A Sea Unto Itself (27 page)

He fingered the thick paper of the ledger and stared at the list of supplies again with renewed determination. “Lemons . . .” The seasonal shift in the direction of the prevailing winds from southward up the sea to down the sea from the north would be essential to any French calculations. If they intended to come down, it could only be done with favorable winds. How would such an effort be organized? If it were up to him, he would collect whatever transports were available at some convenient Egyptian port on the Red Sea—Koessir, which was shown on his chart, for example, or possibly Suez—load them with troops and supplies, then run south as soon as the wind allowed it. That had the advantage of being the most straightforward approach. The disadvantages, as he saw it, were two: It was a long sail from Egypt to Bombay, a month and a half at the least, even with the best of winds. And the British squadron at Mocha would have to be somehow defeated or avoided. He was certain that the French would be aware of Blankett’s presence and strength; local traders passing up and down the sea would long since have informed them.

There was another disadvantage, Charles reflected: Massing the transports at a port in Egypt was the most obvious thing to do, and left them vulnerable to attack—should they be discovered and should Blankett be so inclined. He remembered the viscount at the Admiralty telling him to be wary of the obvious. What in God’s name did that mean? If not the obvious, what—the obscure? Maybe Blankett and all the others were right; there was no French intention to invade India, and his whole goddamned mission was a goddamned waste of time.

Charles muttered an obscenity under his breath. All he had to do was force his attention until he finished with the purser’s report, then he could sign the damn thing and go on deck. “Lemons . . .” He remembered that he was also arrears in his log-keeping. That could wait until another time. It was uncomfortably warm in the cramped cabin. If he listened he could hear Beechum, Sykes, and Aviemore playing at cards on the wardroom dining table and the footfalls of seamen on the gundeck above. There was little talk at the game which had been going on for hours, but the shuffling and slapping of the cards was clear enough. He could not hear anything of the activities on the quarterdeck, two decks above, which he would have followed easily were he in his own cabin. His ears picked up when he heard the door from the crew’s mess to the wardroom open, then slam loudly shut. “Slow down, Hitch,” Beechum’s voice commanded. “And keep it soft, the captain’s working.”

“It’s the Frogs!” Midshipman Hitch chirped breathlessly, then the tap-tap-tap of a pair of feet hurrying across the floor.

Frogs? What frogs? What could frogs possibly have to do with anything? It came to him—not frogs, Frogs! He dumped the ledger on the cot and swung his legs over the side to search for his shoes as the knock came at his door.

“Come.”

“Lieutenant Bevan’s respects, sir,” Hitch said formally. “The lookout’s seen a Frenchie. The same, he says, what we did with before.”

“Thank you, Mr. Hitch,” Charles said, attempting to suppress his excitement. “You may tell Mr. Bevan that I shall be on deck presently.”

He quickly slipped his feet into his shoes and buckled them. Without bothering with his coat he took up his sword and hat. “Come along, gentlemen,” he said as he passed the card game, exited the wardroom, and made for the ladderway.

Cassandra sailed a course north-by-northwest in deep water up the center of the long, narrow sea with a following wind. Two days from Mocha, they were giving the reef-strewn Dahlak Archipelago a wide berth to port. At the noon sighting their latitude had been fifteen degrees, forty-five minutes north.

“What has he seen, Daniel?” Charles said as soon as he came onto the quarterdeck.

“Two sail off the larboard quarter,” Bevan said. “One of them is square-rigged. The lookout swears she’s the same French frigate we encountered in the Atlantic, although that seems a bit hard to swallow. The other’s some kind of local dhow, I think, double masted with a small mizzen aft, all lateen sails.”

“What course do they have?”

“The dhow’s running to the southwest; it’s possible the frigate is in pursuit.”

“Mr. Sykes,” Charles called. “You will be pleased to take a glass up to the mainmast crosstrees. Make careful note of every detail you can, then report back what you see. I am particularly interested in the identity of the frigate. You might also make a careful scan of the horizon to be certain there are no other sail in sight.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Sykes took up a telescope from the binnacle and started toward the mainmast shrouds.

“Mr. Cromley.”

“Sir.”

“Steer west-by-southwest, if you please.”

“Yes, sir. We’ll be heading into shallow water amongst those islands, you know.”

“Thank you, Mr. Cromley. I am aware of that.”

Charles rubbed a hand across his forehead. If the lookout was to be believed, the sighting confirmed that at least one of the French warships had entered the Red Sea. Where was the two-decker—what was her name?—Raisonnable. If there was one, the other would probably have accompanied her. He thought it a good wager that the big seventy-four was somewhere farther north. The frigate—L’Agile, he remembered—had likely been detached to collect suitable transports as she came upon them. In this instance, he did not pause to consider whether or not he should give chase to engage. It was his duty to do so. The presence of the two ships of war would seriously compromise Blankett’s ability to blockade the sea’s exit. Capturing or crippling the frigate would help to redress the balance, leaving only the seventy-four to deal with. Besides, it was the first time he had come upon her without the larger consort. As he had the opportunity, he had best take advantage of it; there might not be a better one.

It was troublesome that Cassandra’s change of course to intercept the enemy would carry her ever closer to the Dahlak Archipelago, an almost completely uncharted expanse of scores, if not hundreds, of small islands, coral reefs, rocks, shoals, and shallows. The morass extended for a hundred miles or more to the African coast. It was likely that the shallow-drafted dhow intended to run there for her safety. For the deeper draft of the frigates, it would be an ungodly dangerous place for a sea battle.

“Daniel, you may clear the ship for action. Don’t send the men to quarters until we are closer.”

“Aye, aye,” Bevan said.

“Station two men in the forechains with lead lines, one on each side. We’ll take soundings as we go. Send Beechum forward with a notebook to keep a record. Assign Hitch and Aviemore to run back and forth with reports. Do you have all that?”

“Aye, I have it.”

The bosun’s call sounded for all hands on deck. The men hurried up the ladder-ways full of chatter. Word had apparently already passed between decks that a French warship had been sighted, and she was the same they had fought before. Charles watched the men carefully, attempting to read their mood. Some at least were excited at the prospect of renewing the battle. Others—he noted the more experienced seamen among them—moved deliberately to their places, their eyes cautious as they glanced up at him in passing. Still, the waisters took up their lines to brace the sails around. Others fell without notable enthusiasm to work preparing the ship for battle. They would tend to their duties when the guns began firing, he knew. They would have little choice.

Cassandra heeled gently in the calm seas as she wore to take the wind on her port quarter, all plain sail aloft. The bulkheads and furnishings of what would normally have been the captain’s cabin were struck below, as were the living animals and partitions for the manger forward. The cook doused the galley fire, raked out the embers, and tossed them overboard. The gundeck soon became a single unobstructed expanse from stem to stern, occupied by Cassandra's main armament of twenty-six twelve-pounder cannon. Six additional six-pounder long guns were shared between quarterdeck and forecastle, as were eight short-barreled twenty-four-pound carronades. The decks around the guns were sprinkled with sand to improve footing, then wet with buckets of seawater to discourage fires starting from spilled gunpowder.

Charles noticed that Adolphus Jones, Mrs. Jones, and Constance had come onto the quarterdeck to stand by the far rail, which they must have done since their cabin was now dismantled. It would not do to have any of them killed before they even reached Egypt. He thought to cross and tell them they would have to go below when he saw Sykes approaching along the gangway.

“Sir,” the midshipman panted, breathless from his rush to what was nearly the very top of the mainmast and back down again.

“Take a deep breath,” Charles said. There was no great urgency; he could see no sign of either ship from the deck as yet.

“I seen them clear,” Sykes managed. “She’s the same French frigate as before, I’m sure of it. The same number of guns and the shape at the beak. The other is medium-sized, maybe three-hundred tons. I’m not sure what she is, but she ain’t no dhow like you’d find hereabouts.”

“What sort of craft to you make her to be?”

“From her looks I’d say a pink from the Mediterranean,” the midshipman said, scratching at his chin in thought. “I seen the like at Genoa, but I don’t fathom what she’s doing here. She’s not armed that I can tell.”

“Her course?” Charles asked. He didn’t know what to make of Sykes’ opinion of the smaller ship, or if it mattered. A pink was a common enough type of merchantman along the southern coast of Europe. They normally carried triangular lateen sails, which might lead to mistaking her for an Arab trader.

“I’d say to the southwest, sure enough. Into them islands forward, anyway. There’s a mass of them when you look from the crosstrees. They go on as far as you can see.”

“Thank you, Mr. Sykes. Have you been able to ascertain anything of their purpose? Could you tell if the frigate was in pursuit, for example?”

Sykes furrowed his brow in concentration. “It might be, sir,” he said hesitantly. “The Frenchie was following by about two cable lengths. I didn’t see no cannon fire though.”

“I see,” Charles said. He thought it unlikely the frigate would fire into anything she was hoping to capture except as a last resort. She might fire warning shots though. “Thank you. If that is all, you may assist Lieutenant Beechum forward.”

“There is one more thing, sir.”

“What?”

“The warship, she’s seen us. She’s braced her sails up tight to come into the wind. You should see her masts from the deck soon. The other has gone straight on. It’s possible the frigate means to have at us, sir.”

“I expect you’re right. Again, thank you, Mr. Sykes.”

Before Charles could seek out Bevan to speak with him, he saw the boy Aviemore fidgeting anxiously, waiting for his turn. “What have you to say?” he asked.

“Twenty fathoms, and . . .”

“Mr. Aviemore, you know how to make a proper report. Do so, please.”

“Yes, sir. Mr. Beechum’s respects, sir,” the midshipman said laboriously. “The sea depth is at twenty fathoms and shoaling, sir.”

“Very good,” Charles said, feeling he had been unnecessarily abrupt. “That was nicely done. I apologize for being sharp with you. My respects to Mr. Beechum and please ask him to keep me informed.”

“Oh, it weren’t nothing,” Aviemore squeaked and left at a run to return to the bow.

Twenty fathoms. Charles knew that it would become shallower. He remembered from the very few soundings on his chart depths as shallow as a single fathom far from any land, although five and six were more normal. Before they had turned westward, there had been no bottom on a hundred-fathom line. Cassandra’s keel would be nearly three fathoms below the waves, slightly more by the stern as she was newly provisioned. The added complexity of having to fight in uncertain waters gnawed at him.

Looking forward he could see the first of several low-lying islands in the distance over the sparkling water. He saw something else as well. Picking up his own glass he found L'Agile's upper masts wavering in its lens. He opened his watch and looked at it. With the wind as it was, it seemed likely they would meet sometime in the evening and there should still be enough daylight to do his business. In all probability there would be little opportunity for maneuver. It would be best to lie close to, very close to, where superior gunnery would tell. They might even come aboard and try her by main force if the opportunity presented itself.

He went over to Bevan near the wheel. “I want all of the cutlasses, axes, and pikes sharpened.”

The lieutenant nodded his comprehension. “You plan to board?” he said.

“I don’t know. We’ll have to see as the situation develops. I’ll tell you this, I don’t want a long drawn out exchange of broadsides if it can be helped. I’d rather it were over with quickly.”