05-29-2007, 12:41 AM
This is my latest short story. Tell me what you think.
America Expects Every Man Will Do His Duty
World War III. Armies of men have prepared for it, struggling for mastery of the global theatre the instant WWII ended; millions have prayed that it would never darken the future; and thousands of writers have used it as the subject of their novels. Yet no author could describe the atrocities of the third world war, and even the ancient writers of Christendom with their hands guided by the Holy Spirit itself would drench their new-written pages with tears as they recorded the horrors man inflicted upon his fellow man. Whole continents were scorched clean with atomic bombardment, and technology, all technology, succumbed to the electromagnetic pulses that surged through the planet. Earth staggered under the fury of the war and countless millions died in battle, while millions more collapsed under the ravages of disease and illness that medicine could not cure. Famine ravaged the survivors as they fought with all their minuscule strength to get the cursed soil to give birth to food, however mutated it might be, and they were preyed upon by the animals they once knew as servants and friends. The oceans offered little more than a temporary abatement of hunger in exchange for brutal, backbreaking work, but it was enough for men to die as they farmed the tainted waves.
It was hope that kept them moving, kept them struggling forward with heads bowed down and muscles screaming in agony, their stomachs cramped from starvation. Hope that kept the survivors from cannibalism; hope that kept civilization intact. The United States had suffered the worst, and yet it was the greatest chance for returning the world to its former glory. Where tanks had rumbled through the streets, shattering the skyscrapers of New York City, groups now gathered to figure out ways of resurrecting technology of any level. The electromagnetic pulses that coursed through the world for an unending week had ruined computers and all other electronics, and the nuclear blasts that caused the pulses had destroyed the infrastructure capable of building new hardware, taking the tools with it. Yet there was hope that, with the limited amount of resources available, the machinery could be rebuilt, setting in motion the upward spiral that would return them to their previous lives.
There was a great discordant note that boomed throughout the world. One nation had forgone its chance at resurrection in favor of great military power. Their machinery, their foundries, their industries had been as shattered as the rest, but rather than rebuild them, they instead built ships of a former age, armed with technology not used in battle for centuries, and they struck out with bitter venom. Neighboring countries fell instantly, incapable of defending themselves against even the most rudimentary weapons. So it was that France, led by a man descended from an illegitimate son of the formidable Napoleon Bonaparte, made its mark upon the tattered European continent. French armies marched outwards from every border, annexing nations that could do little more than surrender in hopes of survival and who soon found themselves conscripted into the ranks that made their unstoppable way outward, pressing south to Italy, north to Germany, and east toward Russia.
Resistance began to show its face, and the army's inexorable march began to slow, first in Russia where the brutal winters held them at bay, and then in Turin where a hastily-assembled militia bared their teeth and drew blood. As his armies ground to a halt, the Emperor of France turned his focus across the Channel to France's almost ancestral enemy, England. With the United Kingdom under his thumb, there would be no resistance against his navies, and America would have no choice but to bow down before him. Within a very short period of time then, French warships began building at Le Havre and Brest in greater quantities, crewed by volunteers who, spurred on by the Emperor's passionate speeches, lusted for France's dominance over every other nation, assembling at Cherbourg to begin their bloody strike against the feeble United Kingdom.
Admiral Alfred Johnson rested his telescope at his side and shook his head, his sparse white hair tossed by the ocean wind that left the tang of salt on his lips and stinging in his eyes as he stared into the Atlantic from Portsmouth.
“Have you heard His Majesty's orders?” he asked of his companion, a small pale civilian man in a threadbare green jacket that struggled to stop the bitter piercing wind.
“No,” he replied in a rusty voice that matched his decrepit appearance.
“That little vessel we just saw over the horizon, the little brigantine, is headed to America with a King's Messenger aboard. We're going to beg the Americans for assistance.” The words seemed as bitter as the salt in the air to the old admiral, but they were tinged with a touch of hope.
“Beg for assistance? The colonies have been isolated from the world for almost a decade now. What makes the King think they'll come rushing to our aid? And why do we need their help anyway?”
“That is why,” the admiral said, handing over his telescope and pointing toward France. The civilian grasped the instrument and stared through the eyepiece at a blurry patch of white, bobbing about on the waves underneath a darkening sky.
“What is it?” he asked.
“That, Richard, is a French frigate, most likely La Nymphe. Finished eight months ago and patrolling the Channel since then, snapping up boats from our fishing fleet and making life hellish tough for us honest Englishmen.”
“I can't for the life of me understand why France keeps following that idiotic man, claiming he's the descendant of Bonaparte, eating up their resources and dooming themselves to a life of simplicity,” Richard said, wiping his hands on his coat.
“If you capture and annex most of the countries of Europe, you have more than enough resources. Most nations are dedicated to renewing normal life, not building antiquated weapons and trundling about like savages,” the admiral said, glancing at La Nymphe one more time before snapping his telescope shut.
“Our intelligence men have done their best, and have poked as many sticks in the wheel of his war machine as they can, but with a nation heady with victory at his back, it'll take more than a few sticks to stop him,” Richard said with a sigh.
“Getting back into Portsmouth was an adventure in itself. La Nymphe and Desaix were a pair of evil bastards, they chased Wolverine in with cannons roaring all around my head,” Alfred said with a sigh.
“It hurts my heart that we have to waste good wood, iron, and copper building these ships when we'll be back to missile frigates and battleships in fifteen years, God willing,” he continued, crossing himself. Like many in the new age he was deeply religious, and a large part of him was convinced that his generation would slave and die so that their children would live a modern life again. He was more than willing to fight on any terms laid forth if only to ensure that his sons and daughters could raise their children in a world that seemed no more than a dream to him. Richard laid a hand on the admiral's shoulder to console him.
“Do not worry,” he said, “England has withstood starvation and bombardment longer than I can remember. The French can circle this island with their wooden warships and fire their ineffectual balls of iron from poorly-made guns and we will stand firm. It hurts me to say this, but thanks to the deaths from the war the few left can survive quite well on the fruits of the land.”
“Still and all,” the admiral said, his telescope open once more and focusing on La Nymphe, now considerably larger, “I wish Lowestoff could spread some more sail.” He looked between the two ships and clucked his tongue. The French frigate had caught sight of Lowestoff running out of Plymouth like a hare, and was making up her mind whether or not to pursue.
“They take such risks running so close to our shore,” Richard said, “and it wounds my heart to be unable to shoot even a pistol at them.”
“That's why they take such risks,” Alfred replied, staring at La Nymphe as she passed by Portsmouth a mere two miles out, her sails a brilliant white against the dirty clouds that scudded low across the sky. Within an hour she and her pursuit had disappeared from sight, and Admiral Johnson looked to his companion with a mixture of sadness and hunger.
“I'm feeling peevish from lack of food,” Alfred said, putting a skeletal hand over his growling stomach.
“There's a little place not too far from here, nice and snug. We can get something to eat and then you're welcome to do what you wish,” Richard said, leading the admiral toward his favorite establishment.
*
Captain John Wallis stood on the heaving deck of Lowestoff and stared behind him through the best telescope on the ship. She had been trailing them at a distance since Portsmouth, almost nine days ago, and with America looming just over the horizon he could feel the pursuing ship coming closer and closer, trying to close the distance before Lowestoff could reach Boston. He watched as the ship, certainly La Nymphe, one of France's most murderous new frigates, spread her studdingsails and anything else that might catch the faint and dying breeze, gaining hand over fist before the wind died entirely. Her greater mass and slippery hull brought her closer and closer until John could see the moon's light shining off the muzzles of La Nymphe's two bow chasers, each capable of slinging a twelve pound ball a thousand yards.
“Out sweeps and boats,” he ordered, snapping his telescope shut. Lowestoff was small and somewhat tubby, but it would be easy to pull her close enough toward Boston for the Americans to fend her off. Repeated splashes told him the sweeps were in their oarlocks and the boats were in the water, stout hawsers made fast to the ship. Men tumbled over the sides and into the boats as fast as they could without falling into the water and soon bent to their oars, sending the boats skipping forward until the hawsers rose from the sea, water squirting from the thick ropes as they stretched tight, straight as bars. The men aboard heaved at their sweeps, grunting deeply as they forced the ship forward with brute strength. Wallis whipped his head around and clapped his telescope to his eye. La Nymphe was yawing, her side slowly appearing, gaping gun ports focusing on Lowestoff. He crossed himself and jumped to the nearest sweep, heaving with all his strength until his hands were raw and bleeding.
La Nymphe suddenly disappeared in a blinding series of flashes, the roar of her guns booming through the still air and shocking the wind back to life. The frigate brought her yards swinging around, her pyramid of limp canvas suddenly bursting into life, and she yawed to show her other side. This time her shot came within range, ripping through a great number of cordage and bringing Lowestoff's topsail yard down to the deck with a run. With the worst of luck, one of the braces held for a few seconds before letting go, turning the yard from a heavy piece of lumber into a giant spear that crashed through her deck and ripped through her bottom. A massive geyser of water spouted upward and Lowestoff immediately began to settle by the stern.
“Boats! Boats!” Wallis cried, ripping blood from his throat with the force of his yell. They came back quickly, and the King's Messenger was tumbled over the side, his documents sealed up and lashed to his chest.
“Go,” Wallis ordered. His lieutenant, Summers, looked up from the little boat heaving on the ocean with surprise.
“Sir?” he asked.
“I'm going to blow up the ship to try and stop the Frenchman. It'll hide your escape. Lowestoff is already done for Jonathan, this is the last that she can do for us. Now go!”
“You don't have to die aboard, sir. Set a trail and let it go, come with us!” Wallis stared at the man angrily. There were so many things that could go wrong. A wave could wet the powder, a capricious breeze could blow out the flame.
“The Americans aren't used to fighting like us sir. They'll need your knowledge. Now come!”
Wallis gave him a desperate look, glanced at the King's Messenger, then at La Nymphe as she heaved ever closer toward Lowestoff, sinking ever deeper. The water was already lapping at her gun ports, and most of the powder had already been spoiled. Wallis broke open a row of cartridges and struck it alight, then stepped overboard into the boat, now almost level with Lowestoff's rail. The boats struck out at top speed, men putting so much force into their stroke that their oars bent and groaned, threatening to break under the strain. Lowestoff's limp sails caught fire, a blazing beacon of danger in the still night. La Nymphe, denied the element of surprise, let loose with a roar of cannon fire that flew far over the escaping boats, landing with huge splashes a few feet short of the American clipper that had come out to investigate the noise.
“We're saved!” the King's Messenger shouted, waving at the clipper. The clipper yawed and opened up fire, assuming the boats were a group hellbent on attacking Boston harbor. Summers yanked the Messenger down again, then ripped off his jacket and tore his stained white shirt off, waving it as hard as ever he could. Some eagle-eyed man aboard the clipper caught the flicker of white in the light of the burning Lowestoff and the clipper stopped her deadly fire, changing course to shelter the boats from the retreating La Nymphe. The boats were yanked aboard quickly and the clipper turned about on her heel with every sail set.
“Take us behind Lovell's and then to the Inner Harbor,” Captain Leonard Rhea announced, turning to shake the hand of a soaking wet Wallis.
“Thought you were the enemy for a second there,” Leonard said, patting John on the shoulder.
“Captain John Wallis of the late Lowestoff, and thanks for picking us up,” he replied.
“Your brigantine made a wonderful warning light,” Rhea said with a chuckle. “Sorry she had to go like that,” he added.
“La Nymphe got in a lucky shot, sent a yard plunging through her bottom. We were done before we fired a single cannon,” Wallis said. “This man here is a King's Messenger, and he needs to see your president. Urgent message, can't wait.” The King's Messenger stood there, wet, shivering, looking more like a drowned rat than a man of incredible importance. Rhea glanced at him with an arched eyebrow, then walked forward to wring a little more speed out of the clipper.
“Sail to starboard,” the lookout roared.
“Wade, what do you make of her?” the captain shouted back, staring upward at the masthead almost lost in the darkness.
“Just a fisher,” the lookout finally replied, straining his eyes to their limit. In a few minutes the clipper swept past a small dirty fiberglass sloop, her sails luffing in the gentle breeze as two men hauled in a writhing net.
“I didn't know you still used fiberglass,” Wallis said to Leonard.
“The Navy doesn't. We used to, but there's no way to repair them and keep the hull strong, so we gave them to the civilians to use as they chose. Most of them go fishing until the hull needs too much patching, then they turn it into a house.”
“Where'd you get this ship?” Wallis asked, looking around at the trim deck and the neat little cannons that were housed amidships.
“Pride of Baltimore II, built back in 1988. She's fast, strong, weatherly, and stiff as hell. A modern version of a Baltimore Clipper, and lord how we love her. What was Lowestoff?” he asked cordially.
“She was a brigantine built in the early 2000s as a modern rendition of an old vessel in the Royal Navy. Nothing too fancy, to be honest with you. Squat, fat, slow, but a good seaboat, very dry. Carried six four pound cannons, mostly for show. Damned lucky shot from that Frenchman. Good gunners.”
“We've noticed,” Rhea said softly. “A few of our fishing boats have been going missing. That's why the President had us man these ships, to go out there and see what's up. We were victualing when we saw your brigantine go up in smoke.”
“You mentioned more ships. How many more?” Wallis asked, his clothes almost dry from the growing wind.
“Lynx and a few others of her type, for the most part, but we've got a group of people interested in Constitution and Constellation. Although the amount of wood and iron we would need to get those two in shape would be astonishing. Probably better spent in building more fishing boats.”
“I'm sure we'll be seeing some interesting news once the King's Messenger speaks with your President,” Wallis said with a look the captain understood instantly.
“Captain Rhea!” Gilmer shouted.
“Yes Commander Gilmer?” Leonard replied.
“We're coming into the Inner Harbor now, sir.”
“Take her in to our usual moorings, Gilmer, then ready our guests' boats to take them to shore. They have urgent news for our President and it would behoove us to assist them in every way that we can,” Leonard said. With a series of rapid-fire orders, Pride rounded up to her mooring, furled her sails, and let loose the boats in a fluid motion. Once again the men of Lowestoff heaved at their oars, fit to bust, sending their two boats skipping through the waves as the sun began to rise through the fog.
“Mr. Summers, watch over the men. I'm escorting the King's Messenger to their President. See if Captain Rhea can point you in the direction of a reputable hotel,” Wallis said, chucking a small bag of money to his lieutenant.
*
“Mr. President,” the King's Messenger said, bowing deeply to the man standing in the Oval Office.
“Sir,” Robert Terrell replied, returning the bow and shaking his hand. “What brings the King's Messenger to my country?” he asked.
“Ah, as to that I believe this letter may answer your questions. If the seal has failed I will tell you, but the King's words are more eloquent than mine,” the man said, cutting the letter free of the ropes that held it to his chest. The man rubbed his ribs and breathed deeply, then handed over the letter. The President opened his letter and took out the unmolested paper. A long quarter of an hour passed as Terrell read the letter, set it down, read it again, and set it down once more.
“Your King asks for something that he does not know about. He asks us to throw away our chance at rebuilding our nation to make a fleet of ships and to attack an enemy that has yet to bother us.”
“Sir, I believe a few of your officers in the Navy spoke of problems with your fishing fleet. Could it not be that although you are currently free of France's aims, that they will one day be sailing up the Potomac to set fire to the very building we now sit in?” the King's Messenger said. It was a close blow. The United States had withstood invasion, with troops landing in New York, Virgina, and Florida, and they had caused more psychological devastation than actual damage.
“Fight them before they grow too strong, sir. Help us stamp out the French across the Atlantic, rather than on the beaches of your coast,” the King's Messenger pleaded. President Terrell looked at the man, his lips moving silently, spewing out a string of curses under his breath.
“As you know, I am not the man to decide whether or not we go to war,” the President began. “That is the responsibility of Congress. I can make the recommendation, but if they do not wish to, then there is nothing to be done. Now I might,” said the President as the King's Messenger rose to his feet in anguish, “I might be able to detach a few ships, but the chance is slim. By your own admission, France might one day attack us, and if that is the case, we need our ships here. We cannot afford to make more, or lose the ones we have.”
“Then it is clear that I must speak with Congress. May you call an emergency session?”
“I believe they are currently in session. If you don't mind running, we may very well catch them,” the President said, rising from behind his desk and running down the hall, a small group of men in black suits trailing behind him.
*
“Please!” the King's Messenger shouted over the roar of debate. “If you help us now we can save unnecessary bloodshed! We can stop this before it expands across the Atlantic, before it reaches your harbors and your towns! Your fishing fleets are already feeling the force of France. Help us stop the French before they march through your streets and burn down this very building,” the King's Messenger pleaded.
“You sir,” the Speaker of the House said, “what is your name?” The King's Messenger blushed.
“Horace Wentwhether, if you please,” he replied, fussing with his greyhound-embroidered tie.
“Mr. Wentwhether, your words are true. Although it has been the wish of this country to remain isolated from any further wars, the war has shown us that isolation is not the wisest choice for survival. We therefore approve the use of half of our existing Atlantic fleet in aiding the United Kingdom, and we will begin on a building program to construct a number of new ships of sufficient strength to force back the French. However, we ask that Canada compensate us for the resources spent in assisting you. If you believe this to be fair, then we will begin our actions immediately.” Wentwhether, the King's Messenger, the voice of the King and the sole hope of providing aid for the United Kingdom, stood still and let his mind race. It had been rumored that Canada wished to ally itself with America now that the United Kingdom was so far away, that they would ask for inclusion into the Union.
“Sir, I will speak for the King when I say this. We will offer the assistance of the United Kingdom in returning the civilized world to its former glory.”
“In that case, Mr. Wentwhether, you have the support of the American Navy. As soon as our ships are victualed, you may return to England aboard one and give the King the conditions we have agreed upon here today. If you will please meet with Admiral Edward Kelby of the Atlantic Fleet, he will iron out the details,” the Speaker announced.
*
“For a moment there I was worried,” Wentwhether said to Captain Wallis as they walked toward Kelby's offices later on that day.
“Horace?” Wallis replied. “Your name is Horace Wentwhether? No wonder you preferred being called the King's Messenger. Sounds far better to my untrained ears.”
“It would have to be that you would harp upon a name as we work on saving our nation's freedom. Now, I have the figures and reports from the Admiralty, but I am not the seaman of the world. You would have more knowledge, which is why you're coming along.”
“And here I thought it was because of my stimulating conversation and my witty personality,” Wallis said with a smile, chucking an apple core over his shoulder into the ditch running alongside the road.
“Perish the thought,” Wentwhether replied. “A nice set of offices, isn't it?”
“Name?” asked the woman behind the counter.
“The King's Messenger, Horace Wentwhether, here to see Admiral Kelby under orders from Congress.”
“Come right in Limeys!” Kelby bellowed from down the hall.
“Good to see you in a happy mood,” Wentwhether said as he sat down, handing over his packet of information.
“Bloody hell,” Kelby said as he glanced over the papers. “You're getting half my damn fleet, Wentwhether. And you, who the hell are you?” he asked, pointing a mildly chewed pen at Wallis.
“Captain John Wallis, late of Lowestoff, sir,” he said.
“I hope you're not going to be commanding any of these vessels,” Kelby said.
“No sir, I'll have my own when we get back.”
“Damn foolish of France to be building these frigates you know, throwing away a chance at real peace, killing men for no reason. Don't you think?” Kelby prodded, his pen signing documents at a furious pace.
“That's why we're here sir,” Wentwhether offered in a humble tone.
“Good boy, I like that in a Limey. Hey, say Harvard Yard for me, huh?” he added, writing out a quick letter.
“Harvard Yard,” Wentwhether said with particularly careful pronunciation.
“Damnit boy, you took the fun out of it,” Kelby said, looking up from his papers for once. The man shook his head and continued writing.
“Alright, I'm done here. Take this document and show it to Admiral James Orpin. He'll be in charge of your little strike force. I'm giving you Pride of Baltimore, under Leonard Rhea, and Constellation under Adam Kart, and... I'm regretting this as I say it... three more clippers from Fells Point. That's five ships, Wentwhether. More than half our current Atlantic fleet. We are holding a few ships in reserve, understand, in case the French really are molesting our fishing fleets and it's not something you cooked up to get support. When we make a few more ships, we'll send them over.”
“Thank you Admiral, thank you kindly,” the King's Messenger said, shaking the man's hand vigorously.
*
“Five ships, if that. Constellation is the only one worth anything, you know. A corvette from 1854, sixteen 203mm chambered shell guns, a few long guns, nothing fancy. The others are pocket change, not worth a damn. I hope you're happy with what you've done, Horace,” Wallis said angrily. Some of his venting came from the delayed shock of having lost Lowestoff, some of it from lack of food, most of it from his aching feet.
“Damn Americans, walking everywhere. Why do they insist on doing this to us?” he added testily, wiping the sweat from his forehead.
“You're too used to stumping about a heaving deck, John. Walking on the shore is good for you, and your liver. Now shut up and go in there, get something to eat. I have a meeting with Leonard around the corner. He'll be taking us to Constellation, and from there we'll rendezvous with the clippers from Fells Point and then home over the heaving waves to England, safe and sound with our little armada. Nice, hmm?” Wentwhether said, jogging off to make his meeting.
“Politicians are all the same,” Wallis mumbled into his sandwich.
“Say that again,” crowed a big sailor, slapping him on the back.
“No offense mate, but who the fuck are you?” John said, leaning back on his stool to look at the guy. He was about six foot four, cheerfully fat, chubby pink face and close-cropped hair of an undetermined color.
“Captain Chuck Reece of Swift, at your pleasure. And who the fuck are you, mate?” he replied, squaring off in front of Wallis.
“Captain John Wallis, late of Lowestoff, of His Majesty's Royal Navy.”
“Limey, heh? Get fired?” the big man asked.
“Had it shot out from underneath me,” John replied.
“By who?” Reece asked, instantly sober.
“Big French frigate, La Nymphe. She chased me and my men across the Atlantic from Portsmouth to Boston harbor, sank us right at your doorstep. Captain Rhea was kind enough to give us a lift in.”
“How'd she lie?” Reece asked, offering a few fries from his plate. Wallis picked two and set them up and began his narration. At the end of the story, Reece leaned back and shook his head.
“A rum go of it, friend. A damned lucky shot if ever there was one. I'd love a crack at the French, my crew would too.”
“Well you're welcome to it, Reece. My politician, the King's Messenger, he's here to get a fleet of American ships to beat back the French before they can cross the Atlantic and invade America. Speak with him, see if he can write you a letter of marque.”
“That would be a blessed letter, for sure,” Reece replied.
“What kind of vessel is this Swift?”
“She's a fourteen gun brig, a hundred feet, eleven thousand square feet of sail. She's mean, shallow draft, good for sneaking up creeks and bombarding the enemy.”
“There you are,” Wentwhether said as he came through the door. Wallis looked up from the bottom of his empty mug and forced his eyes to focus on the disapproving glare of the King's Messenger.
“It's a funny situation,” Wallis said. “Me an' Reece here got to chatting, and he's got a ship he's gonna sail over and fight with if you give him a letter, and then I bought him a drink, and he bought me one, and so I bought him one back, and now I'm broke, and I think he's drunk 'cause these damn colonialists can't hold their beer.” Wentwhether picked John up from his stool and propelled him toward the door, and Reece lumbered after them.
“Constellation is ready to sail at this very moment. We need to be aboard Pride now. If your man here is ready to sail, tell him to sail. If he needs time, tell him where to go, and let's get out of here.”
“But I need a letter,” Reece said slowly.
“Here,” Horace replied, whipping out a pre-written letter of marque and filling in the pertinent portions.
“How many of those do you have?” Wallis asked instantly, his bloodshot eyes focusing with laser intensity on the stack Wentwhether was holding.
“Fifty,” he replied. “Before I left the President, he suggested making these in case Congress denied the use of the Navy. He felt sympathy for his friend, the King, and put his signature upon them. Apparently they do things differently here than at home.”
“That's gold, sir. Go back in there and wave those around, you'll get a few more ships I'm sure.”
“Good idea, hold that thought,” he said, leaving Wallis leaned up against a friendly lamp post.
*
Wallis was glad to feel the cold salt spray of the ocean in his face as Constellation shouldered her way across the ocean, a ragtag fleet of ships spread out behind her. Pride and her sisters from Fells Point were the closest, ranging ahead effortlessly for scouting, while behind straggled forty ships and boats, all of them possessing cannons of some kind, fitted out for war by their enterprising owners, legalized by Wentwhether's letters of marque, the document necessary to convert them from pirates to hired vessels of the King.
“Not much longer now, sir,” Captain Kart said, folding his hands behind his back.
“Thank you Captain,” Wallis replied. “I'm still amazed at how quickly this ship was readied for combat. I had the understanding that the United States was against wasting resources like this.”
“There is wasting resources and there is preparing for the worst,” Kart said. “When the nature of things became obvious after the war, the government wisely brought a number of ships up to fighting condition. Constellation was in the middle of a refurbishment, so they merely added a few things. Constitution has always been kept in a state of readiness. They just had to clean her bottom and load up enough food and powder to make her dangerous.”
“How'd they clean such a big ship's bottom without a functioning dry dock?” Wallis asked.
“The usual way. You sail up the Chesapeake into the Upper Bay where the water is fresh and it kills off all the marine growth after a while. That's where they loaded up the food, made good use of their time there. Captain Owen Barr is a smart man. When she meets an enemy, it'll be a true battle. He's been practicing every day, getting the men to know their jobs. He's spent a good deal of time mooning about Boston getting the rigging tuned and the hull slightly altered for more speed. It's been rumored he hit fifteen knots in her once, and if that's the case, then she's the fastest ship afloat right now,” Adam said.
“Is that her over there?” Wentwhether asked, pointing over their shoulders to a massive pyramid of canvas to windward of the little armada.
“No, I do believe that's La Nymphe running like hell toward the fishing fleet,” Wallis said, setting down his telescope.
“Can we do anything to stop her?” the King's Messenger asked, hoping that there wouldn't be. A tragedy among the fishing fleet, as horrific as it might be, would boost America's support of the United Kingdom.
“We can't do much against her, to be honest with you. She's far to windward of us, so by the time we tacked up there the battle would be over. The only hope for the fleet there would be another cruiser out and spoiling for a fight. It makes me sick to think that we've got forty five ships and we can't do a thing to stop one,” Kart said, obviously angry.
“On deck there!” the lookout bawled, “on deck! Ship to windward!”
“We know!” Kart bellowed back, “it's the French!”
“No sir! Frigate, black hull, white stripe, tossing a monster of a wake. Lord, she's Constitution!”
“Speak of the devil and she shall appear, gentlemen. We can rest easy now. Mr. Barker, all the sail she can carry, keep us on course. Mr. Lewell, signal the fleet to make more sail. We need to bottle up the French and burn them to the waterline.”
Wallis stared far across the water as the big frigate bowled down toward La Nymphe like an unstoppable juggernaut.
“How I wish I was there,” he said softly.
*
Captain Owen Barr of the USS Constitution stood on the deck of the magnificent frigate, feeling her hull lift and heave underneath his feet as she bore down on the Frenchman under full sail, studdingsails aloft and alow, a staggering pyramid of beautiful pure white canvas, her bow tossing a monstrous wave as she plowed ever forward.
“Ready the guns,” he ordered. Calls echoed through the ship and the gun ports were opened, cannons heaved out and at the ready.
“Now men, that ship down there is a frigate from France, new-built. Our own ship is over two hundred and thirty years old, but like Washington's axe there are very few pieces of her that old. Our guns are new and in excellent condition, and our powder is the best man could make. She is menacing our fishing fleet, and in so doing she is taking food from the plates of our families. We cannot allow this to happen. We must stop her, and if we are lucky, we must board and take her. A ship like that is valuable, and if we can capture her for our own use, why, the President would be mighty glad. But if we must, we will sink her. Here is the plan. We will come within range, fire a warning shot, and if she replies in a fresh manner, we will lay into her fast and thick with our broadsides, one after the other until she strikes.” There was a roaring cheer from the men in the waist of the ship, and Barr gave the order to close with the Frenchman.
Under fighting sails alone she stood between La Nymphe and the fishing fleet, and true to Barr's word, she fired a single warning shot. La Nymphe yawed, considering, then with sudden viciousness she let fly with her entire broadside. Barr shook his head and gave the order. Constitution shook from masthead to keelson as her side disappeared in a huge explosion of sound, smoke, and flame. Twenty four pound balls of iron screamed across the short distance, ripping into La Nymphe with shocking devastation. Howls of pain came across the water, and blood could be seen running down her hull, almost invisible against her black hull but in stark contrast to the white stripe of paint about her gun deck. Still, the French frigate came about and presented her undamaged side, hiding it behind smoke as soon as her cannons could be brought to bear. Most of the shot bounced off the thick hull of Constitution, but one managed to hum across the deck at head height, killing three men and lodging itself in the mainmast with a rending crash. With a growl tearing out of his throat Captain Barr took the wheel himself and lay the ship to within pistol shot of La Nymphe.
“Concentrate all fire on her mainmast!” he bellowed, and the great guns spoke out in their booming voices, their heavy iron shot ripping the massive stick of wood to pieces. With a huge rending crash the noble mast, almost two hundred and thirty feet tall, plunged over the side, rigging snapping and whipping through the air as it went.
“Do you surrender?!” Barr shouted through a speaking trumpet at the bloody quarterdeck of the enemy frigate.
“Merde!” the frigate shouted back, breaking out with a furious round of cannon fire that threatened to send the fallen rigging and sails into flame. Constitution replied with a roar of fire, and again Captain Barr took up his speaking trumpet and asked for surrender.
“Tu me casses les couilles!” the French captain replied. “Tu me fais chier!”
“Take out their mizzen mast and that damn flag with it,” Barr ordered, and in a hail of iron the job was done. La Nymphe sat there rolling heavily with only a foremast, a stump of her mainmast, and a bifurcated mizzen.
“Captain! Surrender your ship to us immediately!” Barr roared, and finally, with some hint of exasperation from the other side, came the reply in accented English.
“Burger-eating invasion monkeys!”
“Damn this man for a fool,” Barr cursed. “Bring us alongside and pass him a cable. We'll tow him back to Boston. Tell that captain to come over here at once. At once!” In the heavy seas of the ocean it was difficult to maneuver closely, but in time it was done and the good-natured but bloody-minded French ship accepted the cable. The French captain made his way across, choosing to climb from his foretopsail yard to Constitution's rather than risk a boat in the cold waves below. He dropped down heavily on deck, walked aft to Captain Barr with a large number of men watching his back, and then drew his sword. Barr drew his own out of reflex, and the French captain chuckled.
“Alexander Diodore, captain. Thank you for your concern for my men, but I had not finished fighting you yet,” he said in almost fluent English.
“Captain Diodore, your ship would be hard-pressed to raise up a handkerchief with the current state of your masts and rigging,” Barr replied.
“I would have let the waves heave me into the side of your ship and continued the fight from there,” Diodore replied instantly, no hint of illwill in his voice, simply a desire to sink Constitution and kill every man aboard her.
“You remind me of someone from an old English movie,” Barr replied. “Now, if you would please acknowledge your surrender, we will bring your ship into Boston and you will be treated as courteously as possible.”
“Do you dare to inundate me with execrable Californian wine and moldy Cheddar?” he asked, cocking his head to one side. “I would much rather continue the fight than surrender. My men feel the same, as I am sure you can see.” Indeed, the captured Frenchmen were busily swaying up new jury masts and rigging.
“I dare not,” Barr replied. “But the simple fact of the matter is that we have won and you have lost. You are aboard my ship and are a prisoner of the United States of America. You are required to behave in the manner consistent with a captive of the US Navy, and if you do not I will be forced to restrain you and your men. Now, will you comply?”
“I will comply only if you favor me with a duel on this very heaving deck,” Diodore shot back, his eyes full of venom.
“I will not fight a prisoner. It is against my principles.”
“Few principles you must have if you tell a man he has surrendered when the truth is that the mast supporting his flag has been shot away. Where is your honor?”
“My honor,” said Barr with barely restrained rage, “is far more than yours. Marine, clap this man in irons and take him below. Send a prize crew over to the frigate and put the prisoners in the hold. Train a few cannons loaded with grape shot at the hatches and blast anything that shows itself.” Diodore swore violently, but the Marines that suddenly appeared were too much for his wiry frame, and he was soon handcuffed and being led below. A sudden angry roar from the frigate announced the prize crew's actions.
“If they do that again, fire a shot into that jury mast,” Barr ordered, stumping below, his mouth set in a deep frown.
*
Kelby leaned back in his chair and stared into the fire with a curious expression on his face. Captain Barr was sitting bolt upright in his own, looking for all the world like a tin soldier.
“He called you a beef-eating invasion monkey?” Kelby said finally, looking up from the report with a smile flitting about his lips.
“Something to that effect, sir. He did not believe he had surrendered, merely had his flag shot away, and he was determined to fight with me on the deck of my ship, surrounded by Marines. The fool,” he spat out, his fists clenched so tight that his trim fingernails dug into the palms of his hands, almost drawing blood.
“At any rate, you have captured a fine, fine frigate. It'll take the men in the yard about a month to repair the damage you inflicted, and then there we go, a new ship in excellent shape. I really have to commend you and your crew for your efforts. Although in the future, if you were to fire at their masts and leave the hulls intact I, and the President, would take it as a particular kindness,” Kelby said in the most affectionate way, pushing a small glass of an excellent Châteauneuf-du-Pape and a small plate of pepperjack cheese and a few crackers toward Barr.
“The fishing fleet is in danger, at any rate. From the report that Rhea gave us, La Nymphe wasn't on this coast until two nights ago. We came across her yesterday by sheer luck. The vessels that we've been losing over the past few months must have been sunk by another ship. If it's acceptable, I wish to return to the fleet's fishing grounds and guard them until we can find this other ship and where she's resupplying from,” Barr said as he nibbled a piece of cheese.
“Oh, certainly Captain. Once we replace a few strakes of planking that were damaged, you're free to go. However, the president wishes you to take the ship and, using your discretion, cruise the coast, putting in where you see fit and capturing any ship that flies the French flag. You are to have a free hand, and you are to use these,” Kelby said, handing over a manila envelope stuffed full of paper, “to aid in your task. Now, Rear Admiral, if you would be so kind as to get out of my office, I would take it as a true kindness.”
“Rear Admiral?” Barr asked, amazed.
“Yes, Owen. The president thought it appropriate to promote you for your work, and I concurred. Now you have precisely ten seconds to leave this place before I take it back.” Kelby was speaking to an empty chair within five seconds.
*
“Put in another reef!” Kart roared, his lungs full of salt water as Constellation buried her bowsprit in the back of a monstrous wave, solid water coursing over her forecastle and deck.
“Rise, please,” he begged quietly as the ship sluggishly rose upward, pumps gushing and masts bent perilously forward. His crew and officers were running as fast as they ever could, doing everything in their power to reduce the incredible force of the sails against the flexing masts, but the storm was getting worse and there were few sails left to reef. If the weather kept getting worse, and the barometer indicated that it would, he would have to strip down to a staysail or two and scud before the wind, trying desperately not to be overwhelmed by the huge waves that threatened to crush the ship every other minute.
“Captain! Foretopmast!” one of the men yelled, and Kart saw with a dying heart that the topmast had cracked from top to bottom, and every wave, every gust was making the crack wider.
“Captain,” Wallis said as he fought his way through the waist-deep water left by a monstrous wave, “there's nothing for it. We've lost half the fleet to this storm. We need to head south, or south by southwest if we want to survive this.” Captain Kart stared at the weakened topmast as his men quickly fished it and struck the foretopsail to remove the strain, and stared at the compass. If he deviated, they would be in the Bay of Biscay rather than Plymouth, surrounded no doubt by the French. Another wave washed over the ship from stem to stern, and Kart felt Constellation sink deeper, rather than rise.
“We have no choice,” Kart said to his commander. Larson nodded in agreement and took the wheel, slowly turning the ship's heavy head toward the southwest, and, if the storm didn't let up soon enough, the Bay of Biscay. The pumps began to catch up, belching forth the water that had flooded inside her.
“Do you speak French?” Kart asked Wallis with a smile.
“Enough to say never surrender, and where are the women without disease,” John replied with a hearty laugh.
*
Admiral Alfred Johnson paced the deck of his ship impatiently, rising his telescope to his eye over and over again, scanning the murky horizon and snapping out a few choice curses. The American convoy, if it was to come, was over a week late. HMS Triumphant made her sullen way through the angry waves, shouldering aside the water like an angry fat woman in search of dessert.
“Sir!” shouted the lookout high above, “the French!” Johnson clapped the telescope to his eye with such force that his head rang, but with a few rapid blinks he focused on the blur far out to sea, coming closer.
“One large ship, a corvette of some kind, a few topsail schooners, and a brig,” the lookout clarified, singing out as loud as he could against the shrieking wind. Johnson crossed himself. Triumphant, a replica of a small sixth rate frigate from the Napoleonic Wars, had a tiny collection of cannons and little else.
“What flag is that?” Johnson asked, focusing his telescope on the corvette that led the miserable procession. The lookout strained as best he could, but in vain as Alfred beat him to it.
“Yankees! What a sorry lot they are, but God bless every one of them,” Johnson said. “Lay the best feast you can get your hands on, and don't spare the expense.”
“Sir,” said his steward, “we've been on short commons since we left port two days ago. All of England is on short commons with the French blockading the continent. If you want to give them a few potatoes, we can manage that but nothing else. Moldy at that, too.”
“Whatever you can find, just make it pretty. Those heaps out there are what's going to break the Frenchman's back.”
It was with a shattered topmast and tattered canvas that Constellation and her remaining escort made their way into Plymouth, her crew fainting with weakness at the pumps.
“Signal Plymouth that we require assistance,” Kart said to Wallis. The two men hadn't left the ship's deck for more than ten hours in the past fifteen days, and as tired as they were, John opened up the signal locker and chose the appropriate hoist of flags without error. Across the miles of confused sea, Johnson's lookout read the flags and called them down to the deck. Within moments, Triumphant and the near-worthless Daedalus changed course to bear down on the convoy. Johnson and his crew looked down at Constellation, her deck covered under almost a foot of solid water, and immediately threw cables across to tie the ships together. A torrent of crewmen flooded over to Constellation and headed straight for the pumps, sending the water churning out of the ship in a steady jet.
“Captain, you have a wonderful ship, but I don't see why you felt the need to hide so much of her under the water,” Johnson said with a smile. Kart looked across at the Englishman, smiled in return, and collapsed against the wheel, fast asleep.
*
“Rear Admiral, we've finished with stowing the cargo. We're ready to leave as soon as you give the order,” the cheerful Commander Host said. Barr looked up from his sunlit desk covered in papers, rubbing his red-rimmed eyes and questioning just how much of a gift his promotion had been. Perhaps Kelby wanted to share his misery.
“Understood. You have the captain of Dada here, right?”
“Yes sir, of course. He's waiting outside the door for you,” Host said, ushering the man in. Barr looked at the fisherman, a tall gaunt man that strongly resembled a pelican, and offered a smile.
“Captain Todd, I'm sorry for the loss of your ship. I hope you'll be willing to help us avenge her,” said Barr. The fisherman bowed his head slowly, his pendulous jowls hanging lower still.
“Of course, sir. We were fishing out of Gloucester, most of the fleet was off of St. John's up in Newfoundland, on the Grand Bank. Dada was a schooner, a staysail schooner we got assigned two years ago, steel hull, good boat. We were pulling in the boats and getting down to cleaning the catch when the fog started rolling in. We were halfway through cleaning the whole catch when something big loomed out of the fog, came toward us with a bone in her teeth and flags streaming. They hailed us in accented English, told us to stay put and they'd put a shot through our hull if we tried to move.”
Barr took his hands out of his eyes as the fisherman's voice trailed off and looked up, seeing the man sadly moved by the retelling of his story. Owen poured out a small glass of black cherry soda and pushed it across the desk to the fisherman, who took the cup with both hands and drank it slowly, savouring every drop.
“Thank you sir,” he said in a husky voice, “that went down well. My pardon for bawling like a baby, but it was a tough moment.”
“What were you doing out there anyway? Surely the French would never come that close to St. John's, unless they were provoked,” Barr said, unrolling a chart and poring over it.
“Well sir, truth be told, we weren't off St. John's. We were at the Flemish Cap.” Barr stared at the man hard, unable to believe the words he had heard.
“You were fishing three hundred and fifty miles off the coast of St. John's? In international waters, unprotected, where you shouldn't have been. How did you.... why did you.... Ugh. Please tell me you weren't sailing under false colors,” Owen begged. Todd's fallen face showed that he had been. Barr sighed deeply and looked at the man again.
“Fishing the Flemish Cap is illegal. Your crew and yourself could be arrested and your ship impounded. However, seeing as how the French have already captured your men and stolen your ship, there's nothing much for me to do except slap you on the wrists. Tell me, the other fishing vessels that were taken, were they out there as well?”
“Aye sir,” said Todd heavily.
“What motivates them to fish out there?”
“Money. The government pays us for our catch, and the more we have, the better quality it is, the more money we get. The owners keep pushing us to bring in more, and, well, we get paid based off of how much we bring in. It's too easy to demonize the owners for our casualties. We're the ones out there, we're the ones that keep topsails sheeted in until the shrouds snap, we're the ones that push so damn hard, and we're the ones that pay with our blood,” Todd said, shaking his head as he spoke.
“What did the ship look like?” Barr asked.
“She came out of the fog real fast. Gray hull, thick black stripe with yellow bands above and below. Big masts, a cloud of sail. She had two rows of guns, a forecastle and quarterdeck. Ship-rigged. About two hundred feet long, very fast. Her lower row of guns were carried very far down, close to the water. She opened fire with the upper row and must have fired three broadsides in five minutes. A real monster, twenty pound balls. Put a gaping hole in our hull, sent Dada to the bottom in ten minutes. It was strange, I watched some of our catch swim right back into the ocean we plucked it out of not five minutes before,” Todd said with a bitter chuckle.
“Fascinating. Where was she last headed? What were her movements?”
“She took my crew and put me in a boat and gave me a compass. They told me to go home, find the captain of Constitution and tell him the story, and then bring him out to the Flemish Cap for a duel. So that's where we stand, sir,” said Todd.
“We stand firm then,” said Barr. “Are you willing to come with me?”
“Of course sir, and give you all the information I can to get my crew back,” the man said, life coming back into his pale and pasty cheeks.
“Host!” Barr roared.
“Aye sir?”
“Lay in a course for the Flemish Cap, all sails that she'll stand, and don't waste a moment,” he ordered, “and tell the gunner to get his men together and fill as many rounds as he can. We're going to attack a French two-decker.”
*
“Captain Kart, my name is Alfred Johnson as you know, and this is Commodore Joseph Marner. He'll be in command of the strike force to hit France. The plan that the Admiralty has come up with is fairly simple and favors our lack of ships. The strike force will sail from Plymouth and hit three points of interest. Cherbourg, Brest, and Le Havre. The French are using these three ports to build and maintain their fleet, and the plan is to use guerrilla warfare to reduce their numbers. Two ships against one, always. No duels, no battles of honor, nothing like that. It's a dirty way to fight, and I know many of you will feel bad doing it, but for you Yankees here with us, it's better to stop them here before they get to Boston, New York, and Baltimore.” The hall had been filled with grumbling, but it faded away quickly enough.
“Everyone, I'm sorry I don't know all your names, but I'm Joseph Marner. This strike force is a combined operation between us English and you Yankees, and I appreciate every man and ship that made it across the Atlantic. Now, Constellation and Captain Kart will be in charge of one group, myself and Caroline will take a group, and John Wallis will command the third from HMS Rose. We will target one of the three ports and decimate anything that comes out. If their ships refuse to come out and fight, we'll go in right after them. Gentlemen, load up your ships. Training begins tomorrow!” As the group filed out, Marner stopped a lieutenant named William Ackart.
“Captain, I need you to render assistance to our friends in intelligence. They have a man in Paris, and his time for extraction is coming up quickly. I want you to take Flying Fish to Calais and pick him up three days from now. Anchor your ship with topsails atrip, a blue light at the foremast and a red at the main. A rowboat will put off from the shore with a small man with a turnip face and a cauliflower ear, his name will be Hew. Bring him back to us without losing a moment, because, Captain Ackart, he will have information on which of the three ports to strike first. Make haste.”
“Aye sir, I won't delay,” Ackart said, his chest swelling with pride.
*
Flying Fish's foretopsail shivered in the wind, threatening to thrust the ship boldly onto the near shore. Ackart looked upward, straining his eyes to see the dim red light occasionally hidden by the shaking maintopsail. He stumped forward and turned to what had formerly been his equal, now his officer.
“Carey, any sign from the shore?” he asked, a superfluous question intended to compel poor Herman Carey to respond,
“No, Captain.” Ackart grinned with satisfaction, still unable to believe that blessed word, but he quickly turned his mind back to the task at hand, and with his telescope scanning the beach he tried to force his eyes to pierce the darkness and will the rowboat into existence.
“You'd think the French would be interested in these two lights, come out and investigate,” said Carey, coming back from the forecastle.
“Not really, not unless... is that it?” Ackart said, curiosity getting the better of his lordly attitude.
“Aye sir,” said Carey, keeping the rowboat in sight as it came fairly flying over the water, four men at the oars and a fifth crouching in the stern. The little boat bumped up against Flying Fish's low, black-painted hull, and through sheer force the four men who had been rowing propelled the little man from the stern of the rowboat up the side of the ship, and so unto the deck of Flying Fish.
“Who are you?” Ackart demanded. The little man looked up into his face, gasped “Hew,” and collapsed on the deck. William and Herman instantly went to his aid, and saw in shock that there was a tremendous wound in his chest pumping out blood, thick and black in the dim light of the moon.
“Betrayed,” he said in a voice that rattled from his lungs. “England never a target. Invasion fleet at Flemish Cap. Mexico traitor. America target all along.” With a final shattered gasp, he pulled a thin sealed envelope from his pants pocket with his right hand, a hand that lacked fingernails, and gave it to Ackart. His task completed, Hew, a completely forgettable-looking man, breathed his last.
“Did you hear him Will?” Carey asked, astonished. Ackart read the letter with trembling hands, unable to believe the words set down in frantic ink.
“If this is true, then all of our forces are going to be wasted and England will be beset on both sides by France. We could win against just the nation of France, but the nation backed by all of America's forests, mines, refineries? We need to return to Plymouth immediately. Even now it may be too late,” Ackart said, his character overwhelmed by his seamanship.
“Sailors! Make all sail! Courses, topsails, topgallants, royals, skyscrapers! Cables to the mastheads, rig preventers, throw all unnecessary stores overboard!” he bellowed, and Flying Fish, nimble little brig that she was, spun about on her heel and rocketed off toward Plymouth, the cables rising to her mastheads in time with the sails. The masts bent forward, complaining deeply until the cables and preventers could take some of the strain off. Flying Fish's head plunged downward, until her bouyancy equaled the thrust of the sails, and off she went, tearing through the water and trailing a massive wake.
“Captain!” the lookout shouted from above, pointing behind. In the dim light of the rising sun a massive ship could be seen leaving Calais, her sails racing upward at a pace that made Ackart's heart jump into his throat.
“It's one of their two-deckers, sir. Ship-rigged, fifty guns, fast as hell,” the lookout added. “She's rounded the pier.” Whatever her name was, the big ship was moving fast, and even though Flying Fish ran without lights, the French ship was in direct pursuit.
“On deck! She's raising a hoist of flags! She's signaling!” Ackart brought his telescope to bear, and in the growing light he was just able to make out the hoist.
“La flèche frappera à la maison, I think,” said William. “The arrow will hit home. I guess that would make her La Flèche, eh? See if we can dig up some kites up there, anything to give us some more distance in this wind. Spritsail and spritsail topsail, if we can set it. God send us a breeze,” he added.
*
“Psalm 32:8, sir. I will instruct you and teach you in the way you should go; I will counsel you and watch over you. Seems fitting,” Carey said as he held his hat firmly to his head. The light breeze of the morning had given way to a furious Beaufort 8, and it was with tattered scraps of canvas that Flying Fish just barely held her lead over La Flèche.
“Captain, we need to reduce sail,” Carey bellowed into Ackart's ear. The man shook his head.
“We can't, Herman. Nor can we outrun that monster with the wind behind us. We need to bring the wind onto our quarter and draw him off, then double back in the night and hit England, any part of England. We have to last long enough to put a man on shore with this letter and raise the warning,” Ackart said with a determined look on his face.
“Get all the cannons over to starboard and lash them down. Shift all the cargo that you can. When we bear up, gentlemen, I want every single man on the weather rail. We'll need every last bit of weight to hold her rail down, and lord help us if any of the preventers let go,” Ackart ordered. In a quarter of an hour, La Flèche had gained a half mile, and men could be seen gathering around her massive brass bowchasers, preparing them for the coming battle. With a look of intense mental calculation, Ackart stared at La Flèche and then gave the order to bear up. Within moments Flying Fish was heeled over despite the massive weight on her weather rail, her masts groaning and complaining, the stays and shrouds taut as iron bars as water streamed past her sides. La Flèche grew smaller and smaller for a half hour, sails blossoming and ripping from the masts until finally the two ships reached an equal speed.
“Anything else that we can carry?” Ackart asked hopefully. Carey looked at the masts thoughtfully, wrapped an arm about one of the massive cables supporting the mainmast, and shook his head.
“Not another sail, sir, or we'll rip her apart.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, one of the gleaming brass cannons on La Flèche thundered loud, tossing a ball that skipped over the waves twice and smashed into Flying Fish's transom with a resounding crash.
“We may need to rip her apart before the French do,” Ackart said with a smile. Slowly, slowly, a few small sails made their way up, triply reinforced to prevent their ripping to shreds in the screaming wind. Flying Fish heeled over farther until her gun ports were submerged below the water.
“Hike out farther!” William ordered. The crew took hold of any ropes they could and walked over the weather rail, placing their feet on planking that normally rested three feet below the waterline.
“You too, Herman,” Ackart said apologetically.
“Aye, sir.”
William Ackart crossed himself, then returned his hands to the wheel. The slightest deviation from her course would destroy the ship in a second, but at the same time he had to favor her during the immense gusts that were coming in greater and greater frequency. La Flèche needed far less favoring due to her greater weight, but at the same time she hadn't caught on to the idea of running cables to the masts to take up additional strain. If the French captain smoked his trick it would be over, and Portsmouth was still another twenty miles away.
“Another two hours boys!” Ackart shouted, and there was a sodden cheer from the side of the ship.
“Two men, come aboard and come aft!” he added. Two of the most moist clambered aboard and made their way toward the captain.
“You, Samuel, cast loose our friend's rowboat and bring it back here. Thomas, get me a barrel of gunpowder and something for a fuse. We're going to load it up and send it toward the Frenchman, try and spook him.” Within ten minutes it was done, and the little rowboat was bobbing astern and shrinking at ridiculous speed. To Ackart's penultimate sorrow, the gunpowder exploded too soon, getting only a slight yawing of course from La Flèche, gaining them only a few yards distance. The big two-decker veered off course a little bit more, opening up the angle between the two ships and allowing her broadside cannons to get a chance to aim at Flying Fish.
“Portsmouth!” came the roar a few hours later. Ackart weeped at the sight, amazed that the little ship had held together long enough. Water was sloshing about in her hold at a depth that could only be explained by her seams opening up, and her masts had stressed her internal structure beyond any hope of repair. He had spent the past hour watching as a fissure made its way from the bottom of the mast almost to the topmast, opening wider and wider as time went by. The cable held up the mast, but it was only a stopgap, and soon even the cables would let go. A massive explosion of sound from the rear quarter announced La Flèche's opening salvo, and most of the shot made its way home, wreaking havoc among the men on the rail.
“Get aboard!” Ackart shouted. It was cruel to make them stand there and be shot at, but coming back aboard wouldn't make them any safer. Flying Fish heeled over dramatically as the weight came inboard, and Ackart almost lost her.
“Captain, give me the wheel and drink,” Carey ordered.
“No, we're almost there. I can hold out another ten minutes,” Ackart said with a bitter smile. To his ultimate horror, La Flèche fired a lucky shot that went home, parting one of three cables supporting the foretopmast. It came down instantly, pitching over the bow of the ship and tangling in the spritsail and bowsprit. Flying Fish's bowsprit impaled the wave in front of her, stuck, and tripping over the wreckage of her topmast, flipped bodily end for end, pitchpoling herself to destruction amidst a crashing roar and a cloud of shredded canvas and flailing ropes.
“Carey!” Ackart shouted, struggling to keep his head above the wind-torn sea.
“Will!” he replied, screaming at the top of his lungs to be heard
America Expects Every Man Will Do His Duty
World War III. Armies of men have prepared for it, struggling for mastery of the global theatre the instant WWII ended; millions have prayed that it would never darken the future; and thousands of writers have used it as the subject of their novels. Yet no author could describe the atrocities of the third world war, and even the ancient writers of Christendom with their hands guided by the Holy Spirit itself would drench their new-written pages with tears as they recorded the horrors man inflicted upon his fellow man. Whole continents were scorched clean with atomic bombardment, and technology, all technology, succumbed to the electromagnetic pulses that surged through the planet. Earth staggered under the fury of the war and countless millions died in battle, while millions more collapsed under the ravages of disease and illness that medicine could not cure. Famine ravaged the survivors as they fought with all their minuscule strength to get the cursed soil to give birth to food, however mutated it might be, and they were preyed upon by the animals they once knew as servants and friends. The oceans offered little more than a temporary abatement of hunger in exchange for brutal, backbreaking work, but it was enough for men to die as they farmed the tainted waves.
It was hope that kept them moving, kept them struggling forward with heads bowed down and muscles screaming in agony, their stomachs cramped from starvation. Hope that kept the survivors from cannibalism; hope that kept civilization intact. The United States had suffered the worst, and yet it was the greatest chance for returning the world to its former glory. Where tanks had rumbled through the streets, shattering the skyscrapers of New York City, groups now gathered to figure out ways of resurrecting technology of any level. The electromagnetic pulses that coursed through the world for an unending week had ruined computers and all other electronics, and the nuclear blasts that caused the pulses had destroyed the infrastructure capable of building new hardware, taking the tools with it. Yet there was hope that, with the limited amount of resources available, the machinery could be rebuilt, setting in motion the upward spiral that would return them to their previous lives.
There was a great discordant note that boomed throughout the world. One nation had forgone its chance at resurrection in favor of great military power. Their machinery, their foundries, their industries had been as shattered as the rest, but rather than rebuild them, they instead built ships of a former age, armed with technology not used in battle for centuries, and they struck out with bitter venom. Neighboring countries fell instantly, incapable of defending themselves against even the most rudimentary weapons. So it was that France, led by a man descended from an illegitimate son of the formidable Napoleon Bonaparte, made its mark upon the tattered European continent. French armies marched outwards from every border, annexing nations that could do little more than surrender in hopes of survival and who soon found themselves conscripted into the ranks that made their unstoppable way outward, pressing south to Italy, north to Germany, and east toward Russia.
Resistance began to show its face, and the army's inexorable march began to slow, first in Russia where the brutal winters held them at bay, and then in Turin where a hastily-assembled militia bared their teeth and drew blood. As his armies ground to a halt, the Emperor of France turned his focus across the Channel to France's almost ancestral enemy, England. With the United Kingdom under his thumb, there would be no resistance against his navies, and America would have no choice but to bow down before him. Within a very short period of time then, French warships began building at Le Havre and Brest in greater quantities, crewed by volunteers who, spurred on by the Emperor's passionate speeches, lusted for France's dominance over every other nation, assembling at Cherbourg to begin their bloody strike against the feeble United Kingdom.
Admiral Alfred Johnson rested his telescope at his side and shook his head, his sparse white hair tossed by the ocean wind that left the tang of salt on his lips and stinging in his eyes as he stared into the Atlantic from Portsmouth.
“Have you heard His Majesty's orders?” he asked of his companion, a small pale civilian man in a threadbare green jacket that struggled to stop the bitter piercing wind.
“No,” he replied in a rusty voice that matched his decrepit appearance.
“That little vessel we just saw over the horizon, the little brigantine, is headed to America with a King's Messenger aboard. We're going to beg the Americans for assistance.” The words seemed as bitter as the salt in the air to the old admiral, but they were tinged with a touch of hope.
“Beg for assistance? The colonies have been isolated from the world for almost a decade now. What makes the King think they'll come rushing to our aid? And why do we need their help anyway?”
“That is why,” the admiral said, handing over his telescope and pointing toward France. The civilian grasped the instrument and stared through the eyepiece at a blurry patch of white, bobbing about on the waves underneath a darkening sky.
“What is it?” he asked.
“That, Richard, is a French frigate, most likely La Nymphe. Finished eight months ago and patrolling the Channel since then, snapping up boats from our fishing fleet and making life hellish tough for us honest Englishmen.”
“I can't for the life of me understand why France keeps following that idiotic man, claiming he's the descendant of Bonaparte, eating up their resources and dooming themselves to a life of simplicity,” Richard said, wiping his hands on his coat.
“If you capture and annex most of the countries of Europe, you have more than enough resources. Most nations are dedicated to renewing normal life, not building antiquated weapons and trundling about like savages,” the admiral said, glancing at La Nymphe one more time before snapping his telescope shut.
“Our intelligence men have done their best, and have poked as many sticks in the wheel of his war machine as they can, but with a nation heady with victory at his back, it'll take more than a few sticks to stop him,” Richard said with a sigh.
“Getting back into Portsmouth was an adventure in itself. La Nymphe and Desaix were a pair of evil bastards, they chased Wolverine in with cannons roaring all around my head,” Alfred said with a sigh.
“It hurts my heart that we have to waste good wood, iron, and copper building these ships when we'll be back to missile frigates and battleships in fifteen years, God willing,” he continued, crossing himself. Like many in the new age he was deeply religious, and a large part of him was convinced that his generation would slave and die so that their children would live a modern life again. He was more than willing to fight on any terms laid forth if only to ensure that his sons and daughters could raise their children in a world that seemed no more than a dream to him. Richard laid a hand on the admiral's shoulder to console him.
“Do not worry,” he said, “England has withstood starvation and bombardment longer than I can remember. The French can circle this island with their wooden warships and fire their ineffectual balls of iron from poorly-made guns and we will stand firm. It hurts me to say this, but thanks to the deaths from the war the few left can survive quite well on the fruits of the land.”
“Still and all,” the admiral said, his telescope open once more and focusing on La Nymphe, now considerably larger, “I wish Lowestoff could spread some more sail.” He looked between the two ships and clucked his tongue. The French frigate had caught sight of Lowestoff running out of Plymouth like a hare, and was making up her mind whether or not to pursue.
“They take such risks running so close to our shore,” Richard said, “and it wounds my heart to be unable to shoot even a pistol at them.”
“That's why they take such risks,” Alfred replied, staring at La Nymphe as she passed by Portsmouth a mere two miles out, her sails a brilliant white against the dirty clouds that scudded low across the sky. Within an hour she and her pursuit had disappeared from sight, and Admiral Johnson looked to his companion with a mixture of sadness and hunger.
“I'm feeling peevish from lack of food,” Alfred said, putting a skeletal hand over his growling stomach.
“There's a little place not too far from here, nice and snug. We can get something to eat and then you're welcome to do what you wish,” Richard said, leading the admiral toward his favorite establishment.
*
Captain John Wallis stood on the heaving deck of Lowestoff and stared behind him through the best telescope on the ship. She had been trailing them at a distance since Portsmouth, almost nine days ago, and with America looming just over the horizon he could feel the pursuing ship coming closer and closer, trying to close the distance before Lowestoff could reach Boston. He watched as the ship, certainly La Nymphe, one of France's most murderous new frigates, spread her studdingsails and anything else that might catch the faint and dying breeze, gaining hand over fist before the wind died entirely. Her greater mass and slippery hull brought her closer and closer until John could see the moon's light shining off the muzzles of La Nymphe's two bow chasers, each capable of slinging a twelve pound ball a thousand yards.
“Out sweeps and boats,” he ordered, snapping his telescope shut. Lowestoff was small and somewhat tubby, but it would be easy to pull her close enough toward Boston for the Americans to fend her off. Repeated splashes told him the sweeps were in their oarlocks and the boats were in the water, stout hawsers made fast to the ship. Men tumbled over the sides and into the boats as fast as they could without falling into the water and soon bent to their oars, sending the boats skipping forward until the hawsers rose from the sea, water squirting from the thick ropes as they stretched tight, straight as bars. The men aboard heaved at their sweeps, grunting deeply as they forced the ship forward with brute strength. Wallis whipped his head around and clapped his telescope to his eye. La Nymphe was yawing, her side slowly appearing, gaping gun ports focusing on Lowestoff. He crossed himself and jumped to the nearest sweep, heaving with all his strength until his hands were raw and bleeding.
La Nymphe suddenly disappeared in a blinding series of flashes, the roar of her guns booming through the still air and shocking the wind back to life. The frigate brought her yards swinging around, her pyramid of limp canvas suddenly bursting into life, and she yawed to show her other side. This time her shot came within range, ripping through a great number of cordage and bringing Lowestoff's topsail yard down to the deck with a run. With the worst of luck, one of the braces held for a few seconds before letting go, turning the yard from a heavy piece of lumber into a giant spear that crashed through her deck and ripped through her bottom. A massive geyser of water spouted upward and Lowestoff immediately began to settle by the stern.
“Boats! Boats!” Wallis cried, ripping blood from his throat with the force of his yell. They came back quickly, and the King's Messenger was tumbled over the side, his documents sealed up and lashed to his chest.
“Go,” Wallis ordered. His lieutenant, Summers, looked up from the little boat heaving on the ocean with surprise.
“Sir?” he asked.
“I'm going to blow up the ship to try and stop the Frenchman. It'll hide your escape. Lowestoff is already done for Jonathan, this is the last that she can do for us. Now go!”
“You don't have to die aboard, sir. Set a trail and let it go, come with us!” Wallis stared at the man angrily. There were so many things that could go wrong. A wave could wet the powder, a capricious breeze could blow out the flame.
“The Americans aren't used to fighting like us sir. They'll need your knowledge. Now come!”
Wallis gave him a desperate look, glanced at the King's Messenger, then at La Nymphe as she heaved ever closer toward Lowestoff, sinking ever deeper. The water was already lapping at her gun ports, and most of the powder had already been spoiled. Wallis broke open a row of cartridges and struck it alight, then stepped overboard into the boat, now almost level with Lowestoff's rail. The boats struck out at top speed, men putting so much force into their stroke that their oars bent and groaned, threatening to break under the strain. Lowestoff's limp sails caught fire, a blazing beacon of danger in the still night. La Nymphe, denied the element of surprise, let loose with a roar of cannon fire that flew far over the escaping boats, landing with huge splashes a few feet short of the American clipper that had come out to investigate the noise.
“We're saved!” the King's Messenger shouted, waving at the clipper. The clipper yawed and opened up fire, assuming the boats were a group hellbent on attacking Boston harbor. Summers yanked the Messenger down again, then ripped off his jacket and tore his stained white shirt off, waving it as hard as ever he could. Some eagle-eyed man aboard the clipper caught the flicker of white in the light of the burning Lowestoff and the clipper stopped her deadly fire, changing course to shelter the boats from the retreating La Nymphe. The boats were yanked aboard quickly and the clipper turned about on her heel with every sail set.
“Take us behind Lovell's and then to the Inner Harbor,” Captain Leonard Rhea announced, turning to shake the hand of a soaking wet Wallis.
“Thought you were the enemy for a second there,” Leonard said, patting John on the shoulder.
“Captain John Wallis of the late Lowestoff, and thanks for picking us up,” he replied.
“Your brigantine made a wonderful warning light,” Rhea said with a chuckle. “Sorry she had to go like that,” he added.
“La Nymphe got in a lucky shot, sent a yard plunging through her bottom. We were done before we fired a single cannon,” Wallis said. “This man here is a King's Messenger, and he needs to see your president. Urgent message, can't wait.” The King's Messenger stood there, wet, shivering, looking more like a drowned rat than a man of incredible importance. Rhea glanced at him with an arched eyebrow, then walked forward to wring a little more speed out of the clipper.
“Sail to starboard,” the lookout roared.
“Wade, what do you make of her?” the captain shouted back, staring upward at the masthead almost lost in the darkness.
“Just a fisher,” the lookout finally replied, straining his eyes to their limit. In a few minutes the clipper swept past a small dirty fiberglass sloop, her sails luffing in the gentle breeze as two men hauled in a writhing net.
“I didn't know you still used fiberglass,” Wallis said to Leonard.
“The Navy doesn't. We used to, but there's no way to repair them and keep the hull strong, so we gave them to the civilians to use as they chose. Most of them go fishing until the hull needs too much patching, then they turn it into a house.”
“Where'd you get this ship?” Wallis asked, looking around at the trim deck and the neat little cannons that were housed amidships.
“Pride of Baltimore II, built back in 1988. She's fast, strong, weatherly, and stiff as hell. A modern version of a Baltimore Clipper, and lord how we love her. What was Lowestoff?” he asked cordially.
“She was a brigantine built in the early 2000s as a modern rendition of an old vessel in the Royal Navy. Nothing too fancy, to be honest with you. Squat, fat, slow, but a good seaboat, very dry. Carried six four pound cannons, mostly for show. Damned lucky shot from that Frenchman. Good gunners.”
“We've noticed,” Rhea said softly. “A few of our fishing boats have been going missing. That's why the President had us man these ships, to go out there and see what's up. We were victualing when we saw your brigantine go up in smoke.”
“You mentioned more ships. How many more?” Wallis asked, his clothes almost dry from the growing wind.
“Lynx and a few others of her type, for the most part, but we've got a group of people interested in Constitution and Constellation. Although the amount of wood and iron we would need to get those two in shape would be astonishing. Probably better spent in building more fishing boats.”
“I'm sure we'll be seeing some interesting news once the King's Messenger speaks with your President,” Wallis said with a look the captain understood instantly.
“Captain Rhea!” Gilmer shouted.
“Yes Commander Gilmer?” Leonard replied.
“We're coming into the Inner Harbor now, sir.”
“Take her in to our usual moorings, Gilmer, then ready our guests' boats to take them to shore. They have urgent news for our President and it would behoove us to assist them in every way that we can,” Leonard said. With a series of rapid-fire orders, Pride rounded up to her mooring, furled her sails, and let loose the boats in a fluid motion. Once again the men of Lowestoff heaved at their oars, fit to bust, sending their two boats skipping through the waves as the sun began to rise through the fog.
“Mr. Summers, watch over the men. I'm escorting the King's Messenger to their President. See if Captain Rhea can point you in the direction of a reputable hotel,” Wallis said, chucking a small bag of money to his lieutenant.
*
“Mr. President,” the King's Messenger said, bowing deeply to the man standing in the Oval Office.
“Sir,” Robert Terrell replied, returning the bow and shaking his hand. “What brings the King's Messenger to my country?” he asked.
“Ah, as to that I believe this letter may answer your questions. If the seal has failed I will tell you, but the King's words are more eloquent than mine,” the man said, cutting the letter free of the ropes that held it to his chest. The man rubbed his ribs and breathed deeply, then handed over the letter. The President opened his letter and took out the unmolested paper. A long quarter of an hour passed as Terrell read the letter, set it down, read it again, and set it down once more.
“Your King asks for something that he does not know about. He asks us to throw away our chance at rebuilding our nation to make a fleet of ships and to attack an enemy that has yet to bother us.”
“Sir, I believe a few of your officers in the Navy spoke of problems with your fishing fleet. Could it not be that although you are currently free of France's aims, that they will one day be sailing up the Potomac to set fire to the very building we now sit in?” the King's Messenger said. It was a close blow. The United States had withstood invasion, with troops landing in New York, Virgina, and Florida, and they had caused more psychological devastation than actual damage.
“Fight them before they grow too strong, sir. Help us stamp out the French across the Atlantic, rather than on the beaches of your coast,” the King's Messenger pleaded. President Terrell looked at the man, his lips moving silently, spewing out a string of curses under his breath.
“As you know, I am not the man to decide whether or not we go to war,” the President began. “That is the responsibility of Congress. I can make the recommendation, but if they do not wish to, then there is nothing to be done. Now I might,” said the President as the King's Messenger rose to his feet in anguish, “I might be able to detach a few ships, but the chance is slim. By your own admission, France might one day attack us, and if that is the case, we need our ships here. We cannot afford to make more, or lose the ones we have.”
“Then it is clear that I must speak with Congress. May you call an emergency session?”
“I believe they are currently in session. If you don't mind running, we may very well catch them,” the President said, rising from behind his desk and running down the hall, a small group of men in black suits trailing behind him.
*
“Please!” the King's Messenger shouted over the roar of debate. “If you help us now we can save unnecessary bloodshed! We can stop this before it expands across the Atlantic, before it reaches your harbors and your towns! Your fishing fleets are already feeling the force of France. Help us stop the French before they march through your streets and burn down this very building,” the King's Messenger pleaded.
“You sir,” the Speaker of the House said, “what is your name?” The King's Messenger blushed.
“Horace Wentwhether, if you please,” he replied, fussing with his greyhound-embroidered tie.
“Mr. Wentwhether, your words are true. Although it has been the wish of this country to remain isolated from any further wars, the war has shown us that isolation is not the wisest choice for survival. We therefore approve the use of half of our existing Atlantic fleet in aiding the United Kingdom, and we will begin on a building program to construct a number of new ships of sufficient strength to force back the French. However, we ask that Canada compensate us for the resources spent in assisting you. If you believe this to be fair, then we will begin our actions immediately.” Wentwhether, the King's Messenger, the voice of the King and the sole hope of providing aid for the United Kingdom, stood still and let his mind race. It had been rumored that Canada wished to ally itself with America now that the United Kingdom was so far away, that they would ask for inclusion into the Union.
“Sir, I will speak for the King when I say this. We will offer the assistance of the United Kingdom in returning the civilized world to its former glory.”
“In that case, Mr. Wentwhether, you have the support of the American Navy. As soon as our ships are victualed, you may return to England aboard one and give the King the conditions we have agreed upon here today. If you will please meet with Admiral Edward Kelby of the Atlantic Fleet, he will iron out the details,” the Speaker announced.
*
“For a moment there I was worried,” Wentwhether said to Captain Wallis as they walked toward Kelby's offices later on that day.
“Horace?” Wallis replied. “Your name is Horace Wentwhether? No wonder you preferred being called the King's Messenger. Sounds far better to my untrained ears.”
“It would have to be that you would harp upon a name as we work on saving our nation's freedom. Now, I have the figures and reports from the Admiralty, but I am not the seaman of the world. You would have more knowledge, which is why you're coming along.”
“And here I thought it was because of my stimulating conversation and my witty personality,” Wallis said with a smile, chucking an apple core over his shoulder into the ditch running alongside the road.
“Perish the thought,” Wentwhether replied. “A nice set of offices, isn't it?”
“Name?” asked the woman behind the counter.
“The King's Messenger, Horace Wentwhether, here to see Admiral Kelby under orders from Congress.”
“Come right in Limeys!” Kelby bellowed from down the hall.
“Good to see you in a happy mood,” Wentwhether said as he sat down, handing over his packet of information.
“Bloody hell,” Kelby said as he glanced over the papers. “You're getting half my damn fleet, Wentwhether. And you, who the hell are you?” he asked, pointing a mildly chewed pen at Wallis.
“Captain John Wallis, late of Lowestoff, sir,” he said.
“I hope you're not going to be commanding any of these vessels,” Kelby said.
“No sir, I'll have my own when we get back.”
“Damn foolish of France to be building these frigates you know, throwing away a chance at real peace, killing men for no reason. Don't you think?” Kelby prodded, his pen signing documents at a furious pace.
“That's why we're here sir,” Wentwhether offered in a humble tone.
“Good boy, I like that in a Limey. Hey, say Harvard Yard for me, huh?” he added, writing out a quick letter.
“Harvard Yard,” Wentwhether said with particularly careful pronunciation.
“Damnit boy, you took the fun out of it,” Kelby said, looking up from his papers for once. The man shook his head and continued writing.
“Alright, I'm done here. Take this document and show it to Admiral James Orpin. He'll be in charge of your little strike force. I'm giving you Pride of Baltimore, under Leonard Rhea, and Constellation under Adam Kart, and... I'm regretting this as I say it... three more clippers from Fells Point. That's five ships, Wentwhether. More than half our current Atlantic fleet. We are holding a few ships in reserve, understand, in case the French really are molesting our fishing fleets and it's not something you cooked up to get support. When we make a few more ships, we'll send them over.”
“Thank you Admiral, thank you kindly,” the King's Messenger said, shaking the man's hand vigorously.
*
“Five ships, if that. Constellation is the only one worth anything, you know. A corvette from 1854, sixteen 203mm chambered shell guns, a few long guns, nothing fancy. The others are pocket change, not worth a damn. I hope you're happy with what you've done, Horace,” Wallis said angrily. Some of his venting came from the delayed shock of having lost Lowestoff, some of it from lack of food, most of it from his aching feet.
“Damn Americans, walking everywhere. Why do they insist on doing this to us?” he added testily, wiping the sweat from his forehead.
“You're too used to stumping about a heaving deck, John. Walking on the shore is good for you, and your liver. Now shut up and go in there, get something to eat. I have a meeting with Leonard around the corner. He'll be taking us to Constellation, and from there we'll rendezvous with the clippers from Fells Point and then home over the heaving waves to England, safe and sound with our little armada. Nice, hmm?” Wentwhether said, jogging off to make his meeting.
“Politicians are all the same,” Wallis mumbled into his sandwich.
“Say that again,” crowed a big sailor, slapping him on the back.
“No offense mate, but who the fuck are you?” John said, leaning back on his stool to look at the guy. He was about six foot four, cheerfully fat, chubby pink face and close-cropped hair of an undetermined color.
“Captain Chuck Reece of Swift, at your pleasure. And who the fuck are you, mate?” he replied, squaring off in front of Wallis.
“Captain John Wallis, late of Lowestoff, of His Majesty's Royal Navy.”
“Limey, heh? Get fired?” the big man asked.
“Had it shot out from underneath me,” John replied.
“By who?” Reece asked, instantly sober.
“Big French frigate, La Nymphe. She chased me and my men across the Atlantic from Portsmouth to Boston harbor, sank us right at your doorstep. Captain Rhea was kind enough to give us a lift in.”
“How'd she lie?” Reece asked, offering a few fries from his plate. Wallis picked two and set them up and began his narration. At the end of the story, Reece leaned back and shook his head.
“A rum go of it, friend. A damned lucky shot if ever there was one. I'd love a crack at the French, my crew would too.”
“Well you're welcome to it, Reece. My politician, the King's Messenger, he's here to get a fleet of American ships to beat back the French before they can cross the Atlantic and invade America. Speak with him, see if he can write you a letter of marque.”
“That would be a blessed letter, for sure,” Reece replied.
“What kind of vessel is this Swift?”
“She's a fourteen gun brig, a hundred feet, eleven thousand square feet of sail. She's mean, shallow draft, good for sneaking up creeks and bombarding the enemy.”
“There you are,” Wentwhether said as he came through the door. Wallis looked up from the bottom of his empty mug and forced his eyes to focus on the disapproving glare of the King's Messenger.
“It's a funny situation,” Wallis said. “Me an' Reece here got to chatting, and he's got a ship he's gonna sail over and fight with if you give him a letter, and then I bought him a drink, and he bought me one, and so I bought him one back, and now I'm broke, and I think he's drunk 'cause these damn colonialists can't hold their beer.” Wentwhether picked John up from his stool and propelled him toward the door, and Reece lumbered after them.
“Constellation is ready to sail at this very moment. We need to be aboard Pride now. If your man here is ready to sail, tell him to sail. If he needs time, tell him where to go, and let's get out of here.”
“But I need a letter,” Reece said slowly.
“Here,” Horace replied, whipping out a pre-written letter of marque and filling in the pertinent portions.
“How many of those do you have?” Wallis asked instantly, his bloodshot eyes focusing with laser intensity on the stack Wentwhether was holding.
“Fifty,” he replied. “Before I left the President, he suggested making these in case Congress denied the use of the Navy. He felt sympathy for his friend, the King, and put his signature upon them. Apparently they do things differently here than at home.”
“That's gold, sir. Go back in there and wave those around, you'll get a few more ships I'm sure.”
“Good idea, hold that thought,” he said, leaving Wallis leaned up against a friendly lamp post.
*
Wallis was glad to feel the cold salt spray of the ocean in his face as Constellation shouldered her way across the ocean, a ragtag fleet of ships spread out behind her. Pride and her sisters from Fells Point were the closest, ranging ahead effortlessly for scouting, while behind straggled forty ships and boats, all of them possessing cannons of some kind, fitted out for war by their enterprising owners, legalized by Wentwhether's letters of marque, the document necessary to convert them from pirates to hired vessels of the King.
“Not much longer now, sir,” Captain Kart said, folding his hands behind his back.
“Thank you Captain,” Wallis replied. “I'm still amazed at how quickly this ship was readied for combat. I had the understanding that the United States was against wasting resources like this.”
“There is wasting resources and there is preparing for the worst,” Kart said. “When the nature of things became obvious after the war, the government wisely brought a number of ships up to fighting condition. Constellation was in the middle of a refurbishment, so they merely added a few things. Constitution has always been kept in a state of readiness. They just had to clean her bottom and load up enough food and powder to make her dangerous.”
“How'd they clean such a big ship's bottom without a functioning dry dock?” Wallis asked.
“The usual way. You sail up the Chesapeake into the Upper Bay where the water is fresh and it kills off all the marine growth after a while. That's where they loaded up the food, made good use of their time there. Captain Owen Barr is a smart man. When she meets an enemy, it'll be a true battle. He's been practicing every day, getting the men to know their jobs. He's spent a good deal of time mooning about Boston getting the rigging tuned and the hull slightly altered for more speed. It's been rumored he hit fifteen knots in her once, and if that's the case, then she's the fastest ship afloat right now,” Adam said.
“Is that her over there?” Wentwhether asked, pointing over their shoulders to a massive pyramid of canvas to windward of the little armada.
“No, I do believe that's La Nymphe running like hell toward the fishing fleet,” Wallis said, setting down his telescope.
“Can we do anything to stop her?” the King's Messenger asked, hoping that there wouldn't be. A tragedy among the fishing fleet, as horrific as it might be, would boost America's support of the United Kingdom.
“We can't do much against her, to be honest with you. She's far to windward of us, so by the time we tacked up there the battle would be over. The only hope for the fleet there would be another cruiser out and spoiling for a fight. It makes me sick to think that we've got forty five ships and we can't do a thing to stop one,” Kart said, obviously angry.
“On deck there!” the lookout bawled, “on deck! Ship to windward!”
“We know!” Kart bellowed back, “it's the French!”
“No sir! Frigate, black hull, white stripe, tossing a monster of a wake. Lord, she's Constitution!”
“Speak of the devil and she shall appear, gentlemen. We can rest easy now. Mr. Barker, all the sail she can carry, keep us on course. Mr. Lewell, signal the fleet to make more sail. We need to bottle up the French and burn them to the waterline.”
Wallis stared far across the water as the big frigate bowled down toward La Nymphe like an unstoppable juggernaut.
“How I wish I was there,” he said softly.
*
Captain Owen Barr of the USS Constitution stood on the deck of the magnificent frigate, feeling her hull lift and heave underneath his feet as she bore down on the Frenchman under full sail, studdingsails aloft and alow, a staggering pyramid of beautiful pure white canvas, her bow tossing a monstrous wave as she plowed ever forward.
“Ready the guns,” he ordered. Calls echoed through the ship and the gun ports were opened, cannons heaved out and at the ready.
“Now men, that ship down there is a frigate from France, new-built. Our own ship is over two hundred and thirty years old, but like Washington's axe there are very few pieces of her that old. Our guns are new and in excellent condition, and our powder is the best man could make. She is menacing our fishing fleet, and in so doing she is taking food from the plates of our families. We cannot allow this to happen. We must stop her, and if we are lucky, we must board and take her. A ship like that is valuable, and if we can capture her for our own use, why, the President would be mighty glad. But if we must, we will sink her. Here is the plan. We will come within range, fire a warning shot, and if she replies in a fresh manner, we will lay into her fast and thick with our broadsides, one after the other until she strikes.” There was a roaring cheer from the men in the waist of the ship, and Barr gave the order to close with the Frenchman.
Under fighting sails alone she stood between La Nymphe and the fishing fleet, and true to Barr's word, she fired a single warning shot. La Nymphe yawed, considering, then with sudden viciousness she let fly with her entire broadside. Barr shook his head and gave the order. Constitution shook from masthead to keelson as her side disappeared in a huge explosion of sound, smoke, and flame. Twenty four pound balls of iron screamed across the short distance, ripping into La Nymphe with shocking devastation. Howls of pain came across the water, and blood could be seen running down her hull, almost invisible against her black hull but in stark contrast to the white stripe of paint about her gun deck. Still, the French frigate came about and presented her undamaged side, hiding it behind smoke as soon as her cannons could be brought to bear. Most of the shot bounced off the thick hull of Constitution, but one managed to hum across the deck at head height, killing three men and lodging itself in the mainmast with a rending crash. With a growl tearing out of his throat Captain Barr took the wheel himself and lay the ship to within pistol shot of La Nymphe.
“Concentrate all fire on her mainmast!” he bellowed, and the great guns spoke out in their booming voices, their heavy iron shot ripping the massive stick of wood to pieces. With a huge rending crash the noble mast, almost two hundred and thirty feet tall, plunged over the side, rigging snapping and whipping through the air as it went.
“Do you surrender?!” Barr shouted through a speaking trumpet at the bloody quarterdeck of the enemy frigate.
“Merde!” the frigate shouted back, breaking out with a furious round of cannon fire that threatened to send the fallen rigging and sails into flame. Constitution replied with a roar of fire, and again Captain Barr took up his speaking trumpet and asked for surrender.
“Tu me casses les couilles!” the French captain replied. “Tu me fais chier!”
“Take out their mizzen mast and that damn flag with it,” Barr ordered, and in a hail of iron the job was done. La Nymphe sat there rolling heavily with only a foremast, a stump of her mainmast, and a bifurcated mizzen.
“Captain! Surrender your ship to us immediately!” Barr roared, and finally, with some hint of exasperation from the other side, came the reply in accented English.
“Burger-eating invasion monkeys!”
“Damn this man for a fool,” Barr cursed. “Bring us alongside and pass him a cable. We'll tow him back to Boston. Tell that captain to come over here at once. At once!” In the heavy seas of the ocean it was difficult to maneuver closely, but in time it was done and the good-natured but bloody-minded French ship accepted the cable. The French captain made his way across, choosing to climb from his foretopsail yard to Constitution's rather than risk a boat in the cold waves below. He dropped down heavily on deck, walked aft to Captain Barr with a large number of men watching his back, and then drew his sword. Barr drew his own out of reflex, and the French captain chuckled.
“Alexander Diodore, captain. Thank you for your concern for my men, but I had not finished fighting you yet,” he said in almost fluent English.
“Captain Diodore, your ship would be hard-pressed to raise up a handkerchief with the current state of your masts and rigging,” Barr replied.
“I would have let the waves heave me into the side of your ship and continued the fight from there,” Diodore replied instantly, no hint of illwill in his voice, simply a desire to sink Constitution and kill every man aboard her.
“You remind me of someone from an old English movie,” Barr replied. “Now, if you would please acknowledge your surrender, we will bring your ship into Boston and you will be treated as courteously as possible.”
“Do you dare to inundate me with execrable Californian wine and moldy Cheddar?” he asked, cocking his head to one side. “I would much rather continue the fight than surrender. My men feel the same, as I am sure you can see.” Indeed, the captured Frenchmen were busily swaying up new jury masts and rigging.
“I dare not,” Barr replied. “But the simple fact of the matter is that we have won and you have lost. You are aboard my ship and are a prisoner of the United States of America. You are required to behave in the manner consistent with a captive of the US Navy, and if you do not I will be forced to restrain you and your men. Now, will you comply?”
“I will comply only if you favor me with a duel on this very heaving deck,” Diodore shot back, his eyes full of venom.
“I will not fight a prisoner. It is against my principles.”
“Few principles you must have if you tell a man he has surrendered when the truth is that the mast supporting his flag has been shot away. Where is your honor?”
“My honor,” said Barr with barely restrained rage, “is far more than yours. Marine, clap this man in irons and take him below. Send a prize crew over to the frigate and put the prisoners in the hold. Train a few cannons loaded with grape shot at the hatches and blast anything that shows itself.” Diodore swore violently, but the Marines that suddenly appeared were too much for his wiry frame, and he was soon handcuffed and being led below. A sudden angry roar from the frigate announced the prize crew's actions.
“If they do that again, fire a shot into that jury mast,” Barr ordered, stumping below, his mouth set in a deep frown.
*
Kelby leaned back in his chair and stared into the fire with a curious expression on his face. Captain Barr was sitting bolt upright in his own, looking for all the world like a tin soldier.
“He called you a beef-eating invasion monkey?” Kelby said finally, looking up from the report with a smile flitting about his lips.
“Something to that effect, sir. He did not believe he had surrendered, merely had his flag shot away, and he was determined to fight with me on the deck of my ship, surrounded by Marines. The fool,” he spat out, his fists clenched so tight that his trim fingernails dug into the palms of his hands, almost drawing blood.
“At any rate, you have captured a fine, fine frigate. It'll take the men in the yard about a month to repair the damage you inflicted, and then there we go, a new ship in excellent shape. I really have to commend you and your crew for your efforts. Although in the future, if you were to fire at their masts and leave the hulls intact I, and the President, would take it as a particular kindness,” Kelby said in the most affectionate way, pushing a small glass of an excellent Châteauneuf-du-Pape and a small plate of pepperjack cheese and a few crackers toward Barr.
“The fishing fleet is in danger, at any rate. From the report that Rhea gave us, La Nymphe wasn't on this coast until two nights ago. We came across her yesterday by sheer luck. The vessels that we've been losing over the past few months must have been sunk by another ship. If it's acceptable, I wish to return to the fleet's fishing grounds and guard them until we can find this other ship and where she's resupplying from,” Barr said as he nibbled a piece of cheese.
“Oh, certainly Captain. Once we replace a few strakes of planking that were damaged, you're free to go. However, the president wishes you to take the ship and, using your discretion, cruise the coast, putting in where you see fit and capturing any ship that flies the French flag. You are to have a free hand, and you are to use these,” Kelby said, handing over a manila envelope stuffed full of paper, “to aid in your task. Now, Rear Admiral, if you would be so kind as to get out of my office, I would take it as a true kindness.”
“Rear Admiral?” Barr asked, amazed.
“Yes, Owen. The president thought it appropriate to promote you for your work, and I concurred. Now you have precisely ten seconds to leave this place before I take it back.” Kelby was speaking to an empty chair within five seconds.
*
“Put in another reef!” Kart roared, his lungs full of salt water as Constellation buried her bowsprit in the back of a monstrous wave, solid water coursing over her forecastle and deck.
“Rise, please,” he begged quietly as the ship sluggishly rose upward, pumps gushing and masts bent perilously forward. His crew and officers were running as fast as they ever could, doing everything in their power to reduce the incredible force of the sails against the flexing masts, but the storm was getting worse and there were few sails left to reef. If the weather kept getting worse, and the barometer indicated that it would, he would have to strip down to a staysail or two and scud before the wind, trying desperately not to be overwhelmed by the huge waves that threatened to crush the ship every other minute.
“Captain! Foretopmast!” one of the men yelled, and Kart saw with a dying heart that the topmast had cracked from top to bottom, and every wave, every gust was making the crack wider.
“Captain,” Wallis said as he fought his way through the waist-deep water left by a monstrous wave, “there's nothing for it. We've lost half the fleet to this storm. We need to head south, or south by southwest if we want to survive this.” Captain Kart stared at the weakened topmast as his men quickly fished it and struck the foretopsail to remove the strain, and stared at the compass. If he deviated, they would be in the Bay of Biscay rather than Plymouth, surrounded no doubt by the French. Another wave washed over the ship from stem to stern, and Kart felt Constellation sink deeper, rather than rise.
“We have no choice,” Kart said to his commander. Larson nodded in agreement and took the wheel, slowly turning the ship's heavy head toward the southwest, and, if the storm didn't let up soon enough, the Bay of Biscay. The pumps began to catch up, belching forth the water that had flooded inside her.
“Do you speak French?” Kart asked Wallis with a smile.
“Enough to say never surrender, and where are the women without disease,” John replied with a hearty laugh.
*
Admiral Alfred Johnson paced the deck of his ship impatiently, rising his telescope to his eye over and over again, scanning the murky horizon and snapping out a few choice curses. The American convoy, if it was to come, was over a week late. HMS Triumphant made her sullen way through the angry waves, shouldering aside the water like an angry fat woman in search of dessert.
“Sir!” shouted the lookout high above, “the French!” Johnson clapped the telescope to his eye with such force that his head rang, but with a few rapid blinks he focused on the blur far out to sea, coming closer.
“One large ship, a corvette of some kind, a few topsail schooners, and a brig,” the lookout clarified, singing out as loud as he could against the shrieking wind. Johnson crossed himself. Triumphant, a replica of a small sixth rate frigate from the Napoleonic Wars, had a tiny collection of cannons and little else.
“What flag is that?” Johnson asked, focusing his telescope on the corvette that led the miserable procession. The lookout strained as best he could, but in vain as Alfred beat him to it.
“Yankees! What a sorry lot they are, but God bless every one of them,” Johnson said. “Lay the best feast you can get your hands on, and don't spare the expense.”
“Sir,” said his steward, “we've been on short commons since we left port two days ago. All of England is on short commons with the French blockading the continent. If you want to give them a few potatoes, we can manage that but nothing else. Moldy at that, too.”
“Whatever you can find, just make it pretty. Those heaps out there are what's going to break the Frenchman's back.”
It was with a shattered topmast and tattered canvas that Constellation and her remaining escort made their way into Plymouth, her crew fainting with weakness at the pumps.
“Signal Plymouth that we require assistance,” Kart said to Wallis. The two men hadn't left the ship's deck for more than ten hours in the past fifteen days, and as tired as they were, John opened up the signal locker and chose the appropriate hoist of flags without error. Across the miles of confused sea, Johnson's lookout read the flags and called them down to the deck. Within moments, Triumphant and the near-worthless Daedalus changed course to bear down on the convoy. Johnson and his crew looked down at Constellation, her deck covered under almost a foot of solid water, and immediately threw cables across to tie the ships together. A torrent of crewmen flooded over to Constellation and headed straight for the pumps, sending the water churning out of the ship in a steady jet.
“Captain, you have a wonderful ship, but I don't see why you felt the need to hide so much of her under the water,” Johnson said with a smile. Kart looked across at the Englishman, smiled in return, and collapsed against the wheel, fast asleep.
*
“Rear Admiral, we've finished with stowing the cargo. We're ready to leave as soon as you give the order,” the cheerful Commander Host said. Barr looked up from his sunlit desk covered in papers, rubbing his red-rimmed eyes and questioning just how much of a gift his promotion had been. Perhaps Kelby wanted to share his misery.
“Understood. You have the captain of Dada here, right?”
“Yes sir, of course. He's waiting outside the door for you,” Host said, ushering the man in. Barr looked at the fisherman, a tall gaunt man that strongly resembled a pelican, and offered a smile.
“Captain Todd, I'm sorry for the loss of your ship. I hope you'll be willing to help us avenge her,” said Barr. The fisherman bowed his head slowly, his pendulous jowls hanging lower still.
“Of course, sir. We were fishing out of Gloucester, most of the fleet was off of St. John's up in Newfoundland, on the Grand Bank. Dada was a schooner, a staysail schooner we got assigned two years ago, steel hull, good boat. We were pulling in the boats and getting down to cleaning the catch when the fog started rolling in. We were halfway through cleaning the whole catch when something big loomed out of the fog, came toward us with a bone in her teeth and flags streaming. They hailed us in accented English, told us to stay put and they'd put a shot through our hull if we tried to move.”
Barr took his hands out of his eyes as the fisherman's voice trailed off and looked up, seeing the man sadly moved by the retelling of his story. Owen poured out a small glass of black cherry soda and pushed it across the desk to the fisherman, who took the cup with both hands and drank it slowly, savouring every drop.
“Thank you sir,” he said in a husky voice, “that went down well. My pardon for bawling like a baby, but it was a tough moment.”
“What were you doing out there anyway? Surely the French would never come that close to St. John's, unless they were provoked,” Barr said, unrolling a chart and poring over it.
“Well sir, truth be told, we weren't off St. John's. We were at the Flemish Cap.” Barr stared at the man hard, unable to believe the words he had heard.
“You were fishing three hundred and fifty miles off the coast of St. John's? In international waters, unprotected, where you shouldn't have been. How did you.... why did you.... Ugh. Please tell me you weren't sailing under false colors,” Owen begged. Todd's fallen face showed that he had been. Barr sighed deeply and looked at the man again.
“Fishing the Flemish Cap is illegal. Your crew and yourself could be arrested and your ship impounded. However, seeing as how the French have already captured your men and stolen your ship, there's nothing much for me to do except slap you on the wrists. Tell me, the other fishing vessels that were taken, were they out there as well?”
“Aye sir,” said Todd heavily.
“What motivates them to fish out there?”
“Money. The government pays us for our catch, and the more we have, the better quality it is, the more money we get. The owners keep pushing us to bring in more, and, well, we get paid based off of how much we bring in. It's too easy to demonize the owners for our casualties. We're the ones out there, we're the ones that keep topsails sheeted in until the shrouds snap, we're the ones that push so damn hard, and we're the ones that pay with our blood,” Todd said, shaking his head as he spoke.
“What did the ship look like?” Barr asked.
“She came out of the fog real fast. Gray hull, thick black stripe with yellow bands above and below. Big masts, a cloud of sail. She had two rows of guns, a forecastle and quarterdeck. Ship-rigged. About two hundred feet long, very fast. Her lower row of guns were carried very far down, close to the water. She opened fire with the upper row and must have fired three broadsides in five minutes. A real monster, twenty pound balls. Put a gaping hole in our hull, sent Dada to the bottom in ten minutes. It was strange, I watched some of our catch swim right back into the ocean we plucked it out of not five minutes before,” Todd said with a bitter chuckle.
“Fascinating. Where was she last headed? What were her movements?”
“She took my crew and put me in a boat and gave me a compass. They told me to go home, find the captain of Constitution and tell him the story, and then bring him out to the Flemish Cap for a duel. So that's where we stand, sir,” said Todd.
“We stand firm then,” said Barr. “Are you willing to come with me?”
“Of course sir, and give you all the information I can to get my crew back,” the man said, life coming back into his pale and pasty cheeks.
“Host!” Barr roared.
“Aye sir?”
“Lay in a course for the Flemish Cap, all sails that she'll stand, and don't waste a moment,” he ordered, “and tell the gunner to get his men together and fill as many rounds as he can. We're going to attack a French two-decker.”
*
“Captain Kart, my name is Alfred Johnson as you know, and this is Commodore Joseph Marner. He'll be in command of the strike force to hit France. The plan that the Admiralty has come up with is fairly simple and favors our lack of ships. The strike force will sail from Plymouth and hit three points of interest. Cherbourg, Brest, and Le Havre. The French are using these three ports to build and maintain their fleet, and the plan is to use guerrilla warfare to reduce their numbers. Two ships against one, always. No duels, no battles of honor, nothing like that. It's a dirty way to fight, and I know many of you will feel bad doing it, but for you Yankees here with us, it's better to stop them here before they get to Boston, New York, and Baltimore.” The hall had been filled with grumbling, but it faded away quickly enough.
“Everyone, I'm sorry I don't know all your names, but I'm Joseph Marner. This strike force is a combined operation between us English and you Yankees, and I appreciate every man and ship that made it across the Atlantic. Now, Constellation and Captain Kart will be in charge of one group, myself and Caroline will take a group, and John Wallis will command the third from HMS Rose. We will target one of the three ports and decimate anything that comes out. If their ships refuse to come out and fight, we'll go in right after them. Gentlemen, load up your ships. Training begins tomorrow!” As the group filed out, Marner stopped a lieutenant named William Ackart.
“Captain, I need you to render assistance to our friends in intelligence. They have a man in Paris, and his time for extraction is coming up quickly. I want you to take Flying Fish to Calais and pick him up three days from now. Anchor your ship with topsails atrip, a blue light at the foremast and a red at the main. A rowboat will put off from the shore with a small man with a turnip face and a cauliflower ear, his name will be Hew. Bring him back to us without losing a moment, because, Captain Ackart, he will have information on which of the three ports to strike first. Make haste.”
“Aye sir, I won't delay,” Ackart said, his chest swelling with pride.
*
Flying Fish's foretopsail shivered in the wind, threatening to thrust the ship boldly onto the near shore. Ackart looked upward, straining his eyes to see the dim red light occasionally hidden by the shaking maintopsail. He stumped forward and turned to what had formerly been his equal, now his officer.
“Carey, any sign from the shore?” he asked, a superfluous question intended to compel poor Herman Carey to respond,
“No, Captain.” Ackart grinned with satisfaction, still unable to believe that blessed word, but he quickly turned his mind back to the task at hand, and with his telescope scanning the beach he tried to force his eyes to pierce the darkness and will the rowboat into existence.
“You'd think the French would be interested in these two lights, come out and investigate,” said Carey, coming back from the forecastle.
“Not really, not unless... is that it?” Ackart said, curiosity getting the better of his lordly attitude.
“Aye sir,” said Carey, keeping the rowboat in sight as it came fairly flying over the water, four men at the oars and a fifth crouching in the stern. The little boat bumped up against Flying Fish's low, black-painted hull, and through sheer force the four men who had been rowing propelled the little man from the stern of the rowboat up the side of the ship, and so unto the deck of Flying Fish.
“Who are you?” Ackart demanded. The little man looked up into his face, gasped “Hew,” and collapsed on the deck. William and Herman instantly went to his aid, and saw in shock that there was a tremendous wound in his chest pumping out blood, thick and black in the dim light of the moon.
“Betrayed,” he said in a voice that rattled from his lungs. “England never a target. Invasion fleet at Flemish Cap. Mexico traitor. America target all along.” With a final shattered gasp, he pulled a thin sealed envelope from his pants pocket with his right hand, a hand that lacked fingernails, and gave it to Ackart. His task completed, Hew, a completely forgettable-looking man, breathed his last.
“Did you hear him Will?” Carey asked, astonished. Ackart read the letter with trembling hands, unable to believe the words set down in frantic ink.
“If this is true, then all of our forces are going to be wasted and England will be beset on both sides by France. We could win against just the nation of France, but the nation backed by all of America's forests, mines, refineries? We need to return to Plymouth immediately. Even now it may be too late,” Ackart said, his character overwhelmed by his seamanship.
“Sailors! Make all sail! Courses, topsails, topgallants, royals, skyscrapers! Cables to the mastheads, rig preventers, throw all unnecessary stores overboard!” he bellowed, and Flying Fish, nimble little brig that she was, spun about on her heel and rocketed off toward Plymouth, the cables rising to her mastheads in time with the sails. The masts bent forward, complaining deeply until the cables and preventers could take some of the strain off. Flying Fish's head plunged downward, until her bouyancy equaled the thrust of the sails, and off she went, tearing through the water and trailing a massive wake.
“Captain!” the lookout shouted from above, pointing behind. In the dim light of the rising sun a massive ship could be seen leaving Calais, her sails racing upward at a pace that made Ackart's heart jump into his throat.
“It's one of their two-deckers, sir. Ship-rigged, fifty guns, fast as hell,” the lookout added. “She's rounded the pier.” Whatever her name was, the big ship was moving fast, and even though Flying Fish ran without lights, the French ship was in direct pursuit.
“On deck! She's raising a hoist of flags! She's signaling!” Ackart brought his telescope to bear, and in the growing light he was just able to make out the hoist.
“La flèche frappera à la maison, I think,” said William. “The arrow will hit home. I guess that would make her La Flèche, eh? See if we can dig up some kites up there, anything to give us some more distance in this wind. Spritsail and spritsail topsail, if we can set it. God send us a breeze,” he added.
*
“Psalm 32:8, sir. I will instruct you and teach you in the way you should go; I will counsel you and watch over you. Seems fitting,” Carey said as he held his hat firmly to his head. The light breeze of the morning had given way to a furious Beaufort 8, and it was with tattered scraps of canvas that Flying Fish just barely held her lead over La Flèche.
“Captain, we need to reduce sail,” Carey bellowed into Ackart's ear. The man shook his head.
“We can't, Herman. Nor can we outrun that monster with the wind behind us. We need to bring the wind onto our quarter and draw him off, then double back in the night and hit England, any part of England. We have to last long enough to put a man on shore with this letter and raise the warning,” Ackart said with a determined look on his face.
“Get all the cannons over to starboard and lash them down. Shift all the cargo that you can. When we bear up, gentlemen, I want every single man on the weather rail. We'll need every last bit of weight to hold her rail down, and lord help us if any of the preventers let go,” Ackart ordered. In a quarter of an hour, La Flèche had gained a half mile, and men could be seen gathering around her massive brass bowchasers, preparing them for the coming battle. With a look of intense mental calculation, Ackart stared at La Flèche and then gave the order to bear up. Within moments Flying Fish was heeled over despite the massive weight on her weather rail, her masts groaning and complaining, the stays and shrouds taut as iron bars as water streamed past her sides. La Flèche grew smaller and smaller for a half hour, sails blossoming and ripping from the masts until finally the two ships reached an equal speed.
“Anything else that we can carry?” Ackart asked hopefully. Carey looked at the masts thoughtfully, wrapped an arm about one of the massive cables supporting the mainmast, and shook his head.
“Not another sail, sir, or we'll rip her apart.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, one of the gleaming brass cannons on La Flèche thundered loud, tossing a ball that skipped over the waves twice and smashed into Flying Fish's transom with a resounding crash.
“We may need to rip her apart before the French do,” Ackart said with a smile. Slowly, slowly, a few small sails made their way up, triply reinforced to prevent their ripping to shreds in the screaming wind. Flying Fish heeled over farther until her gun ports were submerged below the water.
“Hike out farther!” William ordered. The crew took hold of any ropes they could and walked over the weather rail, placing their feet on planking that normally rested three feet below the waterline.
“You too, Herman,” Ackart said apologetically.
“Aye, sir.”
William Ackart crossed himself, then returned his hands to the wheel. The slightest deviation from her course would destroy the ship in a second, but at the same time he had to favor her during the immense gusts that were coming in greater and greater frequency. La Flèche needed far less favoring due to her greater weight, but at the same time she hadn't caught on to the idea of running cables to the masts to take up additional strain. If the French captain smoked his trick it would be over, and Portsmouth was still another twenty miles away.
“Another two hours boys!” Ackart shouted, and there was a sodden cheer from the side of the ship.
“Two men, come aboard and come aft!” he added. Two of the most moist clambered aboard and made their way toward the captain.
“You, Samuel, cast loose our friend's rowboat and bring it back here. Thomas, get me a barrel of gunpowder and something for a fuse. We're going to load it up and send it toward the Frenchman, try and spook him.” Within ten minutes it was done, and the little rowboat was bobbing astern and shrinking at ridiculous speed. To Ackart's penultimate sorrow, the gunpowder exploded too soon, getting only a slight yawing of course from La Flèche, gaining them only a few yards distance. The big two-decker veered off course a little bit more, opening up the angle between the two ships and allowing her broadside cannons to get a chance to aim at Flying Fish.
“Portsmouth!” came the roar a few hours later. Ackart weeped at the sight, amazed that the little ship had held together long enough. Water was sloshing about in her hold at a depth that could only be explained by her seams opening up, and her masts had stressed her internal structure beyond any hope of repair. He had spent the past hour watching as a fissure made its way from the bottom of the mast almost to the topmast, opening wider and wider as time went by. The cable held up the mast, but it was only a stopgap, and soon even the cables would let go. A massive explosion of sound from the rear quarter announced La Flèche's opening salvo, and most of the shot made its way home, wreaking havoc among the men on the rail.
“Get aboard!” Ackart shouted. It was cruel to make them stand there and be shot at, but coming back aboard wouldn't make them any safer. Flying Fish heeled over dramatically as the weight came inboard, and Ackart almost lost her.
“Captain, give me the wheel and drink,” Carey ordered.
“No, we're almost there. I can hold out another ten minutes,” Ackart said with a bitter smile. To his ultimate horror, La Flèche fired a lucky shot that went home, parting one of three cables supporting the foretopmast. It came down instantly, pitching over the bow of the ship and tangling in the spritsail and bowsprit. Flying Fish's bowsprit impaled the wave in front of her, stuck, and tripping over the wreckage of her topmast, flipped bodily end for end, pitchpoling herself to destruction amidst a crashing roar and a cloud of shredded canvas and flailing ropes.
“Carey!” Ackart shouted, struggling to keep his head above the wind-torn sea.
“Will!” he replied, screaming at the top of his lungs to be heard