
“All right, Captain. I’ll explain it to the boy. Have you happened to notice, boyo, that nine out of ten of those stragglers are the worst sailors in the worst condition, with the most worthless captains and the most worthless cargos? So we take a brace or so, and divide them up. One-third to the owner, the rest to the crew. Half a share to ship’s boys, powder monkeys, and the cook. A share each to the seamen. A share and a half to the carpenter and the sailmaker. Two to the chief gunner. Three to junior lieutenants, five to senior, and ten to the captain. Then there’s an extra half share to anyone who loses an eye or a limb, and an extra whole share to the family of any man killed. Add it all up, and your share of a pair of stragglers would come to, oh, say three days with that Consuelo of yours in Ferrol.”
The table exploded in laughter as Oliver’s face went red. He was still young enough to be in love with every girl he had in every port they visited, and the sultry Consuelo was the latest. The mirth was cut short by a knock at the cabin door. A seaman stuck his head in. “Masthead reports a sail, sir. A point on the port beam.”
“Tell the steersman to alter course toward it,” Michael said. “Well, gentlemen. Shall we be seeing what it is we’ve found?”
From the first it was clear their quarry was a massive ship. Even from a distance two stern galleries could be seen. Bluff-bowed and tall, she plowed through the sea under heavy sail, the Union Jack at the stern and the Red Ensign at the masthead.
Byrne snapped his glass shut after a short look and shook his head. “A sixty-gun ship-of-the-line. Maybe larger. It’s as well we’re no closer.”
“Then why hasn’t she turned toward us?” Michael kept his spyglass to his eye, studying the ship from heavily gilded stern galleries to ornately carved lion-and-unicorn figurehead. “If that’s a ship-of-the-line, or any sort of warship, why hasn’t it turned toward us?”
“Because they’ve no interest in us, thank God.” Byrne looked at Michael suspiciously. “If it’s a warship? God’s blood, look at it. The size. The flags. That’s a sixty-gun ship of the Red Squadron.”
“That flag could be the Merchant Ensign as easily as the Red Squadron flag. And what sort of merchant vessel that size would be passing through these waters? An Indiaman. Built to fight off Lascars and Malay pirates, and weather storms around the Cape of Good Hope. And in waters known to be frequented by American privateers, her captain’d not be wanting to get too close to a strange vessel. A warship would come closer, just to be sure of us.” He shut the spyglass with a decisive click. “But we’ll make certain. Hoist the American flag.”
One of the seamen opened the flag locker and hunted through the colors they used to close on unsuspecting merchantmen. French. Spanish, Portuguese. Danish. Venetian. Every country that ever had a ship, and some that didn’t. In minutes the Stars and Stripes ran aloft and broke at the masthead.
On the huge ship ahead the reaction was instantaneous. Two dozen gunports swung open along her side. Aloft more sails broke out until she carried every scrap of canvas she’d hold. And she altered course two points away from Hussar.
Michael looked at Byrne and the mate shook his head. “All right, she’s an Indiaman. But you yourself said they’re built to fight off pirates, and I’ve seen a dozen Malay dhows swarming together, each with as many guns as we have.”
“We’ve bearded the British Navy time and again, Christopher. Would you turn from a fat merchantman, no matter his weight of guns? Make all sail, and beat to quarters.”
Hussar picked up speed. It was a strong wind, not quite over the stern. The sea was calm, with long, low swells. A heavy sea would have favored the bluff-bowed Indiaman. In that sea Hussar flew, and the huge merchantman wallowed ahead.
Every gun on deck was manned and primed, but every man hoped they wouldn’t be used. Shot-up prizes had a way of sinking before they could be brought to port. Cutlasses and boarding pikes were being handed out. It was on them they’d depend, cold steel and the rush of over a hundred men.
The distance grew shorter. The time until they’d be boarding could be measured in minutes. A low, anticipatory murmur ran across the deck.
On the Indiaman, it looked to Michael as if they were swinging yards. What—? They were going to swing broadside to Hussar and fire! Their head was already falling off to starboard. “Starboard your helm,” he ordered. “Fire as they bear.”
As the Indiaman swung away to starboard, Hussar heeled to port, across her stern. Eight eighteen-pounders thundered and leaped back, solid shot smashing through the stern cabins. And then they were upon her. Hand-mortars fired grappling hooks to pull them tight against the bigger ship. Men aloft swung grapples into the Indiaman’s rigging to make them faster, and lit and dropped grenades on her deck. With a roar like the fiends of the pit a hundred privateers and more swarmed up the side of the ship looming over them.
A man leaned over the rail above Michael to aim a musket, and he ran him through and boarded over his body. He slashed away a bayonet thrusting for him, pistoled the wielder, and hacked at another man. Already the deck was covered with milling, desperately fighting men, and the air was filled with the screams of the wounded and dying.
An officer in a coat covered with gold braid rushed at Michael. The captain. “You pirate bastard,” he screamed.
Michael beat aside his clumsy thrust and, in one move, dropped his sword, pulled the man to him, and presented his second pistol to his head. “Surrender, man.” He jerked the captain around where he could see the fighting on deck. “Surrender before your whole crew is killed. Shout it loud.”
The captain looked at his crew being cut down and shouted. “I surrender! Lay down your arms! The ship is surrendered!” He breathed heavily as his orders were obeyed, and the privateers roughly shoved survivors to the center of the deck. “Damn you,” he rasped.
“Perhaps I will be. In good time. I’m Michael Fallen, captain of the American privateer Hussar. Who are you, and what ship is this? Bound for where, from where?”
“Charles Thomas Forsythe,” the captain choked. “The Empress of India, bound for London from Calcutta, in the Bay of Bengal. You’ll hang for this, you realize. You’re pirates, and you’ll hang.”
“But before that happens, Captain Forsythe, suppose we go below and fetch the manifest. Mr. Byrne, come with me. Mr. Petrie, get a damage report on our prize. Mr. Oliver, a report on casualties. And now, Captain, if you please.”
The captain’s cabin showed the effects of the battle. Three large holes gaped in the stern windows. The furnishings were overturned or smashed, but they’d have done credit to any house in Charlestown. Instead of a ship’s bed, there was an ornately carved four-poster, and a crystal chandelier hung over the demolished table.
While Byrne stood gaping, Michael went to investigate a large, square bulk, sitting in the corner with a rug over it. The rug whisked away to reveal an iron-bound chest with a heavy lock and hasp on the front. It took three blows of the cutlass to break the lock. He swung open the lid and felt his breath go. The chest was filled to the top with gold coins. There were coins with six-armed demons, and coins with dragons, and coins with strange markings he thought might be some sort of writing. He didn’t know a one of them, but he knew gold, and this was a fortune in it.
“Michael, I’ve the manifest. It’s—Holy Mother of God! I never saw that much gold in my entire life.”
“Well, you’ve seen it now.” He closed the lid and fit the broken lock back on the hasp. “Better than a straggler, aye? Young Oliver’ll be able to afford more than three nights with Consuelo on his share of this.”
“And that’s not all. It may not be half. Look at this manifest. Spices. Silk. Ivory. Pearls. Casks of pearls. Can you believe such a thing?”
Michael waved away the manifest and laughed. “I believe it. After this chest, I’ll believe anything. Ah, Mr. Petrie. Mr. Oliver. It seems we’ve taken a treasure ship.”
“I know, sir,” Petrie replied. “The men are already toting up their shares.”
“Time enough for that when we get it to port. For now, what’s it cost us? Casualties, Mr. Oliver?”
“Light, sir, considering. Four dead, about twenty wounded. The Indiaman’s worse off. A dozen dead, and every man of the rest has a wound of some kind.”
Forsythe, who’d been staring dejectedly at the ruins of his cabin, and possibly his career, stirred. “My crew. You will take care of them? Or at least allow us to use our own medical supplies?”
“Your men will be cared for along with ours, Captain. Damage, Mr. Petrie.”
“Bad enough. The steering’s shot away, tiller, wheel, and all. Thank God the rudder’s sound, or we’d be here for hours. I’ve started them jury-rigging. Carpenter says another forty minutes.”
“She’ll steer like a bullock. We’ll head for the nearest port, and repairs. That’s La Morelle. Captain Forsythe, if you’ll join your men below, I think you’ll see they’re being cared for. Mr. Petrie, have some men move this chest to the Hussar. Mr. Byrne, let’s work her clear. I’d be afraid of a cutter with a swivel gun hung up as we are.”
As Michael had predicted, the Empress of India steered like a bullock, slowly and ponderously. Men below heaved at block and tackle to force the rudder round against the weight and momentum of the ship. Even a gentle turn left them spent and gasping. They made for the port that was nearest as the wind took them, where they could run free instead of tacking. And Hussar ranged around her, watching, always watching, for sign of an enemy sail.
The French coast was in sight ahead when the masthead sang out. A flung arm sent Michael’s gaze astern. On the horizon a topsail slowly climbed into view, and inch by inch, a mast, and a ship. A frigate. Normally Hussar would dance away, leaving another English captain, if he recognized her, to curse that damned pirate Fallon. But now she was tied to the prize.
Michael measured the distances ahead and behind. The frigate was coming up fast, and the wind seemed to be faltering around Hussar. It’d be close.
With infinite slowness the arms of the bay at La Morelle opened ahead and enfolded them. Behind, he could make out the frigate’s figurehead, an angel holding a sword aloft. Well, that angel’d get no chance to try his sword against a hussar’s saber. As the thought came, the wind died.
Hussar and the prize floated just inside the bay, surrounded by cliffs, becalmed. Outside, the frigate still came, slowing, but still slicing toward the mouth of the harbor.
“Damn! Mr. Byrne, lower the boats. We’re towing Hussar.” Some of the crew stared at Michael as if he was a madman, but Christopher raced to get the boats out. “There, two hundreds yards ahead and to the starboard, where the white streak is, down the face of the cliff. From there he’ll come head on at our guns down the channel, or run on the shoals. We’ll see if he fancies that.”
He ignored the hubbub as the boats were swung out. Empress of India’s anchor was down. To get to it the frigate would have to pass Hussar. He gave orders to anchor on a cable spring. The cable was passed through a stern port and brought forward to be bent on the anchor before it was dropped. By taking up or letting out the cable the ship could be swung through a wide arc, and the broadside directed almost anywhere. Let the lobster come on in.
Beyond the headlands the frigate’s sails suddenly emptied, and hung loose. The captain dropped an anchor, riding squarely across the channel out. There was no activity. It might have been a ship of dead men.
Michael quickly drew Byrne aside. “I took this position when I was sure we’d have to fight. But he’d be much less likely to try cutting out our prize if we were where any trouble would mean damage to a French town. I’m talking about tied up to the quay. It’s deep enough to take us, for all this is a fishing village.”
“You mean to tow us in?”
“I do. But not with our boats alone. You saw how the wind failed in here before it failed for the Britisher. Suppose he got enough breeze to bring him in gun range while we’re being towed along?”
Christopher looked sick. “He’d blow us out of the water.”
“So I intend giving him as little time to do it as possible. If we had two or three dozen of the fishing boats out here—You see it? They could move us as fast as a medium breeze. Until then, we stay right here. Now ready the jolly-boat. I’m going to see the mayor.”
The mayor received Michael at the town hall with his council, six long-nosed men who looked alike enough to be brothers. The mayor himself was short and round, and he spoke effusively. “Ah, Capitaine Fallon, mon brave. It is an honor to welcome you. You are most well known as a gallant among gallants. And now you come to our village with another prize from the goddamns.”
Michael bowed formally. “I thank Your Excellency for the kind words. It is I who am honored.”
“No, no, Monsieur le Capitaine. Perhaps it is that we are both honored. And perhaps you will tell us the reason for our part of the honor.”
“You’re all aware, of course, that my ship and my prize are becalmed in your harbor. If you could lend me your assistance in gathering the fishermen, so they could tow us to the quay with their boats, I’d be forever grateful. And of course I’d pay them well.”
The effusive smiles disappeared as he spoke, and now they broke into a torrent of rapid French, every man seeming to speak at the same time. Michael had a sinking feeling. The mayor turned back to him, blandfaced.
“I regret, capitaine, but it is impossible. There is the small matter of a frigate of the goddamns, yes? If your so famous vessel is at our quay, this frigate may fire at you, and many of the shot will hit not your ship, but our village. You understand, of course.”
“Excellency, he’ll not fire on your village, nor anywhere near it. Why, it’d start a war.”
“That this other capitaine’s feelings are so peaceful toward France is a chance we are not willing to take. Non! Impossible!” He pursed his lips, and rolled his eyes toward the others. “It is much to be regretted, certainement, that this prize may be returned to the goddamns. Some, shall we say, small amount of assistance might be given in running it aground. Just to keep it from the goddamns, of course.”
Michael had difficulty in not laughing. They’d swarm over it like ants the minute the keel touched bottom, claiming right of salvage. “I don’t think that’ll be necessary,” he said. “Do you think I could borrow or rent a horse to ride up to that fort on the headland?”
“But of course, Capitaine Fallon. I myself rent the horses. But I must tell you, the commandant can help you no more than we.”
The commandant was a dark-eyed colonel with a thin mustache and the star of an order on his tunic. “I have watched your ship in the harbor below, capitaine. And the other outside. It is a good name, Hussar. I myself was of the chasseurs before this.” He tapped his leg, and limped to his desk. “You would care for a brandy? Or perhaps wine?”
“The brandy, Colonel. I was one myself, once. A hussar, that is. That other ship, Colonel. He’s likely to try coming in, to try taking my prize out of a French port. It’d be nice if you were to inform him, sort of casual like, that you’ve no intention of letting French territorial waters be violated.”
The commandant smiled and swirled the brandy in his glass. “It was a long time ago for me, the chasseurs. And for you, too, I think, the hussars. No more the gallant charge, the dashing sortie, with no more to think of than horse and saber and lance, and the next woman. Now, there is politics.”
“Colonel—”
“Non, Capitaine Fallon. Let me finish. If I let this frigate come into the harbor and fight you, let them take this ship you have captured, it would be dishonorable. But if I fire on it, the guns of this fortress may well sink this frigate. That, monsieur, will mean war. And it is the business of a soldier to fight his country’s wars, not to start them.”
“Colonel, it’s no secret that there’ve been moves toward an agreement between the American Congress and His Most Catholic Majesty. Soon we’ll be allies. We may be allies at this moment and not know it. From that time you’ll be at war with the English, and it won’t matter what you do to one frigate here.”
