Uncharted Waters

by Steven Becker

  “What do you want of us?”

  “I’d like to see Harp hanged myself, but I’d be grateful if you’d drop me at your next port.”

  He was obviously unaware of our own dubious standing. I nodded to Lucy, who cut Beauchamp’s ties.

  “Think it’s the truth?” Shayla asked, her attention temporarily diverted from the officer.

  “No reason to doubt him. Not that I’d trust him. Could be a ruse by Harp to infiltrate our crew.” I had no issue talking in front of him.

  “I’d think he’d send a seaman if that were his aim. Someone that we would take right in and who would blend with the crew.”

  She was right. Onboard a ship, the crew knew everything that went on.

  Beauchamp rubbed his wrists, looking around for what I guessed was a weapon if things went badly.

  “I’d be careful with the Africans if I was you,” I warned him. “It was her dart that took you down coming over the rail.” While Beauchamp put the shirt on, I thought that Lucy and Blue might be the least of his trouble. When Rhames woke up and found out he was aboard, there was sure to be a pissing match.

  “I’d rather take my chances with your lot than Harp. He’s a bit unglued.”

  I couldn’t dispute that comment. From what I’d seen of Harp earlier, he was exactly the sort who would denounce his commission and take to piracy. It might have been the syphilis or something else I had seen in men like him: a driving force that ended up getting them, as well as their followers, killed.

  “I’ll have to meet with my crew.” I didn’t want him to know I had sole authority in this matter, at least not yet. “Best make yourself comfortable until I give the all-clear signal. Lucy will keep you company until then.” Lucy raised the blowgun from her lap, and blew into the tube. Beauchamp flinched, but it was empty. Removing a dart from her bag, she set it on the table as a warning, and smiled.

  I made to leave the cabin, expecting Shayla to be right behind me, but she lingered for a minute before entering the passageway. Holding my tongue, I climbed the stairs to the companionway, grateful for the fresh air on deck. With several hours until dawn, and the deck scattered with sleeping men, I climbed back into the rigging.

  A few minutes later I felt Shayla next to me on the top spar. We had spent enough time together on the thin piece of wood that our feet found their usual holds, but I sensed a distance between us. She appeared deep in thought. As I gazed across the water at the schooner, now swathed in darkness, I wondered how Beauchamp’s disappearance would affect the ship.

  “We should keep him below. Only trouble will come if Harp finds out he’s aboard.”

  “Rhames as well.”

  “Keeping secrets from the crew rarely turns out well.”

  She was of course right, but I meant the subterfuge to last only the day. The feasibility of salvaging the wreck would determine how we played our hand. “Just until we see how things shake out today.”

  We stayed aloft until the first rays of dawn lit the sky. The sunrise showed only a few pink streaks, indicating fair weather. Someone moved below and I glanced down to see the figure of a man in the companionway. The sky had just started to lighten, but the deck was still dark and for a brief second I thought it was Beauchamp, but it turned out to be Mason. He’d partaken as much as the next man in the past night’s festivities, and rubbed his eyes as he looked around the deck and then over the water.

  With a grin on his face, he rang the bell, waking the men on deck. Slowly the ship came to life beneath us, and I climbed back down to face the day.

  From across the water came the sound of the chain rode being hauled aboard as the schooner weighed anchor. “Right, then. Shake those cobwebs out and we’ll get on with it.” The men moved slowly at first, but once Rhames gained his wits, he drove them hard. The schooner slid past us just as our sails filled with the morning breeze and we followed her out of the bay.

  It was a short trip to the bank. As we approached I left Mason in command and went below. Beauchamp was sitting at my desk with a plate of pork in front of him. Cleaning her fingernails with the sharp point of a dart, Lucy sat on the bunk watching him.

  “What can you tell me about the wreck by the bank?” I asked Beauchamp, not trusting Harp’s story of how it got there.

  He took one more bite before putting down the fork. “She’s Spanish. A merchant ship that refused Harp’s command to heave to and be boarded. He meant to fire a warning shot at her, but the aim was off and we sank her.”

  Chapter 10

  With both ships moving out there was time to ask Beauchamp about what he knew of the current political climate. Wanting to appear cooperative he started his narrative at the end of the war between the British and Americans more than a decade ago, North American seas, including the Caribbean, had been quiet. Spain, still busy trying to suppress insurgencies in her diminishing empire, was no longer the threat she once was. Spanish efforts were currently centered around quelling the Mexican rebellion. The Napoleonic wars were over, leaving the continent quiet, and that peace extended to the European holdings in the Caribbean.

  With no privateering commissions available except for the Mexican province of Campeche, whose flag Lafitte was currently flying, a British deserter would be labeled a pirate, which only made Harp’s decisions even more curious. The only explanation for his actions that made sense was his sickness. Even this attempt to recover whatever he’d lost off the Banco de San Antonio was reckless. Cuba, as the closest Spanish holding to Mexico, had a continuous stream of boat traffic between the island and the mainland. It occurred to me that it might have been a Spanish ship, trying to evacuate whatever treasure was left in their coffers from the rebel state. Broke and desperate, Spain would take every ounce of gold or silver it could.

  The schooner passed our bow, bringing me back to reality. She unfurled her sails and I couldn’t help but notice that I wasn’t the only one aboard who watched her as she picked up speed and danced through the waves. Mason called out for all sail, but it took everything we had to keep the schooner in sight.

  Leaving the rail, I moved toward the binnacle, where Mason was studying a chart. I, as well as everyone aboard, knew he had them committed to memory, but ever-cautious he double-checked the soundings being called from the bow against the chart.

  “No need to push. We know where they’re headed.”

  Mason looked up. “Reckless, if you ask me.”

  “Yes,” I agreed, and thinking about with whom and where we were headed, I called for Rhames.

  “We should get the guns ready. There’s something about this business that’s not right.”

  “Aye, we’ve got a knack for finding trouble, don’t we?” He grinned. “The boys can use the practice. We’ll be ready.”

  I left Rhames to his guns and Mason at the helm. Gathering the divers, we went forward to assemble the equipment. The pitch had dried overnight into a hard but pliable sealant. Testing the headgear, I placed the bucket over my head and after several adjustments felt reasonably comfortable. I knew once in the water the buoyancy would ease the pressure on the crown of my head.

  “How do we seal the bottom?” one of the men asked.

  We’d stopped work before solving the problem last night. Water could easily find its way through the flaps from the sailcloth draped over my chest and flood the helmet. I took it off and asked one of the other men to wear it. Weight seemed to be the answer, and I called Shayla and Lucy to sew some pieces of lead around the edge. It would still leak, but with the positive pressure from the incoming air, the facial area should stay clear at least that’s what I thought. The only way to find out would be to get in the water.

  The excitement I felt about testing the new gear and the rumble of the guns being run into their ports below my feet overcame my concern for Harp. Just as Shayla and Lucy finished sewing the lead into the flaps, I heard Mason call to the men in the rigging.

  He ordered several sheets released and half our sails fell to the spars
where the men quickly lashed them. With the triangular-shaped foresails pushing us forward, we crept up on the bank. Harp’s ship lay directly ahead and we could clearly hear the sound of the anchor and chain as it dropped to the bottom. The foresails allowed us to sail close to the wind, and we were soon anchored a few dozen yards off Harp’s port side.

  “I’m going up to have a look,” I told Mason.

  Rhames stopped me before I started my climb. “We’re ready if the bastards are up to no good. If it weren’t for my boys, Red and Swift, I’d blow the bastards right now.”

  I almost told him about our guest. A few minutes with Rhames and we would know the truth about Harp as well as Beauchamp’s motive. It would have to wait, though, as I wanted all hands and eyes on deck. Reaching the top spar, I called out to the other lookouts to keep an eye on the horizon. Harp needed us, but another passing ship, especially if she were Spanish or British, might be a problem.

  Shading my eyes from the glare coming off the water, I peered into its depths. From this height, I could see the dark outline of the reef. The individual features were hidden, but as I scanned the perimeter where the coral heads dropped to the sand, I thought I saw the straight lines that told me we were on the wreck.

  “Bring her up twenty yards,” I yelled down to Mason, who relayed the order to the men at the capstan. Slowly they brought in the chain, and when the stern was directly over the wreck I called for them to stop. We would still work off the skiff, but now we could do so with it tied off to the ship, something that gave me some comfort if we needed to leave in a hurry.

  Climbing back down, I could barely contain my excitement, but knew I had to wear the stone face of a captain. Once the work was over and we were safe I would let down my guard, but not before.

  “Right, then. Let’s get the gear loaded and see what we’ve got.” The divers gathered and carried the helmet, pumps, and hoses to the skiff. Once everything was loaded, and with two men aboard to man the oars, we swung the davits overboard and lowered it. When the skiff was released the men rowed to the stern, where Mason had lines waiting. After securing the boats, I dropped the rope ladder and was about to climb overboard when I felt a hand grab my arm. From the touch I knew it was Shayla.

  “Don’t be thinking that you’re going to test that wig.”

  It was exactly what I planned to do. “Just up and down. I’ll have two freedivers with me.” I knew she didn’t like it, but I was determined.

  Standing with her hands on her hips, she stared me down as I placed the cloth-clad bucket over my head. With one leg over the side, I made sure one of the men was ready to guide the hoses and gave a thumbs-up to the two men in the water.

  Just as I was about to submerge, a blast of warm air blew into the helmet. It had a slight taste of the whale oil we used to lubricate the pump. Hanging onto the side, I started breathing. It was an awkward feeling, exhaling at the same time as the fresh air entered the chamber, but the excess quickly found the gaps in the lead sewn into the cloth resting on my shoulders. I took my time acclimating to the gear and after several minutes I was comfortable enough to release my grip.

  The first mistake became evident as I fought to submerge. The weight sewn into the sailcloth seemed to accomplish its primary purpose, but wasn’t enough to compensate for the extra buoyancy of the air-filled bucket. I had no choice but to ascend. Once my head broke the surface, the weight of the gear took me back under. Fortunately, one of the free divers had seen my struggle and surfaced with me.

  He called out for more weight, and taking a bag of shot in each hand, I quickly sank. Silt rose from the sandy bottom when I hit reducing the visibility. I waited, breathing deeply and regularly until it cleared. The gear appeared to work flawlessly, with the only problem being fog on the glass. The cause of which I guessed was the contrast of the warm, humid air being pumped into the helmet and the cool seawater on either side of the glass.

  If that was our biggest problem the test was a grand success. The silt had settled and I scanned my surroundings through the hazy glass. By twisting my head slightly, I was able to see through a clear area of the porthole. The feeling of standing on the bottom of the sea, thirty-odd feet under the surface, and breathing clean air was almost overwhelming. As I made my way toward the reef, I watched as the free divers made several trips to the surface and back.

  The wreck lay ahead, but as I walked toward it a jerk halted my progress. Turning back, I realized I had reached the end of the hose. In order to explore the wreck further the skiff would have to be freed from the ship in order to stay above the diver. It was another small problem, but one I couldn’t immediately communicate to the support divers.

  With my limited mobility I only was able to reach the transom of the ship. She appeared to be a brigantine, similar to our own. Green slime had already started the process of turning the hull into a reef, but she was fresh in the water, and from the look of her, not a sugar trader.

  Chapter 11

  Just as I recovered from the first pull of the hose, my head jerked backwards, causing me to lose my footing. Regaining my balance, I realized I was being dragged back to the skiff, but before I could return on my own the line jerked again. Pain shot through my neck, and not sure what was happening other than I was being recalled, I started a lumbering pace across the bottom to allow some slack in the line. Ahead I saw one of the freedivers signaling me up.

  Dropping the weights and assisted by the buoyancy of the air in the helmet, I was soon floundering on the surface. Underwater the weight of the gear was almost imperceptible; out of the water it was a different matter. I fought to stay afloat while my eyes acclimated to the sun. To make matters worse, the porthole was now covered in condensation. I heard voices calling my name, and then a shot fired.

  The shot was close enough I assumed it to be from one of our guns. A few seconds later another gun fired, this one clearly further away. A large splash nearby threw up a wake that took me under. Disoriented, I fought for the surface. Hands grabbed me under each arm as the men above tried to assist me. Breaking through the surface again, those same hands struggled to remove the helmet. Pain shot through my neck each time they pulled and I quickly realized that what they were attempting was futile. Something had happened to the headgear. I broke free and signaled that I was going to descend.

  Void of sight, I inverted my body in an attempt to relieve the pressure on my neck. The acrobatics freed whatever was stuck and the helmet dropped off. My lungs burned and, now unencumbered by the gear, I pushed to the surface. Squinting into the sun I found myself in a full-on naval battle.

  My sight had returned but the scene was obscured. Cannon thundered from our ship and our unknown foe remained invisible behind a curtain of smoke. Treading water, I spun around and suddenly saw the bow of the skiff appear through the haze. Men were calling my name and I realized they were searching for me.

  The skiff slid back into the haze. “Over here!” I called out, then realized even if they could hear me, with clouds of black smoke floating around us they wouldn’t know where the call was from.

  “Back-paddle,” I ordered, and when the stern appeared, I called out for them to turn toward port. The smoke soon lifted enough for them to see and I was aboard in short order with two very scared men and Blue.

  “What happened?” I asked as I scanned the water. Shots continued and the smoke wafted back and forth, giving the scene a surreal look.

  “Spanish. Two frigates opened fire on us.”

  “Where’s Harp?

  “Bastard ran.”

  I often thought Blue’s use of Rhames’s vernacular amusing, but not in this case. “Can you find the reef?” Unable to determine what was happening around us, that was the safest place for the small, unarmed skiff. If our enemy wasted a shot at us we would be a small target and the reef would protect us from any pursuit.

  Blue called to the two freedmen at the oars, who understood the urgency behind his order. They needed no prodding, only direction,
and pulled hard for the safety of the Banco de San Antonio. Coral heads soon became visible beneath us, some appearing to reach within inches of the shallow-draft skiff. Once we were safely ensconced within its borders, I called for the oars to be shipped and turned back to the battle.

  The guns had ceased firing and the smoke cleared, revealing three ships: two frigates and our brigantine. My heart dropped when I saw grappling hooks cross our rail. The lines went tight as the Spanish crew pulled the larger frigate alongside. Smoke rose from our ship, but it still looked to be intact. One of the masts was askew, its rigging hanging into the water, and from the attitude of the ship it appeared she was taking on water.

  Once our ship was secured, the other frigate moved off in pursuit of a small shape on the horizon. Harp was running hard to the south. Rhames would have seen our ship’s destiny as soon as the grappling hooks caught our rail and I could only hope he would surrender rather than fight a pitched battle against a superior force. Drifting on the current, we sat and watched as our crew surrendered and was taken aboard the frigate. Blue was close to me and I could see the anxious look on his face that mirrored mine.

  “Bastards,” he muttered under his breath when he saw Lucy and Shayla forced aboard the Spanish ship.

  “At least they’re alright. We’ll get them,” I tried to reassure him but, as I saw Shayla pushed across the gangplank set between the two ships, I was worried for all of them. The only hope for their well-being was the man standing on the quarterdeck. From his attire I guessed he was the captain. His control over his crew would make him my friend until we had a plan to rescue them—then he would be my enemy.