“Courses!” yelled Jones, hoarse with excitement and lack of sleep, and slowly Renegade’s sternway was checked. The frigate gathered the strengthening breeze to her bosom and began to move forward.
Behind him, Jones could see the French capitaine shaking a fist at him, the other sleeve of his nightshirt empty and blowing about. He looked more aghast than angry, no doubt because his enormous ship had not fired a single shot.
THE BREEZE continued to strengthen as Renegade sailed out of the gulf and farther from land. Jones could at last breathe easily. Truth be told, he had never fought an engagement so thrilling—or frightening—and against a first-rate! And not a single casualty, except a seaman whose foot had been crushed by a recoiling gun. It had been a bold and daring plan, extraordinary in every respect, and he had to admit he could never have thought of it. His mind just didn’t work that way, but how he admired a mind that did! And that mind belonged to Fallon.
Jones didn’t expect Coeur to follow him to sea; there was too much on the ship to set right. He couldn’t see all the damage during the battle, but he could imagine it was extensive, especially with the last broadside into her stern. He was on the point of collapse himself, having been awake all night waiting for a dawn that wouldn’t come. He thought of Fallon, perhaps with the headlands of Cuba in sight now, on his way to carry out the second part of the plan. It had all the risks of what he’d just been through; more, if you considered that Fallon would be aboard a Spanish ship in a French uniform and subject to capture as a spy. Then he could be hanged.
Jones shook off that thought and set Renegade’s course out of the gulf for Dame Marie. He had much to report to Davies, and he wanted to review his orders for the third act of the play. That is, if Fallon were still alive by then.
FIFTY-SEVEN
IT WAS coming on to evening when Mistral reached the entrance to Santiago after sailing for more than 24 hours and, rather than risk entering a strange harbor at night, Fallon decided to heave-to and await dawn. He had been obsessing all day about Jones’s safety and the success of his battle with Coeur, but he had no way of knowing the outcome. It could easily have become a deadly fiasco if Coeur had gotten the upper hand, but it would be over by now, one way or the other. And the success of that battle did not affect what he had before him tomorrow.
Surprisingly, Fallon slept well. A dreamless sleep, thank God, that left him refreshed in the morning. He dressed in his capitaine’s uniform and moved a medal over his heart to hide the bullet hole Somers had put there. It was still quite early, and he took his time over breakfast, thinking about how the day’s events would go, knowing full well that whatever he thought would happen, wouldn’t happen that way.
At last, he stepped onto the deck to be met by Barclay and the rest of his so-called French crew. He smelled the air deeply and looked up to the French flag to gauge the wind.
“Mr. Barclay,” he said, “let’s be off to Santiago then.”
“Aye, aye, sir!” replied Barclay. “It’s a lovely day to see Cuba!”
Mistral fell off onto a course before the wind, bound for the entrance to the harbor of Santiago de Cuba. The harbor itself was long and narrow, stretching inland for nearly ten miles and dotted with coves and islands. Fallon had no idea of the exact location for the rendezvous with Tigre, but he was less worried about that than he was about his performance once she was found. Approaching the harbor, all hands saw the intimidating fort of El Morro—different from Havana’s fort of the same name—glaring down at their tiny ship and, though Fallon had heard there was no garrison stationed there now, it certainly made him nervous. Any of those cannons, if manned, could easily blow them out of the water. He looked at the fort through his telescope and, indeed, saw no sign of life on the parapets.
Santiago was the largest town in Cuba after Havana, and James Wharton had said it played a major role in the importation of slaves. For thousands of kidnapped Africans, this was their first view of land after leaving their country. And their last view of the sea.
Mistral entered the harbor with the wind behind her and then promptly slowed as the ship fell under the lee of El Morro. The land was verdant on the starboard coastline, and islands dotted the harbor to their left. On they sailed, each sailor on alert, for God knew what was in store for them in this enemy harbor.
They passed several coastal fishing vessels beating their way out against the breeze, poor fishermen by the looks of them, with rusted faces aged by years of sun and wind. They looked up as they passed close by the French sloop, with eyes that appeared to have seen much and believed little, and then sailed past.
The sun was well up in the east, more or less directly behind Mistral. Fallon paced along the starboard railing as far as it went, and back again, deep in rehearsal for his meeting with the Spanish capitán. He had to convince a man to follow him who no doubt was already skeptical about meeting with a French ship in a French harbor.
The channel cut straight into Cuba, with no real twists and turns. The village of Santiago was ahead to starboard. Fallon raised his telescope and could see two large ships at a quay, perhaps unloading goods. Beyond them stood the village itself, pretty in the morning light, and Fallon could imagine shopkeepers shaking out their rugs and sweeping under tables and rearranging their goods to welcome the day’s customers.
Another mile, and Barclay lowered his telescope just as Fallon was about to raise his again.
“Sir, I make the first ship with her stern to us as a slaver,” reported Barclay. “I believe I can see the poor buggers on the quay. And the ship bow-on is a frigate. Spanish flag. And, sir, something is hanging in her rigging.”
Fallon looked carefully at the frigate and saw it was a man hanging in the rigging. What the devil? he thought. He assumed the frigate was Tigre—the real Tigre. But as to the man hanging in the rigging, he had no idea. Perhaps a mutineer or other crewman who had committed a grievous offense punishable by hanging. It was a gruesome spectacle, barbaric and loathsome, but it was hard for Fallon to tear his eyes away. He thought at first that the body had been hanging there long enough to turn black. But as Mistral drew closer he could see that, no, it was a black man hanging there.
Fallon ordered the sloop to anchor, and Barclay brought her about and into the wind. At Fallon’s cry of “Allons y!”—Let go!—the anchor dropped into six fathoms of water, and the ship drifted backward until the fluke bit into the soft mud below. The sails were furled, and Fallon’s gig was dropped overboard. Fallon went down below to get one of the signal books he’d found on Mistral and then, returning to the deck, decided on a last word with Barclay.
“See here,” he said, “if you see anything amiss on the frigate it likely means I’ve been discovered. You are to immediately weigh and sail for Dame Marie. Is that understood? Save yourself and save the men.”
Barclay nodded that it was understood, and Fallon looked deep into the man’s eyes to be sure he was clear on the point. Satisfied, he climbed down into the gig for the short row to Tigre. Barclay watched him go, and then he looked across the water at the dead man in the frigate’s rigging. What had he done that was so terrible?
Fallon’s gig clapped on and it was Capitaine Giroux who climbed the side of the frigate to be met by Capitán Ramos, at your service, Señor. Ramos did not invite his guest below to his cabin, which Fallon took as a sign the interview would be brief. Fallon took the opportunity to position himself with his back to the mainmast so as not to see the dead man in the rigging but, as it happened, the poor creature had swung in the breeze and now faced away.
“I see you have noticed our friend, eh?” said Ramos in fair French. “A pity, but runaways have to be taught a lesson, no?” He spread his hands in the universal gesture for what can you do? But he saw that it bothered Fallon, and their meeting was getting off to a poor start.
“Here, cut that man down!” ordered Ramos. He turned to Fallon. “He was a runaway brought here by the soldiers to be made an example of at the slave market. H
e was already dead, but we hanged him again anyway.”
Seeing the distaste on Fallon’s face he decided to change the subject completely, for clearly here was a man for whom égalité ran deep.
“What are your orders, Capitaine Giroux?” he said in his most conciliatory manner. “I am at your command.”
Fallon began to breathe easier. Ramos seemed to be on the defensive, and no doubt as anxious for the meeting to be over as he was. Maybe this would work …
“I am to escort you to Port-au-Prince for a meeting on board Coeur de France, sir. A meeting between allies, ¿Aliados, sí? I have brought a signal book for you so we may communicate when necessary, and you may make the private signal when we arrive at Port-au-Prince. I am prepared to leave whenever it is convenient.”
Ramos took the proffered signal book and looked at this French officer who was so driven by duty that he was prepared to immediately sail back where he’d come from without stepping foot on shore. It seemed odd, and he was mildly perturbed because he, Ramos, wanted to sample the delights of the town, and his orders said he had a day left to do it. But here was the sloop and the French capitaine with the secret signal book, and perhaps the least he should do was show he was just as dedicated as a French officer.
“I am ready now, Capitaine Giroux,” he said with a certain resignation and a slight bow. “Let me dispose of this body, and then I shall follow you out of the harbor.”
“Excellent,” said Fallon, hiding his relief. “I will burn a light off my stern at night so you may follow easily. If we become separated, I will wait at the southern entrance to the Gulf of Gonâve so that I might have the honor of escorting you inside.”
Fallon bowed deeply and exhaled. But as he turned to leave he saw the slave’s body sprawled on the deck, eyes open to the sky, and a wave of revulsion washed over him. The bile rose in his throat, and he feared he would vomit on deck, for he could see a black ring around the dead man’s breast and a face that looked distorted in death but was still unmistakably Young David.
FIFTY-EIGHT
GET UNDERWAY immediately, Barclay,” rasped Fallon as he stepped through the gangway, and the ship came alive. Within fifteen minutes the anchor was up and catted and Mistral fell off onto a larboard tack under all plain sail. Fallon watched to be sure Tigre followed and, when he was satisfied she was away from the quay, he went below to put cold water on his face. He had seen much in his life, too much of the baser side of man, but still he could be surprised.
After several hours spent tacking to and fro against the wind, the two ships at last cleared the headland upon which El Morro stood sentinel. The officers kept their uniforms on, of course, although Fallon longed to rip his from his body and throw it overboard.
Tigre ranged behind them, her sails reefed to keep station astern of Mistral. The big frigate appeared to be handled well enough. Certainly, in the brief moments Fallon was aboard, everything had seemed shipshape—apart from Young David in the rigging, of course. Ramos appeared to know his business and had seemed to accept “Giroux” as a genuine Frenchman, although Fallon cautioned himself against overconfidence. Well, Ramos had followed him out of the harbor instead of blowing him out of the harbor. So that was something.
The afternoon slowly crept into evening, the sky turning a brilliant red to the west. That was a good sign for sailors, for a red evening sky usually meant good weather the next day.
Mistral put her rails into the sea’s rollers, and the miles ticked off with each hour. And with each hour Fallon retreated more and more within himself. The sight of Young David had affected him deeply, and he was conflicted about whether to tell Aja and Paloma. He wrestled with the decision in his cabin, standing by the stern windows looking out toward Tigre, not two miles behind, and beyond her the perfect red sky of the western world. In the end, he decided that the vision of Young David as a strong, free man needed to be kept alive. He needed to hold onto that vision himself.
As he so often did when lonely or sad, he got a glass of wine and wedged himself into the stern seats and wrote to Elinore, his pen scratching out a few lines of verse, or something like it.
You live in the space between my desires.
In the miniscule space between
heartbeats.
Between blinks.
Between breaths.
You live in the unseen spaces of my body,
invisible to everyone else.
For my eyes only.
It wasn’t much; in fact, it was hardly worth writing to Elinore. But it was how he felt when he thought of her, and just then he needed to think of her.
FALLON AWOKE with a gentle nudge from his steward just before first bell in the morning watch, cramped and stiff from a night on the stern seats. He lay for a moment, in no real hurry to join the day. He craned his neck to look out the stern windows, saw the still-black sky, and noticed the ship was on the larboard tack, still thrashing along, the watches having noiselessly changed while he slept.
He rose to shave by the light of a candle, but the face he saw looked worn and old. In the weak light his eyes weren’t green, nor bright, and he wasn’t what you’d call handsome. Well, he thought, damn the mirror.
He finished shaving and dressing and, armed with a cup of coffee courtesy of his alert steward, he ascended the companionway steps. The light still burned at the stern, but it was too dark to see Tigre behind them.
“All’s well, sir,” came Barclay’s voice out of the darkness. “We should see the western shore of Saint-Domingue in about eight hours if the wind holds.”
“Thank you, Barclay,” said Fallon. That would put them within sight of the Gulf of Gonâve and the beginning of the third act of this little play. It would be the end of the play, no matter how the act ended.
“How do you think it went with Captain Jones, sir?” asked Barclay. A question for which there was obviously no answer.
Fallon thought again of Jones and Renegade and wondered if he had escaped from Coeur or been obliterated by the first-rate’s guns. If Renegade had never made it out of the gulf the entire plan was a fiasco. On the other hand …
He shook his head to rein in his optimism. Better to stay focused in the present here on the deck of a proud and brave little ship with a cup of steaming coffee in his hand.
“We will see what we see,” he said. It was all he could think to say.
JONES WAS just getting dressed at that moment, feeling pretty good about himself and hoping it didn’t show too much. He had been entrusted with a key part of the plan, and a tricky bit it was, what with anchoring just so under the eyes of a first-rate. And then cutting the anchor cable and drifting backward, for God’s sake, back past Coeur’s swinging stern so as to get off another broadside without taking a shot aboard!
Jones was born into nothing and grew up with less. His father died when he was young, and his mother took in laundry to put food on the table. He had a sister who struck out on her own for Ireland when she was sixteen. He himself left when he was twelve to join the Royal Navy as a ship’s boy. He sent his mother what he could and wrote to her each month, and he pictured his mother’s red hands opening his letters. They would not have been easy to read though, for his penmanship stayed a twelve-year-old’s even as he grew older. Slowly, he had risen through the ranks of the navy, aided by the deaths of his seniors. And slowly, the birthright of inferiority he felt had given way to a greater confidence that maybe he could amount to something.
Of course, he had been matter-of-fact in the written report he’d given to Davies yesterday, and then solemn and straightforward when he’d given his verbal report. But inside he was jumping for joy. Obviously, it had all been Fallon’s plan—but he’d executed it, by God!
With that little pat on his own back, Jones finished dressing and began to focus on the upcoming meeting with Davies, Kinis, and Beauty. It was meant to review the third act of the play—the players would need to be synchronized and well positioned. He thought of Fallon in Santiago de Cuba a
nd wondered if he’d succeeded in fooling the capitán, or if the Spanish frigate had even been there. Without that, of course, there would be no third act. The thought of the danger Fallon had put himself in brought Jones down to earth and, frankly, humbled him. Well, he’d enjoyed feeling important, if only for a while. Now it was back to business.
FIFTY-NINE
THE GULF of Gonâve was shaped like a horseshoe, its open arms reaching toward Cuba as if offering an embrace. Port-au-Prince was at the back of the horseshoe, with Gonâve Island directly in front of the town. Beauty anchored off the northern coast of the island, well out of sight of any ship entering the bay from the southwest and, of course, out of sight of Coeur.
To the south of Gonâve Island, against the southern shore of the bay, lay Les Cayemites, two small islands of moderate height between which Avenger was anchored, close to invisible from east or west. And, finally, Renegade, disguised as Tigre, was idling out of sight to the northwest. Thus, the three British ships formed a triangle, and whatever battle occurred would happen somewhere inside it.
“Mr. Barclay,” said Fallon, as the two stood by the binnacle and looked at the approaching green hillsides of the gulf’s southern shore. “In very little time, perhaps two hours at most, we will be at the entrance to the gulf and soon after we will bid adieu to Tigre.” He turned to look at the frigate not two miles astern, sailing on an imaginary leash.
“Aye, sir,” said Barclay. “The hands are tense, sir, but I told them we would not be going far inside. They know about the first-rate, sir.”
Yes, of course they would know. He had to admit he was nervous, too. Who knew what waited inside the gulf? They might well see the tips of Renegade’s masts above the water, or her wreck upon the shore. Or some other horrible thing they couldn’t imagine.
The Black Ring Page 26