Rascal was less than a half mile from the scene when Cully’s long nine joined the battle with a ranging shot that was just wide of the Frenchman’s stern, upon which Fallon could now see Loire emblazoned through his telescope. The American’s stern showed Ceres.
Beauty and Barclay conferred quietly and calmly, for it was almost time to harden up and cut between the two ships.
“Ready the starboard battery!” yelled Beauty to Cully, just as the long nine roared out a ball. Now no telescopes were needed as the stern quarter of Loire exploded in plain view and at least one crewman went down. A weak cheer went up from Ceres but there was no time to celebrate, for Rascal was very nearly up to the battle and Beauty had dropped down on Loire swiftly.
Fallon could see the French capitaine rallying his men to face this new threat, temporarily forgetting the helpless American. For an eerie moment, there was no sound as both ships waited for the hell they knew would come.
Beauty ordered the helmsman to harden up and Rascal passed between the sloop and the schooner.
“Fire!” Fallon screamed, and Rascal’s starboard guns exploded a huge cough of iron balls at less than a hundred yards from Loire. The French ship seemed to stagger sideways with the impact and her crewmen were flung backwards. But her answer was immediate.
Rascal’s starboard railing blew apart like brown dust in the wind as men were hurled from their stations by the impact of Loire’s 9-pound balls into the hull, across her decks and into the ship’s boats. The cries of the wounded were pitiful but, worse, some men did not cry and lay in grotesque positions of death. Colquist was down below, no doubt nervously waiting for the wounded who would be dragged and carried to him.
“Fire again, Cully!” yelled Fallon, already hoarse with excitement and fear. Here is where training and discipline paid off as Rascal’s gun crews loaded and ran out in just over two minutes. Rascal’s starboard guns threw their charges at Loire again, and again French crewmen cartwheeled over, some blown completely apart in red explosions of blood. Fallon could see the capitaine, sword out and pointing to Rascal as he exhorted his gun crews to fire again.
In a moment of silence Fallon had a clarifying thought.
“Beauty!” he called. “Slow the ship and cross behind her stern! Cully, ready the larboard battery!”
Beauty ordered the sheets be let fly and Rascal immediately slowed so dramatically that Loire’s broadside missed her entirely and sailed out to sea. Quickly, the sheets were gotten in and Beauty let Rascal’s head fall off as the ship fell across Loire’s stern on a beam reach.
“Fire!” yelled Fallon, and Rascal’s entire larboard battery burst through Loire’s fragile stern, shattering the gallery windows and penetrating deep into the bowels of the ship, perhaps halfway through to the bows, killing anyone inside and exploding splinters up through the deck overhead into the feet and legs of the crew there.
“Now harden up again, Beauty!” ordered Fallon. “Come on the wind!” and Rascal came up on Loire’s starboard side now, catching the French capitaine by surprise and, to his horror, here were Rascal’s larboard guns being run out again before he could get his starboard battery loaded.
“Fire!” yelled Fallon. As the smoke blew past it was clear the damage was horrific, and Fallon could see no one at the binnacle of the schooner nor at the great guns on her starboard side.
“Ready boarders!” he yelled. But here was the capitaine rushing a man to the tiller as Loire had fallen off the wind and was almost upon Rascal. The two ships crashed hard together as Beauty ordered the sheets let fly and grappling hooks thrown over Loire’s railing.
Fallon jumped to Loire’s deck, only to slip in blood and go down hard against a cannon. Aja quickly helped him to his feet and the two joined the fighting, slashing at the French crew, thrusting and stabbing and pushing them back against their own railing. Pistols fired and jammed, bodies were clubbed and sliced open and the screaming of wounded men calling for help could be heard above the shouting. Men died where they stood, or crawled to the railings to try to stand, their bodies smearing a trail of blood behind them. At last, outnumbered, outfought, and out of able men, the capitaine approached Fallon, holding his sword in front of him with both hands to surrender. His face was ashen and his breath reeked of garlic and old cheese even from several feet away. It was over.
The remaining French crew fell down, or lay down where they stood in abject surrender, choosing life over death, gasping for air, some crying from fear or pain, many clutching at their wounds as their lives dribbled out between their fingers and onto the deck.
The non-wounded were locked below decks on Loire while the wounded would have to wait for Colquist to finish with Rascal’s crew, which proved to take some time as there were many wounded and several would not see morning, no matter what Colquist did for them.
Now here was a hail from Ceres, which Fallon had quite forgotten about, and she limped across the sea on a now-dwindling breeze, her mainsail back aboard and her shattered boom cut loose.
“Ahoy, captain! I am Lieutenant Micah Woodson of the U.S. sloop Ceres,” yelled a uniformed figure at the starboard rail through cupped hands. “Thank you, sir, for coming to our aid! Might we grapple onto your starboard side? You seem to be full up on the larboard! I will throw out fenders, although the wind seems to be moderating to nothing.”
In the event, the three ships were tied together and the wind did, indeed, continue to die off over the next hour until the sea laid down to a ripple of wavelets. Fallon introduced himself to Woodson but suggested they meet in the morning to exchange news as all three ships and crews needed urgent attention at the moment.
Loire herself was the picture of devastation, with upended guns and fallen blocks and tattered sails and deep creases across the decks which were still filled with blood hours later when, the three ships still bound together, evening at last crept aboard.
ELEVEN
THE NEXT MORNING SAW THE CREWS AT WORK ON BOTH LOIRE AND Rascal and, after burying his dead crewmen, Woodson’s crew was busy shipping a new boom for Ceres. There was a certain urgency in the air as an enemy ship could come upon them at any moment intending mischief and they were lying helpless, still bound as one, none prepared to fight.
Colquist had been awake all night doing all he could to ease pain and suffering or death, as the case might be. Fallon had spent much of the night with him, holding a crewman’s hand like a wife or lover, talking softly and with all the encouragement he could summon that stopped short of a lie. He’d even spoken French to the most grievously wounded privateersmen, summoning feeling for men he had ordered mutilated by cannon fire hours before.
So, it was a weary Nicholas Fallon who welcomed Lieutenant Micah Woodson aboard for breakfast beneath the sound of mauls and the scrambling of feet overhead. Woodson was a gregarious man, not puffed up or proud but appealing in an everyman sort of way, with one eye which seemed not to follow the other. Before the American Revolution he had been a simple shopkeeper who knew little about ships but he’d joined the erstwhile American navy anyway. There were virtually no ships in the navy at that time but he’d found a berth in a merchantman-cum-privateer and served with distinction, seeing several engagements off the coast of South Carolina and rising to second lieutenant before the war ended. Instead of mustering out, he was offered a commission as lieutenant on Ceres assigned to Commodore Truxton’s squadron who, within two years, would be on station in St. Kitts at Basseterre Roads.
“Captain,” said Woodson between sips of steaming coffee, “I cannot begin to thank you enough for your aid in fighting off that French bastard. His second broadside snapped our boom or we would have made a better account of ourselves. But without your timely intervention I and what’s left of my crew would be below decks on Loire at this moment, prisoners or worse, dying. As it is, my second lieutenant is mortally wounded and my master’s mate not much better, so we are fairly mauled.”
“It was indeed fortunate, Lieutenant Woodson,” sai
d Fallon, “but war is often unlucky as not so I am very happy we could be of service. I am very sorry about your losses, however.”
“Yes, but at least we have a prize to share. I expect the closest prize court is Hamilton, is it not? I would think they would have some experience adjudicating prizes between our two countries? Or at least have seen it before? I confess I would just as soon give you the prize myself for all you have done but it is not within my power to do so.”
“That is very kind of you, sir, to even consider it,” answered Fallon. “I have enough men for a prize crew and could get Loire to Hamilton. Perhaps you would be so good as to write out a letter setting out the facts of the capture and I can see that the prize agent receives it along with my own account. Lord knows when any of us will see a farthing but it must be done correctly. My crew will do everything within their power to set the ship to rights before Hamilton, believe me.”
“I do believe you, sir; in fact, I have no doubt of it. I will write my account immediately and you may be sure it will give you and your ship all credit. And sir,” said Woodson, “unless you have plans for the prisoners which might bring you some reward for the trouble of transporting them wherever you are going, I would be happy to take them off your hands. The squadron at St. Kitts maintains contact with the French agent on Guadeloupe so that French prisoners may be exchanged for British seamen.”
“Excellent, lieutenant,” said Fallon. “I will have the prisoners sent over to you as soon as you are ready to lock them below decks. They would only be put in prison otherwise.”
That really was a most satisfactory answer for the prisoners as Fallon had been fretting about transporting them in the prize to Bermuda. Anything could happen carrying prisoners below decks, not least of which was an insurgency.
“But tell me, please,” said Fallon, “of any news of French activity that might be helpful, for I am bound for Grand Turk and thence escorting a salt convoy to New England.”
“Yes, of course,” said Woodson, his wandering eye flicking to the side. “In general, pirate activity in the Caribbean is widespread, with the greatest danger seeming to be from Guadeloupe to Cayenne, and around the Bahamas and southern ports of the U.S. The situation is quite confusing, for island governments are recruiting so-called privateers and issuing false papers to obtain prizes. These ships are little more than pirates and the Caribbean is littered with them, many carrying Letters of Marque from several countries.”
Fallon knew this was true, but he also knew that many American merchants sailed with false papers themselves so they could trade with British and French colonies—illegal for American merchants. He doubted if Woodson would bring the fact up, and Fallon certainly wasn’t about to, for British colonies depended on American goods.
“If you are sailing to the U.S.,” Woodson continued, “the greater danger is from the French navy I suppose, for they have a frigate near the Chesapeake Bay at last report. I sailed from Norfolk, Virginia, and did not see her but that is my latest intelligence. Ceres is bound for St. Kitts to bring dispatches to Commodore Truxton who will want this very intelligence. We are merely a dispatch vessel back and forth to St. Kitts, but my advice to you is to keep a sharp lookout once you are out of the Florida Straits.”
Fallon, indeed, promised he would heed the advice. Woodson was the second American Fallon had met in two weeks and, like Caleb Visser, he seemed a good enough sort. Fallon was forming a very good opinion of Americans.
Soon enough, breakfast was finished and Woodson was back aboard Ceres, supervising the loading of prisoners belowdecks. It was a desultory group, with quite a few mulattos and blacks, a few Danes and Swedes, and at least one big Dutchman, in addition to Frenchmen, of course. The capitaine was the last to go below, his head down, a beaten man on his way to an uncertain future. Soon Woodson ordered the grappling hooks to be thrown off and the fenders hauled aboard. The breeze was finally showing some life as Ceres raised her sails and moved off to the southeast with a salute from Woodson.
Fallon surveyed Rascal with Beauty and then, with Aja, they walked Loire’s decks as a group. Several repairs were being made on the French ship, which were enough to see her sail again.
“Aja, I want you to take Loire to Hamilton and the prize court,” said Fallon. “You can choose your own prize crew, and do what you can to set the ship to rights before she’s appraised. But Aja, I want to be sure you think you can handle command. What do you think?”
It was not a rhetorical question, for it would take several days to get to Bermuda and there was always the possibility of action whether the prize was fully manned or not. And while Aja had distinguished himself in battle and was a better than average navigator, he was still young for an independent command.
“Yes, captain, sir,” replied Aja beaming. “I will be very careful with such a prize.” And then he seemed to think better of it. “But I will miss sailing with you in the convoy to Boston.”
It was doubtful Aja knew exactly where Boston was, but the prospect of missing a long journey aboard Rascal gave him pause. The ship was his home and the crew were his friends and Beauty and Fallon were something like his parents, such was the affection he had for them.
“Yes, I know,” said Fallon sympathetically. “But it is your command if you’ll take it, and I know of no one I would trust more to take it. You may release the crew when you reach Bermuda, for we will be some time in coming home. And Aja, do all that you can for poor Caleb Visser. You two have become friends and he will need all the support he can get if there is no gold found, which is very likely, I would think.”
With that, Aja assumed command of the captured schooner, and within the hour he’d picked his crew and said his goodbyes and Loire was away to the north, Aja at the taffrail waving goodbye. Already the mauls were ringing out over the water.
TWELVE
IT TOOK EZRA SOMERS THE BETTER PART OF A WEEK TO LOCATE A barge with a mast and boom, but getting it to the beach at North Rock proved problematic as a strong east wind blew for the best part of a week, making the unhandy craft still more unhandy against the strong breeze. When the wind slacked at last the barge could make it around the southeastern tip of Bermuda, and the crew pulled it up onto the sand at a small beach. There it waited until Walker’s contract was completed at Bird Rock—unsuccessful, as it turned out, the rumor of pearls on the seabed being unfounded. When Somers, Caleb Visser, and Elinore arrived at North Rock soon thereafter the Bermuda Bell waited on the sand with the slave named Indigo Jones standing patiently nearby with Little Eddy.
Slaves on Bermuda were generally more independent than most Caribbean slaves, and many masters allowed their slaves to hold jobs and receive wages if they had special skills that were in demand. Indigo’s special skill was that he could dive in cold water as deep as three fathoms and survive.
With the barge on the beach, and the wind still cooperating, Somers’ crew managed to get the bell onto the barge and get the awkward craft back into the sea. This took the better part of the morning to achieve, as the tide was ebbing and the barge was stuck with its heavy load. At last the barge floated free, and by the use of long oars as skulls the crew was able to maneuver it over the approximate location of the wreck of Jocelyn and get an anchor down.
On shore, Caleb Visser paced the sand thinking of his father; Elinore held her own father close and Little Eddy looked out to sea and imagined he had a father out there somewhere. The boy stuck by Caleb Visser, as usual, Little Eddy giving what support he could.
It was afternoon before the stout boom lifted the bell off the deck, the canvas air hose attached to the top, a signal line attached to the bottom so that Indigo could let the crew on the barge know when to bring the bell up. In a few moments, the bell swung over the side and was lowered into the water as a crewman began pumping rhythmically.
Indigo Jones stood on the barge as the bell hovered just feet below the water. He was wrapped in a blanket and was already shivering before he let the blanket fall to th
e deck. He slowly took a few deep breaths and, without looking around, jumped head first into the water and swam under the bell. The crew waited for a single tug on the signal rope and, when they felt it, began to lower the bell to the bottom.
Two tugs on the rope just before dusk and the bell was hauled to the surface, an exhausted and shivering Indigo Jones inside. He was shaking so badly he couldn’t speak, having been underwater for almost an hour, and once the barge made it to the beach Elinore wrapped him in an extra blanket and led him to a fire that Somers and Little Eddy had been tending just for him.
There was very little wind, which was a kindness, and Caleb Visser rubbed Indigo’s back and shoulders vigorously. Indigo kept his head down and his eyes closed, his fists clenched tightly under the blanket. The fire crackled and sent sparks swirling into the sky as the crew joined them within its circle of light and warmth.
“We’ll try again tomorrow, Caleb,” said Somers, trying to be encouraging. “We couldn’t have expected to find anything the first day.” Indigo nodded his head in agreement as his whole body shook with cold spasms.
Night was coming on quickly, as it did in the Caribbean, and soon the little group began walking down the beach towards the road which led away from the sea. There, the carriages and horses waited patiently to take them home and the prospect of a warm dinner and better luck on the morrow.
The next day was windy and the waves were breaking on the shore, preventing the barge from launching. The day after was no better and it was not until the day after that when the barge could be pushed off and the bell was made ready to launch over the side.
It went like that for three days of calm weather. The barge would maneuver into place and the bell would go over, followed by Indigo Jones, who would return in an hour empty-handed and beyond cold.
On shore, Somers, Elinore and Caleb Visser stood about each day waiting and making small talk. Little Eddy prowled the beach looking for this and that. The mornings were shifting shades of gray, and cold, and everyone kept returning to the fire throughout the day. The barge repeatedly tried anchoring in a slightly different spot off the shore, but the result was always the same. The little group fought to remain hopeful but each afternoon they left for home dispirited.
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