The Sea Officer Bentley Thrillers

by Jan Needle

  Angus and his brothers looked at him in the throbbing night, and the fire threw shadows across his bulbous cheeks. Wee Doddie spoke.

  “Fair uzz it then?”

  Carver licked his lips.

  “Where’s what?”

  “Do ye wannae fikkin’ dee?”

  Mick Carver put his hand inside his shirt and pulled out a leather drawstring bag. He turned it inside-out. Empty. He tried to smile.

  “The nigger’s got it. He thought he was top dog. Ask him.”

  Chattel was a realist, and produced the coins without a murmur. Angus took them, looked at them, and shoved them carelessly into a pocket. It occurred to Carver that there might be more, hidden on the corpse of Ledermann. Perhaps some time he’d take a look, if the beasts had not scattered the meat and bones too far.

  “There’s plenty more where they came from,” said Seth Pond, ingratiatingly. “Timba got them. He’s your man.”

  Timba smiled, a smile of pride and pleasure.

  “I best,” he said. “Good divee man. Go get up all him treasure.”

  The Scots ignored him – it was their method, Carver decided, to listen hard, say nothing, pick their course of action – but they moved on to the current situation. Slack Dickie’s return, the renewed salvage by Royal Navy men. Timba, anxious now for more appreciation maybe, poured scorn on “white man divee boys,” and said they would not get it if they tried until the moon grew ears. Dod silenced him with savagery, but picked the brains of Carver and the whites, who agreed that Dick was slow, but guessed that he could do it, given time. Except, said Fat Mick, carefully, time was at a premium.

  The Lamonts looked at him, eyes level, uninterested. Like hell, thought Mick; like hell.

  “Well,” he continued, “it stands to reason, don’t it? We’re the Navy. We got sent out to the Carib to do some sort of job, not play pop and buggery. There’s a war on, ain’t there? Pound to a pennyworth of shit Slack Dick’ll get called back to Kingston. He’ll have to leave it. And then…”

  He stopped. The three pale-haired men regarded him.

  “Then fit?”

  “And then we carry on. If they’ve lifted any they’ll take it with them, maybe, or maybe leave it in the fort. But they won’t have got a lot. They got no nigger lads to do the going down.”

  Timba smiled, his silencing forgotten.

  “Nigger-lads good divee men. Me best nigger-lad.”

  “Leave it innee fort? Wi’oot a guard an’ all? Why shouldee dae ’at?”

  Carver felt he had the upper hand. Knowledge was power. But his answer to the Scot was polite, and deferential.

  “If’n they took it back to Port Royal somebody’d notice, the lads would boast. But the Biter don’t exist no more, do she? Even dippy Dickie ain’t going to let their lordships know he’s got the silver. Is he?”

  “So the stuff’ll be there,” explained Seth Pond. “Slack Dickie’ll…”

  The intensity of their pale grey eyes penetrated even Pond’s stupidity. He shut up.

  Carver said: “In any way, if they’ve taken it or no, there’s still a bloody hold-full, ain’t there? And we’ve got the divers and the guns. And, if they came back sudden-like, we’ve got the fort as well. Now come on, Angus, we’ve done all right, ain’t we? There’s treasure for the picking. And it’s ours.”

  “How far uz it?” said Angus. “Mebbe time we took a wee keek.”

  “We need more men, an’all,” said Fat Mickie. His voice was filled with satisfaction, and relief. “We need more divers, and Chattel here can find ’em for us. We were searching when Black Bobbie blundered into you. Chattel says we’ll find some men nearby.”

  “Guid,” Wee Doddie said. He turned his gaze on Chattel. “If ye dinnae, ma wee loon – ye’ll be paying wi’ yer ba’s. Ah’ll bite ’em aff an’ spit ’em oot. Aye. Ye’d best believe.”

  Chattel did believe. But still he kept his counsel.

  *

  Deborah and Mildred were certain that their presence was known about, recorded, for every mile they penetrated west. Although they were lone females they were not molested, and neither did they starve, but they had no clear knowledge if the communication worked both ways, or it they were getting near their goal. They gave messages to be conveyed to Bridie, but they did not know for sure that she had got them. They heard that there had been a “slaughtering” in the east, but they had no idea who had been involved. Deb asked, in English and Kreyole, about white sailormen, or ships, or about the fate of Bridie, but got no significant reply. Mildred spoke in native languages, but said that she learned nothing, either. But she remained confident, she insisted, that if the bloodhounds were still in the hunt for them they were no nearer, and that if real danger should threaten them, somehow they would be saved. Marlowe would find them when it pleased him to. When he was sure, perhaps, the white maid was no spy.

  They were heading for the badlands in the west, beyond the Cock Pits possibly, but they took a southern route to avoid the harshest of the high terrain and the lower marshlands. The way was long and hard, and was inevitably convergent with the path the Lamonts took while seeking extra men. The Scotsmen’s infamy had already spread in this part of the island, but they had attractions, too – they’d kill whites as happily as blacks, and would win gold for those who wanted it and weapons for those who preferred a short life but a jolly one. They thus recruited many would-be divers, and many fighting men. They also heard about the white maid wandering the forests. And they wanted her.

  Mildred and Deborah, conversely, had heard about the “white man gang,” and Deb’s first great hopes of succour from them had quickly been dispelled. The news had come first in Kreyole too fast for her to follow, but she had caught essentials that made her question Mildred when they were again alone. The more guarded and elusive her friend’s replies, the more worried she became. Surely Mildred was not betraying her?

  “Mildred,” she said at last. “What is wrong? Why aren’t you telling me? There are white men, aren’t there? English sailors off a wreck. We must find them, surely? They will help me. They will help us! They are my countrymen.”

  Mildred’s face was troubled.

  “Bad men,” she said. “All people say we must not let them come to us. They go kill or fuck, not help. All people say must run.”

  Deb, in her anxiety to talk to whites again, was half aware her longing was leading her to deny things that she knew. She had seen so many acts of beasts on this lush island, acts by blacks as well as whites, that she knew she should believe anything was possible, from anyone. But she felt that if she could just see an English face, an English smile, all would be explainable, explained, achieved. White to white, there must be understanding.

  As luck would have it, though, it was Black Bob who found them, and Black Bob whose warnings she believed. He popped from a thicket one late afternoon rather like a showman’s toy, and made both women jump.

  “You go!” he said. “They come for you! You go! They kill!”

  “Who?” said Deb.

  There was a bellow in the undergrowth, a white man’s voice. Bob’s face was charged with fear.

  “You run! Scotchman go for kill you! Run!”

  As Bob began to run himself, an enormous fat man blundered from the woods twenty yards away. He stared straight through the women, seeming to catch the sight of Bob as he darted into the bushes, and to their amazement, levelled a pistol, which he discharged at the area the boy had disappeared into. Deb let out a scream and Mildred hushed her urgently. But too late. The fat man shouted.

  “Angus! Here, man! Here! The bastard has betrayed us!”

  He began to limp towards them, and they ran towards the far side of the clearing with the speed of utter terror. As they left the space they could hear new shouts, both near and distant. They were running for their lives.

  The land between the shore and foothills was wooded, harsh and difficult, with innumerable boggy patches that could have trapped them any time. Their advan
tages were few beyond the spur of desperation, though both were lean and hardened by their long days running west. But they had no goal to aim for, no safe house or cave or settlement, nor did they have the least idea of the numbers in pursuit of them. For the first ten minutes they had no idea, even, if the hunt was up, as the greatest sounds they heard were the searing of their own breaths, their footfalls, and the whips and crackings of fronds and branches as they thrust themselves onwards. The only cries they heard were when one or other banged bare feet into a stone, or slipped, or was lashed by swinging boughs.

  After some short while, though, they heard loud voices, and a general view-halloo. As far as they could tell, the chase was not directly to their rear only, but spread out and widening. Ahead they had uncharted country, and for all they knew an end to cover altogether. Luck alone could save them: they had no other resource to pray upon.

  Luck or darkness. Mildred hissed out a hope that night should fall extremely soon, in which case, if the woods did not run out on them, they might yet go to ground. But there was no way of telling how soon the dark would come. The sun was low, but they could not see a stretch of sky enough to judge. And in any way, they were not far ahead; not far enough, perhaps, to find a place that would not be found out by the searchers.

  Deb’s throat was searing as they burst from the cover and out onto grassy downward hill. Ahead of them three hundred yards there was another, thicker covert, and over to her leftward, a long long way away, she caught a flash of green, with silver waves upon it, which flooded her with raw despair. Then, more to the left but closer, she saw a black man moving in the woodland, black face, black hair, pale shirt. Behind him came another, then she saw a white. And beside her, phlegmatic Mildred gave out a yelp.

  “To there!” she said. “Go there!”

  She pushed Deb’s arm, trying to drive her left, towards the danger. Deb jerked back, pointing with her free hand, and Mildred gasped.

  “Straight on!” Deb said. “It’s our only way!”

  As they crossed the clearing men came from the trees to left and right of them and, for all they knew, immediately behind. They were still out clear, not yet outflanked, but Deb was tiring, her legs becoming leaden. A block rose up within her gorge, she thought that she would choke on it, would have to seize her throat and tear at it to let more air go in. She was stumbling, one knee gave way a moment, then she staggered onwards. To her left she saw a blade flash in the lowered sun, she heard a general clash of shouts and cries. The sense of hopelessness was almost drowning out the pain.

  Mildred reached the trees a step in front of her and glanced across her shoulder to make sure Deb was still upright. Her face was in a fierce grimace, her lips stretched as she gasped for breath. Beyond her Deb saw the darkness of the forest, then a sight that hit her like a blow.

  “Mildr –” she screamed, then shut off as a hard hand knocked her sideways. She staggered, heard Mildred shout, then was roughly seized by the upper arm and pulled out of the sunlight, blinded by the sudden gloom. But a black man’s face was close to her, she felt his breath and hands.

  “Debbeerah!” shouted Mildred. “Debbeerah! They got us, girl! Debbeerah!”

  And they were jerked and bundled deep into the woods. Deb heard a shot, she heard triumphant cries. Hands, hard and rough, were dragging her along.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Daniel Swift’s trim vessel was called the Pourquoi Pas, but he did not explain the joke to any of the higher folk who saw him as their saviour in Jamaica. She had been called the Cybèle when he had taken her in the Atlantic, and also in the affidavit he had sworn before a Dutch advocate in St Eustatius that confirmed her as a total loss. His people, had they ever heard the story, would have been astonished to learn that the prize they’d taken had officially been overwhelmed and sunk just one day before they’d nursed her into harbour with the surviving slaves on board, but for them – with three weeks of liberty to kill while their own ship, the Beauty, was being disposed of – the matter did not arise. Few of them, if any, even connected the new-rigged flier they joined at the end of furlough with the filthy old slaver tub they’d captured. She was a fine replacement, and Daniel Swift had done them right again: he even broke out gallons of local rum to wet the new ship’s fresh-hewn figurehead! Similarly, they did not think to wonder where the rescued slaves had gone, or where, indeed, their share of any prize money.

  The slaves had gone, in fact, as part of the splendid deal that Swift had struck with the advocate, Bertius Lahn, and others of St Eustatius’s least scrupulous commercial-legal community. They had refined and perfected his simple proposition into a thing of elegance that was acceptable to all, including his lieutenants Anderson and Ireland and the less amenable Peter Dorrint, master. They had sold the slaves for him – slaves they insisted did not in fact exist – and had certified that he had found the Cybèle, abandoned and empty of human life in a violent storm, then towed her valiantly until another blow had done for her, despite his sterling efforts. His own vessel, the Beauty, having been severely damaged in the struggle, they swore on oath that they had paid Captain Swift a certain sum for, from their own funds, and sold her on to be dismantled (certificate appended).

  So the Cybèle had been lost, the Beauty scrapped, and Captain Swift and company were without a ship or home. However – the Cybèle had not only clearly been a legitimate prize but also, more importantly, a derelict he had been forced to board, by law and custom of the sea, in case there existed persons there to save. Sadly there had not, but there had been ship’s papers, and the ship, of course, had been insured. As her taking had been not an act of war, nor an act of piracy, her value could be legally recovered once a salvaging deal had been struck with her legitimate owners.

  To Swift, then, it meant this: his associates on St Eustatius, knowing they would draw substantially on a craft that had cost them not a florin (the Cybèle), paid the minimal docking and rerigging costs, and “sold” him a non-existent vessel called the Pourquoi Pas (the Cybèle), to present to the Admiralty at a knockdown bargain price, fully receipted, which remarkably was what they had paid him for the Beauty! No money actually changed hands, but the St Eustatians had cash to come from the insurers (for the Cybèle), Swift had a new and handy fighting vessel (the Cybèle), and when he got her back to England their lordships could only marvel at his perspicacity! There was even cash left from the sale of slaves to sweeten his officers and buy rum to keep the people dull. It was perfection, and made him very proud. He could hardly wait to try his commercial skills in buying up Jamaica.

  His reception on the island, though, was unusual in the extreme, and extremely unsatisfactory in terms of Swift’s beloved Navy protocol. Ireland, who had sailed on ahead in the gig to prepare their welcome, had been told bluntly by Lieutenant Jackson that far from expecting a salute, they should enter into the outer harbour, drop anchor where indicated, and wait. If they wished to “bang off guns,” he said, that was their privilege, but no batteries would make reply, Daniel Swift, when he was told this, gazed at Ireland till his grey eyes glittered, but seemed incapable of reaction. It was the harbour pilot who broke the spell. He was a black man, not in the least degree intimidated by this little ice-eyed officer.

  “Big trouble pass Kingston Town, sir,” he said. “Bakra ladies chop in little pieces. Massas all at six’n’seven. Big slaughter soon. I put you in nice place close to shore.”

  He turned to Peter Dorrint.

  “Mr Master, sir? You back headsails now, brace foreyard round, go in on starboard tack, we clear them rock off larboard bow then come about off that ol’ blockhouse there, see? Hey lookee – ’nother boat come off! Hey! Man him braces dere! Man him sheet and braces!”

  Swift took this presented opportunity to stamp to his weather quarterdeck and stand glowering at the small boat winging towards them. As she rounded up at the boarding ladder in the waist his senior midshipman, Pardoe, gabbled: “It is English officers! Shall Pollard salute them, sir? Here,
man! Mr Boatswain, stand to, sir, quickly!”

  Swift was sick of slackness. His mouth opened in a snarl – which turned into a sudden shout of laughter.

  “By Christ!” he roared. “English officers? It’s my nephew! By all that’s shameful! It’s you that’s brought this place to blazes, is it? Well, God damn my soul!”

  That he was tickled pink there was no doubt, and that he ignored the sombre, sober air of his nephew and Sam Holt was no surprise to anyone who knew him. Swift positively swaggered to the waist, and wreathed his sharp features in smiles as they came on board. He went so far as to ignore Bentley’s salute, and seize his upper arm and clap him on the shoulder.

  “Some sanity!” he cried. “Some sanity at last! What is passing in this damn place, my boy? I have this fine new ship beneath me, and no one gives a fig. A twenty one salute is what I bargained for! What’s up?”

  “Sir,” said Bentley. “I beg your pardon, on behalf of Captain Shearing in command here. He conveys apologies but there has been… Well, a massacre. A terrible disaster, sir.”

  There was shouting from the quarterdeck as the pilot and the master brought the vessel round into the wind, and in the bustle and confusion, Swift hustled them below as if his nephew had not spoken. He clicked his fingers, and a serving man brought a decanter on a tray, then was dismissed. The captain poured the drinks himself, and they were large ones.