Chapter 16 #2
They did not have long to wait. The Achilles bore straight for the Pickering’s prize, her bow wave foaming white.
Jon stood helpless at the rail, watching as the giant lugger closed on the Golden Eagle.
The Stars and Stripes snapped in defiance above the deck, and a few shots rang out.
But the Achilles came swarming, red coats spilling over the rail.
In minutes, the American colors were hauled down, the British flag up in their place.
Beside him, Thorndike swore under his breath. “They’ve taken her back and with our own men aboard.”
Jon lowered the glass. His throat tightened.
Bobby was there, quick, eager Bobby, who had begged to serve on the Eagle.
The boy’s grin, so bright with pride, flashed in his mind, and now he was in enemy hands.
The sight cut deep: his prize gone, his men taken, his cabin boy snatched from him.
He felt every eye on him, waiting for orders he could not give.
To rush the Achilles now was madness. The sugar in his hold, Salem’s fortune, weighed like a stone in his chest.
He clenched his jaw, his voice carrying across the deck. “We’ll not waste men in the dark. She has the Eagle tonight, but come the morning, she’ll reckon with the Pickering. Mark me, we’ll stand and fight.”
“Aye, Captain,” came the reply from the main deck.
A heavy overcast draped the bay as the sun slid down. The Achilles held her distance, looming like a predator biding its hour. Jon turned the deck over to Thorndike and went below.
In his cabin the lantern swung with the swell, casting long shadows over his table. Jon shed his coat and sat, opening his Bible, the pages worn from salt and handling. His eyes fell on Galatians: “Stand fast therefore in the liberty wherewith Christ hath made us free.”
He bowed his head, the words forming not for show but for life itself.
“Lord,” he whispered, “You know Bobby, bold beyond his years, eager to serve. Keep him safe tonight, wherever he lies. Bring him back to me, and let me not fail him, nor these men, nor the cause we serve. Grant me wisdom to stand fast, not in pride, but in Your strength.”
For a moment he sat still, the ache of old grief stirring.
He thought of the sons he and Hannah had buried in infancy, tiny graves that still lay in Salem’s earth.
Perhaps that was why he felt the pull so keenly toward his cabin boys and his crew as well.
He was a father to them all in some small way.
Bobby most of all. To lose him, or any of those entrusted to his command, was unthinkable.
With that, he closed his Bible, blew out the lantern, and lay down on his berth. Sleep took him swiftly, deep and untroubled, while beyond the timbers the sea groaned with the promise of battle.
The gray light of dawn had seeped into the cabin as Thorndike burst in, breathless. “Captain, the Achilles is upon us!”
Waking from a deep sleep, Jon swung his legs to the deck, and reached for his coat.
He took care with his cravat before setting his hat on his head with the composure of a man summoned to breakfast, not to battle.
Seeing Thorndike was nervous, he explained, “I believe in dressing for an engagement such as this.”
“Yes, sir,” said his first officer.
“Very well,” Jon said evenly. “Let us meet her, Mr. Thorndike.”
On deck, the men waited, nerves tight as bowstrings. Jon looked them over and saw the fear in their faces and the knowledge of the odds etched clear: one small ship against a monster lugger. Worse still, ten of their best hands and Bobby were aboard the Golden Eagle.
He raised his voice so all could hear. “We are few against their many, aye, but we are not alone. There are sixty prisoners below, and some may earn their freedom this day.”
The word spread swiftly. In minutes, the hatch was thrown back and men climbed out, blinking in the pale light.
Jon offered gold to any who would stand with them.
“Today you can fight with Patriots. Today you can earn your freedom.” To his surprise, ten stepped forward, among them a boatswain and nine of his fellows.
They took their stations, and the crew’s strength grew to forty-seven men and boys.
Jon moved among them, laying a hand on shoulders, nodding at powder boys.
“Mark me, lads. She is bigger, aye, and mounts more guns, but size does not win a fight. Steadiness and determination do, and with our prayers, Providence guides us. Do not throw away your fire. Marines take particular aim at their white boot tops. Every shot there will bite deep.”
The words steadied the men. They nodded, bending to their work, hauling tubs of water into place, checking sponges and handspikes, laying out crowbars and coils of match. The gun deck bristled with readiness.
Ashore, Bilbao stirred to life like a waking giant. From the high hills to the quayside, tens of thousands gathered to watch, the city’s bells clanging. Boats crowded the water, daring to get close for a better view. Beside Jon, Thorndike said, “They say a hundred thousand eyes are upon us.”
Jon smiled at his first officer. “Then we must provide a sight worth telling.” Jon turned to shout to the main deck.
“They came for a show; let’s give them one.
” His orders rang in measured cadence, echoing down the low-beamed deck.
“Cast off tackles and breechings…seize the breechings…unstop the touch-hole…ram home wad and cartridge…shot the gun-wad…run out the gun…lay down handspikes and crowbars…point your gun—FIRE!”
The Pickering’s first broadside thundered, smoke bursting across the waves.
The Achilles answered, her forty-odd guns shaking the very sea.
Shot screamed overhead, splintering spars and tearing canvas, yet the Pickering, deep-laden with sugar, rode low.
As Jon had observed with the first British ship they’d encountered, nearly every shot of the Pickering’s bit into the enemy’s hull at the waterline, but the Achilles’ fire roared high, smashing spars and tearing canvas but leaving the ship’s heart untouched.
Jon stood exposed on the quarterdeck, shouting calm orders as if it were no more than a drill.
Splinters flew, round shot screamed past his ear, but he never flinched.
The fight raged close and brutal. At one blast, a cannonball took off the head of the volunteer bos’n, showering his gun crew in blood.
Eight more lay wounded, but the line held.
Still the Achilles pressed in, towering over them, while Jon’s voice cut through the smoke. “Steady, lads! White boot tops! Fire low and true!”
Aboard the Golden Eagle offshore of Bilboa, Spain
THE FIGHT WORE on, the bay echoing with thunder. From the Eagle’s deck, Lieutenant John Carnes could see little save smoke and fire, the Pickering half-lost in the haze. Yet he heard enough: the cadence of her broadsides, steady as a drummer’s beat, and the answering fury of the Achilles.
The British prize master, a hard-faced man Carnes had learned was the Achilles’ second officer, stalked the deck, every blast making him flinch.
At last he rounded on Carnes, his face flushed with anger.
“This is madness! Look at her! Your ship is no more than a longboat beside our lugger. She’ll be splintered to pieces before the hour is out! ”
Carnes clasped his hands behind his back, his voice sure. “You don’t know Haraden. He fights like a man possessed, aye, but with his wits about him. He’ll stay close, keep low, and force the Achilles to waste her fire. If Providence is with us, your lugger will break before he does.”
The Englishman swore again and turned away, but Carnes’ words rang true even to his own ears. He remembered other fights where Haraden strode across the quarterdeck, calm where any other man would break. The captain’s steadiness was a weapon in itself and all the crew knew it.
Amidships, Haraden’s cabin boy, Bobby Grover, had not stopped watching.
His small hands gripped the rail, knuckles white, eyes fixed on the smoke-wreathed Pickering.
Every fresh broadside lit his face with fierce pride.
“She’ll never give way,” the boy said fiercely, as if daring the British crew to contradict him.
“That’s my master out there. He’ll beat her, you’ll see. ”
A murmur passed among the enemy sailors, some shaking their heads, others watching more warily. The boy’s certainty seemed to unnerve them more than the shot itself. When word of Bobby’s boast reached the prize master, the British officer hauled the lad aft.
“Is it true what you’ve been telling my men?” he demanded.
Bobby lifted his chin. “Aye, sir. Captain Haraden takes everything he goes alongside of. He’ll have this ship again before the sun is down.”
A ripple of laughter followed, but not all of it was mocking. Some of the British looked unsettled, glancing back toward the haze where flames shot between the two ships.
Carnes stepped forward then. “Best you believe him, sir. I’ve seen Haraden make good on worse odds than these. Why, once he captured three British ships in a single day. If you think today will be different, you don’t know the man.”
The Achilles officer’s jaw tightened, but he gave no reply.
John held his gaze a moment longer, then turned back to the fight.
The Pickering still held her ground, stubborn and unyielding, smoke rising in columns as the broadsides crashed on.
Beyond the haze, the roar of the Spanish crowd ashore carried faint across the water, like the sea itself had joined the battle.
In that moment Carnes felt it as keenly as Bobby did. The tide had not turned yet, but Haraden was far from beaten.
Aboard the Pickering offshore of Bilboa, Spain