“Then gentlemen, if Mohammed cannot go to the mountain, it’s time for the mountain to come to Mohammed.”
He got confused looks in response to his parable, so he explained. “We move the damned gun, gentlemen—to the windward side of the foredeck so it will fire over the port bow without us having to alter course.”
Connery spoke up first, an uncomfortable look on his face. “Ah, sir. That gun is on those special pivot tracks. We’d have to jack it up out of them, then manhandle it up the incline of the deck and lash it down to the bulwark.”
“And the little darlin’ weighs six and a half tons, sir! Thirteen thousand pounds. This ain’t no 9-pounder that we can lift easily,” added Durling.
“Yes, but having it on the windward bow would also help our lee helm and maybe our leeward drift,” offered Custen, to the negative reactions of Connery and Durling.
“Just how the hell would we get it up there, sir? All respects intended, of course,” asked Durling.
“Not really sure yet, Gunner. But we have,” Wake looked at his pocket watch, “an hour and a half or so to figure it out and get it done. A little Yankee ingenuity perhaps?”
The chorus of “aye, aye, sir’s” was less than enthusiastic, but Wake was absolutely confident that if anyone could solve the problem, Durling and Connery could.
41
Journey to Hell
Muret had been silent the whole time, as if waiting reverently for his death, but now when he heard the lookout shout that there was a harbor up ahead, he shook himself out of his trance. Perhaps they could survive this after all. He heard the white man tell the Spanish man his plan for running the steamer into a dock and escaping ashore. It sounded better than trying to elude this warship that was staying on them. Anything sounded better than remaining on this boat. Muret intended to be the first off.
“Bajo, pass the word to all hands,” said the gringo. “We’ll run the steamer right into the wharf—forget the vessels that are tied up—then everyone runs ashore in different directions. In the confusion, they’ll get away. No problem.”
He could see the harbor himself now. Not long to go. He had been in bad spots before and would get through this one. And when he did, the fame of Le Blanc Fou would spread even further. They couldn’t kill him. No one could.
“The man with nine lives!” he shouted to the sky.
***
The number two hawser was heavy by itself, but it was the only line they had that could take the strain of the huge gun. A bight of line passed around the main gun carriage, after they had jacked it up off the pivot slide tracks, was led to the only block aboard with a large enough sheave. The block was secured to the port anchor cat and placed on the windward foredeck bulwark. From there the hawser led aft around the secondary capstan, hence forward to the primary capstan. Twenty-three men were on the capstans ready to winch the gun the fourteen feet it needed to go—uphill on the steeply heeling deck.
Durling looked at Connery, who nodded, then shouted to the men. “All right, men—haul your guts out and get my iron daughter up to windward!”
As they took up the slack, Rork called out the cadence as the men strained to push the bars that jutted out from the capstans, their feet stamping the deck. “Heave! Ho. Heave! Ho. Heave! Ho.”
For the first few seconds nothing happened, then as the ship plunged into a trough and smacked down onto a wave the gun moved. The jolt was just enough to break the inertia and the metal beast inched over to the port side, slowly but steadily.
Canton hit another wave and the gun tilted back to leeward, the sailors behind it holding jack irons wedged underneath, and ready to run if it broke loose and fell down among them. But the same wave that caused the tilt rolled the hull for a fragment of a moment to windward, and the gun recovered and resumed its climb up the tilted deck.
Wake consulted his watch again, then looked ahead at the coast beyond the pirate vessel. At this rate it would take hours, and they only had less than thirty minutes, by his estimate, until the enemy would make the shore. It was time for a drastic measure. He called Custen and Connery over again.
“This is doing well, but we need to speed it up. When I give the word, Mr. Custen will have the sheets freed and luffed. That will make her roll to windward and eliminate the heel for a moment. At that instant, Mr. Connery will have a maximum effort to move the gun. Then we’ll haul the sheets again. The gun should be in position at that point. It will slow us down a bit, but I’ll take that chance. Any questions? No? Pass the word to all hands so they understand. Let’s get on with it.”
***
They were minutes away from the harbor and escape ashore. El Gringo Loco felt the exhilaration flowing through him. He had bloodied the Spanish Navy in Nicaragua, eluded the Royal Navy in Jamaica, and now would humiliate the American Navy in Haiti. He was the scourge of the Caribbean and it felt great.
He gauged their speed by eye as they raced past a decrepit channel buoy. He had no chart of the channel and was trusting luck and following where he had seen deeper draft schooners sailing ahead of them. There was no alternative. They must keep up the speed in order to prevent the warship from being able to bear off and fire.
He saw the crowds of black people on shore gathering to stare. Everyone was watching. He gave out a howling laugh and climbed up on the bulwark, oblivious to the pain in his burned skin. He would give them a show they would talk about for centuries—the day Le Blanc Fou came to town.
***
Native Haitian fishing boats in the channel, seeing the chase, scurried as fast as they could under oars to get out of the way. Other boats stopped where they were and watched the contest. Ashore, the people along the waterfront were pointing out to sea and conjecturing wildly about why an American ship was chasing the steamer. And who were they chasing? Soon, wagers were being made on the outcome, with most favoring the quarry.
At the wharf—Gonaives had only one large pier in deeper water—schooners were tied up along every foot of available space, most with another schooner moored outboard alongside. The seamen and laborers halted their work of unloading the various cargoes and stared to the west as the two steamers entered the outer channel at full speed, rushing past the old French buoy toward the inner harbor. Everyone was asking, “Where will they stop?” and “How could they stop anywhere in time not to hit an anchored vessel?”
Among the experienced seamen in the port, doubt, then fear, began to grow. This chase was deadly. It was crazy. People were going to die when those steamers hit something.
Most of the townspeople had no such concern. They only knew that this was the most exciting thing that had happened in years, and thousands began to line the shore, crowding into every location with a view of the action. The wharf was jammed with people, some spilling over onto the schooners alongside, all of them turned into excited spectators of the chase.
No one was listening to the few seamen who said to get away from the wharf.
***
“Ready. Now!” yelled Wake.
Custen gave the order to let fly sheets and a dozen men cast off the lines controlling the loose edges, or leeches, of the sails. Canton abruptly righted herself from the twenty-five-degree list as the pressure of the wind on the sails vanished. She also dropped speed quickly as the engine alone carried her forward.
But the men on the capstans no longer were pulling the massive gun uphill, and the 110-pounder moved on the canvas matting smoothly to the port side of the ship within thirty seconds. It amazed everyone, especially Wake.
“Haul in again, Mr. Custen!” he said as he walked forward to the main gun.
The gun was already being chocked, lashed and loaded as the sails once again felt the pressure of the wind and their speed increased. Wake saw that they had lost perhaps a quarter of a mile in just that short time, but it didn’t matter, for Durling
was sighting the gun, waiting for the last part of the loading drill to be completed.
“Gun One ready!” the old gunner cried as Wake arrived beside him.
Wake studied the target background of Symons’ steamer. If Durling missed, the shot would plow into the wharf, exploding among thousands of people. Should he give the order to fire and risk those deaths on his conscience? It wouldn’t take much to miss the target and kill innocent people. Wake felt his heart pumping so hard his ears pounded. Connery, Durling, and the gun crew were waiting.
Wake looked again. Symons was only moments away from the wharf, his intention clear. The crowd had started to panic and everyone was trying to get away. The seamen aboard the schooners were scrambling up to the deck of the wharf, some jumping overboard and attempting to swim out of the way.
Wake glanced at Durling, who stood, jaw set, firing lanyard in hand, eyeing the gunline to the target. Waiting.
Wake made his decision. “Fire for effect on the stern!” he shouted, louder than he wanted.
Boom!
The stern of the enemy steamer exploded in a blast of fire, smoke, and planking. Durling was calmly counting out the reloading drill as if he were teaching a class.
“ . . . Three—sponge out. Four—dry rammer. Five—cartridge man. Six—shell man . . .” At the end of his drill count he yelled “clear!” and pulled the lanyard again.
Boom!
The pirate’s stern erupted again as Durling again called out the cadence of the drill to his men. Wake saw the Diana slow, then slew a bit to port, still within the firing angles of the gun. Black smoke was roiling up from what was left of her transom.
Boom!
The after mast fell on Symons’ ship as she continued her turn to the port. Wake suddenly realized he had to slow down Canton or they would smash into the Haitian vessels or wharf themselves.
“Cast loose sheets and ring for engine stop!” he shouted aft to Custen, who had men standing by in anticipation of the order. Among the cacophony of shouting Wake heard Rork urging his men as they let the sails go and the ship slowed.
Wake started to make his way aft as another boom blasted out. He caught a glimpse of Diana’s port quarter being ripped apart just above the waterline, then ran to the helm.
“Follow that steamer around to port and lay us between her and shore, Mr. Custen.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” said Custen, almost breathless from the tension as he told the quartermaster at the helm to bring the Canton along the starboard side of the pirate vessel.
Diana’s sails were no longer being handled and now that she had turned left and was heading northerly into the wind they acted as a brake, almost stopping her. The engine had ceased functioning when the shaft was severed by the explosion of one of Durling’s shots, and water was pouring into the after hold and engine room. She was settling by the stern rapidly as she drifted forward.
“Fire the portside secondary batteries into her as soon as they bear, Mr. Connery!” Wake said to the gunnery lieutenant, who had come aft to the 32-pounders for that very purpose.
“Engine back full, Mr. Custen,” he said. “I want to have us stopped right along the steamer where we can finish this.”
The sails were flapping loudly as they turned to port and luffed upwind and stopped, ten yards from the hull of the Diana. Even before Canton’s forward movement ended, the pirate gang was firing the Enfield rifles, the bullets whizzing audibly through the air and splatting into the wood deck and spars around Wake.
“Sir! Get out of the way!” screamed Custen. “They shooting at you!”
***
The blast had caught him unprepared and the gringo was thrown into the helmsman knocking both down to the deck. Stunned, he looked aft past the wreckage of the transom and saw the gunboat was still directly astern, and there was more smoke from her port bow. So they moved the gun—good decision, he admitted as he tried to stand up just as the second shell exploded in his cabin below. An invisible wall of heat seared his flesh, then a cloud of black smoke engulfed him.
The steamer heeled to starboard as her rudder jammed over to port and Diana slewed around to the left, the helmsman spinning a useless wheel. The cables had been parted and the rudder itself was jammed. The men started to panic and scream for the helmsman to do something.
Another shell exploded the port side of the main deck and hull into pieces of wooden shrapnel that scythed across the deck impacting everything there.
The gringo was bleeding from splinter wounds all over his chest and arms and his charred shirt was hanging in shreds, but he was still composed enough to assess the situation. The steamer was on fire aft, her stern was down, and she was almost dead in the water, parallel to and fifty yards off the beach. He could still escape. Only fifty yards.
Shaking his head clear of the ringing in his ears, the gringo stood and saw Bajo standing there dazed, blood pouring out of a wound across his face.
“Bajo, tell everyone to grab a rifle and shoot that damned captain,” he shouted as he pointed toward the stern of the gunboat coming up on their starboard. If he could get his men to distract the sailors on the warship for just a moment, he could swim to the beach.
Several of the gang started shooting at the Canton as the gringo grabbed a shotgun lying on the deck and stumbled aft into the disintegrated ruins of the stern. Smoke was rolling out from below decks where the lamp oil cask had set alight the surrounding area. Intense heat from the flames burned his sensitive skin as he made his way through the wreckage and descended closer to the rising water. Glancing over, he saw that the commander of the gunboat was in full view, but it wasn’t Parker Terrington. Then he climbed down into what had been his cabin and felt the water around his feet.
The gunboat halted right alongside of them, the gringo looking up at her and grudgingly admiring the work of the other commander in getting his ship in precisely the correct position. His mind registered the blast of a doubled grapeshot broadside an instant before he felt the concussion sweep over his head as the gale of metal obliterated everything and everyone up on the main deck.
And then it got quiet, for the gringo could hear nothing, his eardrums having been imploded by the detonation above him. He tried to get up as the water rose above his waist but his head was dizzy, the spasming pain inside incredibly intense. He let the water take him off the deck as the ship settled downward, still holding the shotgun in a death grip in his right hand as he floated away, his eyes on the beach, the ringing in his ears making it all seem unreal.
Fifty lousy yards, you bastard, he swore to himself.
Stroking slowly with his left arm toward the beach, he looked up at the transom and stern gallery of the gunboat, her name Canton carved in large gilt letters below the ports. Thirty yards now, he thought as he felt the presence of someone above him and rolled to his left, bringing the shotgun up out of the water toward the gunboat’s stern.
He couldn’t believe it. His brother Parker was there, leaning out of the stern gallery port and saying something. Parker looked angry and was pointing his finger at him.
“Too late now, you worthless pompous ass!” Symons muttered as he pulled both of the shotgun’s triggers, sending two loads of buckshot the fifteen feet into Terrington’s face.
He dropped the shotgun and swam as hard as he could. The blacks had run away from the beach to the shacks, their faces peering at him from the windows as his feet found the muddy bottom, then got traction.
Just five more yards, he willed his pain-wracked body. Almost there.
***
The aftermath of the roar of the thirty-twos stunned everyone aboard Canton. One minute they were engaged in a deadly fight with desperate men, the next there was silence. Then the gun crews’ training reasserted itself and they mechanically went through the motions of reloading their guns.
Wake sto
od there, numbed by the blast, trying to contemplate the destruction they had just wreaked upon the other steamer. Every piece of wooden accoutrements—pin rails, cleats, hatch rails, binnacle, chart table, sheet traveler, everything—was gone from Diana’s main deck from amidships aft.
And no human being was left alive on that deck either.
Body parts, some unrecognizable, were scattered everywhere. No enemy was in sight. Wake saw the sailors of the Canton looking at him, wondering what to do next. There was no hesitation in his mind, for there might be some of the gang hiding below the other ship’s main deck.
“Depress muzzles and fire again down into her!” he said. The roar erupted immediately afterward.
As Wake walked aft to get a view of their position in the harbor, he stretched his jaws trying to get his hearing back. He suddenly felt drained and weak, wanting to just sit down—then he noticed Custen staring at him wide-eyed.
“They shot you!”
“What?” said Wake as he began to feel an ache in his left chest. He looked down and saw blood dripping from the sleeve cuff of his left hand and followed the discoloration to the shoulder of his uniform, which was covered in a dark stain. At that moment the pain hit him and he felt himself get disoriented as Custen reached for him. He saw Rork standing there too, holding a rifle and looking concerned, as Custen started to unbutton Wake’s tunic.
“I tried to warn you, sir,” Custen said. “They were aiming right at you. Here, sit down and we’ll get your coat off. Ah, it looks like a ricochet wound—not bad.”
The sound of a smaller blast interrupted. It was from the water directly aft and Wake turned to investigate, but Rork was already striding to the transom. Wake saw him peer over and down into the water below, shake his head sorrowfully, then steady his rifle on the railing and aim at something.
“I’m sorry, sir!” Ensign Noble cried out in dread, a smear of blood across his uniform, as he emerged from the after hatch and ran up to Wake. “I tried to get Captain Terrington to stay from the gallery ports. I did, sir. But he pushed me away and looked out the window.” The youngster was almost in tears he was so distraught.
A Dishonorable Few (The Honor Series) Page 29