For Love of Country (14 page)

Richard broke the seal, unfolded the paper, and scanned the invitation. “You may indeed,” he said.

Cobb's gaze shifted beyond him, and Richard turned to see Agreen and Lawrence Brooke approaching. “Ah, there you are, Agee. I was wondering where you'd gone off to. And I'm glad to see you up on deck, Doctor.” He indicated the British officer. “This is Lieutenant
Edward Cobb, of His Majesty's ship
Invincible
. Lieutenant, I introduce you to my sailing master, Mr. Agreen Crabtree, and our ship's surgeon, Dr. Lawrence Brooke.”

Cobb clicked his heels together and bowed. “Delighted, I'm sure.”

“Lieutenant,” Agreen acknowledged. He thrust out his hand in greeting. Cobb hesitated a moment, then shook it firmly, as he did the hand of Lawrence Brooke, who said in formal fashion: “Welcome aboard, Lieutenant. We are honored by your presence.”

“The honor is mine, Doctor.” Another bow, then: “I must be getting back to my ship. We will send a boat for you this evening, Mr. Cutler. Good day to you, gentlemen.” He touched his hat, then turned toward the entry port.

Richard stopped him. “A word, if you please, Lieutenant.”

Cobb turned back. “Yes, Captain?”

“I have a favor to ask. A procedural point, actually. We've had a long voyage and my crew could do with some shore leave. How does one go about obtaining permission for shore leave?”

Cobb smiled. “Permission is not required, Mr. Cutler. Gibraltar is at your disposal. And as a former navy man, you may be interested to note that this is one of the few bases where the Royal Navy does not allow ‘wives and sweethearts' aboard a ship out of discipline. There's no need for such allowances,” he explained when Richard seemed not to comprehend. “Sailors here are free to take shore leave whenever they're off duty. There's no place for them to run to, you see, do they have a mind to desert,” he explained further. “As to your procedural point, I can verify from personal experience that you will find both the alehouses and the ladies of Gibraltar most accommodating.”

With that, he was off.

The prospect of spirits and loose women had not eluded Micah Lamont. “Might I inform the men of their shore leave, Captain?” Lamont asked, trying hard to mask his own anticipation.

“Yes, do. But make certain it's only half the crew at a time. And make certain everyone is back on board by the start of the second watch. I'm holding you responsible for that, Mr. Lamont. The men must understand that we are guests here. I will not tolerate disorderly conduct ashore. Anyone brought up for disciplinary action will have his privileges suspended.”

“I'll tell them, sir,” Lamont acknowledged. He saluted, more in appreciation of Richard's words than as a requirement. Richard had not pushed naval discipline that far aboard
Falcon
.

“What are your plans for the evening, Agee?” he asked more casually after Lamont had disappeared down a forward hatchway and Dr. Brooke had strolled forward to stretch his legs. “Are you going ashore?”

Agreen gave him a bewildered look. “Are you kiddin', Richard?
Me,
pass up an opportunity like this? You old married fart, don't you realize what's sittin' in some alehouse over yonder, just waitin' for a bloke like me? Damn right I'm going ashore.”

Richard grinned at that response.

“Yep,” Agreen went on in a quieter, absent sort of way, “I know
exactly
what's waitin' for me. Some good shore cookin', that's what. It took some doin', but I finally lured the good doctor out of his grotto. Reckon we'll go find us a place in town and while away the hours discussin' whatever it is that men like us discuss when forced t' make conversation with each other. It won't be doxies, though. Brooke doesn't seem t' have much interest in women. Even if he did, I doubt he could do much about it, if you catch my drift.”

Richard studied his friend. “You're not abstaining because of me, are you, Agee? I don't give a hoot in hell what you do.”

Agreen chuckled. “Because of
you,
Richard? I don't think so, matey. An' seein' as how you've got no qualms with any o' this, I suggest that after you've filled your belly with the fine food and wine your Royal Navy chums are serving up, and I've finally managed t' ditch Lawrence, you and I meet at some cathouse ashore. Don't matter which one. They're all pretty much the same. We'll find us a pretty little knob an' do the jig with her together, the way
real
shipmates do. I'll even pay the chippy if you think you're up to it, so t' speak.”

When Richard remained expressionless, Agreen laughed out loud and slapped him on the shoulder. “Ease your sheets a little, wouldja, Richard? I'm just kiddin' around! Enjoy yourself, and don't you worry about your sailing master. He's fixin' t' have a grand old time cavortin' ashore with the doctor!”

 

AT PRECISELY SEVEN that evening, the captain's gig from HMS
Invincible
slid alongside the yellow hull of the American schooner. A sailor standing in the bow caught a deadeye on the larboard main-chains with his boat hook and held the small boat steady. Up on deck, Richard stepped through the open entry port, then swung around and lowered himself into the sternsheets by way of a makeshift ladder secured to the schooner's side. Once aboard, he settled in next to the midshipman at
the tiller and waved to Pratt, Hobart, and Howland peering down at him from the bulwarks.

After exchanging the usual pleasantries with the coxswain, Richard sat in silence as the oarsmen rowed the boat over to the naval squadron's anchorage. Only the steady creak of oars rising and dipping, rising and dipping broke the silence. Richard took advantage of the lull to survey the western face of Gibraltar, now revealed to him by an evening sun streaking through broken clouds. Through the dissipating fog and mist he saw what appeared to be a gargantuan battle cruiser of mythical proportions pointing north, the magnificent height of the Rock looking like an old-fashioned poop deck rising high above the Mediterranean. There was even what seemed to be a ship's hull, a substantial wall running close to the water's edge from as far north as he could see all the way south past the fortress to Europa Point at the southern tip of the rocky promontory. Interspersed along the wall every fifty feet or so were clusters of star-shaped batteries housing cannon of various firepower standing in defense of official and private buildings of Spanish, British, and Italian construction. And, to his surprise, he saw Moorish construction too: holding a commanding position where a gentle slope gave way to a steep escarpment a third of the way up to the top of the Rock loomed a massive stone castle in a triangular shape resembling an Egyptian pyramid. Attached to the castle was a square-turreted redoubt replete with merlon battlements and a huge stone archway flanked on both sides by thick stone walls that zigzagged down along the embankment to the wall at the water's edge.

The coxswain followed Richard's gaze. “The Tower of Homage, sir,” he explained, his seasoned tone suggesting prior experience acting as tour guide to visiting dignitaries. “That's what we English call it. The Moors call it Al Qasabah. It was built in the fifteenth century after the Moors recaptured Gibraltar from the Spanish. Quite a sight, isn't it? The British governor lives on the top floor of the redoubt.”

“I'll be damned,” Richard marveled, awed by the sight and wondering what it must have cost the Spanish to finally wrest this fortress away from the Moors.

A glance to the right or left of the castle confirmed how heavily fortified Gibraltar was, and why the Spanish had failed during the Great Siege of 1779–83 to take back from the British what was, geographically if not by the Treaty of Utrecht, Spanish soil. All along the escarpment were natural caves of various sizes, giving the impression of an enormous, two-mile-long honeycomb of gun ports. The iron black of
cannon muzzles protruded everywhere like the dark tongues of unseen beasts lurking in their dark depths. In areas devoid of caves the British had erected additional gun batteries, armed to the teeth with 64-pounders—some larger, it seemed to Richard, if guns of such enormous size existed. And from his current vantage point out on the waters of Algeciras Bay, away from the dominance of the fortress and the sheer rock cliffs, he could see high up on the very peak of the Rock what he would have deemed to be impossible: silhouettes of mammoth cannon arrayed in back-to-back formation. One rank faced north toward Catholic Spain, the other south across the eight-mile Strait toward the empire of the Prophet: the North African realm of Islam.

When the coxswain ordered his crew to ease on their oars, Richard turned his attention to the ships attached to the Mediterranean Squadron lying at anchor dead ahead. All the ships he made out were frigates save for two: a 74 with a long white pennant fluttering from her foremast truck identifying her as the flagship; and another, a 64, Jeremy's ship. Richard was familiar enough with British ship construction to know that 64s had become the orphans of the Royal Navy: too large and cumbersome for frigate duty but not large enough in this modern age to take position in a line of battle during a major fleet engagement. Still, these ships held their own in special assignments, and the mere threat of her broadside—thirty-two guns firing mostly 24-pound shot, or roughly 750 pounds of iron per broadside—was enough to keep all but the mightiest of predators at bay. Compare that weight, Richard brooded, with
Falcon
's broadside: a puny 18 pounds.

The reception awaiting him aboard HMS
Invincible
was entirely in keeping with a Royal Navy ship. Once he had climbed the steep steps built into the frigate's tumble-home and was standing at the larboard entry port, a side party of ship's boys, dressed in finery from their polished buckled shoes to the clean white tips of their cotton gloves, piped him aboard, the high-pitched squeals of their bosun's whistles continuing until a petty officer gave a quick chopping motion with his hand and they ceased abruptly.

Lieutenant Cobb, there to greet him, snapped a crisp salute. “Welcome aboard, Mr. Cutler,” he said hospitably.

Richard returned the salute. “Thank you, Lieutenant.”

“Allow me to escort you aft, sir. Captain Hardcastle is eagerly awaiting you.”

Richard was eagerly awaiting his first meeting with Jeremy, too, but he could not resist giving the ship a quick once-over as he followed
Lieutenant Cobb aft toward the captain's cabin lodged beneath the quarterdeck. Not surprisingly, he found nothing even remotely in violation of the strict code of seamanship demanded by the Royal Navy. What did command his attention, and caused him to slow his pace, were the stubby 32-pound carronades mounted on traversable slides that he could see up through the open serpentine railing on the quarterdeck. They were the same sort of guns he had admired aboard HMS
Boreas
in Antigua. These and the long guns on the weather deck featured the new and more efficient flintlock firing mechanism set off by yanking a lanyard. This recent innovation in the British navy had reduced the linstock and powder quill to backup status in case a flintlock misfired.

Just then, a small, tail-less, brown creature with a furry white chest scampered out from beneath the quarterdeck overhang. It stopped abruptly at Richard's feet and stared up at him with an arrogant “what the hell are you doing aboard this ship” look. The creature then launched into a tirade of furious scolding chatter before wheeling about and scampering back whence it had come.

“There's a monkey on deck!” Richard shouted out incredulously to Lieutenant Cobb, who turned around to grin back at him. He realized how absurd his words must have sounded, but taken aback as he was, he didn't know what else to say.

“It's a rock ape, actually,” Cobb informed him. “They're from Morocco. Every ship in the squadron has one. They make interesting pets, or so I'm told.”

Richard joined Cobb under the overhang. “You could have fooled me,” he said, glancing warily to starboard as if expecting another assault. “I don't think that fellow likes me.”

“That fellow doesn't like anyone,” Cobb said.

If the sentry standing at ramrod attention before the captain's cabin found anything amusing in that exchange, his face did not show it. It remained as blank as the spotless white of his trousers and pipe-clayed belts, and the faultless blood red of his dress uniform coat. Two black chevrons on the lower sleeve identified him as a Royal Marine corporal. He snapped his sea-service musket to his side and banged its bronzetipped butt on the deck as the lieutenant approached.

“Captain Cutler of the American schooner
Falcon
to see the captain,” Cobb declared.

“Sir!” the sentry replied. He pivoted on his heels and knocked on the cabin door.

“Yes?” a voice called from inside.

“Captain Cutler to see you, sir,” the sentry announced. “Of the American schooner
Falcon,
just arrived.”

“Very good. Please show him in.”

“I shall leave you now, Mr. Cutler,” Cobb said, as the sentry opened the door and stepped aside. “I hope you enjoy your evening.” He gave Richard a final salute, which Richard returned.

“Mind your head, sir,” the marine corporal cautioned as Richard ducked into the grandeur of a post captain's day cabin. He heard the door close gently behind him as he entered the room.

“Richard! By God! How delightful to meet you after all these years!” Jeremy Hardcastle, decked out in the blue, gold, and white of a senior officer's dress uniform, rose from his chair at a small desk by the larboard galley windows and strode over with hand outstretched.

“Wonderful to meet you too, Jeremy.” Richard shook his brother-in-law's hand firmly. “Katherine has told me much about you. Be warned: she has you sitting high on a pedestal.”