Prelude to Glory, Vol. 7

by Ron Carter

  The spring sun was halfway to its zenith in a blue sky when the call came from the crow’s nest. There was a strange sound in the voice.

  “Cap’n, there’s somethin’ comin’ over in the nor’east skyline. Looks like a ship, but she’s too low, and there’s no masts. None.”

  Instantly Matthew was at the starboard rail, his telescope extended, slowly sweeping the skyline to the east. Minutes passed before the tiny speck appeared to those at deck level, and Matthew hunched forward, studying the black silhouette.

  “What is it?” Caleb asked.

  Matthew shook his head and said nothing as he concentrated. A time passed before he spoke.

  “I think it’s a cargo ship. My guess is she was caught in the storm and demasted altogether. Looks like she has no canvas at all. She’s too low in the water. She has a longboat in the water towing her on a line. I think she’s trying to make landfall before she sinks.”

  “Any flag?”

  “None. No mast.” He turned to the helmsman. “Take a heading east by nor’east and hold her steady.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  No one questioned going to help the crippled ship. The unwritten law of the sea.

  The speeding Carrie had closed to less than two miles from the creeping hulk when the shout came from the crow’s nest, “Cap’n, I think she’s dumping her cargo!”

  Matthew raised his telescope and for several seconds held it steady, studying the black shape. Suddenly he sucked air and lowered the telescope. His face was distorted, eyes blazing, jaw clenched.

  Caleb turned, startled. “What’s wrong?”

  Matthew’s voice came hot. “She’s a tight packer!”

  “Tight packer?” Caleb asked, puzzled.

  “A slaver! Blacks packed in the hold so tight some can’t lay down to sleep. They’re throwing blacks overboard.”

  Caleb jerked in disbelief, then glanced at Primus. Primus moaned and hid his face in both hands, then turned and walked away, out of sight. Caleb reached to jerk the telescope from Matthew’s hands, and for ten seconds he studied the incoming ship. White-faced, shaking, he lowered the telescope, saying nothing because he could not speak. The rest of the crew, barefooted, bearded, were transfixed at the rail, staring in shocked disbelief. Every man among them had heard such tales from old sailors, but none were prepared to see it. Matthew went to his quarters to reappear instantly with his large brass horn to communicate over long distances.

  The bow of the Carrie cut a twelve-foot curl as she skimmed onward through the dark Atlantic waters, steadily closing the gap with the crippled ship. At one mile the crew could hear the screams and cries of the blacks being thrown into the sea. At half a mile the sound of a voice through a captain’s horn reached them, heavy with a Dutch accent.

  “Hallooo. Who are you? Repeat, who are you?”

  Matthew raised his horn. “The Carrie out of Head of Elk, Maryland. American. Who are you?”

  “The Helga out of Rotterdam. Dutch. For what purpose do you approach?”

  “Assist. You appear to be demasted and sinking.”

  “We will make landfall. We have sickness on board. Come no closer.”

  All eyes turned to Matthew, waiting. He raised his horn. “We’re coming alongside.”

  “Repeat. Sickness on board. Come no closer.”

  Matthew turned to the helmsman. “Steady as she goes.” He turned back and once again raised his horn. “What sickness?”

  “Plague.”

  “We can help. We’re coming alongside.”

  “Do not come alongside.”

  Matthew turned to Caleb, puzzlement plain on his face. “Something’s wrong. Load those cannon with grapeshot and bring them to bear on the man with the horn.”

  For a moment Caleb hesitated in surprise before he answered, “Aye, sir.” He turned and gave hand signals and led four men to the guns.

  At four hundred yards Matthew turned back to the oncoming ship. “Repeat. We’re coming alongside.”

  The answer was instant, loud, profane. “This is an act of piracy!”

  Matthew called, “It is an act of mercy.”

  At two hundred yards, the men on the Carrie could see the black men and women in the ocean, some floating face down, others still swimming, fighting to keep their heads above water, mortal terror in their wide, white eyes. Matthew called orders.

  “Spill the mainsails!”

  Within seconds the ropes securing the great main sails were jerked free and the canvas relaxed, flapping in the wind until the sails were drawn up and lashed to the arms. The Carrie slowed, scarcely moving forward in the water. Matthew gave his next order.

  “Hard to starboard. Take her in among those in the water and pick up those still alive.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  The Carrie swung hard to starboard, passed the longboat towing the mortally wounded Helga, and crept slowly into the midst of the bodies in the sea. The crew began throwing ropes and pulling the living on board, dripping, emaciated, terrified, huddled together. The crew launched their single longboat to reach those too far for the ropes. Primus was beside Caleb, listening to the dialect of those who stood shivering, murmuring among themselves, turning flat eyes to the crew, and at Primus. In twenty minutes the deck and hold of the little schooner were jammed with the living, and Caleb took count. He turned to Matthew and spoke quietly, and Matthew could not miss the controlled fires burning behind his eyes.

  “Eighty-nine living. Sixty-six dead in the water.”

  For a moment Matthew made his calculations. “One hundred fifty-five. He has more in his hold.”

  An angry voice came bellowing from the larger ship. “That is our cargo. I charge you with piracy.”

  For the first time Matthew peered at the man. Stocky, thick-shouldered, thick necked, with a broad nose, heavy beard, face burned brown by sea and sun. Matthew correctly judged him to be the first mate, not the captain. Matthew did not use his horn.

  “We’re coming on board.” He spoke to Caleb without turning. “Get those two guns backed out of their ports and swing them around to bear directly on that officer and his crew. Do it now.”

  Caleb turned and gave orders.

  The thick-shouldered officer shouted, “I order you to withdraw. If you attempt to board we will resist with arms.”

  Matthew waited ten seconds while the two guns came into position. “Do as you wish. Our cannon are loaded with grape.”

  The Dutch officer visibly recoiled back one step. “You would not fire on a Dutch ship carrying a legal cargo.”

  A light came into Matthew’s eyes. “Would you care to find out?”

  Tension held for five seconds while the first mate decided he did not wish to find out if the Americans would fire the big guns. Silently he backed away from the rail and gave a hand signal to his crew to stand down. Matthew turned to his waiting men.

  “Grappling hooks.”

  Six of the three-pronged hooks arched over the gap separating the ships to clatter onto the deck of the Helga. In that instant the men threw their weight into the ropes to drag the hooks back to the rail where the prongs grabbed and held. Within minutes the ships were lashed together at the rail, and Matthew led ten of his men over the hooks onto the deck of the larger cargo ship, careful to stay out of line with the cannon behind them, where Primus and two men were hunched over the big guns, linstocks smoking and ready. Matthew walked directly to the man with the horn who stood sullen, trembling with anger, and faced him. Caleb took a position at Matthew’s right, slowly flexing both hands at his sides. The thick-shouldered first mate licked dry lips and turned his head far enough to be certain his crew was behind him, ready. There were thirty-one of them.

  Matthew wasted no time. “I am Captain Matthew Dunson, United States Navy, commander of the Carrie. Your name and rank, sir?”

  By the rules of the sea the Dutch officer was required to answer. He rasped it out, “Jakob Stenman. First mate of the Helga.”

  “Your capta
in?”

  “Dead. In the storm. When the mainmast came down it cracked the hull and killed the captain. He was buried at sea.”

  “Your ship’s surgeon?”

  “Dead. Swept overboard when he tried to reach the captain.”

  “Your cargo is slaves?”

  “That is not your business to know.”

  “It is my business. You threw one hundred fifty-five human beings overboard. Sixty-six are dead. If they were part of your cargo, the eighty-nine who are alive belong to whoever picked them out of the water, and at this moment they’re on my schooner. If they were not part of your cargo, you and your crew are guilty of sixty-six murders. So which is it? Cargo or murder?”

  For five seconds the space between Matthew and Stenman was charged with something alive. Behind Stenman, his thirty-one men turned their heads far enough to stare down the muzzles of the two, twenty-four pound cannon less than fifty feet away, each loaded with twenty-four pounds of lead balls one inch in diameter. At that range they would blast a twenty-foot section out of both railings and mutilate half the Dutch crew in an instant. Hovering over one gun with dead eyes was a black man holding a smoking linstock six inches from the touchhole, and over the other gun stood a lean, sun burned, bearded man licking his lips, clutching a linstock eight inches from the touchhole.

  The Dutch crew murmured, then settled, waiting for orders. The first mate stood silent, seething with rage.

  “Which is it,” Matthew demanded again, “cargo or murder? I won’t wait.”

  “Cargo.”

  “I claim the eighty-nine on my schooner. I’m going below to see if there are more.”

  “You have no right to go below,” the first mate bellowed.

  Matthew pointed west, toward the coastline, and the cutting edge in his voice was unmistakable.

  “Landfall is more than three miles. This ship will never make it. I’m going to give an offer one time, and you’re going to accept it or reject it, I don’t care which. I’ll tow you back to Cape Charles where you can salvage your ship. But before I do, I’m going below and taking one man with me. Make up your mind.”

  The Dutchman’s face became livid as he trembled with anger. He fumbled for words, then blurted, “You can not . . .”

  Matthew turned on his heel and spoke to his men. “Return to the Carrie and make ready to get under way.” He called to Primus, “Stand by the guns. If anyone in this crew moves, fire.” Matthew and those with him had taken two steps when the first mate stopped them.

  “Go below. Then you must tow us to port.”

  “Keep your crew right where it is while we’re below decks. If one man moves, the cannon will fire.” He turned to Caleb. “Let’s go.”

  Matthew walked past the silent Dutch crew to the door that opened into the narrow staircase leading below decks. The instant he swung the door open he was plunged into a stench like nothing he had ever experienced before. It hit him like a wall, driving him back a step to turn his face away and clap his hand over his mouth and nose. He breathed fresh air deep for a moment, then turned to once again try the stairs. Caleb followed him down into the blackness.

  The only light was that which followed them through the door. Their eyes adjusted as they descended into the abyss. They were four stair-steps from the bottom when their feet struck water, and they realized the hold of the Helga was shipping more than three feet of the Atlantic Ocean. They lowered themselves into the stinking, slimy mess, and pushed away from the staircase, straining to see in the darkness. They felt something bump against their legs and slowly understood they were bodies, floating face down, and then in the dimness they realized there were others, some standing alone, some clinging to each other, and then in the dim light they could see their eyes, white in their black faces, past fear, past terror, waiting only to die.

  Matthew paused and realized that weeks of human feces and urine were mixed with the sea water, and he could smell the terrible corruption of dysentery that had eaten the linings from the bowels of the blacks to ooze uncontrolled into the mix in which Matthew and Caleb were standing. The stench in the air was something palpable, forcing them to squint their eyes as tears ran down their cheeks into their beards. Fighting to hold down their gorge, they sloshed through the fetid murk eight feet before Matthew turned back. Caleb turned to follow, then stopped to bend forward, peering at something in the slimy mass. It took him a few seconds to make it out, and he gasped, and then he retched sour where he stood. He was staring at a mother, naked and dead, still clutching her dead infant to her breast.

  White hot anger rose raging in Caleb’s breast and burst from his throat in the sound of a wild animal. A low moaning came from unseen voices all around them, and Matthew turned to signal Caleb to follow him. They climbed back up the stairs with the stinking muck clinging to their clothing from the waist down and emerged into the sunlight. Matthew walked away from the door and left it open, with Caleb following. He strode directly to Stenman and his voice purred.

  “There is no plague down there. It’s dysentery. You starved them to death. Get them on deck. All of them. Dead or alive. Now!”

  Stenman’s jaw thrust out in defiance. “I refuse.”

  Matthew turned to call to Primus. “Fire!”

  Instantly Stenman’s hand shot up. “Do not fire! We will bring them up.” He turned to his crew. “Bring the cargo on deck. All of them.”

  Open resistance erupted among the Dutch crew. “We will not go down! There is death in the hold.” They backed away and began to spread out. Caleb took one look and stepped to the two nearest him. Caleb’s feet were spread and his arms were at his sides, loose and easy.

  “Get down those steps. Now.” His eyes were points of light.

  The man nearest him shook his head and made a lunge. He had moved less than a foot when Caleb’s right fist caught him flush on the point of his chin, and he was falling unconscious when Caleb’s left hand broke his nose. The man next to him reached for his belt knife but before he could bring it up, Caleb hit him above his left ear. The man’s head snapped to the right and he went to his knees, but not before the knife raked Caleb’s left rib cage. Caleb hit him once more in his right temple and the man toppled and his knife clattered to the deck. Red blood came flowing to soak Caleb’s shirt as he plucked up the knife and turned to face the next man. Caleb was holding the knife low, cutting edge up, balanced on the balls of his feet, and Matthew saw in his face that he would kill the man in an instant if he made the wrong move. The man saw the look in Caleb’s face and made his choice. He settled, and the crew of the Helga stopped, confused, unsure.

  Matthew gave orders to Stenman. “You remain here with me. Put your bos’n in charge of your crew. Tell your men that when they have brought up all who are down there, dead or alive, they will get a pump and a hosepipe and wash them all clean. Then they’ll prepare the dead for burial at sea, and prepare food from their own stores to feed the living. They will give the blacks their blankets to keep them warm tonight. Tell them you will remain with me on the Carrie, and if they do not obey those orders we will hang you from the mainmast yardarm. Tell them.”

  Stenman choked down his outrage, then repeated the orders in Dutch. The crew stared at Matthew, incredulous, then slowly moved toward the door into the hold. As they began the descent, Matthew turned to Caleb. “Get the medicine chest from my quarters on the Carrie and meet me on her deck.”

  Caleb turned and was gone as Matthew spoke to Stenman.

  “Take me to your captain’s quarters and show me his war chest.”

  Stenman’s eyes bulged. “You are going to rob us?”

  “Move!”

  Three minutes later Matthew had an iron-strapped, one-hundred-eighty-pound war chest on the floor of the captain’s quarters and was counting Spanish dollars and British pounds sterling. He made a mental tally of the money all cargo ships carried to pay the crew, make repairs, and buy food in the long and dangerous crossing of the Atlantic. He closed the lid, snapped
the huge iron lock shut, and turned back to Stenman.

  “Back on deck.”

  Outside he spoke to two of his own men. “There’s a chest in there on the floor. Bring it.”

  The two men entered the small quarters to reappear carrying the heavy ironwood chest between them, and Matthew pointed them over the railings onto the Carrie before he spoke to Stenman.

  “You follow them. I’m right behind you.”

  Half an hour later, with Caleb sweating, gritting his teeth, Matthew tied off the last of twelve stitches he had used to close the cut on Caleb’s ribs, clipped the gut thread with surgical scissors, washed Caleb’s side with alcohol, covered the wound with clean linen, and wrapped him from armpits to waist with bandage. He helped him into his last clean shirt, buttoned the two buttons, and looked his younger brother in the eye.

  “That feel all right? Too tight?”

  Caleb shook his head. “Fine.”

  “Where did you learn to handle your fists like that?”

  Caleb shrugged. “I learned.”

  Matthew paused, collecting his thoughts and selecting his words. “I think you would have used that knife to kill that last man if he’d moved wrong.” He stopped for a moment, searching for a gentle way to say what he must, and there was none. “That’s how a killer thinks. I didn’t expect that from you.”

  Caleb did not look at Matthew. He lifted his left arm, testing it against the dull pain in his ribs. “The man stopped. The crew settled. It worked.”

  Matthew stared long and hard, then let it go. In the few days he had spent with Caleb, first at Gloucester, then sailing down the Chesapeake and finding the crippled Helga, Matthew had sensed something he had never before felt in Caleb. The boy he had known was almost gone. In his place was a man that was in many ways a stranger. Part of it, maybe most of it, could be explained by the inevitable change that occurs in every man who must face the sick horrors of cannon and musket tearing soldiers to pieces in battle, and the awfulness of killing or being killed. But there was something else in Caleb, something deep down and hard, indistinct in the shadows of his inner being that left Matthew probing, unable to define it, unable to let it go. It gnawed at him.