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CHAPTER NINETEEN

There were too many irregularities; Favian was in command of Macedonian without permission from the secretary of the Navy— in fact he was in opposition to his latest set of orders, which had directed him to ready the Shark sloop of war currently building in New London. There was only one thing that could clear him in the eyes of a court-martial board. The Fourth Article was very clear: “If any person in the navy shall treacherously yield, or pusillanimously cry for quarters, he shall suffer death, on conviction thereof, by a general court martial.” In order to be found innocent by a court-martial, Favian would have to prove his surrender was not treacherous or pusillanimous— in other words, he would have to resist to the last.

Such resistance would make a slaughterhouse of Macedonian. Butcher the crew, tear the ship asunder, topple the masts. The Navy Department would probably be happiest if Favian fought Macedonian until she sank out from under him, leaving the British only floating wreckage, and then conveniently drowned to spare the expense of a trial.

Well, he’d do what the Navy Department wanted; he’d fight until he could fight no more, and then haul the flag down. He would give the Navy what it desired just this one more time, and then let the fates judge him as they wished..

He looked forward, seeing the men standing at their stations, their eyes moving from the two British frigates to Favian and back again— trusting him, it seemed, to get them out of this. The trust was what the Navy counted on; if the Navy was lucky, Macedonian’s entire complement would go on trusting Favian until they died at their guns. Favian saw mad Lazarus standing at his station by the barricade, his pale eyes resting on Favian, confident in their knowledge of disaster.

No, Favian thought. I’m not giving in to your prophecy yet. There’s little I can do, but I’m going to do it.

He put the heavy boarding helmet on his head, tying the shaggy bearskin chinpiece under his chin. “Starboard broadside, out tompions!” he called. “Load with roundshot. Stand ready to run out!”

There was a brief, weary cheer from the exhausted men, as if his decision to fight had confirmed some private opinion. Favian looked up at the two British frigates, saw light winking from the enemy telescopes on the quarterdeck, saw the larboard gunports on the Thames suddenly open, the iron muzzles moving deliberately out the ports.

What to do? It seemed as if Macedonian would win the race, passing ahead of the two British frigates; maybe he’d be able to bow-rake one or both with his guns, firing his shot the length of their decks and perhaps knocking out a mast. It was unlikely they’d allow it, though: no doubt they had a counterstrategy prepared.

He’d fought a running fight before, just last October when he’d run from the real Endymion and its two consorts, one of which, Tenedos, had overtaken him. That had been a mad action, both frigates racing along under full canvas, broadsides bellowing. Eventually Favian had managed to knock away a mast and leave Tenedos behind.

Favian could hope for that sort of success here, but the hope was a slender one. There were two frigates overtaking him now, not one; the odds were just that much more against him. But, so far as his weary mind could discern, it was the only hope he had. If only he’d had a few hours sleep.

For the next few moments he had the weather gage, which gave him the option to start the fight, or to wait until the British took the weather gage and started it for him. The initiative was his, and he thought he would probably use it when the time came. Try to knock out Thames first, then concentrate on Trove.

The masts of the larger frigate were beginning to be obscured by those of the Thames: Trove was overtaking about a half cable to leeward of its cohort. In another few seconds the thirty-eight would be entirely obscured and shortly thereafter would emerge from behind Thames to take the lead. A minute or so after that Favian would haul his wind and order the first broadside at two hundred yards range, but for the moment he watched Trave’s masts slowly moving behind the thirty-two’s— and then inspiration struck him so suddenly he slapped his helmeted forehead with anger at his own idiocy.

“Helm up!” he shouted. “Raise the American ensign! Starboard broadside, run out— prepare to fire at two hundred yards! Wait for my signal!”

The helmsmen, caught by surprise, took an extra second or two to react, and then Macedonian was turning ponderously to starboard, heading on what seemed a direct collision course with Thames. Favian could hear the gridiron flag snap over his head as the wind caught it, and then the sound was drowned by the grinding roar of the starboard broadside being hauled out the ports by men straining at the side-tackles. “Hands to clew up the royals!” Favian shouted, the deck heeling beneath his feet.

He could imagine the reaction of the Thames’s captain— Macedonian, now identified fully as an enemy warship heavier than his own, was suddenly altering course and bearing down on him, obviously with the intention of bow-raking him at very close range. The Honourable C.L. Irby would be horrified by the prospect: eighteen-pound iron shot from Macedonian’s cannon and thirty-two-pound shot from her carronades would tear straight across her decks, wrecking her from stem to stern, without a single one of his own guns being able to reply. The only way to prevent such a calamity was by fast action, throwing up the helm— at once!— to round downwind and present his own broadside to Macedonian’s, resulting in a running fight in which his own ship would still be outgunned, but without such a horrendous tactical disadvantage.

Favian caught a glimpse of scarlet forward, a snakelike tongue of red ascending the mainmast. It was the Markham viper pendant that Gideon had flown at Cat Island, the badge of his family designed by his uncle Malachi back in 1778. Favian grinned: Malachi, he thought, would approve of his tactics.

Favian saw figures rushing about on Thames’s poop as the frigate began to make its abrupt turn, just as he’d anticipated— but what happened next was totally unforeseen. Favian had intended his sudden aggressive move to take advantage of the fact that Thames was sandwiched between Macedonian and Trave. The heavier Trave would not be able to fire at Favian without hitting the unfortunate Thames, and with luck and skill Favian would be able to keep the British in that situation for some time. Trave would have to give way to avoid collision with Thames, turning downwind inside the thirty-two— which would keep Thames between itself and the American.

What Favian had intended to gain was the chance to pound Thames for five or ten minutes without Trave being able to fire a shot, and possibly knock the lighter frigate out of the fight. What happened instead was astonishing and—Favian realized afterward— perfectly logical.

Thames made its hurried turn downwind, presenting its larboard broadside. The British frigate’s black-painted side was suddenly enveloped in smoke, Macedonian shuddering as shot came home. There was a cry of pain from forward as a twelve-pound solid smashed into the hammock nettings among the sail-trimmers standing on the gangway, but Favian, intent on his prey, ignored it. The British, he thought abstractly, had delivered an accurate broadside under trying circumstances— these men were well drilled. Damn it.

“Starboard broadside, ready!” Favian shouted. “At two hundred yards— wait for my signal!” His own broadside was ready. “Clew up the royals!” That would reduce Macedonian’s heel a bit and make her a more stable gun platform. “Remember to fire low, boys!” he bellowed. “Give her a hulling!”

And then there was a grinding crash from the Thames, an agonized, tearing sound of rending wood, and suddenly Trave’s bowsprit was thrusting its massive way through Thames’s forecourse, and Thames’s mizzen topmast was pitching forward into the mainmast from the impact of the collision. Favian goggled, completely surprised— but not too surprised to take advantage of it.

“Helm down a bit, Mr. Seward. Starboard battery, fire as you bear!”

The guns began their thunder, spitting their iron at the tangled British frigates. They had collided, Favian realized. Thames had turned suddenly to avoid being raked, without having time to inform Trave of its maneuver. Trave probably hadn’t seen Macedonian’s turn because Thames was in the way, and so hadn’t realized there was a threat. Thames’s turn had caught Trave completely by surprise, just as the larger frigate was trying to overhaul her from leeward. Trave had not given way in time, and had rammed Thames on her starboard bow.

Favian watched as Macedonian’s broadside went home, tearing into the stricken enemy, the quarterdeck carronades leaping in on their slides. There was a crack and Trave’s fore-topmast tumbled in ruin upon Thames’s foredeck, locking the ships together. “Reload!” Favian roared. “Double shot, with grape for good measure! Mr. Seward, up with the helm, if you please! Hands to clew up the t’gallants!”

Its progress slowed as the canvas spilled wind and came up to the yards, Macedonian came in close to the enemy and raked them twice at point-blank range, the British unable to get off a single shot in return— just a little musketry that made Macedonian’s quarterdeck unpleasant for a few minutes, with all the officers walking about rapidly to discourage the sharpshooters from drawing a bead on them. Favian was tempted to continue the battle until he forced the enemy to surrender, but he knew there was no way he could get the crippled British frigates away even if he did take them, so he ordered the helm put down and the guns housed.

The crewmen cheered madly as Macedonian left the enemy bobbing astern, tangled in wreckage. Favian acknowledged the cheers with a weary wave— now he could get some rest. His war, he thought, was over.

“Order the galley fires lit,” he said. “Let’s give the men their breakfast.”

And then he looked aft, beyond the tangled frigates. The heavy frigate he’d seen earlier was still in pursuit, its beautifully cut sails drawing perfectly. It was, he thought, a little nearer than when he’d last seen it.

Perhaps the war was not over, after all.

*

“That would be the Forte, of course,” said Captain Nichols of the 95th. “An ex-Frenchy, you know, captured in ’99 by the Sibylle. Very famous action, of course; I remember the church bells ringing when I was a lad.”

“Aye,” Favian said politely. “I seem to remember hearing about it.”.

He was being disingenous, of course, in truth the action was famous. The thirty-eight-gun Sibylle had captured the forty-four-gun Forte in four hours fight, at the cost of its captain’s life. A classic action, a brilliant example of a smaller ship prevailing over a larger. Favian’s dissimulation was designed to extract from the genial Captain Nichols as much information as possible.

“Captain Corbett of the Forte had an entertainment for us three nights ago,” Nicholas said. “A bawdy play put on by the sailors. Some hornpipes; then a tour of the ship. Forte was rebuilt a year ago, you know, after this war with you Americans broke out. Rebuilt with Roberts’s iron-plate knees, whatever those may be, and Snodgrass diagonal braces, specially to match your big frigates.” Nichols smiled and accepted the offer of some Madeira from Campaspe..

“Thirty twenty-four-pound guns, sixteen thirty-two-pound carronades on the upper decks, plus a forty-two-pound carronade on a pivot forward. Captain Corbett had his marines equipped with rifled carbines, like Broke of the Shannon. Not as accurate as the Baker, of course, but quite nice for close work; and they’ll take a bayonet, too. Corbett’s quite an admirer of Broke, I gather. Oh, aye, the Forte is quite a splendid frigate— wish I’d taken my passage on her instead of that blasted Otter.” He brightened. “Of course, I might take my passage in her yet, eh? Later this afternoon.”

“We’ll see,” Favian said.

Earlier that morning he’d piled on every sail that could draw, left the Macedonian in Seward’s hands, and dropped dreamlessly into his cot after going below to the cockpit and kissing Campaspe good morning. He listened only half-attentive to Dr. Truscott’s earnest compliments; it seemed Campaspe had made herself useful during an exceptionally tricky amputation..

He’d awakened about noon and gone on deck to find the large pursuing frigate a good four miles nearer than she’d been at dawn, sailing beautifully on a bowline astern and slightly to starboard. Malachi’s Revenge lay about two miles to weather, apparently keeping the frigates under observation. Favian had gone below to have half Macedonian’s water casks stove in, then sent men to the pumps to get the water out of the bilges and lighten the ship. The on-duty watch had its hammocks piped down and two roundshot placed in each; then Favian had shifted this mobile ballast over his ship, trying to get her in better trim. Macedonian had gained a knot and a half, but it wasn’t enough. The heavy frigate astern— the Forte, as they’d now learned— was still gaining, and would probably catch them around sunset.

There was a certain deadly inevitability in a chase to windward. The pursuer would stay on the same tack as its prey until the chase was right abeam; then the pursuer would tack to make up distance to windward, then tack again, until the enemy was once again abeam. The procedure would repeat itself over and over, the distance between the ships steadily narrowing no matter what maneuvers the prey tried. Forte had been tacking back and forth all morning, the distance narrowing. Favian knew very well that unless he could somehow outspeed the enemy, battle would be inevitable, and that in battle intelligence regarding the enemy could prove decisive. The only source of intelligence was the prisoners he’d taken the night before.

He’d been reminded of that fact just after he’d come on deck, when a marine had approached Favian with the information that the British officers in the cable tier were asking permission to exercise on deck. Favian had given permission, provided they gave their paroles; he’d then introduced himself to them as they came blinking into the sunlight, trying to wipe slime from the cable tier off their clothing. After Captain Nichols had proven an amiable, talkative gold mine of information, he and Captain Innis of the Otter— actually a very junior Royal Navy lieutenant from Scotland, dour and frowning in his captivity— had been invited to dine with Favian, while the junior officers were invited to the wardroom, also in the hopes of extracting information. Lieutenant Blake, their liberated prisoner, was also invited to Favian’s cabin, both because he was an old friend, but also because he was a good conversationalist, and perhaps had information of his own to convey.

Favian had known the pursuing frigate was larger than Macedonian: he’d been hoping she’d be a forty like Endymion— that could have been coped with, perhaps— but the news that she was Forte, a forty-four, was terrifying. Assuming, of course, that Nichols was telling the truth, and not simply a glib liar trying to mislead his enemies, much as Favian had when he’d told his men of the fictitious American squadron in the Gulf.

Favian decided to prime the pump once again. “But your British ships, Captain Nichols, are notoriously short of men— that’s why you people have to resort to press gangs,” he said. “Our American ships usually have so many volunteers that we’re well over complement. You may have the heavy guns aboard the Forte, but if you don’t have the men to man ’em the guns aren’t going to do your Captain Corbett any good, are they?”

Nichols frowned. He tugged uncomfortably at his worn green uniform coat, stained with the slime of the cable tier. “There seemed a goodly number of men aboard, Captain Markham,” he said, “but I don’t know how many. Corbett didn’t complain about his lack of sailors.”

“Ah, well,” Favian said. “No doubt he’s used to being shorthanded.”

He’d drawn a blank, there. Perhaps it was time to change the subject before even the cheerful Nichols grew suspicious.

“Lieutenant Blake,” he said. “I wonder if you could tell us about how you came to be in a British prison ship?”

Blake, having had enough Madeira to be comfortable in the cabin of a superior officer, leaned back in his chair as if stretching out his long legs beneath the table. “Bad luck, mostly,” he said. “May I borrow one of your cigarillos? I thank you, sir.” He lit the cigarillo from a candle on the table, then went on.

“We were observing the British from the moment they first dropped anchor,” he said. “We kept in the Gulf as long as possible, retreating to Bay St. Louis at night— we had a little fort there, and a supply cache. On the thirteenth— that would be three days ago— we saw a fleet of barges heading for Pass Christiana, north of Cat Island. Turned out there were forty-eight of them, each with a heavy carronade in the bow, under my old acquaintance Captain Nicholas Lockyer.” He smiled with considerable irony. “I shot up his Hermes last September, you see, when the British tried to take Mobile— set his sloop of war on fire, and his men had to run for the boats or be blown up. I expect he was eager for revenge. He certainly got it.”

He blew smoke into the air. “Tac thought they were trying to land troops, but they kept on past Pass Christiana, and we knew they were heading for us. We pulled back into Lake Borgne after sending the Sea Horse schooner to Bay St. Louis to bring off the stores. Sailing Master Johnson of the Sea Horse put up a nice little fight, by the way, later that afternoon. The British managed to cut him off from us, you see, so he retreated back into the bay and tried to defend the fort. Held off an attack of seven barges, drove ’em off, then scuttled the schooner and blew up the fort when he saw he couldn’t hold any longer. That’s what Lockyer told me afterward, anyway. Johnson and his men should be on their way to New Orleans by now, I suppose— I’m sure they got away.

“Our five gunboats ran like the devil— beg pardon, ma’am— into Lake Borgne, but the current was against us and so was the wind. We were trying to get through Les Rigolets into Pontchartrain, but the wind died after dark, and we couldn’t row against the current. By morning the level of water in the lake had ebbed, and most of us were aground. The British had been rowing all night, and we could see ’em nine miles to the east of us, still pulling at their oars. We tried to lighten our boats, but it was still dead calm, so we used warps to get us into line between Malheureux Island and the mainland.

“Lockyer’s men had been rowing for twenty-four hours straight, so once he saw we were ready to fight, he anchored his boats and gave them breakfast. Around ten thirty he gave the signal to attack, and his men came forward.”

He scowled and sipped at his Madeira. “Even then luck was against us,” he said. “The current was so strong it dragged two of us out of line. Jones’s 156 boat got drug a couple hundred yards down from the rest of us, and my own 163 was pulled down halfway between Jones and the rest. We couldn’t support each other, and the British knew it.

“We hurt ’em badly as they approached. They were in three divisions, each under a different captain, with Lockyer’s division pulling for the 156 boat, all alone where it couldn’t be supported. Our guns sank two of the barges and spread grape through some others, but we couldn’t stop them all. Number 156 was attacked by over ten barges. Poor Jones got a musket ball behind the eye and had to crawl below. Lockyer was wounded twice but his men kept fighting, and eventually the gunboat was taken.

“Then it was my turn. The British turned Jones’s guns on my boat while all three divisions attacked. It was the same story— I fought until they got over the rail and had me surrounded, and then I struck. Never really had a hope. Four of my men were killed, and fifteen wounded. It was the same for the rest: the British used the captured gunboats to fire on their next poor victim, and then the barges would attack one gunboat at a time and overwhelm it. We had the damnedest bad luck.” He stubbed out his cigarillo. “Poor Lieutenant Spedden of Number 162 had both arms shattered, but kept his men fighting,” he said. “When the British boarded, they refused to strike at him even though he couldn’t defend himself..

“Well.” Blake shook his head. “Diamond cut diamond, as Dacres said. If we could have maneuvered, it might have been different.”

“The luck may swing the other way yet,” Favian said. It would have to if he was going to be able to do anything about the Forte. He found himself frowning into his wine, then realized that Blake’s gentlemanly gloom was beginning to infect him. He raised his cup and assumed a cheerful smile. “I should like to offer a toast that we may all drink to, gentlemen,” he said. “To peaceful amity between our two countries!”

“Amity!” they echoed, and drank. There were a few more toasts: Nichols offered one to thank the officers of Macedonian for their hospitality, and Innis roused himself from his scowling isolation to raise his glass in a surprisingly eloquent toast to the American commodore’s lady. It soon became clear that Nichols was not able to provide any more relevant information about Forte and its crew, and Favian, citing duty, called an end to the dinner.

He turned aft to see the big frigate, by now only three miles or so astern, its tall masts gracefully cutting the sky. Campaspe joined him by the window, and Favian, thinking of what those enemy twenty-four-pounders could do to him, absently put his arm around her.

“Was Nichols telling the truth?” she asked, looking up at his frown. “Is the enemy so much bigger?”

“Aye,” Favian said. “Will you get me some coffee, darling? I’ve got to think. Clear my head of wine.”

“Is it so much a difference, between thirty-eight guns and forty-four?” Campaspe asked. “Only six guns between you?”

Favian shook his head. “It’s worse than that,” he said. “For one thing, every ship carries more guns than its rate. We’ve got twenty-eight long eighteens on the gun deck, sixteen thirty-two-pound carronades, and two pair of twelve-pound chase guns. That’s forty-eight guns right there, ten more than our official rating. If that is Forte out there, with thirty twenty-four-pound long guns, sixteen thirty-two-pound chase guns, that forty-two-pound pivot smasher, and probably four chase guns, that’ll be fifty-one guns— a difference of three guns only, but it’s the weight of broadside that counts.

“They’ve got twenty-four-pounders on their gun deck, but we’ve only got eighteens,” Favian explained. “They throw a much heavier weight of shot, and they can throw it farther and more accurately. They can chop us up at long range. That’s how Macedonian was first captured from the British, by the way, by one of our twenty-four-pound frigates, the United States. I was aboard her as first lieutenant; I directed the gunfire. They didn’t stand a chance.”

He spared her the statistics. Thus far in the war there had been three engagements between twenty-four-pounder forty-fours and thirty-eights: Constitution vs. Guerriere, United States vs. Macedonian, and Constitution vs. Java. In each case the heavier frigate had won, and in the second case, when Stephen Decatur had used brilliant, unusual tactics to keep the range long, the victory had been particularly lopsided.

Campaspe handed him his cup of coffee; he continued to gaze aft while he drank. “And there’s the difference in construction,” Favian went on. “A twenty-four-pound frigate has to be built more stoutly in order to hold all that heavy ordnance. It’s a much tougher ship; it’ll stand more punishment than we will. I might have hoped Forte would have been neglected since it was captured in ’99, but Nichols tells me it was rebuilt just last year. Probably tougher than ever.” The vision of Macedonian’s well deck came again, the bloody seawater with the limbs of the dead slopping from side to side with the roll of the ship. With an effort of will he banished it.

“The British captured Forte with a thirty-eight, Captain Nichols said,” Campaspe said. “Can’t you do the same?”

“The British captured it from the French, you see,” Favian said. “The French build beautiful ships, but they can’t sail ’em or fight ’em— haven’t had the practice the British and Americans have had, and they haven’t had Nelson or Preble either. With Americans and British it’s diamond cut diamond, like Blake said. The crews and captains are more evenly matched, and that means that any difference in ordnance will matter that much more.

“We do have one advantage, though,” Favian said. “Our Navy uses sheet-lead cartridges for its guns. The old-fashioned cartridges were made out of linen. . . .”

“I know,” Campaspe said. “That’s what we used on the Franklin.”

“Well, then you know that the guns had to be wormed and sponged after each shot, to remove bits of burning linen that might ignite the next cartridge prematurely. The sheet-lead cartridges don’t catch on fire like that, and the guns don’t need to be wormed at all, and don’t have to be sponged except for every five shots or so. Our rate of fire will be higher; we can count on that.”

“You must think, Favian,” Campaspe said. She put her arms around him, resting her head on his chest. “There must be some way.”

“There are two, perhaps,” Favian said. “I can try to stay at long range and hope to knock away a spar or two with good gun practice. But the British will be firing as well, with those twenty-four-pounders. I think at long bowls we’ll lose, just as Macedonian lost to United States two years ago.”

“What is the second plan?”

“To get close, as close as we can,” Favian said. “At very close range an eighteen-pound ball has about as much power as a twenty-four. I think that’s our best chance, but Captain Corbett may not want us to get close, and since he’s the faster ship, he can enforce his decisions.” He sipped his coffee, wishing for some lightning stroke of inspiration. “Nichols said he was a disciple of Captain Broke, though— Broke seems to believe in close action, in fact he took Chesapeake by boarding. It usually isn’t British practice to fight at long range. So I think we’ve got to get close if we can.”

He spared her the implications of that strategy. Men would die in heaps, torn apart by grape and canister. Forte’s marines had rifled carbines, just like Broke’s marines on the Shannon when they took the Chesapeake: and all of Chesapeake’s officers but one had been killed or wounded. Perhaps not all by those deadly carbines, but their accuracy was a factor a professional officer could not afford to ignore, particularly since Favian’s own marines were armed with rifles and he’d seen their practice on an enemy before. If he came within range of those enemy carbines, he might be signing his own death warrant.

He sipped his coffee again. Campaspe said nothing. There was a brief knock on the cabin door.

“Beg pardon, sir.” It was Ford’s voice. “Malachi’s Revenge is coming within hail.”

“In a moment.” For a few seconds Favian luxuriated in the feeling of Campaspe’s arms around him, the scent of her hair, the feel of her warm body against his own... all over in a few hours, perhaps..

If only the war were over, he thought. It was strange; just a few days ago he’d been wondering if the best thing he could have done for Campaspe would have been to get himself killed. But now he didn’t want to lose this.

He was finished, he knew. The minute he began to have thoughts like that, it was over: the Navy demanded that the service come first in the lives of all its officers; and Favian knew too well what happened to those who let others get in the way.

He turned Campaspe’s face up to his and kissed her. “Let’s go talk to Gideon,” he said.

Revenge was hove to ahead and to leeward, waiting for the frigate to catch up. As Macedonian sped past— Favian wasn’t about to stop for a conversation and watch Forte close the distance— Gideon filled his sails and rode twenty yards to leeward of where Favian stood on the quarterdeck. Gideon was plain to see on Revenge’s deck, standing by the weather rail with his speaking trumpet.

“We kept our prizes in sight all morning,” he shouted. “We took four last night, and I think they all got to Mobile!”

“Very good!” Favian shouted back. “Did you see any of our prizes? We took three!”

“I saw at least two make their way out.”

“We blew up one powder vessel,” Favian said, “and put some broadsides into two others. We saw one ship on fire afterward. And we damaged two frigates this morning.” This was not boasting: Favian wanted word to get back to Jackson and Patterson of what he’d done. If he were killed or captured later in the day, at least Gideon would be able to give an accurate report. Gideon nodded at the news, then got to the matter that had brought him here.

“You boys won’t be able to outrun that frigate, there,” he said. “I’ll support you, when the time comes.”

“One of our prisoners says that’s the Forte,” Favian told him. “She’s a twenty-four-pound ship, so beware of her.”

Gideon was silent for a moment, absorbing the news. Favian could sense a stir among his sailors at the information. Well, they’d find out sooner or later anyway, after those twenty-four-pound roundshot began tearing up their frigate.

“I think we’re nimble enough to stay out of their way,” Gideon said. It was meant to be comforting, but Favian knew how little Gideon’s promise meant. The nineteen-gun Revenge was a big schooner, but it had been built for speed, not for taking punishment. A single broadside from Forte, at effective range, could leave her a shambles, perhaps even sink her; whereas Forte could shrug off any number of Revenge’s twelve-pounder broadsides as mere nuisances. Revenge had no carronades, and only her chase gun, the eighteen-pound pivot captained by Long Tom Tate, was big enough to cause Forte anxiety, and it was the only gun of its size aboard the privateer.

Yet Revenge looked big enough; it was almost as long as Macedonian, though narrower and a great deal lower. She might serve to intimidate Captain Corbett a little, and any assistance was welcome— if General Mcintosh of the White Stick Creeks were to appear with fifty painted warriors riding a fleet of canoes, Favian would welcome him with open arms.

“I don’t think the enemy will be up with us till dusk,” Favian said. “We’ll wait till then; we might have some luck if one of her spars carries away.”

That sort of luck never came: Forte continued closing the gap between it and the American, its sturdy spars showing no sign of strain, its great white wings braced precisely to the wind. At five, with the enemy only a mile astern, Favian gave the men supper an hour early, then, after they’d finished their whiskey ration, had the trumpeter call them to quarters. The British prisoners were sent below to the cable tier, and a marine guard placed on them.

“You’ll have to join Dr. Truscott, darling,” Favian said to Campaspe as he stood in his cabin— it was being rapidly torn down around him, the screens and furnishings carted below by Macedonian’s crewmen. Favian clipped on his sword, checked the priming of his pistols, and thrust the pistols into his waistband.

She gave a little frown. “I’d rather be with you than down there with the doctor.”

“The wounded may need you.”

She nodded resignedly, gave him a hug, and then made her way out of the cabin— a strange, small figure, still wrapped in a coat many times too large for her. She paused at the doorway to give him a smile, her dazzling, impudent, wholehearted smile. Favian felt a leap of reckless optimism in her radiance, but then she was gone, her place taken by a burly bosun’s mate who rushed in with a gang of men to move Favian’s wardrobe. The optimism faded with the smile’s afterglow. It was time to sacrifice his ship and his men to the gods in the Navy Department.

The sun was low in the sky, hanging red-orange off Forte’s larboard quarter, gilding the enemy frigate’s spars, turning her sails a pale gold. I’ll see if I can knock some of that gilt off, Favian thought sourly, viewing the frigate over the taffrail as he stood on the quarterdeck. He had just finished his inspection of the Macedonian, going among the hands, his usual round of joking familiarity. He hadn’t made a speech this time, sensing that the hands wouldn’t take it well; instead he’d talked quietly among them, telling them that their enemy was a twenty-four-pound frigate and that they must expect to be hit hard..

But, he said, the Forte was probably under complement. Macedonian still had its sheet-lead cartridges, which meant a faster rate of fire. They’d been up against bad odds before, just this morning in fact, and they’d come through. Besides, Forte had been taken by a thirty-eight fifteen years ago and could be taken again the same way. The sailors had nodded calmly, listening to his words, and no doubt made their own judgments.

On the quarterdeck he’d turned to the afterguard, and his eyes had met the pale eyes of Lazarus the prophet. Lararus, oddly, had turned away, a strange expression on his face. It seemed surprisingly like guilt. Favian thought. Was the madman blaming himself for this, the approach of the doom he had preached for so long? Or was it some other form of remorse, that he had lived so long in the night of his derangement and was now seeing its consequence?

Troubled, Favian turned aft and gazed at the enemy. Forte was three quarters of a mile astern and to leeward. There was no hope of escaping after darkness: the enemy could easily keep them in sight at this range. Nothing to do but fight.

“A signal to Malachi’s Revenge, Mr. Stanhope,” Favian said, his eyes still on that sun-burnished frigate in hopes of seeing some weakness, some flaw that would let him escape the destruction of his ship. “Throw out Number 120, ‘A signal for battle.’”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“Hands to furl the royals! Hands to furl t’gallants and main course! Douse the outer and flying jibs!”.

Favian glanced aloft: the big American ensign raised that morning was still flying from the peak, and the long Markham serpent still writhed from the main. More flags, he thought, we might lose a few soon..

“Mr. Chapelle, I’ll thank you to raise our jack to the fore and a battle flag to the mizzen.”

The frigate resounded to the tramp of feet, the shouting of the mast captains, and the roar of canvas as the yards were lowered, the sails clewed up, then furled. Favian stood apart from the noise and bustle on the weather quarterdeck and watched Forte through narrowed eyes. It would be clear to the enemy that Macedonian was shortening sail for battle— what would be their reaction? What Favian most feared was that the enemy would come about to seize the weather gage, but he didn’t think it was likely. If the British took the weather gage, Macedonian would have a chance to run downwind; perhaps off the wind Macedonian might prove faster and make its escape.

Forte’s reply came swiftly: royals and topgallants were clewed up to the yards, and battle ensigns, bright spots of color, rose to the mastheads. Captain Corbett was willing to let Favian have the weather gage, and Favian was perfectly happy to keep it. From windward he could control the early stages of the battle, perhaps be able to narrow the range without exposing himself to the consequences of deadly enemy fire.

“Up with the helm, Mr. Seward!” Favian called, before the last of the topmen had come tumbling down the shrouds. “Steer us about eight points to starboard... there! Amidships!”

Macedonian rocked on the waves as she steadied on her new course, the gilded figurehead of Alexander the Great turning its stern, commanding visage toward the British frigate. Now would come the first clue about enemy intentions. Favian had taken Macedonian downwind on an intercepting course, carefully avoiding the arc of Forte’s broadside guns. If Corbett hoped to get the most out of his heavier guns, he would fall off the wind a bit and open fire, chewing Macedonian up as she approached. If Corbett were intent on opening the contest at a closer range, he would keep on his present course.

Across the water came the booming of canvas as Forte’s main course was hauled up to the yard. She was shortened down for battle now, under topsails only, reducing her angle of heel and making her a better firing platform. If Corbett were to make his move, he’d do it now. Favian could feel his jaw muscles clenching, the hand that had been paralyzed off Tripoli closing into a white-knuckled fist, anticipating that first enemy broadside. If he saw the enemy turn, he’d tell everyone to lie down, to minimize casualties.

Forte kept smoothly on its present track, its guns housed within its blank ports. Favian felt a wild surge of optimism— Corbett was a hackum after all! A true lay-alongside thunderer! — but he knew his hope was totally unjustified. Perhaps he was sailing Macedonian into Corbett’s trap: there was no way of knowing until after the battle was over. Forte’s broadside would be bad enough at close range.

Favian moved to the lee side of the quarterdeck to keep Forte in sight as the range narrowed and the enemy frigate began to disappear behind Macedonian’s giant forecourse. Should he furl it or not? He’d left it set to help Macedonian narrow the range, but once battle began it might get in the way. The big sail was hard to control, it limited Favian’s visibility, and it was a fire hazard hanging so low over the firing guns; but it also might give Favian an extra burst of speed if he needed it..

He decided to keep the sail set and drawing. He could always clew it up at need; and the chance of fire was reduced because he’d been keeping the sails wet all day trying to run away from the enemy. Besides, a plan was beginning to form in his mind. . . .

“All guns, out tompions! Starboard guns load with roundshot and grape! Larboard guns load with roundshot!” He had no intention of using the larboard guns at present, but perhaps there would be need later. In the meantime it would give the men something to do other than contemplate the possibilities of death and mutilation. Favian peered out around the forecourse. Five hundred yards from the enemy, four hundred fifty . . . Would they let him close the range so easily?

And then Favian saw the curve in Forte’s wake, the port-lids rising to wink their red-painted interiors at him, the gun muzzles sliding out. “Down!” Favian roared. “Everyone lie down!” He threw himself full-length to the deck amid the clatter as the quarterdeck gun crews, sail-trimmers, and officers did the same, and then there was the thunder of the enemy broadside. Favian felt Macedonian’s planks shudder beneath him as enemy iron smashed home, hearing the crashes as iron punched through the oaken bulwarks or wailed overhead with the shrieks of the damned. Then there was a sudden silence, and Favian jumped to his feet and saw the British frigate shrouded in a pall of its gunsmoke.

A damned good broadside, he knew. Corbett had his men trained well: far too many of those twenty-four-pound solids had struck home. There were a few tears in the forecourse and a gap in the fo’c’sle bulwark, but most seemed to have struck low on the gun deck or waterline..

To reply or not? he thought. If he bore up to fire, he would delay his approach, but if he didn’t, he’d have to take another two or three broadsides before being able to fire a shot..

No, he thought, he’d have to endure the punishment. He’d made his decision to fight at close range, and he’d stick to it.

There was the report of a single gunshot to windward, and Favian turned his head in surprise at the sound. Malachi’s Revenge, ahead of Macedonian and to windward, had fired a round from its chaser. The privateer made a brave sight with its raked masts and long, low hull, the Markham pendant whipping from its mainmast, another homemade flag flying from its fore, a plain white banner with FREE TRADE AND SAILORS’ RIGHTS inscribed on it in black letters. He had forgotten about the tern schooner altogether, but Gideon was bravely taking it into battle. It couldn’t do much to affect the outcome, Favian knew, but perhaps it would give Corbett a little extra to worry about.

Forte’s guns were beginning to come out of its ports again, slowly as the British gunners struggled to roll their iron uphill against the frigate’s heel. Favian saw anxious eyes directed at him, Chapelle, Blake, Kuusikoski at his station on a quarterdeck carronade, the other gunners of the quarterdeck battery, all wondering when he’d luff and return the enemy fire.

“Down!” Favian said. “Everyone lie down!”

They obeyed swiftly; perhaps they still trusted him to have a plan. And perhaps he did: it was one he’d used before, when he’d taken the Teaser, and with luck it would work here.

The enemy guns fired one at a time, or in clusters of two or three: Corbett was allowing them to fire at will, as soon as they could be loaded and hauled out the ports. The British fire was deadly accurate: Favian felt the deck shudder and knew Macedonian couldn’t stand much more of this; he looked up to see the sails drawing and prayed for a gust of wind that would bring him nearer the enemy. There was another shot, a crash, and a scream; Favian jumped up to see one of the fo’c’sle carronades lying on its side, two of its crew lying near it in their own blood, a third with his leg under the carronade, pleading with his mates to get it off him..

Meat for the surgeon’s saw, Favian thought. It was going to get worse.

The infernal barrage continued, Favian jumping up from time to time to gauge the enemy’s rage. The British carronades joined in as the range narrowed, the intensity of their fire hellish. It was impossible to anticipate the enemy fire, and that made it nerve-wracking; if they’d been firing regular broadsides it would have been much easier. Favian saw the giant American battle flag he’d raised to the mizzen masthead drifting slowly in the wind toward the enemy; the flag halliards had been shot away. The flag was trailed by little squares of color that fluttered in the breeze, his signal Number 120 that he’d forgot to have hauled down. He hoped no one regarded it as an omen..

At long last it was time. “Mr. Seward, put down the helm!” Favian shouted. “Starboard battery, on your feet and run ’em out. Range a hundred fifty yards! Let’s give the British three Yankee cheers!”

Eager for blood after their long punishment, the cheers came spilling from Macedonian’s gun deck as the beams echoed the sounds of the guns running out. Now we’ll see who’s the better disciple of Broke, Favian thought. It wasn’t only the British who could learn from the captain of the Shannon. Favian himself had adopted Broke’s trick of nailing light wooden laths behind each gun and carronade, each lath calculated, when lined with the barrel of the gun, to send the shot on a precise intersecting line with the shot of every other gun. Used properly, every gun would be aimed at the exact same spot of the enemy ship; as the ships changed their relative positions during the fight, the guns would tear up each section of enemy decks in turn.

“Remember to fire low! Hull her, hull her!” Favian roared. “Ready, boys! Fire!”

Macedonian trembled as the guns lashed out at the enemy, leapt in on their tackles. Favian heard clearly the crashes as the guns struck home. Rifle shots snapped out from Macedonian’s fighting tops as sharpshooters took their aim..

“Fire by section, boys!” Favian shouted, smelling powder, his heart racing. “Roundshot and grape! A hundred fifty yards! Mr. Seward, I need those sails well trimmed! Keep narrowing the range, here!” He looked at the quarterdeck carronades and saw their crews madly working to reload. A thought struck him..

“Mr. Chapelle!” he snapped. “I want you to supervise the quarterdeck guns, here! Roundshot only, not grape. Keep ’em aimed for the enemy mainmast— I want her mainmast down! Mr. Blake, give ’em some help.” The number two starboard section fired, its guns spitting flame. Favian bent down over the first gun to finish loading, the one manned by his boat’s crew under Kuusikoski’s direction... he gave brief commands to the men with the side-tackles, kept the carronade slide trained on the Forte’s mainmast.

“Fire!” he shouted, and Kuusikoski tugged at the lanyard, the carronade jolting back on its slide as it spat out its roundshot. Favian heard a bang from the enemy frigate and knew he’d hit something, though perhaps not the mainmast.

And then there was a horrible wooden shrieking overhead, and Favian looked up to see the mizzen-topgallant mast toppling over to leeward. Macedonian lurched as the mast stopped short in its fall, hanging by its shrouds, and then snapped or tore free its few remaining supports and came down, Favian leaping for the weather quarterdeck, the carronade crews jumping with him. The heavy mast came smashing down into the rail, knocked a carronade over onto its side, and then, with a rending moan, tore itself free and disappeared over the side, drag along in the frigate’s wake, held still by a few remaining backstays. “Clear away that wreckage!” Favian snapped. “Get those guns back in operation! Axemen to cut that mast free!”

He seized a handspike and helped to lever the fallen carronade upright: its lashings seemed to be undamaged. Bits of smashed rail were flung overboard; the mast was cut free by a dozen sail-trimmers with boarding axes, and there was a perceptible jerk as the deadweight was left astern and the frigate moved more swiftly through the water.

A musket ball spanged off the carronade as Favian helped to aim it: the enemy marines had spotted him as someone in authority. He was wearing an old pea jacket and a plain beaver hat, not a uniform— his height made him conspicuous enough, he thought, without wearing a uniform and all his medals like Lord Nelson, to attract enemy musketeers— but he found himself mentally counting off the seconds it would take that marine to reload, and then, after the carronade was aimed and fired, jumping back and beginning a brisk pacing to discourage his marksmanship.

The range had narrowed; Seward had kept the frigate edging down toward the enemy. “Range one hundred yards!” Favian shouted. “Odd guns load with cannister on top of roundshot!” For a moment he considered triple-shotting the guns, then decided against it— triple shot wouldn’t do much more damage than double shot, since all the shot ended up hitting the same place on the enemy ship anyway, and it increased loading time. His sense of the battle was that Macedonian’s guns were firing much quicker than Forte’s; it was his only advantage, and he needed to keep it.

There was the sound of a rippling broadside, then the noise of shot striking the enemy. Favian’s head jerked up and he saw Malachi’s Revenge, its side wreathed in smoke, luffing up into the wind off Forte’s starboard bow. Gideon could keep that position forever, firing his broadsides into the enemy bows without the British being able to hit him with a single gun..

Good for Gideon, Favian thought; he’d managed to find a place to harass the enemy and avoid retaliation.

A bullet twittered past his head. Favian clenched his fist and kept pacing— wouldn’t one of his own marines take care of that man? Macedonian had seven men in each fighting top, six men all reloading for the best marksman, who fired himself as fast as he could aim and pull the trigger; the rest of the marines were lined on the gangways and quarterdeck, taking what shots they could.

Favian glared at the enemy, saw the masts through the smoke, tryed to sort out the meaningful information from the random, noisy chaos of battle, the roar of guns and wail of grapeshot, the screams of dying men and the boom of canvas. Forte, it seemed, was falling astern. With the mizzen-topgallant mast finally cut free, Macedonian seemed to be moving more swiftly, aided by that big forecourse, the fact that she was to windward of Forte and stealing her wind, and perhaps more intangible factors— it was possible that Forte was simply slow when sailing under topsails alone, but a witch with all canvas set. Favian paused for a moment, his gloved fist clenching and unclenching by his side as he gauged the movements of the two ships. It was time, he thought, to try his plan.

“Helm up, Mr. Seward!” he called. “We’ll try to cross her bows!”

It was a plan that had worked when he’d taken the Teaser with his old Experiment brig, in just this situation, though he’d been aided by a lucky shot that had knocked away Teaser’s jib tie and kept her from turning away from him. He was a little ahead of Forte now; he’d try to turn across her bows and hope for a collision that would allow him to rake her.

The deck surged as the rudder bit, Macedonian’s bluff bows turning downwind toward the enemy, her canvas bellying out full. An enemy roundshot widened the aftmost carronade port, sending its crew flying before a sheaf of oak splinters: Favian knit his brows and watched Forte through the shroud of gunsmoke, watched for a clue as to her intentions.

“Damn!” he bellowed, smashing his fist into the rail. “Damn the man!” Corbett had seen it coming; there was a widening gap of darkening blue between Forte’s upper masts. She was turning downwind, curving easily inside Macedonian’s own turn. But that in itself might present an opportunity, if only Favian could judge the moment... Their change of tacks had brought them out of the shrouding gunsmoke, and Favian could see Forte clearly now, her black-painted bulwarks showing white scars where Macedonian had struck her, red-coated marines lining her quarterdeck and gangway. She was turning nimbly, drawing a little ahead with the advantage of the inside track. Malachi’s Revenge was darting nimbly off the British bows, still managing to keep itself out of Forte’s broadside arc.

Now. “Mr. Seward, helm hard aweather! Larboard broadside, load doubleshot and grape! Hands to the braces!” He would spin onto the larboard tack and cross her track while firing a triple-shotted broadside through her Frenchified gingerbread stern. If he had judged the moment aright, he could pull it off, perhaps the telling blow...

The starboard broadside fired their last few shots as Macedonian spun neatly on its heel, their extra hands running to the larboard broadside to help them run out their guns. There was a sudden silence as both frigates ceased fire, and Favian forced himself to walk calmly to the larboard side, his view of the Forte suddenly blanketed by the big forecourse. Then the silence was broken as the larboard guns began to growl out of their ports and the sails began to luff, adding a crackling canvas roar to Favian’s perceptions, the spanker gybing over with a vast hempen boom. Macedonian’s sails were braced on the larboard tack, and the sudden move to the starboard tack had the wind catching them edge-on, making them useless. Sail-trimmers were already casting off the tacks and braces, hauling hard, almost vertical with the deck as they struggled to get the yards around. And Favian, as the canvas boomed, caught a perfect, tantalizing glimpse of the enemy’s stem as Forte continued its turn. He had to fire in the next few seconds or the opportunity would be lost.

But Macedonian wallowed in the swell, sails flapping uselessly, the gunners madly training their weapons all the way forward while their officers screamed livid curses. No help. Forte completed its turn and moved neatly to the starboard tack, a black line of guns coming out of their ports to meet Macedonian’s broadside. Macedonian staggered as the newly braced sails filled with wind, then began to surge forward. Too late. Favian felt his heart sink. Too late.

Macedonian and Forte had simply about-faced without changing positions, like dancers at a ball. The American frigate still had the weather gage; all that had changed was the fact both ships were on the starboard tack instead of the larboard. Far to leeward Favian heard the sound of cannon: Malachi’s Revenge was firing over the enemy’s larboard quarter. The thought of Malachi’s Revenge brought an interesting thought to Favian’s mind, and he wondered at its significance. As Forte had made its turn, the British larboard broadside had been in a perfect position to fire a broadside into the Revenge, but the broadside hadn’t been fired. Either Corbett didn’t consider the tern schooner worth bothering about, or he’d had a reason for not firing. Perhaps he only had enough men to man one broadside at a time, and in order to fight the more deadly American threat— Macedonian— he’d had to shift all his men to the starboard guns and pass up the chance to strike out at Gideon. Favian filed the thought away; it was too early to know if it had any significance.

Macedonian was slightly astern of Forte now, both ships rounding up into the wind, Macedonian overhauling. The sun was below the horizon, and Favian had to strain to see Forte through the smoke. There were a few shots from the American fighting tops as the marines chanced their luck, but no other firing. Macedonian’s jibboom slowly drew even with Forte’s taffrail. Soon the fresh, unused broadsides would open up..

Who would fire first? Neither side would want to fire piddling little individual shots; both would want to delay long enough to fire a full broadside if possible. But the first broadside fired would be the most devastating, tempting both sides to fire early. Fire discipline, Favian thought; it was critical.

“First, second, and third larboard sections ready!” Favian called down. It was a compromise, firing the first ten guns and the fo’c’sle carronades earlier than the rest, but he desperately needed to get that first shot in. “Fire when the aftermost gun of the third battery crosses the enemy mizzen! Range one hundred fifty yards! Fourth and fifth sections, fire as your guns bear!” He glanced up at Forte, wondering what orders Corbett had given. There was a tiny blossom of smoke from the enemy taffrail, and a musket ball gouged white wood from the fife rail next to Favian. Damn those rifles; it was time to move again.

He ran below in a dash to the gun deck where he could supervise the guns properly. Fire discipline was critical; the orders he’d given were unusual; and perhaps the Macedonians weren’t used to his system yet. The gun deck was black with night and smoke: in the ghostly light provided by the battle lanterns, Favian caught a hurried impression of overturned guns, blood on the planking, the second and third gunports on the starboard side beaten into one, a giant chip taken out of the mainmast where an enemy roundshot had struck it a glancing blow... horrible, a defeat in the making..

But the men were standing to their guns, their bared teeth and eyes standing out white against their powder-streaked faces: they still trusted him, the fools; they didn’t know he’d pulled his one trick and failed. Ford and Swink, assisted by Midshipmen Solomon and Tolbert, were patrolling the deck, swords bared to run through anyone who tried to flee below while chanting a litany of orders: “Remember to aim low, there . . . hold your fire, wait for the order. Keep your fire low, boys. Cock your piece, there, Clisby, you’ve forgotten. That’s better.”

“Fine work, boys!” Favian shouted, knowing he had little to add to the orders already given. “Just a little lower on that number three gun; knock that quoin in a little more.” There was crackling musketry overhead as the sharpshooters began their work. He peered at Forte through the narrow number ten gunport, seeing the French-built frigate’s gingerbread quarter galleries rolling closer.. “Ready, boys?” He clapped the number ten gun captain on the shoulder, seeing his fierce grin. “Ready to give it to ’em, there?” Would the moment never come? He bent over the gun. “Ready, man? I see her mizzen. Wait for the moment, wait for the wave ...” The swell rolled Macedonian’s guns low as it caught the frigate, then lifted it; for a moment Macedonian hung poised on the edge of the wave, a perfect, still gun platform. Preble’s old drill, bless the man’s memory. “Fire!” Favian called, and the gun deck filled with flame and thunder.

Each gun fired at least once more before Corbett deigned to reply: Perhaps the British hadn’t been ready, or perhaps they were waiting for the chance to fire full broadsides. But when Forte did fire, Favian was stunned with its power— suddenly Macedonian’s gun deck was a chaos of tearing shot, flying splinters, and screaming wounded. This couldn’t go on..

“Hot work, eh?” he said, trying to grin. He must have pounded that fellow’s shoulder raw; he pulled his hand back. “You’re doing well, boys, we’re smashing ’em up! Fire at will, now, when you bear!” Ford was lying against the mainmast, looking in slow surprise at his severed forearm sitting in his lap. Tolbert’s round hat had a ten-inch oak splinter stuck right through it; there was an expression of fierce, uncomprehending stubbornness on the boy’s face. Somewhere in the smoke Favian could hear the sounds of vomiting. Hopeless.

He ran back up to the quarterdeck, shouting wild orders to aim the carronades for the mainmast again. It was the only hope, he knew; he’d have to cripple Forte somehow and then run for it. Favian saw Blake bending over a carronade, and seized him by the collar, shouting into his ear over the crash of guns. “Go below to the gun deck and see what you can do! Ford’s been wounded!”

“Aye,” Blake nodded calmly; there was a splinter wound on his cheek that oozed blood into his side-whiskers. He looked at Favian and clasped his shoulder. “Good luck, Favian.” Blake knew it was pointless, Favian saw, but he’d do his best. As they all would.

Favian bent over one of the carronades, shouting instructions for it to be trained at the enemy mainmast. They were almost abeam by now, Macedonian narrowing the range and overhauling as it had before. Favian recognized the leather cap and broad shoulders of one of the men at the carronade, and saw the wild look in his mad eyes: Lazarus, his face smeared by powder, taking the place of one of the fallen. What was he thinking, Favian wondered, now that the doom he’d preached so often was actually on them?

“Fire!” Favian shouted, and the carronade banged. In the same instant blackness seemed to strike him between the eyes. He blinked, his hands groping, feeling the planks, the warm tar oozing up between them. Light gradually returned to his vision, and he saw Chapelle’s round, horrified face just a few inches away.

“Are you hurt, Captain?” Chapelle was demanding.

“I don’t know,” Favian said numbly. He looked down and saw his own body sprawled on the planking, Stanhope, Chapelle, and a handful of seamen clustered around him. Somewhere a familiar voice was shrieking curses, cadenced measured curses, infamous. There seemed to be blood on his coat. Stanhope tore at the coat, getting it open, and Favian felt the first burst of pain. Stanhope ripped his shirt away.

There was a line of angry red across his chest, blood oozing slowly from the wound. A glancing musket shot, Favian thought with stunned relief. That voice was still crying curses to the wind..

“Can you move your arm?” Chapelle was asking. What did the arm have to do with anything? Favian wondered, and then he looked. There was more blood on his upper left arm; apparently the musket ball had pierced his arm after it scored his chest.

“Get me on my feet,” Favian said. “We’ll see.” He was picked up by half a dozen hands and set gingerly on his feet; for a moment his ankles failed to support him, but then balance returned with a ferocious act of will, and a lightning-bolt of pain struck his upper arm. He tried to move his fingers and succeeded; perhaps it wasn’t broken, then. “Help me get my coat off,” he said.

The wound was a lucky one: it hadn’t struck the bone, and seemed not to have cut the artery. Blood oozed slowly from the entrance wound, and Favian could feel the lump that was the musket ball on the other side. Truscott could cut it out later; for the present it would do well enough if Stanhope would tie it up with his handkerchief. Chapelle seemed quite relieved, perhaps for Favian’s sake, or perhaps, remembering Acting Lieutenant William Cox, because he didn’t want to be in command of the stricken frigate..

That ranting voice continued unabated. Favian muzzily looked up as Stanhope dextrously wound his handkerchief around Favian’s arm, and to his astonishment saw Lazarus standing in the mizzen chains, waving his fist at the enemy and screaming curses in his harsh voice.

“My the hosts of Satan smite thee and thine!” Lazarus was shrieking. “May the spirits of the sea devour thy heart! May Leviathan rise to tear thee asunder, and may Davey Jones rend thy planks!”

“What the devil?” Favian wondered. “Lazarus, get down there!” The man’s mind had snapped.

“The spirits of the air break thy masts like twigs!” Lazarus roared, and then a flight of grapeshot blew him to the deck. Favian looked down at the madman, saw most of the left shoulder gone, arterial blood pumping out of the wound, the left leg broken in at least two places. No hope, he knew, but he seized his pea jacket as Stanhope was trying to slip it back on his arm, knelt by the old preacher, and pressed the jacket to the shoulder wound, trying to stop the jet of blood. “Stretcher, here!” he shouted, and he heard the order echoed. Lazarus’s pale eyes opened, seeming to see nothing, and then they turned to Favian.

“My life for thine, Captain,” the man whispered. “I have arranged it. Remember thy promise!”

“I remember,” Favian said. Was that what the madman had attempted, calling up the spirits of the deep to defend a vessel he had always claimed was doomed? Some strange act of devotion to Favian, whom he had followed unbidden for two years? Even Lazarus, Favian thought, had trusted him: look how the man was paid.

Lazarus tried to say something else, but his strength was gone; the spark behind the pale eyes faded. The stretcher-bearers came to take him away, and Favian stood. He would probably die before he reached the orlop.

There was a crash, and Favian looked up in alarm, knowledge of the battle swimming into his mind. What was happening here? Only a little more than a minute had passed since he’d been struck; there couldn’t be that much difference. There was a cheer from the American gunners, and Favian gasped relief: Forte’s main-topgallant mast had gone by the board, falling like a great tree to leeward. It was dragging in the water, slowing the British frigate; and then Favian was shouting orders to the helm.

“Helm to weather, Mr. Seward! Hands to the braces!”

The situation had duplicated itself: Macedonian had gradually overhauled the enemy and closed the range. Favian would try his trick again, hoping to rake Forte one way or another while the British were slowed by the drag of the mast..

If it didn’t work, Favian thought numbly, he’d strike his colors. He was all out of tricks; he could sense Macedonian’s fire slowing, fading as the enemy fire had its effect.

Like a fever nightmare the battle repeated itself. Forte saw the move early and turned inside Macedonian’s track. Favian threw the helm all the way over, hoping to catch the enemy’s vulnerable stern in a rake, but the drag of the mast actually helped the British: it lay in the water off their larboard side, helped to act as a sea anchor to swing their ship around while Macedonian lost way, rolling in the swell while her sails were braced around. Then the mast was cut free, liberating the British from the wreckage, the mast lying like a log in Macedonian’s path. The frigate ground over the piece of floating rubbish, Favian staring hollow-eyed to leeward, hypnotized by his brief vision of the enemy stern, vulnerable and fleeting, forever unreachable.

But there was a difference this time, Favian realized as the gun crews made ready the battered old starboard broadside, running the guns out the ports, training them on the enemy. Forte, seen dimly through dark and smoke, its hull-stripe reflecting the flashes of Macedonian’s cannon, was farther off the wind than before, not rounding up close-hauled as Macedonian had. Corbett was letting Macedonian fire into Forte’s quarter, the British unable to answer. Favian felt glee surge through him: perhaps the British were crippled. Perhaps they were even running!

“Starboard broadside, ready!” he shouted. Strange, he thought, how shouting seemed to make pain shoot through his arm. “Roundshot only! Range three hundred yards! Fire!”

The guns leaped inboard to the limits of their tackles, Macedonian shuddering to the full broadside. “Helm up, Mr. Seward. Starboard broadside reload with roundshot!” He’d follow Forte downwind for the present, luffing to fire his broadsides, just in case Corbett had some scheme in mind. He saw the black sky widening between Forte’s masts; she was luffing, presenting her broadside. Favian tried to fight off the feeling of hopelessness. Forte wasn’t out of the fight after all.

“Mr. Seward!” he called. “Helm down. Starboard broadside, fire as you bear!”

“Mr. Seward’s dead, sir.” It was Midshipman Lovette, his arm still bound to his side, his face plainly reflecting his shock at seeing Favian with bloody shirt and bandaged arm.

“Helm down!” Favian repeated, shouting. “Did’ee hear me, there!”

“Aye aye, Captain!” The firm voice came from below the poop overhang, and the frigate was already beginning to luff up. One of the quartermasters, at least, had survived whatever shot had killed the master.

“Stand by the helm, Mr. Lovette,” Favian said to the midshipman. “Make sure they hear my instructions.”

Lovette swallowed hard. “Aye aye, sir,” he said; and then the British let loose their broadside, a ripple of brightness in this peaceless night. Favian stood frozen as shot wailed overhead, smacking through the sails, and as there was a crash somewhere forward where a roundshot struck home. It was a ragged broadside, he thought, and fired too high. He felt a slight encouragement. It was the first sign the enemy, too, was weakening.

Lovette ran for the poop ladder. Macedonian’s own guns were going off as they bore, spitting out the American reply. Favian peered at the enemy, seeing the dark, starry gap between their masts disappearing. Odd, he thought, what was Corbett doing? And then he knew.

My God, Favian thought, the man’s tacking. He’d headed downwind to give himself some room, and now he was going about..

Anger burst into Favian’s mind. Haven’t I hit him at all? he demanded. Haven’t I cut away a single blasted brace?

“She’s tacking!” Chapelle shrieked, his astonishment equaling Favian’s.

Forte was swinging its bow through the wind’s eye, coming to the larboard tack. To tack thus in battle was very unusual, particularly after heavy gunfire might have cut away the lines controlling the sails. There was danger of the tacking vessel going into irons, caught with all sails flat aback with her bow into the wind, drifting slowly backwards out of control.

But Corbett seemed to be tacking his frigate with perfect confidence despite the dangers, and furthermore he was doing it successfully. Forte hesitated slightly in the wind’s eye, but Favian saw the jib backed, the bow swinging over, the yards hauled around. The enemy maneuver had worked.

It was plain what Corbett had in mind. On his new tack he would pass astern of Macedonian, perhaps delivering a raking broadside if Favian was careless enough to let him. Whether he achieved his rake or not, he would seize the weather gage, Favian’s only tactical advantage, and be able to control the battle. There seemed nothing whatever Favian could do to prevent it.

Favian continued to gaze to leeward, his mind swimming with astonishment as, though the murk of gunsmoke, he saw Forte’s sails filling. Macedonian was headed the wrong way; she needed to be on the starboard tack to prevent Corbett’s getting to weather. There wasn’t room to wear her, and Favian doubted very much whether any attempt at tacking his own ship would succeed: Macedonian hadn’t demonstrated herself as nimble at working to leeward as Forte, and in fact had, just the night before, shown a tendency to sail backwards when the maneuver was attempted...

And then Favian was shouting out his orders, the officers staring at him in dumb astonishment. “Man the clew garnets and buntlines! Man the braces!” he shrieked. “Put the helm down! Ease off the head sheets! Haul in the spanker sheet! You there, haul taut! Up foresail! Haul taut— brace aback, fore and aft! Brace aback, all!”

“But that will put us aback.” Chapelle uttered a numbed protest. Favian spared no thought for his enlightenment.

Macedonian rocked on the waves as she lost way, as the forecourse was clewed reluctantly up to the yard with a protesting boom of canvas, and then the topsails, crashing as if lightning had struck the masts, were hauled aback by main strength. The wind was now hitting the front of the sails, stopping the frigate dead as if the hand of a giant had halted her. Favian ran to the taffrail, hanging over Macedonian’s stern, gazing at the water as it lapped up around the frigate. Slowly he saw the water rippling beneath her stern, a clumsy wake forming— Macedonian was sailing backwards, stern-first through the water!

The starboard guns blasted out as Favian ran forward, doing his best to ignore the pain that was throbbing through his arm, the trickle of warm blood he felt on his wrist. Coughing in the gunsmoke, he jumped for the poop ladder, hanging by his good arm from the rope safety line as he peered at the helmsmen standing by the wheel and demanded: “Does she answer?”

The quartermasters stared at the gangling, powder-blackened figure, dressed in a bloodstained shirt and hanging like a monkey from the safety line. “Does she answer, damn you?” Favian shrieked.

Midshipman Lovette, standing by the binnacle, leaped to the double wheel and hauled it to port. Favian looked aloft, the topsails pressing against the masts from the front, and tried to gauge Macedonian’s motion through the water.

“Rudder’s biting, sir,” Lovette reported. “She’s biting— by God, sir, she answers! The helm answers!”

Favian threw his head back and laughed, feeling madness overwhelming him. He had it, by the Eternal!.

He leaped back up to the quarterdeck. “Fire, starboard battery!” he babbled. “Fire at will— whether ye bear or not! Keep firing— fire, fire, fire! It’s smoke we want, the smoke!”

Macedonian was gaining speed as she moved stern-first through the water, the sea chuckling under her stern as she gained way. Forte’s masts were dimly seen astern and to leeward, rising above the gunsmoke. The wind was blowing the smoke into Corbett’s face, he knew, blinding him. Favian was counting on his blindness..

If it weren’t dark this probably would never work, but as long as the Macedonian made its move under cover of night as well as gunsmoke there was a chance.

Macedonian’s guns lit the blackness, reflecting off the banks of smoke drifting downwind, briefly illuminating Forte’s topsails and spars. Favian strained his perceptions, trying to make certain of the enemy’s movements. “Put your helm to, ah, to port there,” Favian called to Lovette. Sailing backwards the helm was reversed; he had to be careful in giving instructions.

“Aye aye, sir.”

“Amidships.”

“Aye aye.”

Forte was quite near now, looming darkly through the smoke off the starboard quarter; Favian gave the order to add grapeshot to the guns’ charges. He wondered when Corbett would see his danger; the British could avert Favian’s trap simply by putting their helm up, if they saw it early enough: but Favian was counting on surprise, and on their not believing Macedonian’s maneuver when they saw it..

When was the last time a warship had backed down in combat like this? He thought 1704, when the British had taken Gibraltar. Clowdisley Shovell and his entire squadron sailing backwards through the water to the rescue of his admiral..

Gunfire lit the night, revealing Forte’s massive hull only thirty yards away, the black, disbelieving silence of its ports. She’s done, Favian thought, and bellowed his orders.

“Hard to port, Mr. Lovette! Grapnels ready to starboard!”

Corbett saw at the last minute and tried to get his helm up, but Macedonian was moving too fast by then and came backing down across his bows, a little white bone bubbling from her stern. Forte’s jibboom suddenly loomed like a great spear across Macedonian’s decks, thrusting just forward of the mainmast, and then came the crash. “Grapnels away!” Favian roared, trying to keep his feet as the frigates ground together, as Macedonian was shoved sideways and then upwind, her sails roaring again. “Grapnels away!” It was Forte’s sails that were aback now, booming against the masts.

Forte was bows-on, stuck right amidships, held by tangled rigging and half a dozen grapnels. Every single remaining broadside gun bore on her; they could fire right down the length of her decks, a rake that would tear the life from the enemy fourty-four. The British hadn’t a broadside gun that could, reply, just that forty-two-pound carronade on the foredeck pivot and perhaps her chasers..

“Odd guns load with double shot, even guns with roundshot and grape!” he shouted. “Range point-blank! Fire at will!”.

Favian felt the energy drain from him; suddenly he felt cold and tired. All that was needed was more shooting, and he wasn’t needed for that. He walked to a carronade on the unused larboard side and sat down on it. Everyone would know what to do.

The British didn’t give up easily. They made half a dozen sallies to try to cut the ships free, running out on the bowsprit into the rifle fire of Macedonian’s marines. Their bodies dropped from the sprit to hang in the bowsprit riggings or to fall to the American frigate’s deck. One of the bodies was Captain Corbett, shot through both lungs, but Favian didn’t know it..

Malachi’s Revenge swept in close, its full broadside going at point-blank range into Forte’s stern, then Gideon tacked, ranged up off Forte’s starboard quarter, and stayed there forever, backing and filling, hammering away where the British couldn’t reach him, and where none of Macedonian’s guns might accidentally hit him by mistake.

The American frigate took some damage: that forty-two-pounder was deadly at such close range and did considerable execution on Macedonian’s quarterdeck, upending two carronades, killing a dozen men outright with grapeshot, and bringing Chapelle down with a splinter wound in the thigh, before Kuusikoski trained his own carronade around carefully and blew the forty-two-pounder clean off its pivot. Chapelle, who refused to go below, sat on the carronade next to Favian, smiled encouragingly, and let Stanhope bind up his wound with his own handkerchief..

“I wish I had some tobacco,” he said, the smile still on his plump face, and then he passed out. The stretcher-bearers carried him to the surgeon.

After half an hour, perhaps, the frigates came apart. The grapnels had been cut by the British or by Macedonian’s own shot, and then the wind pushed the British slowly downwind, Forte gaining stern way as Macedonian fired its few last raking shots. Forte paid off on the larboard tack, managing at last to get a few shots at Malachi’s Revenge before the schooner could fill its sails and dance out of the way. Favian stood, limb-weary: it was time to give orders again..

His mouth was dry and tasted of dust and gunpowder. He wished he had some coffee.

“Man the lee braces, tacks and sheets! Put the helm up, flatten in the head sheets, ease off the spanker.” Macedonian and Forte were lying like logs in the water, parallel to one another, neither having way on yet. Flame blossomed from the British flank, and a shot crashed home. Favian wasn’t worried about the British fire anymore: after all that raking half her broadside must be dismounted.

“Haul taut! Brace up!” It was a miracle, come to think of it, that Forte hadn’t lost any lower masts— surely they must be chewed up. Macedonian’s topsails filled with a crack; Favian felt the frigate jerk. “Clear away the rigging— haul aboard! Draw the jib!” Slowly, clumsily, a bit reluctantly, the frigate began to move. “Put the helm up!” He’d head down on Forte and try to finish her. As long as his own masts stood, he had a good chance to take her.

Forte, gaining way, began to turn downwind, Macedonian’s shot pursuing her. Favian looked at her with interest: was she running away, or somehow out of control? She was showing a light off her stern, hanging down near her transom, and Favian, an odd excitement moving through him as he began to draw a conclusion the facts could not yet justify, snatched up a glass and trained it on the enemy stern. Aye, there was someone hanging off the stern with a lantern, surveying the damage, and in the winking, bobbing light Favian saw what it was. Forte’s rudder was hanging only from its lower gudgeon, torn away entirely from its post. Forte was no longer under control, could not forge upwind. Gideon had done that with his persistent rakes from astern.

“Set the forecourse!” Favian shouted. He’d need speed, now, to catch her.

They were heading downwind, now, Macedonian’s fastest point of sailing. Forte did not, perhaps dared not, set any more sail: Favian concluded triumphantly that they knew their masts would go if they did.

Gideon’s schooner, suddenly, was doing brilliant work, taking incredible risks: she rocketed up under Forte’s bows to fire a raking broadside, then gybed around and fired another while Favian watched speechless with astonishment, terrified the heavy frigate would run the reckless schooner down and turn her into matchwood, or somehow turn to bring her broadside to bear. But Malachi’s Revenge danced away, gybing again, firing another bow-rake just as Favian put his own helm down, crossing Forte’s stern to fire his triple-shotted larboard broadside into those gaping, shattered, pockmarked stern windows. Favian gybed himself, coming across Forte’s stern again to fire his starboard broadside just a few seconds after Revenge tore across Forte’s bow again, sandwiching the British between two raking fires.

It was then that Favian saw white flags going up in the darkness, and began to hear voices, heard dimly through his ringing ears, announcing surrender. The American cheers were faint: they’d been too heavily battered, and fought too long, to have much breath left for celebration. Favian looked at his watch: a little after nine o’clock. He told Blake to go aboard and take possession.

While Blake was assembling the boarders, Malachi’s Revenge came surging up, heaving to under Macedonian’s lee..

“Cap’n Favian! Cap’n Favian!” Finch Martin’s voice, strangely choked; perhaps he’d lost his voice shouting orders and obscenities.

Favian felt light-headed as he stood with his speaking trumpet; the deck seemed to reel under him. He’d have to go below to the surgeon soon, he knew. Couldn’t stay on his feet much longer.

“Aye, Mr. Martin! My congratulations to your captain!” Favian said.

“My captain!” It was a half-laughing, half-choking exclamation. There was something in Martin’s tone that chilled Favian to the heart.

“It’s Cap’n Gideon, sir!” Martin cried. “He’s dead! The British killed him, sir!”

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Framed