“It had better be the right one,” Richard said, “if this bastard wants to live. Cover him, Mr. Jeffrey.”
Jeffrey drew his pistol and held it steady as Richard walked behind the desk. He untied the bandana from around the privateer’s neck, rolled it into a gag, inserted it into the man’s mouth, and then tied the ends in four knots behind the man’s head.
“That should do it,” he said. “Levez-vous!” he demanded.
The Frenchman stood up. Richard used his own neck stock to bind the man’s hands behind him. He checked his watch: 10:48.
“I have him, Mr. Jeffrey. Go below. On the double.”
Jeffrey quick-stepped down to the orlop.
“Maintenant, monsieur,” Richard said, his voice as tight as the knots on the gag, “nous attendons. Lâ-bas.” He pointed through the cabin doorway and nudged the muzzle of his pistol against the man’s back. “Soyez en tête, s’il vous plaît.”
The privateer captain led the way, as ordered, to the base of the steps leading up to the weather deck. There they waited, Richard with a pistol in one hand and his watch in the other. Two minutes dragged by. Three. Four. “Hurry, damn it, Kendall,” he whispered. Finally he heard footsteps echoing up from below.
Kendall’s head popped up through an open hatchway. “Done, sir,” he confirmed, then pulled himself up and out. The others followed. “We have five minutes.”
“En haut les pas, vite,” Richard snarled at the Frenchman, “à moins que vous ne vouliez mourir ici.”
The Frenchman clearly had no desire to die there. He stumbled up the steps, followed by Richard, Jeffrey, and the three Marines.
On deck, Richard shoved the privateer captain against the starboard bulwarks. The man’s eyes grew big when Kendall handed Richard his knife. With a hard upward thrust Richard cut through the binding on the Frenchman’s wrists. Stunned, the man stared at his freed hands just as Reeve and Jackson picked him up by feet and shoulders and heaved him over the side.
“Au revoir, mon ami,” Richard shouted down at the splash of water. “Je suggère que yous nagez très vite.”
The enraged Frenchman hesitated for a moment, as if considering a return to the ship, then began swimming frantically in the other direction.
“This one’s coming to, sir,” Jackson said, pointing to the sailor Richard had decked earlier. He was turning his head this way and that, moaning softly.
“Throw him over, too,” Richard said. After the second splash he said, “Right! Everybody off! Now!”
They had just taken shelter behind stacks of crates and barrels on the docks when the slow-match powder trail ignited by Sergeant Kendall sizzled its way across the floor of the brig’s magazine to the main charge of gunpowder and munitions stacked at its far side. A colossal, earsplitting explosion rocked Le Léopard from stem to stern. Yellow and red sparks skyrocketed into the air as her midships arched up off the water. Her two masts teetered, then crashed onto the deck and quay. Fire raced along the downed rigging toward the docks and warehouse, spreading the conflagration. More explosions followed. The brig’s deck amidships blew out, causing her tumblehome to cave in on itself and bringing water gushing in through a ragged hole torn through her starboard hull. Then it was over. Within a span of time that seemed impossibly short, Le Léopard had been reduced from a proud predator to a listing, battered wreck.
The music and laughter on the promontory faded to silence as the crowd stared in disbelief at the burning hulk, their minds unable to accept such a catastrophe on this lovely, joyous morning. Even the sight of the massive wooden double doors of the fort swinging open and a squad of half-dressed soldiers rushing into their midst did not convince them. What did, finally, start the panic was the line of casually dressed men who had materialized seemingly out of thin air to drop to one knee and point long-barreled pistols at those soldiers.
The French captain defiantly withdrew his sword from its scabbard and held it high, then turned to face his men. Before he could issue the order to fire, a shot discharged from Daniel Carmick’s pistol tore into him and dropped him.
The citizens of Grand-Bourg, hitherto riveted in place, started screaming and running from the promontory toward the village and the presumed safety of their homes. A second wave of American Marines, larger than the first, raced against this tide of humanity toward the open doors of the fort. Richard recognized Isaac Hull in the lead.
After Richard’s party returned to the brigantine Nancy, he watched the proceedings through a spyglass.
“We’re in danger of overstayin’ our welcome,” Agreen warned him. He, too, had been observing the goings-on through a glass. “I say it’s time we flew this birdcage.”
Richard nodded and walked to the open hatchway. “You crewmen,” he called down. “Out you go. Rebecca Ann is the schooner on the next quay. Roundly now! Before the fire spreads to her.” He eyed Roger Jeffrey. “Your first command, Mr. Jeffrey. Get her out into the harbor and wait for us.”
Jeffrey saluted and was off.
To the Marine corporal he said, “Take Mr. Phillips below and bind him. Bring some muskets with you when you come back up. We may have need of them.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” The Marine pushed Phillips forward, followed him below.
To the sailors assigned to Nancy he said, “Make ready to set sail.”
Richard raised his glass again, focusing it on the fort. In front of the doors he saw what appeared to be the total capitulation of the French soldiers, guarded by Daniel Carmick and his Marines. Their weapons had been taken from them and tossed into the water, and they were submitting to having their hands tied behind their backs. All seemed secure there. What was happening inside the fort was a story impossible to read. It stood out on the end of the promontory as silent and sullen as the granite stone of its construction. If Hull failed, Richard thought, his stomach churning at the prospect, this had all been for naught. If he didn’t spike those guns on the south- and west-facing walls, there could be no escape from Grand-Bourg.
“We’re ready to make sail,” the boatswain’s mate informed him. “And sir, the land breeze is picking up.”
“Very well, Morse. We’ll have her under way as soon as Mr. Hull and the Marines are back on board.”
More seconds ticked by. More minutes.
“Damn, Isaac, hurry,” Agreen muttered. He glanced up at the telltales fluttering on the mainmast shrouds. Morse was right. The breeze had picked up and was blowing straight out of the harbor. But such a favorable wind would do them no good unless—
“There, Agee. There!”
Agreen raised his glass and saw Hull and the Marines charging out of the fort, Hull motioning to Carmick and his men to follow him now! No one challenged them, although the French soldiers under guard must have sensed what was coming. They struggled to their feet and ran after the Americans as best they could with their hands tied behind their backs. As the Marines neared the end of the promontory and ran along the arc leading to the town frontage and the burning docks, what had transpired earlier on board Le Léopard seemed, in comparison, like child’s play with popguns. A tremendous explosion shook the fort with such authority that both land and water trembled. Instantly a volcanic mass of stone shards, iron fragments, and other bits of debris spewed high above the promontory and spread out over the town, docks, and harbor. The mountain of debris seemed to hang in the air for a moment before plunging back down to earth. Richard and Agreen ducked for cover. They doubled up against the brigantine’s bulwarks, shielding their heads with their arms as the spew pelted Nancy and Rebecca Ann and the scarred skeleton of Le Léopard in a violent hailstorm.
When it was over, when all was quiet, Richard rose to a knee and trained his glass on the fort—what was left of the fort. Only its east-facing wall remained intact. The rest of it appeared like a giant right triangle of stone rubble propping up that wall, pockmarked here and there with vacant gaps of what had been corridors and gun turrets. Nowhere did he see any stirrings of life.
> “Sweet Jesus in heaven, Isaac,” Richard said to Hull when, moments later, the first lieutenant and the Marines left the shelter of a stone dockside warehouse and ran up the gangway onto the brigantine. “Where did you learn to spike guns?”
“The frogs were a bit sloppy with their munitions.” Hull was wheezing, gasping for breath. “And that provided us with a rather splendid alternative.”
“Rather splendid indeed,” Richard acknowledged.
“All hands! Make sail!” Agreen commanded. Sailors in the bow and stern let fly the lines to the bollards while others raised jib and driver, playing out the sheets to allow the freshening breeze to fill the canvas. Nancy slid easily forward from the quay, the wind at her back, her bowsprit pointing toward the demolished fort and the channel leading out.
“You have blood on your shirt,” Richard noted with concern.
Hull glanced down. “It’s not mine,” he said, back in command of himself. “It belongs to the commander of the fort.” He withdrew his dirk from its sheath to reveal a blade smeared with red. “When we surprised the garrison, or what was left of it, he put up a fight. That was stupid of him. We had him dead to rights, and the Marines performed brilliantly.”
“Casualties?”
“Nary a one. Everyone’s accounted for. You?”
“The same.”
“That’ll make Silas happy.” Agreen eased Nancy up close to Rebecca Ann and waved at Roger Jeffrey at the helm. Jeffrey waved back and ordered his crew to back the jib to coax the schooner out of irons. Once both vessels were in open water and all they could see of Grand-Bourg were clouds of ugly black smoke curling above the town, Agreen said, “Speakin’ of our illustrious commodore, gentlemen, have a gander yonder. Unless I miss my guess, thar he blows.”
He was pointing to the southwest, where the black hull of an American frigate was rising off the horizon. Constitution was sailing toward them, to take them under her wing and shepherd them safely past the French naval base at Guadeloupe, and from there northward to Clarkson’s Yard in the harbor of Saint Kitts for a rendezvous with Constellation.
Fourteen
In the Atlantic, Northeast of Guadeloupe February 1800
RICHARD LEANED BACK in his chair, holding in his hand the letter he had just received up on deck during mail call in the port of Saint Kitts. Slowly, savoring the moment as he always did after receiving a letter from Katherine, he broke the wax seal, spread open the single page, and read:5 November 1799
South Street
Hingham, Massachusetts
My Darling Husband:
We arrived home late yesterday after what seemed an interminable voyage from Portsmouth. The weather turned foul on our third day out and remained stormy for eight straight days. You would have been proud of your sons. Will and Jamie thrived in the bad weather, and they were of great comfort to Lizzy and me, and to Diana and Zeke. To us, it was terrifying. The seas washed over the ship, and the deck above us leaked, and it was damp and cold. I don’t know what Lizzy and I would have done had it not been for their care and attention. They even helped sail the ship when several of the crew took ill. They are born sailors, much like their father, whom we all miss dearly.
Now that we’re back in Hingham, such a voyage seems a small price to pay for the joy of seeing my family again. There is much to tell you about Fareham, and we will give you all the details when you return home to us. The wedding was a day we shall always remember. Reverend Fenton, the dear man, was at his best, and everyone attending was caught up in the majesty of it all, including my father, who served as best man along with Jeremy. Hugh and Phoebe make such a handsome couple. They couldn’t stop smiling, they were so happy. And can you believe it? Hugh told me what he told you in Jamaica—that they are planning to come to America to live near us in Hingham. My heart is bursting with joy!
I am writing this letter in haste, as I must send word to you that we are home and in good health and spirits. Please God you will be here with us soon. Peace is nigh. You must be aware that President Adams has ordered the frigate United States to Paris with new peace envoys. This time, it appears, they will be received with full diplomatic honors. Monsieur Talleyrand is no longer foreign minister, and Bonaparte has publicly stated that he desires a quick end to this conflict. Your father agrees that the end is near. He asked me to tell you that he will write you himself as soon as he is up and about. He has been a-bed recently, I don’t know with what. But be assured that I shall continue to look in on him every day—if Edna will allow me access!
Everyone in my family sends love to you, including my father, who sings your praises every chance he gets. You make him very proud.
You make me so very proud, too, my darling husband. You are forever on my mind, forever in my heart.
Katherine
Richard pressed the paper to his lips and offered a silent prayer of thanksgiving for the safe delivery of his family. An Atlantic crossing in October was not to be taken lightly, especially when sailing against the prevailing westerlies. The thought of the voyage and the dangers it presaged had gnawed at him for weeks. Now worry would feast on him no longer.
His eyes swept over the single page of tight cursive flow. So Bonaparte desired peace now that he had swept the Directory from power and proclaimed himself First Consul of France. Well, why wouldn’t he desire peace? The Navy Department had confirmed that thus far in this war a relative handful of American naval and Treasury vessels had captured one French navy frigate and three corvettes, and had captured or sunk more than a hundred French privateers. Not to mention a French fort being blown to kingdom come. Having defeated the world’s greatest sea power, Richard mused, the young republic was giving fits to the world’s greatest land power.
His mind stuck on the mention of his father’s illness, or whatever was keeping him a-bed. That Katherine did not seem overly concerned was reassuring. A red flag stirred nevertheless. Richard had never known his father to linger in bed for any reason. Rarely had he been ill or even acted out of sorts. To those who knew him, Thomas Cutler seemed a paragon of mental and physical heath, the sort of man to whom others turned when they were ill or out of sorts.
Richard folded the letter and placed it in the drawer of his small writing desk. His wardroom cabin was warm, but not oppressively so, despite the early evening hour. His cabin was, after all, the most commodious on the ship apart from the captain’s suite, and he enjoyed the privacy and relative luxury of the space, especially now that Constellation was in port and out of discipline and he could linger there at his leisure, excused from watch duty as a privilege of high rank. Forward, he could hear the muffled laughter of men and women at play on the berthing deck, and up a tier on the gun deck as well. Richard smiled to himself. Captain Truxtun, following an official period of mourning to honor the passing of President George Washington in December, had yielded to the human condition and had allowed wives and sweethearts to come on board ship during the port call. “Wives and sweethearts”—a delightful Royal Navy term that more often than not was a euphemism for local women of easy virtue.
Richard rose to his feet and stretched. Fatigued, his eyes heavy, he glanced at the vest watch lying on his desk: 7:35. Too early to retire. He decided to go up on deck and take the air. Tomorrow morning he would answer Katherine’s letter and include it with the others he had written during the cruise.
On deck he met a former midshipman reclaimed from L’Insurgente and promoted to third lieutenant by Captain Truxtun during Constellation’s layover in Portsmouth. “Good evening, John,” Richard greeted him. Both officers were dressed casually in breeches, silver-buckled shoes, and cotton shirts.
“Good evening, sir,” Dent replied. “A glorious one, isn’t it?”
“Indeed. Reminds me of Boston in late August. A perfect evening to enjoy ashore, I should think.”
Dent grinned. “Which is where I’m bound in a few minutes, at the end of the watch. Mr. Sterrett and I are taking supper at a new tavern on Bay Road. We’r
e told it’s an excellent place. Would you care to join us, sir? We’d welcome your company.”
“Thank you, John, but no. The only place I’m bound tonight is my bunk. I’m done in. Perhaps tomorrow or the next day I’ll try this eatery of yours, assuming it passes muster with you.”
“You may expect a full report in the morning, sir,” Dent announced cheerfully. He took his leave and walked forward amidships in the direction of an open-shirted topman named Wheaton, who was talking quietly to an exotic-looking woman of Carib Indian descent. Her skin was smooth and reddish brown; shiny ebony hair fell straight down to her waist. She was smiling encouragingly at the topman. She might not understand English, but her body language spoke volumes. Wheaton ignored Dent as he walked discreetly past, although the woman’s dark olive eyes took in the young lieutenant and then flashed aft, more meaningfully, at Richard.
Richard returned her smile, then leaned against the starboard bulwark and gazed out on a naval base that these days seemed more American than British. The British light frigate Concorde lay at anchor amid a clutch of unrated Royal Navy vessels bobbing and straining at their moorings in the light chop. Almost hidden among them were larger vessels of the Leeward Islands Squadron flying the Stars and Stripes: Baltimore, Pickering, Enterprise, and John Adams. Eagle and the refitted Insurgent were out on patrol.
“A pretty sight, eh, Mr. Cutler?”
Richard straightened instinctively. “Sorry, sir. I didn’t hear you approach.”
“Tut, tut, man. Relax. Do not naval regulations regarding a ship out of discipline include her first lieutenant?”
“I believe they do, sir,” Richard said.
“Well, then, be at your ease.”
Thomas Truxtun joined Richard at the railing, his gaze on the five short-barreled, wide-bore carronades lined up before him along the starboard bulwarks between midships and taffrail. Five others of equal bore and design were positioned across on the larboard side. Each was mounted on an immovable wooden bed equipped with a slide that absorbed the gun’s recoil when fired. The outer end of the bed was secured to the deck by a heavy bolt. On the inner end were two wheels designed to swivel like casters and provide greater ease in swinging the gun from side to side. Just as lethal as traditional long guns, these 24-pounder carronades were considerably lighter and smaller, and thus suitable for installation on the weather deck. And only three men were required to service each gun. Their single drawback was that they were effective only at short range.
The Power and the Glory Page 28