by James Nelson
The ship swung away south, hauling her wind, heading in a direction that would take her away from the Charlemagne as quickly as she could go. ‘Damn it all to hell, damn it,’ Rumstick muttered under his breath. He looked back at the quarterdeck to see if Tottenhill had yet realized that he had just made the biggest mistake of his life, a mistake that entirely negated his good work in finding these ships, but from the lack of expression on the first officer’s face, he could not tell.
‘Hurry it up, you motherless bastards, get them guns loaded!’ Rumstick called out for no good reason, save that he had to say something or he thought he might explode.
He stepped up to the bow and onto the heel of the bowsprit and looked across the water to the two British ships beyond. The taffrail lights were extinguished, which was no surprise, and now they would be lucky to take even one of them. Taking both seemed out of the question.
Rumstick could still make out the ship, but just barely, for she was running away to the southward. To his surprise the schooner was not running north but rather east, straight at them, close-hauled, the bone in her teeth reflecting the moonlight as it boiled around her cutwater. He hopped back to the deck and hurried aft.
‘Tottenhill, that schooner’s making right for us. I think she’s a man-of-war, must be an escort to the merchantman.’
‘Very good. And watch your mouth, I won’t tolerate your disrespect any longer.’
Disrespect? You ain’t seen disrespect, Rumstick thought. He turned toward the waist. ‘Hurry it up, hurry it up! Load and run out!’ Only half of the guns had drawn their shot, and not one of them was yet reloaded with chain.
And then the schooner was on top of them. They could see the big gaff-headed sail looming over the bow as she charged along, close-hauled, flinging herself at a more powerful enemy.
‘Hands to braces!’ Rumstick shouted.
‘Belay that, God damn it!’ Tottenhill fairly screamed, ‘Rumstick, you keep your damned mouth shut!’
‘Are you going to let him rake us? Aren’t you at least going to show him a broadside, even if we got nothing loaded?’
Whatever Tottenhill had to say to that was lost in the gunfire. Nor would it have mattered, for the schooner had tacked across the Charlemagne’s bows and was crossing starboard to larboard, firing as she went, her four-pounder balls tearing the length of the brig’s deck.
The captain of number two gun spun around as if he were dancing and fell, dead before he hit the deck. A ball plowed into the foremast fife rail, smashing it to pieces, tearing up the running rigging made fast there. The jib and the fore staysail collapsed, their halyards parted by the round shot, and fell into the water, dragging under the bow.
‘Damn it, damn it, damn it!’ Rumstick shouted as he leapt up on the heel of the bowsprit, grabbed on to the headsail sheets, and pulled. ‘On deck there,’ he shouted at the nearest gun crew, ‘give me a hand here, haul these motherless things back aboard!’
The schooner had passed them by, and now it looked as if she was tacking around to deliver another raking broadside. And with the sails dragging in the water and the way nearly off of her, there was nothing that the Charlemagne could do about it.
Rumstick let out a bellow, a roar of anger and frustration as he hauled the wet canvas aboard.
CHAPTER 24
Failure and Success
Lieutenant Rumstick could just make out the schooner, half a cable away, but his vision had been hurt by the flash of her guns at close range. The last of the headsails were pulled aboard and the gun crew returned to their duty. Rumstick dragged the dead gunner clear of the path of his gun’s recoil.
The first broadside from the enemy did an extraordinary amount of damage, quite out of proportion to the pathetic weight of iron she threw. That was the price the Charlemagnes had paid for Tottenhill’s refusal to fall off, thus allowing the schooner to fire her round shot down the entire length of the brig’s deck.
But now the guns were reloaded with chain and running out. ‘Sail trimmers!’ Tottenhill called out. ‘Larboard tack!’ To the helmsmen he called, ‘Starboard your helm!’
The Charlemagne turned to larboard, presenting her starboard broadside to the defiant little enemy. The two vessels were broadside to broadside, sailing parallel to one another, no more than fifty feet apart. This was where the Charlemagne could use her superior firepower to good effect.
‘Fire when you bear!’ Tottenhill shouted, and at that three of the brig’s guns went off, blasting their loads of chain shot at the schooner’s rig, hoping to render the sails unmanageable while leaving the hull intact.
Rumstick peered through the night, but he could make out only a vague outline of the schooner. Another of the Charlemagne’s guns blasted away, then another, lighting the enemy up in the flash. He could see no damage done to the other vessel, and he wondered if any of the shots had told.
Then the schooner’s shape seemed to change, seemed to contract, and for a wonderful moment Rumstick thought that they had brought her mast down. And then he realized that they had not. She was just tacking, turning up into the wind, presenting her bow to the Charlemagne once the Americans had discharged their broadside.
‘She’s tacking!’ Rumstick shouted aft.
Tottenhill was watching the schooner as well. ‘Stand by for stays!’ he shouted. ‘Start coming up,’ he said to the helmsmen. He was going to tack the Charlemagne, keep the two ships side by side, but that was the wrong thing to do, and with the headsails gone it was unlikely that they would make it around.
‘Tottenhill, listen,’ Rumstick called, running aft, ready to give advice that he knew was not wanted and would not be well received. ‘They’ll—’
He got no further than that. The schooner was across their stern now and began pouring round shot into the Charlemagne’s transom. A ball blasted through the taffrail, spraying the quarterdeck with splinters and felling one of the helmsmen with a chunk of caprail to the head.
‘God damn it!’ Tottenhill shouted in frustration. The Charlemagne was coming up into the wind, ready to tack, while the nimble schooner was already falling off, out of range of their guns. In Rumstick’s experience the brig had always been the quick and handy vessel, antagonizing their enemies, sailing rings around them. Now they were the bull, tethered and baited about by a quick and vicious dog.
‘Listen, Tottenhill, sod the schooner, never mind them,’ Rumstick shouted. ‘It’s the ship that has the stores and they’re running away from us! Go after the ship!’
‘Don’t you address me in that fashion, God damn your eyes!’ Tottenhill shouted. ‘Let fly the headsails! Helm’s alee!’
The remaining helmsman put the helm over and the Charlemagne turned up into the wind.
‘Let fly the headsails!’ Tottenhill called again, aware, as was Rumstick, of the conspicuous absence of flogging canvas.
‘There ain’t any headsails, the schooner shot the halyards away,’ Rumstick said in a caustic tone.
Overhead the leeches of the square sails began to flog. ‘Mainsail, haul!’ Tottenhill shouted, and the mainyard swung around as all of the square sails came aback. The Charlemagne turned up into the wind, farther and farther, until the breeze was blowing right down her centerline, and then she stopped.
There was an odd calm, an unnatural sort of quiet, as every man aboard stood waiting for the brig to complete her tack. The schooner was now all but lost from sight, running away to the northwest, and the ship had not been seen for the past ten minutes or more.
‘You’re in irons,’ Rumstick said quietly, as if anyone aboard the brig, particularly Tottenhill, did not know that. They had turned straight into the wind and turned no farther, and now the Charlemagne sat there, motionless, while all of the military supplies of New Providence disappeared in the night.
‘Mr Sprout,’ Rumstick shouted, ‘bend the gantline to the fore topmast staysail and set it that way! On the main braces, brace up sharp starboard tack! Let go and haul!’
‘Ru
mstick, I shall not tell you again, you stupid ox,’ Tottenhill shouted in a voice that could be heard clear to the jibboom end, ‘you do not give an order aboard this vessel, damn it!’
‘Well, I reckon somebody better start giving orders, giving orders that make some sense! You already lost the ship and the stores, I reckon, the whole goddamned reason we come here, you stupid bastard!’
Tottenhill glared at him. The mainsails remained aback and the headsails remained in a heap on deck, and all of the Charlemagnes stood watching the confrontation. Rumstick was aware of a shuffling, a low murmur from the men like water lapping along a hull.
‘That is it, sir, that is it! You shall consider yourself under arrest! You do not speak to me like that!’ Tottenhill shouted back, but Rumstick did not hear. The bulkhead had now burst under the great pressure of his anger, anger that had been building since he had lost his position as first officer, and now it flowed in a great violent wave that would not be stopped.
‘Under arrest? You’re a joke, sir, you little blockhead of a weasel! You calf! Get out of my way, little man!’ Rumstick pushed him aside and, shouting forward, yelled, ‘I said brace them mainsails around, you whore’s sons!’ but the men in the waist stood sullenly glaring at one another or staring blankly aft.
‘Mr Rumstick is under arrest!’ Tottenhill shouted. ‘No one shall obey his orders. Hackett, Allen, Gray, escort Rumstick below.’
In a flash the three men were up on the quarterdeck, led by a grinning Hackett, who had gravitated aft at the first sign of confrontation. Behind them came three more, like jackals to a kill.
‘You’ll have to come with us, Mr Rumstick,’ Hackett said, still grinning. He took a step toward Rumstick, who stood passively watching, his arms hanging loose at his sides. Hackett took another step and paused, sensing the danger. ‘Here, Allen, Gray, take a hold of the lieutenant.’
Allen and Gray, less insightful than their leader, continued to advance on Rumstick. ‘Come along, sir,’ said Gray, reaching for Rumstick’s left arm.
Like a snake Rumstick’s right arm struck out, his heavy fist smashing flat into Gray’s face. Blood sprayed from the man’s shattered nose as the force of the blow lifted him from the deck and tossed him back against the binnacle box.
Allen was actually backing away when Rumstick’s foot caught him in the groin and doubled him over, then the foot came up again directly in his face and he joined Gray on the deck.
‘Arrest me, you sons of whores?’ Rumstick roared. ‘Come on then, let’s have at it!’ He took a step back against the bulwark and his hand fell on the empty belaying pin he knew was there. There was shouting in the waist, the sounds of a tumult, but he could not take his eyes off the men he faced. He jerked the pin from the rail, a foot and a half of solid oak, turned and oiled, just as Hackett and the other three prepared to rush him.
‘Stop this! Stop this right now!’ Tottenhill screamed. ‘Rumstick, you will obey my authority!’ But Rumstick was not listening anymore. He was well beyond listening.
Nor were his attackers prepared to back off, intent as they were on revenge for some perceived offense – Rumstick could not imagine what, nor, at that moment, did it matter – he had done them.
A sheath knife flashed out, and then another. Rumstick stepped forward, grabbing out with his left hand, diverting attention, and in a great sweeping arc he brought the belaying pin around and dropped one assailant to the deck like a sack of biscuits.
The shouting from the waist grew more frantic, some tumult on the edge of his vision. He had the impression that a great brawl had broken out among the men. But he had no time to look, or even think of what might be happening. Hackett was shouting for more help as the two remaining men came at Rumstick.
Then Weatherspoon was at his side, his dirk, not much longer than the sheath knives he faced, held in his steady hand. ‘Put those knives away, you stupid bastards,’ the midshipman commanded with a surprising authority.
‘Mr Rumstick’s under arrest! He’s to come with us!’ Hackett shouted, but he sounded less sure of himself now. He glanced around for Tottenhill, as did Rumstick, but the first officer had abandoned the fight aft and was standing at the break of the quarterdeck, apparently trying, through the force of his authority, to stop the riot that had erupted in the waist.
Rumstick had only a fleeting impression of what was happening, glances stolen while he concentrated on the standoff before him. He saw in the dull moonlight men rushing fore and aft, fists and belaying pins and handspikes rising and falling. Not a thought was left for the enemy ships making their easy escape. The Charlemagne was swept up in an internecine battle, a wild brawl in which every man aboard was engaged.
‘Put down those knives!’ Weatherspoon shouted again, and as if startled from their uncertainty, the two men advanced again, with Hackett standing behind them.
‘Son of a bitch!’ Rumstick roared, his voice like a cannon blast. The men hesitated, stopped, and then with a sweep of his hand Rumstick brushed aside the knife to his left and swung with the pin. He felt the rip and burn of the other knife plunging into his side. He checked his swing, catching the first assailant on the jaw and spinning him half around.
He turned toward the man who had stabbed him, the knife pulling from his flesh as he did. He was aware of the agony, the burning and the hurt, but he was far too angry to worry about it, or for the wound to slow him down. He wound up with the pin but the man was bent over double, Weatherspoon’s dirk thrust deep in his belly, blood running down his slop trousers and onto the deck.
Weatherspoon pulled the dirk from the man’s stomach, and with a gasp he collapsed to the deck. Then the midshipman was gone, running and leaping forward, to where, Rumstick could not imagine.
Tottenhill was standing over him now, having abandoned his attempt to stop the riot, shouting, ‘What in hell have you done?’
‘What in hell have you done, you idiot!’ Rumstick shouted at the first officer. He pointed toward the waist where men struggled as if fighting off a boarding enemy. ‘Look what your damned coddling has got us!’
‘Coddling? Why you arrogant Yankee bastard! I have had no help from you, and no help from Biddlecomb, you have treated me like a leper since first I came aboard! I … No!’
Tottenhill yelled.
Rumstick frowned, confused by that last shouted word, then felt a great blow to the back of his head, a staggering shock that pitched him forward over the bleeding form of his attacker and down to the deck at Tottenhill’s feet. He rolled over, clutching his head, images swimming in his blurred vision. Hackett was there, grinning, a belaying pin in his hand.
And then with the sound of the riot in his pounding head, the sound of the ship’s company tearing themselves apart, Rumstick saw Mr Midshipman Weatherspoon, like some vision, a pistol in each hand and two more thrust in his belt, leap up onto the quarterdeck. He shouted something, fired one of the guns, fired the other, and was reaching for a third when Rumstick finally lost consciousness.
President John Brown pulled his horse to a stop at the White Ground, the sandy point halfway between Fort Montegu and Fort Nassau. He had been riding hard, and for a moment he just sat in his saddle, head thrown back, breathing deep.
The rebels were on the move. It was still dark but they had already assembled and marched out of Fort Montegu and were on the road to Nassau, bent on God knows what kind of mischief. Brown had ridden far enough along the road to see them coming, which was all he needed to see, then turned and rode back to the White Ground. He did not care to talk to the rebels again, not until he had proven himself in their eyes.
They had not been quite as conciliatory as he had hoped; they were apparently quite determined to sack the town if they met with resistance. And what was worse, they would think that he, John Brown, had betrayed them. They were already furious over the loss of the military stores. It would go hard on him if they met with further resistance, the naval captain had promised. Very hard. Brown did not know what that mean
t, exactly, but he knew that he did not want to find out.
It would take the Americans an hour and a half at least to reach Fort Nassau. He pulled his watch from his waistcoat and squinted at the face. Five o’clock in the morning. By six-thirty the barbarians would be at the gate. He had an hour and a half to convince the governor and the remaining militia to abandon the fort or he himself would be hunted down by the damnable rebels.
He slid down off the horse and looped the animal’s reins around a small tree. He took off his coat, then unbuttoned his waistcoat and took that off as well, then pulled his shirt over his head. The morning air was cool on his bare skin, and it felt good after the hard riding he had done. He pushed the arms of the shirt through the arm holes of the waistcoat, then stuffed them back into the arms of his coat. He held the clothes out at arm’s length and pulled a pistol from his belt.
He hated this type of histrionics, but it had to be done. The fort had to be emptied before the Americans arrived. He grimaced as he placed the barrel of the gun against the coat at about where his ribs would be, were he wearing it, turned his head, and pulled the trigger. The flash from the pan and the barrel were blinding, and the loud report of the gun made the horse shift nervously, but the animal was trained to gunfire and it did not spook.
Brown examined the hole that he had blasted through three layers of clothing. It was impressive; a gaping wound in the cloth, charred and hanging open. He struggled back into the shirt, waistcoat, and coat.
He pulled a folding knife from his pocket and grit his teeth as he unfolded it, moving quickly before he lost his nerve. He placed the blade against the skin that was exposed by the hole in his clothing and with a jerk of his arm cut his flesh, opening up a wound six inches long.
He gasped, then grit his teeth again and cursed. It was not a deep cut, but still it was painful and, more to the point, bled copiously. He sucked in his breath and held it. He felt the blood running down his side and saw the dark stains it made on the tattered cloth. Satisfied that he had manufactured a quite convincing and, he hoped, frightening wound, he took up the horse’s reins, swung himself up into the saddle, and charged off toward Fort Nassau.