On deck Kite found Harper standing at the lee main shrouds, levelling a glass at the coast. ‘Well, Mr Harper, how do matters stand?’ He looked aloft, ‘I see you have the signal flying for a pilot.’
‘Aye sir. But the damned wind’s drawing ahead all the time and Castle Hill is dead to windward.’
‘Very well.’ Kite digested the unwelcome news, then made up his mind. ‘Nevertheless, you can clear away both bower anchors and get cables bent on them.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’ Harper called his watch aft and passed the order while Kite stared ahead, at the narrows between Rhode Island and the adjacent Connonicut Island with its lighthouse situated on its seaward point, Beaver Tail. He could see the masts and yards of shipping anchored in the far distance beyond the strait, lying as he well knew, off the waterfront wharves of Newport and his heart beat at the thought of seeing Sarah again.
‘So near and yet so far,’ he murmured, for it was all too clear that he had donned his best coat somewhat prematurely. He looked aloft again. The yards were braced sharp up and were bearing on the catharpings, the weather tacks of the courses drawn down right forward and the weather leaches of the topsails stretched taut by the bowlines.
‘Damnation,’ Kite swore, raising his own glass and sweeping the shoreline as if he might discover Sarah sitting Musketeer upon its green sward.
They beat fruitlessly all day, only working up closer to Beaver Tail and Castle Hill but unable to get a slant to pass through the narrows. Despite their signal no pilot boat ran out towards them.
‘It’s like the door being slammed in your face,’ Corrie remarked with a whistle through his broken teeth as he took over the watch at four o’clock in the afternoon. ‘They’ve given us up for today, I reckon.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Kite, but he still could not bring himself to admit defeat and go below and divest himself of the blue coat. All about him the hands glumly reconciled themselves to another night at sea, another night of beating back and forth, like a watch-dog on a chain outside his master’s door.
‘Why the damned wind even brings the smell of their confounded dinners down to us,’ he said pettishly, voicing his thoughts aloud.
‘Aye, fate certainly enjoys rubbing our noses in our misfortunes,’ Corrie agreed.
Having spent so long refitting in Newport earlier that year, most of the men had, in the manner of sailors, made some friends or at the least established a presence in one of the several alehouses and taverns along the waterfront. Newport was famous for its distillation of rum and Liverpool men were famous for their ability to drink the stuff.
‘And by the look of it, it’s going to be a cold night to boot!’ Kite added lugubriously as the red globe of the sun dropped quickly to the horizon through a sky untrammelled by a single wisp of cloud.
But as the sun set the strength of the wind died a little and, as darkness fell, the breeze backed sufficiently for them to lay the Wentworth’s bowsprit for the narrows. On the quarterdeck Kite saw the hands looking at him expectantly. He did not know that among them he had acquired a reputation, built on his past exploit of taking La Malouine, of being a lucky man. Only, they said, a lucky commander could have recovered men after they had gone overboard when a ship was knocked down by a white squall. So, when he called out, ‘Keep her full an’ bye! Call all hands! We’ll stand inshore! Clew up t’gallants!’ The watch on deck jumped to the fife and pinrails with alacrity and even the watch below tumbled up with none of their usual grumbling.
‘Well not get through without beating, sir,’ said Corrie in a tactful reminder that they had no pilot, but Kite would brook no further delay.
‘Then we shall have to tack in the narrows, Mr Corrie.’
‘And if the wind shifts again, sir?’
‘Then we may have to anchor. Do you see to clearing the stoppers off the bowers.’
‘Very well, sir.’ Unable to raise any further objections to his commander’s determination, Corrie went forward. A moment later Harper loomed up in the darkness, fastening the toggles of his greygo.
‘You’re going in, sir?’
‘Aye, I am; the wind’s given us a slant. We may have to tack but do you go aloft and watch the land for me. I intend to stand close along the land under the Connonicut shore and then tack to gain ground to windward by poking our snout into Mackerel Cove.’
Harper nodded. The inlet ran deep into Connonicut Island and would then give them clear water, past the Dumpling Rocks and Brenton’s Point on the opposite Rhode Island shore.
‘I’ll watch out for you, sir.’
With topgallants furled and courses clewed up, the Wentworth stood in for the harbour.
There are few things that compare with the taking of a calculated risk, Kite thought as he moved forward to take his station at the weather rail. Under shortened sail, the ship would handle quickly but not run away with him, while he could take tactical advantage of the entrance to Mackerel Cove and claw extra yards to windward before making a final leg into the anchorage beyond.
Kite put the Wentworth onto the starboard tack and stood across the entrance until, with the gleam of the lighthouse broad on the weather bow, he ordered the helm over and watched as the light traversed the bow and, as Corrie yelled out the command to haul the main yards, Kite steadied the helm and laid the ship’s head for the entrance. ‘Full and bye,’ he ordered and received the helmsman’s repeated acknowledgement.
The breeze was holding steady and the Wentworth glided through the grey sea, the land lying dark on either bow. Slowly the loom of Connonicut Island grew closer and the orange fire in the lighthouse drew slowly abeam. The heel of the deck lessened as the ship came under the lee of the land and the hiss of the wash diminished to a chuckle as the Wentworth lost speed. Aloft the weather edges of the topsails lifted and fluttered.
Kite eased the helm a point, keeping the sails full, but giving ground to leeward. The long grey finger of Mackerel Cove opened up to larboard.
‘She’s luffin’, sir!’ the helmsman called.
‘Keep her full and bye,’ Kite said, looking up to where the topsails shivered again.
‘Wind’s funnelling down the narrows,’ Corrie said, coming aft as the Wentworth paid further off to starboard and began to draw close to the Rhode Island shore.
‘Aye, and I’ll have to give her another point if we are to stay without coming aback,’ Kite muttered. ‘Do you stand by.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’ Corrie went forward again and mustered the hands at their stations as Kite moved across the deck and stood beside the helmsman. ‘Free her off a point.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’ It was Jacob, huge and reliable, who passed the spokes of the wheel from hand to hand, his black skin gleaming like ebony in the dim illumination of the binnacle light. Kite crossed the deck to the lee side. He could see the dark mass of Castle Hill climbing up against a background of stars as they gathered way, going faster now as they came clear of the lee of the opposite island.
‘Deck there!’ Harper’s voice hailed from the foremasthead. ‘Closing fast to leeward.’
‘Aye, aye,’ Kite called out, then asked, ‘Are you ready, Mr Corrie?’
‘Ready, aye, ready, sir,’ Corrie responded and Kite held his hand for a moment longer then spun on his heel. ‘Down helm, Jacob!’
‘Down hellum, sah!’ and before the words were out of his mouth, Kite felt the cant of the deck ease, saw the bowsprit rake across the sky ahead and then Corrie was holloaing and the men were casting off and tailing on the forward braces.
The ship came up into the wind, faltered a moment, then paid off on the opposite tack as the mainyards followed the foreyards round and Jacob was calling out, ‘full an’ bye, starboard tack, sir.’
Kite breathed easier as the Wentworth sped back across the narrows, heading for the entrance to Mackerel Cove where he again put her about. Once more on the larboard tack, the ship headed up for the lights of the town but as she drew closer to the open water they had to weather Brenton’
s Point and it looked as though their leeway was such as to cause them to tack again. There would be little room at this most narrow part of the strait and, on the opposite bank, rocks extended to seaward.
Aloft Harper was calling out their distance and Kite asked for the bearing of the extremity of Brenton’s Point.
‘Steady, sir,’ Harper called out, his voice clear in the darkness as not a man moved from his station, instantly ready to tack. Kite kept his nerve and stood on. A steady bearing presaged collision, but then, as they again came out of the lee of Connoncut, a slight increase in wind strength and their own speed, altered matters.
‘She draws aft, sir!’
The collective sigh of relief was audible and then they were clear and Kite ordered the helm eased. They wore round Brenton’s Point, passed two anchored brigs to the south of Goat’s Island and then Kite brought Wentworth’s head into the wind about three cables from the shore and half that distance from an anchored schooner. With the sails aback he ordered the larboard bower let go. It went with a splash and the cable rumbled out after it, sending a slight tremor through the ship.
‘Very well, Mr Corrie, make a fist of it. I don’t want the Yankees waking up in the morning to see a British ship that looks as though her company can’t make a decent harbour stow in the middle of the night.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
Kite could hear the lightheartedness in Corrie’s tone of voice. Kite turned, ‘that will do the helm, Jacob.’
In the waist the men busied themselves with clewing up the topsails, and lowering the yards. At the mizen three seamen were brailing the spanker and Jacob slipped the white sennit lanyards over the wheel-spokes. Kite turned and strode aft to stare at the spangle of Newport’s waterfront lights. He still wore his best blue broadcloth and it was surely not too late to call away a boat and have himself pulled ashore. A clock began to strike and he wondered what the time was; ten, he guessed, or perhaps eleven. He began to count, but the clanging passed ten, then eleven, then twelve and he realised it was no clock but the persistent ringing of the church bell.
‘Nice of them to make us welcome,’ Corrie remarked as he came aft to report the anchor brought up.
‘Probably the pilots complaining we’re trying to cheat ’em,’ Kite joked flippantly, but the worm of unease was uncoiling in his gut. A similar thought must have crossed Corrie’s mind for after a moment or two he said, ‘it sounds like an alarm…’
Kite listened a moment more and then agreed. ‘Aye, ’tis a tocsin, all right, but why…?’
‘There’s a fire sir, see, there, along to the left.’ Harper joined them
‘Give me a glass,’ said Kite sharply, holding out his hand.
‘I have mine here, sir,’ Harper fished in his coat tail and passed a small brass telescope to Kite who raised it to his eye and wrestled a moment as he focused it.
‘That’s odd,’ said Corrie reflectively, ‘but that fire’s only just catching and the bell’s been ringing for some time.’
‘Aye, but that’s just due to the distance we are offshore. The fire may have been burning for some time,’ offered Harper.
‘I think Corrie’s right,’ said Kite closing the Second Mate’s glass with a snap. ‘get the boat swung out, Mister Corrie. You’re to stay aboard. Mr Harper, you had better come with me. I think that is arson and I think I know whose warehouse is afire!’
Chapter Eight
The Tea Deum
By the time the hands had got the boat swung off the booms and over the side, there was no doubt that the fire had gained a firm hold of Tyrell’s warehouse. As the boat pulled across the harbour, the clang-clang of the tocsin growing louder, it was equally clear to Kite that there was nothing he or his men could do to extinguish the burning building. They were far too late, for the flames were roaring skywards, dissolving into upwardly flung sparks and completely consuming the tarred lap-straked building.
‘There is nothing to be done, sir,’ Harper said as he sat beside Kite, one huge hand on the tiller.
‘It’s Tyrell’s place,’ Kite said. ‘I am going to remain ashore. Do you go back to the ship and send the boat in for me at six in the morning. Keep watch and watch with Corrie, there’s just the chance someone may have noticed our arrival and take exception to it.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
Kite stared into Harper’s face, lit by the glare of the fire. If he had entertained any doubts about the Second Mate’s loyalty it was likely the next few days would reveal his political persuasion. Harper put the helm over and swung the boat under the overhang of the wooden wharf and up to a ladder.
‘Are you sure you’ll be all right, Cap’n?’ he asked.
‘Of course.’ Kite reached for the ladder, suddenly angry to find that he was still wearing his best clothes. As he hauled himself up on the planking of the dock he paused. He was unarmed and had not even bought a cane with him. As he looked along the waterfront he thought he might need one, for he was staring at a scene from Hell.
To the roar of the fire and the tolling of the church bell were added the shouts and whoops of a milling crowd. There was no sign of a single bucket of water, nor of distress, or even a sense that the fire might be out of hand and a threat to the surrounding buildings. It was obvious to Kite that he was witnessing arson, and arson committed by the entire community upon a single individual. Aware of someone behind him, Kite spun round nervously, relieved to see Jacob behind him.
‘Massa Harper said I was to stay with you, Cap’n Kite.’
Kite nodded. ‘Very well, Jacob. I’m glad to see you…’ Kite paused, undecided as to what he should do. He must get to the Tyrells’ house, and he said as much to Jacob, but then he was distracted by an intensifying of the noise of the crowd.
It was a mob now, forming what looked like a ring about the landward end of the warehouse and baying for something with a cacophonous pulse that Kite could not comprehend. Then he caught the cadence with its alliteration:
‘Tea-tax Tyrell! Tea-tax Tyrell! Tea-tax Tyrell!’
Kite began to move forward, a knot of anger and fear bunching up under his heart. He began to shoulder his way into the crowd which kept up their chorus.
‘Tea-tax Tyrell! Tea-tax Tyrell! Tea-tax Tyrell!’
Into the light flung across the adjacent street staggered a terrible figure which Kite recognised instantly, though he was stark naked and glossy with a covering of tar. Around him, dancing with excitement came a dozen youths. Some had bowls under their left arms and, as in some obscene sowing rite, gathered up handfuls with their other hands and flung them over Tyrell. The others bore flaming brands with which they beat the ground behind Tyrell’s heels making the old man dance obscenely to the vast amusement of the shouting crowd of men, women and children. This was Newport’s version of tarring and feathering, a ritual adopted by the ‘Patriots’ to intimidate their Tory enemies.
Tyrell tried to ward off the tea dust, blinded by it and the warm tar his thin body had been daubed with. Even where he struggled against the press of the mob, Kite could feel the heat of the fire and if Tyrell uttered anything from his opened mouth, Kite could not hear a thing. He was outraged and his fury increased his activity. He began to elbow people aside so that he attracted attention and men complained.
‘Hey, keep back…’
‘Who are you shoving aside..?’
And then Kite felt his elbow caught in a strong grip and he was being dragged backwards. He half-turned, aware that Jacob was pulling him back through the crowd.
‘Unhand me, Jacob, damn you!’
But Jacob hauled him clear and as Kite, his face suffused with anger began to berate him, said ‘look Cap’n!’ Such was the insistence in Jacob’s eyes that Kite turned. Now he could hear Tyrell’s screams, they cut through the yelling of the mob which gradually ebbed as the enormity of their collective act struck them.
The flaring brands borne by the taunting youths had set fire to the tar which covered Tyrell’s body and now he b
lazed and danced a grim dido of death. Even as he did so the burning walls of his warehouse collapsed inwards with a climactic roar and upwards spray of sparks; then the noise of the fire died down. Even the church bell had ceased tolling the tocsin, and the almost sudden lessening of noise emphasised the terrible death agonies of the tormented old man. Children turned away and buried their faces in their mothers’ aprons while the women themselves began to sob and cry.
Someone shouted out, ‘Shame!’
Another called out, ‘Murderers!’ and few voices joined in: ‘Incendiaries!’ ‘Bastards!’ ‘Patriot scum!’
As Tyrell’s dying body arched with a last spasm of pain and terror, the air was filled with the stench of his burning flesh. Someone vomited and the crowd began to melt away.
‘Take heart, citizens!’ A man’s voice bellowed. ‘Better one old man dies that a people is enslaved!’ A thin cheer from the die-hard patriots greeted this short speech. ‘Death to all tyrants!’ the ring-leader went on, rallying his supporters. ‘Liberty and damnation to the British!’
‘Come sah,’ Jacob persisted, ‘I promised de Second Mate I’d look after you, Cap’n Kite. There ain’t nothing we can do, sah. The old man is burnt blacker than any God-damned nigra.’
Kite caught one last view of Tyrell. The old man had given up the ghost and his corpse lay shrivelled and burned. Then, as Jacob pulled him forcibly into an alley, Kite called, ‘wait!’
Obedience was ingrained in Jacob and he paused as Kite turned to peer from the partial cover of the corner. There had been something familiar about the voice of the ring-leader. The mob had become a crowd again and this had almost dispersed. Only a small group of men remained at the site of Tyrell’s humiliation. One stepped forward and, undoing his breeches, relieved himself over the corpse, adding the stink of the steam of urine to the smell of roasting flesh.
The Privateersman Page 12