The Corfu Frigates
On the morning of the eighth day at sea, as they were approaching the coast of Corfu, a vessel appeared out of the sun, bearing down on the brig under her full spread of canvas, a tall white pyramid to eastward which was signalled by the masthead look-out with a hail:
'Sail on the port bow!'
From the poop deck, Jason Beaufort's voice spoke like an echo: 'Let her come. Steady as she goes.'
'An English frigate,' Jolival announced. He had a telescope to his eye and was studying the approaching vessel. 'I can see the red ensign at her peak. Looks as though she means business, too.'
Marianne, standing by him at the port rail, hugged her big cashmere shawl about her and shivered. There was something new and disturbing in the air. Pipes shrilled all around her, calling all hands on deck. Jason, standing beside the helmsman, was watching the Englishman. There was tension in every line of his body, a tension reflected in the crew, both on deck and aloft.
'Are we in the Straits of Otranto already?' Marianne asked.
'Yes. That Englishman must be out of Lissa. But he turned up very promptly… almost as if he was expecting us.'
'Expecting us? But why?'
Jolival shrugged helplessly. Jason had given an order to O'Flaherty who responded with a loud 'Aye aye, sir!' and clattered down the steps calling men to him. In a moment, weapons were being taken from chests and handed out among the sailors as they filed quickly past the first-officer, selecting swords, cutlasses, pistols, dirks or musketoons according to their abilities and preferences. Within the space of a very few seconds, the brig had been cleared for action.
'Are we really going to fight?' Marianne whispered anxiously.
'So it seems. Look, the Englishman has put a shot across our bows.'
A puff of white smoke had come from the long black hull banded with yellow, and was followed by a dull report.
'Hoist our colours!' Jason yelled. 'Show them we're neutral. The damned fool's coming straight at us.'
'A battle!' Marianne exclaimed softly, more to herself than to Jolival. 'That's all we needed! Maybe the men are right and I do bring bad luck.'
'Don't talk rubbish,' growled the vicomte. 'We all knew this might happen and the men have never looked on a fight as a disaster. This is a privateer, don't forget.'
But the thought lingered uncomfortably. For a week now, not a day had passed without some incident or accident to the ship. The vessel seemed to be fated. It had begun with half the starboard watch going down with some form of food poisoning, of unknown origin, and lying groaning in their hammocks for twenty-four hours. Then, a man slipped on the main deck, when the ship pitched suddenly, and split his head open. The next day, two of the seamen came to blows over some trivial matter and had to be put in irons. Finally, only last night, fire had broken out in the galley and, although it had been put out very quickly, Nathan had narrowly escaped being burnt alive. On the rare occasions when she left her cabin for a breath of air, she would look the other way if she caught sight of John Leighton's pale face and the mocking challenge in his eyes. Once already, she had seen the boatswain, an olive-skinned Spaniard with the pride of a hidalgo and the grossness of a drunken monk, extend the back of his hand with two fingers towards her in the traditional gesture to ward off the evil eye.
Meanwhile the frigate was still coming on and in answer to the brig's signals had hoisted a flag of true, indicating that she wanted to parley.
'Let him come alongside,' Jason snapped. 'We'll see what he wants. But have the men standing by, all the same. I don't like the look of things. The moment I caught sight of his tops'ls, I got the feeling he was after us.'
He began calmly stripping off his blue coat, unwinding his stock and rolling up his sleeves. Nathan, who was very nearly the image of his brother Toby, stood at his elbow ready to hand him his cutlass. Jason tested the edge against his thumb before stowing it in his belt. Urged on by the boatswain's pipes, most of the men were already at action stations.
'I'll have the guns loaded and run out,' Jason ordered.
Clearly, the privateer was not going to be taken by surprise. The frigate was very close now. She was the Alcestis of forty guns, a well-found vessel under the command of an efficient captain, Commodore Maxwell. Those on board the Sea Witch could see the marines ranged in perfect order on her deck, but no barge was being lowered. That meant communication would be by loud-hailer; not a good sign.
Jason picked up his own voice trumpet.
'What do you want?' he called.
An English voice came back, a trifle distorted but clear and menacing.
'To visit your ship. We have excellent reasons.'
'I'd like to know them. We are an American vessel and therefore neutral.'
'If you're neutral, you shouldn't have Bonaparte's envoy aboard. You have a choice: hand over the Princess Sant'Anna or we send you to the bottom!'
Marianne held her breath and something icy seemed to trickle down her spine. How had the Englishman known that she was on board? And more than that, how did he know that she was on a mission for Napoleon? She was dreadfully aware, suddenly, of the enemy's power. The mouths of the cannon protruding from her gun ports looked enormous. Marianne was conscious of nothing but the guns and the matches, flaring a little in the morning breeze, in the hands of the gun crews. But there was no time to think about the future, for already Jason's voice was answering boldly:
'You can try!'
'Do you refuse?'
'Would you agree, Captain Maxwell, if someone asked you to hand over your honour? My passengers are sacred. Ladies especially.'
The stiff figure on the frigate's quarter-deck bowed.
'I anticipated that would be your answer, sir, but it was my duty to put the question. We fight it out, then.'
The two ships drew apart, each loosing their first broadside before they were out of range. But they fired before the crews had got the guns properly laid and neither hit the target. Drawing off again, they reloaded and returned to the charge, like two knights in the lists.
'We can't win,' Marianne wailed. 'Go and tell Jason to give me up. The English will sink us. They are much better armed than we are!'
'Your friend Surcouf wouldn't think much of that for an argument,' said Jolival. 'The next time you see him, you must ask him to tell you about the Kent. A duel between two ships at sea is more a matter of seamanship and winds, and of stout hearts if it comes to grappling. And I've an idea our men are stout enough at heart!'
There was no doubt that the faces of the men about them on the deck were alive with the excitement of the coming fight. The seamen had smelled powder and it made their eyes shine and their nostrils flare. Marianne caught sight of Gracchus among them: armed with a pistol and clearly as happy as a king, the young coachman was preparing to do battle with the best. Up in the rigging, men were busy with the sails as, amid a flow of orders, the brig heeled round with a proud and stately grace into the wind. The Englishman, less easily manoeuvrable, had barely begun to turn but a fresh volley rent the air and white puffs dotted the air between them as the Alcestis let go her stern chasers.
Craig O'Flaherty came hurrying up to Marianne.
'Captain's compliments, ma'am, and will you go below. No need to expose yourself. We're going to try and capture his wind.'
The flush on his face owed nothing to drink this morning. If Jason had ordered rum all round for the crew to hearten them for the coming action, he had taken care to pass over his first-officer. O'Flaherty made a move to take Marianne's arm to lead her below but she hung back, clinging to the rail like a child that would not go to bed.
'I don't want to go below! I want to stay here and see what happens. Jolival, tell him I want to see!'
'You can watch from the portholes. You'll be safer there, although you may not see so well,' Jolival told her.
'It's an order, ma'am,' the first-officer added. 'You must go down.'
'An order? To me?'
'Wel
l, to me, actually. I'm afraid my orders are to see you to safety, by force if necessary. The captain went on to say that if you insisted on exposing your life it was scarcely worth him risking the lives of his men.'
Tears welled up in Marianne's eyes. Even now, with death threatening them both, Jason was sending her away from him. She surrendered, acknowledging defeat.
'Very well. In that case, I'll go alone. You are needed, Mr O'Flaherty, I believe.' She glanced significantly towards the poop where Jason, apparently having dismissed her from his mind, was absorbed in his strategy. His eyes were fixed on the enemy and a stream of orders issued from his lips.
The Alcestis was showing her elegantly carved and gilded stern windows as the Witch came across on an oblique course to windward, neatly cutting the wind from her sails. Then, as her canvas flapped helplessly, the Witch's carronades roared. Smoke billowed over the brig's deck but through it came a shout of triumph.
'A hit! There goes her mizzenmast!'
It was echoed grimly by the voice from the masthead:
' 'Nother vessel coming up astern, sir! She's opening fire on us!'
The last words were drowned in the noise of another report, a little farther off.
The newcomer had slipped out from behind the small green island called Phanos and was bearing down on them under every stitch of canvas, flying the unmistakable British flag. Jolival blenched and seizing hold of Marianne began to drag her towards the companion.
'It's a trap!' he cried. 'We'll be caught between two fires. Now I see why the Alcestis let us take her wind so easily.'
'Then we're lost? In that case—'
Tearing herself from his grasp, Marianne made a dash for the poop, determined at all costs to get to Jason and die with him. But Kaleb was before her, barring her way.
'Not that way, madame! It's dangerous.'
'I know! Let me go! I must go to him!'
'Stop her!' Jason bellowed. 'If you let that lunatic woman up here, I'll have you in irons!'
The end of this speech was lost in the smoke and din as part of the rail disintegrated and the shot sliced through the shrouds and ploughed on into the deck-house roof.
Instantly, Kaleb had flung Marianne to the ground, hurling himself on top of her and pinning her to the deck with all his weight. The noise was deafening and visibility down to no more than a few feet. The guns' crews were firing almost before they had finished reloading. Fire belched from every one of the brig's gun ports but her decks were rent with agonizing screams and the groans of injured and dying men.
Coughing and choking, Marianne fought vigorously to free herself from the smooth and powerfully muscled body holding her down. At last, with the energy of desperation, she managed to push him off and struggle to her knees.
Without so much as a glance of gratitude for the man who had saved her life, and who, in any case, was already returning to his duties, she peered through the smoke in search of Jason. She could not see him, the entire after part of the ship being enveloped in a thick fog, but she heard his voice yelling, with an inexpressible note of triumph, in response to another shout from the masthead:
'Reinforcements are coming! We'll make it yet!'
Staggering to her feet, Marianne began to run towards the sound and literally fell into the arms of Gracchus who, his face blackened with powder, loomed ghostlike out of the reeking smoke.
'What is he saying, Gracchus?' she gasped, clinging to him. 'Reinforcements? Where?'
'Come with me. I'll show you. There are more ships coming. French ships. They're coming from the big island. And in the nick of time too. We were in a bad way between these two misbegotten Englishmen!'
'You're not hurt?'
'Me? Not a scratch. In fact, I'm almost sorry it's all over so soon. Battles are good fun!'
Marianne allowed herself to be towed to the rail. The smoke was thinning now and, with a broad sweep of his arm, Gracchus indicated the three vessels which could be seen rounding the small islet of Samothrace. They were three frigates, their sails bellying in the sun, and looking as unreal as three icebergs advancing through the blue morning. Their colours fluttering gaily at their peaks. They were the Pauline, Capitaine Montfort, the Pomone, Capitaine Rosamel, and the Persephone, Capitaine Le Forestier.
All sails set, the three ships came swooping to the American's rescue, their sleek keels cleaving through the blue water.
On board the Sea Witch, the men greeted their appearance with a frantic cheer. Caps waved in the air.
But already the two English ships were drawing off, abandoning the fight. One after the other, they rounded the rocky coast of Phanos and, knowing themselves safe from pursuit in those dangerous waters, sailed away slowly into the morning haze, followed by a last, defiant broadside from the brig.
Marianne stared after them, frowning. It had all happened so quickly… far too quickly. The two ships appearing one at a time, as though they had been lying in wait behind their two islands, and then the fight which was over after a few shots fired: it was all very strange and unlikely. Above all, the question remained: how had the English learned of her presence on board an American brig and, more important still, of the secret mission given her by Napoleon? Hardly anybody knew, and those few could be trusted absolutely because, apart from the Emperor and Marianne herself, they were limited to Arrighi, Benielli, Jason and Jolival, all of whom were above suspicion. Who, then?
Jason meanwhile had embarked on an inspection of his ship. The damage, in general, was not serious and would be easily repaired when they came to port. There were some wounded lying on the deck with John Leighton already busy attending to them. Coming to where Marianne was kneeling by a young seaman with a splinter in his shoulder, the privateer bent down and took a quick look at the wound.
'That's nothing to worry about, my lad. Wounds heal fast at sea. Dr Leighton will deal with you soon.'
'Have we… any killed?' Marianne asked, too busy stanching the flow of blood with her handkerchief to look up, but conscious of his eyes on her.
'No, none. It's lucky. But I'd like to know who the bastard was who gave you away. Or have you been chattering indiscreetly, my dear Princess?'
'I? Chattering? Are you out of your mind? I'd have you know the Emperor is not in the habit of putting his trust in chatterboxes!'
'Then I can think of only one answer.'
'What's that?'
'Your husband. You escaped from him and he gives you away to the English to get you back. I can understand it, in a way. I'd have been capable of doing something of the same sort myself to stop you going to that damned country!'
'That's impossible!'
'Why so?'
'Because the Prince is—' Marianne stopped suddenly, realizing what she had been about to say, and turned a flushed face back to her patient before concluding: '… is incapable of anything so vile. He is a gentleman.'
'While I'm a brute, is that it?' Jason's lip curled. 'Very well. We'll leave it at that. And now, with your permission, I am going to welcome our rescuers and tell them we intend to put in at Corfu for repairs.'
'Is there much damage?'
'No, but enough to need attention. You never know, we may well meet up with a few more of my friend Prinny's ships before we get to Constantinople.'
A few minutes later, Captain Montfort, Commodore of the squadron, was piped aboard the Sea Witch. Jason, who had resumed his coat and stock, was waiting on the deck to greet him. There followed a brief, courteous exchange during which Captain Montfort assured himself that the American vessel had suffered no disabling injury or loss of life, and invited the privateer to accept his escort to Corfu where the superficial damage to the Witch's superstructure could readily be put right. Jason thanked him and expressed his gratitude for the frigates' prompt and unexpected intervention.
'It was a godsend, sir. But for your help we'd have been lucky to pull through.'
'Godsend nonsense! We were told to look out for you and to make sure your vessel negotiat
ed the Straits of Otranto without interference. The English squadrons are on continuous patrol.'
'You were told? By whom?'
'By special messenger from the Italian foreign minister, Count Marescalchi, who is at present in Venice. He warned us that a noble Italian lady, the Princess Sant'Anna, a personal friend of the Emperor's, would be travelling on an American ship. We were to watch out for you and to provide you with an escort until you were through the Cerigo Channel and into Turkish waters. I dare say you may not know it but you are running a twofold risk.'
'Twofold? Apart from having to run the gauntlet of the English base at Santa Maura…'[2]
Montfort drew himself up, aware that what he had to say did not redound to his nation's credit.
'The English also hold Cephalonia, Ithaka, Zante and Cerigo itself. Our strength was insufficient for the defence of all the Ionian Islands which Russia ceded to us by the Treaty of Tilsit. But it is not only the English we have to fear. There are also the flotillas belonging to the Pasha of the Morea.'
Jason laughed.
'I think I have enough fire power to deal with a few fishing smacks!'
'Do not laugh, monsieur. The Pasha is the son of the formidable Ali Pasha of Yannina. He's a powerful man, as well as a shrewd and devious one. We can never be sure if he's for us or against us, and he's busy carving himself an empire behind the backs of the Turks. The Princess would be a nice prize for him, too, especially if she should chance to be beautiful…'
Jason made a sign to Marianne, who had been observing the commodore's arrival from a conveniently secluded vantage-point behind Jolival and Arcadius.
'Here is the Princess. Permit me to present Captain Montfort, to whom we owe, if not our lives, most certainly our freedom.'
'The danger is much greater even than I feared,' the captain said, as he bowed over her hand. 'No ransom on earth could wrest from Ali such a prize.'
'You are very gallant, Captain, but this pasha is a Turk, I suppose, and I am related to the Haseki Sultana. He would not dare—'
'He is not Turkish, madame, but Epirote, and he would undoubtedly dare. He conducts himself in this world as an independent monarch, knows no law but his own. As for his son's ships, do not scorn them, monsieur. They are manned by devils and, if they once succeed in boarding you, which they may do very readily because their small ships are able to slip close in under the guns, they will give your men such a fight as they will not easily repel. You will be well advised to accept our escort – unless slavery holds any charms for you.'
Marianne and the Rebels Page 19