The Sea Officer Bentley Thrillers

by Jan Needle

  The Bretons, whether they really despised the French or not, were more than happy to be on board a British vessel – as Jacqueline now was – and worked as well as anyone could want from seamen. They had pointed out the arms caches, including, they insisted, the most secret ones, and the captain’s special wine and spirit stocks, and freshest food. They had not complained about the constant vigilance upon them, nor being shackled up to sleep when the weather had permitted such a luxury, with Imbert, a rather modest man of only about eighteen, seeming quite heartened to be taken for a threat. They had both said also, in English and in French, that they would sign Navy Articles if it should be so desired. Strange patriotism, opined London Jack one night to Will, but not unusual, they both agreed. It made Will think long and sadly of Céline, who had saved his life, and probably been hanged for it. A patriot to France, a friend to England, and an enemy of war and humbug everywhere.

  When they raised the coast of Jamaica next day, a pale smudge rising from the misty morning, they began to wonder what they would find. Both Gunning and Jack Ashdown – who knew the coast quite well – had noted mountain peaks and other landmarks, and taken bearings right along the shoreline till the day they had hit upon the Jacqueline, so knew roughly what they were looking out for, and roughly when they saw it. They had moved too far eastward, but not by many leagues, and they had a good set, and offing enough, to sail a handsome course nor-westward that would bring them to their fellows. They passed the cove where they had taken Jacqueline at about ten miles off, but were not much tempted to go and take a look at their abandoned French adversaries. They wanted Captain Kaye. His face when he saw what they had brought him would be worth a quart of brandy.

  Thinking that, Will thanked his lucky stars and Providence that Gunning had shown no wish to fall on the brandy that they had on board their prize. As usual when the going had got hard, the London man had proved his worth in trumps. But how strange, how tragic, Bentley thought, that at other times he would go mad for it, would risk everything to get his head at bottle or at bung. How strange that he would always risk his own life, but stay sober long enough to save another man’s.

  There was brandy on board the Jacqueline in great supply, and wine, and strange liqueurs. No beer – apparently the French eschewed such piss – but beef and bread in plenty, and pork, and onions, and dried fish and pickled cabbages. And small armaments and powder, carriage pieces and round shot, chain and grape, and an armoury of swords and cutlasses that would equip a hundred men. No cargo though, and no great room for it. She was a privateer most probably, or maybe a message boat, or a link in France’s naval chain that one day was due across the North Atlantic to wrest all prizes from the English Crown and planters. Perrin and Imbert, closely questioned, were convincing in their lack of knowledge, although Will could not believe entirely what they said. Like it or lump it, though, according to them she was a petty armed trader, and not a Navy ship at all. There were no papers in the captain’s cabin that Will could find; which meant that they were hidden well, or the French commander was conscientious, and had them safe onshore with him.

  “What matter, what the hell?” said Gunning, as they mulled it over. “She’s ours now, and she is a very proper little ship. Once we’ve got a foremast up again and got a rigger on the job, we’ve got a better ship than my old Biter, in some ways. Is she ours? We’ve taken her in war – is she our property?”

  Will laughed.

  “Oh you, Jack! You say you are not a Navy man, but I’ll bet their lordships disagree! In any way I am Navy, and I’m in command here. No, she is not our ship, she is his Majesty’s, she is a prize. If you were an officer, indeed, you’d be entitled to prize money, but you ain’t! Maybe it’s time to bow to the inevitable!”

  As they approached the shoreline Ashdown climbed to the truck to use a spyglass, and after an hour or so of gazing he hailed that he could see the camp. There was a fire, there were pale patches that could be canvas, and there was some sort of compound, or a wall. Will questioned him at length from the quarterdeck, but Ashdown confessed that he was stumped. Gunning went aloft with another glass, and the younger Frenchman swarmed up to cling to the bare pole beneath Ashdown’s feet. But patience was the order of the day. Until they got closer it remained a mystery.

  “It’s a stockade!” yelled Ashdown finally. “It’s a bloody fort! We’ve come to the wrong bay, sir! If they’ve got big cannons we’ll be blown to buggery!”

  Consternation flooded Bentley. He gazed at the shoreline, but from where he was saw nothing. He checked the skyline and was sure they’d made it right. The Worm, at the tiller, was unconscious and indifferent. To him, it was just a lovely sail.

  Gunning shouted down: “Don’t fret, Mr Bentley. There isn’t a cannon built can shoot this far. Stand in as you are, sir. We’ll soon see better.”

  Aye, thought Will. But what if there’s a French ship hidden? A man of war?

  He dismissed the thought. The coast was long and pretty straight beyond this bay. No creeks, no inlets, no hiding place. Christ, he told himself impatiently, it must be them! What sort of bloody fortress?

  “Mr Gunning!” he shouted upwards. “What sort of fort is it? Is it built of stone?”

  Then François Imbert cried: “En bois! Espèce de palisade!”

  “Oh shit!” Will shouted, overjoyed. “They’ve built one out of wood! We go in, Mr Gunning! Come down and lay on sail!”

  There was another conference as they got closer, but that was easy overcome. Almost inevitably they found an English ensign in the Jacqueline’s flag locker, and they ran it to the highest point they could. They recognised the Biter’s yawl as it scurried to the beach from where it had been at anchor just offshore, and ascertained the fortress had no more boats to row out and fight them with. As they knew no guns or powder had been lifted from the wreck, it left only the possibility Kaye and his cohorts had been overwhelmed and the stockade was filled with warlike Maroons who would wait until they walked up the beach then set on them and cut them down. None of them believed it.

  They did proceed with caution, however, as they made the last approach, with Ashdown standing at a loaded swivel gun in the waist, a slow-match in his hand. It could be ranged onshore if necessary, but could also sweep the deck. Perhaps this would be the moment for Imbert and Perrin to refind their loyalty to King Louis once again.

  Not a bit of it. The anchor dropped, sails idle. Will and Gunning stood on the foredeck in ostentation, and perfect peace. As the onshore breeze swung the vessel round its cable, they walked back to the stern to see Captain Kaye emerge from a gateway in the wood stockade and wave in jubilation. They heard his “Halloo!” faintly through the breeze, and then more men poured out and joined him. By this time Will and Gunning were in the skiff, and pulling hard towards the greeting party. Worm and Ashdown stayed on board, where Perrin and Imbert had allowed themselves to be wrist-bound once more. Within the strange lights of seamen everywhere, they were considered shipmates.

  Slack Dickie Kaye, Will, Sam, Taylor – all of them – were frankly overjoyed, and did not try hard to dissemble it. Within minutes tales were passed, joint admirations expressed, and seamen organised to go out to the Jacqueline to bring off essential stores and the Frenchmen and the Worm. All three of them were looked and poked at, and found not wanting in any great essential, with Worm in particular deemed a marvel as he regaled them with wild tales of seamanship and slavery. His was the only black face in the camp now Bob was gone, and oddly, it was some half an hour before Will noticed this.

  They were drinking wine and eating sweetmeats in a circle – Slack Dickie fell upon life’s new-found luxuries with amazing gusto – and the histories of the last few days were being swapped. Dick had received a quick inventory of the French ship’s treasures and crowed at the details of her cutting-out, while Will and Gunning were most impressed at the spiky fortress that had sprung up in the wilderness of sand and scrub that was the foreshore. It was only when Gunning inquired aft
er Maroon attacks, and Kaye let out a laugh and mentioned a captive, that Bentley clicked.

  “A captive? What, you mean they’ve – Oh, good God! Where is little Bob?!”

  Kaye was delighted.

  “He’s got back home to Africa!” he cried, “He’s gone back to the people that he came from!”

  Will was gripped by foreboding. He sent a look to Sam, most quizzical. Sam shook his head, attempting to reassure.

  “The captain’s right,” he said. “No, no, not dead, Will! He esca— we let him go to them. There were black men in the bushes, and he longed for them, so we let him go.”

  “You let him go, not we!” said Captain Kaye. “It was not I, Mr Bentley, although I would ha’ done if I’d thought of it. Nay, it was Lieutenant Holt’s idea alone, and I applaud him. I had had good service from the child, but all good things, you know. He has some skills will stand him in good stead among the lusty savages, you must take my word!”

  His humour was lascivious, and it made Will shudder; but he was glad the boy had gone, indeed. When he heard later, privately from Sam, what Kaye and his cohorts had put him through before he got his freedom, the relief intensified. The details of the diving attempts were horrifying.

  The salvage was not over, though, and now he had the Jacqueline, Kaye’s enthusiasm knew no bounds. His plan was this, he told his officers: the carpenter and sailmaker would complete and rig the new foremast, all spare hands would finish off the stockade, and musket men would cover them from land attack at all times until the work was done. If they lifted much from off the Biter wreck then well and good, but if not, then good also. They now had a small but handy ship, and tools, and food, and arms and shot and powder. When she was fully seaworthy they would set sail for Port Royal, to turn up there in triumph to a heroes’ welcome. A prize, and two prisoners as well! They would be admirals!

  “She won’t be stuffed with gold, though,” Gunning said. “Although she will be stuffed with Frenchmen, if you should desire it. Why take back two when we could have forty-odd? War prisoners not merely look good to the loyal populace, they can be ransomed. Who knows, some of ’em might be rich!”

  “Explain,” said Captain Kaye.

  “They can’t get off the beach where we cut out the brig from,” London Jack replied. “We left them naught to sail on, and according to our friend Old Worm, only a goat could get up out of that bay by land. He did, but then he is a goat, don’t doubt it. They’re stuck on the beach with little food and no main armament, just muskets and their swords. We scuttled our jollyboat and one of their cutters as we buggered off, and they’re ripe for picking. And on our way home, as a benefit!”

  “Hhm,” said Captain Kaye. “That interests. That interests indeed. No treasure, but a ship and prisoners. It is a gratifying prospect.”

  “There might be gold as well,” Will put in. “Well, at least as much a chance as getting Biter’s…”

  Kaye ignored the jibe, but smiled a little.

  “Go on, then?”

  “According to Worm,” said Will, “the Scotchmen are alive. He’s seen them in the forests round about, and found their boat disabled on the foreshore when he ran off from the French. They have gone inland, and they’ll have their treasure with them, won’t they? The bags they took off of the Santa. Find the Scotchmen, find some silver, find some jewellery and cash.”

  Kaye’s eyes were dreamy.

  “Find them; hang them,” he said quietly, “justice is done, and the nation’s treasure’s saved. Glory, we really would be admirals…”

  Over half a week, the work forged on. The riggers rigged, the builders built, the divers risked their lives to no advantage that anyone but Kaye could see. Two men had eardrums burst, one was blinded for more than half a day, and one man shit himself spectacularly, naked at thirty feet. The depth attained did get better though, and some of the younger men began to find it awful fun. They vied for who could hold his breath the best, they vied to win the brandy prizes Kaye doled out (through Purser Black, who made a tidy profit with liquor lifted from the Jacqueline), and they vied to find efficient ways of getting down. Some tied rocks to their wrists with quick-release hitches, some hauled themselves down knotted, anchored lines hand over hand. Tom Tilley or sometimes Tommy Hugg oversaw the operations from the yawl, and saved lives when someone needed yanking up. They also measured depths-achieved, and set up a wild hallooing whenever another fathom mark was passed.

  For some reason, which increased the competition several-fold, the young French seamen Imbert was the best. He was a shy and timid man, who hung back two days from volunteering, and was only taken in the boat at first because the captain thought that he might run if left on shore. Perrin was free of such suspicion, having finally admitted he was a gentleman of sorts, with money vested in the Jacqueline. His word was all Kaye needed.

  François Imbert suggested that he might try and dive after yet another volunteer had ended up half-conscious in the bottom of the boat. He made his point by taking an enormous breath of air, and holding onto it. At first the Englishmen observed him with the mildest curiosity, but as the seconds passed, the interest grew. One of the lads sucked down some air to give him competition, and when he burst it out again, Imbert was still impassive, still inflated, and showing not a single symptom of distress. They had no watch nor sand-glass for an accurate assessment, but when he at last began to throb, his cheeks to puff, his facial muscles and his neck to twist and clench, it was already a phenomenon, a wonder. On shore afterwards, to their messmates, the sailors claimed three minutes, four, maybe even five. Balderdash indeed; but it was almost double the next best English time.

  Thereafter they took their cues from him, and watched to learn fine points of his technique. Seven fathoms was passed, and after two more days they made it slightly under eight. The highest level of the sunken hull was at nine fathoms and a half, give or take a foot or so depending on the tide, and by the time the Jacqueline had two masts once more, and yards, and sails bent on and ready, men had started to believe it could be done. Imbert, who spoke enough of their language not to be hated out of hand in the fine old English way, became a shipmate to be proud of, and a kind of mascot known as Frank or Frenchie Amber. After all, he was like to earn them money; lots of it.

  Came the day, though, when Slack Dickie said they must set sail. Among the divers this could have caused a mutiny, except they were certain they’d be back because their captain was a greedy bastard, just like them, and they had begun to love him for it. The non-divers needed less persuading, because now the backbreaking, grinding, sweating building work was finished they were bored. Kaye had not kept them short of food or liquor, and there were fights and racing matches to fill in the leisure time, but without mantraps to dig, and trees to cut and fashion, there was little else. No – Little Else would have been another matter, as some wag quipped; Little Else or Middle Meg or Big Boozy Bertha herself. Hugg and Tilley put the idea about that there was quim at Kingston and Port Royal, extraordinary amounts of it – black quim, brown quim, Spanish quim and English. And jugs of rum ad libitum.

  Sam and William, as befitted the sobersides element, quizzed Kaye about the wisdom of abandoning such a stronghold, in case somebody took it over. He scoffed at this idea, and not without good reason. Why would anyone want to live upon this beach, he asked? The stockade was defensible, but what had savages to defend? And contra whom? And why should any ship put into here again, ever, did they think? It had nothing, not a harbour, not a field, and water a long haul way, even if new people should ever find it. All that was visible of the Biter wreck was a floating end of old topgallant mast, and they could cut that off an’ all, if it so pleased them. There was treasure down below, but no one knew that except themselves, and even they could not at present get to it. At present, though, he emphasised. They would return.

  “We will return to get the silver, and will track down and get those Scotch Lamonts as well,” he said. “We’ll trap them as a bear is trapped
by honey, we’ll let them know somehow there’s money to be had. They will not keep away, will they? They are incapable. And then we’ll catch and kill them.”

  His bitterness towards the Lamont brothers interested Will and Sam, as did his lack of animosity towards John Gunning. London Jack had hit the bottle the day the Jacqueline had come to shore, and had drunk himself insensible for four whole days, since when he’d been incapable, and murderously ill-tempered. He had beaten Surgeon Grundy with a broken oar-blade, kicked the purser till he was black and blue, and almost drowned Rat Baines for sneaking mouthfuls from one of his many bottles. However gross his actions, Slack Dickie had indulged him, with a smile.

  While the stockade and the beach were cleared of every last thing that could have been of aid or use to anyone, Gunning had lain down in the beating sun and groaned or farted, sometimes both at once. He had been loaded into the yawl, swung on board with a tackle from the mainyard, and lain down to sleep the day away beside the binnacle. The anchor was weighed, the sails were set and trimmed, and the Jacqueline achieved a bit of sea room then headed east. The weather was glorious and the breeze was fair, and Kaye was jubilant.

  “Heigh ho!” he said, to Will and Sam. “Off to Port Royal and that heroes’ welcome! Banquets, celebrations, the bon ton!

  “And the gels, boys. Oh, just think of it, my lads! The gels! Heigh ho! God bless ’em…”

  Chapter Eleven

  Deborah, who had a tendency to think that life would turn out better in the end, began to realise in her third week at the women’s town that she might be wrong. As she weeded and tended with the other women, listening to their conversation across the rows of papau and cassava, her mind turned often to her Stockport home, and her lost mother. It occurred to her her Ma had known that she was leaving before she had herself, and had known, moreover, why it had to happen.

  Because her father was a beast was the apparent reason, because he was cruel to both these women in his life, unbearable. But no. Really, it was because Deb knew that all she had to do was run, and all would turn out well. Her father was a bully – therefore, find a man who wasn’t. Her employment making hats and caps and bonnets was a job to drive one mad (a half a joke and more than half a truth) so the remedy was quit. Friend Cecily was a like-minded girl – Deb’s mother said they shared the same rose tinted spectacles – so one day they upped and left. Whatever else her abandoned mother would have had to say about it, Deb realised at last she would not have been surprised.