Chapter 16
“The harder the conflict, the greater the honor.”
WEEKS OF STEADY sailing carried the Pickering across the Atlantic, her holds heavy with Derby’s sugar and her crew falling into the hard rhythm of sea life.
By late May, the long swells of the Bay of Biscay were beginning to heave beneath her.
The weather had been fickle with sudden squalls, then blinding bursts of sun.
That morning, Bobby had just brought Jon coffee when a cry from the main-top lookout split the air. “Sail to windward!”
Handing Bobby his coffee, Jon raised his glass, salt crusting at its rim. A cutter, broad in the beam, running fast, her sides bristling with twenty guns was bearing down like a hawk swooping upon its prey.
Thorndike’s boots sounded on the deck beside him. “She’s armed heavier than we are, sir. Shall we run?”
Jon lowered the glass. “No. She’s chosen her fight. Ready the guns. We’ll show her the Pickering was built for more than sugar.”
Bobby scrambled down from the quarterdeck, Jon’s mug in hand. He would want to be part of the action to follow.
Orders cracked across the deck. Gun crews threw open the ports; black muzzles thrust out, priming horns at the ready. Powder boys dashed with cartridges, Bobby among them, his face alight with eagerness.
The sea narrowed between hunter and hunted. The cutter fired first, a crashing broadside, iron screaming across the water. A ball punched through the Pickering’s bulwark, splinters flying. Men ducked instinctively, then steadied as Jon’s voice cut clear. “Stand fast! Fire as she bears!”
The Pickering’s guns answered, smoke roiling out, the deck shuddering with the recoil.
Through the drifting haze Jon saw the cutter stagger under the blows, her jib fluttering ragged, her rigging cut.
And then he made a discovery: the Pickering’s sugar-laden weight kept her low in the water, every shot biting into the enemy’s hull near the waterline.
The cutter, riding higher, hurled much of her fire too far aloft, splintering spars and sails but leaving the ship’s heart whole.
The very burden that made them slow had given them teeth.
For nearly two hours they traded thunder.
Shot tore sails, splintered rails, and sent iron clanging across the decks.
Twice the Pickering shuddered under solid hits, but her timbers held.
Jon moved on the quarterdeck with calm authority, spyglass in hand, shouting orders through the smoke.
“Shift your aim lower! Break her waterline! Steady, lads, give her Salem’s fire! ”
Thorndike’s voice rose with his. “Run out the guns! Give her another!”
The cutter pressed hard, circling to rake, but the Pickering answered at every turn, her smaller frame nimble where the cutter lumbered.
At last a shot struck true and the cutter’s main topmast splintered, crashing in a tangle of sail and cordage.
A cheer broke from the Pickering’s deck as the cutter fell off, bearing away to leeward.
Jon held his glass a moment longer, watching her dwindling hull. Part of him longed to chase and finish it, but the sugar below, Derby’s fortune and Salem’s stake, bound him to his course. To linger was to risk losing all.
“Secure the guns and the wounded,” Jon ordered. Only then did he allow himself a slow nod.
Bobby appeared at his elbow, powder-stained and grinning through smoke. “We showed her, Captain! Sent her running!”
Jon allowed himself the ghost of a smile. “Aye, Bobby. The first trial of this cruise, and she’s stood it well.”
The cheer still echoed across the deck, but Jon’s thoughts were already ahead, into the wide Bay of Biscay and the greater tests yet to come.
“If I might, sir,” Bobby asked, his eyes bright, “why didn’t we try and take her?”
Jon looked down at the boy, then back at the sugar-laden ship under his feet.
“Because we sail for Bilbao with Salem’s fortune in our hold,” he said evenly.
“Our guns must guard it. To chase her would risk all, and I’ll not gamble the town’s stake for pride.
” Jon’s gaze lingered on the cutter limping away, her topmast down.
The prize-hunter in him longed to give chase, but he clenched his jaw.
Not here, not now. “Bilbao lies ahead. If I find a prize near that safe harbor, we’ll take her then. ”
Bobby’s grin softened into something more thoughtful. “So we fight when we must, but not always.”
Jon rested a hand briefly on the boy’s shoulder. “Aye, Lad. And that’s the harder duty of command.”
Offshore of Bilboa in the Bay of Biscay, 1 June 1780
THE BAY OF Biscay lay restless under a rising moon, long swells shouldering the Pickering as she pressed south, her holds groaning with Derby’s sugar. She looked every inch a trader, but her gunports told another tale: sixteen black mouths ready if pressed.
Near dusk, the lookout’s hail broke the monotony. “Sail ahead! To leeward!”
Jon raised his night glass. In the fading light he made her out: a wide beam, sails well set, bristling with twenty-two guns. A privateer, no mistaking.
Thorndike’s jaw tightened. “She’s got more guns that the Pickering, sir. Could be she’s hunting.”
Jon lowered the glass. “Aye. That’s the Golden Eagle. She thinks she’s the hawk, and we’re the pigeon. We’ll see.”
As the sky darkened, he ordered lanterns doused and the Pickering’s sails trimmed just enough to feign weariness.
From the enemy’s deck, the Pickering would appear a fat merchantman, ripe for the taking.
When the Golden Eagle bore close, Jon snapped his order.
“Wear ship. Bring us under her bow—now!”
The Pickering swung sudden as a cat on the prowl, canvas cracking in the night wind. In the moon’s pale wash, she loomed broadside on, gunports yawning wide. Jon raised his speaking trumpet, his voice carrying like iron across the water. “Surrender or be sunk!”
A hush seemed to fall between the ships, the sea itself holding its breath.
The Golden Eagle, expecting an easy prize, had not reckoned on such sudden menace.
And, in the dark, her master did not know the real size of the Pickering.
He peered through the gloom at the Pickering’s bristling guns, her bold posture.
He faltered. Moments later, her colors came down.
A roar of triumph burst from the Pickering’s men. Bobby Grover, powder-stained from the earlier skirmish, danced on the deck. “We’ve got her, Captain! We’ve taken her without a shot!”
Jon stayed composed. “Thorndike, take men over. Secure her decks. Lieutenant Carnes will command her as prize.”
Thorndike, already gathering men, beckoned Lieutenant Carnes. “Take charge, Mr. Carnes, and see her safe into Bilbao.”
Bobby edged forward, cap clutched in his hands. His eyes shone with a mix of nerves and excitement. “Captain, sir, might I go with Mr. Carnes? Just this once? It’s a short run to Bilbao, and Joshua Trask can serve you in my stead while I’m on the Eagle. He’s near as quick as I am.”
Jon studied the boy, reading both his eagerness and his pride. To serve on a prize crew was no small honor for a cabin boy. “You’re certain of it, Bobby?”
“Aye, sir,” he said, his voice firm despite the flush in his cheeks. “I’d like to say I helped bring her in.”
Jon’s gaze flicked to Thorndike, who gave a slight shrug, then back to the boy. After a pause, he nodded. “Very well. Go, and mind Lieutenant Carnes. But remember, you carry the Pickering’s honor with you.”
Bobby’s grin broke wide as he dashed to join the boat, calling over his shoulder, “Aye, Captain!”
When the British captain, Robert Scott, was brought aboard the Pickering under guard, his face was thunderous. He had submitted to a phantom armament, and the truth of his folly stood plain for him to see. The Pickering was smaller, lower, and not half so fierce as she’d seemed in the shadows.
“You tricked me,” he spat, his voice thick with humiliation. “By God, I thought you a ship of the line!”
Jon met his fury with calm. “A captain takes his chances at sea, sir. Tonight, chance was mine. If it’s any consolation, I will allow you your freedom on parole for return to London, so long as you give your word not to fight again until exchanged for an American.”
Scott’s face flushed a deeper red, the muscle in his jaw jumping.
For a moment he seemed about to lash out again.
But the weight of defeat and the offer of parole left him caught between pride and gratitude.
His voice came low and bitter. “You shame me twice, sir, once with your trick, and again with your courtesy. I’ll give my word, though it galls me. ”
Thorndike returned from the Golden Eagle, reporting briskly. “Her stores are sound, sir, her guns heavier than ours. She makes a fine prize.”
Jon gave a single nod. “Then we set course for Bilbao. Two ships now, not one.”
The day darkened early, low clouds scudding in from the Atlantic, a heavy stillness before the night. The Pickering and her prize pressed south toward Bilbao and the Spanish coast, a shadow on the horizon.
Near dusk the lookout’s hail split the wind. “Sail astern! Large, and gaining fast!”
Jon raised his night glass. Out of the gray loomed a vast hull, rig crowded with canvas, her deck overflowing with guns. Even before Thorndike spoke, Jon knew her. “God help us. That’s the Achilles.”
A murmur spread across the deck as men caught sight of her towering spars, the largest lugger ever fitted. Though a privateer, she looked more like a ship of war. Jon’s jaw tightened. Forty-odd cannon against his sixteen, and ten of his best men, including Bobby, were away on the Eagle.
“Steady,” Jon called, his voice level, though his stomach turned like the sea. “She’ll show her hand soon enough.”