Chapter 62: The Black Flag Rises
No panther came for James during the night, much to Jim’s obvious disappointment.
Morning brought little more than a stiff neck. Sometime after they crossed the second stream, the smell finally left him, which James counted as the best bargain he’d made in Mobile.
The trip back unfolded exactly as planned. Four traders and a mule disappeared into the steady flow of carts leaving town, no different from anyone else on the road that morning. No one spared them a second glance.
The swamp channels took longer to cross on the way out than they had coming in. Maybe they had actually got lost for a wee bit. Or maybe solid ground behind him made every bend seem slower.
Cudjoe met them at the ship, took one look, drew a long breath through his nose, and decided any conversation could wait until James had washed and burned one particularly unfortunate shirt.
By the time the Rose slipped free from her hiding place and reached open water, the crew had heard everything. The depots. The corvettes. The state of the fort.
Before the sun had climbed much higher, Farrow and Grey had made preparations.
By midday, Mobile Bay stretched before them once more.
This time there was no need to sneak inside.
James let himself enjoy the moment.
The whole ridiculous plan had somehow worked.
Three supply depots mapped the hard way by a captain who had ended his night buried in enough shite and waste to shame a henhouse, then lived to laugh about it afterward.
It sounded like the beginning of a joke no one would believe.
Now he was about to deliver the punchline with a mortar.
"Sail off the larboard bow, no, land ho, ye daft, MOBILE!"
Cudjoe didn’t need telling twice. "Clear for action! Guns tae yer stations and move sharp about it! Anybody still eatin’ their breakfast can finish it wi’ powder in their hands or nae at all!"
Nearby, Edmund set down the sailcloth he’d been stitching without any hurry at all. "A shore bombardment," he said, mostly to himself, though loud enough for anyone passing to catch it. "I confess I much prefer contests where the enemy cannot maneuver against us."
Rook and Twice hadn’t so much as looked up from their hand. Cards struck the overturned barrel between them in steady rhythm even as men pounded past on either side.
"Guns," Twice said.
"Mm."
"Land targets this time."
"Mm."
Twice laid down another card.
"Reckon that improves yer odds any."
"Reckon it does."
Twice matched the bet without checking his cards twice, then finally glanced up at the chaos around them. "Ye plannin’ on foldin’ before or after the first shot, Rook?"
"After. Man’s got standards."
Bert, Tomás, and Jim had slipped back into the crew as though they had never left, though Jim made certain everyone who had missed the trip heard exactly how important his role had been.
James caught enough of the tale in passing to realize the panther had somehow grown a second head since the previous night’s version.
He stepped to the wheel and looked at Mobile from the water for the first time. Low rooftops sat beneath a limp fleur-de-lis. Below the palisade, the two corvettes still rested exactly where he’d left them.
⚓ [HOSTILE TERRITORY — MOBILE]
Faction : Kingdom of France
Status : Sovereign Colonial Holding
Population : Approximately 450
Stability : Complacent
Harbor : Open, Lightly Defended
Facilities : Fort, Warehouses, Docks, Tannery, Garrison Barracks, Market
Faction Status : Hostile (As Yet Undeclared)
For future reference, if your enemy’s entire defensive strategy can be summarized before breakfast, they are either catastrophically overconfident or French. Statistically, there is considerable overlap.
"About right."
James couldn’t have said it better himself, though he would have used fewer words and a good deal less attitude.
A bell rang out from the town before anyone aboard the Rose had done a thing. Someone sharp-eyed on the waterfront had decided a strange ship carrying that many guns probably hadn’t come to buy deerskins.
Tiny figures hurried along the docks.
"Well." James looked toward shore. "No point bein’ coy now."
"Colours, Captain?" someone called.
"Aye, lad."
The black flag climbed the mast.
Canvas snapped in the wind.
A grinning skull stared down at the water with crossed bones beneath it. And clenched in the skull’s teeth, stitched in crimson thread gone faded with salt and years, a single rose.
The bell ashore began ringing much faster.
"Corvettes are movin’, Captain!" came the cry from the rigging.
James spotted them immediately. Sails climbed their masts while sailors rushed across both decks, crews that had clearly expected a much quieter afternoon.
Sixteen guns each, exactly as he’d counted from the fort wall.
The number felt different now. It had been easy enough to measure alone in the darkness. It carried far more pressure while standing on a rolling deck with his own crew watching him.
He could beat one of them outright.
Both together, fighting as one, would be another matter entirely.
He had no intention of giving them time to find that rhythm before Farrow found his.
James reached the mortar and found Farrow already there. His sleeves were rolled high, a stub of chalk in one hand. White marks covered the mortar’s trunnion, more mathematics than James cared to untangle.
Beside him, Grey held the chart of Mobile flat against the carriage, its coastline crowded with days of careful notes.
Grey tapped a finger against the chart. "Here’s where the shoals begin. Hold her here and we’ve clear water under the keel and a straight line to the wharf. Drift twenty yards either way and we’re arguin’ with the bottom ’stead of the French."
"Hold her there, then," James nodded and turned to Farrow.
"How’s she sittin’?"
"Like a gun that’s never fired in her life."
Farrow weighed a scoop of powder in his palm, frowned, then poured half of it back into the cask.
"The canvas depot’s simple enough. I can manage the warehouses too. But that fort depot..."
He shook his head. "I don’t know how she’ll drop, and I don’t know how she’ll behave. Once that shell leaves the barrel, there ain’t callin’ it back."
James grinned.
"It’s a hard shot."
"’Hard’ is a generous word, Captain."
"Do what ye can. That’s all I’m askin’."
Farrow muttered something that might have been agreement or a prayer and took the burning match into his own hand.
"Just get her close," he said. "I’ve a feelin’ she’ll surprise both of us."
Farrow answered with another grunt and checked the elevation screw again, as though he trusted steel more than confidence.
The powder charge went in first.
Then the shell.
The crew packed it down while the stench of sulfur thickened until James could taste it.
Ashore, the warning bell still rang without pause. The two corvettes strained against their anchors as more sail climbed their masts.
Too slow.
Too late.
Farrow stood over the mortar with the glowing match in his hand. He waited, unwilling to touch the vent until James gave the order.
James rested one hand on the rail and savored the last quiet heartbeat before everything changed.
The entire mad venture balanced on a single fuse, a stubborn gunner’s best effort, and whatever, in God’s name, [ True Shot ] really was.
"Right then."
He grinned at the mortar as though it owed him money.
"Let’s see what she can do."