Echo Horizon

Archer, the sleek, black hull of her childhood, had come home at last; but Sarah gasped when she saw the pursuing vessel pass to leeward of Big Candle Island and felt her heart skip a beat at sight of smoke streaming off her bows even before she heard and felt the slam of the bow chasers. Two geysers erupted short of the schooner which continued to labor on its board to pass beyond the reefs, loose sail kiting.

Sarah grasped hopefully at the thought of the English ship faltering under the lee of the island. "She’ll sail like an applebutter kettle at the time Father wears off on entry to the cove and must present Archer broad on to the foe. To the guns, and we speak the Englishman a letter of metal to cause him distress!"

The turn of the sea air visited their nostrils, and lightening glittered off to northard through dark, towering clouds. The sounds of wings scattering to the air competed with running surf, and another cloud of smoke was swept from the Englishman. Another spout of water short of the first reef spoke carronades lacking final elevation. Came the slam, then another, then rolling, echoing thunder. White spray from the rounds was carried by winds which still favored the enemy.

If only they could recall all that Father had instructed them, for the huge guns must be served this day without the aid of menfolk. Each stood monstrously heavy. Father had erected range cairns on the reefs and made marks on the guns’ cascabels. Mother warned of scarce time for the pursued to tack into the protection of the cove before the enemy ship overcame the range and destroyed the schooner.

"Sarah, powder--smart and lively!" Betsey pulled her hair, glinting in the shrouded sunlight, from the sides of her face and reached under a carriage to draw forth sponge, rammer and funnel. A dozen solid shot for each gun reposed beneath sailcloth with kegs of powder, all protected by close fitting flat rocks. Sarah hefted a round against the cold metal of a gun barrel, a ball of bog iron barely seven inches in diameter. It slipped and caught her finger, evoking a squeal and a curse. She and Sister pushed, but to no avail. Even with tackle they were barely able to move the ordnance. They must load from outside the embrasure. Each breath seemed a turning of the glass, and nearer ran the English.

"Good, Sarah girl, in it goes--about three of these measures, near a third the weight of the ball. Ohh, don’t spill. Mehitabel, cast your eyes away from the powder. You know how you fare with combustibles. D**n, maybe a mite more. Did your father instruct to stuff some of this caulking in the barrel, or is it breech?"

Already puffing with effort, Sarah managed to reply, "Bore, do you mean?" She stood the funnel against the rocks.

"Now, the shot. Give it here. Uuumph, ohhh Lord, it’s heavy. In it goes. Drive it firmly against the charge. Ready on the next. Hurry. That bar. Give way. We’ll point--allow a lead--so-oo."

Frantic labors by the three translated to half a point inroad to the ship’s track. Once more they heaved, the strain setting spots to swim before Sarah’s eyes.

"Screw, lever, the coigns, we adjust elevation. That hand spike on the carriage. Oh, child, let me see. Did you pinch your finger?"

Her finger throbbed, and she raised her voice in excitement. The English fired again, and the schooner was at the second reef. "Mama, let the finger be. Have you the flint I carried?"

"Yes, Sarah." Her mother pointed to the igniter hole. "Here, nearly forgot--powder right here."

"Mama, be calm and we do just simply fine. Let me have the flint." She reached over the igniter hole and struck once, twice, then a small flash and smoke, and she was near to being thrown from her shoes by the ensuing concussion. Clouds of sea birds rose with raucous squalling. The gun leaped against its breeching tackle, and a concatenation of echoes crashed from shore to island. Acrid smoke obscured their view and assaulted their noses. Sarah heard her mother complain of deafness. They had forgotten to open wide their mouths as Father had cautioned.

Sarah moved to the second gun, as Mehitabel choked and chewed on smoke, but shook her mother’s arm the while and pointed. The pall had cleared enough that they saw a creamy pile of water settle at the enemy bow. They had his attention. Mehitabel was jumping up and down when the next shattering explosion sent them reeling. The great gun bolted on its restraints and hurled the rough, cast iron ball close over the vessel to splash near aboard. It spoiled some rigging on its way over.

"Sponge the barrels and we reload." Sister had mounted the breastwork and poked the long sponge handle into a bore. The smell of burned powder lingered in Sarah’s nose as she climbed out and sat astride a gun, working the sponge inside. She rose, not for leverage, but the metal was cold against her legs. More rounds would change the temperature. Her mouth was dry.

"What, Mama, two rounds--these with thumbscrew? Chain, yes, I see it, that which Caleb has brought us, all in short lengths. A havoc we’ll wreak." She worked an end link into the slot and tightened the screw, same with a second shot. "Double the powder? It would follow, but do we repose trust a fiery fury not hurl us to the far end of the mill impound?"

They loaded and rammed, working well together. Betsey turned the coigns to depress the range, changed the pointing. At the flint’s dictate, both guns convulsed in turn, one upon the other in cataclysmic declaration, sorely damaging the vessel. Its foretops’l flapped in the wind. Much rigging and some yards were violently scythed from the ship; and the foretopm’st and royal came crashing down in a tangle depended from the crosstree of the foremast with its clewed up fore course.

She heard herself scream with excitement as she watched the main topgallant stays’ls and heads’ls join the sorry midden of cordage, wood and canvas. As headway fell off below steerage, the issue was in doubt for the English

"Could he, God willing, be Mowatt?"

"Too many guns, Mama." Comfort MacLean had taught Sarah the sails and lines of a man-o’-war, and before her, the enemy was hacking about everything she could name of useless rigging and employing the vigor of an entire watch while struggling to avoid irons on a lee and hostile shore. Ravenous fury from shore had taken from them the name of pursuer.

"Once more, my girls, fire and pound them into the surf an’ we geld the haughty spirit of yonder roosters. Oh, look you, what action your father takes to him the nonce!" Even numb from concussions, they loosed yet another salvo on their foe, for he lost helm and spanker and was reduced to a drifting hulk.

Mother, Sarah, see," Mehitabel croaked, "The schooner presses the attack!" Foretops’ls and heads’ls juried, it had turned and was beating toward the stranded Englishman.

"God’s blood, children, what will he not do next?"

"He fain make kindling wood of the host, Mama, if he fail to strike his colors. Or he will tow or send in as prize. Oh, let it be Comfort. Let Comfort bring it in under my eyes."