The Black Ring

by William Westbrook

  Much had happened since Rascal departed English Harbor to retrieve James Wharton, and Fallon relayed the events in a straightforward manner, beginning with the encounter with the slaver Plymouth off the coast of Cuba and the subsequent chase after Doncella Española.

  “Wait,” said Davies. “You ran into Doncella?”

  “Well, not exactly, sir,” said Fallon. “We didn’t run into her, but she ran into the chain across Havana Harbor and, ahem, she sank.”

  “She sank?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Fallon matter-of-factly, and proceeded to explain the chase and Brooks’s excellent handling of the ship and Cully’s remarkable work at the long nine and, finally, the frantic signaling between Doncella and the fort right up until she struck the chain.

  “You knew the Spanish officials would not lower the chain again, didn’t you?” asked Davies, knowing the answer.

  “No, sir,” objected Fallon. “I’m afraid I’m not clairvoyant. I only hoped.”

  Davies smiled at such a modest answer. If Rascal had been a Royal Navy schooner that sank a Spanish frigate, the Gazette would have gushed in praise. The whole of London would be cheering. But as it stood, London would never know of this brave and resourceful privateer captain. And the captain cared not a whit.

  Fallon then detailed his arrival in Matanzas, noting the subsequent arrival of the Holy One to unload slaves. He made little of Paloma’s escape from Castillo de San Severino, or at least said no more than was necessary. Davies nodded in appreciation, aware that Fallon was playing down his own heroics once again. But he had gotten the picture from Paloma of the fighting and the rush to the ship and Young David’s refusal to board. On the matter of the Matanzas treasure, Davies refused to claim any of it for the Crown.

  “I didn’t hear a word you said about any treasure, sir,” said Davies. “I think I may be losing my hearing, you see, either from cannon fire or captains’ exaggerations. But tell me about poor James Wharton and what intelligence he conveyed about Cuba before he died.”

  “There is not much to say, I’m afraid,” said Fallon. “Wharton felt most Cubans were not ready for independence. The white Cubans, that is. Although, certainly some are. But he could find no real political will for it and could identify no military or political leader to organize a movement.”

  “I see,” said Davies, disappointed. “I was hoping for some good news to report to their Lordships, since it was their idea to send Wharton out. And now the poor bastard is dead.”

  They sat in silence for a while, the ship’s noises going on overhead, and Kinis could be heard calling out to someone.

  “Pray carry on with your report, Nicholas,” said Davies.

  “On our return down the Cuban coast our lookout reported a French ship-of-the-line turning for Port-au-Prince,” said Fallon, letting that bit of news hang in the air like a bad odor.

  Davies stood up from his desk, his face dark and worried.

  “My God, what do you think that’s about?” he asked somberly. “A show of force, perhaps?”

  “That occurred to me, yes,” said Fallon. “Perhaps France sent an emissary to explain to Louverture how things were going to be. Perhaps to kill the trade treaties. Or even to replace the general with a French official.”

  Again, a long moment of silence as Davies digested the news.

  “Now we have a conundrum,” he said finally. “A French ship at Saint-Domingue; why, we don’t know. Doncella is finished, but the other Spanish frigate, which Wharton said was Tigre, is somewhere up to something. And we still have the usual scofflaws sailing about. Suddenly the Caribbean is very crowded with the King’s enemies.” A pause. “But I must say I am most concerned about that damned ship at Port-au-Prince. That could alter the balance of power in the entire region. A bully on the field, as it were. Tell me, is there any good news, Nicholas?”

  That prompted Fallon to describe the battle with the little wolves, the valiant Somers in command of Petite Bouton, and again the unfortunate death of Brooks, which he’d already made known to Davies when they’d arrived in English Harbor. In deference to Elinore’s privacy he left out her miscarriage, though he had no doubt Paloma would share it with Davies later.

  “I am very sorry about Brooks, sir,” said Fallon quietly. “He was a good man, even a very good man, brave and well-liked. He died facing a broadside.”

  “Yes, Brooks had a promising career in front of him,” agreed Davies sadly. “But he was excited to sail with you, Nicholas. He volunteered, remember? And he died doing what he wanted to do. Not so many men can say that, I guess.” Here he was thinking about his own situation, locked in English Harbor aboard the flagship.

  “But it seems you have put paid to the little wolves’ depredations, and I must say in a rather spectacular manner,” Davies continued. “Without the Holy One I believe they could well disband, or at the least they will not be as dangerous. That counts for a lot, and would no doubt satisfy Brooks enormously were he here to know it.”

  Fallon was about to ask about Renegade’s fitting out, but Davies had turned to look out the massive stern windows and was clearly lost in thought. Fallon thought it best to let him get to wherever he was going.

  “Nicholas,” he began, turning to face Fallon, “on a deeply personal note, I hardly know where to begin to thank you for rescuing Paloma. It was beyond anything I would have expected, for I asked only of news of her. But you could not simply bring me back news of her imprisonment and death, could you? Simply to report back to me would have violated your dignity and duty, and I know that. From the beginning, therefore, it was an unfair request. I see that now. In the midst of my joy and inestimable relief to have her here safe, I must apologize for putting you and the ship in such danger. I should have known you were never going to leave her in anything like a precarious position, if you were going to leave her at all.”

  Fallon stared at the cabin sole for a moment, that perfectly organized checkerboard of black-and-white painted canvas, and thought for the hundredth time how alike he and Davies were. How similar their minds and even their hearts. Worlds away in rank and station, they were nonetheless bound by something deep and profound that existed only in the fighting brotherhood.

  “Harry, you don’t owe me anything for doing exactly what you would have done for me,” said Fallon simply. “The look on your face when you came on board and saw Paloma was the happiest I’ve ever seen you. I also saw the look on Paloma’s face. Love is a wonderful thing, Harry. I have done more for less in my life.”

  “It shows on my face then?” asked Davies with an embarrassed smile.

  Fallon could only laugh. Apparently, cluelessness was something they shared, as well.

  UPON HIS RETURN to Rascal, Fallon was greeted by the unexpected sight of Beauty on deck overseeing repairs from the battle in Bahia Salinas. It both surprised and gratified him to see her in her accustomed role, but he wondered at the strain it might cause her.

  “Not a word to me, Nico,” she said emphatically as he approached her. “I have moved back aboard and don’t plan to leave. So, get used to it and let me do my job. Dr. Garón knows all about it and believes a ship is healthier than a hospital.”

  Well, there wasn’t much Fallon could say to that because it really wasn’t going to be a discussion, per se. Neither was it at all clear if Garón simply knew about it or actually approved of it. Right, let her do her job, he told himself. That might be the best medicine.

  Now here was Cully asking permission to restock the ship with ordnance, for shot and powder were low, and of course Fallon sent him off to the magazine with a shore party to secure what he needed. After all, Rascal was still in service to the Admiralty until she arrived home in Bermuda, and Davies had encouraged Fallon to leave with a well-stocked ship. Beauty would see to the other stores, as well as wood and water, which would begin coming aboard tomorrow. With everything well in hand, Fallon went below to have a nap—yes, a nap, by God—before Somers and Elinore arrived for dinner.
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  When was the last time he’d done that?

  FORTY-EIGHT

  THE SOLDIERS marched over the rolling plains and followed the smoke until there was no more smoke. At this point, Colonel Munoz guessed, they were ahead of Young David.

  Munoz was a patient man. He reasoned that Young David travelled by night and slept by day, hidden in a ravine or tree, and so looking for him by day would do no good. No, his thinking went, better to wait for him at night, hidden in the cane of the next field ahead of Young David.

  It was a good plan.

  Young David approached the field where the soldiers were hidden just after midnight. He carried dried leaves and a piece of flint in his hands. He knelt next to the cane and made a nest of the leaves, then took out his knife and flint and prepared to start a fire.

  But he never got that far.

  FORTY-NINE

  ADMIRAL HARRY DAVIES climbed down into his gig for the short row to shore, his boat’s crew well turned out, as always. It was almost evening in the Caribbean, and the low sun on his face felt wonderfully warm; the strain and worry of command temporarily at bay.

  Once ashore, he walked briskly along the path into the village and the inn that Somers, Elinore, and Paloma temporarily called home. The Pegasus Inn had a white exterior picked out in blue trim, and across the front was an expansive porch lined with white wicker chairs. As Davies approached, Paloma Campos rose from one of them.

  He gasped at her beauty and the fluid grace of her descent down the steps and into his arms. It occurred to him that this was all any man could want and more than he deserved.

  “I have been thinking of you all afternoon, Harry,” Paloma said softly. “I have been imagining the story of your life, for I don’t really know you well enough to be in love with you.”

  “And what did you imagine the story of my life to be?” asked Harry in a teasing voice as they began to walk toward the mouth of the harbor.

  “I imagined you as a young boy in England. A boy that other boys looked up to who would not be pushed or bullied. At a young age, you joined the Royal Navy to see the world and fight your country’s enemies. You were very patriotic. Your parents didn’t want you to go. But you had a romantic notion of war then, which you no longer have. You never married; the service was your wife. With promotion and age came wisdom and a more cynical view of the world. Not exactly negative, but also not optimistic. You found too many things to be angry about to be fully happy in your role as admiral. You look at Nicholas Fallon with envy, seeing the Harry Davies that might have been. You have no close friends, no one who is your peer, but he is the closest you have to a brother. And then … and then I come along. And the question you must be considering is the question I’ve been thinking about on the porch all afternoon: Where do I fit in with the story of your life?”

  “Good God!” Davies exclaimed.

  “You even curse like Nicholas,” Paloma said with a smile. “It’s really quite adorable.”

  “I just meant … that is, I’m so taken aback at your story. I mean my story,” stammered Davies. “How in God’s world did you figure all that out?”

  “It wasn’t that hard, Harry,” Paloma said, laughing. “Cuando el río suena, agua lleva.”

  “What does that mean, may I ask?”

  “When you hear the river make noise, it’s carrying water,” she replied with a smile.

  FALLON STOOD at the stern of his ship awaiting Somers and Elinore for dinner. The sun was ready to throw its golden light on the other side of the world, and the Rascals were at peace and safe as houses. That afternoon he had watched Aja working with the new freedmen, who were practicing knots and splices, for they had all kept their word and signed on as hands as Fallon hoped they would. The crew seemed open-minded about their new shipmates; it was the way of sailors to judge a man by his skill rather than his skin. Fallon smiled to himself as he looked around his happy ship.

  It was time to take them all home.

  And yet …

  He wondered about that French ship at Port-au-Prince and what it meant for Davies. And for Louverture. He had met the Frenchman, and he liked him. More than that, he’d meant what he’d said about Louverture being a beacon of hope for slaves throughout the Caribbean. But what if that light went out? Freedom was a tenuous thing, as Louverture would no doubt agree. Fallon thought of the letter to Cuba’s governor and what it portended. Could Rascal sail away not knowing why that damned ship was sent to Saint-Domingue?

  Davies had called a meeting to discuss the situation the next morning, and Fallon wanted to take a turn around the deck to focus on what he could offer. But here were Somers and Elinore close by the ship. It would not do to be otherwise occupied in thought when he was with Elinore. She read him too well.

  She might guess he was considering not going directly home to Bermuda.

  FIFTY

  I’VE ASKED you here because I’d like your opinion on the Caribbean situation before I make a decision about how to proceed,” said Davies, looking around the great cabin at Jones, Fallon, and Kinis. “But first, I must say to Captain Fallon that you are here as an advisor only, sir. You have done quite enough to help the Crown, putting yourself and crew in the gravest of dangers again and again. It is tempting to think of Rascal as Royal Navy, but, of course, you are not. I fully expect you to return forthwith to Bermuda, but I’ve asked you here because you see things from a privateer’s view, a view that I’ve personally always found helpful, if often unexpected, shall we say.”

  Fallon nodded slightly. Davies was letting him off the hook, helping him leave with honor. The other officers smiled, knowing full well the esteem in which Davies held Fallon. It was deserved and they knew it.

  “To continue,” said Davies, “we believe there is a French ship at Port-au-Prince. Why, we don’t know, but she is a formidable enemy and is likely not there to pat Louverture on the back. We know Doncella is sunk, but we believe Spain also sent another frigate—Tigre—perhaps to protect Havana and other Cuban ports, or perhaps for other reasons. The question is: How do we proceed? Renegade is coming off the ways soon and, with Avenger, we are fully capable of dealing with the situation. But we need a strategy, or we will simply be sailing about looking for an opportunity and perhaps find none. I give you the floor, gentlemen.” And Davies sat down at his desk, a chart of the Caribbean in front of them all, and waited.

  No one said anything immediately. Jones was the most junior and certainly wasn’t going to volunteer an early opinion. Fallon was trying to be a passive observer, but it wasn’t working; in truth, he was trying to winkle an idea out of its hiding place in his brain. So, it was left to the stolid Kinis to break the ice by pointing at the chart, as if a plan might appear there.

  “The problem, sir, as you’ve pointed out, is that we have two unrelated enemy ships, except that they are allies,” Kinis began. “We know where one supposedly is, if she’s still there; we haven’t a clue about the other’s whereabouts, or if she’s even here. So, the question is: Do we wait to learn more and then act, or is there something we can do now?”

  “With your permission, sir,” said Jones tentatively. “Could we not try a full-on attack on the French ship?”

  “I would suspect she is very well positioned against just such a possibility, Jones,” said Davies. “The harbor is quite narrow near Port-au-Prince, and if she is indeed a ship-of-the-line it would be heavy going against well-manned guns. It may be our only option in the end, of course. We certainly don’t have the ships or the time to blockade the port and make her come out.”

  Everyone in the room knew Davies was right. But now Fallon was at last focused on the idea he’d been teasing out. He had an elastic mind when it came to solving unsolvable problems; perhaps if he talked it out, it would come.

  “I am wondering,” he said quietly, “if we might provoke a situation and turn this very large negative into something more positive. Something that would confuse these allies to the point of hostility to each ot
her, now and in the future, at least in the Caribbean. Perhaps it would have the benefit of preventing their cooperation against Louverture’s rebellion in the bargain. Surely, that would be in Great Britain’s interests.”

  The cabin grew quiet, and all eyes turned to Fallon.

  “What is that remarkable mind of yours thinking?” asked Davies, without a hint of sarcasm.

  Fallon paused before answering. He had their full attention now, but there were so many points he hadn’t had time to think out. It might all sound like so much fantasy.

  “Renegade is Spanish-built, as we all know,” continued Fallon, taking a deep breath. “I am wondering if Renegade should become Tigre.”

  Jones gasped as Kinis coughed. Only Davies smiled.

  “And then, Nicholas?” he said.

  “And then … Renegade, the new Tigre, might provoke an incident of some kind. Perhaps attack French shipping? Or a French base? Or something bigger: We know there’s a French ship at Port-au-Prince. Could the new Tigre strike there? France might not get over that anytime soon. And then whenever French and Spanish ships happened to meet again … who knows how they might react?”

  “God, you are the very devil, Nicholas!” said Davies, with a wicked grin.

  But Jones, who would be commanding Renegade as Tigre, hadn’t gotten over the part where he was to attack a ship-of-the-line.

  “But surely, sir,” said Jones, excited but cautious, “it would take more than a Spanish flag to fool those French buggers. Begging your pardon, Admiral.”

  Davies only continued smiling, for he was starting to guess where Fallon was going.

  “Yes, Jones, you are very correct,” said Fallon. “You would need to rename your ship and outfit yourself and your officers in Spanish naval uniforms. Your crew could even wear barettina caps, I believe they call them.”