Chapter 8
“I wish to have no connection with any ship that does not sail fast; for I intend to go in harm’s way.”
– John Paul Jones
Jon raised his glass, the April wind whipping his hair as he steadied himself on the Tyrannicide’s quarterdeck.
The stranger loomed on the gray horizon, sails straining eastward, a bluff-bowed bark, deep in the water with cargo.
Her canvas strained under a freshening breeze, bound westward. No colors flew from her mast.
He lowered the glass, jaw tightening. “What ship runs without colors in these waters?”
Israel Thorndike, his new first lieutenant, shaded his eyes. “Could be a neutral, Captain. Or she’s British and waiting to see if we dare press her.”
Jon’s gaze flicked to the Massachusetts a cable’s length away, her sails taut as she kept station.
“Let’s press her.” Through his glass, Jon studied the vessel.
On her taffrail gleamed the name Lonsdale, though she showed no port of registry.
“Name sounds English, and she’s five hundred tons, if she’s an ounce,” he said, lowering the glass.
“She’s no coaster. That’s an ocean trader, ripe for plucking.
” Jon lowered his glass and turned to his first lieutenant.
“Mr. Thorndike, signal the Massachusetts. We’ll wear Dutch colors. ”
“Aye, sir.”
A seaman sprang to the halyards. Moments later, the Tyrannicide’s Dutch tricolor climbed her peak.
Across the water, the Massachusetts answered with the same, her own Appeal to Heaven and Continental Union flag hauled down and replaced.
To the Lonsdale’s watch, two harmless traders now bore down upon her.
He lifted his speaking trumpet. “Mr. Lovett, bring us down across her wake. Clear away the starboard guns.”
Fisk, aboard the Massachusetts, hailed across the chop. “Shall we try her, Haraden?”
Jon gave a short nod. Both Salem ships broke from their line, adjusting sail to cut across the bark’s course. To all eyes they wore the tricolors of Holland, safe passage for merchantmen, or so the Lonsdale’s master might believe.
The hours dragged as the Americans closed. Finally, the bark hoisted her own flag: a red ensign. A British merchantman.
“She shows her teeth,” Thorndike muttered at Haraden’s elbow.
“Aye. And we’ll see how sharp they are.”
At pistol-shot range, Haraden gave the order, “Strike the Dutch flag!” The Dutch flag snapped down, and in its place soared two banners of the United States: the Continental Union flag and the Appeal to Heaven pine tree flag, streaming proud in the April wind.
The bark’s deck erupted with shouts. A gun boomed from her larboard side, the shot falling short.
“Mr. Moses,” Haraden called, “run out the starboard battery.”
The Tyrannicide’s guns heaved against their tackles. Her crew stood tense at the batteries, matches poised, handspikes braced. Powder boys clutched their bags, eyes wide.
Jon lifted his trumpet, his voice carrying above the wind. “Stand by! …Fire as your guns bear!”
Through the smoke, Thorndike shouted, “Fire!” And his order was relayed down the line.
The broadside thundered, the ship staggering as flame and smoke leapt from her flanks.
Round shot smashed into the Lonsdale’s hull and rigging.
Splinters flew like hail, and her foretopmast shivered but held.
She answered with a ragged volley, iron balls shrieking overhead and spouting spray from the sea.
From windward a lookout aboard the Massachusetts pointed, bellowing across the water. Fisk hoisted a private signal and cupped his hands to shout, “Strange sail to weather! Bearing down!”
“At your discretion!” Jon answered through the trumpet. “Learn her nature and rejoin!”
The Massachusetts put her helm up and shouldered off under a press of canvas, slewing away on a slanting course. In moments she was a tumble of wake and white cloth, leaving the Tyrannicide to grapple the bark alone.
For three hours they hammered at one another, close-hauled in the rolling Atlantic. Twice the Lonsdale tried to sheer off, but the Tyrannicide clung to her flank, gunners working like furies under Moses and Lovett. The bark’s planking was split and scarred; her sails hung in tatters.
A moment passed and the red ensign that had flown so stubbornly wavered, then came down.
Thorndike, powder-smudged and exultant at Jon’s side, shouted, “Colors struck, Captain!”
A cheer split the Tyrannicide’s deck. Cabin boys whooped, and the marines in their green coats thumped their muskets in triumph.
“Steady, lads,” Jon called, his voice firm over the din. “Mr. Thorndike, detail men for the prize crew and see them armed and ready. Mr. Sibley will take command as prize master and take her into Boston.”
Thorndike gave a sharp salute and went at once, calling men to the boats.
Jon took one last look at the battered bark as lines were passed across. Her deck was littered with splintered spars and wounded men, their surgeon already moving among them.
A little before sunset the Massachusetts came foaming back into company, her topsails drawing handsomely. Fisk cupped his hands to hail the Tyrannicide. “A Frenchman flying the Bourbon flag. No harm done. I see you’ve got the bark!”
“We have,” Jon called back. “Sibley will take her into Boston with a prize crew.”
Fisk tipped his hat. “Godspeed to them, and to you, Captain.”
As the Tyrannicide and Massachusetts bore away on their new course, Jon looked back to see the Lonsdale wallowing under shortened sail, now flying American colors above her scarred hull. He allowed himself a tight smile. One more blow struck for liberty, and the first prize of his command.
TWO WEEKS LATER, Jon came on deck to join his first lieutenant and accept his morning coffee from Johnny.
Taking a sip of the hot brew, Jon gazed out at the Atlantic, rolling gray and restless, whitecaps whipping under a stiff westerly.
The Tyrannicide and Massachusetts kept close company, their canvas straining eastward toward the stormy Bay of Biscay off the west coast of France.
“Convoy to windward!” The lookout’s cry snapped every head up.
From the quarterdeck, Jon handed his mug to Johnny and swung his glass, bracing against the pitch. Far off, sails glimmered against the horizon, a line of ships, nine or ten at least, crowded together under escort.
Fisk hailed across the chop from the Massachusetts: “British convoy! Bound west, by the look of her!”
Jon’s jaw tightened. “For New York, if my guess is right. See there, two men-of-war with them. One of sixty, another of fourteen guns.” He lowered the glass. “Too rich for us to swallow whole.”
But even as he said it, one vessel lagged, hanging astern of the convoy, struggling to keep pace.
Thorndike’s eyes flashed, as he pointed. “Captain, a straggler.”
Jon raised the glass again. The brig wallowed clumsily, sails straining, her escort already drawing away with the fleet. “Aye, the Favorite, and no one turning back for her.” He shouted to Fisk on the Massachusetts, “That one’s ours!” And to the Tyrannicide’s crew, he ordered, “Hoist away!”
The two brigantines bore down under every stitch of canvas. As they closed, the lone brig hoisted the red ensign. Jon raised his glass, catching sight of figures scrambling on her deck and muskets glinting in the sun. “She carries troops.”
Within musket shot of the brig, Jon’s voice cut through the wind: “Strike your colors and heave to!”
A sputter of musketry cracked from the brig in reply, balls whining overhead into the sea.
“Answer them!” Jon barked. The Tyrannicide’s marines leveled their muskets, the volley thundering in return. Fisk’s Massachusetts swung alongside to cover the other flank, her guns run out, her marines firing as one.
For a heartbeat the British brig held on, stubborn against the twin predators closing on her. Then her red ensign fluttered down. A ragged cheer burst from the Tyrannicide’s deck.
Thorndike grinned. “She yields, Captain!”
“Pass the word to Fisk. He’ll furnish the prize crew,” Jon ordered.
“We’ll take a few of the soldiers from the Favorite.
” Flags broke from the Tyrannicide’s halyards, signaling across the water.
From the Massachusetts, boats were lowered at once, prize master and armed sailors pulling for the captured brig.
Jon soon discovered the troops the brig carried were Hessians, sixty-odd soldiers in green coats with red facings, tall boots, and scowling faces beneath black cocked hats.
“Chasseurs in full kit,” said Jon to Thorndike.
“Light infantry from Germany hired as auxiliaries by the British, and known as expert marksmen.” The chasseurs who were ferried across to the Tyrannicide under guard, bore sullen expressions.
Their cartridge boxes and sabers were taken, their mutters in guttural German punctuated with black looks.
The Tyrannicide received a handful—officers and men enough for questioning—while the bulk of the Germans remained aboard the Favorite under Fisk’s guard. One spat into the sea as his comrades scowled beneath their cocked hats.
Benjamin Moses watched grimly as weapons clattered into piles. “Better in the holds of our ships than in the hands of the British army.”
Jon looked on, his face hard, though a spark of satisfaction burned behind his eyes. “Aye. Washington will know how to put such a windfall to use.”
Fisk’s voice carried from his own quarterdeck as he hailed across the water, “Well taken, Haraden! That’ll nettle the Crown more than a dozen merchant brigs.”
Jon nodded as the convoy, sails swelling, vanished westward over the horizon, but their straggler, the transport Favorite, now stood captured, her Hessian passengers sullen captives of the Massachusetts’ Navy.
Off the coast of Cape Clear, Ireland, late April 1777
THE TYRANNICIDE WAS two days off the coast of Ireland under a gray sky when Jon heard the lookout’s hail shouted down the mast, “Sail ho! Off the larboard bow!”