by Jay Worrall
“Cease firing, Daniel,” Charles ordered, satisfied that both ships were now firing blind.
Bevan bellowed out the order several times before the cannon fell silent. Men, spent from their exertions, sat on the deck, their backs propped against bulwarks and gun carriages. “Christ,” the lieutenant said in frustration. “This has been just about goddamned pointless. We’ll have to find some way to close the distance if we’re going to start again in the morning.”
“I don’t see any point to starting in the morning unless we have to,” Charles said, coming to a decision. “We will attempt cutting her out in the night.”
“Boarding parties?”
Charles nodded, only slightly more at ease now that he had fixed on a course of action. “Give the men a half-ration of spirits and time to rest. We will begin a little before the rise of the moon.”
L’Agile’s broadside flashed out of the darkness once more, to little effect that Charles could determine. The French ship did not fire again. An eerie silence descended, tainted by the acrid odor of spent gunpowder heavy in the air.
Two hours passed slowly, the sea surface as black as coal. Charles spent much of the time pacing the quarterdeck up and down, and down and up again in nervous anticipation of the event to come. He, Bevan and Winchester had worked out the plan for the attack fairly quickly. Cassandra's four boats would be filled with the marines and as many seamen as they could carry. Under the cover of the near total darkness they would row across in two groups of two boats each. The main thrust would be at L'Agile's quarterdeck, boarding at the mizzen chains. Charles would lead with Lieutenant Ayres and the marines in the launch, with Winchester commanding the first cutter. Bevan, in the second cutter and Beechum with the jollyboat would make for the hopefully less well defended bow as soon as they heard the commotion. With luck, they would catch the French unprepared, capture the quarterdeck and pinch the crew between two forces.
Charles knew that there were a hundred things that could go wrong. The French captain might well guess his plan and have his men prepared and waiting; one or more boats might run upon a reef, or get lost, or simply arrive too early or too late. He did not want to contemplate the implications of an unsuccessful attempt. Cassandra would be stripped of almost all of her crew and the French might well launch a counter attack of their own. Charles gave Cromley strict orders to cut the anchor cables and sail for Mocha as best he could if no lantern signal was received confirming the frigate’s capture within an hour and a half of the boats’ departure.
The time, when it arrived, seemed to have come too quickly. At seven bells in the first watch, the men were assembled with their weapons in the waist, under orders to maintain silence. Augustus brought Charles his pistols, which he stuck in his belt. He then stood silently by with his hand resting on the handle of his cutlass. Charles spoke one by one with his officers to make sure each understood his part in the assault and the importance of the two sets of boats boarding in close sequence. The seamen and marines went down first, on netting fastened over the side, then Beechum, Bevan, Winchester, Ayers, and Charles himself.
He was committed now, Charles thought, as Malvern gave the order to shove off. The thole pins to leverage the oars had been wrapped in cloth to soften their grinding as the blades dipped and pulled. He soon lost sight of Bevan’s boats as his own circled to the left, lit only by a universe of stars. It would be a row of fifteen or twenty minutes before they would come up to L’Agile’s stern. Charles could not read his watch no matter how closely he held it to his eye and he dared not strike a light, so he began counting out the seconds in his head. Ten minutes passed. They should be able to make out the French ship’s masts before long. Cassandra was already an invisible shadow in the darkness behind. Fifteen minutes. He felt his heartbeat quicken in anticipation. She must appear soon. It was unnerving that he saw or heard no indication, not even muffled speech or work to repairs the damages from the day’s carronade. The launch’s oars dipped into the water with the smallest of splashes, the wash chuckling along her side.
Charles stopped counting at twenty-two minutes. A softening of the darkness announced the imminent rise of the moon. There was nothing, no sound, no looming hull, no slap of waves against a ship’s planking. He swore under his breath. He must have miscalculated the distance, or the direction, or the current. No, he couldn’t have; it wasn’t that far. He thought he heard the smallest of sounds off to starboard.
“Over there, sir,” Malvern whispered, indicating with his arm.
“Put the rudder over,” Charles said softly. He held his breath, his eyes and ears straining for the slightest indication. He noticed as the rising moon cracked the horizon.
The noise became more distinct. It sounded for all the world like a boat’s oars pulling in the water straight toward them. “Be ready men, it may be the French rowing guard,” he heard Bevan’s muted voice.
“Is that you, Daniel?” Charles called out. It wouldn’t do to be fired upon by one’s own boat.
“Charlie?”
“Come along side,” Charles spoke in a normal way. To Malvern he said, “Show a lantern.”
A ship’s boat appeared from the depths, ghostly in the slowly increasing moonlight. “Boat yer oars,” Malvern ordered as the cutter glided alongside.
“Where the hell are they?” Bevan asked.
Charles looked around him in all directions. With the moon half up, he could just make out Cassandra in the distance and, after a moment, the low forms of the two islands between which L’Agile had anchored herself. The second cutter and jollyboat soon closed around them. There was nothing else.
“She’s cut her cables and left,” Charles said. “She’s not here.”
CHAPTER NINE
“What can you tell me of this bay, Mr. Jones?” Charles asked. The two bent over the chart spread out on the binnacle, Charles’ finger on the mark for a small village on an island in a bay against the African coast some twenty leagues to the southwest. The place lay behind the maze of islands and shoals that made up the Dahlak Archipelago. It might provide a haven in which L'Agile could carry out repairs after the encounter the day before. There was also the question of the European pink and where she had run to. He remembered Underwood mentioning some trade in a place he called Massawa. The name for the village given on the map was “Matzua.”
Dozens of Cassandra's ratings were aloft splicing lines and cables at the direction of the boatswain, or forward scabbing a splint to the bowsprit, which had been damaged in the battle. The two cutters had been sent out at dawn under Winchester and Beechum to take soundings of the seabed to satisfy Charles’ curiosity as to whether or not there was an underwater barrier between the two islands and if there might be some channel through it. Charles could see them scuttling to and fro off the starboard beam, dropping the leads and taking the readings.
“Matzua?” Jones said with a frown. “They’ve got the name wrong. The place is Massawa. Those as pass for cartographers in London must be addled.”
Charles had long since decided that the American (if he was American) would never be admired for his congeniality. Halfway through the forenoon watch, the heat of the day had already become suffocating beneath an unmerciful sun. Even the light southerly breeze seemed to increase their discomfort rather than bring relief. “Massawa, then,” Charles agreed, more interested in facts than Jones’s opinions of mapmakers. He already knew the chart to be sadly deficient. “Is there a harbor there, port facilities?”
Jones rubbed at the growing beard on his cheek. “Aye, there’s a harbor, so I’m told. A good one, too. At least as good as any you’ll find along the Red Sea. You have deep water to right up behind the island.”
“How deep?” Charles asked.
To this he received a blank stare. “Deep enough for dhows. How the hell would I know?”
“Fair enough,” Charles said. “What else can you tell me?”
“The town’s on an island of the same name,” Jones elaborated gr
udgingly. “The main harbor’s tucked behind between Massawa and the mainland. It’s an Arab settlement with a Turkish governor, I believe. Only local craft call there, mostly trading in coffee and civet, maybe the odd girl or boy.”
Charles thought about the pink Sykes had reported being pursued by the frigate. “Might there be any Europeans there? A trading post of some sort, or an agent from Spain or Italy?”
“I’ve heard a rumor that there’s a few Genovese on the run from the French attempting something. I doubt it’s of consequence,” Jones answered with some impatience. “Look, I’ve never been to the place and I don’t care to go there. It’s a godforsaken desolate little island in a sweltering bay with a stinking little Arab town. There’s no goddamned good reason for anyone to call there.” He looked at Charles suspiciously. “Why do you want to know? You’re not still after that Frenchman, are you?”
“I am,” Charles said.
“No,” Jones said flatly. “You cannot do it, sir. Your duty is to take me to Egypt and put me on the coast. My work there is vital. We’ve already wasted a precious day exchanging bombardments with that frigate, to no particular purpose. I’ve no more time for such foolishness.”
“I am well aware of my duty, I’ll thank you, sir,” Charles said, his patience at Jones’ overbearing presumption wearing thin. “We will carry you to the head of the sea in good time. But if there is an enemy warship loose in these waters it is also my duty to capture or destroy her. It seems likely she has gone to this Massawa, and therefore we shall follow. I trust that satisfies your objections.”
“No, it does not.”
“Then I trust you will accommodate yourself to the inevitable. If you will accept my regrets, I have other responsibilities requiring my attention.”
Charles’ other responsibilities included receiving the reports from the ship's carpenter and gunner. Mr. Burrows allowed that Cassandra had sustained little serious damage to her hull, and none below the waterline. The French round shot had lost much of their penetrating power over the distance at which they were fired. The gunner had less welcome news: They had expended almost half of their supply of powder and ball during the ultimately fruitless exchange. While Cassandra might replenish her water and some form of food from the towns along the coast, there was nowhere within two thousand miles to procure additional supplies of cylinder powder and iron shot.
Shortly before the end of the forenoon watch, the ship’s cutters returned. Charles, Winchester, and Beechum went down to the wardroom where Cromley’s chart of the sea and a sheet of paper were spread out on the table. Charles glanced at the smaller page with its penciled sketch of the two islands and numbers jotted all around them. On the larger chart, the islands that the French ship had used to protect herself were not shown at all, nor were nearly any of the features of the seabed except the briefest notation that it was “corally.” “What have you to tell me of the depths hereabouts?” he said.
Winchester placed the page with his and Beechum’s soundings on top of the Admiralty chart. “The ground’s thick with coral all around,” he began. “Much of it is four and five fathoms down, but there are outcroppings nearly to the surface. Almost the whole distance between the islands is high coral; you can see it fairly clear from the boat.”
“What’s this?” Charles said, looking closely at the islands and the depths. He noticed that the two bits of land had been given names.
Winchester colored slightly. “To be clear we thought it best to identify them. Beechum chose the labels.”
Charles saw that the larger island to the south had been christened ‘Mrs. Edgemont Island,’ the northern one, ‘Mrs. Winchester.’ “I see,” he said with a laugh. “For simplicity, why don’t we call them ‘Penny’ and ‘Ellie?’”
Winchester looked doubtful, but Beechum immediately took the paper, crossed out the names, and entered ‘Penny’s Island’ and ‘Ellie’s Island’ in his neat hand. “I was thinking that together we might term them the ‘Sisters-in-Law,‘” Beechum said happily.
“I’m sure the women will be pleased,” Charles said. “But to business: is there any channel between them?”
Winchester nodded. “On the north side ... here.” With Beechum’s pencil he indicated a space nearer to the smaller of the islands. “There’s a channel at three and a half fathoms. It’s narrow, but if we go cautious it should be manageable. The main thing is keep closer to Ellie than P ... the other.” He seemed embarrassed to use Penny’s name, as if it might reflect on her personally.
“I thought you might feel that way,” Charles said with a straight face. “Seeing as to which you’re married to.”
Beechum looked blankly at this; Winchester smiled.
Within the hour, repairs to the rigging completed and a yardarm scabbed onto the wounded bowsprit, Cassandra weighed her anchors. Cautiously she angled across the wind toward the gap Winchester had indicated. Looking over the side rail, Charles found he could see clearly beneath the sparkling water. It was an amazing sight with schools of bright-colored fish, several kinds of shark, from two and three feet to much larger. Once he saw a huge gray-white ray at least twelve feet across swimming languorously along the bottom, its broad fins undulating like the wings of a gigantic bird. With two leadsmen in the forechains on either side, they slowly crossed over the reef. Charles stood nervously in the beak, staring down as the orange fingers of coral passed just beneath the stem, blizzards of fish darting and swirling in unending streams from their path. Then the bottom abruptly fell away, the darker shades of seaweed and black sand predominating.
“By the mark, seven,” the leadsmen chanted out almost together. The next throw recorded almost ten fathoms. Charles breathed easier and made his way aft where he ordered a single seaman to be left in the bow to cast the lead, and he to be replaced half hourly in deference to the leaching heat. “We will make to the southwest, if you please, Mr. Cromley,” he said to the master. “Under topsails only for the time being.” Cassandra would still be treading gingerly, and there was no point to hurrying upon some obstacle with too much speed to avoid it.
The archipelago revealed itself as a seemingly unbounded expanse of scattered islands, some mere specks, others several miles in width. All appeared low lying and featureless in the shimmerings of the heat rising off the water. By noon the ragged dark line of the African coast took form along the horizon to the west. Sea depths remained at a relatively comfortable fourteen and sixteen fathoms, although once going as deep as forty before coming back up again. At nightfall, Charles ordered the sails taken in and an anchor cast off to wait out the hours of darkness.
In the morning they started again. The sea soon opened to a broad uninterrupted expanse, the islands and atolls falling behind. The depth of the water beneath also increased abruptly from fourteen fathoms on one cast, to thirty-five, then forty-seven. Charles allowed the leadsman to stand down when no bottom was reached on a fifty-fathom line. By the beginning of the afternoon watch, the line of coast formed as a dark serrated mass, unbroken to the north and south as far as the eye could see. Bell by bell, as the half-hour glass was turned, the mass defined itself as a rugged chain of blue-green mountains falling to a narrow strip of desert beside the sea. There were no signs of human habitation, not even the meanest hovel along the expanse of shore. The afternoon watch turned to the first dog, then the second, the sun sinking toward the mountain crests. A thin line of white surf showed along the foot of the bluffs at the sea’s edge, now three miles to starboard.
“There it is,” Bevan said, a long glass to his eye, pointing southwestward toward a bluff point with an opening bay beyond. He lowered the telescope. “That’s your Massawa, I’ll wager.”
Charles looked through his own lens, following the line of the surf until he came to a low settlement on what might have been a small island or a spit of land tucked into the northern end of the bay. It was difficult to pick out much detail in the failing light, and what there was of it was shaded by mountain scarps risin
g on the land behind. He made out some sort of craft there, dhows or what, he couldn’t tell. He was fairly certain that he saw nothing of the towering masts of a ship of war.
“I think it would be best if we came to anchor for the night, Daniel,” he said. “We will call in the full light of day. I might suggest an especially vigilant watch be kept about the ship until then.”
Daybreak came as clear as crystal, the sun rising above the sea orange-red, just as it had set. The light outlined a sprinkling of islands to the east, the inner limit of the archipelago. With it, the warmth of the day announced its soon-to–be-magnified presence. Through his glass, Charles carefully surveyed the distant bay. It became evident that there were two settlements. One occupied a modest outcropping with mud-brick, flat-roofed dwellings similar to those he had seen at Mocha, only smaller. An abbreviated minaret poked above the roof lines, and there were two sambuks, probably what passed for fishing boats, pulled up on a sandy beach.
A peninsula jutted into the bay a half mile to the north, occupied by a collection of single-story European-style buildings laid out in a regular pattern with low-pitched roofs. Charles thought he made out signs of construction along the water’s edge on the southern side. Three ships rode placidly at anchor in a natural harbor between the island and the point of built-up land. He studied these carefully and decided they were indeed two pinks, with their distinctive narrow sterns and lateen sails, and a larger, square-rigged polacre. From their shape he thought it likely they were of Italian construction, probably from Genoa or Leghorn. There was even a newly built and relatively small stone redoubt overlooking the anchorage at the point of the peninsula. At the distance he couldn’t tell if the fortification was armed with cannon or not. Yellow and blue flags of a pattern he had never seen before flew from the redoubt as well as from the roof of the largest of the buildings. One thing was abundantly clear, there was no ship approaching the size of a frigate of war by either of the settlements or anywhere else within sight.