The French Prize by James L. Nelson Read Free Book Online Page A

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    â€œI think not, Monsieur Jean Crapeau,” Biddlecomb muttered to himself, his eye still to the glass. He swept the horizon to the northward, hoping to see some sign of the bank, breakers, some indication on the sea’s surface of where the treacherous sand might lie. But he could see nothing, so he lowered the glass and focused on the set of Abigail ’s sails, the trim of the yards, the curve of the long wake astern.
    For twenty minutes the ships continued to converge, the details of the brigantine becoming more visible; the steeve of her bowsprit, the rake of her masts, the flash of water kicked up under her bow, the grayish-white mass of sails resolving into their individual components. They were close enough that Jack did not need a glass to see the Stars and Stripes come down, the Tricolor of France go up in its place, a switch that surprised no one.
    The sails, Jack noted, were more white than he might expect, the square sails lacking the ubiquitous black streak down the center where they had rubbed against the dirty slush of the masts. He hoped this meant the ship was new to the Caribbean, that her master did not know about the dangerous sands lurking beneath the surface to the north. It could well mean that. Or it could mean that he had been so long in those seas he needed a new suit of sails.
    Either way, this was going to be a close run thing, and it depended entirely on Jack’s being able to swing Abigail away from the privateer before the two vessels were so close that the Frenchie’s guns could do real damage, at just that point on the ocean where Abigail would be able to weather the sandbank and the Frenchman would not. He looked aloft. He looked at the ship closing with them. He looked at the horizon to the north, and he did not know what to do.
    To time this right, he had to be aloft, where he could see the sandbank, but he did not want to leave the deck, and he did not really trust anyone to handle the ship the way he wanted it handled. But he could not be in both places.
    â€œCaptain,” he said, deciding in that moment, “I am going to the mainmast head to keep an eye out for that bank.”
    â€œVery well,” Asquith said.
    Jack hesitated, unsure how to say the next thing, which was not at all a proper thing to say to one’s captain, but Asquith spared him the awkward moment. “Sing out when we should haul our wind,” he said, “and I’ll set her full and by.”
    â€œVery good, sir, thank you,” Jack said, stuffed his hat in its familiar place in front of the binnacle, and raced aloft once more. The topgallant sails were set again, so Jack continued up the topgallant shrouds until he was able to throw a leg over the narrow yard, his heel resting on the stiff canvas that bulged with a bellyful of wind. He settled there and ran his eyes around the scene above and below.
    The sky was a great dome, stretching horizon to horizon. Off to the east was the green and rugged hump of land that was Montserrat, and to the north, Antigua. He looked down to the deck below. From that perspective it always seemed impossible to him that the ship was able to remain upright; seen from aloft it appeared too top-heavy, as if it should roll over under the weight of the masts and yards.
    Jack turned his eyes to the more pressing business for which he had made the long climb to the masthead. There, off to leeward and off the larboard bow, the French privateer was plunging along, bow rising and coming down in a welter of spray as it met each sea in succession. If they maintained this heading for another forty-five minutes, the Frenchman and Abigail would literally run into one another.
    Off to the north he could see it now, the bank, a yellowish tan stretch of sand just below the surface, a great, sleeping beast ready to wake and snatch the keels of unwary ships. The endless waves swept over it, throwing up breakers that in calmer air would have been as easy to