by Jay Worrall
“What are you thinking?” Bevan asked as soon as Charles was alone. The two twelve-pounders fired again, one a few seconds ahead of the other.
“I’m thinking, hoping, that they will decide that we are in some way incapacitated and will bring her bow right up to our side.”
“And then?”
“At half a cable’s length we will disabuse her.”
Bevan smiled.
Charles looked out the gunport again, the merest glance. L’Agile came on, as close to the wind as she would lie, a thin wash of white curling back from her stem. One of the twelve-pounder cannon lurched inward, accompanied by a pall of smoke. In an instant, the second belched fire. A cheer went up from the latter gun’s crew as their shot struck home.
Charles considered the effect. It could hardly have done crippling damage and it wouldn’t discourage the French captain. It might annoy him enough, however, to override any caution he retained. He would want to get the thing done as quickly as possible.
One-half mile, Charles judged. Four cable lengths.
“Lieutenant Winchester. You have command of the gundeck. See that the armament is double shotted and you may position your men beside their weapons. I needn’t remind you to make every shot count.” Winchester began bellowing the orders.
“Mr. Beechum,” Charles called. He felt a thrill of anticipation up his spine at what was about to happen. “You will assemble the forecastle gun crews at the forward ladderway.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Beechum said.
“They may go up on my command. The first broadside will be as the guns are currently loaded. The second will be grape on ball. After that grape or canister only. Aim to clear any men preparing to board.”
Beechum touched his hat gravely and went to call his men around him. Charles stole a look outward: a cable’s length and a half; L’Agile’s bow almost filling the gunport.
Sykes came scrambling down the forward ladderway. “She’s nearly on us, sir,” he said with some excitement. “There’s a mass of men at her forecastle.”
“Thank you,” Charles said, swallowing to relieve a sudden dryness in his mouth. “Collect the quarterdeck gun crews, if you will. We’ll go up in a minute.”
The two operating cannon continued to hammer regularly away, connecting in the rapidly narrowing range with every shot. Another glance at the oncoming Frenchman. It was time. “Open your gun ports,” he yelled loud enough to be heard the length of the deck. “Stephen, you may commence firing. To your weapons!” he shouted at the others.
The gundeck exploded, the line of black cannon flinging themselves inboard in a resounding crash. Charles raced for the stairs to the quarterdeck. He looked to starboard as soon as his head cleared the coaming. The French frigate filled his view. L’Agile came on, but her bowsprit had broken, tilting downward, her head shattered. There were indeed a very large number of men at her forecastle, confused, staring around them.
In a thrice the quarterdeck and forecastle guns boomed out, including the carronades with their heavy twenty-four pound balls. Two at least sliced through the Frenchmen on the forecastle, parting them like wind through a field of wheat. Her foremast cracked, angled forward, and swept down, pulling the main topgallant mast with it. The frigate’s head began to fall off on the wind as Cassandra’s gundeck thundered out again, a dense cloud of smoke drifting across the gap. She was close enough that Charles could have thrown a stone all the way across her, if he had one. She had not yet opened her gun ports.
It ended almost as soon as it had begun. With her foremast and bowsprit useless, L’Agile lost steerage and steerageway. Her men, those that remained from preparing to board, ran toward their battle stations, or for cover. Ball and grape scythed her decks, punching in her bulwarks at point blank range. The remainder of her mainmast collapsed, falling to port. As she drifted sideways her broadside came to bear. Charles held his breath. Three gun ports levered open, then one fell shut. Two cannon poked out and fired.
Cassandra’s guns replied in a savage outpouring, beating in gun ports, chasing those still living above decks down her ladderways. Her quarterdeck had been abandoned, her forecastle a shambles. L’Agile continued her uncontrolled turn, drifting on the wind, her stern windows coming into view.
“Baker! Where’s the boatswain?” Charles called. To Bevan he said, “Slip the anchor cable. We’ll come back for it.”
The boatswain arrived. “Refasten the sheets, then take in the courses. Draft as many men as you need. Mr. Cromley, as soon as we are under sail we will bear down on her.”
Cromley signaled his understanding. The moment Cassandra’s sails filled and her head began to turn, someone on the frigate braved the quarterdeck to cut a halyard on the mizzenmast, the only mast remaining, and the flag of France fluttered to the deck. “Cease firing,” Charles said to Bevan. “Send Winchester with Ayres and the marines across. I should think the surgeon and his assistant would be useful as well.”
Alone for a moment, he stared soberly at the battered opponent, not believing that it was over so quickly. He smiled tightly. Through no intention on his part she had been caught wrong-footed, overconfident at Cassandra's apparent floundering—and she had paid.
*****.
Having captured the French frigate, the problem was what to do with her and her crew. She had no prospect as a prize, battered and slowly settling as she was, even had there been a friendly port within two thousand miles where she might be towed. L'Agile's crew, those that remained, would have to be taken off and the ship scuttled. Where to put them? Charles had given much thought to this. He suspected that if transferred to the mainland, their existence would be short-lived. The local inhabitants would have little love for their European conquerors. It would be possible to carry them on board Cassandra to Mocha for Admiral Blankett to decide their fate. The small squadron had no facilities to tend to such a number however, and Charles sensed that Blankett would not be pleased by the imposition. There was one remaining possibility. He called Bevan from across the quarterdeck.
“You want to have another go with the guns? I’m more than happy to serve as captain,” Bevan greeted him. “We did so well that last time.”
“That will not be necessary, thank you,” Charles answered, not wanting to be reminded of the incident. “I want the French crew put on that little island over there.” He pointed toward a low-lying lump of sand with a few palm trees, two miles to the south. The place was about a mile and a half long, baked by the sun, and clearly uninhabited.
“You’re going to maroon them?” There’s no water or shelter. They’ll die.”
“I’m hoping they won’t be there long. I’ll let them take off their own water and food, canvas for tents, whatever they want.”
“Why won’t they be there long?”
“We will inform the authorities at Koessir of their whereabouts as we pass by.”
“And the ship?”
“Run a length of fuse down to her magazine. It should be a spectacle.”
Bevan left to put his orders into motion. Cassandra’s boats would have to be employed, since L’Agile’s had been beaten into matchwood. The unwounded remnants of the French crew would do the heavy lifting and rowing. Charles had one further duty to attend to before his ship could resume her course southward. He had also considered this carefully. He pushed himself off the railing where he had been leaning and went down into the gundeck.
“Sherburne,” Charles called to get the man’s attention. “A word if you please.” The hands were largely occupied with replacing the partitions to his cabin and otherwise putting the ship back into order after she had been cleared for action. There was not a scratch of damage from the battle.
The seaman approached cautiously and knuckled his forehead. “Sur?” A number of others gathered nearby, close enough that they might overhear what was said. Charles gestured that they were welcome to come closer.
“I wanted to thank you, all of you, for stepping up when you did. I’ll make i
t up to you as best I can.”
Sherburne looked uncertain. “’Twarn’t nothin’, sur,” he mumbled. Then his eyes narrowed to slits and he smiled. “I’m sure ye and t‘other officers could have did it yerselfs if we’d let ye be.” There was laughter at this, and more when Charles said, “It would have taken us a trifle longer.”
He turned serious. “I will increase everyone’s ration of spirits at supper this evening by half. That’s little enough.” Some nodded and there were murmurs of appreciation. He waited for silence. “I want all you to know what I am going to do next, so that you may be prepared for it.” He spoke for several minutes about transporting the French crew ashore; the necessity of sailing by Koessir to spy out any preparations there and to pass on a message as to where the frigate’s crew could be found. After that he promised to make directly for Mocha, if they met no further obstacles, and if no other event occurred that their duty would require them to attend to. The gathering around him grew in number. Charles explained matter-of-factly that Admiral Blankett had expressly forbidden their presence on shore at their last visit. “I will request it again, in the strongest terms,” he said. “If he refuses, I will resign my commission in protest and he will have to appoint someone else to captain you. That is all I can do.”
Heads nodded soberly at this. No one spoke. “You tell your fellows what I have said,” Charles concluded. “I know that you have doubts about my honesty, but I mean every word on my sacred honor.”
The silence among those around him seemed magnified by others passing by and the work still going on. “If there is nothing further, I will return to my duties.” He held out his hand. A surprised Sherburne dusted his own against his trousers and shook it.
“Thank ye, sur,” the seaman said.
*****.
Charles watched from his quarterdeck the jollyboat as it fairly skimmed across the water away from the broken French frigate. The morning sun had risen a quarter toward its zenith, dancing glitter reflecting off the bright blue sea. L'Agile wallowed two cable lengths off the stern, her waterline about four feet closer to her gun ports than it had been before the battle. He had regrets about what was to occur. He could have left her as she was; she would probably sink in any case before the day was out. This way, however, he would be certain.
He checked his watch; it had been seventeen minutes since the boat’s crew climbed down her side and hurriedly cast off. Charles had ordered the ship thoroughly searched from stem to stern; several kegs of powder breached in the powder room; and a half-hour’s length of slow fuse suitably inserted and lit. He glanced at the small island where the French were now in occupation. It had taken all night for them to ferry everything and everybody across, and he could just see the piles of casks on the beach, and several already erected canvas shelters on the higher ground. They’d even fastened a tricolor flag near the top of a palm tree. He heard Bevan’s hail as the boat neared and Beechum’s reply. He pulled out his watch again to check the time. Twenty-three minutes. Before he raised his eyes he sensed more than saw the flash.
L'Agile's forepart, just behind the foremast, erupted in a glowing ball of flame and smoke. The blast came to him an instant later. He’d seen a ship of war blow up once before. This wasn’t a particularly large explosion as these things could be, but it was more than enough. The fore half of the hull abruptly vanished, blown upward and outward in pieces of broken timber. The center, open to the sea, dipped as if exhausted. The stern lifted, the rudder in its entire exposed to view, then slipped forward and downward. For a moment only the mizzenmast could be seen, rapidly shortening until just six feet of the topgallant mast remained visible. She had struck bottom. A cheer went up from the waist. Charles didn’t see what there was to cheer about; she had already been defeated.
He turned toward the helm. “Have the hands piped aloft, Mr. Baker; all plain sail. Mr. Cromley, we will make east by south, if you please.”
Both men acknowledged their orders. Charles saw the jollyboat being secured in its place midships, nested inside the launch. Beechum appeared from along the gangway. “We did as you said, sir,” the young lieutenant reported.
“I saw,” Charles said. “In fact I could hardly have missed it. You’re sure she was empty?”
“Yes, sir. I checked the hold myself. There was nobody left; I’m certain of it.”
“Thank you,” Charles said. He had once, almost by accident, found a small child on a French ship about to be similarly destroyed. Little Claudette now lived with Penny at their home in Cheshire. “If you would be so good as to inform Lieutenant Bevan that I anticipate looking into Koessir tomorrow morning.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” Beechum touched his hat and left.
Charles stayed where he was a few moments longer in a reflective mood. If he’d guessed right, somewhere in the sea was the seventy-four gun Raisonnable. Winchester had queried the frigate’s surviving officers, but they had been uncommunicative. It was possible he would find her at Koessir.
*****.
The Egyptian coast emerged slowly in the stillness of the morning gloom. Cassandra glided effortlessly under topsails and topgallants, an easy northwesterly wind on her stern quarter, the dark line of the shore three miles off the port beam. Ting-ting-ting, the ship’s bell broke the quiet.
It was not unusual for him to be on deck at this hour, but it wasn’t normal either. There was nothing he wouldn’t have entrusted Beechum as officer of the watch to attend to. He had slept poorly during the night, and when he attempted to recall Penny’s expressions and features to compose himself, the dark-haired Italian woman’s face intruded. After being away from home for longer than eight months, he suspected that this was not unusual, but knew it was something he’d best not dwell on. Being on his own quarterdeck helped.
“Hoy the tops!” he shouted upward through cupped hands. “Anything? Anything at all?”
“Naught, sir,” the answering call came down. “I can see the surface well enough, but she’s bare.” There was a pause. “There’s a point of land, mebby two leagues ahead.”
“Thank you,” Charles said in an almost normal voice. That would be Koessir Point. From the chart, it was a low headland projecting a mile or so into the sea with a wide band of coral around its base. There should be an old Turkish fort on its southern side overlooking the town and harbor.
“Mr. Dill,” he said to the quartermaster standing behind the wheel, his hands resting easily on its spokes. “Please make our course two points to port.”
“Aye, aye, sir. Two points it is. I make it to be south-by-southeast, less a half.”
“Very good.”
The wheel came over a few spokes. After a moment Charles felt the movement of the deck change almost imperceptibly as Cassandra sliced across the easy seas at an altered angle. The sun showed, a sliver of orange on the horizon to the east, looking for all the world, he thought, like the yoke of a frying egg as seen from the side. The distant shore turned a radiant yellow. Charles went to the binnacle, opened the cabinet beneath, and removed his long glass. The point of land just to starboard of the bow showed starkly in the strengthening light. He snapped open the telescope and trained it forward. He soon found a foreshortened rectangle of stone projecting from behind the headland—the blunt upper battlements of Koessir’s fort. A flag flew above; he couldn’t make out the colors, but he knew well enough.
“Mr. Beechum,” he said as he closed the glass.
“Yes, sir.”
“At the next bell we will alter course to starboard to weather the point. After that is accomplished, you may clear the ship for action.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I would like fresh eyes in the mastheads as well, please.”
“Yes, sir.”
Charles pulled open the telescope again. He guessed that if the French seventy-four were in the roads beyond the headland, her masts would reach at least as high as the fort, probably higher. He saw nothing. “Tops,” he shouted upward.
“Nau
ght, sir,” came the immediate reply. “I’ll tell ye on the instant.”
“Thank you,” Charles muttered to himself. Despite his impatience, he breathed a little easier. It looked to be unlikely Raisonnable was in the port, nor any other sizable warships. The usual early morning life of the ship began around him: cleaning the decks, flaking down disordered lines, running the log to measure their speed, the carpenter and boatswain making their rounds to see what repairs or maintenance might be required. Charles could see the wood smoke wafting forward from the galley chimney, indicating that the cook had begun preparations for the crew’s breakfast.
At four bells, Bevan came onto the deck with Sykes. Winchester and Aviemore would be asleep, having stood watch during the graveyard shift from midnight to four in the morning. Beechum promptly gave orders for the ship to be prepared for battle and the waisters be called to trim the sails.
“Good morning, Charlie,” said Bevan. “Anything yet?”
“Nothing so far,” Charles answered. “No sign of the seventy-four. We’ll know for sure soon enough.”
Bevan seemed satisfied with this and turned his attention to the set of the sails aloft. Charles noticed the carpenter on the gangway and went to speak with him. “Mr. Burrows, I have a request,” he said.
“Aye, sir?” He touched his hat.
“I require an empty keg to be made watertight, with a weight in the bottom, and a four-foot staff with a flag fixed at the top. It’s to be put in the water with a message for the French.”
“Aye, we can do that. When do you want it?”
“Before the watch is out, if you please.”
In time, the point before Koessir neared to starboard. Charles kept Cassandra two miles out, well clear of any of the submerged coral closer to land. The lookout high in the mainmast reported a large number of local bottoms in the harbor and a polacre at anchor just outside, but no warships of any consequence. As they passed the headlands, Charles ordered Cromley to angle in toward the shore. The fort showed itself on the southern slope, a modest town beneath its walls, and a mole protecting the harbor from the sea. The ship’s bell rang again–—this time eight strokes, the end of the morning watch. The crew should have just finished their breakfast.