. . . but no splash could be seen. Questioning looks at McDougall were met by a slight smile and an upraised hand and index finger, like a teacher requesting attention from his students.
Then they saw it. The wind had carried the sound away so that they could not hear it. But they all saw it and cheered wildly, jumping up and down on the deck and slapping the old man on the shoulders.
The mainsail of the other ship slowly ripped across its belly, with the leeward shrouds whipping around behind it. Soon the sail was severed all the way across from the luff to the leech, flapping thunderously like an enraged wounded animal. Forward of it, the foresail also showed damage, with a smaller tear on the leech where the shot must have passed through it also.
For several seconds the men of the St. James stood mesmerized by the destruction they had rendered. Rork soon put an end to that.
“Stand by, the boat’s crew! White, get your men and boat ready for boardin’!”
Wake ordered McDougall to reload with cannister shot and have several men with muskets ready on deck to cover the schooner as they approached. He was taking no chances with the other captain, who had already proven his mettle.
As they swept closer to the damaged vessel they saw a red flag hoist up to her main masthead. It shivered and then flew straight out in the wind: the red ensign of a British merchant ship. Figures swarmed around on her decks as they backwinded to the jib and hove her to, wallowing and waiting for the St. James to come up to her.
Wake stood by the helmsman and watched his crew as they went into their various evolutions. McDougall and his crew reloaded the deck gun and got the musket men ready. White and his boat crew started to sway the ship’s boat out on the fore gaff tackles, as Faber and the rest doused the foresail and readied the mainsail to come down. Rork turned to Wake.
“Request permission to lead the boardin’ party, sir.”
“Permission granted. Get her under way as soon as possible. I want to get out of here before those two arrive.”
Rork followed Wake’s gaze to the rapidly approaching ship at windward, and then the one farther away to leeward. The windward one looked to be a large lugger, as the lookout had said. No flag was yet shown on her. But she was heading directly for them and was only a mile or so off. Half an hour at the most, and she would be there. The one to leeward was still too far away to classify, but it was apparent that she was steering for them too.
Soon they were fifty yards to windward of the British vessel and hove to in the undulating seas, swaying out the boat. McDougall came aft.
“Sir, jus’ one wee thing. They haven’t surrendered proper like yet. Still got the limey ensign showin’. Want me to send ’em some lead an’ convince ’em to lower that damned red rag?”
Wake couldn’t believe it. McDougall was right. According to the rules of war, they hadn’t properly surrendered. He could legally fire into them. Rork scratched his head and lurched over to the shrouds, cupping his hands around his mouth.
“Schooner there! This is the United States Ship St. James, and you are captured! Properly surrender this instant by haulin’ down that ensign!”
A British-sounding voice came back across the water from a gray-haired man standing at the mainmast by the tangle of the destroyed sail and rigging. “This is a British ship, the Wendy of Devon, and we do not surrender. We’ve done nothing wrong to surrender for. You fired into an innocent ship. You will pay, sir. You will surely pay when London and their lordships of the admiralty hear of this outrage!”
It got very quiet on the St. James. The bustle of the crew doing their tasks stopped, and all of them looked to their captain. Rork turned around and faced Wake.
“Orders, sir? Shall we board her?”
The cramps in his stomach spread to Wake’s bowels. Nerves in his skin were twitching. Everyone was watching him. He set his jaw, clenched both fists, and fought to overcome the urge to turn and run from this disaster. There was nowhere to run to anyway. There was only one decision to make.
“Rork, tell them we are boarding, and if they show any resistance they will be shot.”
When that message was roared over to the other ship, the activity in Wake’s crew resumed. Soon the boat and crew, all eight of them armed to the teeth, were on their way across the rough water. Everyone in the crew was watching their progress, except fourteen-year-old Kane, still on lookout at the foremast crosstrees, who brought their attention back to windward.
“Deck there! The lugger to windward has sent up an ensign, sir! Don’t know it. Red, white and blue stripes. Big stripes, sir.”
Wake looked to windward and saw the big lugger, now a half mile away, sailing fast with battle ensign streaming and two deck guns manned and ready. She slid downwind ahead of St. James and rounded up close to the other schooner, which was now being boarded by Rork and his party. As the lugger, as big as St. James, came up into the wind, Wake saw the ensign fluttering out astern of the mainsail.
It was the tricolor of the French Navy. . . .
The sailors around Wake grew hushed again, as their captain gripped the pinrail by the mainmast and stared at the French deck guns aimed directly at him. A commotion on the prize vessel caught his attention and he shifted his gaze over to Rork’s boarding party.
He could see that they were rounding up the crew and herding them forward. Rork and another man, Jackson it looked like, were yelling something to the water on the far side of the schooner, out of Wake’s sight. Jackson was raising his musket and aiming at something in the water, stopped from firing apparently by Rork’s uplifted hand. Faber called Wake’s attention back to the Frenchman off their bow.
“Sir, what’ll we do about her? Looks like they’re sayin’ somethin’, but I don’t parley the French lingo.”
Faber was correct, the officers on the afterdeck of the lugger were excitedly yelling something toward the St. James, but Wake couldn’t understand French either. Now the officers were pointing at something in the water, in the same direction that Rork and Jackson were. Some action was taking place on the far side of the enemy ship, where the French and the boarding party could see it, but Wake could not. He was on the point of swearing aloud in frustration when Mason, up on the foredeck, yelled out.
“Escapin in’ a boat, sir. Look at ’em! There’s a couple of ’em getting’ away! Wan’ us ta shoot ’em, sir? I think we could get ’em from here!”
Suddenly, a small boat was seen emerging from behind the captured vessel, the three men in it rowing madly in the direction of the French ship. Wake didn’t need command of the French language to know that the Frenchmen were cheering on the escapees and taunting the Americans.
“Should we fire, sir?” asked Mason again. Wake wasn’t sure what to do at this point, but decided against using the guns.
“No! Wait for now!”
Wake strode aft to the binnacle box and got his telescoping glass. Focusing on the fleeing boat, he examined the men in it. None of them appeared armed. One was black-skinned and another was white with flaming red hair and beard. The older one, on the after pair of oars, was the closest to the St. James and the easiest to see. They were getting very close to the French ship, and Wake knew they were safe under the French Navy’s protection. As the boat came alongside the lugger, the red-haired
