Broken Wing (27 page)

With strong winds and easy sailing, they made Alexandria in twenty-three days, stopping along the way to relieve two French merchantmen of their cargo, swelling their coffers with African diamonds, gold, and Mediterranean coral. The return trip was more difficult and less lucrative, but no one complained. With the hold stuffed full of riches and plunder, no one was interested in risking battle. The weather was getting rougher, and it looked like an early autumn. It was time to go home.

Greeting several British warships, dodging a few French ones, and keeping clear of any Barbary corsairs, they fought against strong headwinds all the way, and it was the end of September before they approached the North Algerian coast. Five days out of Gibraltar, the lookout called down from the crosstree, having sighted a sail just over the horizon. It was a large French three-decker in hot pursuit of a smaller vessel. She was a formidable-looking ship with two rows of cannon bristling from her sides, and three masts towering close to two hundred feet in the air. Maintaining a respectful distance, they came about to watch the chase.

“You are watching alarming inexperience or gross stupidity, Gabriel, or perhaps just the tragic result of years of French inbreeding. Tell me why,” Davey asked, leaning back against the rail.

“Because he’s following her into the shallows
where he doesn’t belong, making a good eight knots under full sail, and he will very likely run aground.”

“Aye, that he will. It’s not well charted here. What should he be doing?”

“He should put about and head for open water,” Gabriel said with a snort. “Failing that, he should have leadsmen in the bow, calling out the depth as he goes.”

Davey nodded, satisfied, and then leaned forward, poking Gabriel in the shoulder, suddenly alert, “Look close then, lad. There she goes.” They watched with interest as the giant ship shuddered and ground to a stop, stuck atop an uncharted reef. The little ship she’d been chasing came about and darted away, quickly disappearing over the horizon. “Now I wonder what cargo she’ll be carrying, cousin,” Davey mused with a wicked grin. “She smells like a pay ship to me.”

Gabriel smiled, pleased and surprised as he realized Davey
was
his cousin now, by marriage. The thought had never occurred to him before. “I shouldn’t think it would be wise to annoy her, Davey. She looks to have upwards of sixty guns.”

“Oh, no doubt she does, my boy. She’d blow us clear out of the water. But observe carefully. What do you think her captain, and I use the term lightly, is up to now?”

Gabriel took the glass and surveyed the activity aboard the trapped vessel for several moments. “He’s crowding on sail, hoping to push her over the shoal no
doubt, but he only seems to be driving her farther onto the rocks.”

“Indeed, indeed,” said Davey, with a grin. “And next, my child, if he proves true to form, he will try to lighten her. He will order his fresh water pumped out, and if that doesn’t work he’s likely to cut away his foremast and—”

“Jettison his guns,” Gabriel finished for him.

“Precisely, my dear. And there he’ll sit, unable to fight or flee. It’s worth the wait to see, don’t you think?”

The next morning brought a sirocco wind from the Libyan Desert to the southeast. Warm, moist, and oppressive, it was accompanied by a fog so thick they couldn’t see past two miles. “There’s something wicked coming our way,” Davey said to his lieutenants. “See that everything’s stowed tight and prepare for rough weather.”

By midmorning the fog had lifted, dispersed by the steadily mounting winds, revealing a lowering slate-gray sky. The French warship was still visible, hung up on the reef, but she’d kept her cannon, and it looked like the wind and mounting waves would soon have her free. “Well, lads,” Davey shouted. “It was a nice thought, but the good Lord protects drunkards and fools, and doubtless her captain is both. There’ll be no sport for us here, and I’m not liking what’s in the wind. There’s a storm coming and we’re going to need some sailing room. Turn her about, reef the main, and
mount the trysails, gentlemen. It’s time for us to go home.”

By late morning, the wind had grown stronger on the port side, and the
L’Espérance
was lurching and swaying amidst tremendous breakers, listing dangerously to starboard. They were making painfully slow headway against the wind when the lookout spotted four more ships to the south, heading fast toward the grounded ship.

“Looks like two gunboats, a frigate, and a galley, Davey,” Gabriel said, fighting to maintain his balance on the heaving deck as he examined them through the glass. He watched as three of the ships continued steadily toward the man-of-war, while the galley lingered in the rear. They could hear shouting now, and the distant thunder of cannon fire and the whistling of shot as the gunboats closed in on the beleaguered French vessel.

Nudging Davey, Gabriel passed him the glass as the galley slowed, stopped, and then gradually came about. She flew a broad black pennant emblazoned with a silver crescent and scimitar, off the main masthead. Mainsails reefed, using her topsails and two banks of oars, she was moving through the water at an amazing speed, heading straight toward them, the sound of steady drumming, faint, but discernable through the din.

“Algerine pirates,” Davey announced. “Let’s hope the rest stay busy with our French brethren, and see if
we can’t raise a little more sail.”

“We’re at peace with them, are we not?” asked Willy McMaster, the second lieutenant. “We have a pass.”

“Oh, aye, lad. That we do, but yon galley does not appear to be friendly. I doubt her captain is braving the storm to come for tea and a chat. Alliances shift as quickly as the wind in these parts. Who’s to say if it’s still any good, or if their captain will care to read or respect it, particularly if he sees what’s in our hold? I’ve no taste for slavery. We’ll run, and if we’re outpaced, then we’ll fight, and if we lose and any survive, why then we will take a very great snit, wave our papers, and sternly demand an apology.”

By midafternoon they were battling gale-force winds and monstrous waves, and they had hardly moved at all. Creaking, groaning, and heaving like a living thing, the
L’Espérance
sank beneath the long swells only to rise again, white foam exploding, erupting over her bow as the sky ripped open and the howling wind drove squalling sheets of blinding rain in black swathes across the deck.

The galley still followed them, tossing precariously, but steadily gaining ground. The French warship, battered, limping, and listing badly to one side, had finally broken free. Clumsy at the best of times, she was in far too close, leaving her little room to maneuver, and the seas were now so high she was unable to open her lower gun ports. The vigorous
cannonading continued back and forth, rumbling in the distance. She’d just fired off two broadsides from her upper decks when the sky was rent by a deafening roar and a brilliant flash of light. She shuddered from stem to stern and exploded, sending masts and spars and splintered timbers, cannon and burning bodies, hurtling through the air.

The guns fell silent, and the roar of the storm faded into insignificance. The preternatural quiet that followed was split only by the agonized screams of those few who’d survived the explosion. What was left of the mangled warship was still visible, flames and oily black smoke roiling from its blackened hull, licking against the turbulent sky as if fed by the winds and the driving rain. It was a hellish scene. “Poor bastards,” Davey said. “They must have lost their magazine.”

“Shall we go back? Look for survivors?”

“There’s no point, Gabriel, even if we could safely turn around. The corsairs will fish out any survivors. They’re worth more to them alive than dead. Our main concern now is to weather this storm and pull away from that galley. Gather the officers on the quarterdeck, if you please. We have work to do.”

The officers assembled quickly, faces grim. Many of the crew were still stunned, awed by the force of the blast and horrified at the tremendous loss of life. “We have a problem, gentlemen,” Davey said, raising his voice to be heard above the tempest, pointing to the galley still making its way determinedly in their
direction. “As you will have noticed, yon galley has been gaining on us all day. They have the advantage of movement in this blasted storm. They have the use of their oars and can row directly into it.
We
are forced to tack before the wind, each time chancing that a strong gust might heel us over. Their captain cares not if his oarsmen drown. They are slaves and expendable. He will keep after us. They want our cargo, they want our ship, and they want our asses on those benches.”

“I’ve heard they have other uses for our asses, if we be comely enough,” one of the men shouted, prompting loud guffaws and lewd remarks.

“Aye, well, I’ve often thought that your ass is your best feature, Robbie, my love. You’re welcome to launch over the side and try to arrange an assignation. No doubt, you’d have better luck with them than you do with the ladies, but here’s the thing,” Davey said, serious now, waving down their laughter. “As things stand, I calculate she’ll be upon us within the next two hours. We’re beset by pirates
and
this bloody storm. The cannon are no use to us now. That galley’s too low in the water for them to do any damage to her decks. I reckon they outnumber us, two to one. Not impossible odds, but discretion is the better part of valor, gentlemen, so here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to lighten this ship and raise more speed, and we’re going to prepare for battle. I want six of our cannon jettisoned immediately. I want every man armed and prepared to fight, with muskets, cutlass, and boarding
pikes at the ready, and I want our best sharpshooters stationed at the top and the crosstrees, lashed in tight, mind. Look sharp now, men. Let’s get it done!”

Gabriel made his way to the lower deck to supervise and help with the cannon. Bent low and struggling to maintain his balance on the slippery planking, his attention was caught by Carlos Estaban, a grizzled Portuguese petty officer who’d joined them at Calais. Garrulous and affable, he was bent over the portside, heaving up the contents of his breakfast. In the next moment the ship, battered by the storm, heeled to the left. A wave of foaming water flooded across the deck, and Carlos was gone.

Gabriel blinked, blinded by the salt spray, and then he saw him, clinging desperately to the rail. Sliding and scrambling across the tilted deck, he lunged for the terrified man, grasping his sodden collar, bracing against the rail to hold him as the water swirled waist-deep around them, knowing that if he let him go, there’d be no way to go back for him in the storm. He’d be lost.

As the
L’Espérance
struggled gamely to right herself, Gabriel gripped his sodden companion tighter, and began hauling him back over the rail, but the sea was not about to let loose what she had claimed as her own. As the ballast shifted to the right in the mountainous swells, they were pummeled by a mighty wave that flooded the decks again, tearing loose one of the cannon from the men who were struggling to
control it. It careened down the steeply tilted deck toward them, stopping with a sickening crunch, pinning Gabriel, snapping his forearm, crushing his ribs, and snatching at his coat, before crashing through the rail into the treacherous waters below, taking both of them with it.

Gabriel struggled frantically to free himself as the cannon plummeted into the inky depths. Ignoring the grinding pain, he struggled free of his coat. Escaping the deadly anchor that was pulling him to his death, he struck for what he prayed was the surface, suffocating, retching, and straining to hold his breath as his lungs rebelled and painful lights sparked and flickered at the edge of his vision.

He broke the surface, disoriented, lungs heaving, gasping for air, sickening pain jolting through him with each precious breath. He couldn’t see a thing. He was completely alone, adrift among the swells. Carlos was gone, and so was the ship, and the world seemed eerily peaceful and silent. Then he caught a glimpse of her in the distance, surging up from a trough gushing water from all sides. He’d feared that she’d been wrecked and he felt a wave of relief that she hadn’t gone under. It was followed by a stab of panic as he realized that even if they knew he was gone, there wasn’t a thing they could do to help him.

Gripped by intense, raw-edged pain, he fought against the black despair threatening to engulf him, focusing all his concentration on staying afloat and
surviving from one moment to the next. He caught sight of
L’Espérance
again, about three hundred meters off now, fading into the horizon, still battling the swells. There was no sign of the galley that had been chasing her. He continued to watch her; he had no idea how long, plunging into the abyss and somehow rising, until eventually she disappeared from sight.

He was tiring now, every movement, every breath, an exquisite torture as his broken ribs ground ragged in his chest. His arm was bent at an obscene angle, jagged bone exposed, sending sharp thrills of agony coursing through him as he paddled to stay afloat. He hoped there were no sharks about. That would be a damned unpleasant way to go. He had thought himself inured to pain, long since, but his hubris was being strictly adjusted. Well, at least, it was keeping him awake. If he fell asleep, he would slip between the waves within moments. It amused him, somewhat, that after fighting most of his life to get to sleep, he would spend what little of it was left trying to stay awake.