The Black Ring by William Westbrook

Author:William Westbrook
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: McBooks Press
Published: 2018-02-25T16:00:00+00:00

FALLON AWOKE before dawn, stiff and cramped from a night on the stern cushions, his paper and pen on the deck of the cabin where they’d fallen. His wine was untouched on the desk, as was the dinner his steward had quietly set out on the chance that he’d awake and be hungry. He was now, indeed, fabulously hungry and called for coffee and toasted cheese immediately while he shaved and shifted his clothes.

By the time he arrived on deck it was to a lightening sky behind him and a grayish bow wave forward. Cuba was out there somewhere, and even now James Wharton might be making his way to Matanzas for the rendezvous in a little over a week’s time. Fallon wondered idly whether Cuba was indeed ready to challenge Spain.

“Good morning, Captain,” said Brooks, approaching Fallon from behind to snap him back to the present. “We’re about ten miles off the east coast of Cuba, sir. Within the hour we should be off Cayo Guillermo on the larboard bow.” Brooks, ready with the answer before the question—like a good first lieutenant.

“Thank you, Mr. Brooks,” said Fallon. “Have you ever been to Cuba?”

“I have not, sir. But I’ve heard the wom—that is, I’ve heard it is very beautiful.”

“Yes, they are, Mr. Brooks,” said Fallon with a grin to a visibly embarrassed first lieutenant.

“Deck there!” called the lookout. “Sail to the west!”

Here was Aja with Fallon’s telescope, though nothing could be seen from the deck. Barclay appeared at the binnacle, as well, and all eyes looked ahead to the west. But the morning would not be rushed, and so the light took its time coming. Minutes passed slowly, until finally the lookout called.

“Deck there! She’s ship rigged. Tacking toward us.”

Fallon now found himself in the same uncomfortable position Petite Bouton had been in: a narrow strait with not much room to maneuver, though he certainly had better visibility and thus more time to decide a course of action than the French capitaine had.

“Lookout! What is she?” he yelled.

“She’s just tacked again, sir!” called the lookout. “I make her a packet of some kind!”

Well, that took the pressure off, thought Fallon. He decided to have the colors sent up and see how the packet responded. He also asked Brooks to call all hands as a precaution.

The British ensign went up and almost immediately the lookout called.

“Deck there! She’s flying British colors!”

“Heave-to, Mr. Brooks,” said Fallon. “But have the gun crews stand ready. Let’s see what this fellow has to say.”

On the packet came, tacking this way and that while Fallon paced the deck with his chin in his chest, catching a glimpse of the slowly approaching packet out of the corner of his eye. It was a ponderous thing, unhandy and clumsy in tacks, but after the best part of an hour she hove-to within hailing distance of Rascal and the captain spoke through cupped hands.

“I am Captain Stipes, and this is the slaver Plymouth just back from Havana.”

“His Majesty’s privateer Rascal, Captain Fallon in command, sir,” yelled Fallon back.

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