Chapter 115: Battle for the British Homeward Fleet
Three frigates came on under every scrap of canvas they could carry, their confidence as full as their sails. Together they looked ready to overwhelm a force twice their size.
Two were ordinary fifth-rates of about thirty-two guns, the sort built to escort convoys and little else. The third stood out at once, broader, heavier, and carrying close to forty guns, she was the real danger in James’s eyes before she had even settled into her course.
He let them come exactly as far as he wanted before he troubled himself with them.
The Rose had the weather gauge, the wind blowing square over her stern. Whenever one of the frigates tried too hard to close the distance, James eased the helm just enough to ruin her line.
The British captains had to haul closer to the wind, and a square-rigged ship could only point so high before she paid for it in lost speed. Every yard the frigates tried to win cost them time, and James knew they could not afford to waste any.
Cudjoe kept his eyes on the nearest frigate. "There’s a man down there thinks he’s gainin’ on us. Proud as a rooster, that one."
"Let him think it a while longer."
James turned the wheel another half spoke. "Ease her off a hair, Cudjoe. No more than that."
"He’s nae gainin’ a damned thing."
"Aye. I know it."
Cudjoe let out a laugh and a snort of contempt, then passed the command along.
One frigate grew greedier than the others, or perhaps her captain was simply the lesser hand. She pressed too close to the wind, trying to cut across the space James had left for her on purpose.
Her bow rounded up before the helm could catch her and every sail lost its breath at once, snapping uselessly against the masts like laundry on a still morning. She came to a dead stop, her rudder biting at nothing while her sisters sailed on without slowing enough to notice.
James laughed loud enough for the deck to hear. "Christ, would ye look at that. The Royal bloody Navy, and the poor bastard can’t keep his own nose pointed the right way."
"Best sailors in the world, so they tell it." Cudjoe’s voice was dry as old rope.
"Some lad forgot to tell his sails."
Even then, the frigate would recover soon enough. Any decent crew could work free of a mistake like that, but every minute she sat there helpless was another minute James tucked away like money in his own pocket.
For nearly an hour the chase kept the rhythm.
The two frigates worked for every bit of ground they could win and never quite closed the distance while the Rose and the Fortune stayed just far enough ahead to remain an irritation without entering their chaser cannons range.
From the deck of the Falmouth, it probably looked like no more than a routine screen keeping two raiders at arm’s length, the sort of duty an admiral handled multiple times a year and forgot before supper.
James knew better. Every minute the enemy spent in the chase was another minute bought for what they still could not see. The thought of how surprised that fat old duchess would be soon enough put a grin on his face.
The first warning reached the convoy without any help from him. A bell rang hard enough to carry across the water, then one answered it. Then another. The alarm went down the merchant ships like fire racing along a fuse, each ship taking up the cry a heartbeat after the one ahead.
Britain had stationed ten sloops to guard the convoy. Four held the Cuban flank, four watched the Bahama Bank, and two waited behind the merchants themselves. Every one of them lurched into motion at once, trying to answer a threat their admiral had never bothered to plan for.
Along the Cuban shore, six ships and a scattering of schooners came out of the green vegetation of coast where they’d lain hidden. They drove straight for the convoy, and the four sloops hurried to meet them as best they could.
The fighting began almost at once.
Smoke climbed above the water, and flashes of gunfire flickered beneath it, but he’d seen enough actions to picture the rest without every detail. Splinters tearing from shattered timber, some foremast crashing over the side dragging rigging and men into the sea. British sailors screaming in the water, and some who couldn’t scream anymore.
Trapped between that battle and the sight of their escorts out of position, the merchant fleet finally broke formation. One by one they turned for the stretch of water that still looked safe, toward the Bahama Bank.
Near the chaos, the Falmouth finally bestirred herself. She had the grace of an old dowager climbing out of her carriage to discover the servants had started the party without her. Grand she might be, but every ponderous roll through the water gave the pirates another bite at the convoy before those towering broadsides could speak.
Meanwhile, what the merchants found waiting at the bank was worse than anything behind them.
The four sloops there had no chance against the pirate swarm. Dozens of sloops and schooners bore down on the flank and the formation broke within minutes, splintering like rotten timber under a heavy boot. The homeward fleet became scattered ships next, every captain thinking only in how they could save their ship and cargo.
It was while James watched that disaster unfold that the frigates at last understood what had happened behind the convoy. They broke off the chase at once, came hard about, and drove back without sparing another glance for the Rose or the Fortune. Their convoy was far more important now than two stubborn pirates who refused to make an easy mistake.
One frigate, the largest of the three turned away more slowly. She covered the retreat of her sisters while keeping one eye on him, as if waiting to see whether he meant to press his advantage.
James watched her through the spyglass for a moment, and found himself feeling what was close to real affection for the poor bastard commanding her. Whoever the man was, he had no idea what the Rose and the Fortune could do together against a single frigate.
He was about to find out the hard way, whether he wanted the lesson or not.
"Cudjoe."
James lowered the spyglass, grinning wide enough to make his cheeks ache. "Bring her round. Let’s go say hello to that lass properly."