She had not seen much of Fallon outside the ship, first owing to where she lived at the far end of Suffering Lane and, second, because she hadn’t wanted to be seen. Privacy was a virtue to Beauty McFarland, like an eleventh commandment: Thou shalt respect another’s privacy. Here on a tiny island in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, one’s sexuality could not stay hidden long, she knew that. But she wanted any revelation to be on her terms, and she wasn’t sure what they were yet.
“Beauty, we’ll get underway at first light with the tide tomorrow,” Fallon said to her for the umpteenth time since he had moved his things back aboard Sea Dog. Really, the boy was heeling badly.
“Aye, your Majesty,” she replied with exaggerated patience. “What about your frigate, there?” She nodded toward Harp, just swinging to her anchor in the shifting breeze. “What’s the plan going to be?”
With this they moved together to his cabin to pore over charts of the Caribbean with Becker, the master. Their course would take them almost due south on mostly a beam reach for almost fifteen hundred miles.
The frigate, with Captain Hammersmith Bishop in command, would leave this afternoon. They had agreed to rendezvous with Harp in Cockburn Harbor on Grand Turk at the Somers office and get news. Had anyone heard of Wicked Jak Clayton? Beauty wondered. It seemed like a fantastic rumor.
After Becker left with a chart of Cockburn Harbor to study more closely, Beauty and Fallon paused a moment in companionable silence. They’d always been like this, not needing to talk to be friends. But something clearly needed saying, she thought. Something was working on Fallon’s face.
“I suppose I should tell you something personal,” he finally said, smiling. A good start. “I’ve become…that is, I’ve been…I mean to say, I’m quite taken with Elinore Somers. Lately. I mean, now.”
Beauty laughed. “Lord, Nico, I thought you were going to tell me a secret!”
Fallon looked startled.
“Nico, Nico, the whole island knows you two are sweethearts,” she said laughing again. “Just look at your silly face! Have you looked in the mirror lately? A blind hog could find that acorn!”
Fallon blushed and put his head in his hands.
“I, for one, think she’s the luckiest girl on the island,” Beauty said. “And you’re the luckiest boy. She’s got her own head, and there’s something in it besides cotton balls. Plus, she’s got spit.”
Fallon grinned, and Beauty grinned with him, the secret between them not a secret at all. Beauty stared at him a moment, relaxed and relieved, and briefly considered telling him about her own, well, friend. No, she decided, it could wait for a better time.
They worked through the last-minute details of crew allocation, typically Beauty’s job, but Fallon knew a few of the new hands that she did not. The watches were reviewed, along with the gun crews and who had the lightest touch on the helm. The ship was ready for sea, ready to quit the land and sail over the horizon. Fallon gave Beauty a quick hug as she left his cabin. It felt good.
Fallon had ordered the crew to sleep in the ship that night. Sea Dog had been warped away from the dock and rode at anchor, her captain’s gig bobbing and bumping alongside in the gathering dusk. Beauty expected Fallon would use it tonight to row to the wharf and meet Elinore, and she was glad of it. They were a good match, and besides, it was good to see her normally unflappable friend with his compass spinning.
TWELVE
SEA DOG caught up with Harp inside three days and passed her, the frigate under reefed topgallants and apparently in no real hurry—a bad sign. But Fallon would not sail under her coattails all the way to the Turks Islands, that was for sure. He wanted his independence to be seen, early and clearly. Bishop had fired a cannon as he went by, either a salute or something else.
Beauty set the watches to their tasks; the gun crews practiced loading and running out till they were exhausted and begged for a tot. The ship was coming together, and Fallon was elated. As usual, Sea Dog carried more crew than was actually needed to work the ship, but that was a privateer. The extra men found someplace to sleep on deck, propped against gun carriages or snugged against the sides of the ship, and rotated in and out of gun crews and watches. For the most part everyone accepted the overcrowding as a small price to pay for the possibility of greater riches.
They had glimpsed a few distant sails but had not altered course to learn more. The missing Somers ship was a concern, and the faster they got to the Turks, the faster answers could be found. Hopefully. At least that was the theory right up to the time they found the French squadron.
Or rather, the French squadron found them.
The crew spotted the squadron to the southeast, perhaps fifteen miles away. Fallon had a fast ship, but the French were spread out over several miles like a fan, and the squadron was sailing more or less downwind, on a broad reach, which was a good point of sail for square-rigged ships. Sea Dog’s windward virtues would not help now. And her speed would not help her if she held course, so spread out were the French that she would be intercepted. Of course much could happen to change the circumstances. A sudden squall. A waterspout. A unicorn could appear in the sky and take everyone’s breath away. Short of that, Fallon knew a certain moment was at hand.
He clamped his jaw tight. The French were never anxious for a sea battle unless strong odds presented themselves. Which they had, in the form of Sea Dog, sailing alone, deserted by luck. Fallon considered bearing off and running downwind. Not the schooner’s best point of sail by a long shot. Even if Sea Dog succeeded in outrunning the squadron in a long chase, it could take Fallon weeks to make up ground to windward.
And, too, there was Harp to consider. She was perhaps half a day behind Sea Dog. As things stood, she, a lone frigate with a questionable captain in gold lace, might well sail right into the jaws of the squadron.
Fallon needed a plan that he didn’t have, but he had to prepare the ship for action. “Beauty, call all hands,” he said firmly. “But leave the gun ports closed.”
All hands ran to stations pre-ordained by drills and instructions. Men who were old hands showed the newer ship’s boys where to go, what to do. Shot, powder, and tubs of sand to safely hold the smoldering slow match were brought up; gun crews assembled by their charges.
The lookout counted six ships. The French, of course, counted but one. In all respects, Fallon was at a disadvantage. He ran through the options once more in his mind. Logic said turn and fly. Play the game out in a long chase. He thought of Hammersmith Bishop looking through his telescope at six French ships converging upon him, wondering why that coward Fallon hadn’t warned him. He shuddered; no, that wouldn’t do.
All faces looked to him. He knew each one, every name. Wiggins and Charles and Henry Matson and Cline and Burger and the Swedes and on and on. Asking them to go into battle for glory or prize money was one thing—sending them to their probable deaths another.
There was no win in it. If he sailed onward, his ship would face terrible destruction. A twelve-pound cannonball crashing into a frail wooden structure wreaked unbelievable devastation on vessel and crew. Each ship, even a French ship, could fire half her guns every two to three minutes. Assuming the squadron of six ships totaled three hundred guns that would be over one hundred cannon shot at close range tearing into Sea Dog for as long as it took her to sink. Likely, not many minutes. The loss of life would be catastrophic.
Time to decide on a course of action. Fallon was focused energy now, his mind alert and running lines and calculations. Options were few.
Beauty appeared at his side, her telescope on the enemy, judging wind speed and course. “Not long, Nico. How’re the funeral plans coming?”
Fallon smiled at her dark humor, but he desperately needed time to think. On the French came, the line a bit more formal, anticipating action. A signal flag: What ship?
“Beauty, up with the French tricolor,” Fallon ordered, ignoring the request to identify his ship. “And send for the signal book we took off Fleu
r. Pick out a man with good eyes and send him aloft with it.” Fallon was desperately trying to stall for time. But, of course, the reality was that time was running out. With each passing minute it seemed the French squadron could be seen more clearly, and the crew shifted foot to foot at their stations.
Then, an idea at last, the smallest worm of an idea began wriggling in Fallon’s mind. In a flash it was the only thing to do. Of course, it was insane—and yet he was mad with it.
“Beauty,” Fallon said quickly, “we’ve got to make the French believe we’re afraid over here. Which we are…but not because of them!”
Now Beauty nodded, a big smile beginning. “Aye, aye, Captain,” she said with relish…and not a little relief on her face. “What’s next?”
Fallon sorted through the French signal flags laid out on the deck and picked out the message he wanted hoisted.
Enemy in sight.
“Now, Beauty, let’s hope the French buy our little ruse!”
Immediately, Enemy in sight went up. And now there were squadron signals flying. And the French, who loved to talk, began chattering. The Sea Dogs stood by, clearly mystified and growing increasingly worried.
“Lookout there, what are they saying?” yelled Fallon.
“I think they’re confused, sir. They think we’re French!” This without a trace of irony, considering they were flying French colors. Well, Fallon hadn’t said the lookout had to be brilliant, only have good eyes.
“Deck there,” called the lookout. “They’re repeating What ship? again!”
The French could be counted upon to be worried about an enemy in the offing, but first they wanted to be sure with whom they were dealing. Fallon had to give the French Commodore something else to worry about, something at the next level of concern, to distract his mind from Sea Dog’s identity.
He sorted through the French signal flags again and finally spelled out British squadron.
“Ha!” laughed Beauty. “That ought to tighten up their French asses over there!” The flags were sent up, and Fallon and Beauty waited expectantly for the reaction.
“Deck there, signals are flying so fast I can’t make them out.”
Fallon considered it a brief reprieve. He imagined the French were worried, confused, but they were probably not convinced. He looked around at the men’s faces, all looking back at him, all counting on him to work some magic and save the ship. But he was out of magic tricks. Fallon feared the French hadn’t bought the idea and were even now laughing at his feeble attempt to escape.
He looked around the ship, looked at the sea rushing by, and finally up to the sky—hoping for divine intervention—but saw only the sails and the French tricolor at the gaff. Yet…there it was, by God, right in front of his eyes, the coup de grâce. It would be risky, terribly risky, and lives hung in the balance, but the thing had to be seen through. The cake was out of the oven, as his mother used to say. Time for the icing.
“Beauty,” said Fallon as calmly as he could. “Let’s send up a last signal. We’ll have to spell it out perfectly.”
“And then what happens?” Beauty asked.
“And then we’ll surrender—to the British!” Fallon exclaimed.
Beauty grinned at the audacity of the idea, the pure fantasy of the idea, really, but its utter genius—well, if it worked. Fallon worked the signal out on deck, letter for letter, V-i-v-e l-a F-r-a-n-c-e. The French ships were noticeably closer now and becoming clearer without a telescope. But Fallon was wonderfully calm, it seemed to the men, which both confused and reassured them, equally.
At last, Vive la France flew. One last cheer for the republic.
“Now,” Fallon ordered, “have the helmsman put the helm over and make to come hard on the wind, toward the French squadron.” Beauty’s eyebrows went up, and her mouth came open. “I know,” Fallon answered the invisible question, “but we’re French, remember? Running for the squadron’s skirts.”
The order was given and ropes were pulled tight as the ship came up toward the eye of the wind. Fallon’s mind was committed now, his throat dry and tight. If he should fail…well, to put the ship in this danger, voluntarily, was virtual suicide.
“Now, Beauty,” Fallon said, “for the hard part…but trust me, it’s our only chance. On my word, come dead into the wind and stall the ship. That’s right. On my word, now, and then haul down the French flag!”
Beauty swallowed hard and nodded. Sea Dog sailed on toward the French, yard by yard getting closer. There was no turning back now, of course.
“Now!” Fallon ordered, “Come up, come up! That’s right, luff there! And strike the colors!”
Beauty obeyed without a moment’s hesitation, knowing it was all or nothing. Slowly, Sea Dog came to the eye of the wind and lost way, two hundred tons of movement suddenly all but dead in the water. The sails flapped, lines slapped, and men looked around with their mouths agape. The French tricolor came down—the universal sign of surrender—and every Jack Tar held his breath.
“Lookout there! What signals?” yelled Fallon, no longer the calm captain now, for Sea Dog was helpless. The French were signaling furiously, and the schooner was a sitting target.
Fallon’s confidence was waning by the second. The pressure in his chest was unbearable, and he was on the verge of surrendering for real.
“Signals!” called the lookout. “From the flagship: Wear in succession. By God! They’re wearing, sir. The French are breaking off and turning around!”
Fallon raised his telescope and saw the lead ship, by now a distinct image in his glass, ponderously turn her stern toward him. The rest followed suit. A new course, then, to the northeast, away from a trick. So close to certain death, and now a reprieve.
The wind was lying down, but Fallon would need to keep up the game until the French ships were settled on their course and virtually out of sight. It had been a dangerous ruse, to position Sea Dog so nakedly. Yet she was virtually helpless anyway at 6-to-1. Even the French could handle those odds. He had counted on them abandoning him to the invisible enemy to save their precious ships. This time, he had been right.
The men were standing around grinning in disbelief at their good fortune. The schooner was almost becalmed in the fading afternoon light when Fallon decided all was finally well.
“Send the hands to dinner,” he said to Beauty, who had just gotten the ship squared away and back on course. “Up spirits for each man, and send for me if the breeze freshens or the enemy reappears.”
Suddenly, Fallon was numb from exhaustion. All his energy drained, he made his way along the ship to his cabin. It had been a near thing, with death or worse in the balance. But Sea Dog had lived to fight again. There would be another time for heroics. For now he needed his cot and a moment to close his eyes. Just a moment, he thought, but it would be hours before he awoke.
THE SHIP glided over blue, silky water, alive with confidence and a sense of preordination. The men skylarked and went about their daily duties uncomplaining and even joyful. Older hands helped younger hands, the youngsters took to their navigational studies with more earnestness, and a general sense of optimism grew in the ship as the warm trade winds blew them along. The escape from the French squadron made Sea Dog a lucky ship and, as all sailors were deeply superstitious, luck was much prized aboard. Prized even above rum.
Meanwhile, Fallon sat on the stern seat in his cabin, staring at dust swirling in a bar of sunlight. He was trying to organize his thoughts about Ezra Somers’s offer, writing them down as short sentences both for and against. The biggest question mark was whether his relationship with Elinore complicated things, which of course it did. She was Ezra’s daughter. She was also Fallon’s lover. It wouldn’t do to deceive Somers on the point. If Fallon accepted a partnership without disclosing his relationship with Elinore, Somers would be outraged. He closed his journal. It was too much emotional calculus to figure out.
He wore a frown up the companionway steps into the bright air, in sharp contrast to
the expression of the ship. But his spirits were lifted by what he saw: From bow to stern the hands were relishing the sailing qualities of the ship, her plunging speed, the fully engaged sails fore and aft drawing every ounce of power from the wind. It was glorious, and only a fool of a captain would pout in front of the men and against such a display of joy. He got over himself and gasped in wonder. My God, such a sailor!
Becker had them less than two hundred miles from Cockburn Harbor on Grand Turk. Cockburn Town was home to Somers Salt and most of the enterprise was managed from there. The daily accounting of salt and ships coalesced into a monthly report that was routed through the Bahamas and north to Bermuda and then onto Ezra Somers’s desk. John Nilson was Somers’s manager on Grand Turk and, though Fallon had never met the man, he had heard Nilson knew his business, though he was insufferable personally. Fallon had never seen salt raked or harvested, was ignorant as to the procedure, and was anxious to understand it. He hoped Nilson would show him the operation.
Then there was the matter of the lost ship. Perhaps it had turned up, safe and sound, sailing into Cockburn Harbor with stories to tell. Or perhaps it was lost, sunk, or taken. Or perhaps they would never know. Well, he had to know something.
Elinore sailed with him in his imagination. Her hair blew in the wind, totally untamed, and in his mind they walked together along the windward side of the ship every evening, huddled closely together, nuzzling private words. He would imagine that she touched him, and the fire would light up his body like a torch.
Tonight he would imagine her walking with him again and, with the freshening breeze, he would hold her even closer.
THIRTEEN
IT WAS a mystery even to seasoned sailors, at least those who’d ever thought about cosmic things, how in the great expanse of ocean two ships could chance to find themselves in exactly the same longitude and latitude, having started their separate journeys from God-knows-which parts of the globe. Against all odds, wind and current and tide, storm and calm, they were brought by fate to the exact same spot, as if there were a giant X on the water, to meet.
The Bermuda Privateer Page 5