by Jason Vail
“You guessed wrong,” I said. “It’s our frigate.”
“Looks like it,” he said. “Can’t be right every time. What now?”
My mind raced through my options. The safest thing was to try to outrun her and lose her in the night. But that might make us late for our rendezvous with the guns.
“Call the men to quarters!” I ordered.
The call “To quarters! To quarters!” echoed throughout Wasp, accompanied by the thundering of feet as the men rushed about to carry out all the tasks necessary to bring the ship to battle readiness: taking down the cabin partitions, bringing up the small arms for stacking about the masts, hauling shot and powder cartridges from the lockers in the hold, filling the swab buckets and reading the rams and swabs by the guns; while Wasp turned on my command to head directly for the Spanish frigate. Admiral Cockburn’s admonition whispered in my mind. There were a number of sail in view in the Thames channel, so many would see this fight. Cockburn would hear about it and be disappointed in me, but it could not be helped.
Meanwhile, marksmen and mast crews clambered to the tops, and jostled for space. Then the shooters sorted themselves out and began loading their muskets while the mast crews crawled out on the main yards in preparation for taking in the courses.
I knelt at the open waist and called to Halevy, who was in charge of the gun deck. At his appearance, I ordered, “Chain shot, both sides. Aim for the masts.”
“Very good, sir,” he said.
We locked eyes for a moment. I hope that I appeared composed, for the truth was, I was always fearful before a battle. I never calmed down until the first gun had fired.
A steward’s mate interrupted us. He handed me a cup of coffee. I took the cup and drank from it, glad that at least my hands did not give me away.
The frigate sped toward Wasp, eager for a fight. The distance diminished rapidly since we both had our main courses set, but once we were within a mile of each other, I ordered the mast crews to take in the courses, which they did with commendable rapidity. There was a rumbling as the guns ran out, and then Wasp was eerily quiet: only the hiss of the wind, a slight humming in the yards, the groaning of her timbers and swish of her bow wave as she slid through the water played upon my ear. Here and there a man coughed, and I thought I heard someone praying, as well he might. This was the worst part, the waiting as the ships slowly closed to fighting distance under only top sails and jib.
“Steady there, Mister Hammond,” I said to the quartermaster working the wheel with his mate. A third stood by, crouched by the mizzen. More than one always remained near the wheel in case any of them was killed so that no living hand would ever leave the wheel.
“I am steady,” he barked, as he fussed with the wheel, for the lack of a spanker threw off the trim, the jib alone pulling Wasp’s head off the wind, and only an expert hand and constant corrections could keep her pointed arrow straight.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t like to go below?” Willie asked, remembering our first battle together when I had sent Hammond below and handled the tiller of our boat myself.
“If I did that, you’d run into that Spaniard,” Hammond said, teeth clenched around his pipe which had gone out. “Then we’d be deep in it.”
“We surely would,” I said. Without our Rangers I had no wish to mount a boarding action, or defend against one.
“We already are,” Willie said as he took Hammond’s pipe, refilled the bowl and lighted it for him.
“Ah,” Hammond said, puffing clouds about his head, “that’s good. Thank you, Mister Harper.”
“You’re welcome,” Willie said.
The two ships were now so close that I could see the faces of the enemy with my naked eye. The frigate maintained its course straight for us, and men crowded the forecastle readying grappling hooks. The frigate captain no doubt remembered how we had treated the Neptuno and thought this would be his solution to avoid a raking. Other heads peeped over the enemy’s rails, pikes projecting upward as thick as pickets on a fence. They meant to board us straightaway. The question in my mind was: how many of the enemy crew had remained at their guns? A full watch? Or had the Spanish captain gambled on a boarding action with his entire crew or most of it?
Wasp and the enemy headed straight for each other and it seemed as though we would collide, bow to bow. Hammond’s eyes grew to the size of plates, and he clenched so hard on the stem of his pipe that it broke and the bowl tumbled to the deck, spilling its embers. Willie stamped out the embers and tossed the bowl over the side.
We closed to under fifty yards. We could hear the shouting on the Spanish deck as the men encouraged each other against the hell they believed was coming. I planned to give them hell, but not the sort they expected.
“Hard a starboard!” I bellowed to Hammond, who wasted no time in responding.
Wasp turned sharply, the jib helping pull us off the wind as I had intended.
We had just a moment now to make our shot count, for there was an instant where Wasp cantered off in relation to the frigate so that it was almost as if we had crossed her bow: we could fire at her but she could not fire at us. It was a long shot for carronades.
“Fire!” I shouted.
The larboard guns fired.
Wasp lurched sideways as if batted by a great hand. For a few seconds, my ears rang from the unbelievable thunder. Hammond’s mouth hung open, his eyes still wide with fright. I knew that he could hear no better than I, so I grasped the wheel and pushed it, turning Wasp a few points back to larboard, the space between us and the Spanish ship now so full of gunsmoke that I could not see anything of her.
The frigate’s bowsprit emerged from the fog and passed over the quarterdeck just missing the stern-most shrouds. I had cut our turn dreadfully close, for if she had snagged, the Spanish could then have easily boarded us.
Then it was their turn as the Spanish guns shouted their defiance, and Wasp trembled from the impact of her shot. I prayed that she shot at our hull rather than the rigging, in the French manner, and I glanced anxiously above for any sign of injury.
As the ships were on opposite courses, they rapidly slid by one another. But our quarterdeck carronades managed to fire grape across the enemy’s quarterdeck before we drew apart, mowing down dozens of men.
Then we were behind her.
I dashed to the taffrail, straining for a good view of the enemy as the cloud of smoke dissipated. A musket ball hummed by my head, sounding like an angry bee. I resisted the urge to duck.
I had hoped we might bring down a mast, but they were still standing. Though the Spaniard was missing the larboard lower shrouds to the fore mast and half of those to the main mast had severed. Men were already climbing to the fore topsail to bring it in, for the pressure of the wind could snap the mast with those shrouds gone.
It was not as I had hoped, but it was good enough.
I gave orders to wear about and set the forecourse and spanker.
Then I stepped to the waist and called for Halevy. He did not appear, and my heart lurched at the thought the boy had been killed. But presently he showed himself, missing his hat.
“What is the damage?” I asked him.
“We’re holed in three places. One gun is knocked over.”
“And the cost?”
“One dead, five wounded.”
“Very good. Get those holes covered and that gun righted.”
“We’ll need a new carriage for it.”
“Well, then secure the tube and see to the wounded. Yourself included.”
Chapter 23
The English Channel
December 1820
Wasp anchored two-thousand feet off Brighton in four fathoms at low water, the closest we could safely get. A ship’s boat put me ashore on the beach at the foot of Old Steine Street, where a crowd of the curious gathered to welcome my arrival as the anchoring of ships off the town was not something that happened every day. Although the place was reckoned as a seaport, about the only
traffic it had was a packet that ran once a week to and from Dover. A few pumped my hand in welcome, thinking that I might have brought them wonders, a ritual I endured with clenched teeth, for my wounds still smarted and I could imagine them opening up under the battering. A fellow in a short blue coat who had the look of a customs official asked my business, and I said we needed to buy water. He eyed Wasp suspiciously, as the enthusiasm for our appearance dimmed among those about him, and said, “Just be sure that you don’t land nothing without my looking at it.”
“Don’t worry,” I said, and asked him if there was a decent tavern nearby where we could repair for a drink. The prospect of free beer cheered him up considerably.
Although I was not feeling particularly generous, I told the boat crew to come along. On shore, there are many opportunities for sailors to get in trouble even in a town as small as Brighton — especially Brighton, because even in those days it had become something of a fashionable resort with the upper crust, who had discovered the pleasures of sand and sea, and there were inns and taverns out of proportion to the local population. This way I could keep an eye on them and ensure that they neither got in fights nor became too drunk.
I trusted my customs official to lead us to the best drinking spot in town. A man promised free beer is most likely to take the unwary mark to the finest source of brew and the most comfortable surroundings. This would mean that the beer was more expensive, but I expected we would end up at the town’s gossip center, where we might find Austin and Crockett, or at least word of them, if they had arrived already.
The tavern proved to be a substantial inn on a side street off Old Steine. It was built of flint stone with brickwork around the windows like most of the buildings in town, especially the ones to the west of Old Steine where the fashionable people lived, and smelled of fresh paint for its wood wore a brand new coat of vibrant blue that made it stand out from the surrounding dour whites and grays of the adjoining houses like a flower in a mud patch. It had three stories, the top two of which sported porches overlooking the street.
The customs man was well known even if he may not have made the place his favored drinking spot, and the proprietor himself, a round man with a wart on his nose, made us comfortable near the fire. I was grateful for the fire, but not for having to stand everyone for a round of drinks. My purse was getting low, and this voyage had not been profitable, although we stood to make some money on the whiskey.
“Anyone come down from London lately?” I asked the serving girl as she unloaded her tray of beer mugs.
“London?” she asked. “Why would anyone come here from London, for Jesus’ sake?” She turned to the bar and called, “London! He’s asking about people coming here from London! When was the last time that happened?”
“I think in the old King George’s time we had visitors from London,” a fat fellow at the bar said through his cigar.
“Why the hell does he want to know?” another asked.
“Why do you want to know?” the customs man repeated.
I shrugged lamely. “Seems like a nice town. Good beach. People like beaches, don’t they? Place to take the waters. Like a spa or a spring.” I regretted saying anything now.
“Beaches,” the customs man muttered. The locals liked the swells who came to visit the sea no more than they did the French, although they did like the money.
“The only thing worth anything around here is the fish,” said the fat man with the cigar.
“We’ve got lots of that,” said the other man who had spoken. “Sure you don’t want some? We’ve excellent pickled herring.”
“I do so love pickled herring,” I said. “But not at the moment.”
The room rippled with polite laughter. Pickled herring was a treat, but not if you had to eat it every day. They endured it, like the weather.
The customs man said, “He ain’t come for the herring! He’s come for our sparkling waters!”
It took another round of drinks to quell all the lame jokes about Brighton’s waters.
“What’re you really here for?” the customs man asked as he wiped a foam moustache from his lips, since it was clear to everyone that I had not no interest in beaches other than not to run aground upon them.
I leaned forward and put my head close to his. “Can you keep a secret?”
Of course, he couldn’t but the fact I seemed willing to confide in him flattered his sense of self-importance. “Course I can.”
“We’re here to pick up the Argentine ambassador,” I said in a low voice.
“Argentine ambassador,” he murmured. “Ah.”
“The Argentines are in a bit of a fix with the Spanish, you know. The rebellion.”
The customs man nodded as if he had been closely following the news about the Argentine rebellion.
“The dagos tried to have him killed in London,” I said. “They’ve had all the docks watched. This is the only way to get him safely out of England.”
“Damned dagos,” he said. “Got ’em fooled good, have you?”
“Indeed. Another beer for you?”
“Thanks. Don’t mind if I do.”
The upshot of my conversation with the customs man was that the entire town was on the lookout for the Argentine ambassador. Eyes were posted on the London road, but since the only people ever to come down it this time of year were local farmers on their way to the weekly market or the post rider, I expect there was much disappointment. At first, anyway.
Then on Christmas Day, a train of more than fifty wagons snaked down the Preston Road. I had taken rooms at the inn and a boy breathlessly informed me of the train’s arrival. I suspected he would have been excited merely by the number of wagons, notwithstanding the presence of the Argentine ambassador. I went out to Old Steine Street to greet the wagons, along with what seemed to be the entire town, who had interrupted their dinner celebrations for the event.
There was Austin seated beside the driver on the lead wagon. I was glad to see that he had no holes in him, and gladder still to spot Crockett equally unharmed on horseback some distance back with a party of Texan outriders. Austin waved at me and hopped down.
“Is that him?” the customs man asked.
I put my finger to my lips, but nodded.
The customs man shook hands vigorously with an astonished Austin, and said, “I’m glad you made it here safe, sir.”
“It was nip and tuck,” Austin said, bewildered at the attention.
“I’m sure it was,” the customs man said. “What’s in them wagons?” The leading wagons were filled with long narrow boxes, the kind used for transporting firearms.
“More secret stuff,” I said. “For the rebellion.”
“It wouldn’t be guns, or anything like that?”
“I’m not saying,” I said, “but it might be.”
“Ah,” the customs man replied. “Course you can’t. Do the government know?”
“Naturally. You don’t think we could get away with this without official approval, do you? Anything to trouble the dago, you know.”
“Right.” Apparently, the fellow did not read the Times since he did not seem to know that the government counted Spain an ally.
I grasped the customs man’s elbow with the intention of leading him into the tavern, a temptation I had learned that he could not resist. He said as we passed through the door, “He don’t sound like a dago.”
“Who?”
“The ambassador.”
“Well, they’ve all sorts down there.”
“Oh. Kind of mongrels. All mixed up. Like the Americans.”
“Something like that.”
The boys wasted no time with the goods. By sundown, every crate, barrel and box had been ferried across to Wasp. Crockett, Austin and I shared the last boat. Whatever reconciliation they had reached apparently did not involve speaking to each other. It was a morose journey across choppy gray water to the ship, but they both seemed to relax as they climbed the ladder to the quarterdeck. So per
haps there was hope the hard words exchanged between them would eventually be forgotten.
A light snow had begun to fall and I looked over the manifest Austin handed to me as the crew carried the last of the powder to the magazine. The remainder — paper for cartridge making, lead ingots for balls, and the muskets themselves — remained on deck in heaps of boxes and barrels. We’d stow it in the morning when the light was better and the decks less slippery.
“Send the men to supper, Mister Halevy,” I said, brushing snowflakes from the manifest before the ink had a chance to run. To Austin and Crockett, I said, “Are you hungry, gentlemen?”
“I could eat a wild hog all by myself,” Crockett said, happy now that his guns were aboard.
“I don’t think the cook is serving wild hog,” I said. “It smells like goose. You shall have to pretend.”
“What I could use is a fire,” Crockett said, as we clambered down the ladder to the gun deck.
“You’ll have to imagine that too,” I said.
“I knew a fellow once who had a fireplace on his boat,” Crockett said. “Kept him really snug during the winter. Up to the point he drowned, anyway.”
“How did he drown?” Austin asked.
“He forgot to bank the fire one night and a spark burned a hole in his boat and it sank.”
“If it’s any consolation, I shall ask one of the boys to rig you a hammock by the galley,” Austin said.
“You are most kind, Mister Austin,” Crockett said, “but if our men must shiver, then so must I. It would be unseemly, don’t you know.”
“I completely agree,” Austin said.
“It would be helpful, however, if we could tap one of those barrels of whiskey that are taking up so much valuable space in our hold. Only, of course, if that does not cut too deeply into our profit.”
“I will spare you a cup of whiskey, Mister Crockett. You’ve earned it.”