“He’s a wily old fox,” Dan remarked to Charity as they stood with Paul on the Lady’s deck admiring the fleet. They had taken station off the flagship, and had a clear view of the white sails of the warships as they followed in order. “I think we’ve fooled Hood—which is a pretty hard trick to bring off!”
“What happens now, Paul?” Charity asked.
“Oh, we’ll fake him out on this course for a day or two, then turn and make a drive for the coast. There are just a few British warships there now, and this fleet will drive them off, bottle up the army—then Washington will move in and have Cornwallis in the palm of his hand. And that’ll be the end of the war. But,” he went on thoughtfully, “if we run into trouble, remember your promise to stay below. I’ll need every man I’ve got.”
Two days later, de Grass ordered a change of course exactly as Paul had predicted, and for the next four days every square yard of canvas was put on the yards, for surprise was the essence of the scheme. If word of the attack got out, Hood or Rodney would race to meet the French fleet and parry the blow.
On a bright Sunday morning Dan hurried into Paul’s cabin with a message. “Signal from flagship, Captain. You’re to report to the admiral aboard his flagship at once. I’ve had the gig put out for you.”
Paul wiped the lather from his face, threw on his clothes, and was soon in the gig headed for the flagship. He climbed on deck, and was escorted at once to de Grass’ cabin.
“Captain Winslow reporting, sir.”
“Winslow—you made good time.” The count’s face was tense and he told Paul hurriedly, “We’re in trouble, I fear. Our lookout spotted a ship up ahead just at dusk. He got only a glimpse, but she was there this morning—a frigate, he thinks.”
Winslow saw the danger at once. “You think she’s a British ship?” That was what they had feared most—the fleet being spotted and a report made, alerting the English forces.
“It has to be,” the count concluded gloomily. He struck his hands together and cried in anger, “It will destroy our plan!”
“We’ll have to capture or sink that ship, sir!”
De Grass stared at Winslow with a set jaw. “It’s our only hope—but she’s a frigate. We have only ships of the line. None of my ships could catch her—” He paused and seemed to be weighing the quality of the young captain as in a balance. He studied the dark eyes, the firm mouth, the air of determination, then added, “No ship—except yours, Captain Winslow.”
A fire leaped into the eyes of Paul Winslow, and he said instantly, “We’ll do it, Admiral!”
“Think of it, Winslow!” The count came close and looked down into the face of his officer. “She carries three times your guns, as you well know. Her crew will be well trained, and I don’t know of an instance of a sloop defeating a frigate in a close action duel.”
“We’ve got to try, sir,” Winslow urged. “If that ship gets away, I think it will mean America loses the war.”
De Grass nodded slowly, his eyes moody. “I believe you may be right. Washington can’t hold the army together much longer. We’re his last hope. You know the odds, my boy. Are you certain you want to attempt it?”
“We must do it, Admiral—there’s no other choice!”
“Then go, Captain!” De Grass’ French blood got the better of him, and he impulsively threw his arms around Winslow, giving him a mighty hug, and then to the younger man’s shock and amazement, kissed him soundly on the cheek! The admiral stood back, smiled and apologized, “Forgive me, Captain. We French are so emotional!”
“Oh—that’s all right, sir,” Paul answered as he turned to leave. “I’d better get back—and, sir, it’s an honor to serve with you!”
“Captain Winslow, the honor is mine! Now, God go with you!”
Paul drove the oarsmen of the gig as if they were galley slaves, and as they sent the craft skimming back toward the Lady, he kept his eyes fixed on the horizon where the English ship was lurking. He knew that as soon as the English captain was convinced a French fleet was making for America, he’d drive his ship toward the coast to give the warning.
He hit the deck running and shouting commands. “Lieutenant Greene! I want every inch of canvas at once! Change course three degrees south. All officers in my cabin immediately!”
He hurried to the cabin, followed by the officers as they rushed to his command. He gave them the news, then the ultimatum. “We’ve got to stop that ship! I don’t have to tell you what that means—and I don’t know how we’re going to do it. But it means the war, I think.”
“She’s a frigate, Captain,” Laurence Conrad stated grimly. “One broadside and she’ll blow us out of the water.”
“Then we’ll have to be certain she doesn’t get a good shot at us, Lieutenant! The only plan I’ve got is to use the qualities built into this ship. We can sail rings around that frigate—and thank God for the long eighteens! We can keep up a running fire and maybe knock her sticks off—dismantle her. If we can slow her down, it’ll give de Grass time.”
There was an air of uncertainty in the faces of most of the men, a fact Paul knew he could not change. If I could only speak better—somehow convince them that we have a chance! he thought, but nothing came and he stood there watching their doubt grow.
“I’m not afraid.” Charity suddenly spoke up, and every eye turned to her. She was attired in old blue breeches and the red-and-white checked shirt she wore as her uniform aboard ship. Her heavy mane of auburn hair was bound with a white silk scarf, framing her tanned face and enormous eyes. Her countenance was set, confident, even content.
“My brother died at Valley Forge. My father died on the deck of this ship, and some of your comrades with him. We’ve all shed our tears for the fallen—but that’s not enough!” Her voice rose and she searched them with her gaze. “It’s not enough! If our country goes down and becomes a rag for England to wipe her feet on, my father and my brother and your family and friends will all have died—for nothing! I say we may go down, but I’d rather go down fighting than run like a whipped dog and let the British put a chain around my neck.”
“I says the same, miss!” Ben Smith, the master gunner, had been brought to the meeting by Dan, and he nodded his head with grim determination. “I was born in Devon, and I done my share below decks in England’s ships—but I ain’t no Englishman. I’m an American. Let’s send that there ship to the bottom!”
The air of the cabin was altered immediately, and Paul, seeing their sudden shift, asked, “We’re all agreed, then? Good! Now, to your stations—but first, Dan, it might be well for you to offer a prayer.”
Dan looked with surprise into the face of the captain, but saw there only an honest light in the dark eyes. He bowed his head and prayed, “Thou art our God—and we are thy people. I know, Lord God, thou hast some of thy children on the ship we’ll soon do battle with. We are but weak, foolish men. We have no way to know the mind of our God—but we fight to make a land where the songs of Zion will be sung, where the Gospel of Jesus will be preached, where we can raise our children in the fear of a holy God. We remember the words of thy servant David: ‘He teacheth my hands to war, so that a bow of steel is broken by mine arms.’ Lord of Hosts, teach all of us to war—and break the bow of steel. Set thy people free—in the name of Jesus Christ.”
“Amen,” Paul Winslow murmured, and his eyes were fixed on Dan as if the words had somehow gone deep into his spirit. He did not move, and they all saw that he was stirred by the prayer. Then he shook his shoulders, saying quietly, “Take your stations. Tell the crew the situation. They need to know how important this mission is. God be with us!”
The Gallant Lady, carrying full sail, seemed to shoot out of her station, and as she passed the flagship, the signalman, Simmes, called, “Signal from flag, sir.” He stared at the pennants and read them to Winslow with a smile. “Little David—slay your Goliath!” He shrugged when Captain Winslow gave him an unbelieving look. “That’s what the flags say, sir!”
“Signal Thank you—and Amen.”
The Lady ran before a breeze all morning, and at noon, when all that could be seen of de Grass’ squadron were the top gallants of the ships, Dan Greene spotted the frigate. “Sail! Two points off port bow!”
“Where does she bear, Lieutenant?” Winslow shouted from the deck.
Dan peered through the glass, then answered, “She’s turning, sir—I think she’s spotted us!”
“Stay where you are, Lieutenant. Keep me posted.”
In two hours of hard sailing, with the masts bending under the weight of full sail, Paul could see the enemy ship for himself. He was standing beside Blake, the helmsman, when Greene came to his side. There was, Paul saw, an odd look on his face. “What’s wrong, Mr. Greene?”
“Well, sir, that ship there—”
When he hesitated, Paul asked impatiently, “Spit it out, man!”
“Well, sir—she’s the Neptune!”
His words caught Paul off guard, and he could not say a word. The Neptune! His mind raced as he thought of what that meant. He had been prepared to do battle—but he had never once thought that he might be directing the deadly fire of his guns against men he knew well! He thought of Captain Rommey, blunt and hard, but who had been almost a father to him—and Burns, that dour Scot who had been his friend—and even Langley, who had been jealous of him, but fair. To fire on them? And the crew! He knew most of them, and soon he would be sending the shot that would mangle them, leave them dead and crippled.
It’s not fair, God! he cried out in his mind, and he tried desperately to find a loophole. I’ll let Daniel command, he thought, but one look at the honest face of the big man told him that was hopeless. He was the only man capable of fighting the ship. Go back and let de Grass appoint another captain! But it was far too late for that, he realized in despair.
He turned and walked to the rail, motioning Dan to follow. When they were out of Simmes’s hearing, Paul asked, “You know what’s eating at me, Dan?”
“Those men are your friends,” he nodded. “You are facing the choice of killing men who aren’t faceless anymore.”
“What can I do?”
Dan stared at the tortured face of the man he’d learned to love. He wanted to put his arm around Paul Winslow, but discipline had to be observed. He answered quietly, “Some things a man must face alone, Paul. This is your Gethsemane—and you only can make the decision.”
“I can’t do it, Dan! I can’t!”
Dan Greene forgot the eyes of the crew. He put his big hand on Paul Winslow’s shoulder, and with tremendous compassion in his warm brown eyes, said, “One thing is good—the old Paul Winslow is gone—for he would never have hesitated to do this. I think God has you about whipped, Paul. His grace will see you through and bring you in. Into His house.”
Paul slowly nodded, saying in a heavy tone, “Thanks, Dan.” He looked up and his eyes were bright with pain as he spoke. “We’ll be engaging in an hour. Get the gun crews ready.”
“Aye, sir.”
A sudden thought struck him, and he lifted his head to glance at the Neptune. “Dan—for all Rommey knows, this is still a British ship!”
“Why—I suppose so.”
“Quick—run up the British flag! This may be our chance.”
Dan saw it at once. “Get in close and blast them? It may work—if they don’t blow us up first!”
“I’m hoping that Rommey won’t think of that. Get those colors up! Have the gunners rake the decks with the carronades and hit their gun ports with the eighteens!”
“Aye, sir! And I guess you might say that the Good Lord is answering my prayer—teaching our hands to war!”
****
Lieutenant Burns turned to Captain Rommey, who had come on deck to take command. “Sir, that ship that’s been shadowin’ us, weel, I don’t know what it means—but she’s the Jupiter!”
Rommey’s eyes grew large and he took the glass from Burns with an impatient air. “Impossible!” he snorted. The captain froze for a moment, then lowered the glass, his eyes puzzled as he muttered, “It is the Jupiter! Now what the devil ...?”
The two of them watched as the ship grew larger, coming closer by the second. “I can’t fathom it, Burns! What is she doing out here? I heard she was being used to take supplies to Admiral Hood.” He stared at the English flag on the Jupiter and pondered. “Perhaps she’s got dispatches for us.”
“Perhaps, sir.” Burns’s voice was doubtful, and then as the ship drew closer and tacked to come broadside to the Neptune, he yelled, “Sir! Her guns are run out! Look! She’s pullin’ doon the British flag and flyin’ the Yankee flag!”
Instantly Rommey bellowed, “Change course! Full about! Beat to quarters!”
The two officers remained in position, stoically willing the frigate to wheel out of range of the guns that threatened them from the sloop, but it was hopeless. “She’s goin’ to give us a broadside, sir! I’ll get to my guns.”
“Do the best you can, Lieutenant.” Burns disappeared and Rommey stood there listening to the sound of men scrambling and guns being run out, but his attention was on The Gallant Lady. He saw that she bore that name on her bow, and she was close enough now to see the officers at their deck stations.
He had never felt so helpless! Ordinarily, he would have laughed at the idea of fighting a single-ship action with a sloop of war. But this was different! Two things ate at him. He remembered the guns aboard the ship, and what Burns had said in his report. “Sir, she’s nae such a big ship—but Lord, the guns on her deck! Why, I don’t doot she could sink a ship of the line if she got in the first broadside!”
He remembered saying to the Scot with a smile of disbelief. “And do you think a ship of the line would let her get close enough for that? Why, any captain would have her blown out of the water before she could get off a shot!”
But I let her come alongside without a thought! Rommey beat his fist against the rail, and then gripped it with all his might as he heard the lower ports open and some of the guns put in position. Too late! It’s going to be too late! The deck of the enemy ship was visible now, and it seemed to bristle with guns. His practiced eye could see no flaw in the arrangement, and he thought, Those big eighteens are aimed low to knock out our guns and hole us below our water line—and those carronades—Lord, how many are there?—will kill every man on deck! They can’t miss!
Then the two ships were even, and the air was filled with the mighty roar of cannon. The Neptune reeled beneath the shock, and Rommey fell to the deck. The fall probably saved his life, for the helmsman, who was directly behind him, was transformed into a mass of raw flesh by the whirring chains that ripped up the wheel even as it killed the man.
The air was full of death, as canisters of grape—small musket balls in cans that exploded—sent a deadly hail of fire over the deck, cutting the crew down as with a scythe!
Rommey struggled to his feet and looked around in despair. Most of the men were either lying still in death, or were twisting on the deck in their own blood, and the ship was helpless. One of the eighteens had struck the foremast dead center, and it had fallen back into the mainmast, killing several men as the heavy yards crashed to the deck. The ship was reeling like a drunken man, for the wheel was gone and the rudder flapped and thrashed in the water.
Rommey began to cry out orders, rallying the crew. “Baxter, get the marines to the tops! Have them pick off the gunners of that ship! Lieutenant Rogers, rig a line to the rudder—get us some control. She’s turning to give us another broadside!”
He would not have believed a ship could turn so quickly, but he saw that the American captain was doing just what he himself would have done—seeing the terrible damage the first broadside had caused, he was driving the sloop around and in a few minutes would be in position to deliver another!
Down in the lower gun deck, Burns was misled. He heard someone cry, “Here she comes again!” and he thought the enemy would come to his starboard. There were t
oo few gunners left alive to man both batteries, so he commanded at once, “All gunners, man starboard guns!” The men obeyed, but then as the guns were run out, Dion Sullivan, captain of number-three gun, rose up with wild eyes. “Mr. Burns! She’s comin’ on the port!”
Burns stood there, his mind reeling. He dropped to stare out one of the ports—and there she was, The Gallant Lady! She was beginning her run, and before he could even reverse his orders, the bow guns fired and he saw the first two gun crews blown to bits by the explosions! He began to weep as once again the Neptune shook beneath the hail of heavy metal. “God! Our enemies have triumphed!” he whispered, and tears ran down his cheeks. After the broadside had shattered the lower deck, there was a babble of cries, and then he heard a command: “All hands on deck to repel boarders!”
When he got to the deck, fighting his way through the press, he reached the forecastle deck, and saw the captain staring at the enemy ship that had completed her turn and was gliding in, her decks lined with boarders.
“We must not lose the ship, Mr. Burns,” Captain Rommey told him quietly. His face was pale, but calm. And he added, “We’ve been outdone—but we have more men than that sloop. We must win the battle on this deck!”
“I doot, sir,” Burns replied, “that we have more men.” He stared about the deck and thought of the carnage below. “But we’ll nae give up, sir!”
“Look at the enemy. That’s their captain getting ready to lead the boarding party. Do you recognize him, Mr. Burns?”
Burns followed the direction of Rommey’s hand and breathed a name. “Hawke! It’s Hawke!”
“Yes!” the captain hissed. He looked at Burns and asked, “Do you still believe in predestination, Angus? Did God put that man on this ship so we could save him and train him—in order that he would one day be the instrument of our destruction?”
The Saintly Buccaneer Page 33