Chapter 2: Operation Cover Up
The Atlantic, 1778
The Captain's Cabin
It would come down to timing.
They didn't want the British to know they were American, and they definitely didn't want the French to think they were British. So it was a game of swapping their colors at the right moment. Gordon would be in charge of that; if his swift hand the previous day said anything, it showed he'd be good for it when it came time to exchange the actual colors at their stern.
"What about waiting for nightfall?" Alan offered. "We can sail through the Strait in about a day or so, right John? In and out."
"That would be correct. As long as the wind is with us." John thought a moment. "It would give us an advantage, Scott." Nightfall would lessen the chance that the British would spot them in their waters.
Below the quarterdeck there were two cabins of equal size, though one of them roomed the four officers of the ship and the other was the Captain's Cabin. Their assembly of five crowded around Scott's circular table, covered by John's maps and logbook of notes, to study the worn yellow parchment that depicted where the Atlantic met the Mediterranean and the disproportionate figurine of their craft which pointed towards the narrow gap between continents.
John paged through his logbook. "We aren't on course for arriving at nightfall, though. We'd have to change route for shallower water and drop anchor."
"We are not dropping anchor," Gordon warned from across the table. The ire in his voice had John quizzically glancing up from his notes.
"Why?" He challenged. "I think it's a good idea."
"It's a solid idea," Virgil agreed, putting a hand on Gordon's shoulder. "But Gordo is right too. It wouldn't be wise to drop anchor. If we are as close to shore as you say we are-"
"We are."
"–then we are already at risk."
Between them, Scott could sense the two officers bristling. "John, a British liner could come by at any time," he explained. "And if we are anchored down, we'd be –"
"A sitting duck!" Gordon snapped.
"Simmer down, Mr. Gordon," Scott glared. "We'd be vulnerable. Once we see land in the next few days, we'll know more. John, you can calculate our timing for us and let us know if we are on course for a nighttime pass through the Strait. But we will not be anchoring to make it happen." Their fate would be in the hands of the wind.
"Aye, sir." John yielded to the wisdom and knowledge of his brothers in this matter. He would be able to guide them to their destination regardless of night or day.
"But Scott. We have guns."
Scott smiled grimly at his youngest brother. "No one is questioning your skills as a gunner, Squirt."
"It's just that we're a schooner." Their seabird was no warship like the British ship-of-the-line. Alan knew artillery, but Virgil knew the ship. The Thunderbird could protect herself, but her command would not let her be put a position she couldn't win.
"…and our best advantage is our speed," Gordon maintained, his eyes softening at his brothers across the table. "Not our guns."
Alan bowed his head. This he could not argue with, knowing what he did about the British long-range weapons. The British long nine gave them an increased range in their cannon fire. The Thunderbird's twelve guns probably would seem like child play against the upwards to seventy-four on the largest British warships. All twelve of theirs which, by the way, were short-range.
For protection, not warfare.
Gordon's fears had been dead on. In the time it would have taken Gordon to weigh the anchor at first sight of a British vessel, their little merchant schooner would have already been pummeled by the enemy ship's long-range cannons.
Alan relented.
"So, Operation: Cover Up, then?"
o-o-o-o-o-o
It ended up being two more days before they saw a flicker on the horizon, lights far off in the distance that indicated they made it to land. The moon made way for the sun and revealed the distant shape of what John knew to be Spain by the time watch at dawn started.
He of course notified Scott immediately first before rousing the rest of the crew with his call. And he had already calculated their course.
"Night or Day?"
"Day."
At the bow of the ship, their seamen leaned forward on the rails as if to urge her faster, pointing animatedly to the land mass on the horizon, though Hal exchanged updates with Benji as he took over at the helm.
Gordon spared a wary glance towards his brothers in discussion between the fore and main masts, as he waited for his brothers outside their shared officers' quarters. Alan stepped out after him, then a few moments later, Virgil, with a yawn, his hair in disarray from the early hour and rubbing his eyes as they approached John and Scott.
A grumble. "Day?"
"Day," Scott confirmed with a short laugh. "Good Morning to you too, Mr. Virgil. Anything to be done for it?"
Virgil thought for a moment, then shook his head. He shared a knowing glance with Gordon. They might be able to slow down the ship, but they'd lost the chance for a veil of night. Day or later day. Might as well get on with it.
"We got a northwest wind today, Captain."
"Understood, Mr. Gordon. Swing the boat to the southeast. We'll want the wind at our back," Scott commanded. "Unfurl sails to full." They'd been riding the trade routes Eastward most of their journey but had started to pick up the vertical currents that carried ships down the Atlantic towards the Canary Islands. Then, they would break off as they approached the Strait of Gibraltar.
"Aye aye, Captain! Boys, time to get to work," the bosun whistled as he clapped his hands to get their attention and bounced over to his crewmen.
The plan consisted of hugging the coast of Morocco, for one. Virgil had reminded them that Morocco had just recently recognized their independence, and so his recommended plan B was that if they needed a quick retreat, they could always stop at port in Africa. They didn't want to be too close, however, to give away the game.
Next was their attire. By afternoon, all officers had shed their jackets for the white of an on duty British officer, tucking their everyday wear into the chests at their beds and removing anything remotely cobalt. While the British Navy also wore blue jackets, those uniforms were primarily for ceremonial purposes. At the top ranks, Scott and Virgil also had formal attire as American Patriots, and they rarely wore their elaborate garb for the same reason; the intricate coats were incredibly heavy and hot, navy with red lining typically worn atop a scarlet-red vest.
All of the Thunderbird's officers had softer versions of those designs, lighter for their days at sea.
For that the British wore white, not blue.
They didn't have a storage of British clothes, but from that distance away, if anyone at the cape happened to peep through a scope at their ship, they would make out white, and white would be enough for them to pass.
It had to be.
The final piece in their deception, the last task in turning their USS to an HMS, was the colors extending from her stern where thirteen stripes and thirteen stars soared above her name. At Scott's word, Gordon deftly replaced their American flag with the King's Colours, a red cross atop intersecting stripes of white on a field of blue as they had discussed in their meeting prior.
As per the plan, Virgil followed his brother into their officer's quarters to help him fold the flag,
respectfully, but away from prying eyes. Virgil's face fell when he saw the skip in his brother's step falter through the threshold.
"Skivvies dispatched." The joke was weak and Gordon knew it, the words curling at the end like a question.
Expertly, Virgil alternated triangle folds until he reached Gordon at the other end of the venerated material.
As the ship's bosun, Gordon technically reported to Virgil. Gordon was a great leader for their men because like moths to a candle they followed his light. Under his watch, the often grueling tasks of the day would quickly become a song, a laugh, a competition. And he was smart, incredibly so, and knew the ship backwards and forwards and sideways. It was why he and Gordon worked so well together, often could exchange words in glances. He and Virgil just knew, an intuition that could only be born from reverence.
The Thunderbird had her own heartbeat with veins of rope and a cotton pulse, and at the center of the network was Gordon, glowing. Gordon, who didn't know how brilliantly his light shined.
Gordon, who looked terrified, knuckles white with the flag clenched tightly against his chest, anxiousness bared openly in front of his commanding officer.
Except, that it was Virgil's little brother standing there in front him.
Gordon's honey brown eyes met Virgil's.
"Take a breath, Fish." Virgil gathered Gordon by the nape of his neck and tugged him close.
"We're going to be fine."
A wavering breath. Into his shirt, Gordon muffled an "Aye aye."
They would be fine.
o-o-o-o-o-o
There was a small moment of panic when the winds suddenly shifted.
By the time John reminded them all of the Levant winds through the Mediterranean, Gordon was guiding everyone through adjusting their direction and sails to best catch the easterlies.
They needed to keep her moving, Scott commanded. Just get her in to French waters.
Across the skyline, they were privy to not just one body of land, but two as Morocco and Spain teased each other with their reach. The water was deceptively deep. While it may have looked like a stone's throw between land, it was on no lake they sailed. Their anchor would still be too short for the immensity of the waters below.
The sea narrowed as they passed Tangier on the right starboard side, followed by the distant Spanish Tarifa on their left port.
A British ship passed them by heading westward with the east winds towards the Atlantic.
Gordon had taken to manning the helm with the finesse required to both adjust direction so the oncoming winds would catch their sails and maintain their plan to keep to the Morocco coast, which continued to angle further and further upwards towards Spain as they approached the narrowest part of the pass. Where it was easier to man the helm facing the back of the ship to better follow the path of the rudder, their double wheeled helm, with the axle in the middle, allowed them to either choose which way to face or have two at the helm in extreme weather. Gordon preferred to face out to the rest of the ship so he could better guide his crew on deck.
The Rock of Gibraltar was a behemoth of a pillar, the ridge dominating the southernmost tip of the peninsula. They froze as Mons Calpe, as the Romans called it, came into view. A Pillar of Hercules that marked the end of the world. It signified British land ahead.
The wind whistled, and the sound was enough for Scott's brain to catch up with the rest of him. His fingers tingled as he glanced around at the rest of the ship, Gordon at the helm grasping the handles of the wheel tighter than Scott knew he needed; a pale Virgil behind him with a hand resting on his shoulder as if taking some of that strength for himself, or giving Gordon his own; John, tugging at the white of his shirt anxiously over the lack of his form fitting coat, as in his left hand he fiddled with a pocket watch; Alan sitting next to Two, the cannon on the port side closest to the stern; Lee, Hal, Thomas, and Benji all staring at the massive rock with a mix of awe, trepidation, and confusion over what they were supposed to do about it.
Scott gathered himself.
"Look alive, boys!" He said with a smile. "We're just British merchants."
To their right, they passed Ceuta, the Spanish port on the side of the African continent with the mountain in line across the sea.
And then it was behind them. For another few minutes they sailed deeper into the Mediterranean with bated breath, until the port and her ships were no longer visible on the horizon.
At the stern, John looked through the scope towards land.
No British sails in the clouds. He relaxed and nodded at his Captain.
The ship erupted into cheers.
"You did it!" Virgil grabbed Gordon from his place at the wheel, enveloped him with his arms, lifted, and spun him around once before setting him back down again, both of them beaming.
Scott raised a hand to his hair, the adrenaline seeping out of his weary muscles. A chuckle bubbled up from his chest. They still had a lot to do. John and Benji needed rest. They still needed to change the colors back. It was still three to four days before they reached Marseille.
But they'd made it.
His eyes teared as the laughter surged from his torso to resound over the safe Mediterranean air.
A/N: Thank you for reading! I am writing this as inspiration strikes, so unfortunately no set schedule to share.