The French Prize (24 page)

“Perhaps,
Citoyen
Renaudin, you are not as loyal to the
Directoire
as one might wish,” Bar
è
re replied, a thin veneer of calm over the rage and anxiety. “Perhaps this lack of cooperation might be of interest to Paris.”

Renaudin smiled. “Perhaps it would,” he agreed. “But first let me see if I can inspire the men to move a bit quicker.” He stepped forward and looked aloft. It was not fear of Bar
è
re or the
Directoire
that drove him, but rather a genuine sense of duty, and the understanding that his petty lack of cooperation was childish, no more.

“Gohier!” he shouted up to the boatswain, who was facing off with the captain of the maintop, gesticulating wildly to make whatever point he was trying to make. “Why in all bloody hell is that damned topmast not in place? What sort of whoreson incompetent blunderer are you? Get it up now, you miserable son of a bitch, or by God, I'll know the reason why! I will set that main topsail in twenty minutes and the halyard will be wrapped around your neck if it is not ready!”

The boatswain, Gohier, had been in the naval service long enough that he responded to such commands like a dog that has been trained with a stick, all thoughts of
Libert
é
,
É
galit
é
, Fraternit
é
quite forgotten. Renaudin wished that his second lieutenant, Ren
é
Dauville, was there to drive the work along. Dauville was a good officer and a thorough seaman, which, of course, was why Renaudin had sent him off in the launch. That, and because Bar
è
re would not have gone, for fear of some mischief in his absence.

Still, Renaudin's sharp words, in the old-school manner, inspired the boatswain and the others aloft to work at a less leisurely pace. Renaudin altered course to the northward and set the mizzen topsail, and half an hour later the main topsail went up, Gohier's neck well clear of the halyards.
L'Arman
ç
on
and her launch were on converging courses, and it was less than an hour after that that the big boat swooped up alongside the corvette's leeward side and Dauville scrambled up the boarding steps, his blue coat black with the spray they had taken over the launch's rail.

Dauville saluted Renaudin and began his report in the same instant that the wildly impatient Bar
è
re said, “Well,
Citoyen
, what do you have to say?”

“Gunfire to the northwest, sir,” Dauville said, directing his words to Renaudin and eschewing the “
Citoyen
” nonsense that he knew Renaudin hated on shipboard. “But not a sea fight, sir, I don't believe. Too regular, too measured. Three shots at a regular interval, a pause, three more, and then again.”

Renaudin nodded. Gunfire in battle was more chaotic, irregular. This sounded more like a salute, or a ship exercising the great guns. He turned to Bar
è
re and could not help but notice the look of satisfaction on his face. And relief.

“What do you think, Lieutenant?” he asked.

“I think this is our American,” he said. “I think we had best beat to quarters,
Citoyen
, and clear for action.”

 

17

This is damned tiresome
, Jack thought as he watched the men move with notable reluctance to the great guns, cast off the lashings, remove the tompions. The cook was particularly slow about his powder monkey duties, his surliness and distaste for the work evident in every shuffling step. Even Wentworth, the absurd bandages now removed from his hands, seemed to have lost his enthusiasm for ironic detachment.

Only Charles Frost retained his unbounded delight in running the exercise with the great guns. His rumbling voice, like a gun truck rolling across a deck, called out, “Cast loose your guns! Level your guns!” and the force of his words seemed to be the only thing pushing the men forward.

They ran out the guns, primed and pointed, fired and sponged on Frost's command. Every day since the wayward gun had been replaced, Frost had them at it, and for most of that time their interest had remained rather high. But the novelty was gone now, and even live firing was just one more chore in the never-ending rotation of chores that was the lot of the sailorman.

That is not to say that they had not improved in their gunnery, indeed they had improved quite dramatically. From the comedy of errors that was the very first exercise, the men had quickly picked up the rhythm of the work, the fast and orderly progression of loading and firing. These were able-bodied seamen for the most part, smart and competent men, the cream of the American carrying trade. Such a thing as gun exercise came natural to them, and soon they could load and fire as well as any man-of-war's men, or nearly so.

Jack had come on deck at first light determined that they would not exercise the great guns that day. The men had had enough of it and were making that clear with every disgruntled effort. What's more, the constant wreaths of smoke were playing havoc with the paint. The masts needed scraping and oiling, the number-one fore staysail had blown out a seam that called for restitching, and there was running gear to overhaul, but with the great guns nonsense added to the regular day's work and the effort required just to maintain their forward progress, there was never a moment for any of it.

“Good morning, Mr. Frost,” Jack said, crossing the deck to where his passenger stood looking out to sea. Frost was always respectful enough to keep to the leeward side of the quarterdeck when Jack was about, unless invited to the windward side.

“Good day, Captain, and a fine one, too, I reckon!” Frost said. His
joie de vivre
seemed not to be affected by any outside influence. Like some eternal flame it just burned on and on.

“So, Mr. Frost—” Jack began but Frost cut him off, or rather bowled him over, rhetorically.

“Forgive me, Captain, but I took the liberty of casting an eye over the charts, and if I do not mistake it we are entering into the Mona Passage now, are we not?”

“We are, indeed,” Jack said, feeling that old discomfort rising up.

“Notorious place, notorious,” Frost said. “It's like a funnel, do you see? American merchantmen just funneling through, and those damnable Jean Crapeau privateers hovering. Like vultures, I say. I think some extra exercise with the great guns is in order today, what say you?”

Jack said little. Frost's enthusiasm, his insistence, and mostly his close friendship with Oxnard left Jack relatively speechless, certainly too speechless to object. So, despite all earlier resolutions, he found himself informing Oliver Tucker that they would be starting the great gun exercise in the forenoon watch and continuing on until four bells in the afternoon watch, at least. Tucker, good mate that he was, said nothing but “Aye, sir,” and showed just the slightest hint of dismay.

Abigail
was sailing on a bowline, yards braced hard around, the deck steeply slanted, the ship heeled to the fresh breeze. That gave the men a hard pull as they heaved the loaded guns up to the ports, and soon they were sweating, smudged black with powder residue, and cursing, first under their breath, and soon quite audibly.

“Sponge out, sponge out well, there, Maguire, do you want to blow your damned hand off?” Frost shouted and a grumbling Maguire shoved his sponge in the bucket of filthy water and swabbed out the hot barrel once again.

The last of the rolling volley was still dying away when the masthead lookout called down, “Sail, ho!”

Sail, ho!
Jack felt a twist of emotion at those two simple words, words he had heard countless times before, but never so fraught as they were now. Perhaps it was nothing, another merchantman as worried about privateers as he was. Or a British man-of-war who might be looking to augment its crew with ostensible deserters shipping aboard a Yankee merchantman. Or a French privateer hunting for easy prey. Whatever it was, it would at least mean an end to the damned exercise with the great guns and that was one good thing.

“Stand by your guns!” Jack called, then, “Aloft, there, where away?” Jack had sent Lacey aloft, allowing him to skip his trick on the guns, over Frost's objection, because he wanted a good hand keeping an eye on the horizon.

“Nor'east, sir, just t'gan'sls is all I can see!” Lacey had been sent aloft with a glass, an unusual practice, but these were unusual waters

Northeast. She was to windward of the
Abigail
, and still hull down, which put her a good ten or fifteen miles away. Jack stared off to the northeast, not in any hope of seeing her, but just as a place to focus his eyes as he considered this.

“Do you make out her course?” Jack called aloft.

“Looks to be she's making easting, sir,” Lacey called out, “but it's damned hard to see for certain.”

Biddlecomb thought about that.
Easting
 … They were on something like a parallel course. What this unknown ship did in the next hour or so would tell them volumes. “If she makes any change of course, you sing out, Lacey, you hear?” Biddlecomb shouted aloft, and was greeted with, “Aye, sir!”

“Mr. Frost, pray secure the guns, that's all the noise we need to make this morning,” Jack said.

“Indeed, sir, indeed,” Frost said, and with a word the men sponged out, rammed powder and shot home, reinserted tompions, heaved the guns up the deck, and secured them, loaded and ready for action, staring out over the empty horizon.

The time crept on, five bells, six bells, seven bells, and never a word from Lacey, save for the occasional report that the strange sail had not altered course. Its course, however, was not what Lacey had first thought. The stranger was not sailing parallel to
Abigail
but somewhat lower, meaning that if both vessels kept on their present track, and the other ship was faster than
Abigail
, then they would ultimately converge at some point far out ahead.

Wentworth appeared on deck, pretty much the last person Jack wished to see, but there was something odd in his demeanor, not the usual detachment, but an engaged quality that made Jack wonder if he had been drinking again.

“Captain Biddlecomb, what news of this stranger?” he asked. His tone was friendly, the note not quite right, like someone speaking a foreign language in which he was not entirely fluent.

“Nothing yet, Mr. Wentworth, nothing yet. Sailing roughly the same direction as us, no change of course or sail.”

Wentworth nodded, frowned, and seemed to consider this information. “I see,” he said. “And do you attach any significance to this?”

Jack allowed himself an audible sigh. “Well, it would seem he's not chasing us, which could rule out his being a privateer. He's also not running, which means he has no fear that we may be a privateer. It could be a British frigate, or a sloop-of-war. I hope you have your papers handy, Mr. Wentworth, I should hate to see you pressed into the Royal Navy.”

“You would delight to see me pressed into the Royal Navy, Captain Biddlecomb, but, alas, my papers are quite in order.”

“Well, then, if we have no fear of losing you to King George, we shall press on and see what becomes of this.”

They did press on, another fifteen minutes, until Jack felt he must see this strange ship for himself or explode with the pressure of curiosity. He pulled off his hat and coat and took his best glass from the binnacle box. “Mr. Tucker, I am going to the masthead to have a look,” he said.

“Very well, sir,” Tucker said. Jack moved toward the main shrouds on the weather side but made it no further than the mizzen fife rail when Wentworth stopped him.

“Captain … you are climbing up the mainmast, I take it?”

“Yes,” Jack said, unsure where this was going.

“Might I join you?” Wentworth asked, in a more humble and hesitant tone than ever Jack had heard him use before.

Jack took a long look at Wentworth before answering. He was not sure what he was seeing here. Wentworth, the bored young man of privilege, quite uninterested in anything of a nautical bent, anything that smacked of a trade, now asking to risk his silk stockings on the rough, tarred shrouds? Jack did not much care for Wentworth's company, on deck or in the rigging. On the other hand, he saw a most excellent opportunity to let Wentworth humiliate himself.

“Well, Mr. Wentworth, a climb aloft will do your fine clothing no favors. Nor have I time to see to your safety and instruction.”

“The clothes are of no concern, I have more,” he said, and Jack could not help but think that the suit that Wentworth was about to ruin likely cost more than the wages that any of the foremast hands would earn on that voyage. “As to instruction, I'm sure I will be fine if I just follow you, and do as you do.”

Jack thought about this for a moment more. “Very well,” he said. “But I have no time to slow and wait for you.”

“Pray, do not wait for me. I'll be right behind. In your wake, I believe is how you tarpaulins put it.”

Jack grabbed on to the aftermost main shroud, pulled himself up on the pin rail, and swung outboard. He stepped up on the stretcher, hands on the thick shrouds, and headed up the ratlines, moving as quickly as he could, faster, he hoped, than Wentworth could follow.

He reached the futtock shrouds that angled outboard to the edge of the maintop, paused and glanced down. He hoped to see Wentworth struggling at the bottom of the shrouds, or, in a perfect world, frozen in terror halfway up. But far from struggling, Wentworth was directly below Jack and waiting for him to proceed, and Jack nearly kicked him in the face by accident.

“Mind yourself here, this is a bit tricky,” Jack said to cover his surprise as he grabbed on to the futtock shrouds and made his way up, waiting for the ship to roll to leeward and give him that bit of momentum that sent him up and over the edge of the maintop.