“So, Captain Fallon, thank you for not firing on my ship. You obviously took my intent to have this talk.”
“I guessed as much, Capitán Cabarone,” Fallon said in Spanish. “And I am intrigued that we should meet like this. Our two countries rarely talk since Spain allied with France.”
Here Fallon was in danger of insulting the man, of being seen as rude in pointing out the betrayal of Spain’s Godoy in suddenly aligning with England’s mortal enemy, but he didn’t care. It had been a betrayal, so the hell with being nice about it.
“Yes, exactly,” replied Cabarone, either refusing to take insult or missing it entirely. He poured them each a glass of wine and settled himself behind his desk. “To get to business, Captain, I asked to talk so that we might avoid fighting each other and causing unnecessary bloodshed. I am not on a mission of war, but rather an act of diplomacy, for I am carrying two Cuban emissaries back to their home who have been to Spain to meet His Most Catholic Majesty Charles IV. One of these supernumeraries is a woman, and it seems she is with child. As I have been entrusted with their protection by His Most Catholic Majesty, I decided not to risk their injury by attacking your ship.”
Which meant to Fallon that Cabarone had no intention of fighting anyone if he could avoid it.
“I see. A wise decision, sir,” said Fallon, letting the question of which side would win such a battle hang in the air. Again, the arrow missed Cabarone. “I would like very much to meet these emissaries, if it would not be too much trouble. As a simple captain, I know nothing of politics, of course.”
Cabarone studied Fallon carefully, sniffing for anything suspicious in the request, deciding it was only to verify the truth of what he had said, which seemed reasonable. He asked the sentry at the door to summon the Cubans, meanwhile pouring himself another glass of wine, satisfied at the way things were going with this rather dull British captain.
In a few moments two somber people entered the cabin, and Cabarone introduced them as Doctor and Señora Garón. Fallon bowed instinctively but never took his eyes off the pair.
“I am very pleased to meet you,” he said in Spanish, studying the emissaries closely. “I trust your mission to Spain was successful?”
Cabarone shot a warning look to the Garóns. Instead of answering, Doctor Garón only smiled weakly and nodded ever so slightly. His wife stood with one hand on her belly and would not be intimidated by Cabarone’s gaze.
“As you may know, Captain Fallon,” she said quietly, “Cuba is a proud country. However, we were always controlled by Spain, until Great Britain seized Havana. Then you traded us back to Spain for Florida.”
Fallon knew this was true, of course, the trade coming in the Treaty of Paris. Many in England thought the British had gotten the worst of the deal. He could feel the emotion in the señora’s voice at the thought of being “traded.”
Cabarone coughed, as if to put an end to the conversation, but Señora Garón continued, the color creeping up her neck as she spoke.
“We want our independence back, Captain. Independent of England or Spain or anyone, we want our country back. We went to Spain to make our feelings known, speaking for all Cubans, but we were never allowed to meet with the king. Apparently, he was gone hunting. We were not allowed to meet with Godoy, either. He was too busy. Instead, we met with some lower officials who smiled and introduced us to other officials who introduced us downward until we were meeting with servants and maids.”
Here Cabarone had had enough. “Thank you very much for agreeing to meet Captain Fallon,” he said as he bowed to the emissaries. “But I fear he will want to return to his ship now. Where did you say you were going, Captain?”
“I didn’t say, Capitán Cabarone. But I am delighted to meet you all and I wish you every success in the future.”
He bowed to Doctor Garón, who looked at him curiously, and made to bow to his wife, but instead she extended her hand.
“I hope I didn’t offend you in any way, Captain,” she said. “It is not easy to be Cuban these days.”
Fallon took her hand and looked into her deep brown eyes, read something like a novella, bowed deeply, and preceded Cabarone up the stairs. He held the note that Señora Garón had slipped him tightly in his hand as he joined Aja at the side and climbed down into the gig.
The gig’s crew made short work rowing to Rascal. Fallon was up the side in an instant, not wanting to waste a moment until he could go below to read the señora’s note away from Cabarone’s eyes, passed as it was with great risk to herself. He uncurled his fingers and flattened the torn piece of paper.
Somos prisioneros.
They’re prisoners, by God! thought Fallon. He bounded up the companionway and ordered Beauty to make sail, for Luna Nueva was already underway. Beauty didn’t question the order, only urged the hands to quickly get the ship underway and very soon they were sailing before the wind some quarter of a mile behind Luna. Rascal sought an advantage as Beauty spread every inch of canvas aboard, hoping to effectively blanket most of Luna’s wind, and with every yard sailed the schooner seemed to minutely close the gap. Fallon judged the wind to be close to fifteen knots, and he could clearly see Cabarone standing on the quarterdeck, aware that his advantage in distance and canvas was being challenged. Still, he had the firepower to overwhelm Rascal if he chose to fight and, really, it was that or surrender.
Fallon stood next to the binnacle, Beauty at his side, and weighed his motivation for chasing Cabarone and risking his ship. Luna would be carrying some two hundred men, more than twice Rascal’s complement, and she had aboard two political prisoners of dubious importance. But Cabarone had lied, and somehow that made all the difference. Because if his diplomatic mission was a lie, what else was a lie? What else, or who else, was aboard his ship? Why fly the white flag in the first place with Luna having such an advantage in men and firepower?
On Rascal sailed to press her foe, and as she drew closer still, Fallon weighed his options.
“Beauty, please call Cully aft,” he ordered, and in moments Cully was beside him. They both eyed the closing distance to Luna.
“If I bear off below Luna, how long until you can put a shot across her bows, Cully?” asked Fallon.
The old gunner rubbed his chin and smiled at the thought of action. “Bear off and I can lay the forward guns almost immediately, Nico,” he said.
“Beauty, wait until Cully gives the signal and then bear off,” Fallon ordered. “Cully, send one shot off her bows, but be ready for a broadside if I give the command.”
In moments, Cully waved to Beauty, and she bore off southward slightly to open the angle of fire.
“Fire when ready!” yelled Fallon, and a forward gun roared out, sending its iron ball some fifty yards in front of Luna. For a moment, nothing happened; Fallon could see Cabarone studying Rascal through his telescope, perhaps wondering if his tormentor was really serious. Then, apparently, Cabarone decided he was. Down came the brig’s colors. She had surrendered.
Luna hove-to once again, as did Rascal, and Fallon was rowed across to the Spaniard. He brought with him a crew to take charge of the vessel, which would only be possible if Cabarone gave his word of honor not to try to escape. Fallon was met on deck by the capitán, who presented his sword with something like relief or embarrassment on his face. After the formalities of surrender were agreed to, and Fallon was persuaded of Cabarone’s honor, Fallon ordered the Spanish officers and crew below decks and put under guard, with the exception of Cabarone, who was confined to his cabin. The Spanish sailors were remarkably docile, which surprised and intrigued Fallon. With the situation in hand, he sent Aja back to Rascal with the order for Beauty to transfer to Luna, and then went below to interview Cabarone in the great cabin, where he sat looking like the ruined man he was.
Fallon poured them both a glass of wine, for the bottle was still upon the desk from their earlier meeting. The two men sat for a moment eyeing one another, and just as Fallon formed a question in his mind for Ca
barone, the capitán answered it for him.
“Gunpowder, Señor. We are carrying enough gunpowder to blow us to the moon. I could not engage your ship and risk killing all my men.”
Here Fallon’s eyebrows shot up. Gunpowder, by God! That would explain Cabarone’s reluctance to fight! And the docility of the crew. Cabarone drank some more of his wine and seemed to sink lower in his chair and in his spirits.
“The powder is for the Spanish army in Cuba,” he said suddenly, perhaps eager to further explain what appeared to have been cowardice on his part. “The army requires the gunpowder to protect the country from rebellion.”
“Then I am doubly glad to relieve you of your cargo,” said Fallon with a tight jaw. “Speaking of which, what of the Garóns, Capitán Cabarone? Are they really emissaries?”
Cabarone seemed not to hear the question.
“Come, Cabarone,” said Fallon soothingly. “I will be speaking with both Garóns, as you must know.”
“They are diplomatic … prisoners, Captain,” said Cabarone. “I was to take them to El Morro, the fort on Havana’s harbor that is also a prison. Godoy invited them to Spain to hear their grievances as a show of goodwill to Cuba, because they are known there to be patriots, but he ignored them. They were to be my, how do you say in English? … sheep’s clothing to get the gunpowder through to Cuba.” Cabarone spat these last words out bitterly, for clearly the ruse had failed spectacularly.
“Capitán, we will talk more later. I am going to confine you to this cabin; is that understood?”
“Yes, Captain Fallon. I’m afraid it is.” And Cabarone looked around his beautiful cabin with a long, sad gaze.
“One last thing, Capitán,” asked Fallon casually. “When are you expected in Havana?”
Here Cabarone hesitated, suddenly aware that he had perhaps over-talked, but finally he spoke. “The officials there are expecting the powder when it comes, for they are desperate for it. But as to when it is coming …” He shrugged the shrug of a thousand Spanish officers and petty officials. Who can tell?
NINE
REAR ADMIRAL Harry Davies stood at the stern windows aboard his flagship, Avenger, 74, and looked toward Port-au-Prince on the western end of Saint-Domingue. The close of day was turning the windows black; in his reflected image he looked older than he ought—or perhaps he really looked that old, he thought darkly. He was tall at least, with long, light hair tied in an old-fashioned club. Only thirty-nine years old, he felt like he’d been in the service forever, in wars forever, with little to show for it except his rank, which admittedly had come quickly, though whether because of luck or ability he wasn’t sure. His parents were deceased and he had no siblings. He also had no wife, not even close. He’d even given up his mistress in Antigua—well, she’d given up on him, truth be told.
Davies went on deck to walk off his mutton dinner. He looked across the Gulf of Gonâve at his two frigates at anchor. HMS Brilliant was on the small side, a fifth-rate of 36 guns with a clean bottom and able crew. Her captain, Josiah Peabody, was certainly capable if unimaginative, having fought in a string of conflicts that never earned him distinction. But he was as loyal as a retriever, essentially fearless, and could be relied upon in a fight.
The bigger frigate, Renegade, had been sold into the service by Ezra Somers as a prize captured by Nicholas Fallon, the inestimable privateer from Bermuda. The Admiralty had sent Davies a new captain for Renegade several months ago, Sir Charles Charles, and he was as big a fop as his ridiculous name suggested. My God, Davies thought, where does this endless supply of incompetence come from? Davies had immediately put Samuel Jones II into Renegade as first lieutenant, so entered in the ship’s books because there was another Samuel Jones in the service. Jones had served nobly as Fallon’s first lieutenant years ago when Davies had pressed Fallon into service on a different mission. He kept the ship running well, despite Sir Charles’s lack of command presence, which was putting it generously. The trouble for Davies was that Sir Charles was senior to Peabody on the Captains List, so any coordinated action involving the two frigates was cumbersome at best and fraught with weakness. Davies’ own flag captain, Kinis, was a by-the-book sort of man, with a punctual mind and barman’s memory. He was in the right job running a flagship.
All three British ships rode easily in the lee of Gonâve Island, with Port-au-Prince just visible up the bay to the east. Davies could see what looked to be fires burning in the hills, and he could well imagine groups of runaway slaves, or maroons, still hiding in the hills, dancing around the flames and practicing their Vodou. Their houngans, or priests, wielded great influence over the African slaves. In fact, the Saint-Domingue slave rebellion of 1791 was said to have originated at a Vodou ceremony because of a rumor: A spoiled young white plantation hostess was said to have given a grand dinner party on the island and, distressed that a particular dish wasn’t prepared to her satisfaction, had ordered the offending black cook to be thrown into the still hot oven. Rumor in the islands was a powerful force and, in the absence of real news, became the news. The slaves of Saint-Domingue worked themselves into a rage and fields were set on fire, white masters murdered, and the sugarcane burned where it stood before harvest. After firing the fields, most of the slaves became maroons and retreated to the hills, living in colonies and continuing to attack white plantation owners.
In the chaos of attacks and reprisals, a rebel leader gradually emerged to organize the rebellion and give it focus. His name was Toussaint Louverture, a charismatic and complex man: former slave, freeman, slave owner himself, and, finally, rebel general ruling Saint-Domingue.
One of Louverture’s earliest and most consistent targets was the garrison of British troops who stubbornly refused to leave Saint-Domingue after having been sent there to protect British planters. With Louverture’s rise to power, the planters were generally spared violence, but the presence of British military on Saint-Domingue was a thorn in the side of the French-leaning general. At last, after countless attacks and reprisals, the British officer in charge of the troops, General Thomas Maitland, had negotiated their safe withdrawal and sent word to the Admiralty for ships to remove them. Davies and his little armada had come out to do just that.
But there was more to Davies’ mission, for he had also been sent an intelligence agent by the Admiralty with orders to be secreted into Cuba at the earliest opportunity. This proposition was difficult for a British ship, not least because Spain controlled Cuba and was Great Britain’s enemy just as France was. And, the task required a ship that was smaller than a frigate and quick in stays, for she could come under the guns of harbor forts. Davies had immediately thought of Fallon, whose American-built schooner might slip in and out of Cuba without arousing suspicion.
James Wharton, the intelligence agent, was a likable fellow, but on the voyage from English Harbor he had been indisposed much of the time and kept to his cabin. Davies suspected sea sickness. In a rare moment on deck, Wharton had revealed that his orders were to explore ways to weaken Spain’s relationship with Cuba and to draw Spanish resources away from the war. Wharton hoped to find a nascent independence movement or political discontent that could be fed and nurtured. Even a slave rebellion would be a start. Clearly, thought Davies, London missed the irony of embracing slavery at home and supporting slave rebellions elsewhere.
Well, war itself was ironical, Davies decided. Hated enemies became allies at the stroke of a pen. Prisoners were exchanged only to be captured and exchanged again. God was invoked on all sides, making each side right in the eyes of the Almighty.
Davies reached for the London Gazette, which he had brought from English Harbor because it had an article on Louverture. The writer was all praise for the slave leader: “Toussaint is a Negro and in the jargon of war has been called a brigand. But according to all accounts he is a Negro born to vindicate the claims of this species and to show that the character of men is independent of color.”
Good lord, Davies thought, now the character
of men is independent of color! What would they think of next?
TEN
BEAUTY VERY SENSIBLY waited until dawn to attempt the entrance to the Gulf of Gonâve, though it was not difficult, for she did not want Luna to be fired upon by the Royal Navy in poor light. Luna flew a British ensign, but a suspicious British captain might have taken that as a ruse from a Spanish brig intent on mischief and blown them to bits. The Gulf of Gonâve was quite large, with Gonâve Island dominating its center. Beauty rounded up and let go well to the west, preferring that the gig’s crew row a bit farther in return for having the gunpowder a safe distance away from the flagship, which even now was signaling for Luna’s captain to report on board.
The gig’s crew made smart work of rowing across the azure water to where Avenger lay anchored, and in no time the bosun’s chair was lowered and Beauty was raised up over the side.
“Beauty McFarland! It is wonderful to see you again,” Kinis exclaimed with unusual emotion, for they had a shared history fighting the French and Spanish, and he respected her courage and seamanship. “I thought that brig was handled exceptionally well when she came in. Now I know why!”
“Thank you, Captain Kinis,” said Beauty. “I am very glad to have the anchor down, I can assure you!”
“Come below and see Admiral Davies,” said Kinis. “He will want your report, I know.”
Davies enthusiastically welcomed Beauty into his cabin, which was furnished traditionally in heavy oak cabinets and cupboards. The stern gallery was massive and threw its light on the cabin and the enormous desk, behind which the admiral had just been finishing coffee and reviewing the embarkation plans for the British soldiers on Saint-Domingue. Even now the soldiers were massing on the shore, and soon Peabody, Sir Charles, and Kinis would be sending boats to begin taking them off. After asking his flag captain to stay and hear Beauty’s report with him, Davies bade her begin.
The Black Ring Page 5