Paladin's War

by Peter Greene

  Jonathan’s shell sailed speedily from the gun, with no arc, straight past the bowsprit of the Navarkhia. It cut a portion of the rigging of the foremast, then the mainmast’s ratline. It flew alongside the Russian ship and then across the few yards of ocean. It struck the Paladin within inches of the stacked kegs Jonathan had prepared.

  He could see the powder kegs ignite with a blast of fire and a loud bang! Then the second set of barrels underneath the deck exploded, sending a larger flame and a thunderous BOOM! into the night. Finally, the entire magazine of the Paladin exploded in an astonishing wall of white flame, sending heat and a shockwave in all directions.

  Aggar, now aboard the Alexandria, saw the explosion. He gasped and shuddered at the thought that Jonathan might be aboard. It was clear that the Paladin and whoever was aboard were lost.

  Men on the Echo and the Navarkhia were thrown several feet across deck; some Russians were sent overboard.

  From Jonathan’s angle, it was as if the sun itself were burning on the sea where the Paladin once sat. The light placed the Navarkhia and the stern of the Echo in silhouette against the explosion, highlighting the form of Jenkins.

  Jonathan saw musket rounds from Kharitonov’s gunmen strike the man, knocking him from the rail and onto the deck.

  “Jenkins!” called Jonathan as he ran from the chaser, rushing to his friend.

  Jenkins tried to stand, though he could only sit up partially. He looked down to his chest and became stunned as the fires in the sails glowed about him, showing his blood seeping through his white shirt.

  “Mister Moore?” he asked, and in shock, he fell back to the deck.

  “Jenkins?” Jonathan cried. “Jenkins!”

  The men on the Echo surveyed the scene, and though happy to be alive, still could not enjoy the moment of triumph. They too had seen Jenkins fall.

  Reaching his friend, Jonathan could see the wounds to his chest and legs. He winced with horror and despair and then collapsed at his side.

  “No, no…Jenkins! Not this! Not now!”

  Jenkins looked up to Jonathan. “Mister Moore. I am sorry. Did we get away?”

  “Yes, yes we did. Y-you will be all right, don’t you worry!” Jonathan said.

  The Navarkhia was firing as Kharitonov desperately tried to stop the fleeing Echo from escaping. He had turned to port and loosed an eighteen-gun broadside. The noise was deafening, and Jonathan was sure none could hear his calls for help.

  The shot from the Russian ship had hit the Echo hard. The stern mast was damaged, and men ran to attend to the now-tangled mess of rigging and sail.

  In the middle of this maelstrom of battle, fire, and smoke, Jonathan held Jenkins, the man’s head cradled in his arms. He could see blood running beneath this broken body onto the deck.

  “Don’t be afraid, Mister Moore. You must…return to England, for all of us.”

  “But how? I-I—”

  “You will think of a way,” Jenkins said between gasps for air. “You always do.”

  Jonathan could only weep, though he tried to be strong for this man, his friend.

  Jenkins’s face was going pale, and his eyes seemed to gloss over slightly.

  “Jenkins!” Jonathan called. “Stay with me!”

  Jenkins focused on the boy as best he could.

  “I need you here, Jenkins! That’s an order!”

  The older man frowned.

  “You don’t need anyone, Mister Moore.”

  “I need you, Jenkins! I can’t do this alone.”

  Jenkins stared at Jonathan, using all his energy to focus.

  “No, you d-don’t. R-remember, Mister Moore, you are the same man that defeated Champagne. You saved the mission aboard the Poseidon. You turned the tides…of the battle at the Castle of Fire…” Jenkins paused, swallowing hard from the pain racking his body. “And now you have freed us from the Russians. All that remains…is to find a way to get the men home. You can do that. You…are a hero of the Crown…remember?”

  “No, no. I am no hero…” Jonathan said softly.

  “You are…my hero, Mister Moore,” said Jenkins.

  Jenkins breathing stopped, but his eyes remained fixed on Jonathan. The man reached his hand upward and stroked the boy’s face tenderly.

  Jonathan could not hold back his tears. “Call me Jonathan.”

  And Jenkins smiled. Then he closed his eyes.

  “Goodbye, Jonathan.”

  With a sigh, Jenkins was gone, and Jonathan Moore wept for this good man.

  It was Garvey who came to him, helping his new captain to his feet. Adams and Cardew, along with a few others who could be spared, carefully took Jenkins below.

  “We are not out of this yet, sir,” Garvey said.

  Jonathan looked about, the rushing wind drying his tears, and took account of his position and heading. He could barely see the shadow of the Russian frigate in the distance.

  Jonathan took the wheel from Graham and placed the wind directly at his back. “We head south,” he said, exhausted and numb. “We need distance from the Navarkhia. We can outrun her, but only just barely.”

  The Echo, wounded but still under sail, moved off into the darkness of the southern Black Sea.

  * * * * *

  After traveling many miles due south toward the mainland of Turkey in her escape from the Navarkhia, Jonathan knew that eventually he would have to run west, and he made that course change as the sun rose behind him. Though he had no map or sextant, he did know that the simple fact of keeping the rising sun at his stern and the setting sun on his bow meant he was heading west and toward home. If he could reach the Mediterranean and locate any British port, or even a passing friendly ship, he would be saved. The farther west he could sail, the more chance he would have at success. Working with Graham, they took turns piloting the ship, learning as they went. The few lessons from Harrison were now invaluable, yet he feared that at any moment he would do something horribly wrong, and the ship would run aground or fall helplessly into a windless doldrum, where he would drift uncontrollably into the hands of Kharitonov. Adding to his woes was the fact that the Russian commodore was certainly looking for him, and that sent chills up his spine. Even the Echo’s speed was of little use, as damaged as she was. The Navarkhia had many more guns and a seasoned captain who knew exactly where Jonathan was headed: the Bosphorus Strait.

  “I can’t even outwit him,” said Jonathan to Graham. “He knows where I am going, and unless he was stupid enough to chase me south, he is waiting by the strait for me right now. How could I have been so foolish? Why did I head south?”

  Nervous and second-guessing himself, he continued west throughout the day, alternatively looking ahead to the strait, and to port, starboard, and astern for the Navarkhia.

  He wondered about Harrison and what he would ever say to him if they met again. He had deliberately sunk the Paladin. Not only would that surely ruin their friendship, but it would possibly get Jonathan hung. Even his father, an admiral, couldn’t save him. Jonathan, in his depression, actually smiled. I have a wild card, he thought. The king said I had a favor. I guess I will use it for a pardon, if he is willing. But then what of me? I will be disgraced. My friends, if they are even still alive, will want nothing to do with me. Captain Walker, Miss Thompson, and Gorman—they will be shunned if they are seen with me, the pariah. And Delain? Though she has a golden heart, I would understand that her whole life ahead should not be wasted on one such as me. She deserves better. It would be better if I just departed now.

  He looked around the ship, wondering, even just for the folly of it all, if he could simply jump overboard and sink beneath the waves. Every story has to end, he thought, and this may as well be my own ending.

  As he looked about him, he heard a laugh. It was Garvey and Adams, repairing what they could of the damaged sails and rigging, laughing at some simpleton’s joke or strange superstition. They seemed happy—at least as happy as one could expect after all this strife. The men had all con
tinued to work hard, repairing many sections of the damaged yards and sail. Though not back to her original condition, the Echo was moving much more swiftly than Jonathan had thought possible. The crew had all worked beyond their watch, all dedicated to the hope of seeing home. They would not be held accountable for the losses he had caused. They would return to a normal life, just as the others would: Graham, Garvey, Berkeley, Boston, Colin, Nicolas, and the rest of the remaining crew. All had a future of promise, if Jonathan could get them home.

  “For their futures,” he murmured, “I will go on.”

  Sailing west for hours, the Echo saw nothing, not even smaller craft. At the toss of a log, Garvey had happily reported they had attained seven knots.

  “Amazing,” Jonathan said.

  “The strait, Captain Moore! Dead ahead!”

  Indeed, as the sun began to set, he could see land to port and starboard ahead, marking the opening to the strait. Jonathan recognized a few landmarks from their earlier crossing, and with a full moon visible behind him, its light guided the way and set an eerie glow about the ship.

  “Tighten the stays!” he called, and the crews ran to perform the duty. “Light no lanterns.”

  With some speed and a good amount of luck, which certainly in Jonathan’s opinion was long overdue, the Echo could try to slip past the Navarkhia. Possibly, Kharitonov mistakenly followed them south and then assumed they would abandon ship and head out on foot. Perhaps the commodore thought the Echo was damaged and had tried to make repairs in some port. It could be that Jonathan’s luck had finally changed.

  The crew not otherwise engaged ran to the bow and beheld the approaching strait. They cheered and hollered.

  “Huzzah! Huzzah! Huzzah! Three cheers for Captain Moore!”

  Even Jonathan smiled. Yes, he had finally found some luck.

  Then, a call from the tops.

  “Sails! Three masts full to the north! Two points off the starboard bow!”

  All looked, straining to see the ship that had been spotted.

  Jonathan held his breath. He prayed and prayed that it would not be—

  “The Navarkhia!” said Nicolas from the crow’s nest. “She means to cut off our escape!”

  “There they are, those little gads!” said Kharitonov as he lowered his glass. “Predictable! Get the men to their guns! I will hold the course steady, blocking the strait!”

  Pleased that he had plotted correctly, Kharitonov smiled. The young British captain, whoever he was, had made a fatal mistake.

  “Orders, sir?” said Garvey.

  “Garvey,” said Jonathan. “We have had one hell of a ride, haven’t we?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Garvey, smiling. “We have. But it ain’t over yet, as the ’mericans say.”

  Jonathan smiled. “It was a wild ride indeed. From the streets of London, to the Caribbean, to the coasts of Africa, the Canary Islands, and even the entire expanse of the Mediterranean.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Garvey. “And the Black Sea! Who would have thought? We have seen more than many could ’ave dreamed. And we are sailing the fastest ship in the known world!”

  Jonathan laughed.

  “Yes, it is painful to say, but the Echo is now the world’s swiftest,” laughed Jonathan. “So…let us not go down without a fight! Get the men to the guns. Open doors and await my command. Have them aim low! I may have one more trick up my sleeve!”

  The ships continued onward toward the mouth of the strait. The Navarkhia was now four hundred yards ahead and to starboard, but she had the wind at her back and was moving faster than the Echo. With only part of the wind and damaged sails, she had lost her best weapon: her speed. It was clear to Jonathan that the Russian cruiser would beat him to the strait.

  “Garvey! Get the men to their guns,” Jonathan called as he turned the great wheel. “Coming two points to starboard!”

  “That is directly at her!” said Garvey as he ran to position the crew.

  “Exactly into the wind!” Jonathan said.

  The Navarkhia was closing fast on the strait. Kharitonov knew his ship would beat the Echo to the mouth. He could then turn, placing his guns directly at the Echo.

  “Open gun ports!” he yelled.

  As his crew executed his command, Kharitonov noticed the change in his enemy’s direction.

  “What is this? He is coming…straight at us? Morozov! Hold course!” he called to the helmsman. “We will fire the port side and blast her from the sea!”

  Aboard the Echo, Jonathan could see the gun doors slowly opening on the Navarkhia’s port side. He held his course, just ahead of the cruiser. It is now or never, he thought.

  “Coming hard to starboard! Let’s luff these sails!”

  The Echo, now only one hundred yards from the Navarkhia, came hard into the wind, heading almost due north. Losing all of the draft in her sails, she slowed rapidly, almost coming to a standstill.

  Kharitonov, now at the rail, observed Jonathan’s maneuver with a sense of awe and confusion. The swift sloop had turned incredibly fast and, with sails fluttering from the loss of the crosswind from the north, seemed to stop in the water. It was a truly amazing sight; however, why do this? he wondered. Did the Englishman not want to run to the strait and attempt escape? Will he attempt to fire his port side as he passes? The imbecile! I have twice the guns.

  Then it hit him: though his guns were prepared to fire, the Navarkhia was now moving as swiftly as she had ever sailed. And the Echo? She was facing into the wind. Barely moving.

  “Fire! Fire as she bares!” he called.

  But it was too late. His crews were unprepared, expecting to fire when both ships reached the strait. The speed of the Navarkhia now caused her to run past her target.

  Jonathan watched as a full broadside from the cruiser was released—all missing the mark. The rounds fell harmlessly into the sea to his stern.

  “Kharitonov!” Jonathan called across the waves.

  Now less than fifty yards away from the Navarkhia, Jonathan took the wheel hard to port. Echo responded slowly at first; however, once her sails caught the strong wind from the north, they filled, and the ship increased in speed rapidly. She was now in position to cross the stern of Navarkhia, all nine carronades on the port side ready to fire; and as the Echo was sitting lower in the water, all her guns had a clear view of the target, just twenty yards away.

  “Kharitonov! A little bit of street justice for you, my dear Commodore!” Jonathan shouted. Turning to his gun crews, he called the command. “Blast her rudder! Fire!”

  BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

  The Echo’s guns roared. Ball after ball sailed toward the target. The first two rounds were fired early and missed the rudder but rammed into the cruiser’s port side, doing little damage as they struck the heavy timber at an angle. The third and fourth rounds slammed into the hindquarter, sending splinters from the rail and light lumber in all directions about the stern deck. No real damage. The remaining five rounds, however, struck squarely into the Navarkhia’s stern.

  At first, it looked as if there were no major damage. Then, after a moment, as Kharitonov called for his ship to come to starboard and ready to fire, the topmost portion of the Navarkhia’s rudder literally cracked in half from the strain. Several large planks and the metal pintle fittings that secured them fell into the water.

  “Fekalii!” swore Kharitonov. “You, you, English parshivy ublyudok! Starboard guns! Fire as she bares!”

  “But Commodore!” yelled Morozov. “You may destroy the Echo!

  “Fire as she bares!” repeated Kharitonov. “Sink her!”

  The Navarkhia, grunting and groaning as the damaged rudder fought to adjust her course, angled slightly westward, allowing a few of the starboard guns to train on her prey.

  The guns roared. Balls sailed toward the Echo. As she pulled away, Jonathan could see the first of several rounds sailing high into the sails, some screaming directly through the cloth, some hitting riggin
g, severing stays and rope. The rest of the rounds missed completely—all but one. That round hit the mainmast just below the topgallant sail, and as if a saw had been applied, the lumber and rigging were severed, and a portion came crashing down to the deck within two feet of him as he still manned the wheel.

  “Nicolas!” called Jonathan, fearing the young crewman he had stationed in the top would come crashing down with the remains of the mast.

  “Aye, sir!” he called.

  Looking upward, Jonathan could see the youngster extricating himself from the ratlines and climbing as high as he could on what was left of the mainmast.

  Still ahead of the Russian, Jonathan steered directly for the mouth of the strait.

  “Reload! She may come again!” he called.

  He looked over his shoulder. The sun had set completely, and a full moon was now shining brightly, lighting his way and silhouetting the massive form of the Navarkhia. She had struggled to follow and was now astern and slightly to port, about two hundred yards behind.

  “We may make it!” called Nicolas from the tops.

  Jonathan realized that without her topgallant staysail, Echo was slower than before, and the torn rigging was causing the lower mainsails to twist in the wind. She was losing speed, and the Russian, though corkscrewing on her course, was still gaining.

  Kharitonov had taken the wheel from Morozov and soon, after some experimentation, was able to get the cruiser to handle, and he held her more or less on course.

  “We are gaining!” he called. “Get on the bow chaser! Ready the guns!”

  Aboard the Echo, a call came from Garvey at the bow: “Sails dead ahead!”

  Jonathan could not leave the wheel. He could only wait for more information. Dear God, he thought, if this is another Russian ship or a Turk who is out for revenge, we will be finished!

  “A small craft!” said Garvey. “Coming out of the channel!”

  “Any markings?” called Jonathan.