The Sea Officer Bentley Thrillers

by Jan Needle

  The brothers Jeremy and Jonathan (Joseph being perhaps too young to care), agreed with this, and were prepared to take it further. If there was a “grumbling for revenge” indeed, then they should show these savages some sense and manners, and take revenge straight back to them. The camp had got off lightly, they persuaded themselves without much hardship, and they took their sister’s point that somehow they’d been tricked. That the slut had disappeared the night they’d gone for her was surely no coincidence, and that she was still enjoying freedom while their poor father was rotting in his grave put fire in their blood.

  “What proof have we indeed he was a Treaty man?” asked Jeremy, in conclusion. “He’s just an eyeless maggot now, and no one has come to claim his head. It is probably just the niggers piping up a storm. What care they for life, in any way? It’s nothing to them, and it never has been. I do not believe the so-called Captain Jacob can be missed.”

  They tried once more to get Kaye to pledge some help, but he was not for turning. His ship would be back in Port Royal shortly, tried out and tested, and as soon as ever she could be stocked and fully manned they would sail west, he said. He could not, naturally, go into details of their task, but suffice to say he was under orders very strict. The thought of lifting treasure – either from the wreck, as he intended, or from the Scotchmen’s haul from the Santa, as Captain Shearing thought – led him on to money, and the other job in hand. The excitement over Sir Nat’s death and everything had pushed it to the background in one sense, but opened up another tempting creeklet.

  “I hope I shall not be very long,” he said. “And what’s more, I’m half expecting my associate will come here sometime soon. You know, Captain Daniel Swift, Will Bentley’s uncle. I am confident that we shall do some business then.”

  Business, as always, fired up the Siddlehams, except for the dowager and the youngsters, who had not been much in evidence since the old man’s death, and very soon the troubles were forgot while they sat drinking juleps and gazing out across the sea. Kaye had received impressions that Sir Nat’s death had changed some things materially, but was not certain, yet, what it might precisely mean. There had been hints that “poor Mama” was no longer happy in the place where “dear Papa” had died, and that the younger ladies, Lucy and Elizabeth, were making representations for a large change in their life.

  Subtle to the nicest degree, but Kaye suspected the family might be considering some sort of move. What – back to England? To another holding? Out of sugar altogether? He did not know, they would not say. But he had dropped his own hints that such a place as theirs would be the acme of ambition, though far beyond financial dreams, and there had been much fluttering of fans and archness, with blushes from Marianne and not-so-subtle jeus de mot from him. Also hints about connections he enjoyed, and hopes that they might naturally develop.

  Riding to his lodging late one evening after a discussion of the failing Sutton place, and how easy it would be to wrench away, Kaye was on air. He loved Marianne, and she loved him. The brothers were his friends, and could see the value in connecting their two families. The estate was large, and rich, and most successful, and he would get a dowry too! As he gave the mule into the care of one of Mather’s grooms, he almost gave vent to a little song. He was a successful captain, of a happy ship. He would make a most successful sugar planter, too.

  The Siddlehams’ conviction that the death of Tsingi would “hardly cause a stir among the savages” was undermined a little in a few short days, when his head, already stripped of the bulk of rotting flesh by birds of carrion, was “stolen” from its stake and disappeared. Had no traces been left behind wild animals could have been held responsible, but the overseers reported much evidence of black magic rituals, that the island whites knew variously as voodoo, hudu, obi or obeah, and the slaves would not name consistently. Its effect on them, though, was signal: many dropped their tools and refused to work despite some beatings, and there was a widespread and general wailing from the womenfolk. It was held, the slave drivers reported, that the estate was under curse.

  Cursing was certainly the order of the day inside the house. Jeremy and Jonathan dressed down their overseers, and Lucy and Elizabeth enthusiastically chastised the household “girls” for disobedience and “mumbo jumbo cheek.” When Kaye came visiting, as he did like clockwork every day, he found the place in preparation for the mounting of another raid, this time involving all the planters, not just a scattering to give “backbone” to the bloodhounds. He was asked once more to come, and he said once more he could not. In fact, this time his reasons were compelling: the signal station at the Twelve Apostles had reported the Jacqueline back in sight. The wind was light, but in some few hours she would be alongside the quay and ready to be loaded.

  “That is a pity, sir,” said Jeremy. “For I think it should be wondrous fun. This time we plan to finish off the job, we’ll burn the camp down and we’ll kill or chase off everyone who’s in it. That includes that damn white whore, who presumably is back again, as she for certain is behind the desecration of our little charnel yard. I wish her joy of the filthy trophy of her nigger-love she got. She’s caught the plague for certain if she kissed that maggot-mouth.”

  Kaye had understood that the Maroons of Jacob’s band were of the eastern hills, with small connection to the woodland camp, but it was by no means his place to question. He did feel, though, that to leave the plantation house and women bordered on foolhardy, and, because of love, he said so. He was pooh-poohed.

  “Ha!” said Jeremy. “You have been talking to old Andrew Mather, sir – he is a woman! He lost some family many years ago and has not got over it. My two overseers will stay, my drivers are all loyal men, and holdings are often left with less when reprisals must be done. And my sister is a lioness! She is a match for any man, be he black or white!”

  Marianne, who had entered the room and heard the last of this, smiled thinly as she let Kaye touch her gloved hand with his lips.

  “Indeed,” she said. “A very tigress, also, whichever is more fearsome. But Captain Kaye – I must be frank. If you must part from us, I care little what might befall me in your absence. There – I am bold!” Her smile widened. “But I do beg of you, sir, return as soon as ever possible. In that, there is no jest.”

  Poor Dick was holed beneath the waterline, and lost. He felt close as a toucher to giving up his commission on the spot to stay with this woman, and he did believe she was invincible. When he left eventually to go and meet the Jacqueline, the plantation’s preparations for the expedition were well underway. This time it had been decided to rope the Suttons in, as Alf had many years’ experience in hunting blacks, and it was expected that the quarry would be spread out wide. As he rode away, Kaye heard the sound of cane-knives being honed on grinding-stones. The bloodhounds were re-arming.

  *

  The Jacqueline, being warped and nudged into the quayside berth, looked sharp and fine for sea. As the sails were stowed the hatch covers were coming off, and the dockyard men were manhandling crates and barrels swinging from her yardarms. Kaye stepped aboard to the required piping, but the sense of urgency made such ceremony a thought irrelevant. Lieutenants Holt and Bentley gave smart salutes, and London Jack tipped his hat sardonically. They moved below out of the ruckus, and Will reported she was “smart and stable, and in readiness.” He did not say so, but his eyes shone for news of Deb, and Kaye – who knew what love pangs were now – strove to put the best shine on the news.

  “They went,” he said. “They made a raid into the woodland, as I guess you knew. But they did not find her, Mr Bentley. Some were killed, about a half a dozen I believe. But she was gone already.”

  Will let a breath out, striving to hide the juddering. He feared that there was more to come.

  “Thank you, sir,” he said. “And then?”

  “They are going back again,” said Kaye. “They killed a Maroon captain, but they do not think the thing is finished. There has been talk of disaffec
tion, and the idea is to preempt them, to get their blow in first. That is… as I understand it.”

  Will said nothing. Holt said this: “Will she escape? Can she get away? How many men are going?”

  “She got away last time,” Kaye said. “Mayhap she had a spy who gave a warning. There are many going; more than last time, and all the white men, too. But if there is an informer surely, she has had a damn good start. I would not give up hope, Will. I would not give up hope at all.”

  “I wish to stay,” said Will. “I beg your pardon, sir, I’m well aware I cannot, but it’s just that…” A note of bitterness crept in. “I beg your pardon. I know you do not consider Miss Tomelty… she is just… I would dearly like to know her safe, is all.”

  Kaye was not good at being avuncular, but he did his best. He said gruffly: “I understand. I have a proposition of my own. I am not certain Captain Shearing will approve, but… Lieutenant Bentley, I am going to sail tonight, or even in the night if she takes that long to vittle up and arm. I want you to stay in Port Royal. And you, Lieutenant Holt. It is a… we have men here, who will need knocking into shape when they are fit again. There is…” He had run out of ideas. And then, a flash of inspiration: “Your uncle, Mr Bentley. Daniel Swift. We must expect him any day, he cannot be long now, can he? I think you should be here to greet him, or rather bring him up-to-date. What say you?”

  What could he say? Will looked at Kaye in deepest gratitude, but could only blink.

  “By God, Captain Kaye,” Sam put in briskly. “That is damn decent, sir, and a rather fine idea. Mr Bentley – you will be very near at hand, whatever happens.”

  “Aye,” said Kaye. “But both of you, hear this. There is perhaps another motive for my generosity. The Siddlehams are going in a mass, the brothers, neighbours, all those murderers they call their bloodhounds. The only guards left at the Siddlehams’ will be some drivers, mayhap an overseer or two. But there are women there. Old Lady Siddleham, and… the young ladies. Now do you follow me?”

  “But is it so…?” Will started. “I mean, sir, is it a problem, hereabouts? Surely the brothers would not…?”

  Kaye was embarrassed. His hands went out in deprecation, and he smiled.

  “In truth,” he said, “I must imagine not. But Mr Bentley. You of all people can surely…?”

  “Ah,” said Sam. “The fair maid Marianne. Will, we must be on hand in case of an emergency. Two bold lieutenants without a bed to lay our heads in, and a garrison of sick and hurt. Most capital.”

  Kaye said stiffly: “It pleases you to mock, but there you are, sir, what can I say? Your wild imaginings to one side, it still means you get some time in harbour instead of on that pestilential shore, and you can drink and whore yourself to death for all I care. For certain nothing ill will happen at the house, but if you did hear aught you could go and have a look. And remember, it is not just the young lady, as you think, but our investment, also. I may tell you now the Siddleham estate is… well, suffice to say if Dan Swift came ashore and you have pissed it all away – well rather you should face him out than I!”

  All in all it suited everyone, and Kaye called in a bottle and they took a hearty drink. While Gunning supervised the readying of the ship and everybody worked like veritable slaves, the captain made last visits to the Offices to square his plan with Shearing (who happily was back in harness) and agree accommodation for his two lieutenants. He also bespoke a gig for them, without a crew, in the unlikely event that they would need a hull. In such time, it was assumed the ague men in the stable-cum-hospital would be fit enough to pull an oar.

  Then Kaye made his last visit to the house up on the hill, and mooned around a little with Miss Siddleham until she was quite sick of him (she told him archly), at which he made his last farewell and left. It was just before dusk that the mooring lines were dropped, and the dockyard oarsmen hauled the Jacqueline out towards the outer harbour and past the Twelve Apostles. The evening offshore breeze was not in evidence as yet, so she lay on the uneasy swell for quite some time, her canvas flapping idle.

  Finally, grown as impatient as Jack Gunning when there was clear water to be made, Kaye gave the orders for sweeps to be shipped, and the little brig began her plod towards the open sea. Not a man on board that did not treat it with relief, however hard the pulling.

  Chapter Twenty

  With the Jacqueline gone, Bentley and Holt were at a loose end. They had been charged to stay by Kaye for a reason they thought half spurious, and were as out of water as two proverbial ducks. The boat Jackson assigned to them next morning was lying alongside a wormy Navy hulk, and was old and filthy, half full of water, with its sails and gear locked up on shore.

  Jackson, when they asked what they should do – offering, as it were, to be of help to him – chose to ignore them, while Shearing was politer but not a lot more help. The Offices ran like clockwork when the Squadron was at sea, as he explained it, even hinting that most of the time their duties were more social than strictly military. Or put another way, as Sam said later to his friend, “there’s naught to do but drink yourself to death: viz Jackson!” Shearing did point out the Biter crew were convalescing, and it would be a good thing to assess their current state and when they might be fit once more to take up arms.

  He smiled his easy smile, and added, “Your Mr Grundy is attending to their every need. If I were their officer, that would inspire me to go and seek ’em out. If you be quick, you might even find some alive enough to twitch!”

  That was a good thought, and when they found the grubby little den they were ashamed in part they had not been before. It was dark and airless, and Grundy was nowhere to be seen. James Manning and Mart Rosser, two able men they’d known as good on board, were the most senior hands of the seven left “laid up” and they said cheerfully that they were “damn near better.” The other five would soon be on their feet, they hoped, although Slade and Venables “would never be much use again, if indeed they ever were.” In fact Venables, a young and very pleasant farmer’s lad who had been pressed, got on his feet only two days later, then collapsed and died. Mr Grundy, said Manning, was mostly drunk – though never caught out drinking – and it was three black women who kept the men alive. Tommy Hugg, indeed, before he’d been discharged back to the Jacqueline, had married one of them!

  Mart Rosser laughed.

  “Case of having to with Tom Tilley gone,” he said. “Two giant hearts that beat as one, they was, till along comes a mosquito with a stinger like a midget’s prick! Nellie’s good though; sterling stuff. She thinks he’s married her for ever…”

  Good works, though, do not take overlong, and pretty soon the two officers were on the street once more, taking in the sights and sounds of old Port Royal, which were rich and varied to the point of madness. The heat as ever was a constant crushing weight as they absorbed the riot of colour and of noise, the ships loading and unloading, the sombre mundanity of the slave pens and the market. These were empty for the moment, but they led to talk of Sweetface and his radical ideas, and how they both, increasingly, feared he had been right. The quays were empty but the sad trappings were there, the chains and shackles, the auctioneers’ platforms, the whipping-posts. They found the setting of the island beautiful, the sea a sparkling delight. But it was a monument to beastliness, a most egregious place. And it led to thoughts of Deborah, who was with slaves, or had run away with them again, or was maybe… what? Will did not know, that was the worst. He did not know. He had an overwhelming need to find the truth.

  They considered visiting the Siddlehams, but without Richard Kaye they wondered what there was to say. Although the older sons were of an age with them they were playboys, verging on the wastrel, and the damsels a kind of unknown country.

  Love and manhood had become an urgent matter, oddly, for the pair of them, where a few short months ago it had been hardly thought about, and certainly not a subject for mutual confidence. Will had listened to Holt’s stories of scurrility, had disbelieved t
hem at first then realised they were true, and then had marvelled at his friend’s vulgarity. One day Deb had swum into his ken, and somehow they had gone to bed together, and later Sam had met Felicity. Not vulgarity then, but the very opposite, he supposed – they had found “love.” They talked about it as they watched the sun go down over the dark, dark sea, and were both moved by how quickly, in this tropic zone, the world also changed itself so fundamentally.

  “Christ, Will,” said Sam. “I do love Felicity, I’m sure of it, and yet I’ve only met her once and you’re engaged to marry her! It is a mess, this life, old friend. And you love Deborah and God only knows now how she lives, and where.”

  Or if, thought Will, strangled by a sudden, aching gloom. But he did not put that into words. He ordered more wine, and hoped that he might find out soon.

  It came that night, the first pointer to the truth, and it came in the person of a bluff, ill-favoured, lumpy woman who had found out their lodgings and was waiting for them when they returned. They were nowhere near drunk, although they had been drinking solidly, and they were even farther from the state called “merry.” They had agreed with utter frankness that their lives were passing bleak, and they had realised, with a kind of mild surprise, that they missed the Biter – well, the Jacqueline – well, their ship and shipmates. Maybe they were drunk after all; or at least, not fully sober. Had either been a singing man, they might have gone for mournful airs.

  The woman’s Irish accent made Jack Ashdown’s burr sound almost courtly when she said her name was Bridie Connor, and she worked for a man called Sutton, and was a friend of Deb Tomelty. More than a friend, she said, a messenger. More than that – she brought news that Deborah was safe.