A Dishonorable Few (The Honor Series)

by Robert N. Macomber

  Now he wondered what would happen when they arrived at Miragoane. He looked around at the crew and could see that Le Blanc had not been joking. These were the kind of men who liked to kill—he could see it in their faces.

  ***

  The storm had lessened enough by the end of the first watch that they were heading north again. Wake estimated that they had drifted off to the west ten miles or so, and that therefore they would see Pointe Palmiste in three hours, or about seven o’clock in the morning by his watch. Right about sunrise.

  As they steamed north, the rain stopped and the wind started to pipe down, decreasing the spray that had been bursting from the bows and deluging everyone. After a couple of hours the stars were visible, and Wake began to hope that perhaps his luck was changing as he went to his cabin to get a quick nap.

  A few hours later Lieutenant Custen was on deck as the sky lightened. “Well look at that,” he exclaimed as he gazed east.

  “Like a different coastline.” said Connery.

  The horizon was completely different, for the storm had washed away the smoke that usually hung in the air. It was a beautiful morning with a light northerly breeze; they could clearly see mountains to the east and north.

  “Deck there! Steamer three points on the starboard bow! Against the coastline. Range is about five miles.”

  “Damn! I think that’s her! Steer nor’easterly and ring up full speed,” yelled Connery, his enthusiasm getting the better of the quarterdeck protocol expected of the officer of the deck. “Messenger! Present my respects to Mr. Wake and let him know that a steamer—”

  “No need for that, Mr. Connery. I’m here already,” said Wake as he emerged from the hatchway. “I see we have a steamer to look over. Sound quarters and clear the ship for action.”

  The shrill bosuns’ pipes and deep ringing of the ship’s bell—Canton didn’t rate a drummer—produced a flurry of commotion. Within seconds the main deck was a mass of men moving to their gun positions, others taking up small arms from the ready boxes, still others attending to the boats, helm, and rigging. Wake turned to see three helmsmen, the extra in case of casualties.

  “I have the deck, Mr. Connery. Helmsman, steer east nor’east.”

  The helmsmen acknowledged the order as Wake did his best to remain calm and work out an intercept course in his mind should that vessel be Symons’ steamer and he elected to fight. The vessel was about four miles away to the northeast from Canton, steaming to the south at what Wake estimated to be about ten or twelve knots. He figured the time to half shot range, then turned to Moe, standing next to him in his battle quarters position.

  “Mr. Moe, what will be the time of our intercept, at five hundred yards range?”

  “Wha . . . what, sir?” the startled ensign stammered. He had been mesmerized by the sight of the steamer in the distance.

  “Mr. Moe,” Wake continued in a paternal tone. “You are an officer, and the people are looking to you for your example. Now is the time to show them. Please work out the intercept in your mind and tell me. Now.”

  “Ah . . . yes, sir. The time to intercept . . . is . . . ah, eighteen minutes?”

  “Was that a question or a report, Mr. Moe?” asked Wake, still in a gentle tone.

  “A report, sir. The intercept should be in eighteen minutes at this course and speed,” stated Moe with more confidence.

  “Very well done, Mr. Moe,” Wake smiled at the relief on the young man’s face. “The same as my calculation. I certainly hope we are right.”

  Custen stepped up and announced, “The ship is cleared for action, sir. Mr. Connery is at his guns, Mr. Noble is below with Captain Terrington and the prisoners are locked in. The cutter is swayed and Bosun Rork is ready with the boarding party, should they be needed.”

  “Very good, Mr. Custen. You may send up the colors. The battle colors, please.”

  Seconds later the large battle flag ascended the after peak halyard, the Stars and Stripes streaming out aft and gleaming in the morning light as the Canton charged toward the rising sun.

  It was a sight that stirred every man on the main deck—one they would remember for the rest of their lives and describe in bars and pubs and homes for years.

  ***

  Bajo jumped down the hatch and ran into his leader’s cabin without knocking. “Jefe, come quick!” he said to the nude sleeping form on the bunk. “There is a steamer off to the southwest, and she just sent up a big gringo flag.”

  “Son of a whoring bitch,” muttered the gringo. “I’ll be right there.”

  By the time he got up to the deck and was able to focus the glass in on the other steamer, the distance had diminished considerably. He groaned. It was a U.S. Navy gunboat, that same one he had last seen in Cartagena. So Parker had found him after all. And that fool Bajo hadn’t turned away immediately, costing a mile already in a chase. In addition, there wasn’t any smoke haze in the sky—that storm had blown it away, he realized.

  “Turn her now and steer east, damn you,” he yelled to Bajo. “And tell the boys below to stoke as if their miserable lives depended on it, because I assure you, that they most definitely do.”

  At that point he sensed someone behind him and saw Muret staring at the warship. “Well, Muret, it’s your lucky day, my friend,” he shouted above the wind. “You may get to watch a real sea battle, close up and personal.”

  Muret said nothing in reply, but started some sort of low tribal chant. It came out softly at first, then rose in volume as he gazed at the warship that was now astern of them.

  “What in the hell is that African jabber you’re mumbling, Muret?” demanded Le Blanc Fou.

  The Haitian looked at the white man as if he had just noticed him. “La malédiction de la sorcellerie noire. The curse of the black sorcery, of the voudou, has come true,” said Muret as he pointed toward the ship flying the huge red, white, and blue flag.

  “That is our death, Le Blanc Fou—come to visit us on the sea, at sunrise.”

  40

  Yankee Ingenuity

  “Set the foresail, jibs, and mizzen staysail,” ordered Wake. Custen relayed the orders as Wake went forward to confer with Connery and Durling.

  “Mr. Connery, what range would you like to commence firing for effect?” Wake asked as he held on to the barrel of the forward pivot gun, the 110-pounder.

  “In this height of sea, sir? Gunner Durling here can hit her with no problem in this sea at a mile, sir. Outside effective range,” he glanced at Durling, “about two miles.”

  “Very well, I’ll want a blank shot in just a moment, then a warning round over her bow. Then, when I tell you, fire for effect on her transom. I want the rudder disabled first.”

  Connery and Durling both acknowledged the orders, with Durling adding slyly, “Going to do a bit of a Kearsarge to her, sir?”

  “You’ve read my mind one more time, Durling,” answered Wake. “Yes, we’ll try to do her like Winslow did Semmes. I also want the secondary battery double loaded with grape. I think they’ll try to ram or board or both. The secondaries will have to stop that.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  “Mr. Connery, once the action gets going at close range, do not wait for orders, just keep all guns firing. I want as much metal hitting her as possible. I want them destroyed.”

  Wake turned and strode aft, then eyed the other steamer as Custen commented, “I’m sure she’s the Diana, sir. Matches the description and there aren’t many steamers at all this far into Haitian waters these days. That’s Symons. I’d wager he thinks he can run her away from us.”

  “Yes, I agree on her identity and see that we aren’t forereaching on her. Send up every inch of canvas she’ll carry, Mr. Custen. I want to close the gap as soon as possible. Now let’s have a blank shot for her to heave to—just so we can report later that we did.
”

  Custen laughed as he passed along the order. The sound and smoke of the signal shot flew away downwind as soon as it was fired.

  “Deck there! The steamer is setting all sail.”

  “That’s her answer, sir!” shouted Custen from the starboard secondary battery.

  A dozen tanned and patched sails appeared on the spars of the steamer ahead as she heeled over on a broad port reach with the additional press of canvas. Both steamers were now racing east at their fastest speed, further into the Gulf of Gonaives toward the port of Gonaives, twenty-five miles distant.

  The rush of the water on the lee side was overwhelming all other sound except the rhythmic pounding of the steam engine’s cylinders as Canton surged forward through the beam seas. The enemy ship—for that is how Wake thought of her now—was squarely in front of the gunboat and therefore safe from the fire of their forward gun, which needed to shoot ten degrees on either side of dead ahead in order to miss hitting their own forestay rigging. It would be an interesting problem in dynamic geometry, thought Wake as he estimated the firing angles by eye.

  “Mr. Custen, I want the helmsman to bring her one point to windward upon my word and hold her there while we send off two shots. Not until I give the word, mind you. The timing will be important so we don’t lose ground on the chase.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” replied Custen as he went to brief Quartermaster Morrow, who was personally manning the helm.

  Connery came aft in response to Wake beckoning.

  “Mr. Connery, we’ll bring her up to windward a bit to give you a firing bearing over the starboard bow. The helmsman will try to hold it long enough for you to have Durling send off two rounds. Remember, the first I want over her bow, for the record. But we know she won’t stop. The second I want on her stern, from the main deck down, twixt wind and water if he can.”

  The ship lurched over a wave and slid sideways for an instant, making everyone grab onto something close by. The wind appeared to be rising, the seas gaining in height. Wake cast an eye aloft to check the strain on the rig. With the forward speed of the engine and the apparent speed of the wind over the sails, he worried that it might be too much. She was going at least twelve knots, two knots faster than her fastest designed speed. The rising seas would make the gunnery more difficult too. The wind and sea conditions were favoring Symons more and more.

  ***

  “We are keeping the same distance, Jefe. Maybe they will tire,” suggested Bajo as he held onto the windward rail.

  “That’s not the damn guardia costa back there, you fool. That’s the U.S. friggin’ Navy. They won’t tire or go away, Bajo. They want to kill us, you dumb son of a worm,” growled the gringo as he tried to get a fleeting glimpse of the gunboat’s quarterdeck. It was difficult to get a clear view, but he didn’t see Parker on the deck. Whoever was commanding her, he was good, begrudged the former naval officer. Very good.

  He waited for them to luff up to windward to get a shot over the leeward bow—that’s what he would do if he were over there. He called Bajo over.

  “Any minute now they are going to bring her bow up to windward to clear her forward gun for a shot over her starboard bow. Keep your eyes glued to that gunboat, Bajo. When you see her swing up to windward, then luff this bitch up too. Instantly. We have to keep her forestay masking her gun. Do you understand what I mean?”

  “Yes, Jefe. I see what you mean. The moment she alters course, we will too.”

  The gringo was already feeling the sun on his skin. He was standing in his under-drawers only and knew he had to cover himself up. Just as he got to the hatchway to fetch his clothing in his cabin he felt the Diana swerve to the left and upwind. He looked aft to see that the warship had done the same and saw a puff of smoke from her lee bow, the sound blown away on the wind. The round screamed overhead and geysered in the water two hundred yards ahead of them off to starboard. A warning shot, he thought incredulously? That was something silly Parker would do—maybe he was in command.

  A second puff showed, followed by another miss to leeward, though this one much closer in range.

  “Jefe, you were correct! You knew what they would do,” called out Bajo with obvious admiration.

  “That’s because I used to do that myself, Bajo,” replied the gringo as he went down the ladder, “—back when I was respectable and I used to chase scum like you.”

  Then the steamers slid back to their original courses as the Canton tried to reduce the gap again.

  ***

  “He knew that trick, sir,” said Custen.

  “Yes . . . We’ll have to come up with another trick. Have Durling and Mr. Connery come aft with you, if you would please,” requested Wake.

  When the three gathered, Wake included Moe also. This would be a good education for the young ensign.

  “All right, men. Ideas?” Wake asked.

  “At this speed, sir, Symons’ll be in that port of Gonaives in a little over two hours,” offered Custen. “He could run her into the port, smash her into a dock or run her ashore, and make off on foot. We’d have to slow and anchor or come alongside, and they’d get away.”

  “Very good point, Mr. Custen,” commented Wake. “That would appear to be their hope, for we’re chasing them into a cul-de-sac.”

  “Not necessarily, sir,” suggested Connery. “They could still go southeast around the east end of Gonave Island, by Port au Prince, then exit the Gulf by the southern peninsula.”

  “Then they should have altered their course already, Mr. Connery,” countered Wake. “No, I think Mr. Custen is correct. They are heading into Gonaives to get away ashore. Now, gentlemen, how do we stop them?”

  “Continue to alter ten degrees and fire, sir,” said Custen.

  “All right, but this time we’ll change the tactic. Use a bit of a ruse. Listen carefully,” said Wake. “We’ll start a swing to windward, but then instead turn to leeward. They’ll probably take the bait and bring their vessel up into the wind to port, while we increase the angle by altering to starboard. That should give you a decent firing angle over the port bow, Durling.”

  “Indeed it will, sir. If ’n the slimy bastard plays the game and takes the bait.”

  “Well let’s try anyway. He just might.”

  ***

  Now he was wearing a full-sleeved white cotton shirt buttoned to his throat, white cotton trousers, and a white kepi hat with stern cloth protecting his neck from the sun. His skin still hurt, but the gringo felt he could stand it, for he knew he had to be up here on deck and make the decisions.

  He tried to anticipate the warship’s next move. It was too bad they were out of effective rifle shot—his Enfields, even in the hands of these useless idiots, could be helpful in disrupting the gunboat’s actions. Even so, he only had to hold on a couple hours more, then he’d be ashore—in some backward bilgewater of a town among tribal savages. But still, he knew he could escape the U.S. Navy once ashore.

  What would they do next, he pondered as he held onto the weather rail?

  “Jefe, they are doing it again!’ Bajo yelled. “Bringing it up to windward. I will too—”

  “No Bajo, it’s a feint! Slide her a point to leeward. Now!”

  He could see the gunboat’s bow swinging quickly in reverse of her original turn. The Diana stayed dead ahead of the warship’s forestay, though. A shot penetrated a wave to windward, twenty yards off Diana’s port side. Then another round exploded in the same place—the spot where the steamer would have been had they followed Bajo’s idea. It had been a close call.

  “Damn, but he’s a crafty bugger that one, Bajo,” shouted the ex-naval officer. “But not as good as El Gringo Loco!”

  It couldn’t possibly be Parker in command of that gunboat, he decided—this commander was too dogged, too cunning. No, Parker was probably in a club in Washing
ton, telling made-up sea stories to fawning ladies. That was his style.

  He knew that sooner or later he would guess wrong, and the shots would hit. They just had to keep up the speed and get this tub into that harbor. The natives would get a show when the ol’ Diana arrived, he thought with a grin, picturing in his mind ramming the steamer into a crowded wharf and watching the people scattering. It would be easy to get away in that kind of confusion.

  ***

  “He’s good, sir,” said Custen, shaking his head as the shots went harmlessly off to the port side of the target.

  Wake sighed and ran his hand through his hair. They were not closing the distance, and this swerving of course wasn’t helping narrow the gap.

  “Yes . . . that he is. You can tell his naval experience.”

  Connery and Durling came aft again, clearly frustrated.

  “I’ll put a shot right up his poxied ass, sir. It may take a while, but I’ll get that renegade bastard son of a bitch, if it’s the last damned thing I do!” swore Durling as he pounded a fist into his other hand.

  That comment, and the enraged look on Durling’s face as he made it, broke the tension and they all laughed at the gunner, who reluctantly joined in.

  “Gunner Durling, I’m glad you’re on our side, by God!” said Wake. “Now, does anyone have any new ideas, other than continuing what we’ve been doing.”

  No one had, so he continued. “Very well, then I do. But I need to know if you two think we can do it,” he gestured at Connery and Durling, then went on.

  “We can’t fire the forward gun dead ahead because of the forestay and we can’t take down the forestay because of the masts and sails, right, gentlemen?”

  They all agreed with that assessment, but failed to see where he was going with his theory.