by David Healey
"I'm not afraid of heights," she said with a sniff.
"We’ll see," said Alexander, who wasn't really interested in arguing with Scarlett. Besides, her governess looked as if she wouldn't take too kindly to an ensign stranding her young mistress in the rigging. "You might be ready after a few rounds of Stone Angels."
"What a funny name," Scarlett said. "How on earth do you play?"
"It's a game of tag, really," Alexander said, and proceeded to explain the game.
The person who was "it" was called "The Doctor"—though no one was sure why—and the others were the "Stone Angels" who spread out through the rigging. At the signal, everyone began to move toward the doctor. The catch was that while the doctor had his eyes on you, you couldn't move—thus the "stone" aspect of the angels. The other angels then climbed or swung through the rigging toward him, but they had to stop the instant his eyes were on them, turning them to stone again. Whoever reached the Doctor first became "it." Stone Angels was one of the few games condoned aboard ship, because the captain felt it helped develop their skill in the rigging.
Roger played the doctor first. Side by side, Scarlett and Alexander moved toward him stealthily, pausing whenever Roger's eyes turned their way. Of course, Roger wasn't a very stern doctor—he tended to grin quite a bit.
"I have my eye on you, Miss Beauchamp!" he cried. "I have to say it's an improvement over watching that salty devil beside you."
"Really, Mr. Higson!" Scarlett huffed, but it was clear she was secretly pleased.
There were different techniques to the game. Some boys danced along the ropes like spiders, trying to move in fast, while others took a slow and steady approach in hopes of attracting less attention to themselves. Others used a combination of techniques, depending upon how much attention they were getting from whoever was playing the doctor.
Even Fowler seemed to have forgotten that he now held the lofty rank of Senior Ensign and was worming his way hand over hand toward Roger in the rigging overhead. Roger fixed him with a glare, forcing Fowler to freeze.
"You can't watch me forever, Higson!" Fowler growled.
"See if I can't!"
Roger was above them in the rigging, so Scarlett climbed higher. "Come on!" she called to Alexander. "Keep up if you can!"
She was very nimble and climbed swiftly. Roger was still glaring at Fowler, pausing occasionally to turn his eyes toward Liam, who was scuttling closer. But he had not counted on Scarlett, who to everyone's surprise seemed to fly up the last few feet and grabbed Roger's boot. "Got you!" He was so startled that he nearly lost his grip.
Then it was Scarlett's turn. The boys scattered through the rigging, joking as they climbed about how easy it would be to tag the girl.
They were soon proven wrong. Scarlett's eyes darted here and there, turning the "angels" to stone and pinning them in the rigging. It was only a final dash along the cross tree itself by Liam from one side and Roger from the other that finally ended with Scarlett being tagged.
From the deck below came a chorus of "Huzzahs!" Scarlett had held off the boys long enough that the game had attracted the attention of the crew, who now tossed good-natured jeers and taunts up at the ensigns in the rigging.
"That girlie showed you lads right enough, ha, ha!"
"Pay attention and maybe she'll teach you something!"
The next shout, however, ended the fun. It came from Mrs. Pomfrey, the governess, who had reappeared on deck and now stood with her hands on her hips, clearly angry. "Miss Scarlett! What on earth are you doing all the way up there! Get down here immediately before your father sees you!"
But it was too late for that. Colonel Beauchamp emerged on deck, took one look up to see what everyone was gawking at, and bellowed, "Scarlett!"
High above, Scarlett muttered, "Oh, don't it just figure," under her breath, and started to climb down. She soon came even with Alexander. He was surprised to see that her face was now white as a new sail.
"I see what you mean about climbing down," she said. "It's an awfully long way. I can't seem to get my hands and feet to move properly."
"That's only natural," Alexander said, who just managed to avoid saying I told you so. "Let me help you. We'll climb down together, side by side. Keep your eyes on me, and don't look down."
Slowly, they made their way down, Scarlett's knuckles showing white every time she gripped a rope. Once they had finally reached the deck, several of the sailors applauded and cheered.
"Belay that!" boomed Captain Bellingham, who was waiting there with Colonel Beauchamp and Mrs. Pomfrey.
"Scarlett, what were you thinking?" demanded Colonel Beauchamp, who sounded angry, but also relieved that his daughter was safely on the deck.
"Father, I just wanted—"
"Sir, it's all my fault," Alexander said. "She didn't want to go any higher, but I kept encouraging her. It was quite foolish of me."
At first, Colonel Beauchamp seemed quite taken aback, as if he hadn't even realized Alexander was standing there. And then his expression changed to anger. "I reckon it was more than foolish, it was reckless! You put my daughter in grave danger, boy!" He turned to Captain Bellingham. "Sir, is this what I can expect of young Royal Navy officers? How disappointing."
The captain opened his mouth as if to speak, and then thought better of it. What came out was a noise like rrmmph.
"Do not worry, Colonel, Scarlett will not be getting anywhere near these boys the rest of our voyage. I shall lock her in my cabin if I must," said Mrs. Pomfrey. She glared at Alexander. "These English are not to be trusted."
"I reckon not," said the colonel.
Taking his daughter by the elbow, he and Mrs. Pomfrey marched her away.
Alexander looked up at Captain Bellingham. It was hard to describe the expression on the captain's face. It wasn't quite anger. Alexander would have called it a look of disappointment. He felt his heart sink. The captain just shook his head and walked away.
High above, came a shout. It was Liam, still in the rigging, pointing far out to sea. "Sail ho!" he cried.
CHAPTER NINE
Captain Bellingham put his telescope to his eye and studied the sail. It wouldn't be unexpected to spot a merchantman making for Belfast or Dublin or London—they were still very close to England's shores, after all.
"If that's a merchant ship, I'll eat my stockings," Bellingham mumbled. "See how they have the foresail rigged? She has a French look about her that I don't like. No, I daresay I don't like it at all."
"Shall we beat to quarters, sir?" Lieutenant Swann asked.
"I would rather not excite our passengers unduly, Mr. Swann," Captain Bellingham said. "She is still some distance away, too far to make out her flag, and perhaps she will sail by us, after all."
"Aye, aye, sir."
"Mr. Fowler? Climb up to Mr. Fitzgerald there in the rigging and bring him my telescope. Tell him to alert us of the first sign of any hostile action."
The Resolutions went about their duties, keeping a wary eye on the distant sail. Most everyone aboard would have welcomed a fight. They had seen no action since the battle off Gibraltar, after which the damaged ship had limped into the Royal Navy yard. Since then the frigate had been in port, having repairs made after being mauled so badly in battle. Final preparations and outfitting had been done in England, along with adding a few crew members to replace those lost or wounded in the fight against the Napoleonist vessels.
Under ordinary circumstances, the Resolution would have chased after the unknown sail to determine if the ship was friend or foe. The crew grumbled somewhat when the captain didn't give the order to do so. If nothing else, there was the matter of prize money. If the ship captured a merchant ship sailing under the French flag or one of France’s allies, it could be seized as a prize of war. Taken into the nearest English harbor, the ship would be sold and the resulting prize money divided among the crew. Capturing a rich prize ship could make an officer or a crewman more money in a single day than he might earn from h
is wages in thirty years of sailing. As a result, the sight of a potential prize was enough to raise the interest of the dullest sailor. Allowing a potential prize ship to sail away was like letting money slip through their fingers.
What the crew did not know was that Bellingham had strict orders from the Admiralty to avoid any enemy action. He was to carry the passengers to their destination on Bermuda, but not go chasing after prize money.
"Steady as she goes, Cullins," the captain said, pointedly ignoring the sail on the horizon.
"Aye, aye, sir." Old Cullins glanced at the sail, and licked his chops, but said nothing else. One did not question the captain. Old Cullins had sailed with Bellingham long enough to know that Bellingham had not lost his nerve. The man was a tiger in battle.
"She's changing course!" Liam cried from the rigging. "She’s coming after us! Sir, sir, she's flying a Napoleonist flag!"
Bellingham nodded at Lieutenant Swann, who was waiting for the order. "We shall beat to quarters!" he shouted.
Immediately, the ship sprang into action. The Marine drummer began to tap out the stirring notes that called everyone to their stations. Sailors and ensigns ran to man their guns, Marine sharpshooters climbed into the rigging, cutlasses and pistols were distributed to the men. Professor Hobhouse appeared on deck with a pistol in one hand and a cutlass in the other.
Below decks, the surgeon prepared his medical instruments and spread sand upon the floor to help him with his grisly work. The gryphon port was opened, and the beasts were saddled. They could hear Lemondrop rip out a war cry, signaling that he was ready to get into action. Ember immediately echoed that battle cry. The sound was enough to make a brave man's blood run cold.
The only person who did not seem to have anything to do was Alexander. All around him, men dashed to and fro, getting into position and arming themselves. He grabbed a cutlass and made for the quarterdeck.
"Mr. Hope, get those passengers below!" Captain Bellingham called.
Colonel Beauchamp was having none of it. Alexander turned to find him watching the activity on deck with professional interest, the way a shopkeeper might admire another well-run business.
"You heard the captain, sir," Alexander said to him. "He wants you to go below."
"Don't tell me what to do, boy! I was fighting Indians and pirates when you were just a tadpole. I do like to watch a storm, and I reckon I won't mind if this one rains lead. However, I shan't object if you were to escort Mrs. Pomfrey and my daughter to their cabin."
"Yes, sir."
Alexander turned to the governess and Scarlett. They hardly needed his help to find their cabin. In fact, Mrs. Pomfrey took her charge firmly by the elbow and brought her below. Unsure of what else to do, Alexander followed along.
Space aboard the frigate was very cramped and at a high premium, but Mrs. Pomfrey and Miss Scarlett had their own cabin. Right next to it was the colonel's cabin. Normally, the cabins would be occupied by the second lieutenant and other officers, but they had been forced to sling their hammocks in the wardroom itself to accommodate their distinguished passengers.
Mrs. Pomfrey turned to face him. "I think we are quite all right now," she said, then added with a smirk, "unless you plan to stand here and guard us in case we are boarded and the Napoleonists begin to ransack the ship."
"I hadn't thought about that," he admitted. He noticed that Scarlett had turned pale at the mention of being boarded. "Do you want me to stand guard?"
"No, run along on deck and see what good you can do," she said. Mrs. Pomfrey produced a pistol from the folds of her dress. "Miss Scarlett and I shall be just fine, I assure you."
Alexander nodded and headed back to the stairway. He was thinking that these Americans were full of surprises. He wondered what sort of country it must be, where there were Indians to fight and where governesses carried pistols and spoke calmly of being boarded. Some in England still spoke with regret about losing the colonies, but Alexander thought that perhaps things had turned out just as they should.
On deck, now that everyone was at their stations, an atmosphere of tense anticipation had replaced the frenzy of beating to quarters. The deck was very quiet except for the sigh of the wind in the sails and the occasional flap of canvas or creaking of the wood. He made his way to the quarterdeck once again, in case the captain needed him. Old Cullins stood at the wheel, licking his cracked lips as he awaited orders from the captain. With a pang, Alexander thought of what should be his own gun crew, now commanded by Fowler. They would be in the gun deck below, probably with Fowler sighting down the barrel at the approaching ship.
The enemy ship was closing rapidly. To Alexander's eye, they were equally matched. The Napoleonist ship was roughly the same size and had the same number of guns. She was also proving to be a very swift sailor, having spread full sail in order to overtake the English frigate.
Alexander took a look at their own sails. The Resolution was also quite swift and with its lead, could probably outrun the enemy vessel. However, unlike the French vessel, the Resolution had not spread her full sails. He knew that Bellingham was a crafty sailor. He had intentionally not ordered full canvas so that they might be overtaken and there would be a fight. It was the captain’s way of winking at his orders.
Since Colonel Beauchamp had refused to go below, Captain Bellingham had invited him to join him on the quarterdeck.
"Colonel Beauchamp, I know that you are a military man and so will want to see any action firsthand," Bellingham said.
"I hoped you would say that, Bellingham. That's why I ain't in my cabin."
"I should tell you, sir, that I have orders to avoid any fight. My mission is to get you safety and swiftly to Bermuda. Under the circumstances, I leave some of the decision to you, sir. Say the word and I shall have more sail set. The Resolution is a fast ship. We can probably outrun them."
"And miss the fight? Not for the world."
"Sir, are you familiar at all with naval operations?"
"I reckon not. Most of my fighting has been done on land. Most of the time, the enemy had bows and arrows and tomahawks."
"Neptune be praised." Bellingham raised an eyebrow. "Tomahawks, indeed. With any luck, the worst that we'll face would be a boarding ax. But I can assure you that a twelve-pounder is no bow and arrow. The men sometimes find it prudent to lie down when there is a broadside, so that the shot passes over them—that is the hope, at least. Most of the time our enemy fires for the hull or the rigging, but not directly at the men on the deck. The objective is to sink or disable the ship."
"Do you lie down when they fire, Captain Bellingham?"
Bellingham squared his shoulders. "Sir, I am captain of this ship."
The colonel grinned. "Then I reckon I won't lie down neither, sir."
Captain Bellingham nodded and put the telescope to his eye. "I can just read her name now. The vessel is Le Triomphant. It is curious to find an enemy ship so close to the Irish coast, but it does happen. It's likely they were waiting to pounce on some poor merchant vessel. I daresay a frigate is more than they bargained for, ha, ha!"
With the wind at her back, the Napoleonist vessel was bearing down fast on the Resolution. The bow cut through the waves and left a wake in her trail. As they watched, she fired her bow gun, and a ball went ripping past Resolution to splash harmlessly some distance ahead.
"Shall I give them a shot, sir?" cried Liam, whose gun crew was manning the stern gun.
"I think not, Mr. Fitzgerald," the captain said. "I want them to come on as fast as possible. Don't scare them off."
"Aye, aye, sir."
As they watched, three gryphons launched themselves from the enemy ship. The Napoleonist gryphons could fly much faster than the ship could move through the water. The beasts soared skyward, and then plunged toward Resolution, screeching their awful battles cries.
For the first time, some of the confidence faded from Colonel Beauchamp's face. "What are they doing?"
"Coming to drop aerial caltrops o
n us, no doubt. It can be a nasty business if you don't look out," the captain said. He nodded toward the round wooden shields stacked near the capstan. "You may want to take one of those, and hold it over your head. You too, Alexander. And let me assure you, Colonel, that while I do not lie down when the enemy fires, only a fool wouldn’t use a shield when they drop bomblets."
Everywhere on deck, the crew wasted no time grabbing shields. Some simply crawled beneath one of the deck guns. Dropped from a height by the enemy gryphons, the sharp-edged spikes of the bomblets would rain down to slash unprotected heads and shoulders.
With fierce screeches of their own, the Resolution's gryphons launched themselves to meet the oncoming enemy. The flyers were a handsome sight with their sky blue uniform coats, white trousers and polished black boots. They wore light chest plates that gleamed in the sun. They also wore shining helmets like those of the Royal Horse Guards. Each gryphon carried a pilot and a stern rider. Lemondrop flashed by, then Ember and finally Biscuit, who being bigger than a draft horse, took some time to build up speed.
"Go get them!" Alexander shouted.
As the Napoleonist gryphons dived, the Resolution's gryphons raced upwards to meet them. Sabers flashed in the sun and pistols flared—from where they stood on the quarterdeck, it took a moment for the sound of the shots to reach them.
Alexander held his breath, worried for his friends above. Then the momentum of the two groups of gryphons carried them past each other. No one had slumped in their saddle, and the gryphons appeared unharmed. Alexander could breathe again.
The Napoleonist attack had been slowed, but not stopped. As they swooped overhead, they released their bomblets—metal balls with razor-sharp spikes.
"Look out!" someone shouted.
The bomblets rained down, pinging on the iron cannon barrels and shredding the canvas sails. Though most of the men had taken shelter or made use of a shield, some were caught in the open and mauled by the falling bomblets. The Napoleonist flyers swooped through the rigging, firing at the Marine sharpshooters or swiping at them with their cutlasses. One of the Marines pitched over backwards and plummeted to the deck below. He landed with a thud that made Alexander feel sick to his stomach.