Bound by the Heart (48 page)

In the sudden lull of battle, all
that could be heard were the hiss and snap of fires and the cries and groans of
the wounded.

Commodore Winfield walked the
length of the main deck, kicking and berating his gunners, shrieking at the men
lying dazed against the rails, barking hoarse curses at his midshipmen and
ordering them to whip the crew into fighting form again.

Some of the men, already
discouraged, went below to the storerooms and broke into the kegs of rum. Even
the lowest gun deck had been penetrated by the American shot, and the British
seamen—poorly fed and liberally treated to the lash—were in no mood to pull
together for the sake of Commodore Winfield's reputation.

As for the officers, they were
appalled by the staggering losses they had sustained so far. Eighty of its
four-hundred-and-nine-man crew were wounded or dead. They had expected to blow
apart a pair of crippled privateers and instead were hard-pressed to hold their
own against two brilliantly commanded fighting machines.

The
Gyrfalcon,
sorely
damaged herself, looked as unready to haul down her colors as she had when she
first thundered in on the attack.

The
Chimera,
the sleek
and graceful twin, could already be seen hoisting new sail and preparing to
bring the battle home again.

For the first time the
Caledonia's
crew
believed the story of the
Northgate's
demise. They believed the privateer
took her single-handed, and worse, they began to believe their own black
panther could be next.

Bennett Winfield's jaw was set. His
face was shiny with sweat, and his eyes were alive with an unnatural gleam as
he presided over a hasty council of war on the afterdeck.

"Sir, the wounded—"

"The wounded will be seen to
in due time. Another hour, no more, and they'll have a brace of prize ships in
their possession to take the sting of their cuts away."

Bennett's artillery officer stepped
forward. "Sir, the crews on my eighteens are being decimated. Another
cross fire Uke the last one and you'll have no upper battery to speak of. There
is simply no protection; they're too exposed. The rails are gone; most of the
carriages are either dangerously loose or knocked clean away."

"Sir, the rigging Unes are
hopelessly snarled."

"We carry replacements, don't
we?" Winfield hissed.

"Yes, sir, but with the
steering sails gone—"

"I need steerage, Mr.
Turner, and I need it now! Without it we might as well sit here and invite
their shells aboard!"

"The men are splicing
sir, but I need time."

"How much time?"

"Sir, the fires—"

Winfield balled his fists and
turned to the new interruption. "What about the fires, Mr. Halpera? Are
you going to tell me we have run short of water or buckets?"

The young midshipman stammered as he looked around the
circle of gritty faces. "N-no, sir. But the aftercabins are all ablaze. I
need more men to keep the fires from spreading. The last round they put to us
carried some incendiary."

"Have we nothing to respond with?" Winfield
demanded of his quartermasters.

"We have explosive shot,
yes, sir, but the mortars are gone."

"All of them?"
Bennett gasped, disbelieving
the condition of his fine panther.

The gunnery officer broke in again. "Whoever is
directing their fire knows the layout of our decks and the placements of our
weapons. He's firing on us by divisions and aiming for our close-range weapons.
He hits and runs, sir. He moves too fast for our thirty-twos to be of much use.
There is no question that we are damaging them in return, but it still remains
that both privateers are managing five rounds to every two or three of
ours."

"Excuses!" Winfield screamed. "Do you
hear what you are giving me—
nothing but excuses!
I want us in close. I want us
to take the battle to him now."

Captain Emory Ashton-Smythe saw the horror of the
Northgate's
last half hour replaying
itself before his eyes. "Wade cannot afford to let you take the battle to
him, and he knows it. He'll keep you tight, he'll keep you sailing in circles,
and as long as you keep trying to use his own tactics against him, he'll be
able to anticipate and cut you down."

Bennett whirled on him. "Explain that remark,
sir. I am in command of this ship. The tactics I have called for are my
own!"

Ashton-Smythe pushed himself painfully to his feet.
"Your panther is on fire, Commodore. Half of your guns are useless; your
wounded are drunk and pleading for quarter. To continue the battle will mean
risking another third of your crew—are you
sure it is
worth it? Neither of Wade's ships is in condition to give chase. Perhaps we
would be wiser to—"

"To what?" Bennett
demanded. "To run away? To concede another victory to that . . . that
..."
Winfield's face mottled angrily,
and his voice was laced with contempt. "By God, Glasse was right. You are
a coward. A gutless, spineless coward and a disgrace to the uniform you
wear."

Ashton-Smythe looked down at his
scruffy uniform, at the filthy bandages on his hand and thigh, then at the
bloody shambles of the deck stretched out before them. "Call it cowardice
if you like, Commodore. I simply consider the lives I save worth far more than
a gold stripe and an admiral's berth."

Winfield's eyes flashed their
hatred as he watched the slumped shoulders of Ashton-Smythe pass him and head
for the ladderway. He reached down suddenly, grabbing at the hilt of his saber,
and withdrew it from the sheath. He lunged forward, but one of the junior
officers jumped out and pushed Smythe clear as the point of the sword was
driven deeply into the wood of the bulkhead. Two more officers leaped forward,
wrestling the sword from Winfield's hands, while still others placed themselves
protectively between the commodore and the stunned captain.

"Let go of me," Winfield
said, his face livid with fury. "Let go of me at once, or I'll have you
all stripped of rank before the day is done!"

His officers stared at one another
aghast, none of them certain of what to do next: To disobey was to mutiny, to
release him was inviting a possible murder. They all shared a deep respect for
Captain Ashton-Smythe; he was a fine officer and a fine gentleman. But they
also shared a deep-rooted fear of the naval judicial system. Mutiny in wartime
could only result in death:—regardless of the provocations.

Ashton-Smythe observed each earnest
face in turn, sensing what was going on behind the rapid exchange of glances.
"I have already made one decision, gentlemen, and am content to live with
it. This one is up to Commodore Winfield."

"But you said yourself, the
lives of the men—"

"The navy does not concern
itself with lives, Lieutenant Cornish, only numbers. You have the numbers to
continue the battle; that is what the record will show."

"My God, sir—look!"

The
Chimera
and the
Gyrfalcon
were
gathering headway, coming in fast behind the British ship and drawing apart so
that the
Caledonia
would be trapped between them.

One by one the anxious faces
reverted to Bennett Winfield. The two men pinning his arms in restraint
loosened their grips and stepped aside. Lieutenant Cornish, the artillery
officer, stood ramrod-straight as he faced his commandant.

"Your orders . . . sir?"

Bennett tugged the wrinkles on his
uniform smooth and glared a promise at each of the six ashen faces. He delayed
his answer long enough that the first salvos were unleashed from the approaching
privateers and tore into the hull of the
Caledonia.
He barely flinched as a shower of
splinters shot past him.

"Mr. Turner—" he said
through clenched teeth, "how long will you need to give me steerage?"

Turner moistened his lips. "An
hour, sir. I can give you tops and fores in an hour."

"Get your crews on it
now.
Scavenge if
you must, but
give me steerage!
Mr. Cornish, since you are so eager
to test the generosity of your enemy, you may have the privilege of lowering
the colors to half-mast. We'll see exactly how warm the water is."

* * *

Mr. Monday was set to roar for the
gunners to fire a third volley, when he saw the Union Jack flutter halfway down
the mainmast. He spun on his heel and cupped his hands around a shout to Morgan
Wade, who had replaced a fallen gunner at one of the barrel-shaped carronades.
Wade fed the hefty forty-two-pound shot into the smoking muzzle of the cannon,
tamped it down flush against the wadding and gave the powderman the thumbs-up
signal before he moved away from the gun and went to stand by Mr. Monday.

"What do you suppose he's up
to?"

Monday wiped impatiently at a gash
on his forehead that was sheeting blood down his temple onto his neck. His
hands were burned and scraped, as were Wade's, and one of the gleaming white
teeth that created his fearsome grin had been broken level with the purplish gums.
He grinned anyway and shook his head.

"Doan know, Cap-tan. Mebbe he
have enough?"

"Aye, and maybe it will snow
in the islands next week."

Mr. Monday frowned and pointed to
where the
Gyrfalcon
was drawing up behind the
Caledonia.
Her cracked
mainmast had been
shot away, and she was moving sporadically under the windage of two
partially rigged masts. Bull had also seen the flag run down and was having
difficulty holding position as he waited for a sign from Wade. He would have to
either fire or fall away and circle around for another pass.

It could be precisely what Winfield was hoping for.

"Stand the gunners down, Mr. Monday. Mr.
Cambridge!"

"Aye, sir?" Michael stepped forward, his
face and hands sooty with gunpowder, the white of his shirt liberally coated
with grease and ash.

."Relay an order to the helm. Tell Mr. Phillips
to signal Captain Treloggan to hold as long as he can."

"Aye, sir!" he cried and scampered away.

Ten minutes later there was still no sign of movement
on the decks of the
Caledonia.
The
Gyrfalcon
had gone too far ahead and had to turn away; Morgan
estimated that during the next hour or more he would be without support. His
gunners crouched by the cannon, waiting. His topmen perched on the shrouds,
ready to manipulate the yards on a moment's notice.

Colored flags burst out suddenly on the bows of the
Caledonia.
It was a request for safe
passage for a gig to approach the
Chimera. A
reply was run up in the
Chimera's
rigging, and minutes later a
small dinghy rowed out from behind the warship carrying four oarsmen and three
uniformed officers.

Morgan Wade was on the bridge, his hands on his hips,
his blue eyes tracking the longboat alternately with the
Gyrfalcon.
Bull was making good use of
the time to jury-rig more sail to his two remaining masts, buying
back—hopefully—the ability to maneuver faster. But Winfield's men were also
working frantically to lower damaged sails and spars and lash fresh canvas
aloft.

Whatever Winfield's ploy was, Wade decided, he had
missed a glaring opportunity.

Mr. Phillips appeared at the foot of the ladderway.
"Commodore Winfield is requesting permission to come aboard. He has two of
his officers with him."