Chapter 2 – English Sail Sighted

May 4, 1805 - Personal Log – Alexander Dawson – 50°37'52"N 31°22'29"W - Enroute to Naples, Italy

Gale finally abated before dawn. After mustering all hands, 10 of our crew are unaccounted for and are presumed lost to the storm. In addition, the tops'l on our mainmast was carried away, with it presumably many of our most capable hands, as were several spars off the mizzen. Repairs were underway at day's first light.

Thank Providence my children are safe! Kathryn stayed below during the worst of the storm and offered much help to the surgeon as the injured came below. Joseph manned the sails with the rest of the able hands well into the night. I'm sure their mother would be as proud of both of them as I am.

Dr. Samuel reports 22 of my people have reported to him for injuries, many of them minor, thank Providence. Broken bones and sprains. Ship's provisions and cargo have been secured and the carpenter reports no compromise to Odyssey's hull.

In addition to our troubles, we have been blown off course approximately 40 miles. By my calculations, our current position is well within the path of shipping lanes used by many countries, so we are not too far from civilization. An encounter with either the Royal Navy or the French is likely in these waters. This causes me concern as I can ill afford the loss of more men to their wretched press gangs!
With regard to my cargo, should anyone search it, I am carrying innocuous goods to my immediate destination, however, on the return trip, I may be forced to deliver to France cargo of quite a different nature.

Dawson quickly set down his quill and held the page over the nearby candle, watching the paper burn away into nothing. He shook his head at his momentary carelessness for having put such information into his personal log entries. The long night fighting the storm plus the knock on the head he took on deck must have confused him. He rewrote the latter portion of his log, carefully omitting anything incriminating. Should he be searched by one of His Majesty's war ships, he did not want the boarding officers to find anything that may invite further questions, possibly leading to the seizure of his ship.

"On deck there! Sail ho!" Dawson leaped to his feet and headed up on deck where most of his crew were bustling about with repairs, the sound of hammers momentarily suspended as all eyes fastened on the tiny speck of white canvas just over the horizon. Too far away to discern what kind of ship it was, let alone what nationality she belonged to.

His sailing master, Thomas Cullin, approached and held out a glass for him.

"Who shall we hope for, sir?"

Peering through the glass, Dawson noted the stranger was still too far away for identification but it was definitely approaching them. He was certain of it.

"Well, let's hope she's one of ours. These are waters used by Americans. Our merchant fleet is second in size only to our British cousins. It may be a Yankee merchant."

He put the glass back up to his eye. She was closer now – and increasing speed. But she was facing in such a direction that her colors were obscured by the sun's glare.

Joseph appearedby his side just then, this shirt nearly dry now from last night.

"Father, who is it?"

Dawson turned to his son and furrowed his brow.

"Has the surgeon seen to this? Was this from the storm?" He gently touched the rather pronounced bruise forming on the boy's face.

"It is nothing, father. I was struck by a falling spar while working the sails. It was my own fault for not getting out of the way sooner. Who is approaching?"

Despite his concern, Dawson smiled. His boy was tough and well on his way to becoming a competent sailor.

"I am not certain yet. She's heading at us straight from the east and the sun is making it hard to see. Here take a look," he handed the boy his glass.

After several minutes of watching, Joseph held out the glass. "Father, she is flying English colors."

Dawson took the glass back and saw it for himself. She was a fast ship, that was certain. A three-masted frigate approaching them at least at 7 or 8 knots, and flying the English ensign.

"Joseph, the storm torn away our flag in the night. Run up a newflag, if you please. You know where I keep them."

The boy nodded and ran aft as thesailing master, Cullin, approached Dawson and stared at the approaching frigate.

"She has 28 guns, sir." keeping his voice low.

"I see them."

"We are crippled and cannot run from them." Cullin continued, never taking his eyes from the British ship, now less than 300 yards from them, and closing. Nearly within hailing range.

"What do we do, Captain?"

"Take the offensive. Hand me my speaking trumpet."

End of Chapter 2