Sails on the Horizon: A Novel of the Napoleonic Wars (19 page)

Charles thought about this for a moment in silence. What should he do when the cutters came within range? The brig he could have, but he didn’t want her as a consolation prize. He wanted at least one of the privateers as well. More to the point, what would the cutters do when the
Lomond
was in a position to open fire? It was obvious to all that he would be on them long before they could weather the point. Why hadn’t they left the brig behind already and fled?

Perhaps they weren’t planning to flee. The two cutters and their captive were still about three miles away, downwind and slightly ahead of the
Lomond.
On their present course he judged they would come alongside the brig in about a half-hour’s time.

“Alter course two points to windward, if you please, Mr. Tillman,” Charles ordered. “We’ll take a parallel course until we’re well in front of them.”

Tillman relayed his instructions to the quartermaster, then asked, “What are you thinking, sir?”

“I’m thinking that we can outsail that brig on any point of the wind. It’s the cutters we need to worry about. If they let us get ahead of them, which they’ll have to if they’re going to stay with their prize, we’ll drop down and squeeze them against the point or force them to fight.”

Tillman looked at him, then back at the enemy ships. “They’ll abandon her as soon as they see what we’re up to,” he said. “They have to.”

“They might,” Charles agreed. “But I want to see what they do. We get the brig either way. Maybe they’ll do something foolish.” He didn’t really think the cutters would do anything foolish. He watched them closely as the
Lomond
’s sails were braced around and she settled on a nearly parallel course, about two miles to windward. They were easily reaching on the three craft. No, he corrected himself, the
Lomond
was overtaking the brig; the other two could shoot ahead whenever they chose to. Why hadn’t they done so already? The
Lomond
would soon be in a position to run down on the cutters and open fire. He didn’t think that the Frenchmen, with their lightly armed and thin-skinned craft, would risk a broadside-to-broadside pounding. Their strengths were quickness in the stays and lightning speed. No, if they chose to fight, they would do something unexpected—suddenly reverse course, or tack and try to take the weather gauge. And there were two of them, they might divide, one occupying Charles’s ship while the other maneuvered to cross her bow or stern to rake him. Each of the cutters probably carried a larger crew than the
Lomond.
Given half an opportunity, one or the other would try to run alongside and board.

The
Lomond
was nearly abreast of the leading cutter. Charles wasn’t sure what the privateers would do, but he knew they would do it soon. “Prepare to alter course to south by east, Mr. Tillman. Steer to close within long range of the leading cutter.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” Tillman responded, fairly alive with excitement now that the action was about to begin. The
Lomond
seemed to have every advantage.

“And Mr. Tillman, keep the hands at the braces; we may not stay our new course long.”

“Yes, sir,” Tillman answered, nodding his understanding. “Hands to the braces, lively there.” To Wilson at the wheel he said, “Port your helm, steer south by east.”

Charles felt the rudder ease and the ship settle onto an easier course, with the wind more over her stern as the yards came around. She quickly began to pick up speed, slicing across the chop diagonally toward a point some distance in front of the enemy and their prize, but still in position to retain the all-important weather gauge. He put his glass to his eye and watched intently for any sign of the privateers’ reaction. He didn’t have to wait long. Almost immediately, he saw the tiny figures of men on the shrouds of the leading privateer racing aloft to add more sail. Shifting the telescope to the second cutter, he watched her mainsail momentarily thrown into confusion as it swung hard around. The cutter tacked with incredible nimbleness, seeming to rotate on her keel, showing first the diminishing profile of her starboard side, then her stern, and finally her port side as she reversed course from south to north. Just for an instant Charles could read the name painted below her taffrail:
La Petite Claudette.
As soon as she had gathered way on her new course, she hauled her sails closer still and began to angle into the wind. The brig, he noted without surprise, continued on her own slow, now lonely course as before.

“We could run down and retake the prize,” Tillman offered. “They’ve abandoned her.”

“No,” Charles said. “That’s what they want us to do.” The privateers’ plans were clear. The brig was being offered as bait while the two cutters worked separately to windward. If the
Lomond
went for the brig, they would circle around and attack from either side, with the wind at their back. He surveyed the relative positions of the enemy ships. They were very fast, even faster than he had anticipated, and were already well on their way to taking the weather gauge. Not a moment was to be lost. “We will tack directly,” he said, his throat feeling suddenly dry. “We will close with the northernmost cutter before she gets to windward of us.”

Charles stood balanced on the balls of his feet with his hands clenched firmly behind his back as the orders were shouted, the yards pulled around and the helm spun hard over. Tacking into the wind was quicker but riskier than wearing. It was a gamble they had to take. His stomach muscles tensed as the
Lomond
’s bowsprit turned in a tight arc toward the wind, her bow kicking spray over the forward decking in fine white clouds. The rate of the turn slowed painfully the nearer she came to the wind. If she missed her stays and fell off, they would have to gather her back up and then wear around in the opposite direction. By then both cutters would already be well to windward.

The
Lomond
came into the eye of the wind and seemed to balance there with her sails aback, booming and pounding in confusion as if trying to make up their minds. Charles held his breath as the bow inched sluggishly across. “Hold her, hold her,” he muttered, speaking more to himself than the quartermaster. Then she was across. “Braces there, tight up!” he shouted. Turning to the lieutenant, he said, “Keep her as close to the wind as she’ll lie.” Tillman grinned in response, his eyes wide with excitement.

Charles turned his attention to the
Claudette,
about a mile distant off the port bow. A large part of her copper bottom showed as she heeled well over, her mainsail pulled hard as a board and her cutwater kicking regular puffs of spray over her bows as she sliced seemingly effortlessly across the chop. She was a beautiful sight, a thoroughbred galloping over the waves, all purpose and urgency. The
Lomond
had little of her elegance and style, but Charles noted that his own deck was steeply enough canted as she heeled as to make it difficult to climb from starboard to port. Leaning on the lee rail for support, he studied the Frenchman closely. She was laying perhaps half a point closer to the wind than the
Lomond
and making better speed while doing it. Their courses were slowly converging, and Charles could almost see the point on the sea, as real as if it were marked in ink, where one ship would cross the bow of the other. It was vitally important that the crossing ship be the
Lomond.

He looked over his shoulder and saw that the second privateer was well to the south, four or five miles at least, but had turned north and was pursuing at a furious pace across the wind. It all depended on which of the northernmost ships,
La Petite Claudette
or the
Lomond,
reached the imaginary spot in the ocean first, and which crossed the other’s bow. If the Frenchman won, the
Lomond
would be forced to fall off the wind to bring its guns to bear and avoid being raked. If his ship wasn’t crippled in the initial encounter, he would then have to deal with both cutters, both to windward, acting in concert. If properly handled, they would have every advantage. One at a time, he was confident the
Lomond
’s heavier broadside could defeat them. Both acting together, with one or the other of the nimble ships threatening his stem or stern, was not a prospect he relished.

His eyes were fixed on the
Claudette,
now even closer off the starboard bow. It would be close, by God, it would be close. He glanced upward at the rigging for what seemed like the hundredth time since the race began. Every yard was braced tight, every sail taut and hard. He saw no telltale flapping on their leading edges to indicate that she was too close to the wind, but there were tiny ripples that indicated she could go no further. There must be something he could do to improve her trim, to give her just one extra fathom of speed.

“I think we’ll hit her midships,” Tillman interjected, a certain awe in his voice. Charles had forgotten that the lieutenant was standing next to him by the rail. “Either that or she’ll come and board us. Don’t know why she doesn’t lay off and run.”

“For the same reason we don’t,” Charles answered. “She wants us, that’s why. All she has to do is get to windward. When the other cutter catches up, one or the other will board and carry us by main force. Run out the port-side battery.”

“The larboard guns, sir? You mean starboard. If we engage, she’ll be to starboard.”

“No, I mean port-side. Hauling their weight outboard will stiffen the ship a little and give the keel just a bit more bite. Every foot to windward will help. When that’s done, have the starboard guns double shotted but not run out.”

Tillman shouted the orders and the port guns were hauled laboriously up the steeply canted deck until they were snug against the bulwarks and secured in place. Charles bitterly wished he’d thought of it earlier. The ships were closing, almost within musket range. It did indeed look as if there would be a collision. One of them was going to crash into the side of the other, it was almost certain. What then? Both ships might lose their masts, more probably the frailer-built cutter. The Frenchman would probably try to board straightaway if he could. Was it a chance Charles was willing to take? Was it a chance the
Lomond
should take? He decided it wasn’t. The odds would be better if he wore now to bring his guns to bear and hope to cripple the privateer. If that failed he would have to trust his luck in an open-sea fight against both cutters.

“It’s no good,” he said to Tillman. “Prepare to lay off. We’ll try to rake her as we pass her stern.”

“But, sir!” Tillman pleaded, “we can’t. The Frenchie might still decide to turn away. We’d be giving up.”

Charles turned to the lieutenant, prepared to order him to do what he was told, when something out of the corner of his eye caught his attention. The
Claudette
’s jibs and mainsheet began to shiver, then flog. She was only a half-cable’s distance and either she had tried to turn a little closer to ensure she crossed the
Lomond
’s bow safely, or perhaps the
Lomond
’s twin pyramids of canvas had momentarily taken away her wind. Either way, the Frenchman was suddenly in disarray, her mainsail flailing and banging like cannons. “Good Lord, she’s in irons. She’s in irons!” Tillman shouted.

“Belay that order,” Charles barked. “Wilson, lay off a point.” To Tillman he said, “Run out the starboard guns and prepare to heave to.”

The
La Petite Claudette
’s sails slapped in useless confusion as she lost way. She was momentarily almost dead in the water and out of control as her head began to fall off with the wind.

“Steady, boys, steady,” he shouted to the men crouched at their guns. “We’ll give her a broadside she won’t soon forget.”

The
Lomond
seemed to be racing down on her prey. The Frenchman continued to turn helplessly, her bow pushed by the wind. Now she was broadside to the waves, still turning, her stern showing. The
Lomond
would cross that stern at pistol range or less, fifty feet, no more.

“Back the fore mainsail,” he shouted. Then, “Fire!”

The bark of the starboard six-pounders hurled the guns inboard on their carriages as one. Charles smiled to himself; compared to the old
Argonaut
’s thunderous broadside it wasn’t much, but then they weren’t dueling with two- and three-decked ships of the line. Thick gray-black smoke temporarily hid the
Claudette
from view except for her mast. A wild cheer broke out on the
Lomond
’s decks.

“Silence! Reload,” he ordered. “Canister on top of round shot.”

Her backed mainsail acting as a brake, the
Lomond
slowed almost to a stop, drifting downwind on the cutter. As the smoke quickly blew clear, Charles could see the damage his guns had done. Several ragged holes just under her counter and—he looked closer to be sure—her rudder hanging uselessly at an awkward angle beneath. Her mast still stood and the mainsail began to fill. She could still flee downwind but had no hope of beating back until her rudder was repaired. The quicker gun crews were just now hauling the cannon back out, ready to fire.

“Fire as you bear,” he ordered.

Orange flame stabbed across the gap. Above the smoke, he watched as the
Claudette
’s mast teetered, then fell in a great arc over the side.

“That’s done it,” Tillman observed.

“Have the guns reloaded and run out,” Charles said. “But don’t fire them. We’ll see if she strikes.”

As the smoke cleared away, the French privateer lay dead in the water, rudderless, her mast half in the sea. A figure appeared at what was left of the taffrail shouting something in French and waving a French flag, which he promptly threw over the side.

Charles lifted his hat in salute across the span. “Send Sergeant MacPherson and his marines over to take command of her. Also the carpenter to survey her damage.” He turned toward the rail and looked for the second privateer. She was barely a speck on the horizon, running southward with all sail set.