The Black Ring

by William Westbrook

  Fallon stood at the rail, stunned speechless.

  “Life is a funny thing, Captain, is it not?” Wharton said softly. “And now here we are.”

  The ship’s bell rang and the glass was turned and Barclay called to Fallon about the course. When Fallon returned to the taffrail Wharton had just left to walk round the ship. Fallon watched him amble away, carrying the rest of his secrets with him.

  BEHIND LUNA, less than a quarter mile astern, Rascal sailed peacefully along in the afternoon light, the sun blazing off her sails. Fallon lingered at Luna’s taffrail, mulling his conversation with Wharton, but at last his attention shifted to an appreciation of Rascal’s lines. He marveled again at how lovely she was under a full press of sail. Since capturing the schooner from the French in Savannah he had grown deeply attached to her, not least because she was the finest sailing ship he’d ever commanded. This was a view of her he rarely had and he savored it.

  It was more than seven hundred miles to Havana, where Fallon intended to deliver the gunpowder as Cabarone intended. Well, not exactly as he intended. The voyage would take them along the length of Cuba’s northern coast, past Matanzas, where Wharton had asked to be landed. But after hearing Fallon’s plan to deliver the gunpowder to Havana, Wharton asked to be dropped off in Matanzas on the return trip instead. For once, he could be part of something overt, not covert, and he was looking forward to it.

  Like Wharton, Fallon had listened thoughtfully as Davies described Matanzas, the port where Avenger had sheltered after suffering horribly in the hurricane of ’96. Davies had been effusive in his praise of the Matanzas women for their willingness to prod their men to help repair a desperate English ship, a ship that was the nominal enemy of Cuba’s ruling country. Apparently, many of the Matanzas women had cut their hair short in open defiance of Spain’s cultural influence on Cuba. It was a public and brave show of loyalty, and if an uprising in Cuba were to happen, thought Fallon, Matanzas was a likely place.

  The days and nights spent sailing along Cuba’s coast were uneventful, with no ships sighted other than coastal fishing vessels. Luna’s crew went about their duties as if they had not a care in the world; such was their confidence in their captain that the kegs of gunpowder sitting only feet beneath the deck didn’t seem to concern them.

  On the morning of the fourth day, Luna and Rascal hove-to about fifty miles from Havana, and Fallon, Aja, and Wharton were rowed across less than half a cable’s distance to confer with Beauty about the plan to sail the gunpowder into Havana Harbor. Their leisurely sailing was over; it was time for action.

  In Rascal’s great cabin, Fallon unrolled a chart of Havana Harbor for Beauty and James Wharton to study with him. It was an elongated harbor with a narrow entrance off Havana Bay. On the eastern headland stood El Morro, a large fort that was also a prison where the Garóns might have spent the rest of their lives, or at least the rest of the war. On the western shore stood another fort, the Castle of San Salvador de la Punta.

  “I presume you know, of course,” said Wharton matter-of-factly, “of the possibility of a chain across the harbor entrance?”

  Both Fallon and Beauty jerked their heads around to the intelligence agent.

  “What did you say, sir?” asked Fallon incredulously.

  “Oh, I see you are unaware,” said Wharton, aghast. “I was practicing my Spanish with one of the Cuban top men who happened to mention it to me. He said the Spanish fear an invasion by sea and have constructed a chain across the harbor that can be raised in times of imminent danger to keep enemy ships out. He said it was raised and lowered by each fort working in tandem.”

  “Let’s hope,” said Beauty looking at Fallon, “that the Spaniards would never suspect a captured ship full of gunpowder to come sailing into Havana Harbor. Do you think they’d consider that imminent danger? I think the answer is fuck yes.”

  Ah, Beauty.

  “I only learned of the chain this morning and I assumed you knew,” said Wharton. “Obviously, the top man did not know of your plans or he would have brought it forward himself.”

  They all stared at the chart in silence, Rascal rocking gently on the swells, with the ship’s noises, the creaks and groans of timbers, so normal as not to be noticed. Fallon hung his head, for he had come a great way to strike a blow for Great Britain against Spain and to free the Garóns from future persecution, but that damned chain could well be up and would put paid to his little scheme. Now he was not so clever, not so cunning. He felt, in fact, like a fool in the eyes of Beauty and Wharton. And worse, a fool in his own eyes.

  While Fallon stared at the floor, Beauty turned to walk to the stern windows, deep in thought. The day was still young, with plenty of daylight left, and shafts of it fell about her shoulders as she stared out to sea. Wharton had quietly excused himself from the cabin, no doubt feeling bad that he had dashed Fallon’s plan. Indeed, Fallon was in despair. He was on the verge of ordering, what? That Luna sail to Antigua and Rascal to Matanzas to drop off Wharton? Was there another choice?

  Fallon raised his head and stared at Beauty by the stern windows, she who always seemed to know the best course to the finish, and he wondered what she was thinking. He couldn’t see her face, of course, but she was smiling.

  THIRTEEN

  THE SENIOR OFFICER on station at La Punta was Teniente González, and he was very tired. His swarthy good looks sagged a little, for he’d had too much wine the night before, indulging himself a little too much in the delights of Havana. He’d only gotten back to the barracks an hour before dawn and now, fortified by coffee and the memory of a certain señorita, he faced a long day at his post. He stepped out of his office onto the parapet and swept the sea with his telescope. Not much to see. Perhaps the smudge of a sail in the distance, or perhaps not.

  González looked across the harbor entrance at El Morro. No signal flags were flying. The chain had been up all night to prevent surprises, which was a new precaution since a privateer had tried to cut out a ship weeks before. It would be lowered later in the morning. For now, things were as they should be—quiet.

  RASCAL AND LUNA stood off Havana Harbor about fifteen miles, too far for a telescope from the forts to see them. Fallon and Barclay were on board Luna, along with Cully and Aja and a crew of twelve. Just enough to sail the brig in the light conditions of the day.

  “Now, Barclay,” began Fallon, “lay a course for the middle of the entrance to the harbor, taking into account wind and current, a course that will require no trimming of the sails whatsoever.”

  Barclay’s eyes widened in surprise. “No sail trimming?” he asked.

  “This will be a ghost ship steering herself for much of the way,” said Fallon. “And, Barclay, we must know how long it will take Luna to cross the plane of the forts and gain the entrance to the harbor.”

  Barclay gulped air.

  “Simple, my good man,” said Fallon with a wink, and with that he walked away, smiling, to find Cully.

  “Cully, you will be below with the slow match,” said Fallon to his gun captain. “You are generally aware of how fast slow match burns, of course, but you must be precise. Figure exactly how many seconds to the foot it takes. Aja will come below with the time we need to allot from Barclay. Count out your length carefully—it won’t do to have the fire meet the gunpowder too soon. Or too late, come to that. So, Cully, it must be perfect, you see.” With that, Fallon resumed smiling. It felt good to give the responsibility for success or failure to someone else for a change.

  Beauty’s plan was a good one, thought Fallon, and he had heard it out with relief and not a little gratitude. It was really quite a clever idea, plus it had the added benefit of being the only idea they had. Luna sailed toward the entrance to Havana for perhaps a mile so that Barclay could get his bearings and record the ship’s speed through the water. Conditions near the shore might alter the speed, of course, and there was always the current to consider, all of which Barclay must guess at. When they had sailed as far as th
ey dared, Fallon wore ship and sailed back the way they had come, hopefully undetected.

  At last, it was time. Rascal had taken station a quarter mile to windward and, once Barclay told him that he had the necessary calculations in hand, Fallon ordered Aja to dip the Spanish colors, signaling they were ready to begin. Beauty dipped the British colors in reply, and both ships began sailing a parallel course toward Havana’s harbor, with Luna slightly ahead. One of Luna’s boats trailed astern the brig, sliding off the face of the waves and shooting ahead, only to be brought up short again by its tow rope to start the dance over again. It was doubtful the small boat could be seen from the fort and, anyway, it was not all that unusual to trail a small boat inshore.

  Ten miles from the harbor, Beauty opened fire, a solid broadside that sailed high and wide.

  TENIENTE GONZÁLEZ sat up straight in his chair, where he might have been dozing, and was instantly awake. That was gunfire!

  Again, he stepped out onto the parapet and swept the sea with his telescope. The smudge he’d seen before was now a ship sailing for the harbor, and there was another, smaller ship firing at her.

  ¡Santa Madre de Dios!

  Quickly he looked across the harbor and saw signals going up from El Morro: What are your orders?

  So, Colonel García was not at the fort—yes, González remembered the colonel was away for two days—Ai! That made González the senior officer in charge. He swung his telescope back to the approaching ships, still some miles away, but the situation was slowly coming into focus. The closest ship appeared to be a brig, obviously Spanish, and perhaps the very ship they’d been expecting for weeks from Spain. If so, Luna Nueva was carrying gunpowder and, Colonel García had said, political prisoners.

  “Send this signal to El Morro,” he ordered the guardavía, or signalman: “Prepare to lower the chain.”

  ABOARD LUNA, Cully responded to Rascal’s perfect broadside with a somewhat ragged broadside of his own, there being fewer hands to man the guns. The shot was low and wide of the mark, the water erupting to mark the shots so the eyes of the forts could believe the battle was real. Both ships continued loading and firing, Beauty letting Luna slip ahead by a good two cables when they were perhaps five miles from the harbor. Fallon could see the forts through his telescope now, and could see the signal flags going up and down. Good, he thought, keep talking.

  After another broadside from Cully, Beauty luffed the foresail as if a brace had parted, and Rascal swung up into the wind momentarily—just enough to fall behind Luna and effectively close off the angle for another broadside. At least, that’s what Beauty hoped the forts’ lookouts would think.

  Fallon, of course, had no idea how long it would take to lower the chain, assuming the chain was even up and the forts had bought into the little theater unfolding in their telescopes. He could see ships at anchor inside the mouth of the harbor, none of which seemed concerned. Well, why should they be? The forts’ guns would protect them from any threat.

  GONZÁLEZ WAS SWEATING now, the collar of his uniform sticking to his neck. Should he lower the chain or not? Certainly, the country needed the gunpowder, but could he be sure this was Luna Nueva he was seeing?

  Here was El Morro signaling again—they were ready to lower the chain on his command. His command! He studied the oncoming ships again. Both were firing continuously, but to what effect was hard to tell. The brig stood gamely on for the harbor entrance, while the schooner dogged her relentlessly. If that schooner only knew of the gunpowder! ¡Madre de Dios! She would not be sailing so close.

  That more than anything convinced him to lower the chain. He gave the signal to El Morro, and then he ordered the forts to open fire on the schooner.

  FALLON HEARD the cannon fire from La Punta, on one side of Havana Harbor, followed by the same from El Morro, on the other side. Though neither shot put them in danger yet, it was good to know he had their attention. He conferred with Barclay, who double-checked course, speed, and distance. Luna was well up to windward of El Morro, Barclay having accounted for the wind pushing the brig down toward the entrance to the harbor as she sailed. Finally, Barclay finished his calculations and arrived at the length of slow match Cully should allow, guessing at what the wind and current would be like closer to land, and off went Aja below decks to inform the gunnery captain. At Fallon’s order, some of the crew fired off one last broadside, just to show fighting spirit, and then massed at the gangway and began climbing down into the trailing boat. With the sails balanced as perfectly as possible, Fallon gave a quick look to Barclay and lashed the wheel in position. Next, Cully was up the companionway and, after Barclay descended, was soon over the side with the remainder of the crew. A last look around, a wave to Beauty, who was still charging behind in Rascal, and then Fallon went down into the boat as well.

  “Cast off,” Fallon ordered, and the gig’s crew pushed off and immediately found themselves in Luna’s wake. It was eerie watching the ship sail away without a person aboard, Luna going about her business as if guided by a mysterious, magical hand.

  As he watched Luna’s stern recede, Fallon thought briefly of the Garóns, and how they had eagerly embraced the idea of appearing to die in order to get a fresh start in Cuba when they returned. Now if only the commanding officers in the forts were fooled. They were expecting a brig from Spain loaded with gunpowder. Well, thought Fallon, recalling a Chinese proverb from one of Somers’s books: Be careful what you wish for.

  The shots from the forts soared over Luna and landed harmlessly well short of Rascal, which had reached the small boat and hove-to to pick up the crew. Even if the lookouts now read the trick, it would hopefully take some time to raise the chain, assuming it had been lowered in the first place, for the action had to be coordinated between both forts, discussions held, gestures made, arms waved frantically, and signals sent and confirmed.

  Luna sailed on, a tendril of smoke from the burning slow match drifting up from her hold as the small crew rowed toward Rascal, and Barclay counted the minutes.

  THE CHAIN dropped slowly; it was not at all clear if it would be lowered enough for Luna Nueva to sail into the harbor. González watched through his telescope as La Punta’s cannon shot landed close by the schooner and she seemed to bear away. That was excellent.

  Now what was this? González looked through his telescope again and saw some of Luna’s crew going over the side of the ship! Why would they … what was going on? Quickly, he focused on Luna, but he could see no other crewmen aboard. But who was sailing the ship?

  A knot was forming in his stomach, a very bad knot that almost doubled González over.

  “Guardavía! Signal El Morro to raise the chain! Quickly!”

  “HOW LONG, Barclay?” Fallon asked.

  “I would say under two minutes now,” Barclay answered. And he seemed unconcerned.

  One minute. Two minutes. Just as the small boat reached Rascal’s side, a massive explosion rent the sky and thundered over the water. The very air seemed to detonate as a pillar of black smoke shot skyward, carrying bits and pieces of wood and metal and rope and sailcloth and copper and compass and everything that had made Luna a ship. Even from the drifting boats the crew could feel the whoosh of air as the explosion sent its energy outward. Fallon reached the deck and immediately trained his telescope on the harbor—by God! It looked like Luna had made it inside! Not only had the brig disappeared, but several smaller ships were dismasted and one might well be sinking.

  Wharton was dancing around the binnacle like an Irishman. Beauty herself was smiling broadly, and Barclay and Cully were slapping each other on the back. All in all, blowing up a ship in an enemy harbor was a glorious thing, Fallon decided. And all he had to do was mostly stay out of the way and let it all happen.

  All hands agreed the explosion was first rate, though Fallon knew the damage inflicted on Spain was more psychological than physical. If Havana officials believed their much-needed gunpowder was aboard Luna, along with two political prisoners, then t
he ruse was a success indeed. Even if they didn’t believe it, blowing up shipping in Havana’s harbor counted for something.

  He was smiling as he went below to his cabin, having given the orders that would take them back to Matanzas. He intended to land Wharton tomorrow and, of course, he wanted to see the women with short hair for himself.

  FOURTEEN

  RASCAL HOVE-TO off the entrance to Matanzas the next afternoon, Beauty setting two lookouts as a precaution against surprise so close to an enemy shore. It suited Wharton’s purposes to be landed at dusk, whereupon he would go his own way in darkness. No doubt he had his own methods of gaining intelligence, which he kept to himself.

  Beauty and Barclay joined Fallon in his cabin to study the chart for Bahía de Matanzas over a glass of wine. The bay was shaped like a boot, with a generous entrance at the leg to the north before cutting into the island and swinging right, or west. The town of Matanzas lay near the toe of the boot.

  Of particular interest was the fort—Castillo de San Severino—built only sixty years ago to guard the town against pirates and plunderers, which were rampant and quite bold. It was situated on the western side of the bay with a good view of the best anchorage. They could only hope the fort’s lookout didn’t raise an alarm, but Fallon had a plan for entering the harbor.