Clash of Empires (12 page)

Thibault can almost imagine the shock on the British captain's face. The change in the frigate's behavior is immediate and desperate.

Sails swirl, ropes hiss through pulleys, riggers dance across spars. The frigate screws around to the northeast, spray flying from her bow as she slams into one wave, then another.

A cheer goes up from the sailors on the French ships as they see the frigate frantically trying to flee.

“She will try to outrun them,” Lavigne says.

“She must not get away, no matter what the cost,” Thibault says. “Or everything we have done is for naught.”

“She is well boxed in,” Lavigne says, standing next to the helmsman on the quarterdeck below them. “As long as she does not see through our subterfuge.”

If the British captain realizes that he is being ensnared by two unarmed cargo ships he will aim straight for them, raking them with his own guns before fleeing to the east.

The
Duc d'Angoulême
and the rest of the French fleet now come about, chasing after the frigate, cutting off her avenues of escape.

The sea is a beast, a wild, rough-skinned animal. It snaps and growls at the ships, tossing them about on its white-flecked back.

The
Duc d'Angoulême
drops into a sudden deep trough and smashes her way out of it with a jolt that sends shudders through the ship and a hard spray across the foredeck.

The deck lurches beneath Thibault's feet. The ship tosses and shudders and slams into mounting waves that feel as solid as rocky cliffs. Heading northwest, they were sailing before the wind, and now they are bashing their way into it. Thibault thinks of his girls, Mathilde, Valérie, and Odette, chained in cages on the barges. He worries about them. He thinks briefly of his wife, unwell, in the cabin below. He worries about her also.

He steps lightly down onto the quarterdeck, holding the railing for support.

“Captain Lavigne,” Thibault says, “if you commanded the British boat, what would you do?”

“I would strike my colors,” Lavigne says. “There is no chance of escape.”

“The British captain is not so timid, it would seem,” Thibault says. “If you had his spirit, what would you do?”

Lavigne ignores the insult and stares across the heaving water for a moment, analyzing the course of the frigate.

“He has been fooled by the
Canard
and the
Mouette
,” he says. “And so they have blocked his path to the east. If he turns south toward the
Magnanime
, she will rake the frigate from bow to stern before he can bring a single gun to bear. If he tries to skirt the
Magnanime
, he will come within range of our thirty-two-pounders, while we will still be well out of range of his little popguns. There is nothing he can do.”

“He is doing something,” Thibault says.

Another cheer has sounded from the crew as the frigate gives up the race with the
Canard
and the
Mouette
and comes about, heading back northwest.

“By now surely he is wondering how two men-o'-war can outpace his speedy frigate,” Lavigne says.

“He may wonder, but he has not yet grasped the truth,” Thibault says. “He turns from the imagined danger toward the real danger.”

The frigate remains on port tack, a bearing that will put her almost on a collision course with the mighty
Duc d'Angoulême
.

“Surely he cannot think to challenge a ship of the line,” Lavigne says. “We have a hundred and ten guns to his twenty-eight, and with a longer range and heavier ball. This little ship is David to our Goliath.”

“David defeated Goliath,” Thibault says.

“Not this time,” Lavigne says.

“Nevertheless this British captain does not yet think to surrender,” Thibault says.

The bow of the frigate, now running before the wind, surges through the waves, foam spraying into the air, at times almost concealing her hull. She veers slightly, heading directly across the bow of the bigger warship. On her single gun deck, the ports are open and the muzzles of the cannon protrude.

Already musketballs are cutting holes in the sails or embedding themselves in the deck of the
Duc d'Angoulême
. Puffs of smoke come from high on the masts of the frigate, obscuring the bright red uniforms of the British marines on the fighting tops. The crackle of musketfire is constant as French marksmen return the fire, as is the
thwack
of musketballs hitting sails, the
thwock
of them hitting wood, and occasionally a softer sound as the lead balls puncture human flesh.

“You should seek cover. As she crosses our bow she will rake us with her cannon,” Captain Lavigne says.

“Can we not turn with her? Broadside her?” Thibault asks.

“Ordinarily, that is what I would do,” Lavigne says. “But the barge is like an anchor at our stern. It stops us from turning quickly. The British captain has seen that, and intends to use it to his advantage.”

“Here she comes,” Thibault says.

“Everybody down!” Lavigne shouts, and the call is taken up around the ship. Sailors fling themselves to the deck, crouching or lying, seeking any shelter they can. To Thibault's eye there is no shelter sturdy enough to stop a cannonball at this close range. He remains standing, as does Lavigne.

The guns of the frigate belch flame and smoke as she crosses the bow, rippling from the front to the back. Wood shatters, canvas tears, blood sprays, and sailors scream as iron cannonballs tear through the length of the French ship's hull.

One high shot strikes the mainmast but it's only a glancing blow, veering off to the quarterdeck and decapitating the helmsman, not a meter from where Thibault is standing. The body of the man flies backward, an arc of blood spurting from his severed neck. A midshipman runs to take the wheel.

“I did suggest that you lie down,” Lavigne reminds Thibault.

“Yes, you did,” Thibault says.

Each cannon on the frigate has time for just one shot, then the British ship is past the bow of the French ship and turning to the southwest. Thibault looks to his left to see the
Montebello
close off the larboard side of the ship. The British ship will pass directly between them.

“This is suicide,” he exclaims. “She will come under our guns as well as those of the
Montebello
!”

“Her captain is not suicidal but brave,” Captain Lavigne says. “And damnably clever. We dare not fire lest we hit the
Montebello
. And the
Montebello
dare not fire lest she hit us. The frigate, however, can broadside us both as she passes.”

“He is after my dinosaurs!” Thibault thunders.

“He cannot know what is in those barges,” Lavigne says.

“He can guess,” Thibault says. “And a single well-placed cannonball could do irreparable damage. Fire your cannon, captain. A full broadside, as soon as the frigate is under your guns.”

“I cannot, sir,” Lavigne says. “Not without hitting the
Montebello
behind her.”

“Signal the
Montebello
to bear away,” Thibault says. “And do your best to miss her.”

“We can scarcely miss her at this range,” Lavigne shouts. “It will be murder. I will not—”

He stops, staring at the muzzle of Thibault's pistol, now pointed directly between his eyes.

“Do I need to relieve you of command?” Thibault asks.

Musketballs swish as they cut holes in the air around them. A nearby sailor drops, clutching a hand to his chest.

“Captain?” Thibault demands.

Lavigne draws himself up and turns abruptly to the sailing master. “Signal the
Montebello
to bear away. Gun crews prepare to fire. Upper decks, chain shot, aim for her masts. Lower decks, aim for her cannon.”

More musketballs cut splinters from the deck at their feet. A French marine tumbles from the fighting top and is caught up in the rigging, where he hangs, bleeding.

“That boat must not get near my dinosaurs,” Thibault screams.

The
Montebello
begins to turn, agonizingly slowly, the gap between the ships widening as the frigate sails a path almost exactly down the middle between the two large French warships.

The British ship fires as she comes, swathed in the smoke of her own cannon, through which reach arms of flame. Fists that are iron balls punch holes through the hull of the
Duc d'Angoulême
on one side and the
Montebello
on the other. The frigate is smaller than the French ships, and some of her cannon are angled upward. Cannonballs erupt through the deck. One, just a few meters in front of Thibault, hits a seaman in the small of his back, ramming him up into the air and over the side of the ship.

But now the frigate is under the French guns.

Thunder comes from below Thibault's feet as the larboard cannon fire in a fearsome broadside.

Chain shot, two cannonballs connected by a chain, slashes through the rigging of the frigate, tearing ropes and sails, smashing through spars. The mainmast topples like a tree, collapsing back onto the mizzenmast. The rigging is a twisted spider's web of tangled rope. The ship's wheel is a pile of kindling and the helmsman just a puddle of red. Her gun deck is a shattered mess of splintered wood. Cries and screams sound from within.

With just a single broadside at point-blank range the frigate has been turned from a fighting ship into an unsteerable, unsailable wreck.

“Ha! She did not expect that,” Thibault cries.

“Neither did the
Montebello
,” Lavigne says.

The
Montebello
's rigging is also badly damaged, from both British and French cannonfire. Her gunwales are shattered and men lie crying and dying on her deck.

“I warned you, sir!” Lavigne says.

“If you think I am pleased by this, you are mistaken,” Thibault says. “It was the price to protect my dinosaurs.”

The frigate slows to a drift, her sails in tatters, her masts in pieces, and her gun deck devastated. As the
Duc d'Angoulême
's gun crews reload, the frigate strikes her colors.

*   *   *

The frigate is the HMS
Antelope
. Her name adorns the stern of the remains of the ship that now lies alongside the
Duc d'Angoulême
, secured by boarding ropes.

Her surviving crew are locked in her own brig, or hog-tied in long rows belowdecks, all except the captain. Under the muskets of the French marines, he climbs up onto the quarterdeck and stands before Captain Lavigne. He bows.

Lavigne returns the bow but points to Thibault. “You salute the wrong person,” he says coldly. “It is General Thibault who has taken your ship. I merely steered the boat.”

The captain turns to face Thibault, taking in the ruined arm, the garish scars, and the blackened skin. If he is shocked he does not show it. He bows again. Thibault is quick to return the bow.

“I am General Marc Thibault of the Imperial French Army,” Thibault says. “Whom do I have the honor of addressing?”

“Lord Thomas Cochrane, captain of His Majesty's Royal Navy,” the captain says.

There is a sharp intake of breath from Lavigne. “The Sea Wolf,” he says.

“I should have guessed as much,” Thibault says. “A British hero.”

“You have heard of me?” Cochrane asks.

“Indeed,” Thibault says. “I have greatly enjoyed reading of your exploits aboard the HMS
Speedy
and the HMS
Imperieuse
, even though many of them were at the expense of my own countrymen.”

“I only do my duty to my God and to my country,” Cochrane says.

“As do we all,” Thibault says. “But some shine like the stars, while the rest of us can only bask in their radiance. It is an honor to make your acquaintance, sir.”

“Thank you,” Cochrane says. “And I congratulate you on your victory. I confess I had gambled that you would not fire on your own countrymen in the pursuit of my ship.”

“A poor bet,” Thibault says.

“I am pleased you think so highly of her,” Cochrane says. “She will make you a fine prize. I have commanded the
Antelope
for less than a year, but she has been good to me. She has always been a proud and lucky ship.”

“With a daring and wily captain,” Thibault says. “And a plan that nearly worked.”

“Not nearly enough,” Cochrane says. “I confess I did not see your trap before you sprang it, and I am still confounded as to how you maneuvered those two warships onto my stern.”

“The
Canard
and the
Mouette
are not men-o'-war,” Thibault says. “Merely cargo ships, lightly laden. They carry no cannon.”

“But…” The realization sinks in. Cochrane closes his eyes and lowers his head for a moment. “I could have escaped at any time, if only I had known.”

“If only you had looked a little more closely,” Thibault agrees.

“At risk of seeming discourteous, we must to business,” Cochrane says. “I have many wounded. Our surgeon was killed. I trust you will allow your surgeons to treat my men.”

“Alas, our surgeons are busy with our own wounded,” Thibault says.

“Of course. Then I ask that they treat my men as soon as they are able,” Cochrane says. “In the meantime, if you will release my ship's carpenters, I will have them start to repair the damage. I am afraid we will have to lose the mainmast, but she will sail well enough with the two remaining.”

“She is badly damaged,” Lavigne observes.

“Yet repairable,” Cochrane says. “And as I said, a good prize.”

“We have no need of prizes,” Thibault says. “Not even a proud and lucky ship such as the
Antelope
. Had you struck your colors earlier and left your ship undamaged we might have joined her to our fleet. But we have no time to stop for repairs.”