Chapter 17: The Western Star

If I had dropped my breeches and exposed my buttocks it would not have exceeded the astonishment my statement caused on the quarterdeck. Mouths dropped open in amazement, and I dare say also in ignorance as to where Pondicherry was located.

Captain Ramsey was the first to react.

“Mister Stiles, a heading for Cape Town, if you please.” The sailing master gave a quick ‘aye, aye, Sir’, and went to the binnacle and his charts.

“Mister Moore, all hands to wear ship. We will take a southerly course, until such time as Mister Stiles has a more accurate heading for us.”

All hands were called, the boatswain and his mate chivvying the men to haul on lines and sheets. I thought it best to make myself scarce during all this feverish activity, but Ramsey had not yet finished giving orders.
“Major Greenaway, would you be kind enough to attend me in my cabin in...” He looked at the yards slowly swinging around, and the hive of activity on deck,” half an hour?” I nodded, and made my way below.

Half an hour later and Hazard was bowling along briskly on a heading for Cape Town. I knocked on the cabin door and heard Ramsey bid me enter. Lieutenant Moore was already in the cabin, and I sat down alongside him on the bunk. Ramsey fixed me with a stern gaze.

“May we know why Pondicherry is the supposed destination of Western Star, when I was led to believe that it was South America?”

“The intimation of the plot, to free Bonaparte from St Helena, was strongly associated with the revolutionary activity current in that continent. The theory being an escaped Bonaparte would command a revolutionary army in one of the colonies of Spain, or the Portuguese possession of Brazil.”
Moore’s eyes widened in surprise, this was the first he would have learned of any plan to rescue Bonaparte, until now only Ramsey and myself knew why Hazard had been diverted to St Helena.

“We had only one clue - such as it was, from the interrogation of a prisoner - which was that after Bonaparte had escaped from St Helena the destination, or rendezvous, was to be Pont de Cherie. We took this to be a bridge, possibly in France, or at least in a French speaking territory. One of the French possessions in the West Indies was thought to be a possibility, although we have too many ships on station out there for even a small force to land anywhere unnoticed. I was always doubtful the purpose of Bonaparte’s escape was for him to lead an army of revolutionaries in South America -- he is not the sort of man to take orders from anyone. Any army Bonaparte commands will be carrying out his orders, to achieve his objectives, and I doubt freedom for the colonists of South America would be one of them.”
I paused, marshalling my thoughts. “Of course, the interrogators had misheard, or mistook, what was said. The prisoner had not said ‘Pont de Cherie’ but ‘Pondicherry’, which is a French trading enclave in India. The French already have had dealings with some of the native rulers in India; the late Tipoo Sultan for one, and there are many more disgruntled rajahs and maharajahs who have no love for the British in general, and John Company in particular. India would be a fertile region to raise an army to attack British trade and commerce.”
It was then the purpose of the bogus Corsican Rangers dawned on me.

“Those supposedly Corsican Rangers - all former senior members of Napoleon’s Imperial Guard - will be used to train the indigenous population of India in the skills and methods of European warfare. They will then command the divisions and brigades of an army raised to destroy the Honourable East India Company, and all British influence in India. And that army will be led by Napoleon Bonaparte.”

Ramsey nodded “Yes, I see Pondicherry could well be where Sparrow is heading, but he will need to make a more permanent repair to his top mast. He has to cross the Indian Ocean to reach his destination. Cape Town is about three weeks sailing from here and it is possible he will be in Cape Town harbour, making those repairs, when we arrive.”

“In that case we will nab Bonaparte with ease, and scotch his plan to seize India.” I replied, with a certain amount of smugness.

“Hmm -- Captain Sparrow is not someone who easily gives up his catch. And I doubt Bonaparte, or his men, will go back to captivity willingly or meekly. However, we will deal with that problem when it arises.”

I was in the cabin I shared with Lieutenant Hunter, writing a letter to Annette-- which I hoped to put on an England-bound ship at Cape Town - when I heard the lookout cry “Sail Ho!”
Over the last weeks we had come across several ships, and apart from exchanging news as the vessels passed by, there was no information regarding Western Star, so I continued, unconcerned, with my letter.
A few minutes later there came a knock on the cabin door and Mr Midshipman Banks entered. He was the third midshipman on board, several years older than Greaves and Ball, and was regarded as an acting Lieutenant. I had heard him referred to, by Moore, as ‘a safe pair of hands’.

“Captain’s compliments, Major, and could you attend him on the quarterdeck at your earliest convenience.”
I followed him on to the quarterdeck, where Ramsey, Moore and Stiles, all with telescopes to their eyes, were watching a ship some half mile away to our left, or larboard, as seamen have it.

Ramsey handed me his telescope. “There you are Major Greenaway - Western Star.“
I admit to knowing nothing of ships, but even to my untutored eye she was a beautiful sight. The line of her hull had a rakish appearance, and the sails, filled and straining, flew her along like a gull.

“How is it we have caught up with her?” I asked. “Has her jury rig slowed her down?”

“She’s not carrying any top sail at her foremast; which could be because it has been carried away, but I think it more likely Sparrow hasn’t yet felt the need for more speed. Of course that may soon change.”
Ramsey retrieved his telescope from me and returned to watching the Western Star.

“It’s not a case of us catching her up, but rather Hazard taking the hypotenuse to Western Star’s right angled course,” Moore explained. “When she changed course it must have been due east, and then, after sailing a day or two, she changed to due south.”

“Why would Sparrow carry out such a time wasting manoeuvre?” I asked him.

“I think it was to get clear from the area where the guard frigates patrol. They would have become suspicious if a vessel, which they had seen a day or two earlier heading for Europe, was now sailing back south.”

“What I intend to do, Major, is to invite Captain Sparrow aboard and then ask him to hand over Bona, -err- the package removed from St Helena.” Ramsey only just managed to stop himself from letting the cat out of the bag to all those on the quarterdeck. He covered his embarrassment with a gruffly given order.

“Hoist the Black Flag, if you please, Mister Banks. Best to use the foremast halliard.”

Some twenty minutes later the two ships were both hove-to, about a half cable length apart. The jolly boat from Western Star had brought over Captain Sparrow, and he and Ramsey had gone straight away into the latter’s cabin. Ten minutes later Banks came and asked that I should join the two in Ramsey’s cabin.

Captain Sparrow was a slightly built, dark haired, much younger man than I had imagined. He sat at his ease on Ramsey’s bunk, a glass of rum in his hand and a watchful expression in his black button eyes. By his dress and mannerisms he could be taken for a Frenchman, but the nasal accent was all American.
After introductions had been made Ramsey said.

“I have given Captain Sparrow a brief résumé of the situation; I suggest you put our proposition to him.”
I shot Ramsey a disapproving glance - I had no proposition, other than Sparrow should hand Bonaparte over.

“Captain Sparrow, I have been given carte blanche to use all and any means at my disposal to return Bonaparte to St Helena, and also take the woman known as the Comtesse de Montebello into custody, to be tried for the murder of Major Octavius Hardy.”
The word ‘murder’ had Sparrow looking puzzled.

“Hey, what’s all this murder hogwash? The Limey fell overboard during the night. We searched, but found no trace of him.”

“Did he fall overboard before or after having his throat cut?”
Sparrow definitely looked surprised by the news Hardy had been murdered.

“I don’t know anything about throats being cut, and I am a man of my word. Captain Ramsey will vouch for that.” He glanced over to Ramsey, who nodded.
“But let me tell you something of myself, lest you get the wrong impression. I am simply a cargo carrier. I make a contract to transport something from A to B, and it don’t matter to me what the cargo is; bales of cotton or slaves, sacks of wheat or passengers. I shake hands, and the deal is done.” He spoke more forcibly. “Once I’ve shook hands on a deal I stick by it, and it don’t mean a plugged nickel to me what orders you have; I ain’t handing over any part of my cargo to a Limey Redcoat.”

I eyed him coldly. “Let me tell you something of myself, lest you take the wrong impression. I was commissioned from the ranks after butchering several Frenchmen with an axe at Ciudad Rodrigo. I bayoneted unhorsed cuirassiers at Waterloo as they lay sprawled on the ground. I shot and killed a man in a duel, after he had fired at me and missed. My orders are to recover Bonaparte; by hook or by crook, dead or alive, and if necessary I will turn your ship into matchwood and fish his body from out of the wreckage.”

Both Ramsey and Sparrow were looking at me with a mixture of distaste and horror on their faces.

Sparrow turned to Ramsey.
“I can’t say I’m very impressed by the company you keep, Alfred!” He got off the bunk. “I assume you will not lower the parley flag until my ship is out of range. Or have you succumbed to a landsman’s way of doing business?”

Ramsey flushed a deep red. “The Black Flag will be lowered when you reach two cable lengths.”

He gave vent to his anger as soon as Sparrow had left the ship.

“Opening fire on a passenger ship is unheard of. We will have to shoot at his rigging and spars to slow him down, then get alongside and board him, but I will never fire into the hull of an unarmed ship.”

“Western Star has ten twelve pounder carronades, a crew of forty and a company of former Imperial guardsmen. I think your definition of an unarmed ship. is somewhat lax.” I admit to being rather sarcastic with my retort.

“Those carronades have only a range of a cable length at best. You are asking that I stand off, and blow them out of the water, without getting within range of their guns?”

“It wouldn’t be the first time a ship with a greater range of cannon overcame a ship armed with carronades. What about the fight between Hornet and Penguin?“
I could see Ramsey was surprised by my naval knowledge, although I had only read of that action in the Naval Chronicle on my way down to Portsmouth in the mail coach.

By now Western Star was out of range of the six pounders, and Ramsey had ordered the parley flag to be lowered. From now on it was a stern chase, and our quarry had put on all sail, including a top sail on the jury rig, and was drawing away by the minute.
I swore under my breath at this ‘honour’ of seamen. Ramsey was quite prepared to lose half his crew by boarding; the carronades would cut down most of the boarding party, and Western Star’s crew and the guardsmen would take care of the rest, assuming we got close enough to try a boarding.

Although Ramsey was the master and commander of Hazard my orders actually gave me jurisdiction over him in everything other than the handling of the vessel. I decided to use those powers, and went up and joined him on the quarterdeck. There were probably only another two hours of daylight left, and he was anxiously gauging the distance between the two ships.
Even my untrained eye could see Western Star was drawing well away, and the oncoming night would allow her to give us the slip. The one crumb of comfort was that we knew where she was headed, and if all else failed we could catch her in Cape Town.

“Is she in range of the nine pounders?” I asked, jerking my thumb at Western Star.

“Barely.” His answer was abrupt, and he kept his back to me.

“I wonder if I might have a word with you in your cabin?” I said quietly.

He gave an exasperated sigh. “I can spare you five minutes,” and off he stumped to his cabin. I followed behind.

“Commander Ramsey.” I began; he looked at me sharply as I had addressed him by his rank and not as ‘Captain’, as custom and courtesy dictated. “I’m afraid I must insist that you follow my instructions and, if possible, engage Western Star with your main armament.”
Ramsey glared at me in a furious anger.

“How dare you presume to give me orders. I am the master and commander of this vessel.”

“Not my orders, Captain, but the orders of the First Lord of the Admiralty, transmitted through me. I would not like to contemplate the consequences if Napoleon Bonaparte is allowed to go free. Another twenty years of war -- that is what your pride could lead to if we fail to recapture The Tyrant.”
Ramsey’s shoulders slumped in defeat. He knew the blame would be heaped on him, and his career ended, if Bonaparte made good his escape.

“Very well; as soon as we are in range I will order Western Star to be fired upon -- and may God have mercy on both our souls.”
All that was needed now was for Hazard to overhaul Western Star, which was not going to be an easy task, but just at that moment our luck changed.

“Western Star’s topmast has gone by the board,” the lookout shouted. “She’s broached to!”
Indeed, when the topmast broke it fell overboard, and with its sail still attached it acted as a sea anchor, practically bringing the vessel to a complete standstill.
Hazard swooped down on the wallowing Western Star, whose crew were frantically cutting away the fallen rigging and spars with axes and knives. As soon as the wreckage was cleared the sails of the schooner filled, and she heeled over and sped away to the south. However in the time it took for that to happen Hazard had closed the range to less than two cable lengths.

“Run out the bow chasers, and load the six pounders.” Ramsey’s voice rang out, and the crew rushed to their battle stations.

Lieutenant Moore spoke at my shoulder.

“We are now well in range of the nine pounders, and we have the best gunner in the fleet in Bobby Charlton.” He indicated the Master Gunner, a wispy haired young man standing at the side of the left hand bow chaser-- or larboard gun as I should better describe it -- gauging the distance to Western Star while fingering the lifting quoin held in his hand.

“You may fire in your own time, Mister Charlton.” Moore’s spoke quietly, but I could hear the underlying excitement in his voice.

“Aye, aye, sir.” The gunner muttered, and as the bows of Hazard rose to the next wave he shouted “Fire!” and the larboard gun captain jerked the firing lanyard. The sound was deafening, and the gun recoiled, much faster than I had anticipated.

Charlton observed the flight of the shot, and swore.

“Damn! Too far to the larboard-- we should do better with the starboard gun.”
He went and sighted the starboard gun, then once again gave the order to fire. A great gout of water plumed about two chains ahead of Western Star, almost in line with her direction of travel.