A Sea Unto Itself

by Jay Worrall

  “I have come for Mr. Gladfridus Underwood, to arrest him on the charge of treason against his king and country.”

  Bellagio turned, awaiting a translation. Teresa answered in English instead. “He is not present in Massawa.”

  “I have it in my power to bombard the town, in particular the warehouses, if he is not delivered to me,” Charles said coldly. “Tell the governor that I demand his surrender.” He knew it to be a bluff; Cassandra had expended all but a few broadsides of her powder and shot, but the Italians could not know this.

  Teresa shrugged defiantly. “Do what you must. You have burned our boats. Now you will destroy our food, our houses.” Her expression hardened into anger. “You may even wait here in the harbor to see us starve. That should please you.”

  The words stung. “You have no right to such a statement. You betrayed me,” Charles said.

  Bellagio looked from speaker to speaker without comprehension. “Di che lei parla?” he demanded.

  Teresa ignored him. “It is my duty. I did not do so happily,” she said.

  Charles looked closely at her. Her expression was one of distress; he had to steel himself. “It doesn’t matter now. I want Mr. Underwood.”

  “He is not present. You have my promise on this.”

  “Che dice?” Bellagio said loudly.

  “Tell him to shut up,” Charles said. “Where is he?”

  “He has gone away to Mocha,” Teresa said reluctantly. “I should not say this to you. You must not follow.” She turned to the governor and spoke sharply to him in her language. Bellagio scowled, but did not speak. Charles thought he must have understood some of the exchange—words like Underwood and Mocha.

  “Why must I not follow?” Charles said softly. But he already knew.

  Teresa brushed a strand of hair back from her eyes. She glanced uneasily at Bellagio then returned to Charles. “Because Signore Underwood is transported on a very large warship. Much larger than yours, more powerful than any Inglese boat with cannons in the Red Sea. She left here only yesterday. If you meet her, you will surely be defeated. You shall swear to me that you will not do such a thing.”

  “I’m sorry,” Charles said. “It is my duty.”

  *****.

  Charles bent over the form of Adolphus Jones, lying on the cot in what had formerly been Beechum’s cabin adjoining the wardroom. Constance stood anxiously beside him. Jones appeared to be asleep, his breathing regular if shallow. “Does he have much pain?” he asked.

  “Not these past few days,” Constance said. “At least, he doesn’t complain of it. He eats better also.”

  Charles had been informed by Mr. Owens that Jones had been shot, probably by a pistol, probably at close range. The ball struck the clavicle, shattered it, and traveled downward into the torso. There was no exit wound and exactly where it rested, no one knew. The injury was two weeks old. The surgeon entered the now full cabin. “What are his chances?” Charles said.

  “If he’s lived this long, it’s likely he’ll live longer,” Owens answered. “There’s no sign of putrefaction and he improves daily. Yesterday’s bombardment didn’t help. He needs rest and quiet.”

  Jones’s eyes blinked open. They moved from Constance to Owens and rested on Charles. “You have knowledge of Gladfridus Underwood’s whereabouts, I understand,” he rasped.

  “I do,” Charles answered.

  “What are you going to do about him?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  Jones shook his head as if it didn’t matter. He beckoned Constance to bend close. “Kill the bastard,” Charles overheard him whisper. “You’ll find a way.”

  “Of course I shall, my darling,” Constance answered, her lips touching his forehead. “I’d already decided on it.”

  Charles found the intimacy both touching and frightening.

  “You must both leave,” Owens ordered. “I am about to change the dressing.”

  Instead of returning to his quarterdeck, Charles went forward through the crew’s mess and down by the ladderway to the magazine. There he found Benjamin Willis, the gunner, who was responsible for Cassandra’s supply of powder and shot.

  “We’ve no more powder in the keg,” Mr. Willis responded to Charles’ query. “Every last grain is made up into cartridges. After that, there ain’t no more.”

  “I see, Charles said. “And how many cartridges would that be?”

  “I’ve made ‘em up in proportion for each size o’ gun. In addition to what’s in ‘em now, there’s sixty-two for the twelves, sixteen for the six-pounders, and twenty-one to the carronades. By St. Cuthbert’s bones, that’s the truth of it.”

  “Thank you for such a precise report.”

  “Given what it is, it weren’t hard to count, sir.”

  Including the cannon as they were presently loaded, he could fire off six broadsides from one side of the ship, seven if he drew the charges from the unengaged side. He muttered an obscenity as he turned to go topside.

  *****.

  At first light the lookout called down that masts were visible forward of the bow—tall masts, ship-rigged masts, masts that might well be those of a French seventy-four-gun ship of the line. Cassandra, being the faster under all the canvas she could carry, had made up ground on the more cumbersome Raisonnable, which Charles judged to be not more than twenty miles ahead. An already merciless sun inched skyward over the harsh Yemeni highlands in the distance to port. The Mocha roads, and whatever force Blankett had retained there, lay just over the horizon southward. They would be visible from the French ship’s mastheads by now.

  Charles knew that Raisonnable was committed to either attacking the English ships off the port or passing them by. Cassandra firmly held the wind gage, and the French ship could not turn to attack. If she hove to or came about to challenge, Charles would heave to and wait at a respectful distance, or come about and flee into the wind. He alone would decide when, how, or indeed if the two ships would engage. Guessing what Blankett would decide at Raisonnable's unexpected appearance was more difficult. He hoped the admiral would cut his cables and run to the south, but he doubted it. Blankett could not know there was no invasion fleet following in the seventy-four’s wake. He would also not know that Cassandra had almost no powder and shot remaining.

  Charles’ fingers beat a relentless tattoo on the railing cap. Perhaps the greatest service he could render would be to maintain a safe distance until the confrontation and its inevitable result was over, or he could sail past to Bombay or Cape Town to report the danger of invasion past. The mission for which he had been dispatched by the Admiralty had been achieved, and the fate of Blankett and his squadron no longer mattered. There was no point in sacrificing his own practically defenseless ship to no purpose.

  “Sir,” Sykes said, coming from the foremast shrouds.

  “Yes?”

  “The fort north of Mocha Bay is visible from the masthead. The lookout says he can just see two sets of masts off the harbor. He thinks one might be dropping her sails.”

  “Thank you. I would appreciate regular reports as we progress.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.” Sykes returned to his station.

  Charles clasped his hands behind his back and paced the length of the windward side of the quarterdeck, then back again. “Christ,” he muttered. He stopped his walk. “Daniel,” he called.

  “Aye?” Bevan said.

  “Have the sergeant at arms set up his wheel in the waist. We will sharpen all of the hand weapons.”

  “You’re planning to board her?”

  “I have no plan at the moment, except to keep every option open. If you would see to this.” He withdrew his sword and handed it over. Boarding the two-decker was not a promising prospect. She would have a crew at least twice, maybe three times the size of his own. He looked up at the spread of canvas above. Cassandra was making as much speed as she was capable of.

  “The lookout can see fair well into the harbor, sir,” Sykes voice said excitedly.


  “Charles turned. “What does he see?”

  The midshipman screwed up his face in concentration. “Leopard and Daedalus are present. Daedalus has put on her canvas to come into the wind, he says. Leopard appears to be at anchor. The Frenchie’s almost up to them.”

  What did that mean? The frail Daedalus was the same size as Cassandra. Was she moving to attack or escape? Did Blankett intend that Leopard fight from anchor? Maneuver was his only hope. “Thank you,” Charles said. “Send for Hitch and Aviemore. You may report in turns.”

  Looking forward along the coast he made out the old fort on its low peninsula marking the northern edge of the harbor. If he squinted he could see the masts of three ships. The sea air proved hazy close to the surface. Better visibility would be had by the lookout higher up. Ten miles, he guessed. He would be on them in an hour’s time, more or less. He distinctly heard the distant crash of a heavy broadside, long and drawn out as it reached across the water. Sykes came running toward him.

  “The seventy-four has fired into Daedalus. She’s lost a foremast.”

  “Thank you,” Charles said. A second rumble like distant thunder reached his ears. Sykes turned to run forward. Charles saw Hitch coming aft. He also saw Mocha’s north fort clear on the port bow and two sets of masts in the roadstead.

  Bevan arrived at the same moment as Hitch, who cannoned into him, then held on to keep from falling down. “Daedalus has lost her masts! All of ‘em! Frenchie’s making for Leopard!”

  What the hell had Captain Ball, Daedalus’s commander, been thinking? “Thank you, Mr. Hitch. You may approach more slowly next time.”

  “Aye, aye,” said Hitch, saluting, then ran forward.

  “The weapons are ready,” Bevan said, handing Charles his blade. “Your orders?”

  “Clear for action, please.”

  “Have you a plan yet?”

  “Not a notion.”

  “You’ll have to have one soon, you know.”

  Midshipman Aviemore interrupted. “The flagship is signaled, sir,” the boy said calmly.

  Charles thought he had probably benefited from Hitch’s example. “What does she say?”

  “Engage the enemy more closely, it says. With an imperative.”

  “I’ll bet he put an imperative with it,” Bevan observed. Then he said, “All right, all right, we’ll clear for action.”

  “You may acknowledge the flagship’s signal, Mr. Aviemore,” Charles said. “In fact, you may acknowledge any signal she flies.”

  Charles stared upward again. He should begin to shorten sail. Then he decided it would be better to wait until the very last minute. What was he going to do? The fort passed by on the port beam. He could see the walled Arab city and the dismasted frigate Daedalus, her guns silent, listing to port. The fifty-gun, two decked Leopard had anchors down fore and aft in precisely the position he had last seen her a month and a half before. As he watched, the flagship’s ports triced upward and her cannon ran out. Raisonnable bore down like a charging bull whale, taking in her sails. Leopard’s broadside blasted outward in a cloud of smoke. Orange fire flashed in a double line.

  The effect was hardly noticeable. The French seventy-four glided irresistibly forward. Charles saw her anchor let go to fall into the sea with a splash, not fifty yards from Leopard. She began to swing, her own broadside coming to bear. He noticed a second cable veered aft from the anchor to enter a lower gunport toward the stern. The spring came taut as the larger ship loosed her own guns in a thunderous roar. Cassandra raced across the anchorage. Charles searched desperately for some opportunity, anything he could do that would make the slightest difference.

  “Cleared for action, Charlie,” Bevan reported.

  “Beat to quarters,” Charles said. That was the next logical order, but for what? He had to do something; his mind turned over option after option, rejecting each in rapid succession. He looked at Daedalus, dead in the water, and at Raisonnable on her spring and close to Leopard. “Wait!” he shouted after Bevan. “Beat to quarters, then get all of the ship’s boats over the side to starboard. Tether them bow to stern, the jollyboat first, and send a crew down into her.”

  Bevan’s brow furrowed. A question on his lips.

  “Do it now,” Charles said. “We’ll tow them behind for the moment. Get some men aloft to start furling the courses; take in the studdingsails. We’ve too much speed.”

  Bevan shrugged his acquiescence and began bellowing the orders.

  “Pass the word for Malvern,” Charles said to Sykes, who had returned to the quarterdeck. In a moment the coxswain appeared at the head of the ladderway. A mile ahead, Leopard kept up a respectable rate of fire, faster with her guns than the Frenchman but suffering more anyway. Her foremast had gone by the board; her bulwarks were pummeled.

  “You sent for me, sir?” Malvern said, touching his forehead.

  Charles paused to put order to his thoughts. “I want you to take the launch and cutters in tow behind the jollyboat. In a short time, Cassandra will turn sharply to port. You will cast off the moment we do and pull as hard as you can for Daedalus. Speed is everything. Do you have that?”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Please inform Captain Bell that he may use the boats to make for the French warship and board her. Are you clear on this?”

  “Yes, sir. He’s to attempt to carry the seventy-four in our boats.”

  “Convey to him my sincerest regards and request that he do so with all possible dispatch.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And find someone to replace my steward in the boat’s crew, if you will.”

  The ship became alive with activity. The drummer rolled out his tat-tat-tat-tat; men ran to their cannon or into the masts. The last of the boats went over the side. Raisonnable’s guns exploded outward yet again, the sound immediate and menacing. Leopard appeared pitiful, her mainmast now broken at the tops. Not all her guns answered as she fired back.

  “Run out the port side battery,” Charles said to Bevan.

  Bevan immediately shouted down the order to Winchester. “Do you plan to come across her stern and rake her?” he said to Charles. “We haven’t much shot to send across.”

  Charles shook his head, his eyes never leaving the towering ship of the line, not more than a half-mile away. “I plan to have her think we’re going to rake her.” In particular, he focused on Raisonnable’s anchor cable and its spring. He saw that her gun ports on the near side remained closed. “Mr. Cromley, we will turn hard to port in a moment. If you would see to it that the sails are braced around, we must keep our way on.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Cromley answered.

  Charles turned back to Bevan. “As soon as we have turned, you may man the starboard guns. Forget the ones to port. Fire as you bear.”

  “So you do have a plan after all.”

  Charles struggled to present a sense of inner calm he did not possess. “I am in hopes of running upon her anchor cable and parting it. We will then board by the bow. With any luck we’ll both drift down on Leopard and they can do the same. Daedalus has also been invited to participate. See that the men are prepared.”

  “And if the cable doesn’t part?”

  “We will be at leisure as prisoners of the French to debate other possible approaches.” Charles moved to stand beside the sailing master. “Do you see her cable with its spring?”

  “Aye,” Cromley said evenly.

  “I want to run our bow over it as close to her side as you can.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Cromley answered. Charles saw his Adam’s apple bob up and down as he swallowed.

  Charles gauged the rapidly closing distance. Cassandra's bowsprit presently aimed to shave the Frenchman’s transom from an oblique angle. Raisonnable's near broadside cannon could not yet reach him and their ports remained closed. Those for her two stern chasers opened, their barrels sliding out. He was close enough. “Mr. Cromley, put the helm over, if you please. Hard aport.”

  Two quarte
rmasters threw their weight onto the wheel, the spokes spinning. Charles felt the deck heel as the rudder bit. “Mr. Sykes, run to the taffrail to see if the boats are cast loose. Shout for them to do so if they haven't already.”

  He saw Lieutenant Ayres close by, awaiting his attention. “Do you want my boys aloft as sharpshooters, sir?”

  Charles scratched at his cheek to buy a moment’s thought. “No, bring them to the forecastle.” Sharpshooters in the tops could serve to good advantage, but if Raisonnable's anchor cable proved stubborn and did not part, it was likely all of his masts would go by the board.

  Cassandra increased her speed as the sails pivoted to catch the wind. She settled on her new course angling toward the two-decked ship’s towering side. Charles started along the gangway toward the bow. He saw the heads and shoulders of the officers on the French quarterdeck staring at him. There must be confusion on her decks as she rushed to man her offside cannon. The gun ports remained closed for the moment as the bowsprit swept past Raisonnable's stern at fifty yards distance, angling sharply closer. Beechum’s guns exploded as he reached the forecastle. A long rippling thunder followed as the remainder of his cannon bore. The twelve-pounder shot would be pinpricks, but it at least announced their presence. One by one, the enemy gun ports jerked open; too late, Charles thought. He would be on them before the cannon could be untethered and heaved outward. He saw the hard line of the cable, with its spring tilting downward from the bow and stern at a low angle into the sea. It disappeared from his view as Cassandra's bow rushed onward. A yardarm from the French warship tore through his foresail, snapping lines directly overhead. Raisonnable's side loomed above. Ten yards away, he could see inside her gun ports, the crewmen frantically casting off the tackles and breechings to free their weapons.

  “Here, Cap’n.” Augustus appeared behind him thrusting two pistols into Charles’ hands. “I didn’t know we was goin’ on board.”