The Black Ring

by William Westbrook

  This was something that needed praying over. It also meant paying the settlement’s fishermen to keep watch over the river’s entrance and to report any ship that entered the bay. It would not do to be surprised by the returning frigate, and he would want early notice in order to escape. In that case, he would leave the sloops. That wasn’t even a question.

  Days went by, then weeks, and the repairs dragged on. The Holy One’s mood turned darker and darker; dark on the edge of explosion. The only calming effect was when he raised his arms to the sky and went into his trance-like meditation, praying to God that he be allowed to quickly resume the good work he was doing for the Almighty.

  It was during an evening prayer that a fisherman hailed the Holy One’s brig with word that a schooner had been sighted entering the bay that afternoon, but she had tacked away to the south.

  THE DISTANCE from Jacmel to English Harbor was seven hundred miles as the crow flies, but of course the crow wasn’t heading straight into the brisk trade winds and neither was Rascal. Still, the sailing was exhilarating and the crew urged every ounce of speed out of the ship. Tack on tack, Rascal responded with her shoulder buried in the sea; though the larboard tacks were favored, Beauty kept close to Santo Domingo on short tacks so as to follow a shorter course to Antigua. The only sails sighted belonged to local fisherman in small boats.

  The brief stop in Jacmel hadn’t bothered the crew; the sale of Petite Bouton in Bermuda would add substantially to their purses, and their belief in Fallon was such that they would essentially follow him anywhere, on any adventure. Theirs was a dangerous occupation and they knew it. Secretly, most relished the danger as much as the money.

  Fallon had made a fair copy of the letter he’d given to Louverture to give to Davies and was eager to hear the admiral’s thoughts about the possibility of a French invasion of Saint-Domingue. How would Davies respond to that kind of enemy force in the Caribbean? How could he respond?

  They were two days out of Jacmel under a cloudy sky showing only a patch of blue—enough blue sky to make a Dutchman a pair of trousers, as old Bermudians would say. But that opening in the clouds was behind them and, indeed, Fallon thought he could hear thunder in the distance ahead.

  The sea had been remarkably free of sailing vessels these last days, and thus there was no temptation to take a prize. Barclay and Beauty conferred before each tack; the wind was out of the east northeast and the larboard tacks continued to be preferred.

  Fallon felt light of spirit; he was by no means a decent intelligence agent but he did have intelligence to share with Admiral Davies, so that was something. He was about to ask Aja to fetch his cloak, for the thunder was growing louder, when it struck him that he was hearing the boom and echo of great guns.

  “Lookout there,” he called, “what do you see to the south?”

  “A low horizon, sir,” called the lookout. “Nothing that I can see!”

  There it was again. A low rumble punctuated by an echo retort.

  “Beauty,” said Fallon. “Let’s fall off and sail down to the southeast. Call all hands.”

  “Southeast it is, Nico,” answered Beauty and then, in response to another rumble: “I think that’s cannon fire, by God!”

  Rascal slowly bore off, sailing lower and a little flatter and faster now that the wind was more off the beam. All hands strained to see into the distance as the minutes crept by. Cully had sand and shot brought up, and the gun crews stood at the ready.

  “Deck there! Two ships off the starboard bow! Frigates!”

  Fallon’s telescope now picked out the situation as the images grew bigger. Two frigates were on parallel courses sailing to the west and indeed exchanging broadsides; the frigate closest to Rascal was certainly Spanish and had the wind on her starboard quarter. Smoke obscured the other ship.

  “What do you think, Beauty?” Fallon asked, lowering his telescope. She was watching the battle as well, and continued watching for a moment through her telescope before answering. The smoke was just clearing a little as they drew within a mile of the ships.

  “I have some news for you, Nico,” she said.

  Fallon raised his telescope again and, yes, even as an upside down image the ship fighting the Spanish frigate was clearly of Spanish build herself and looked familiar: Renegade!

  “Good God!” Fallon exclaimed. “What the hell?”

  The ships were barely a cable’s distance apart—two hundred yards or so—and to Fallon’s eye, Renegade was getting the worst of it. Her sails were shot through, and her broadsides weren’t coming regularly. And there! The fore-topgallant mast was going over!

  “My guess is that’s one of the Spanish frigates Davies told us about, Beauty,” said Fallon as he watched the battle through his telescope. “She was sent to protect the slavers going to Cuba. But Renegade’s found her!”

  Rascal was perhaps a mile away from the scene now, sailing down to the ships on a converging course. Beauty and Barclay were looking at Fallon expectantly, waiting for orders. Certainly, there was no point in engaging a frigate on equal terms. But Renegade was clearly in trouble and, unless she broke off and managed to sail away, she could well be taken. The Spanish capitán knew his business and continued to fire well-timed broadsides, mauling Renegade’s starboard hull piteously and opening more daylight in her sails.

  It was doubtful anyone on either ship was watching Rascal approach the battle, so engaged were they in mutual destruction. But that wouldn’t last.

  “Beauty, up with the French colors quickly!” Fallon ordered, making what seemed like a snap decision when, actually, to his mind there was no other course of action. He had to get closer if there was any chance to help Renegade and avoid accidentally firing into her. He hoped the French flag would buy him time. He watched helplessly as the Spanish frigate edged closer to Renegade, obviously preparing to board.

  The Spanish capitán’s attention had either not been called to Rascal yet or, more likely, he had seen Rascal and was unconcerned. A schooner was not going to give his frigate any trouble. Well, not an ordinary schooner.

  “Beauty, have Cully load the starboard guns with grape,” ordered Fallon. “But don’t run out yet. Tell Cully to fire when I give the order, and tell him I don’t want to see a living Spaniard on deck!”

  Rascal was edging closer to the scene now, Fallon anxious about how close they could get before being discovered. Then a counterintuitive thought struck him: Get the Spaniard’s attention. Maybe that would buy them more time!

  “Beauty!” he called. “Have the men start cheering as loudly as ever they can! Cheer on the Spaniards, Beauty! Hats in the air, men! We’re French and we’re on their side!”

  Rascal erupted in cheers, and as the ship edged closer to the battle the yelling began carrying across the water between broadsides. Spanish crewmen looked over their shoulders and saw an approaching French schooner, and Fallon could imagine the capitán’s moment of confusion and doubt at this cheering intruder arriving just at the moment he was boarding a British frigate.

  The Spanish frigate’s starboard guns were still behind their gun ports, which was encouraging, but any moment that could change. Rascal was perhaps a cable’s length away, the men still cheering. Fallon could see the capitán looking through his telescope at Rascal just as his own ship drove against Renegade’s starboard hull and the grappling hooks were thrown out to secure the two ships together. In those few seconds, Fallon ordered the French flag hauled down and the British ensign went up. Rascal’s guns rolled out and the capitán’s mouth came open.

  “Fire!” yelled Fallon.

  A fusillade of iron balls flew across the Spaniard’s decks, cutting down men just as they rose on the railings to board Renegade. Some fell forward; others turned in surprise, already dying, wondering why a French ship would fire on them.

  “Beauty, luff her there! Spill your wind!” called Fallon. “Cully, give it to her again, by God!”

  The Spanish capitán recovered his wits, and his
starboard gun crews were quickly called into action. But as the gun ports came open, here was Rascal’s second broadside roaring out, tearing the Spanish gun crews to pieces where they stood. The Spanish ship mounted sixteen guns to the side and several smaller guns on the quarterdeck, and it was one of these that got into the action first and fired on Rascal.

  “Beauty!” called Fallon. “Harden up quickly and let’s—”

  But the Spaniard’s quarterdeck gun had exploded Rascal’s binnacle near where Beauty stood, and she was down, a jagged splinter in her chest and her blood running onto the deck.

  “Beauty!” Fallon called. “My God, I—”

  Precious moments passed as Fallon struggled with whether to remain at his post or to forget the ship and rush to his friend’s side where she lay writhing in pain.

  “Aja!” he called. “Beauty is hurt! Quickly!”

  Then the world seemed to shut its doors to light and air as the Spaniard’s broadside thundered into Rascal, blasting her starboard railing and ripping apart men who a moment before had been alive and cheering. Now their arms and legs were shattered and their guts blown open. Rascal’s ship’s boats simply disintegrated, sending splinters out in every direction to find soft, fleshy targets.

  Fallon lay on the deck and stared at the sky, unable to move. He felt heavy, crushed into the deck, and there was warm blood covering his chest. His mind fought to come back to reality, but it would not focus. He thought he could hear voices he recognized, but not Beauty, because she was lying over there. He had to get to her, pull her to shore before she drowned … He—

  And then Fallon lost consciousness.

  Aja was at Beauty’s side screaming for someone to fetch Colquist, but he knew the ship must get underway quickly before the Spaniard fired another broadside. He looked around frantically for Fallon but could not see him, then searched for Barclay to give the orders that would set them sailing, but the sailing master had already been carried below, knocked insensible by a falling block. The crew left standing were waiting for orders, any orders, and Aja knew he must do something. He yelled at full voice to head up close to the wind, and the crew rushed to the sheets to haul the sails in tight. Slowly Rascal gathered way. She put her starboard bow into the sea as she hardened up and began drawing away from the Spanish frigate. Men were bleeding and many others were staring stupidly at the deck as the shock of the last broadside still gripped them.

  Colquist at last came on deck and rushed to Beauty just as Aja found Fallon and rolled a dead seaman off his chest.

  “Captain, sir!” he called frantically. “Wake up, please! Can you please wake up?”

  Fallon could hear a voice he knew, the one that had given orders to get the ship moving. He opened his eyes and blinked and finally focused on Aja’s terrified face looking down at him.

  “Aja, are you all right?” he asked with a slur.

  “Yes, Captain, sir. But Beauty is hurt very badly. And the ship is hurt but we have sailed away.”

  “Here, help me up,” said Fallon. And Aja and two of the crew got him to his feet. He was unsteady from his collision with the dead sailor, the force of which had driven his head into the deck, and he was soaked in the sailor’s blood. His whole head and face hurt but he had to see the ship put to rights.

  Now he could see Colquist bending over Beauty, a pained look on his face.

  “You men!” Colquist called to two confused but unwounded men who had simply sat down in a daze. “Get her below now! Do you hear me? Get up and get her below!”

  My God, thought Fallon, Beauty …

  But there was no time to linger on his friend, for the crew must make the wounded comfortable and sort them out from the dead and dying. The Spaniard’s broadside had been low, so most of the rigging was spared, but there were shot holes in Rascal’s starboard side, and large chunks of the railing were gone. The binnacle was destroyed, a piece of which was now in Beauty’s chest.

  Fallon looked over his shoulder and saw the Spanish frigate, Doncella Española—Spanish Maiden—already throwing her dead overboard. Her foremast seemed to be teetering precariously, and the battle seemed to be over, for beyond her Fallon could see Renegade, which had apparently broken away after Rascal’s attack, drifting away to the southwest.

  Fallon’s attention was called back to the ship and the need to see the wounded below. Like so many battles at sea, this one had no winners, only losers. Men were dead, Beauty was critically wounded, and nothing had been accomplished by anybody.

  TWENTY-TWO

  HOLD THE LIGHT steady!” ordered Colquist, and Jenkins, the loblolly boy, trembled as he moved the light closer to Beauty’s chest. He had likely never seen a woman’s breasts before, and this was not what he was expecting, at any rate.

  Beauty lay on the table, drifting in and out of consciousness, Fallon holding her hand and talking softly to her. Colquist gently moved the splinter this way and that to test her body’s grip on it. The splinter protruded about two inches above her left breast, the wound oozing blood steadily.

  “The splinter has to come out, of course,” Colquist said to Fallon in a trembling voice. “These kinds of wounds, as you know …” and his voice trailed off.

  Fallon nodded that he understood and watched as Colquist dribbled laudanum generously into Beauty’s mouth. She opened her eyes briefly and looked at Fallon, showing him fear and determination in equal measure. And then she seemed to set her jaw, as if her body were preparing for the worst.

  Slowly and carefully Colquist pulled on the splinter, first gently and then with more force, until at last it was free. Jenkins’s eyes grew wide and his face was pale, and as Fallon looked at him he thought the boy would topple over. Beauty seemed to have lost consciousness.

  “Hold the damn light, son!” demanded a nervous Colquist, and the boy steadied.

  Blood was flowing freely now and Beauty’s chest ran with rivulets of it. She was still unconscious as Colquist washed the wound as best he could and hoped the blood would purge any dirt or whatever it was that caused infection. In his heart, Colquist feared for her survival.

  “Not good, is it?” Fallon asked.

  “No, not good. But we both know Beauty’s the toughest sailor on board. Maybe she’ll find a way. She needs to see a real doctor, Captain. How long until we reach Antigua?”

  “A few days more. Keep her alive until then, Colquist,” said Fallon gravely. “A few days more.”

  THE NEXT several days went by in a grim lunge east, a sense of dread over the ship and her crew and especially her captain. Rascal beat to weather as fast as ever she could, a special urgency in each tack and sail adjustment. Seven men had died or would soon be dead from Doncella’s broadside—a high price to pay for no real gain, by Fallon’s reckoning. Renegade may have escaped, but why had she fought so poorly in the first place? And Beauty! Losing her was inconceivable, and he refused to think about it. She was in and out of consciousness, not speaking coherently, her eyes telling Fallon she knew she was in trouble. According to Colquist, her chest was dramatically inflamed.

  Rascal was battered and the carpenter and his mates went about making repairs, pride driving them to make the ship presentable when they entered English Harbor. The days dragged on, Fallon rousing himself to absorb Beauty’s duties as Barclay was still recovering. Aja helped around the edges as well. Fallon resolved to make him second mate sooner rather than later, because Rascal had none and, though he was young for the role, Aja wasn’t too young. Besides, Fallon had no one else who could do the job better. Aja was a better than average navigator, having studied under Barclay. He understood the great guns, firing sequence, range, elevation, and something of the strategy of battle. He had proven to be a quick study since coming aboard two years ago.

  Tomorrow would see them in English Harbor, and not a minute too soon. Colquist reported that Beauty’s condition had worsened and the infection had driven her to fever and delirium. He bathed her in cool water in an attempt to bring the fever down,
but it did little good. Colquist was preparing Fallon for her possible if not probable death, but Fallon remained steadfast in denying it. The crew knew the situation, of course, and knew that but for the quarterdeck gun on Doncella they could have freed Renegade without the loss of a single person. But plans rarely worked perfectly at sea; Fallon was not to blame, fate was.

  The night before they were to reach English Harbor was a long night, indeed. Fallon had the deck for most of it, and when Aja came up to relieve him he found he wasn’t tired in the least. Going below to his cabin, he settled at his desk to write to Elinore, describing the events since he’d written last and concluding with Beauty’s condition, which he admitted was dire. She and her father were almost as close to Beauty as he was, and the news would be hard to hear. Yet Elinore always said wound me with the truth, and it was a comfort to share his anguish. It went without saying that he would not leave Beauty’s side until she was either on the road to recovery or … no, on the road to recovery, insisted Fallon to his doubts.

  ENGLISH HARBOR was chock-a-block with ships of all sizes and descriptions either going about their business or at anchor. The harbor was the most active of all Caribbean ports, being home to His Majesty’s Caribbean fleet, small though it was, and all the ships that supported it. The harbor was relatively wide at the entrance, with good holding near both the western and eastern shores. As an extra precaution against hurricanes, there were arresting cables laid across the harbor so that ships could drag grappling hooks in the hopes of catching one to prevent them from running ashore. Farther on, the head of the harbor lay north, divided into two large bays, surrounded by government buildings and shops of all kinds.