Page 17 of A Fierce Wind

Chapter 4

Aboard la Reine Noire in the English Channel, sailing to England, March 1794

“Sail ho!” cried the lookout from the foredeck.

Standing on the quarterdeck where he could judge how well the sails were drawing wind, Freddie turned from Donet, with whom he’d been conversing, and gazed toward the bow.

The sun glistened off the Channel as la Reine Noire cut through the choppy waters, throwing up a fine white bow wave. Until now, he’d been enjoying the crossing but the lookout’s cry sent a ripple of foreboding through him. French warships monitored the Channel as well as the coast.

Donet shouted, “Where away?”

“Two points off the starboard bow!” came the reply on the wind.

Freddie shifted his gaze to starboard. In the distance, he glimpsed the top of a mast and a small white cloud he assumed was a sail. Not far from where he stood, Émile Bequel passed a spyglass to Gabe Chastain. The seaman wore the typical blue jacket and loose breeches, or slops, the sailors wore. “Run aloft, lad,” said the quartermaster, “and take a look.”

Freddie found it amusing that although Gabe was a young man, respected by both captain and crew, Bequel still thought of him as the cabin boy he’d once been. In all the years he’d served Donet, Gabe was still slim enough to climb the rigging faster than an organ grinder’s monkey.

Reaching for the spyglass, Gabe stuffed it into his belt and clambered into the rigging. Freddie watched as he reached the yard high above the deck where he perched and extended the brass cylinder to its full length. Clinging to the mast with one arm, he peered through the lens, the wind blowing his curly brown hair around his ruddy-cheeked face.

A moment later, he shouted down, “’Tis a warship, Capitaine, a two-decker flying no colors!”

La Reine Noire, disguised as the English merchantman Gulliver, likewise flew no flag. ’Twas a stalling tactic considered fair, at least until a ship began firing. But two decks meant many guns, more than the sixteen carried by Donet’s brig-sloop.

With the skill of a circus acrobat, Gabe slid down the backstay and landed on the deck with a thump, returning the spyglass to the quartermaster, who promptly delivered it to Donet. “Best take a look, Capitaine.”

Donet stared into the spyglass.

Freddie asked, “Can you tell if she’s French?”

“Oui, she is most definitely French. I recognize her. She is the Trajan out of Lorient and carries seventy-four guns.”

Bequel gave a grunt. “Merde!”

Donet lowered the spyglass. “My last report had her patrolling Brittany’s coast to prevent the British from aiding the Vendéens. Her captain, Villaret de Joyeuse, is one of the junior officers promoted in the wake of the National Convention’s purge of the French Navy last year. Stupid plan,” he spat, “to kill off your experienced officers while declaring war.”

Extending the spyglass once again, he swept the horizon, then paused, his dark brows drawing together. “Aha! There’s Trajan’s prey—a little schooner. She flies the British colors… an aviso carrying dispatches, peut-être?” He collapsed the glass and handed it to Bequel.

“There is a new packet running mail from Weymouth to Jersey,” Freddie offered.

Donet muttered a curse. “We must intervene. A fine time to be without a master gunner!”

With an arched brow, the quartermaster regarded Donet. “Capitaine, a man must be present for the arrival of his first-born babe, non?”

“Can I be of assistance?” Freddie inquired. “With my arm in a sling, I won’t be able to serve the guns, but I can coordinate your fire while you two concentrate on maneuvers.”

Donet’s deep frown vanished and his white teeth flashed in a grateful smile. “Très bien, that will work.” Raising his voice to a roar that carried across the ship, Donet yelled, “Run out the guns!”

Preparing for the inevitable clash, Freddie left the quarterdeck to give his attention to the gun crews. Once he was assured the guns were loaded, pricked and primed, ready for the coming action, he rejoined Donet. To Gabe, standing nearby, he said, “M’sieur Chastain, please escort the ladies and children to the orlop deck and tell them to expect action.”

The lowest part of the ship, the orlop would be dark, wet and given to ill smells. Zoé would hate it but it was below the water line and the safest place in a battle.

Precisely where he wanted her at the moment.

As Gabe hurried down the aft hatch, Freddie turned to Donet. “Sir, we still have the American colors aboard. Might we raise them as we close on the Trajan and only hoist His Majesty’s flag as we fire our first round?”

“An excellent idea,” said Donet. He gave the orders to Freddie and Bequel. “We will come up to windward of the Trajan and rake her port side, then cut around her stern and fire into her as we pass. We may be smaller with fewer guns, but we’re faster. Once we pass the Trajan’s stern, we’ll bear away bound for Chichester.”

“That should allow the packet time to escape,” put in Bequel. “I’ll have Lucien see the colors are ready.” Facing the crew, he yelled, “Hands to the braces! Stand by to tack.”