The French Prize (48 page)

The bowsprit had been bowsed down as tight as it could be, and a new forestay set up, but that had not been enough. The seas struck the wounded bowsprit again and again, glancing blows that shifted it and loosened the lashings. They were making little if any headway, and Renaudin was painfully aware of Guadeloupe, just to leeward of them.

The corvette was on a starboard tack, trying to claw her way out to sea, to get away from the looming threat of the island. It occurred to Renaudin that if he could tack, get the seas striking the bowsprit on the larboard side, it might knock that spar back into place before it was torn loose and took the rest of the rig with it.

It was an enormously risky move. Tacking with an undamaged rig in those conditions was no mean feat, and
L'Arman
ç
on
was far from undamaged. They could wear ship, but Renaudin knew he could not afford to lose all that distance to leeward. They put their helm alee as the ship came up on the crest of a wave, and for most of the evolution it seemed as if all would be well, their improvised fore staysail bringing the bow around.

But then as Renaudin called, “Let go and haul!” the main topsail yard snapped like a twig. Rot, perhaps, or an unseen injury, it didn't matter. The result was the same. The spar folded like a jackknife, the bow spun off the wind, out of control.
L'Arman
ç
on
ended up broadside to the seas, in the trough to the waves, and rolling so violently that the main shrouds tore from the channels and what remained of the rig came down around their heads.

And when that happened, Renaudin was done. The bad luck, the misery of the Revolution, the destruction of his beloved navy, the destruction of his beloved
L'Arman
ç
on
, it was all too much. His ship was dead, and he saw no reason that he should outlive it. He walked aft to the stern rail, leaned against it, folded his arms, and waited for his life to end on the reefs beyond Guadeloupe's sandy shores.

Ren
é
Dauville, however, did not share Renaudin's wish to let it all come to an end. Once again he drove the crew beyond what any rational man would think possible. They hacked the standing rigging away, tossed topmast and topgallant overboard. They rousted out a cable from the cable tier, bent it to the mainmast and yard, and with blocks, tackles, handspikes, and the power of desperate and frightened men they sent the whole thing over the side, let it stream to windward. They could feel the tension come on the line as
L'Arman
ç
on'
s bow swung up into the wind and the seas, and her motion went from the gut-churning, deathly wallow of a ship broadside to the sea to the more reasonable motion of a ship riding bow to.

Dauville came aft to report their success, but Renaudin showed little interest, and said even less. No man aboard thought their efforts would do anything but delay what was going to happen, but unlike the others, Renaudin did not wish for even those few extra minutes.
Let us be done with this
 … he thought.

Dawn came and the island was still three or four miles under their lee, the seas still steep, the wind still strong, but lessening. The American, the damned, damned American, was to windward, her rig still as it had been at nightfall, the main topmast shot away, fore topgallant sent down. She was making way under a close reefed fore topsail, staysails, and spanker. Renaudin glared at her. The only thing that would make his death any easier was the thought that he might take her with him. But he saw no chance of that. She was under way and would sail clear of the island, and the Americans would watch as
L'Arman
ç
on
was shattered on Guadeloupe's shore.

Then Dauville was aft again and Renaudin wondered why the man didn't just leave him alone. “Sir, the Americans, they're coming down to us,” he said, “they seem to be working their way to leeward.”

Renaudin looked past the bow, heaving, rolling, and dipping. He could see the American ship rise on the crest of a wave, dip to leeward, and then as her hull was lost from sight behind the rise of the sea he could see her straighten in her course again. Dauville was right. They were dropping downwind, yard by yard.

“What do you think they intend?” Renaudin asked. “Do they wish to rejoin the fight?”

“I can't imagine that, sir. Safer for them to simply let us go up on the lee shore,” Dauville said. “My thought was…” He hesitated, sounded unsure. “… that they wish to tow us free.”

Renaudin's eyebrows came together as he tried to understand this. “Tow … us?”

“Yes, sir. They are making tolerably decent way. The seas and wind are going down. My guess is they wish to pass us a hawser.”

“How could they? In these seas, how could they get a line to us?”

“They don't have to, sir,” Dauville said, and Renaudin was shocked to see that his first officer actually seemed pleased with this prospect. “We're streaming that wreckage as a sea anchor, recall? If they can get the bitter end of that rope aboard, there's the tow line, set!”

Renaudin saw it all play out in his mind. They would drift a boat aft, bend a messenger to the hawser Dauville had run out, haul it aboard. They would make it fast, perhaps to the base of the mainmast. They'd set more sail, claw off the lee shore with the wallowing and helpless
L'Arman
ç
on
towing astern. They'd tow his ship to English Harbour, American flag flying over the Tricolor. He'd be a prisoner again, but worse, he would be utterly humiliated. His pride was all but ground into dust now, what would be left when the American dragged him like a helpless baby into the arms of the British, at the end of his own hawser, no less?

He pushed himself off the rail and stepped around Dauville and headed forward. The boatswain was there to ask a question but Renaudin pushed him out of the way. He could hear Dauville following behind, but they were amidships before his first officer asked, “Sir? Is there something I can do, sir?”

“You've done enough, Lieutenant,” Renaudin said, his eyes fixed forward, his pace increasing. By the foremast he found an ax, discarded after the long night's struggle. He snatched it up and stepped up to the bitts where the heavy line running out to the sea anchor was made off. He raised the ax over his head.

“Sir!” Dauville shouted, with an urgency that could not be ignored. Renaudin paused, looked over at the lieutenant. He was sorry to waste the man's life, but there was nothing for it now, and Dauville would hardly be the first promising officer to die young.

“I'm sorry, Dauville,” Renaudin said.

“As am I,” Dauville said, and Renaudin saw that he had a belaying pin in his hand. He saw the oiled wood come around in a wide arc, and before he could react in any way, he saw a burst of light and then he was enveloped by blackness.

 

Epilogue

Lieutenant Ren
é
Dauville was a knowledgeable and competent mariner, as was Jack Biddlecomb, so it was little surprise that Jack's rescue of
L'Arman
ç
on
played out pretty much as Dauville had envisioned it.

Jack worked
Abigail
to leeward, as close as he dared get to the drifting wreckage. The launch Frost had procured in English Harbour was still towing astern, they had not bothered to get it on deck as it was the least of their worries. It was hauled up on the leeward side and a crew of the most skilled of the Abigails, led by Oliver Tucker, went aboard, making the tricky leap from the rolling, heaving ship into the wildly bucking boat alongside.

None of the British sailors joined them. They would not take part in the rescue of men it was their life's work to kill, which Biddlecomb could understand. But that was fine, as the Abigails' seamanship was at least a match for theirs, and in many cases more than a match.

The boat was drifted down with a messenger made fast to a thwart, a stout one-inch line that would be used to get the Frenchman's hawser aboard. They bent it to the heavy line and cut the wreckage free. The shattered mast and yard swirled away downwind and the launch was hauled back alongside and a strain taken on the messenger, lifting the Frenchman's hawser from the sea.

With the windlass being
hors de combat
they used a series of heavy blocks and tackle to get the messenger and then the hawser aboard. They secured the bitter end to the base of the mainmast and then trimmed the sails to get the most drive they might from them.

For a long time, nothing seemed to happen.
Abigail
's sails were set and drawing, the tow rope lifted dripping from the sea, the tremendous tension squeezing the water out of it. But they appeared to make no headway. They seemed fixed to that spot of ocean, certainly not going forward, possibly being knocked back with each successive sea. Jack wondered how long he would hang on before giving the order to cut the tow away, to leave the Frenchmen to their fate.

“Let us get the foresail set, with a single reef,” he said at last. The wind was still strong, he was pushing his luck, but the only other choice was to cut
L'Armançon
free. The men moved quickly and soon the big sail dropped from the yard. Hands tailed into the weather tack and the lee sheet, hauled them out, and with a snap the sail was set and drawing.

And that made the difference. The tow line rose again from the sea and stayed suspended this time, and every hand aboard could feel the motion, like the ship was waking up, like Lazarus coming out of the tomb. The wake began to flow astern in a broader and more defined way, streaming white, like a road leading from Guadeloupe, and they were walking down that road, leaving the island and its deadly lee shore behind.

They towed all through the day, and by sundown the storm that Jack had predicted would be of short duration had blown itself out. The seas settled down, the trade winds dropped to their usual, sensible strength, and
L'Armançon
towed easily astern. Once the seas were such that a boat might pass between the ships with little peril, Jack knew there were negotiations to be carried out and he knew, as master, it was his job to do it.

The only man aboard
Abigail
who spoke fluent French was William Wentworth, which came as no surprise to Jack. As the sun began its descent in the west, Jack donned his best suit, or those parts of it that were not destroyed by water or cannon fire, and Wentworth did the same. They looked odd indeed, with fine breeches above torn wool socks, once-elegant coats with tears left in the wake of passing roundshot, hats crumpled and pushed back into place. But it was the best they could muster, and they climbed down into the boat and the boat crew rowed them across the long swells to the battered corvette in their wake.

A French officer stood at the gangway as Jack and William came up the side.
“Bonjour, Monsieur,”
he said, bowing. He said more, but
Bonjour
had exhausted Jack's store of French, so he stood back as William listened to the man speak, and then made some reply that Jack hoped was only courtesy, and not a promise of any sort.

“He says his captain was hit on the head by a falling block and is indisposed,” Wentworth explained. “He is the first officer, Lieutenant Ren
é
Dauville, and he says he is most grateful for the rescue and will consider himself your prisoner. He says he will happily relinquish his sword if you feel it appropriate.”

“His sword?” Jack asked. He had not really thought of that, had never considered
L'Armançon
to be a prize of any sort. “Tell him I do not believe a state of war exists between the Republic of France and the United States,” Jack said. “Ask him if he has heard differently.”

Wentworth translated. Dauville made reply and Wentworth turned to Jack. “He says, though there has been violence done by the privateers to American shipping, he does not believe a state of war exists. He seems to have anticipated your next question and says he does not know what orders his captain was following in attacking us.”

“I see,” Jack said, though he really didn't. “Very well, I can hardly call this ship a prize if there's no war. Nor am I much inclined to start taking prizes. This is a French naval vessel. By God, we could start a war by claiming it as a prize! No, tell him we'll tow them to someplace we might agree on, and if he pleases, I would be most grateful to be able to sail to Barbados unmolested.”

In the end it was decided they would tow
L'Armançon
to Saint-Louis on Marie-Galante, which had a tolerably good anchorage. Guadeloupe was in French hands but had suffered a revolt by former slaves, and Dauville was not sure how things stood there. Besides, Jack could not stand the irony of making for Guadeloupe after having suffered so much anxiety trying to keep away from the place.

With the clear weather and flattening seas it was no great task to reach the harbor,
L'Armançon
towing easily astern.
Abigail
came to anchor in the clear, aquamarine water, within a cable length of the long white sand beach, shaded by palm trees that waved in the trade winds. If any locals thought it odd an American coming to anchor there, they did not say anything, and Dauville made it clear she was there under the protection of
L'Armançon
and the navy of France.

The British sailors did not join them. Dauville's assurance that they would not be molested was not enough to convince them to willingly sail into a French port. So Jack gave them
Abigail
's launch and Dauville gave them
L'Armançon
's longboat, and enough food and water for the short sail back to English Harbour and they were off, and apparently quite enthusiastic for their yachting holiday.