“Swanson is our only casualty, and Isaac will be able to patch him up. I can only estimate enemy casualties. We shot eight, maybe ten. It was a massacre in there. They were clearly a suicide squad. They must have known their chances of getting off this island alive were slim to none once they opened fire.”
“I daresay you're right.” Richard took in the Marine lieutenant's trousers and shirt torn by thorns and brambles. The exposed skin on his hands and forearms was crisscrossed with scratches of red. “You look a bit the worse for wear yourself, Jim. Get out to
Constellation
. I'll be along shortly.”
“I'll do that, Richard. Thank you.”
Richard watched him go, then turned back to make a final inspection of the grassy area. Suddenly, another shot rang out from the brush. A Marine private limping toward the boats fell straight forward, a hole torn through the back of his shirt beneath the shoulder blade.
“Everyone down!” Richard cried out. He dropped to his stomach on the sand and brought his musket to bear but could see nothing to aim at within the thick tangle of undergrowth.
Hugh edged his way over to Richard. “It appears that Rigaud's entertainment committee has another act to stage for us,” he said with a grimace. “They're cunning bastards, I'll give them that. Cunning and loyal to their cause.”
“Jesus Christ Almighty,” Richard cried out in frustration. Where are they?
Underground?”
“That's precisely where they are. Or
were
, and for God only knows how long, biding their time and hiding like rats in a hole.” He put a hand on Richard's arm. “Are you all right?”
Richard forced himself calm. He nodded.
“Are your Marines all accounted for?” Hugh asked.
“Yes, all of them.”
“So are mine. That leaves only our mulatto friends out there in the bush. He pointed at the two flaming torches perhaps twenty feet away. “Catch my drift?”
Richard nodded. “I'll take the one on the right.”
“Agreed. Now before we shove off, might I request a show of support from your Marines? Mine are busy escorting our guests to
Redoubtable
, and I don't fancy those chaps in there having a clear shot at us.”
Richard faced around to the Marines lying flat on their bellies a short distance behind him.
“Sergeant Lovett,” he said, in a voice softer than normal.
“Sir!”
“Fan out your men.” He pointed to the right and then the left. “At my signal, provide covering fire. Captain Hardcastle and I are going in.” He indicated the grassy area and the torches.
“Sir!”
When the Marines had formed an inverted V, six on the right side of Lovett at the apex, seven on his left, it was time to go. Richard felt a sickening rush in his intestines and his blood flowing ever faster. “Ready, Hugh?”
“Ready, old boy.”
“Right, then. Let's go.”
Richard held up his right hand, clenched it into a fist, then chopped it down hard. “Now!” he cried.
“Sir!” At Lovett's command, the Marines rose to one knee, took aim at the underbrush, and opened fire.
“Reload!” Lovett shouted just as Richard and Hugh leaped to their feet and raced up the beach, crouching low and digging their shoes into the sand for traction. They ran up onto the grass and reached the table just as they heard a shot sing out from ahead and the ominous zip of a ball close overhead. Lovett and four Marines stationed at the apex of the V formation stood up and fired a volley at the telltale smoke in the brush.
There was no time to think, only to act. As if they had rehearsed the choreography, each man tore a torch from its bindings, advanced three steps, drew back the metal torch support at waist-high level, and hurled it with all his might before throwing himself down on the hard, pebbly ground. Behind them, off to the sides, they heard a second volley of musketry.
Three shots were fired in reply seconds before the two torches descended in a wide arc and hit the thick, dry brush. Instantly they ignited a conflagration of such intensity that both officers threw up an arm to protect themselves from the fiery heat. They heard a man scream from within the searing white blaze. Another scream, a third, then silence, save for the loud, ominous crackle of parched underbrush burning hot and fast and deadly.
Hugh and Richard slowly rose to their feet and then stepped back a few paces. Together, in silence, each with an arm up before his face, they watched the island burn, mesmerized by the terrible beauty and the unspeakable horror it concealed.
“It's back to our ships,” Hugh Hardcastle urged at length. “There's nothing else for us to do except write our reports. And we both know what we're going to write in them, don't we?”
Eleven
USS
Constellation
, 17.11° N, 62.30° W February 1799
S
IX WEEKS had passed since
Constellation
had parted ways with
Redoubtable
off Saint-Domingue and returned to station. In his after cabin on board ship in Saint Kitts, Thomas Truxtun had suffered the daily drudgery of organizing convoys and dispatching patrols, along with the myriad other details of naval deployment insisted on by Secretary Stoddert and the Navy Department. Although he performed his desk duties with alacrity, he yearned to be at sea. And that is where he went at the first opportunity, taking
Constellation
southward toward the island of Guadeloupe for a mission of personal reconnaissance. Guadeloupe was not within his designated sector of the West Indies. Nonetheless, as commodore of an American squadron he was given wide latitude to cruise where he deemed it advisable. And he considered it advisable to inspect for himself the French naval base at Basse-Terre.
He found a tidy colonial town with volcanic terrain as a backdrop and a crescent-shaped harbor in the foreground. Dominating the harbor at seaside was a gray stone fortress boasting the tricolor flag of the French Republic and an impressive array of what Truxtun assumed were both 32-pounder and 64-pounder cannon on the embrasures. Anchored within the harbor, from what he could see, was a heavy frigate of the French navyâ
La Vengeance
, he assumed, given her impressive sizeâand a corvette of perhaps twenty guns. Both vessels were anchored within a bevy of smaller double-masted and single-masted vessels. To his
surpriseâand more, to his concernâTruxtun did not find
Constitution
,
United States
, or any other American warship from the Prince Rupert Station patrolling the area.
For three days
Constellation
stood off and on the western wing of the butterfly-shaped island, repeatedly sailing close to the range of the fortress' great guns and firing blank charges to windward, challenging the two French warships to come out and fight. Despite their superior firepower, the French ships remained smugly at anchor. Finally, on Monday, February 7, a disgusted Truxtun ordered Nate Waverly to take
Constellation
back to Saint Kitts.
Two days later found
Constellation
five miles northeast of Nevis under all sail to topgallants, despite a low-lying bank of ominous clouds gathering to eastward. A half-hour ago, at noon, the wind had backed and the barometer had begun to fall. Prudent seamanship dictated a reduction of canvas to brace for heavy weather. Captain Truxtun, however, refused to steer the prudent course. Nor would he, he informed his officers, until he entertained no doubt about the identity of the white pyramids of sail visible on the horizon.
When first sighted, the mystery ship was standing to westward on a northerly course.
Constellation
was passing between the islands of Nevis and Redonda on a similar course. Thus the ship, whoever she was, was positioned to the northwest of the American frigate, her topgallants appearing just over the horizon to those on deck. Truxtun immediately ordered Lt. Andrew Sterrett, senior officer of the deck, to crowd on all sail, including studdingsails aloft and a-low, and told Nate Waverly to shape a course in pursuit.
“Storm's comin' up smartly, Captain,” Waverly warned, stating the obvious as Sterrett repeated the order to Boatswain Bowles, who repeated it to his mates. A shrill of whistles sent men up the foremast and mainmast yards to extend the studdingsail booms out to windward beyond the reach of the square sails, putting on an extra spread of canvas to catch the wind and add another two or three knots of speed. “Stuns'ls aren't made for the sort of wind that's coming.”
“I am aware of that, thank you, Mr. Waverly,” Truxtun replied politely. He continued to study the movements of the mystery ship ahead.
With the extra press of canvas,
Constellation
surged ahead. Within the hour the hull of the mystery ship was inching above the horizon. Truxtun glanced at John Rodgers, who held the ship in the lens of a glass.
“What do you make of her, Mr. Rodgers?”
“Can't tell yet, sir. She's ship-rigged and about our length. She's not American. And her beam's too narrow to be Dutch or Swedish.”
“Mr. Cutler?”
“I agree, sir.” Standing nearer the larboard rail than the others, Richard had to shout over the hum and rattle of the wind in the rigging. “She's either British or French. Maybe Spanish. And you were right, sir. She's no merchantman.”
“A ship of war, then?”
“I believe so, sir.”
“That is what I recorded in my log, Mr. Cutler, not an hour ago. And that is why we're in pursuit of her. Mr. Sterrett, is the recognition signal ready?”
“Ready, sir. Midshipman Porter and Midshipman Ayres are standing by.”
“Very well. I predict, gentlemen, that we'll soon have our answer.”
“Shall we beat to quarters, sir?”
“Not yet, Mr. Rodgers. But we would do well to begin preparations.”
“I'll see to it, sir.”
As Sterrett made his way forward to speak to the boatswain, he had to brace himself against the sharp heel of the ship.
A vessel coming hull-up to those on the deck of another vessel of equal size signifies that the two vessels are approximately three miles apart, that being the distance from any given point to the horizon.
Constellation
was putting on a show of speed sufficient to impress any man's navy and was rapidly closing the distance. Whitewater spewed from her cutwater, bursting over her bows in dazzling rainbows, splattering her yellow-pine planking and foredeck rigging. When Midn. John Dent, his sunburned face flushed with excitement, reported that the chip log he had tossed astern indicated they were making a good sixteen knots, even Nate Waverly could not suppress a smile. For one brief, gleeful moment they were on a joyride, racing on a sleigh heaved forward by a team of galloping, frothing horses as the heart of every man jack on board pumped hard with a bizarre blend of fear, frenzy, and outright exhilaration.
An ear-piercing
CRACK!
aloft that sounded like a cannon shot wiped the smile off Waverly's face. The lower studdingsail boom on the mainmast had broken almost in two and now hung down in an inverted L, swinging back and forth, its torn sail fluttering furiously, impotently, in the mounting wind.
“Leave it!” Truxtun shouted. “Mr. Sterrett, the private signal!”
Andrew Sterrett faced forward and slowly raised and lowered his arms. At the mainmast, David Porter acknowledged and hoisted a red-white-and-blue-striped flag to the topmast. At the foremast, Harry Ayres hauled up a solid blue flag. The combination of those flags on the first two masts was the Royal Navy's private recognition signal for the month of February 1799. Every British and American ship operating in the Caribbean Sea had explicit instructions on how to respond to this signal. Astern, on the mizzen peak, the large American ensign curled and snapped in the freshening breeze. Above, dark clouds drifted over the sun.
Moments merged into minutes, and the minutes dragged on, and still there was no response from the mystery ship.
“Mr. Cutler,” Truxtun shouted, “cast loose the starboard guns. Give her a warning shot.”
“Aye, Captain.”
“Mr. Rodgers, we'll give her one minute to respond. If she fails to do so, we shall beat to quarters.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
As Richard made his way to the main hatchway amidships, he made a quick mental calculation. Perhaps a mile of water separated the two ships. The American frigate was proving herself the faster vessel by half. At things stood now,
Constellation'
s guns could be brought to bear within thirty minutes.
Just as he reached the ladder leading below, Richard heard a cry from aloft. He glanced ahead, beneath the taut fore course, its leeches shuddering under the strain of the wind. The mystery ship, now clearly profiled as a frigate, had shifted course to the northwest, bringing the wind on her quarter, presumably her fastest point of sail. That sudden change of course put her on an approximate heading for the Dutch island of Saint Eustatius.
On the gun deck, Richard gave the order. “Loose starboard guns! Open ports! Number one gun, fire a blank charge when ready!”
The gun barked out a warning. Three tons of black iron lurched inboard until checked by breeching ropes.
Men waited, ears primed.
Seconds ticked by. Ten . . . twenty . . . thirty . . . Suddenly a pair of staccato tattoos pierced the air. Gun crews, formed in their divisions, made final preparations for battle. The weather deck above them resounded with the footfalls and shouts of sailors and Marines taking
their stations in the rigging, on the fighting tops, and behind the wall of hammocks jammed tight inside bulwark netting.
Richard felt
Constellation
swerve hard off the wind in pursuit just as another round of muddled shouts clamored from above.