A pirate!
I am topside in a second, followed closely by the others. Jim hands me my long glass and I head up into the rigging. When I gain the crow’s nest, I put the glass to my eye and train it on our visitor. It looks like . . . But I can’t be sure. “Joannie! Go down and get our Jolly Roger, and fly him from the masthead. Quick, now!”
There are a number of the passengers on deck enjoying the fine day and I order them below. “There might be trouble, ladies, and you’re better off down there. Keep calm, now.”
Joannie rushes back into my cabin and returns with the flag, and soon the grinning-skull-and-crossbones is snapping from the mainmast above me.
Joannie appears at my side.
“What do you think?”
“Dunno. He might not be chasing us . . . but still . . . On deck there! Clear for action! Man the guns!”
I see the lads rushing to their battle stations below. Joannie does not have to be told; she, too, flies down to her duty as powder monkey.
Closer . . . closer . . . just who the hell are you . . .?
The ship, which appears to be a medium-sized brig, grows ever nearer . . . and then I can make out the flag . . . Ha!
“Don’t worry!” I shout down. “It’s just Flaco! But stay at your guns just in case.”
It is well that I said that, for, when I put glass back to eye, I see that Flaco Jimenez’s El Diablo Rojo is being chased by another, larger vessel. I have no doubt that Flaco has been up to no good, but still, I must go to the aid of my fellow member of the Piratical Brotherhood.
Damn!
I head back down.
“There’s another ship behind Flaco’s!” I say to Jim at the helm as my feet hit the deck. “Bring her about and we’ll see what we can do for him.”
Jim throws the wheel over and the Nancy B. heels to the left and comes about. The lads leave their guns to climb aloft to trim the sails for the new course, and then drop back down to resume their stations.
We are slowed by our turn and drift back on a southerly course, as the two ships draw abreast of us. I put the glass back to my eye, and sure enough, there’s Flaco Jimenez astride his quarterdeck, grinning at me and waving. Then there is a craaack! from the other ship and he ducks and is not grinning anymore.
“What’s going on?” asks Clarissa, who has appeared by my side.
“Oh,” I say. “It’s an old friend from my younger days. We spent a summer buccaneering in the Caribbean. He appears to be in a bit of trouble.”
She gives me a look. “What will you do?”
“As soon as I see what colors the other ship is flying, I will decide,” I say, my glass still to my eye. “Ha! She’s flying the Tricolor! Prolly one of Lafitte’s fleet! Jim, hard left! Come up behind Flaco as he passes.”
“What’s going to happen?” asks Clarissa.
I cut her a look as I slap my long glass shut and say, “We are going to have what is called an ‘action.’ You’d best get below.”
Damn! I am short-handed! I wish I had John Tinker here! Damn!
Just then the pursuing vessel’s bow-chaser lets go again . . . crraack! and smash! the ball crashes into our rail as we cross El Diablo’s wake and splinters rain across our deck.
Flaco, seeing what we have done, brings his ship about to aid us in this fight.
“Ready the broadside! Fire!” Davy, Thomas, and McGee jerk their lanyards and . . .
Craaack! Craaack! Craaack!
All our starboard guns pour forth their murderous fire. One of the balls plows into the water just short of the enemy ship but two slam into his side.
“That hurt him! Portside now!” The three gunners leap to the guns on the other side. “Joannie, Danny! Reload! Powder! Shot! Jim, bring her about! Hard alee!”
I see that Clarissa is standing there still. She did not go below. Very well . . .
“You, too!” I shout at her. “Follow Joannie! Get powder! She’ll show you!” I give her a push in the direction of the hatchway, and she dashes off after the kids.
As the Nancy B. turns her head into the wind and comes about on the other tack, there is a long boooooommmm as Flaco brings his heavier guns to bear and fires them off. The French ship is hurt, but still he comes doggedly on.
Hmmmm . . . He shows more fight than one of Lafitte’s captains would usually do . . .
The Nancy B. has completed her turn and the port guns now bear.
“Lads! Aim and fire when ready! Try for the waterline!”
Davy leans over his swivel gun, aims, locks it down, judges the roll of the ship, and then jerks the lanyard.
Crraaack!
Then the other two guns fire together . . .
Craaack! Craaack!
. . . and we watch . . . and yes!
Two of the balls hit the hull of the Frenchy, one of them right at his waterline, and I can see the water pouring in.
“Good shooting, lads! Reload!”
Joannie, Danny, and Clarissa have finished loading the starboard guns and rush to the port side. As they go, I see . . . Hooray! He has had enough!
I grab Clarissa’s arm as she goes by me. She turns to look and, indeed, the enemy is turning away, intent now on saving his ship from sinking. He, however, is not quite done. A puff of smoke appears at his stern and a low boooommmm sounds across the water. He has fired his stern chaser in a final act of defiance.
We wait for it and sure enough . . . the ball comes whistling toward us and I squeeze Clarissa’s arm and . . .
WHOOOOSH!
The ball passes right between our faces. We stand such that our heads are a mere two feet apart—if that shot had veered one foot either way, the Lawson Peabody School for Young Girls would have lost, in a rather grisly fashion, one of their very recent graduates.
Clarissa shudders, and I shake a bit, too, but then say, “Aye, that was close, Sister, but as the saying goes, a miss is as good as a mile. And you acquitted yourself well, Seaman Apprentice Howe, you should be proud. You can now truthfully say that you are a combat veteran in the fight against the French.”
“But I am not mad at the French,” she says, leaning down to pluck a small splinter from her ankle. “I am mad at you.”
“Ah, and a severely wounded veteran, and grateful to her commander, as well. If Faber Shipping ever has a medal struck commemorating this battle, you shall have one, for sure. And oh, look. Flaco is coming alongside.”
“Can you trust him?” asks a very dubious Clarissa.
“As much as I trust any pirate,” I reply. “But no, Flaco is all right.”
El Diablo Rojo pulls up next to us, starboard side to, and Clarissa and I go to stand on my quarterdeck. I see faces I recognize and I wave and call out, “Coyote! Serpiente! And young Perrito, too! Hola! All of you! And could that be the mighty Chucho, mi amigo, come back to the Red Brotherhood? Yes, it is! I knew you could not stay away for long! The life of a simple farmer not for you, como no? I thought so! The Brotherhood forever!”
And there, of course, is Captain Flaco Jimenez. As soon as our gunwales touch, he is over the rail and bounding onto my quarterdeck, his smile bright, his eyes gleaming, his arms outstretched, beads and jangles dangling from his long braided black hair.
“Cara mia!” he exults. “My little Inglese cactus flower has come back to her Flaco, as I knew she someday would, the good God be praised!”
He puts one arm around my waist and with his other hand grabs a hank of my hair and pulls me over backward. Flaco and other males of my acquaintance have discovered that, when they pull back the Faber head in this manner, the Faber mouth conveniently opens.
Flaco brings his mouth on mine and I am kissed with the purest of Hispanic ardor. It seems I often find myself in this posture when meeting up again with gentlemen friends—not that Flaco is in any way a gentleman, but he does have his charms.
Ummm . . . but no . . .
I push him away, getting his hands off my tail and his tongue out of my mouth.
“It is good to see you again, Flaco,” I say, somewhat breathless, “although I am growing somewhat tired of bailing your swarthy butt out of trouble.”
“But I was not in trouble!” Flaco insists, then laughs.
“It seems that Frenchy was very intent on bagging your sorry ass.”
“Ah, mi querida, that was because I have his wife down below. If things had gotten close, I would have thrown her overboard and he would have had to stop to pick her up.”
“His wife?”
“Sí. She is a hostage. Grabbed her in a raid on Martinique. Which is the reason for the French colors on that other ship.”
“And did you enjoy her charms, you pícaro?” I say, giving him a poke in the side and a severe look.
“No, mi corazón, you are the only love of my life and I have to keep myself pure for you.”
I give a profoundly disbelieving snort.
“Besides, she is a shrew. Believe me, she is in my brig, not in my bed. I think that Captain wanted to be rid of both me and her, which is why he tried so hard to sink me. It would have been most convenient for him. After all, the amount of her ransom was small, but still he did not pay it.”
“Well, Flaco, you must have dinner with us and bring me up to date on your adventures and—”
It is at this time that he notices Clarissa standing next to me. He gasps, “And what is this, then? A hostage? An angel?”
Clarissa, though dressed in the simplest of sailor togs, does not need fine clothes to look beautiful. Noticing the male attention, she shakes her head to fluff out her blond locks, takes a deep breath to fill out her chest, and brings the full force of those baby blues to bear on Flaco Jimenez.
“No, Flaco, she is neither of those. She is a sometime friend of mine. Miss Clarissa Worthington Howe, may I present Captain Flaco Jimenez?”
He does not seem to hear me. He gets down on one knee before her and says, “If she is hostage, I will trade her for the wife of the French capitán.”
“No deal, Flaco,” I say, a bit miffed.
“I have three fat merchants below on El Diablo Rojo, crying their eyes out. I will trade them all for this angel of beauty,” says Flaco, his eyes fixed on Clarissa.
“Still no deal,” I say.
“But I am in luff!” protests the plainly smitten Flaco.
“I thought you were in luff with me, you dog!” I retort.
“I am, I am, cariña, but . . .”
I’m getting a bit tired of this. First Randall drops me as soon as he sees Polly Von; Lord Allen’s eyes light up upon seeing Sidrah; and now I see Flaco being dazzled by Clarissa. I know I have no claim on any of those gents, but still . . . I’m going to have to start traveling with less glamorous female companions.
“Ship, Miss,” calls Daniel from the foretop. “A big one. North, northeast, just over the horizon.”
Instantly long glasses are snapped open and trained on the intruder.
“It’s that damned Yankee Chesapeake!” says Flaco, obviously not pleased. “She has been up and down this coast forever. Nothing but trouble for honest pirates. Madre mía! Here I have the two most beautiful muchachas in all the world and I must flee because of that pig-dog of a Yankee. Maldita sea!”