A Sailor's Christmas
Chapter Five
"Vernon was carrying lights last night," said Sherwin. "More than running lights; he had several lanthorns on the main deck and some below as well." The masters of the merchant ships were told to keep their ships dark at night in order to hide their location from unfriendly eyes. "The lookouts reported that the lamps went out at three bells on the middle watch,* and they reported seeing no other ship."
"If Mirabelle came up with no lights, the lookouts could have missed her," said MacKenzie. "It was black as pitch last night."
"Or they could have cut her out with small boats," said Wentworth. "Did you not say that was her captain's mode of operation?"
Sherwin was contemptuous. "Aye, he likes to sneak around in the dark, not match broadsides like a man."
"We cannot expect honour from pirates, Captain Sherwin."
"No, sir."
"If it weren't for the convoy, we could give chase," said Wentworth. Regulations did not permit them to leave the convoy unprotected.
"Vernon is a fool, Captain," MacKenzie put in, "but he does not deserve to be left to the tender mercies of a pirate."
"And we will not be leaving him so." Wentworth stood and paced the small cabin restlessly. "We must lure the Mirabelle back to the convoy and take her. You say that the Louisa Maria was carrying lights?"
"Aye, sir."
"Then we shall attract her the same way, like a moth to the flame." Wentworth smiled thinly. "But she will not find a foolish merchant master waiting for her."
Wentworth's first notion was to disguise Annis as a merchant vessel, but it occurred to him that the captain of Mirabelle would have scouted the convoy and probably knew which ships were the escorts and which the mules. Thus, he must use one of the merchant ships to lure the pirates. He consulted MacKenzie, and they agreed that a small sloop or barque would be best.
"I know which I'd like to use," MacKenzie told him. "The Highland Lass."
Wentworth smiled. "I trust that your choice is not based upon simple patriotism."
"No, Captain. Though she's a bonnie enow lass," replied MacKenzie in a brogue grown suddenly thick as Scottish porridge.
When he had time to consider the matter carefully, Wentworth had to agree with MacKenzie's assessment: the Highland Lass was the ideal choice. He had only to persuade the master to allow them to use the barque as bait.
Wentworth was careful to stand in the bow of the jolly boat, where the insignia of his rank--the gold braid edging the white lapels of his blue coat and the epaulets pinned to his shoulders--could be clearly seen. He could wish them grander in appearance; for once he saw Jenkins's point about the shabbiness of his dress uniform. There was nothing like brightly shining objects to distract the simpleminded.
The jolly boat came up alongside the Highland Lass, and Wentworth went up the side with MacKenzie following. He could not expect side-boys or bosun's calls aboard the merchant barque, but he saluted the quarterdeck with all the savoir-faire of an admiral coming aboard his flagship.
"Ah, Captain Buckley," he greeted the master, who was eyeing him warily. "Very good to see you again, sir!" He turned to his first lieutenant. "You were quite right, Mr. MacKenzie. The Highland Lass is certainly a beauty! Captain Buckley is justifiably proud of her. The ships in his Majesty's Navy should be so fine!"
Buckley was still suspicious, but could not resist a bit of a preen. "I keep her ship-shape and Bristol fashion, Captain. The deck is holystoned thrice weekly, her sails are patched as soon as need be, and she's painted regular."
"Indeed?" replied Wentworth with as much interest with which he might have greeted news of the greatest import. "That is very well, sir, very well indeed. Mr. MacKenzie, I believe the Highland Lass will suit our purposes admirably."
"Aye, Captain. We'll have to shift some men over, naturally--"
"Oh, that goes without saying, Mr. MacKenzie."
"And powder, and shot--"
"Here," interjected Buckley, "what are you on about, sirs? We don't need no more powder and shot than we has, nor no more men, neither. I've got all I can do to feed 'em as is--"
"Quite correct, Captain Buckley," Wentworth interrupted. "We cannot expect you to feed men in the employ of the King. Mr. MacKenzie, see to it that sufficient stores are brought on for the additional men."
"Aye aye, Captain."
"Captain Buckley," said Wentworth, "you are a true patriot, and your name will be included in my letter to the Admiralty and published in the Naval Chronicle."
Buckley stared at him in astonishment. "The Naval Chronicle?"
"Certainly, and deservedly so! Risking this fine barque to capture a marauding pirate--why, you'll be the toast of Portsmouth! Every seaman in every pub will be wanting to buy you a pint."
"Pirate?" Buckley looked wildly from one officer to the other.
"Yes, Captain, the deadliest pirate in these waters. I have not seen such disinterested patriotism since the war ended. It is good to know that the seagoing fraternity still stands as one." Wentworth beamed and pumped Buckley's grimy paw. "Well done, sir, well done! Mr. MacKenzie, you will see to the transfer of Captain Buckley and his men to Annis and the transfer of a full complement of experienced seamen to the Highland Lass. Fear not, Captain Buckley, we'll care for her as one of our own." He quickly turned and made for the ladder to the jolly boat. "On behalf of the Royal Navy, your country, and your King, Captain Buckley, I thank you." Wentworth raised his hat and bowed gallantly to the astonished and very confused master.
The jolly boat crew was efficient and soon had Wentworth and MacKenzie back to the Minerva. "That was easier than I thought it would be," said Wentworth, handing his bicorne to Jenkins as he entered his cabin.
MacKenzie gave him an admiring smile. "I confess that I did not think your scheme would succeed, Captain. I stand corrected."
"It was simple, really. First, distract him by flattering his vanity, and then convince him that we did not commandeer his ship, but rather that he volunteered it." Wentworth smiled to himself; the entire exercise was inspired by the method he employed on his father-in-law. "Now to choose the men. Experienced men only, Mr. MacKenzie, good with small arms in a boarding action. See to the quarterbill, if you please."
"Captain, if I may presume--I would consider it a personal favour if you would allow me to lead the mission."
Wentworth hesitated. "I had thought of Mr. Briggs. I know he is junior to you, but I need you here on the Minerva."
"With all due respect, Captain, the Minerva has no place in this action, and it might be my last chance to--" he bit off the words as though they were offensive.
Wentworth nodded shrewdly. "Your last chance for glory, and perhaps a ship of your own. I salute your ambition, but--" he hesitated, and finally said, "Mr. Briggs is not a married man." He moved closer to the first lieutenant and said softly, "To have her husband killed in an action while on convoy duty--I could not face Mrs. MacKenzie if you should not come back."
"If I were not a married man, would you give me the command, sir?"
"Yes."
"Then please have the respect for me, and for my wife, to do what is best for the service, and the action at hand." His blue eyes softened. "Teresa is a navy wife, sir. She understands, as I'm sure Mrs. Wentworth understands."
Wentworth was immediately ashamed; he had let his own anxiety for Anne cloud his judgment. It would not happen again. MacKenzie was correct: naval wives sent their husbands off to sea knowing that they might not come back. He tried to ignore the thought of Anne standing on the pier at Plymouth, a handkerchief fluttering in her hand. "Very well, Mr. MacKenzie," he said crisply. "You will take command. I believe you understand my intentions."
"Yes, Captain."
"Then, good luck and fair winds to you." Wentworth held out his hand, and MacKenzie took it. With a smile and a salute, he was gone.
The two small boats slipped through the inky darkness, attracted to the lanthorns swinging along the deck and the sound of a single seaman keeping himself company on watch by quietly singing a sea chanty. The boats came up alongside, the oars were stowed quietly, and the men in the boats swarmed up the side of the barque and onto her deck, each with a bared cutlass in hand. The leader glanced around: there were two overturned boats on her deck and a closed grating over the hatch. The lone seaman on board, his ginger-coloured queue standing out against his striped slop shirt, was standing near the bow and paying no attention to the rest of the ship. The leader beckoned to his crewmates, and they made their way to the hatch and lifted it quietly.
Suddenly, the overturned boats were lifted up, and redcoated Marines aimed their muskets at the invaders. Even the singing seaman had swiveled about. He had a pistol in each hand, pointed toward the invaders. "Bon soir," he said politely. "In the name of King George, lay down your arms, or we will kill you."
The leader looked around wildly. "Je ne parle pas anglais."
MacKenzie smiled. "I doubt that, but if you insist: Dépose vos armes, ou nous vous tuerons. Vous me comprenez maintenant?"
The look in the leader's dark brown eyes was murderous. He raised his cutlass and ran at MacKenzie.
Sailors poured out of the fo'c'sle, cutlasses held aloft. The pirates stopped, startled; some threw down their arms and begged for mercy; others fought and were killed. Several of the Minervas suffered wounds, but none were killed.
Two Marines held the wounded, struggling leader between them. MacKenzie said to him in French, "You have committed piracy by taking the Louisa Maria, and your life is forfeit. If you take us back to the Mirabelle, the court martial may have mercy upon you. The choice is yours."
A short time later, the lights on the deck were put out, the barque's sails were raised, and she moved steadily away from the convoy, the boats that had brought the pirates to her towed behind. On the deck of the Minerva, Wentworth watched the Highland Lass melt into the darkness.
Wentworth had not slept; he paced the quarterdeck as dawn approached, opening and closing his telescope impatiently.
"Have a cup of tea at least, Captain," Jenkins fretted behind him. "I can carry it to you here."
"Very well. Bring it to me." He drank the tea in a few gulps and handed the cup back to Jenkins. It warmed his belly and raised his spirit for a time, but anxiety for MacKenzie and the Highland Lass weighed upon him. The men had taken up their positions at the guns. There was an air of restrained excitement about the ship; who knew what sunrise would bring?
The sky went slowly from inky black to dark grey, and a bellow came from one of the lookouts: "Deck there! Sail on the larboard quarter!"
Wentworth ran up to the poop and raised his telescope to his eye, cursing in impatience at the slow-rising sun. Soon it was light enough to make out that the Highland Lass was cruising toward the convoy, followed by a sloop with distinctively patched sails: the Louisa Maria. Sailing ominously behind the sloop was the long, lean line of a Baltimore Clipper. It was Wentworth's first glimpse of the Mirabelle, and she took his breath away. Everything about her said speed and power; her lines were clean and perfect. As the light increased, Wentworth could make out a blue-coated figure on the quarterdeck; a ginger-coloured queue hung down his back, tied tightly with a black ribbon. Somehow, MacKenzie had found the time to get into a proper uniform .
"Make the recognition signal to the clipper, Mr. Whitcomb," Wentworth commanded. He had established the signal with MacKenzie before he had embarked.
The young gentleman ran up a series of flags, and trained his telescope on the approaching clipper. "She's made the proper response, sir."
"Very good, Mr. Whitcomb." Wentworth was not convinced; the recognition signal could have been revealed to the enemy under duress, though he would not expect it of MacKenzie.
Whitcomb still had his telescope on the ship. "She's signaling again, sir. She's spelling out...M-O-T-H...ENGAGE ENEMY...and then...FIRE?" He turned to look at his captain incredulously. "Captain, I am certain that is the signal, but it makes no sense."
Wentworth was smiling. He understood MacKenzie's message completely: the moth had been drawn to the flame, and had been consumed.
*in this case, it is 1:30 a.m. Yes, I know it is confusing.
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