The Fireraisers

by Malcolm Archibald

  Caskie shrugged. 'Do whatever you like with him. It is of no concern to me.'

  'He might have information,' Dumas said.

  Caskie threw Watters a look of contempt. 'He's only a sergeant. He knows nothing.'

  Watters was not surprised that the second man who had boarded was James Bulloch.

  'Good day, Sergeant.' Bulloch gave a small bow. 'You seem to be in an unfortunate position today. Such is the fickle nature of war.'

  'I'm not at war,' Watters said.

  Bulloch sighed. 'I'm afraid we are, Sergeant.' He turned to Dumas. 'He's no danger to us here, Mr Dumas. Just let him watch. He is a minor complication. It is far more important that we get Alexander MacGillivray manned and moving for we are far too close to the British coast for my liking. The last thing we need is a confrontation with the Royal Navy.'

  'That would be unwelcome,' Dumas agreed.

  Watters had already guessed that the huge crew on Pluton was intended for Alexander MacGillivray. Dumas had presumably used Pluton as a mobile base while he kept an eye on progress in the shipyard, returning to some foreign port to collect a crew for the handover. Judging by the dominant language in the mixture of nationalities on board, Dumas had used a French port, which tied in with the ship's appearance. Watters wondered briefly how much of Charlotte's French honeymoon had been pleasure for William and how much business.

  The handover was accomplished with impressive professionalism. As Pluton's crew transferred to Alexander MacGillivray, the seamen who had brought her this far crossed to Pluton, so for half an hour, there was an interchange of sailors, all of whom seemed intent on outdoing the others in shouting cheerful banter. Only William Caskie seemed harassed as he travelled back and forth between the two vessels, giving orders in English and French.

  'Open the hatch covers,' Caskie ordered as he stood on Pluton's deck. 'Get the merchandise out!'

  Watters watched with interest as half a dozen seamen hauled out a score of large cases from Pluton's two holds.

  'Careful with these, damn you,' Caskie grated as the first case swung perilously close to the mainmast. 'I've paid a lot of money for them!'

  'Mr Beaumont's money, I believe, Caskie,' Watters said. 'You're as close as dammit to bankruptcy.' Caskie's glower was very satisfying.

  Isabella Navarino manoeuvred Pluton so close to Alexander MacGillivray that the yardarms of both vessels were nearly touching, making the passage from one to the other so much the easier.

  'What's in the cases?' Watters asked.

  'That's none of your damned business.' One of the crew reinforced his words with a blow that sent Watters staggering to the deck. 'We should toss you overboard like your friend.'

  What would Caskie pick up in France? Remembering Caskie's connections on the Continent, Watters guessed the cases would hold armaments of some kind. The chess-board had been cleared away, and Caskie was playing a much more dangerous game for a purse-starved merchant in a neutral country. Caskie was gambling with Beaumont's money on a high-stakes table.

  A handful of uniformed officers assumed charge of Alexander MacGillivray, giving a rapid sequence of commands that saw the crates bundled below. More orders sent the hands scurrying to their positions.

  'You stay there,' Drummond snarled at Watters. 'You two!' He pointed to the jug-eared seaman and a lanky man with a permanent scowl. 'Take this and watch him. If he tries anything, put a bullet in his belly.' Drummond handed over his Colt.

  The jug-eared handled the Colt as if it was an extension of his arm. 'You're a lawman,' he said. 'I don't like lawmen.' He perched on the rail, evidently hoping that Watters would try to escape. His companion crossed his arms and glared, making himself look even uglier than nature had intended.

  Once the transfer of crews was complete, the boats carried more bundles and casks, kegs and chests, some of which Watters recognised as bearing the stamp of the French government and he guessed held small arms and ammunition. He saw a brief exchange of documents between William, Dumas, and Bulloch, and then somebody jerked a thumb to him. His two guards dragged him into a small boat.

  'You can sail with the Confederates, Watters,' Caskie leaned over the side of Pluton, 'or you can shake hands with Davy Jones. You're too much damned trouble to be allowed back in Dundee. The Confederates might keep hold of you until the end of the war, or press gang you into their navy. I don't know.' He shrugged. 'And frankly, I don't care. Good day to you, sir.' Caskie tipped the rim of his hat in a mocking salute and then sauntered along the deck as Watters was ferried across to Alexander MacGillivray.

  While the crew was as varied a collection of maritime vagabonds as Watters had ever seen, the officer who surveyed him was immaculately dressed in a grey uniform with twin stars on the shoulder. The weak sun gleamed from the double row of brass buttons down his coat.

  'I am Commander Black. You appear to be a most unfortunate gentleman,' the officer said. 'But now you can change your luck.'

  Force of habit had forced Watters to attention. He said nothing.

  Commander Black adjusted the angle of his peaked cap. The sunlight glinted on the gold rim. 'We are about to embark on a cruise to fight against the tyranny of the United States. You are now part of our crew. We pay $12 a month for landsmen, $14 for ordinary seamen, and $18 for trained seamen. If you obey orders and do your duty, you will find life on board pleasant.'

  Watters grunted. He had not eaten, shaved, nor washed for days, so his temper was not of the sweetest. 'Obey orders? I am a British subject, not a Confederate seaman. I demand that you put me ashore.'

  'Do you wish to volunteer aboard CSS Alexander MacGillivray?' Commander Black spoke quietly, man to man. 'If I were you, I'd be grateful to Captain Edwards.' He nodded to a large, bearded officer who had taken over command. 'Mr Dumas wanted to throw you overboard; as a member of Captain Edwards's crew, you'll be fed and treated like a man.'

  Watters looked over his shoulder to see Pluton heading under all sail for the Scottish coast. From this angle, she was beautiful, heeling over to starboard with the spray rising from her bows. Sunlight picked out the white and blue paint on her stern.

  'Well? Come along, sailor!' Commander Black's drawl sharpened.

  Already Pluton was a quarter of a mile distant, merging with the grey haze that rose from the surface of the sea. Her masts seemed to wave a dismal farewell. Watters watched, knowing that he could do nothing but unwilling to look away. One of the crew, a tow-headed man with broad shoulders, looked over to him, winked, and gave a gap-toothed grin. 'Come on, mate, join the Confederate Navy, good grub, good treatment, and a chance to fight the bloody Yankees.' His words may have come straight from the South, but his accent was more Shoreditch than Savannah.

  'Join the Confederate Navy?' The masts of Pluton were diminishing with distance, leaving only the rising grey haze and the practicalities of the present. Watters shrugged his shoulders. 'Why not? I've already been a Royal Marine and a policeman. Why not serve in a Confederate man of war?'

  'Good man!' Commander Black held out his hand in a gesture that Watters found nearly incredible in a uniformed service. 'You have seagoing experience, you say? That's a rare thing among this bunch. The South has a fine army but a shortage of seamen, so you are doubly welcome.'

  Marie will be worried sick. I can't do anything yet, but the first chance I get, I will contact her.

  Apart from Marie and Willie Murdoch, there were few Dundonians who might miss him. Police officers were not the most popular people on the planet. It seemed likely that the South would win the war, so a cruise of a few months followed by disbandment after the war was not too bad. Then he would find a ship for Glasgow or Leith or Dundee and be home again. I have to try to contact Marie.

  'Aye, sir.' Watters threw a salute. 'Let's hunt a few Yankees!' There was no sign of Pluton. She had vanished into the haze.

  'Come and get your uniform, mate,' the gap-toothed Londoner invited. 'This way!'

  The petty officer in charge of clothing was
breaking open bales of uniforms to hand out to the crew, who formed a disorderly queue beside Watters. 'Cloth pants – jumper, two pairs of woollen socks, a jacket, and a round, dark, grey cap, a pea jacket, blue flannel underdrawers, undershirt, and a black, silk neckerchief!'

  Watters heaped the pile of clothes in his arms, remembering his first few days in the Royal Marines when he had been a raw seventeen-year-old with bright eyes and an idealistic view of the world.

  'You'll need fed,' the Londoner chirped. 'Come on mate! I'm Ted Houghton, by the way.'

  'George Watters.' Watters held out his hand. 'Good to meet a fellow Briton.'

  'Oh, there's a few of us on board,' Ted said. 'I'll introduce you to a couple later.' He grinned again. 'You'll feel at home here in no time.'

  Ship's biscuits and French cheese was not the best food Watters had eaten, but sustenance gave him the strength to continue. Ted accompanied him, making cheerful comments as Watters changed from his battered land clothing to his new uniform.

  'My wife gave me this.' Rather shame-faced, Watters held up his New Testament.

  'Nothing better than the Book.' Ted gestured to Watters's new clothes. 'You're lucky, mate; not many Confederate seamen are so well supplied. You've even got a spare shirt there. You'll have to pay for it, of course. All this will cost you around $100—near six months' pay.'

  Watters nodded. At that moment, he did not care if he was paid or not, or whether he fought the Federal Navy, Burmese dacoits, the Russians, or the Grenadier Guards. He just wanted to get news to Marie.

  Extending to his waist, the eighteen-button monkey jacket was comfortingly warm. Once he slipped the jacket on, Watters felt less of an outsider in the crew. That was the point of a uniform, he knew. Uniformity helped individuals to fit into the common mass.

  With the crew on board, Alexander MacGillivray steamed out of British waters and steered westward and south into the German Ocean. Black rated Watters an Ordinary Seaman and handed him a paintbrush and a pot of grey paint. 'Now you can start to earn your pay.'

  'Aye, aye, sir.' Watters looked around; he saw only the misty sea.

  'Start painting at the bow and work your way astern.' The petty officer was a tall Swede. 'Don't leave any holidays.'

  The petty officer swaggered away, shouting, as another man joined Watters.

  'Swede sez as we've to paint her.' The man was leathery-skinned, with an egg-bald head and tattoos of mermaids on both forearms. His accent was pure Liverpool.

  Shrugging, Watters obeyed, slapping grey paint onto grey iron while the grey sea surged past. One job was like another, one boss like another, one day like another. Do what you are told and like it. When one was at the bottom of the pile, such was the way of the world in every culture.

  They painted in companionable silence as Alexander MacGillivray thrust through seas as sombre as Watters's thoughts.

  'Here we are, mate.' Ted's grin seemed permanent as he perched himself on an iron stanchion. He bit into a hunk of tobacco. 'I see you've met Scouse.'

  Scouse offered a hand like a gorilla, although his grip was surprisingly gentle.

  'This other blackguard,' Ted nodded to a rangy man who stood behind him, 'is Niner.'

  Niner nodded his wind-reddened face while surveying Watters through chillingly cold blue eyes.

  'The name Scouse I understand,' Watters said. 'You're from Liverpool.'

  Scouse nodded. 'Paradise Street,' he said in a husky croak. 'I worked on the Black Ball line to Boston.'

  'Ah, you were a Packet Rat,' Watters said. A packet ship was one that sailed between two ports on a fixed route. The packet ships between Liverpool and Boston had a reputation for speed and brutal seamanship. That made Scouse one of the toughest seamen afloat.

  'Niner?' Watters shook his head. 'I can't figure that name out.'

  'It's short for Forty Niner,' Niner said. 'I was in the first rush for gold in California.' He snorted. 'Never found a single nugget and ended up at sea.' Niner looked up. 'I should have stayed ashore.' He shrugged. 'It's too bloody late now.'

  'So where are we headed?' Watters wanted to know.

  'As far as I know, we're sailing to some Prussian port.' Ted gave the answer without hesitation. 'We're getting armed there. Scuttlebutt says we're getting guns by Krupp's, with some of these Prussian needle guns for close work. By the time we're finished, Alex will be a match for any ship in the Federal Fleet—too fast for the heavy vessels to catch and too powerful for the smaller ones to fight. It's honour and glory for us and victory for the Confederate States of America!'

  Watters looked aloft where Alexander MacGillivray's flags flapped in the growing wind. It felt strange to sail under Confederate colours, with the Stars and Bars bold against the dirty sky and the commission pennant streaming from the mainmast. Twice they passed close to merchant vessels, but the captain did not deviate from his course. Alex was flush decked and fast, her wake arrow-straight and Captain Edwards alert in the stern. Surprisingly, Edwards also walked the deck, speaking to the men.

  'You're that British lawman that decided to join us?' Edwards had a neat grey beard and sharp grey eyes that suited his uniform.

  'I didn't have much choice,' Watters said.

  Edwards gave a small smile. 'Do any of us have a choice? Fate intervenes. Man proposed but God disposes. Good luck on board.' He nodded and strode on, hands behind his back and eyes busy with the cut of his ship.

  'I want these masts raked further aft! We can go faster than this, by God!'

  Watters knew that the German Ocean was busy with vessels, from fishing boats to Prussian traders and the ubiquitous British brigs, so he did not look up as one more ship hove into view.

  'That's the Royal Navy, damnit.' Ted's London accent grated as he scurried across the deck. 'Best warn the captain.'

  Watters stopped painting. 'We're in international waters, aren't we? The Navy can't touch us.'

  Ted snorted. 'The Royal Navy can do anything they damn well please, mate. I should know; I served with them for ten bloody years.'

  Almost immediately, Alexander MacGillivray increased speed. At once, the Royal Naval ship altered course towards them, sails straining before the wind and a bone splendid in her jaws.

  'She's gaining.' Ted could not keep the pride from his voice. 'Look at her shift! Her captain's reaching for every puff of this breeze, is he not? I don't recognise her; I don't recognise her at all!'

  As the Naval vessel came close, Alexander MacGillivray powered forward. Perhaps Captain Edwards had been toying with the Royal Navy to see how close she could get, but now Rogers's ship revealed her true speed.

  'That's the way, Captain! Put a fire in her tail!' Ted exulted, but still watched astern, where the Royal Naval ship was dropping toward the horizon. 'She made us change course, though. Captain Edwards will take that bad, I reckon.'

  Despite her advantage in speed, Alexander MacGillivray seemed unable to shake off the Royal Navy. Every time she returned to her original course, a lookout would shout a warning, and the topmasts of the Royal Navy thrust up from the horizon.

  'Persistent bugger, isn't he?' Ted grinned at Watters. 'Typical Navy, stiff-necked, stiff-lipped, and stiff on the seas.' He looked upward as another mast pierced the horizon. 'There's the Navy again!'

  'How does she know where we're headed?'

  'That's a different ship; there must be a flotilla out, probably an exercise and the commodore got inquisitive! The Navy-boys captains will probably have years of experience in chasing pirates and slavers or whatnot.' Ted grinned. 'They can't fire on us, though, but I'll wager that the Commodore wants to see who and what we are.'

  'They're treating us like game on the moor.' Watters looked around. This Royal Naval squadron was driving them, appearing at different points of the compass to usher Alexander MacGillivray before them.

  'Could be.' Ted shrugged, bit off a hunk from a quid of tobacco before offering the remainder to Watters, who refused. 'No? Tobacco keeps the blood clean.'

&n
bsp; By nightfall, it was apparent that the Royal Navy was serious. They seemed to hover just below the horizon, appearing at different angles every time that Alexander MacGillivray attempted to alter course. 'Blasted Navy. Ever since Nelson, they think they rule the bloody sea.' Ted had been painting alongside Watters. 'We'll lose them at night, then it's hi-ho for Prussia, and we get our guns. Then we'll show the world and these blasted Yanks. Pay them back for 1812, eh?'

  '1812?'

  Ted shook his head. 'Don't they teach you any history in Scotland? We was fighting Napoleon Bonaparte, wasn't we? We was trying to save Europe from his tyranny when the bloody Yanks joined in. Took half a dozen ships when our back was turned, then threw up their hands and clamoured for peace as soon as we had Boney licked and we could fight them proper. They wanted Canada, but we burned their White House for them. This time, we'll do more.'

  'We? Britain?' Watters pretended confusion, probing to see how much of the international situation Ted understood.

  Ted shrugged. 'Sure. Once this ship starts to run amuck, the Yanks will be red raw that a British-built ship caused so much destruction. They'll demand retribution and attack our merchant shipping, so the Navy will sort them out proper this time.'

  Watters grunted. 'What about the slaves? Lots of people won't want to fight alongside the slave states.'

  'They'll just have to do as they're told, won't they?' Ted's voice hardened. 'Obey lawful authority, same as the rest of us. If they don't like it, then they can lump it for all I care.'

  When night fell, Alexander MacGillivray showed her riding lights and altered course due south, doused her lights, turned, and headed north. Watters noted that Captain Edwards had her sailing slowly so that the white froth of their wake would not gleam through the dark. Twice the lookout reported seeing the shine of moonlight on canvas, but Alexander MacGillivray steamed on in near silence with her sails furled. In common with most of the crew, Watters and Ted were sent below. In the darkness of pre-dawn, they altered course again, but when the first pink-grey streaks lightened the sky, the warship lay right across their path, her guns levelled, and the flag of the United States limp but recognisable on her stern.