The Privateersman

by The Privateersman (retail) (epub)

  There followed six weeks of the most perfect harmony. Kite proceeded daily to Roberts’ yard, discussed the work in hand with Corrie and Harper and then absented himself. Neither of the mates objected, being pleased to be left to get on without interference. From the yard it became habitual for Kite to walk to Tyrell’s office, take tea or coffee with him, discuss cargoes and meet other ship-masters, agents and the like, and then return with Tyrell to his house for luncheon.

  In the afternoons when the weather served, he would go riding with Sarah. Kite was an indifferent horseman, but he improved rapidly once the livery stable provided him with a docile mare. They were too much noticed ever to indulge in the slightest intimacy, just as their behaviour behind the closed shutters of the house never infringed the generosity of Tyrell’s hospitality. Neither of them wanted the pace of things forced, for they were long past the first, impetuous flush of youth. There was an unspoken, unacknowledged acceptance that things would not always be thus, that they would change and that the circumstances of that change would decide upon their mutual conduct. Paradoxically, yet perhaps not unsurprisingly, such restraint lent to their afternoons an unspoilt magic and a delight such as Kite had not thought himself fortunate enough to ever experience.

  As was to be expected, there was some wagging of tongues. Kite was referred to as Mistress Tyrell’s ‘English beau’ and, unbenownst to them, he excited some jealousy among a few men of Newport. But those rummaging for scandal of a more salacious nature could not persuade the Tyrell’s servants to yield anything more tedious than the honest truth. Sarah Tyrell slept in the same bed as her husband and the ‘English beau’ slept by himself. After a few weeks this lack of adulterous news translated itself into a thoroughly satisfactory explanation. The English were mere milk-and-water shams, or worse, all public charm and private buggery. A red-blooded Yankee would have raised a cuckold’s horns on old Arthur Tyrell’s head long since! God knew, a few had tried! In this way the subject found a kind of equilibrium and then people forgot or ignored it, for there was a new subject to concern the gossips of Rhode Island. Rumoured news of a conciliating measure by Lord North’s Government had reached Newport; it was said that cheap tea was to be made available and those who smuggled it to evade duty were concerned at a potential catastrophic loss of income.

  None of these considerations impinged upon the happiness of Sarah and her English beau as they headed north on their horses. Usually they took a quiet turn about the environs of Middletown, or up towards Portsmouth, but on one glorious day they rode hard, coming down to Howland’s ferry and on impulse crossing the Pocasset River. On the other side Sarah whipped up her horse, Musketeer, with Kite in hot pursuit. She led him first uphill through trees which required careful negotiation so that she had soon lost the more cautious Kite and he turned his mare back downhill to where, about a mile away, he could see the sparkle of sunlight upon water. As he came down onto the shore he saw on his left a few houses and, away to the south on his left hand, Sarah’s Musketeer riderless at the water’s edge. Fearing that something had occurred to her he dug his spurs into the uncomplaining flanks of his own mount and soon came up with Musketeer. He reined in and turned about, calling Sarah’s name and then he saw her, coming down through the trees.

  Catching Musketeer’s reins up, he walked his mare towards her. ‘Are you all right?’ he called and then he saw she was carrying her hat and limping, her hair dishevelled.

  ‘No…’

  ‘You fell?’ he asked incredulously.

  She nodded. ‘After pride,’ she said wincing, ‘which I have lost entirely.’

  Kite threw his leg over his horse and slipped down beside her and an instant later they were embracing in a welter of passion, all thought of injury forgotten.

  Chapter Seven

  The Tocsin

  Kite cared not a fig for the debate on Lord North’s Tea Act which, it was maintained, threatened not only the smugglers of Rhode Island, but the china manufactories of Philadelphia and other native American industries. The measure that was presented by King George III’s Ministers as a conciliatory benefit to the American colonists was also intended to save the East India Company of London and to this cynical reason were soon attached numerous other attendant and incipient misfortunes which would, the propagandists insisted, bring ruin on America. It was argued that cheap tea would be followed by a flooding of every American market by cheap imports, Chinese porcelain being chief among them. This greatly alarmed the mercantile fraternity, and began to divide those hitherto firmly opposed to the lawless agitators of the radical party. This, aided by the alarm and despondency spread by the Corresponding Societies, steadily built up resentment against the eventual arrival of the cheap tea; resistance was increasingly referred to as patriotism.

  While old Tyrell railed against these infamies and damned the King’s Ministers with incompetence, insensitivity and sheer stupidity, Kite turned a deaf ear. His relationship with Sarah had undergone a subtle shift since their intimacy in the woods on the shores of what Sarah had told him was known as Wanton’s Pond.

  ‘’Tis appropriate, is it not?’’ she had remarked that afternoon as they drew apart and bent their thoughts to returning home. Kite had gallantly denied it, hopelessly in love with the dark-haired beauty. But their rides had become less frequent as work on the Wentworth neared completion, and even the most innocent of their intimacies more guarded as they reconciled themselves to parting. Neither wanted passion to ruin happiness, nor wished to compromise or dishonour Arthur Tyrell.

  But the old man seemed as robust as ever, apparently fired up by political events and given a new lease of life. ‘If only,’ he would say, ‘the Ministry would remove all the tax from tea, instead of merely reducing it, then every objection to its import would evaporate, such is the slavery of every American to the habit of drinking it! But they will not, and thereby they put a torch into the hands of these damned self-seeking and self-styled patriots and Sons of Liberty!’

  As the work on the Wentworth drew to its conclusion, duty drew Kite to Roberts’ yard and entirely disrupted the cosy routine he, Arthur and Sarah had established. Late one morning in early June, as Kite sat in his cabin drawing up his accounts, writing to Wentworth and Johnstone in Antigua and making arrangements to pay the ship-yard, he over-heard two caulkers working on a stage under his quarter gallery. They were clearly unaware that Mistress Tyrell’s English beau had taken to spending more than an hour on board, nor would Kite have listened had not a familiar name cropped up as the two took a brief break from their hitherto incessant banging.

  ‘…What? Tea-Tax Tyrell? They say that the old fool has a warehouse full of the stuff.’

  ‘Aye, he’s Tory to the core an’ no mistake.’

  ‘They should make an example of him and burn his damned tea!’

  ‘Hush your mouth, Jethro, remember who the skipper of this barky is!’

  ‘’Tis a shame and only adds reason to my arguments,’ the man named Jethro said, taking up his mallet and caulking iron again. The next moment the thud-thud of their labouring put paid to Kite’s eavesdropping. Completing his work he gathered up his papers, placed them inside a leather wallet and rose from his desk. As he left the ship he avoided staring at the two men hanging under the starboard quarter and made his way towards Tyrell’s offices on the waterfront to the south of the yard.

  A small group of well-dressed men were assembled outside the adjacent newspaper office and one of them looked up as Kite approached them. He clearly mentioned Kite’s name because they all turned and stared at him, then as he made to pass them, they barred his passage.

  ‘Well, well,’ one of them drawled, ‘if it ain’t the English cap’n.’

  Kite stopped and confronted them. ‘Gentlemen?’ he said coolly, ‘will you let me through?’

  One of them whom Kite had seen frequently about the town stepped forward, ignoring Kite’s request. ‘I understand your ship is almost ready for sea, Cap’n Kite.’


  ‘She is, but you have the advantage of me sir.’

  ‘I do, do I not Cap’n? Well, well, that should not trouble you and nor will we if you sail soon.’

  ‘I shall sail when the work for which I am paying is complete, sir, and not a moment before.’

  ‘You are very bold, Cap’n.’

  ‘Aye, he is,’ added a colleague which aroused a chorus of assent among the group.

  ‘If you will permit me to pass, gentlemen…’

  ‘And if we will not, what then?’

  Kite sighed, ‘then I shall be obliged to walk another way.’

  The men deliberately stretched across the road. The little confrontation was arousing the curiosity of an increasing group of onlookers.

  ‘Ain’t you the nigger-lover? The man that Sarah Tyrell whipped when you first came to Newport, Cap’n?’ one of them asked.

  ‘She had some sense then,’ another added, and they laughed.

  ‘And now you’re cuckolding poor old Tyrell,’ the first man who had spoken went on. He was clearly their leader. He shook his head. ‘No principles, the English.’

  ‘That, sir, is a most offensive remark,’ Kite said colouring and aware that they had no intention of permitting him to escape without goading him to an extremity.

  The leader leaned forward and thrust his face into Kite’s. ‘And what are you going to do about it, Captain Kite? Call me out for satisfaction and meet me on the common tomorrow morning?’

  ‘No sir, because that is what you want.’

  ‘And you are afraid, you milk-sop.’

  Kite laughed. He had no idea afterwards why he did so, but the ridiculous provocation stung him not with the possibility of dishonour, but the folly of being led by such an obvious ploy. ‘Indeed sir, I am afraid. Who would not be afraid of a combination of such bold fellows who would stop a single man and goad him with such puerile taunts? Heavens, gentlemen, only a fool would want to fight such gamecocks.’ And in the hiatus that followed, Kite pushed his way quickly through them and left them, walking quickly to Tyrell’s office.

  As he entered Tyrell’s senior clerk looked up and Kite called him to the door. ‘Who are those men, Mr Borthwick?’ he asked, pointing out the knot of trouble-makers as they conferred. Borthwick removed his spectacles and peered up the street and then swiftly withdrew his head.

  ‘Er, they are Captain Whipple’s men, sir, officers and masters who associate with Captain Whipple.’

  ‘And the man in the bottle-green coat?’ Kite pressed the nervous clerk, referring to the leader.

  ‘That is Captain Rathburne, sir.’

  ‘So in short, Mr Borthwick, they are the men who burnt the Gaspée.’

  Borthwick drew in his breath sharply, ‘I could not possibly say, Captain Kite.’

  ‘Do you know why these men are assembled in Newport?’

  ‘Good heavens no, sir!’

  ‘Well, I shall have to be content. Thank you, Mr Borthwick.’

  ‘Thank you, Captain.’

  In Tyrell’s office Kite told the old man of the conversation he had overheard between the caulkers and then outlined the intimidation he had suffered at the hands of Rathburne’s gang. Tyrell listened in silence and then said ruminatively and half to himself, ‘I do not think the time can now be far off.’ Then he looked up at Kite and said, ‘I am sorry you have been thus treated, William, it is a crying shame.’

  ‘I had not meant to become embroiled in Colonial politics.’

  ‘I doubt you can avoid it.’ Tyrell said, then paused. ‘It is true I have some tea in the warehouse, but there is little of it left. The hypocrites have drunk most of it.’

  ‘Let me ship the balance; they will not be so particular in New York.’

  ‘No, my dear fellow. We shall fill you with ballast and perhaps some odds and ends of manufactures, piece goods, ships’ stores and timber, but you must get the Wentworth down to Jamaica and load a full cargo of sugar and molasses. That I can sell, even to rogues, but hie you back soon, I pray you. Do not delay on any account. I shall have the bills and papers ready for you tomorrow.’

  ‘Very well.’

  ‘Go home now and make your peace with Sarah. Tomorrow, go aboard early and remain on board until you sail. We do not want another encounter with that fellow Rathburne.’

  Nor did it happen. Kite did not believe that his clever verbal riposte had warded off the provocative Rathburne, but he was offered no other insults and it may well have been that his keeping himself aboard the Wentworth as Tyrell had suggested was victory enough for Rathburne and his patriotic gang. His last afternoon with Sarah had been far from unpleasant, despite the fact that it was charged with their imminent separation. Both knew that, God-willing, it was only for a few months and that their love could survive such an interval.

  It was December before the Wentworth returned to Rhode Island, for she had sprung her new topmasts off the Florida Keys and Harper had discovered shakes hidden deep in the spars fitted at Roberts’ yard that suggested someone in Newport had knowingly sold them defective timber, though it had passed the vigilant eyes of both his mates.

  The thought occurred to Kite that his officers might have been bribed or even merely slack in their duty, but the consideration that the American-born Harper had been disloyal was too uncomfortable to contemplate, while Corrie seemed too straight a man to deliberately endanger his ship. Kite’s own examination of the broken spars suggested that to all external appearances they had seemed perfect, but it was not impossible that, since there were two of them, a batch could not have been produced by some quirk of nature in the same stand of timber and their weakness had been known to the ship-wrights and riggers of Roberts’ yard. In the final analysis, however, Kite felt a lingering guilt himself. If he had been as assiduous as he expected others to be, the yard would not have dared to foist him off with damaged spars.

  But although late, the Wentworth returned to Newport deep-laden and Kite entertained no apprehensions for the safety of Sarah or her husband during the ship’s extended absence. During the voyage, he had encountered several Yankee masters newly arrived in Jamaica and from them had been reassured that matters in New England were much as he had left them. There were continuing fulminations against the proposed import of cheap Indian tea and a burgeoning fashion for publicly renouncing tea-drinking, but no news of burnings or outright disorder.

  Relieved, Kite and his acquaintances amiably discussed the political situation over a pipe, a cigar or a bowl of rum-punch. In these discussions with Americans and a few British masters familiar with the Yankee trade, all of whom were sober seafaring men, Kite began to perceive the other side of the American coin. Setting aside all the machinating, exaggerating and mendacity of the extreme patriot faction, there were bold principles of libertarian ambition emerging in America. Some were not entirely foreign to a man used to working in Liverpool, itself no stranger to radical politics. Most intelligent men of commerce on both sides of the Atlantic argued that they owed no feudal respect to those who birth alone had placed over them, and Kite could see that the increasingly popular independence of American minds grew out of the vastness and opportunity of the country in which these men lived. The similarities with the vigorous commercial expansion of Liverpool and Manchester were obvious, and the aspirations of men in these two centres of shipping and manufacturing were suffering in like fashion. It was clear that if established British institutions were incapable of accommodating Liverpool and Manchester, they were even less able to approve the expansion all native Americans felt to be their natural, God-given destiny. In fact the Crown was wholly opposed to American expansion, forbidding colonisation west of the Appalachians for fear of further disturbing the Indian tribes and drawing British troops, for which the Americans were unable to pay, into costly wars of frontier protection. While King George and his Ministers considered the Colonies had sufficient local control over their affairs in their Houses of Burgesses, Assemblies and Councils, it was impossible for Great Britain
to relinquish title to the country and hence the right to raise a paucity of revenue.

  But taxation without representation in the Parliament in London was a rousing war-cry, while any measure taken by London could, by its incompetent nature, be laid before a suspicious and malleable population as out-and-out tyranny. Kite rarely argued with men who pushed this point of view, unless it was to caution them against the consequences of rebellion, or to ask them the question that if they detached themselves from Great Britain, could they protect themselves against the hostile rapacity of France? But this was all too often blithely countered by a smooth assurance that if France turned upon an independent America, it would not be in Britain’s interest to stand-by in idleness.

  ‘Our two countries will always trade. That’s a matter of common sense. So you see, Cap’n,’ he was told more than once, ‘heads we win and tails you lose!’

  As the now familiar landmarks of Rhode Island came into view on a cold, crisp December morning as the Wentworth beat up into Rhode Island Sound, Kite went below and donned his best blue broadcloth coat, fresh-brushed by Bandy Ben who had also polished his silver-buckled shoes and now offered them to his master as Kite kicked off the old pair he habitually wore on board.

  ‘I think boots, this morning, Ben, for ’twill be frosty ashore. Do you pack those shoes in the portmanteau with my other clothes and have it all ready for transport ashore when we berth.’

  ‘As you say, Cap’n.’

  ‘What d’you think of Rhode Island, Ben?’ Kite asked as he settled the heavy coat on his shoulders.

  ‘Not as much as you, Cap’n, and it don’t compare wi’ Liverpool.’

  ‘You want to go home?’

  ‘In due course, sir. Yes.’

  ‘You miss the place?’

  ‘Truth to tell I miss Mrs O’Riordan’s meat pie’s, Cap’n, an’ the useful jobs I used to do for ye.’

  ‘I see.’ It was the longest conversation Kite had ever had with the man and he resolved not to keep poor Ben as a mere servant, but send him home at the first opportunity. Perhaps, Kite reflected as he picked his hat off the hook beside the door, he should have left Ben in Wentworth’s counting house with Johnstone.