Uncharted Waters

by Steven Becker

  I adjourned the crew, promising a vote before we weighed anchor. Shayla continued to stare at the schooner, assuring me that I had taken the coward’s way. With a red face, she marched toward the companionway and disappeared belowdecks. There was nothing I could do to mitigate my embarrassing position with the crew, so I followed. The best I could hope was to sway the inevitable talk of who actually ran the ship by convincing her that my option was best.

  “We’ve dealt with men that can’t be trusted before,” I started.

  She turned to face me. “And how has that worked out for us? Just because we have the ability to help the demented fool doesn’t mean we should.”

  I rethought my position, trying to ensure I was doing the best for my ship and crew and not indulging myself in a salvage effort to impress myself or Harp. It wasn’t an easy decision, and as I thought about it I considered the larger circumstance. We were still without a country, at-large in the hornet’s nest of the Caribbean, and identifiable to most as pirates.

  “Six casks at about thirty gallons each is enough water for less than a week, and that’s if they don’t sour or spill,” I told her. I hoped a little math might show her the reality of our situation without contradicting her. “Assuming the trades hold, we can cover just around a hundred miles per day. And there’s no guarantee the anchorage we find will be safe or have water available.”

  She was quiet for a few minutes. “Supposing you’re right, but Harp breathes deceit. It hangs on him like cheap perfume.”

  There was no denying her that. “If I told you my goal was to take his ship, what would you say?” I hadn’t wanted to say it out loud—or now—but, as Harp had turned out to be an enemy, we would have good reason to take his ship. And that ship was capable of rounding the Horn.

  She nodded.

  “So, you’ll go along?” I asked, wanting to confirm.

  “Yes, but between you and me, we’re getting those two pirates back and taking the bloody schooner out from under him.”

  I tried to keep the smile from my face as I went above to gather the crew again. Shayla followed a few minutes later. I was glad to have her beside me rather than have to relay her feelings second-hand. Her voice would be stronger if she was present.

  “We’ll take the dozen casks and a half-share of what’s recovered. That’ll be the deal. First sight of a Spanish flag and we’re off to the Caymans.”

  “Aye,” Rhames called out. “What about me boys?”

  “I’ll demand they be released before we get in the water.”

  That seemed to satisfy him for the time being. With Rhames and Shayla in agreement we were decided. I sent a messenger to Harp’s ship with our terms, and should he accept them we would proceed to the site at first light.

  Several hours of daylight remained, so I had the men haul the diving gear on deck. We hung a block and tackle from the boom, which would allow us to retrieve what we found. The hoses we had fashioned in Cozumel were laid out in the shade of a rigged awning so the sun would not dry out the lard they were coated with, then we inspected them as well. Assembling the divers, we set a schedule. Everything was ready, and under the light of the moon we rolled up the hoses and stowed the gear.

  When the men finished, I climbed the mast and relieved the freedman on watch. It was my habit to take a watch, as much to relieve our short-handed crew of the duty as to escape the confines of the ship. After a quick glance at the approaches, I turned my attention to the schooner anchored less than a quarter mile away.

  She was everything we could ask for in a boat, and now we had the justification to take her. Lanterns illuminated the deck of the ship, usually a sign that the captain was either brazen or stupid, but in this case, it happened that he was demented. The island concealed his ship from the sea, but on a clear night such as this his lights could easily be seen from the mainland. If he wanted to avoid trouble from the Spanish, this was not how to go about it. Swedish colors flew from her mast, but I knew that to be a ruse. Many American merchants, unwilling to suspend their trade during the recent war, had brought in enough Swedish investors to change their ship’s registries and avoid the blockades.

  Because of his condition, Harp’s motives were hard to identify. On the surface, despite the colors she flew, she and her crew were clearly British. As I stared down at the schooner, his game became apparent. The personal reasons for his betrayal to the Union Jack were irrelevant. He had clearly taken the ship. It was well known that transporting sugar from Havana to the northern Atlantic was extremely profitable right now, and I surmised the schooner had been designated an escort vessel, removing the crew and captain from any profit. Harp had turned on the crown. Rather than escort the ships north, he “escorted” them to his own dealers, who bought the sugar from him.

  Though I had been raised by pirates, Gasparilla, originally a Spanish officer, had made sure my education was of the formal variety, and excluded pirate lore. His crew had a different opinion of what an education should be, and told me stories of the great pirates, many from first-hand experience. Harp wasn’t the first naval officer to turn pirate. Gasparilla had done the same, seeking revenge against the country that he felt had betrayed him. Harp had apparently done it for profit.

  Without looking, I could tell from the movement of the spar that Shayla had joined me. She sidled up next to me, reinforcing that our argument of a few hours past was over.

  “It’s written all over your face,” she said.

  I leaned back to take measure of her mood. “What is?”

  “The schooner. You’re like a boy looking at a new toy.”

  I wasn’t about to deny it. In between trying to figure out Harp’s game, I had thought of little else besides how the ship would handle the seas around the Horn. “Can’t deny she’s a beauty.”

  “One that we could make good use of,” she said, then paused.

  “Bloody cannibal!” Shayla spat out. “I’d take a piece of him as well, if I could. It’ll be a long time before I forget that meal.”

  With her face reflecting the moonlight, I gazed on her beauty. There was no way, especially after our rough treatment earlier, that I would let her alone with him. “Not a chance.”

  “Is it your decision to make?” she asked.

  I hadn’t been delaying our nuptials on purpose, but they had not been a priority. We had escaped Cozumel with two of Lafitte’s ships on our heels, and after leading them onto the reef in the Dry Tortugas, we had spent some time in Havana, as well as in a picturesque cove, where we had spent two weeks careening the ship. She knew any excuse I could muster for delaying our wedding would be badly played. She had me.

  “Let’s see what tomorrow brings.” I wished then that we were married, but controlling her, if it could even be done, was not the right reason for our union. If I brought our wedding up now, it would be transparent, so I left it alone, promising myself it would become a priority.

  Chapter 8

  My thoughts turned from the schooner to the work that lay ahead. Diving had been much on my mind. With Mason a better navigator, and Rhames a superior warrior, I had time to explore the fascinating field. I’d had several ideas, but the bell we’d lost, especially after the improvements we made, had worked well enough. Even with all the churches scattered across Cuba, finding a suitable replacement would take time, if it was possible at all. A pile of gold was often not enough for the clergymen to part with their bells. Now, without one, I made a list of what I needed to make one of my ideas a reality.

  What we had lacked in our underwater efforts was maneuverability. Limited by the capacity of our lungs, we could venture no farther from the bell’s precious air supply than a short outgoing and return trip—often less than two minutes long, even for an experienced diver. When we had salvaged the Wreck of the Ten Sail we had fashioned rudimentary faceplates and wanted to improve on those efforts.

  Combining the air supply of a bell and the range of the hose to create a faceplate that supplied air to the diver w
as my goal. In order to accomplish this we would need a sealant. Looking over the rail at the multitude of pine trees that gave the island its name, I saw the source we needed. There had been no answer from Harp about our terms. Without one we would not be diving in the morning. With a day to prepare the headgear, and thinking we could hunt as well, I called for Blue. As usual he was bent over the rail with a line in his hand.

  “Any luck?” I asked, noticing the bare deck beside him.

  “Not a thing, Mr. Nick. Bottom is too sandy.” He looked down at the deck in defeat.

  “I’d like you to lead a hunting party to the island in the morning. We’ll be needing to collect some pine sap as well.” Blue’s demeanor instantly changed, and when he looked up I could see the sparkle was back in his eyes.

  “Is the bastard coming?” he inquired about Rhames.

  With the lack of pirating, Rhames, Red, and Swift were often bored. Competitions often solved that problem. “How about you take one party and he another?” His expression became thoughtful.

  “I’d hunt alone. Lucy can gather the pine sap.” A smile broke his face.

  After being awake the previous night, I was too exhausted to argue. Leaving it at that, I retired to a dreamless sleep.

  It was already light when I woke. Shayla was up and I quickly dressed and went on deck. Rhames, cutlass in hand, was on the foredeck guiding the freedmen through a series of maneuvers. After confirming there had been no message from Harp, I called him over and told him my plan. As I expected it was well received. “Take a few of the men if you like.”

  Rhames, Blue, Lucy, and two freedmen were quickly ready and loaded into the skiff. As the men pulled toward shore, I could hear the good-natured bantering between Rhames and Blue. The words were soon lost over the water, but I was sure they were negotiating a wager. Turning away from them, I searched for Shayla. Finding her atop the rigging, I called for her to come down and told her my idea.

  “A helmet of sailcloth with a porthole for a window? Are you daft?” She stood with her hands on hips.

  “It’ll work,” I assured her. “Lucy has gone with the men to gather pine sap. We’ll make it into pitch to seal everything.” She didn’t look confident, but I was determined. After explaining what I wanted her to fashion from our supply of sailcloth, I gathered the rest of the supplies. I soon had a small porthole, which I would pay a price for later when Shayla discovered it had come from our cabin, and a bucket.

  Spreading the woodworking tools we had aboard on a hatch cover, I started to cut a hole the size of the porthole in the bucket. It was tedious work, having to drill several small holes then cutting out the wood between them. Once the rough work was done, I used the files and rasp to ease the edges and allow for a snug fit. Shayla had finished the sailcloth hood I asked for. Sliding it over the bucket I fit the porthole in, then cut the sailcloth around the inside, leaving enough extra to form a seal.

  Lifting the contraption, the first thing I noticed was its weight. When underwater some heavy objects are lighter, and I hoped this would be the case with the helmet. As I slid it on, the immediate need for padding for the crown of my head became apparent, but more importantly, I was able to see out the porthole. With that accomplished, I had to figure out how to get the air hoses inserted, and how to seal the sailcloth now hanging loose around my shoulders. By now most of the crew were watching us, and, lifting the helmet from my head, I saw the divers in the group had stepped forward, clearly interested.

  I explained the need for the air hoses and seal. All but one shook their heads, but the man I knew as James picked up the helmet and examined it, then set it down.

  “How do we breathe?” he asked.

  I knew James to be handy and took him below to disassemble one of our pumps. With the parts in hand, we brought them up to the deck, where we decided on the best location on the helmet to install the inlet. It would have to be drilled through the bucket using the thru-hull fittings we had removed from the discharge line from our pump. It was dark by the time I was ready to assemble the unit, and I looked toward the island to see how our hunters and Lucy had done.

  A fire raged down the shore from where the skiff was beached. That told me at least one of the parties had success. Realizing I hadn’t heard a shot fired, I guessed it was Blue. With his tracking ability and silent blowgun it appeared he’d bested the louder, better-armed pirate. I was happy for Blue, and knew his modesty belied his competitive nature. Once my eyes adjusted to the dark, I saw a smaller fire with a single figure beside it that looked like Lucy. The meat was important, but equally valuable was the pitch she was brewing.

  An hour later they were back aboard. The hunters were boisterous as they unloaded the meat from a large boar. Blue’s smile told me what I already expected. The crew gathered around Blue, but it was Lucy I needed, and with a tin bucket in hand she followed me to the hatch, where I had the materials spread out.

  The wooden bucket Shayla had bolstered with old cloth was coated with lard before the sailcloth was smoothed over it. Next, I set the porthole over the hole, and, adding a bit of lard to the pine mixture to make it more pliable, rolled the pitch into a rope that I placed under and around the metal ring on the porthole. Using the screws I had extracted from the bulkhead earlier, I fastened the metal flange. This was as far as I dared to go before the pitch hardened.

  The lookout called that a skiff was approaching, and gathering along the rail we eagerly waited for their answer to our terms. Harp had accepted and we confirmed that we would depart at daybreak. The mood turned boisterous. We might have been short on water, but the wine flowed. With the wind light and no other lights besides the schooner in sight, the crew celebrated the hunt and let off some steam. As the night wore on, I hoped the party would run its course and I wouldn’t have to be the one to end it. We needed everyone aboard to have their wits about them in the morning. Fortunately, though a little later than I would have liked, the men started to amble around the deck looking for a suitable spot to spend the night. I watched carefully, my senses tuned into any sound that might be a man falling overboard.

  Finally, near midnight, except for the chorus of snores, the deck was quiet. Once the wine was brought out, Shayla, Lucy, and I had decided to split the watch. I was just about to climb the mast and take station atop the spar when I heard a splash. Looking down on the deck, I counted bodies. With all the men accounted for, I started to climb the Jacob’s ladder, but before I was even half-way up, I heard what sounded like someone floundering in the water.

  Knowing I would have a better vantage point above, I continued climbing, but instead of looking up, I watched the deck and surrounding waters. Just as I thought I might have dreamed it, I saw the head of a man appear at the rail. A second later, he hoisted himself onto the deck. Cursing myself and the crew for leaving the ladder out, I quietly descended to meet him.

  The man remained standing where he had broached the ship, seeming uncertain of his situation. His indecision didn’t last long, though, and as I saw his head turn toward me, I recognized him as one of Harp’s crew. Unarmed, I climbed around the mast, making as much noise as I could, trying to wake the men without appearing obvious. The wine held a firm embrace on them, and the snoring continued unabated. Not one moved.

  Just as I extended my hands straight out to show the intruder that I was weaponless, I saw a shadow move behind him. A diminutive figure I instantly recognized as Lucy stepped out of the shadow. Before I could react, she had her blowgun to her mouth, and a second later the man fell to the deck.

  Chapter 9

  The ship fell silent. Even the snoring seemed to stop for a long second before it resumed. Slowly, Lucy and I approached the body. His motive unknown and fearing the crew might take retribution on him for Red and Swift’s captivity, my first thought was to get him off the deck before anyone woke and saw him. Dragging the limp, wet body to the companionway, I called down to Shayla for help.

  “He dead?”

  “No. Lucy sho
t him with one of her darts. Help me get him to the cabin before he comes to.”

  With the two women’s help I dragged him to our cabin, and rolled him through the door. By the time Lucy had bound his wrists and ankles, he was starting to wake up.

  “What the bleedin’ hell?” He struggled against the bonds, then realizing his fate, looked at us in turn, studying our faces.

  “I’m the captain, Nick Van Doren. This is Shayla and Lucy.”

  “There’s no need for all this. I was just paying my respects.”

  “That’s an odd way of visiting—unannounced and past midnight.”

  “William Beauchamp, second lieutenant Royal Marines, at your service.” He extended his bound hands as if this alone should ensure his release.

  “Well, Mr. Beauchamp, before we release you, would you explain your clandestine visit?” Bare-chested and dressed in wet knickers, his look and gentrified voice were the only proof he could offer. “And why swim here? Very suspicious circumstances … don’t you agree?”

  “I meant to warn you. Harp has doubled the watch since spotting you. I had to sneak off.”

  His self-stated standing with the Royal Marines was curious aboard what I had at first taken as an escort ship.

  “We suspected something was amiss on our visit.”

  “Amiss is a bit mild. Harp has renounced his commission and taken the ship.”

  That might explain why he was flying Swiss colors and was anchored in this remote backwater. “You’ll have to give me more than that before we cut you loose.”

  “Our orders were to escort the sugar merchants through the Straits of Florida. We were successful, but Harp and the commodore of our fleet seldom saw eye to eye. Harp wanted to reap some of the rewards for our efforts, but the commodore would have none of it. Seeing those riches pass by enraged Harp. That and his condition.”

  Shayla was unusually quiet, and when I glanced over at her, I saw her face was flushed and her eyes fixed on Beauchamp. Thinking Beauchamp’s presence was as much a curse as a blessing, I reached into my locker, grabbed the largest shirt I had, and tossed it to him. He caught it with his bound hands and shrugged. Beauchamp’s story confirmed my own theory, but I kept my guard up.