Between Wind and Water

Chapter 6:
In which England goes to war

by

Rex Luscus

"The ship is fast at her mooring, sir," said Lieutenant Forrest, climbing the stairs to the quarterdeck.

James scanned the ships up and down the mountainous green coast of Hispaniola. Nearest to them was the Princess Louisa, Captain Stapleton's new command, and Vernon's supply tender, the Goodley. Most of the ships had been there for days; Vernon's division, of which James was a part, had only just arrived. "Care to play another move or two?" James asked his lieutenant.

The chess board was set up in James's day cabin under an open stern window. With orders to the officer of the watch to notify them if the Admiral signaled, Forrest followed James below and took his seat behind the white pieces, his heavy black brows settling into a cloudy bank. He had no sense of humor that James had been able to detect, and he did not like to lose, even in a low-stakes war.

James did not play for pleasure, either—this was an intelligence mission. He needed to learn Forrest's mind, and games of strategy were one way to do so. The other was to observe how he handled the men, and James was satisfied so far that Forrest was humane, decisive and astute. His defaulters' list was always short, and the Dauntless still had the fastest broadside in the squadron even after Ogle had siphoned half the able seamen off the books. But none of this told James how far he could take Forrest into his confidence.

James studied the white pieces. Forrest paid close attention to his pawn structure, which spoke well; he would not be caught unprepared. Right now, his beetle-wing eyes were darting around, returning again and again to his bishop and James's rook. He was hesitant to trade pieces even when he won the exchange, which did not speak as well. With a sigh of bereavement, Forrest took the rook, and James took his bishop. To James's nod of concession, he returned a tight smile.

The Princess Caroline signaled for James to repair aboard, but his men had barely hoisted out his barge before the lookout cried, "On deck, there! Sail ho!"

James reached the flagship just in time to meet Captain Dandridge of the Wolf sloop, who'd just come from Port Louis. Everyone gathered in Vernon's stateroom for his report.

"I was five miles out and the haze made it devilish difficult to see," said Dandridge, "but I'm fairly certain there were nineteen ships of war, one flying a broad pendant and another with a flag at her main topmast."

"D'Antin," said Vernon. "Damn him. Haze, you say?" He waved Watson over. "Get Laws in the Spence to sail in past the Isle de Vache and get us some confirmation. I'm not taking my entire squadron into Port Louis until we know for sure what's there."

Dandridge looked bewildered, uncertain whether his information had been accepted or rejected. James thought about inviting him for dinner, but he barely knew the man, and he was irritated that they'd been there a week already with no news and now they'd have to wait at least a week more. He returned to his ship alone.

A week later, the squadron sat off the Isle de Vache, and James and Gillette stood on the Princess Caroline's quarterdeck with the Admiral. Everyone was mopping their faces with handkerchiefs. "Remember," said Vernon, "just ask them if we can wood and water in the bay; no spilling information. All you want is a good look at what's in that harbor. Damn this haze."

It was certainly a good defense. James wondered if they could order up a haze for Port Royal.

"It would probably behoove us to apologize for the way we treated that messenger the French governor sent us yesterday," said Gillette with amusement.

"If you must." Vernon shrugged. "Now get moving. If d'Antin is there, you'll need to escape quickly. If he isn't, well, Cartagena calls."

Later, Gillette sat beside James in the stern sheets of the Dauntless's barge as it bore them across the undulating bay. Pascal Point fell away to larboard and the harbor opened up, still and quiet, chimneys smoking in the thick air.

"Can you see anything?" Gillette asked James.

"It's still too hazy." He collapsed the spyglass.

When a boat rowed out to meet them, James dusted off his French to request an audience with the Governor. As they sailed toward shore, he took out his glass again. After a few moments, he grimaced.

"Sir?" said Gillette.

James handed over the glass. "Merchantmen," he muttered. "Unrigged. One frigate of forty guns—but do you see that white house behind it?"

Gillette squinted through the glass. "Aye."

"Do you see the gable at its east end, somewhat in line with the frigate's mainmast, that if we were a mile farther out might begin to resemble a flag?"

Gillette laughed.

On shore, they spoke with the Governor, strewing their poor French with all the honorifics they knew, and got permission to wood and water in the surrounding bays. There was no sign of a battle squadron anywhere.

"Sorry for our rude to messenger," James said in French to the Governor, puffing carefully on the cigar the man had insisted he take.

The man shrugged. "We know all about Admiral Vernon. He was no different when he was your age."

Back aboard his ship, James met Forrest on deck. "Lord Aubrey is waiting for you below," said Forrest. "And—look, there." He pointed to a trim twenty-gun sloop anchored near the Princess Caroline.

James studied her. "Who's that?"

"The Experiment, sir," said Forrest, "late from England. She met d'Antin on the way, said the French sailed from here on the twenty-sixth of January."

"Oh, for God's sake." James rubbed his temple. "What a waste of time this has all been."

"Her captain is Rentone, sir," offered Forrest.

James looked up.

Dauntless signaled to Experiment, and ten minutes later, fair, freckled Rentone came over the side, blushing and grinning at the whistle of the boatswain's pipes.

"Mr. Rentone." James shook the young man's hand, smiling. "Or Captain, I should say."

"Yes, sir!" Rentone beamed. "Thank you, sir! I'm not used to it—I reckon a fellow could say 'Captain Rentone!' in the street and I'd not turn around."

James was certain he'd never been this young. "You were well treated in England, I trust?"

"Well treated! You'd have thought I was the Queen of Sheba. There's only so much humble protesting you can do, telling 'em you're just the messenger et cetera, before you just—well—"

"Before you decide to enjoy it while it lasts." James clapped his shoulder. "Pray come and join Lord Aubrey Beauclerk and I. We'll catch you up on what you've missed."

Rentone's eyes widened at Beauclerk's name. It wasn't every day that a clockmaker's son sat at table with a grandchild of Charles II.

"So you're the crack pilot," said Beauclerk, standing and jostling Rentone with a vigorous handshake. He smiled his broad, generous smile. "I'll bet you dined with the First Lord!"

"I did, sir." Rentone went a bit pale. "I've never been so terrified in my life."

"This is just the beginning for you. Sit down, both of you."

Beauclerk and Don Blas had one thing in common: the story was their chief weapon. Beauclerk, however, used stories to put people at ease.

"...and I looked away from the men flooding into the waist just in time to see a Turk bearing down on me, brandishing a great bloody scimitar over his head—I thought I was done for—and then he drops to the deck like a sack of flour, and Lieutenant Norrington is standing behind him with cutlass in hand, looking just as shocked as the dead Turk. I never realized it was possible to feel so many things at once. You'd never know to look at him, but Norrington has that effect on people."

James hid a grin behind a sip of port. "'Never know to look at him'?"

Beauclerk laughed. "It's just that you're so responsible, Norry. You're not like me, blundering through life without a heed for anyone else."

Rentone's eyes were darting eagerly back and forth. He'd heard the exciting version of the Turkish pirates story, of course. Perhaps Don Blas would have been more impressed if Beauclerk had told it.

"Oh! I nearly forgot!" Rentone rummaged in his coat pocket and drew out a handful of copper medallions, which he dropped on the table.

One rolled and fell flat beside James's plate. He picked it up. On one side was a relief of six ships; on the other, two men in profile.

"It's you, sir!" said Rentone. "You and Admiral Vernon!"

"The devil you say!" Beauclerk reached for one of the medallions. "I've only seen the ones showing Vernon alone. If I'd known they'd made some with your handsome phyz on 'em, I'd have collected a few more." He squinted at the medallion. "This one's got Walpole on it, for heaven's sake. What's he doing with this satyr?" He cast it down and picked up another. "Ah, here we are. Admiral Vernon and Commodore Norrington. They took Portobello with six ships. More direct than imaginative, certainly. They got your nose right, at least."

James squinted at his medallion. It was neither a good nor a bad likeness of him, being just an outline. He hoped the skinnier figure was intended to be him. The words 'Commodore Norrington' were scrunched close together, as though the artist had run out of room.

"Still and all," Beauclerk went on to Rentone, "there's something you must know about this dashing hero: he's got an absolute horror of chickens..."

It was so thrilling to hear Beauclerk call him "dashing" that James quite forgot what lies were being told about him.

"Here I go on about us," Beauclerk declared after wrapping up the story of the chicken coop. "Rentone, you must tell me of your life."

"Well—I—" Rentone's easily flushed face went as red as the port. "It's only just started. I don't have any stories yet, certainly."

"You mustn't feel a need to match Lord Aubrey's compulsive storytelling," James put in. "He's quite able to amuse himself."

"Well, then—" Rentone fortified himself with a large sip, "—I suppose all I can say is I owe everything to Admiral Vernon."

James and Beauclerk exchanged a glance. It was too brief for James to be sure what he saw. "I do think it is your own abilities that you ought to be thanking," he said carefully.

"I should hope so—I mean, I get on as well as the next fellow, I suppose—but all I did was pilot a ship, and for that Admiral Vernon gave me a command and sent me home to be wined and dined and made post—it was above and beyond, certainly."

"Like any commander," said Beauclerk, "the Admiral sees young men of talent and rewards them with the expectation that they will be loyal to him. You mustn't see it as selfless."

"To be sure—I should be honored to think so—nevertheless—"

"Rentone here could sail blind from Galleon Passage to the Bay of Campeche," said James.

Rentone blushed again and ducked his head. "I, um, don't suppose I could trouble either of you for a tale about the sort of man Admiral Vernon is..."

James and Beauclerk traded another look. This time there was amusement in Beauclerk's eyes. "Of course," he said, cracking his knuckles in preparation for another tale. "You know of course that he's one of our great tactical innovators, and perhaps you also know that before you were even born he was fighting the Spanish off Cartagena just as we're about to do..."

James listened and said nothing. His loathing of Vernon was burning a hole in his breast—but such was the loneliness of command. He was surrounded by good men just as he was surrounded by water: he could drink none of it, and he could confide in none of them.

"Captain Elizagaray," James sighed. "I trust you are well?"

"I don't know what you hope to accomplish by dragging me along on this damned expedition," Don Pedro grumbled.

"The Admiral thinks you might be of some use," James shrugged. "As a bargaining chip, perhaps. Or," he smiled, "maybe he intends to torture you for information."

"It's torture enough stuck in this airless cabin eating your maggoty salt meat and drinking your watered-down wine."

"Good. I shall expect a stream of information shortly, then."

Don Pedro sneered. "Get me some fresh mutton and I might tell you something. And tell me where we are!"

James ignored him. "I think you'll be quite comfortable down here with your servant to attend to your every whim. As always, alert me when you're ready to be of some use. Good day."

Had Don Pedro been able to look outside, he'd have seen Playa Grande off the Dauntless's larboard bow, and the Experiment and Spence sloops coming up from the south, where they had been scouting for deserters and safe anchorages. James installed himself in his great cabin and waited for the reports.

Captain Laws of the Spence arrived first. "I checked the usual spots, sir," he said, "but nothing from our spies. However, we found this gentleman."

A sour man in a tartan coat stepped into the cabin. "Well, well," said James with narrowed eyes, "if it isn't Captain Margrave."

The man had the sense to cast his eyes down. For over a year, James had listened to his spite and complaints, and now it was time for a little payback.

"What did you say to me once?" said James, drawing the feather of his quill along his chin. "'What kind of Englishman are you?' And now I find you trading with the Spanish during wartime. Do you have any idea how much trouble you're in, Margrave?"

"Just tell me what you want and you'll have it," Margrave blurted.

James smiled.

Over the course of four bells and three cups of coffee, Margrave submitted his local knowledge, talking until James's clerk was on the verge of collapse. Finally, James sent Margrave back to his ship with orders to remain at Playa Grande, then passed the word for his barge to be put out. He had one final errand.

By the time the boat's keel crunched in the sand, he was in the water, striding toward the beach. The sky over the bluff was lavender. "Tell Lieutenant Forrest I've gone up for a better view of the bay," he said to the midshipman at his elbow. "There's no need to follow me." Without breaking stride, he made for the tree line.

It was a ten-minute climb up the familiar stony path, dusty and hot and choked with insects. By the time he reached open space, his clothes had been snagged by the brush and his stockings hopelessly stained with red mud. On the cliff, the light breeze off the sea cooled his sweaty neck, and he looked around for the marks. Two box trees grew close together, and in line with them was a row of stunted palms. He followed them inland.

After five minutes weaving between bushes with his eyes on his battered old surveyor's compass, he smelled something burning. A few minutes after that, he heard singing. The tuneless sounds resolved into words.

"...her hair was green as seaweed, her skin was blue and pale... "

James stepped out of the brush into a clearing where a camp fire burned. Next to it, amid the remains of a roasted fish dinner with his head pillowed on driftwood, Sparrow sprawled, singing to the bottle atop his belly. "...I loved that girl with all me heart, but I only liked the upper part... could do without the tail..." He looked up. "Gov'nor!" he exclaimed, then grew cross. "Nice of you to show up—I'd started to wonder if my note had fallen into enemy hands."

James sat on a log. "Vernon needed to be convinced that d'Antin had well and truly gone."

"I showed you he had, didn't I?"

"A single letter wasn't quite good enough; surely you see that."

Sparrow shrugged soberly. Then he lit up. "I stole you a present."

James narrowed his eyes. "As long as it's not English."

Sparrow reached into a canvas sack near his foot and drew out a bottle of ruby liquid. James's eyes glazed over. "What's... what's that?"

"Oh," shrugged Sparrow, "just a bit of Chateau Margaux I found in Port Louis. The streets were fairly runnin' with the stuff, an' I thought, 'What a perfect way to butter up the Commodore.'"

James's mouth watered. He hesitated, but Sparrow's face contained nothing but guileless expectation. It was a strange look on him, and it made James uneasy. Equal exchange and mutual self-interest were one thing; gifts were quite another. He took the bottle. "Whatever your motives, I shan't turn it away," he said with a sigh, the bewitching red glint in the foggy glass already eroding his will.

"Knew you had a worldly weakness in there somewhere." Sparrow grinned, pleased with himself.

They clinked their bottles together.

"On to business," said James, clearing his throat. "We must first establish how we will communicate. Obviously it will be difficult for us to meet with any regularity—"

"Don't let's get ahead of ourselves," said Sparrow, holding up a hand. "The first order of business is not how we'll do it, but how I'll be compensated for doin' it, savvy?"

"Very well." James gave Sparrow a look. "Well? You know more about dishonest bookkeeping than I do."

"I'll make off with what I can carry in the melee, of course, as I always do," said Sparrow, settling back with the ease of a born negotiator, "but in addition—one half of your prize share."

"One half?" James gaped. "Never mind my own future comfort—that amount of money would be missed, Sparrow!"

"Tell 'em you invested it," Sparrow shrugged.

James glared. "One fifth."

Sparrow glared back. "One third."

"Two sevenths."

Sparrow frowned, doing the arithmetic in his head. "Nope," he said at last, "it's one third or nothing."

"Fine." James ground his teeth. "This is ridiculous."

Sparrow grinned. "Think of it this way—I'll be far more eager to protect your interests."

"I should jolly well hope you'd be eager," muttered James. "Now, let's stop salivating over this money we don't yet have and figure out what we're going to do."

"Well said. Now—" Sparrow rubbed his hands together. "Lucky for you, I've infiltrated Lezo's staff." He held up his hand. "It's best if I don't tell you how. Plausible deniability an' all that. Or is that plausible accountability?"

"You and accountability don't belong in the same sentence."

"Fair enough." Sparrow flashed a grin. "I can furnish you with all I know about the Spanish defenses at present. After that, we must find a way to exchange information."

"Again," said James, "I bow to your experience."

Sparrow eyed him. "Wish I could get that in writing. Now, with these prevailin' winds, your stern'll be facin' away from shore, so you'll have to hang a lantern off the quarter gallery to signal when you want to meet."

"All right." James shrugged. "And how will you signal me?"

"I'll leave a sign for you somewhere, flag over a tree branch or that kind of nonsense. Any idea where you'll be landin'?"

"I'm recommending the place where Admiral Pointis landed in '97. Whether Vernon and Wentworth accept it is another matter."

"We'll need rendezvous points on Tierra Bomba. You know where that is, right? Big bloody island blocking the approach to the harbor?"

"Yes, I know where Tierra Bomba is, I've been surveying this coast on and off for the last two years. So, where do you recommend? Somewhat north of the Chamba battery on the leeward side, I would think."

"I know just the place." Sparrow dug around in the sack and pulled out a vast crumpled sheet of vellum. "We also need a spot on the opposite side once you get inside the harbor..."

With Sparrow's chart spread between them, they slogged through signals and codes, rendezvous and drop points, protocols and contingency plans, while Sparrow drank liberally from his bottle.

"Are you even going to remember this?" James asked, wrinkling his nose at the fumes wafting across the chart.

"I'm sober as a parson," said Sparrow, eyes slightly crossed.

James shook his head. "Now, what can you tell me about the fortifications at the harbor mouth?"

"First of all, you know there's two harbor mouths, but only one you can use, six miles south of the city."

"Yes, yes, of course—Boca Chica. We've secured a few Spanish charts, but it's treacherous; only one ship may pass at a time."

"An' it's bristling with guns on either side. Tierra Bomba on the north side of the channel is where their biggest fort lies. Isla Baru to the south has a few as well, but only one of 'em's maintained with much effort—the Barradera. Anyway, the big fort on Tierra Bomba, which you call Boca Chica Castle, mounts eighty-two guns, an' Lezo's put all his hopes there. For good measure, he's anchored four big ships just inside the harbor mouth, an' stretched a boom of chains, cables and beams of wood across the whole channel. You'll have to cut it to get in, and you'll have to silence those guns to cut it. Lezo knows you have the superior strength—he aims to throw enough little stones in your path to keep you busy until the rainy season starts droppin' your men like flies. Speed, speed is what will beat him, remember that."

"How are you so sure?" asked James with a suspicious scowl. "Just how close have you cozened yourself to Lezo, anyway?"

"It's my secret, but let's just say I'm in a position to hear men at their least inhibited." To James's look of delicate horror, he said, "Remember, Gov'nor, you pay me to be dishonest for you."

"I have always held myself responsible for whatever you've done in my name," sniffed James.

"I ought to keep some responsibility for meself. I take much better care of it."

James rolled his eyes. "If by that you mean you ignore it."

"Precisely. You know," said Sparrow wistfully, "it is far easier to move amongst the Spanish. They wear beards, you see..."

Listening to Sparrow's prattle, James was aware that something was different, and it dawned on him that he had never been in Sparrow's company for this long without wanting to throttle him or stuff a rag down his gullet. He was almost, dare he say it, enjoying himself. Sparrow had not ceased to be an unwashed, amoral tatterdemalion, a pungent creature from the gutter with tar in every possible crack and crevice, but at some point, James had ceased to find him repulsive. Had, perhaps, never truly found him so at all. Sparrow seemed to charm everybody in the end, even his enemies. James gazed in dismay at the bottle in his lap and wondered when he had become so easy to manipulate.

They talked until the light had gone from the sky and James began to worry he'd be missed. Sparrow kicked his campfire out and disappeared into the brush, and James stumbled back down to the beach.

Two days later, the bay of Playa Grande was strewn with the mighty English fleet, and a council of war convened aboard the Princess Caroline. The first thing James saw as he came aboard was the unwelcome face of Lieutenant Lowther. Turned out in his best uniform, Lowther still had the red-rimmed, mucose eyes of the perpetually sleepless or drunk, and although his roguish person invited comparison with Sparrow, his face was devoid of Sparrow's cleverness. One tooth glinted in an impertinent grin as he led James below.

Vernon's stateroom was full. James had never before met with all the principle land and sea officers at once, and while he refused to be awed by them, he was uncomfortable being the least powerful man in the room.

"Pointis's old landing place is still the best," he said when his turn came. "The batteries commanding the bay can be easily reduced by two or three ships, and the fire from Boca Chica Castle and Lezo's ships inside the channel cannot reach."

"Very well," nodded Vernon. "Here is the plan, gentlemen: Rear-Admiral Ogle's division shall lead as we sail down the coast. We'll detach three ships to reduce each of those batteries. Once they've been silenced, General Wentworth shall begin landing his troops under cover of fire from the fleet. Then we shall make swift work of Boca Chica Castle, lest the rainy season catch up to us. We shall work out the particulars in due course. Questions?"

Everyone was agreed.

"Now, on to a subject I'm sure we're all eager to discuss: how exactly the booty from this jewel in the Spanish crown shall be divided..."

James sat back and let his mind wander. He had no influence in this discussion. Only the principle officers had anything at stake; everyone else would get the same share as always. Something in his cautious nature found the whole exercise foolish—why waste energy dividing up sums one had not yet earned? Vernon's optimism was limitless, bubbling up like fumes from his arrogance and blindness. Somehow Sparrow's cheerful counting of future riches didn't offend him nearly as much—perhaps because it was nothing but a breezy, harmless dream. Vernon's appetites came from darker places.

James sent his steward below for another cup of coffee and watched the low forests of Tierra Bomba creep by, the green mass deep in shadow as the new sun spilled over the tree tops. By the first bell in the forenoon, the wind had freshened and backed to the north, blowing fine on their quarter, their larboard tacks aboard. To leeward, sails were spread across the sea, all crawling down the coast at a stately pace.

The jungle seemed unaware that there was such a thing as man. Watching it, James spared a bit of anxiety for Sparrow. Despite their long conference, he didn't actually have any idea what Sparrow was doing. The man was a master of self-preservation, notwithstanding a few failures, so it was bootless to worry about him when there were so many other things to worry about. Still, Sparrow peppered his cleverness with bouts of idiocy. Perhaps he was with Lezo now, in some preposterous disguise; or perhaps he was creeping around Boca Chica Castle where he might be cornered in an instant. James tried to keep his mind on the situation at hand, though there wasn't much to do; this morning would be a few moments of action for a handful of ships, while the rest came along for a show of strength.

Guns sounded in the distance, and James went up to the forecastle to watch the Princess Amelia hammer a tiny shore battery into silence. The big ship set her anchor and sent blue smoke curling across the water for fifteen minutes before ship and battery went quiet. She weighed her anchor to rejoin the line just as the Dauntless passed her beam.

Close to noon, half a league to the south, the Princess Caroline signaled. An hour later, the Dauntless rode at anchor with her spring cable set, the strange northerly wind blowing on her beam.

The sun was nearly overhead, and the men's skins glistened with sweat, relieved occasionally by the gusting breeze. Three ships had taken up positions near the landing place, firing on the batteries commanding the bay. James moved his glass from one ship to the other. Norfolk was the most northerly, anchored four cable's lengths from Fort Santiago, her broadside roaring in slow periods. South of her and to windward lay the Russell, exchanging fire with Fort San Felipe. In the very south was the Shrewsbury, Captain Townsend's ship, dividing her fire between San Felipe and Boca Chica Castle inside the harbor mouth. The gunfire rolled across the water like thunder, and soon it was hard to make out the coast through the smoke.

This was to be his day, then; waiting and watching unless he got the signal to stand in. He trained his glass on the forts. Once they were abandoned, the troops could land with little to fear from the castle, and from there, an assault on the castle would be easy, as long as nothing went wrong. Of course, something always went wrong. He could hear Vernon's bluster about those idiot Spaniards and their cowardly defense—the castle would fall by tea time, he surely thought.

Bored and frustrated, James went below to occupy himself with the log book. Not long afterward, an equally restless Forrest joined him to exchange a few moves of chess. Around two o'clock, there was a knock on the door.

"Sir!" The fourth lieutenant stepped into the cabin. "You may want to come above; something's happening."

"That is without a doubt the vaguest report I've ever received," said James, getting to his feet.

On the forecastle, James trained his spyglass on the Shrewsbury. "Oh, God," he said, handing the glass to Forrest.

One of her anchor cables had been cut, and she had swung round in a great arc to leeward, pointing her stern into the south. James could hear guns from the island fort of San Josef in the channel, and perhaps also from the Barradera. The ships inside the harbor were firing now too, up and over the sandbar. Three forts and four ships were now raking the Shrewsbury's stern.

"Her mizzenmast is gone already," said Forrest grimly, still looking through the glass. "She's taken many shots between wind and water as well, with the way she's heeling. Why doesn't Townsend warp her back into position?"

James squinted at the beleaguered ship; from a distance, only the angle of her masts signaled her distress. "The fire's too hot," he said. "Under heavy raking fire like that, you can barely keep your head down, let alone man a capstan or lower a boat. Her stern will be demolished in twenty minutes and her masts gone in an hour."

They went up to the poop deck to survey the rest of the fleet. Nothing was moving. No signals from the Admiral; no one was being ordered to take Shrewsbury's position. Surely it was just a matter of time before the Admiral ordered her off?

There was nothing he could do, yet it seemed callous to return to his business with so many men losing their lives just a mile away. James and his officers gathered on the forecastle in a vigil, watching the poor Shrewsbury holding fast with sick horror as more and more of her was blown away.

The hands were piped to supper and the rum ration served out. Afterwards, men crowded the waist to watch the Shrewsbury in silence. James ate mechanically, and came back on deck; still the Shrewsbury held. He knew what it would look like aboard her: decks slick with blood, limbs and guts and shattered bodies heaved overboard without ceremony, screams and groans and sweaty powder-black bodies sponging and loading and heaving on tackles as the shots sent splinters everywhere; smoke and din and hellish chaos. There was no reason for it—a senseless, stupid waste.

Just as the sun was setting, the Princess Caroline signaled. Immediately Shrewsbury cut her cable, and in what must have been an act of extreme heroism, set a bit of canvas on a jury-rigged mast and stood out to rejoin the squadron, heeling drunkenly. "Mr. Forrest," said James, putting away his glass, "lower the launch and take twenty men to aid Captain Townsend, if you please."

"Aye, sir." Forrest looked relieved as he saluted and hurried off.

After Forrest left, the bomb-ketches moved into position to cover the landing of the troops, and then the transports followed, disgorging their human cargo into boats that skittered down great waves onto the beach. The muzzle flashes from the bomb-ketches were brilliant in the heavy dusk. James struggled to discern the action on the ground. Through his spyglass, he could make out men swarming over the recently abandoned forts, and still the boats came, struggling ashore with wave after wave of soldiers.

A little past midnight, Forrest staggered back aboard covered in blood and soaked to the thighs in bilge water. "Reporting, sir," he said, entering James's cabin. "Captain Townsend sends his thanks." He paused. "Twenty men dead and forty wounded, and 240 shots to the hull."

James watched Forrest's face carefully. It was tired and frustrated, but otherwise difficult to read. They both hated what Vernon had done, he knew. Could he confide in this young man?

Of course he couldn't—he was the captain. He had no right to drag his lieutenant into his personal nightmare of conflicted loyalty. Any man who wanted authority over other men paid for it with isolation; he'd known that when he chose this life. There was no turning from it now.

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