The Trojan Horse

by Christopher C Tubbs

  “How do you feel now?” Marty asked.

  “I have felt better. You know, it’s true what they say- I can still feel the fingers in my lost arm,” Cedric Salmon replied.

  “You are a privateer; I found your letter of marque. Where were you going?”

  “Íle de France. There are supposed to be rich pickings amongst your East Indiamen.”

  “I know. I was there a few years ago, in Grande Baye,” Marty commented, using the French name for the port at the North of the Island.

  “Yes, an excellent choice of harbour. Especially for bringing in prizes, so I am told,” Cedric sighed, thinking of what could have been.

  That was all Marty really needed to know. He changed the subject and chatted about where Cedric came from and his background. It turned out he was originally from Nantes and was the fourth son of a baker, had left home to make his fortune, and was a successful privateer in the Mediterranean. He spotted the Formidiable and was sure she was Spanish. He guessed that with the French occupation, any Spanish ship out there had to be heading for South America.

  Marty hadn’t thought of that and tucked that bit of information away for future use. He let Cedric go back to his temporary quarters, sat on the bench in front of the transom windows with Troy’s head on his lap, and had a long think.

  They pulled into Cape Town and spent over a week working on the Bonne Marie, as their prize was called. Marty wanted her to look like she took a mauling at the hands of the Formidiable and make some modifications to the inside.

  Before they left, they transferred the surviving French privateers to the military authorities ashore. Marty took command of the Marie, and Wolfgang took the Formidiable. Every French speaking sailor was transferred to the prize.

  The two ships sailed on the morning tide and set course for the Isle de France, which was about fifteen hundred miles away. Marty’s crew spent the time getting to know their new ship and prepare her for their arrival. Marty had two choices; to make landfall at Grande Baye or Grande Port Bourbon but as Cedric had spoken highly of it, he decided they would try Grande Baye.

  Once they got within fifty miles of the island, the Bonne Marie moved ahead and raised a ragged set of sails. The deck was filthy and covered in blood stains, courtesy of a steer they bought in Cape Town. The meat fed the crew for a couple of days and the blood made the decks look like a slaughterhouse.

  Anybody observing from another ship saw the Formidiable sailing like she had a filthy bottom and was struggling to keep up with her prey. They fired their bow chasers every three minutes or so, obviously looking for a lucky hit to slow their prey down.

  The ship being pursued was sailing with desperate urgency. She was mauled and there were blood stains running down from her scuppers. Her sails were shot holed and the skipper was trying every trick in the book to stay away from the pursuing frigate.

  The reality was what that the Formidiable had a sea anchor trailing behind that kept her speed down. It looked like she was straining to catch up and that was just the impression that Marty wanted them to give. The gunners were lobbing balls that fell short or wide with the occasional one coming just close enough to be threatening.

  Wolfgang checked the cable that secured the sea anchor to the base of the mizzen mast for the umpteenth time. It quivered with the strain of holding back the thrust of the Formidiable’s sails. If it broke, it could whiplash across the deck and seriously injure or kill someone, so if there was the slightest sign of any fraying, he would call off the pursuit and reel it in.

  They passed several ships, none of which wanted to get involved. The sight of a British Frigate in these waters was unwelcomed but the only ones that would, or even could, take it on were the French country ships, and there were none of those in sight.

  The ships closed in on Grande Baye. Dusk was approaching, and the Formidiable crept ever closer. The skipper on the Bonne Marie pushed his ragged crew, many of whom sported bloody bandages, to make the harbour before the frigate caught them.

  They were all well into their roles and as they passed through the entrance and the defensive battery roared out in support of the Marie, they cheered and cavorted on the deck. Some even stood at the stern rail, making rude gestures and baring their buttocks at the British ship.

  The Formidiable swung away and retreated out of range of the guns, the chase for them was over. Wolfgang hove to and made a show of observing the harbour and its defences. What they were really doing was getting in the sea anchor. It had been, in Wolfgang’s opinion, a damn dangerous ploy but as usual, his captain was right - it had done exactly what he wanted. All he had to do now was stay in sight until dark then head down to Grande Porte.

  As they passed into the harbour, Marty noted the location of the defensive batteries, which were on the Western point at the entrance to the bay. There were a couple of big forty-gun frigates and a seventy-five-gun liner in the bay, but far more interesting were the three East Indiamen moored in a row, sterns toward the shore.

  A pilot rowed out and guided them to a point about half a cable from the British ships and almost as soon as they anchored, another boat with two senior-looking French Naval officers and a well-dressed civilian approached, demanding they be allowed to board.

  “Captain Jules St. Just, Lieutenant Pierre Jardin of the French Navy, and I am Mr. Brignac, Harbour Master,” the civilian introduced them as they lined up on the deck.

  Harbour Master? Marty thought in surprise. The bay had no harbour as such just some wooden docks that stuck out into the sea from the many beaches. There was a town at the South end with warehouses taverns and stores and to the West of that, a pier with a solitary warehouse with an earth berm around it. The only defence was a battery on the western point, which he had to admit was probably enough.

  “Cedric Salmon, Captain of the Bonne Marie,” Marty introduced himself, “how can I help you? You will appreciate I am a little busy as my first mate was killed by the British.”

  “We will not take much of your time,” the captain interrupted, “we just need to see your papers and inspect your ship along with any cargo you are carrying.”

  “Then please accompany me to my cabin, and we can go over my papers there,” Marty made a show of reluctantly agreeing.

  Down in the cabin, Marty offered them seats and a glass of wine, apologised for the draft from the broken transom stern window, and pulled out the papers he found when they took her.

  “My Letter of Marque and owner’s papers.”

  The Lieutenant made a show of examining them while the captain asked,

  “Tell me, where did you meet up with the British ship and what happened?”

  “We hit an area with no wind, were becalmed, and spotted him on the horizon. We have sweeps, and with the help of our boats, we managed to get close enough to see he had a Spanish flag. The ship was obviously Spanish built, so it looked legitimate.

  As we got closer, we could see very few sailors on deck and those looked worn, so it seemed like we had a chance to get ourselves a much more powerful ship. Luckily, he sprung his trap too early and we were able to pull away. When the wind came up, we got into a stern chase,”

  The captain gave him a long steady look, which Marty returned with his most innocent expression, until the lieutenant interrupted,

  “The papers are in order.”

  “A frigate should have been easily able to overhaul you,” the captain stated with a challenging look.

  “If she’d had a clean bottom, we wouldn’t have stood a chance. But it’s my belief that they have been at sea for a long time. She’s worn and her bottom filthy. They were carrying full sail and barely catching us.”

  The captain didn’t look entirely convinced but seemed to accept that for now.

  “If that’s settled, may we proceed to the inspection?” asked the Harbour Master.

  Marty raised his eyebrows in query to the two officers and when they nodded, he led the way out. Once on deck, the Navy men were most intereste
d in the damage,

  “How any men did you lose?”

  “Fully, a third. Thirty-five in total and many more wounded. The bastards blasted us with enormous guns loaded with musket balls mounted on their fore and after decks.”

  “Carronades,” the lieutenant offered in explanation.

  “Whatever, they mowed down my men and damaged my rigging. We were lucky to have sweeps to get away.”

  Marty and his crew had spent hours making the rigging look like a patched and spliced cat’s cradle, the sails patched and ragged.

  Fresh wood showed repairs where holes were torn in the transom and the fore mast had pieces of spar wrapped in rope splinting it from about five feet above the deck for about eight feet where it was supposed to have been damaged. Blood stains covered the deck.

  The lieutenant stood on a gun and looked out to sea to the North, where it was still faintly lit by the setting sun.

  “They are still out there!”

  “We will have to do something about that,” the captain snapped.

  “What do you have in the holds?” the harbour master asked.

  “Cases of pepper as well as silk and indigo that we took from an Indiaman,” Marty answered, “he was following the African coast well to the West of Cape Town when we found him. The ship we burnt; the cargo was worth more.”

  “Let me see.”

  Marty ordered the hatches removed, and the four of them stood looking down in to the first hold, which was almost pitch dark. Marty called for lamps and by their light, they could just see that they were almost full of chests. The captain barked an order to the lieutenant, who reluctantly climbed down into the hold and checked the markings on the cases. Marty extolled him to be careful with the lamp as he didn’t want his ship burnt down after all they had been through.

  “It stinks of pepper down here!” he complained and then called up. “all looks correct, they are marked with the East India Company seal.”

  The Harbour master seemed satisfied and demanded the harbour fee, which Marty paid from a pouch he had in his pocket. The captain, however, wasn’t finished,

  “We will continue this inspection tomorrow,” he snapped.

  Marty just gave him a very Gaelic shrug as if to say as you please.

  Once the boat returned safely to the dock, the Bonne Marie became a hive of silent industry. Crates and bundles of silk were moved in the holds to reveal a false deck. Trapdoors were prized open, and fifty men came up, deeply breathing the fresh air and stretching stiff limbs that were in the confined space for too long.

  “Was getting worried when we heard you admonish that French chap to be careful with the lantern,” Lieutenant Trenchard commented, “it was damn stuffy too.”

  “It’s lucky French ships stink,” Marty teased him, “you lot smell worse than a night soil man in old London.”

  He gathered the officers around with only a shielded lamp to illuminate him and spoke quietly. Trenchard and Midshipmen Hart and Longstaff were in attendance as was Wilson.

  “That damn Navy captain senses something’s not right with this ship and will be coming back for a closer look tomorrow. I will put a guinea on him bringing a team of men with him,” Marty explained, “so we will go tonight. There are three East Indiamen at anchor just half a cable off our starboard bow, which look like they are still fully laden.”

  He paused to look at each man in turn then continued,

  “You will take one each. Mr. Longstaff, you will take the closest. Mr. Hart, you will take the middle one. Mr. Trenchard, you will take the furthest as you have most experience. I will take a team ashore, neutralize any lookouts and provide a diversion, which you will know as soon as you see it as it should light your way out.”

  He looked up at his big Bosun Wilson.

  “When the diversion starts, you will get this tub under way and wait for the shore party two cables off the Point aux Cannoniers. Burn a red lantern on your stern to guide us in.” He turned back to the others,

  “Here are the compass bearings the quartermaster took on the three ships while I was entertaining the French in my cabin. They have soldiers aboard and we saw men exercising under guard who are probably the crews. You should endeavour to be as silent as possible. Your men have crossbows to take out sentries, use knives and clubs where you can. You all know the drill.”

  He held up a finger to test the breeze.

  “The wind is from the Northwest, so you shouldn’t have too much trouble getting out of the bay. Once out, head East around the island, Wolfgang will be waiting for us around twenty miles off of Grande Porte Bourbon, where there is supposed to be a blockading British fleet. If we all get there, we should have made our escape.”

  The Marie had three ship’s boats, and Marty had the gig from the Formidiable stored under the upturned cutter the French kept on deck.

  The men quickly got into their teams and armed themselves. They were all dressed in dark clothes and were busy blacking their faces with a mixture of burnt cork and the sludge from boiled salt beef. The individual weapons were down to personal choice, some preferred blackjacks and knives, others, clubs or tomahawks. Several men had small but powerful crossbows; a couple had slings in their belts, and one was carefully coiling a garrotte wire. The common factor was they were all silent, there was not a single pistol on show anywhere.

  Marty was armed, more or less, as usual; stilettoes on his forearms, throwing knives in sheaths clipped to his weapons harness instead of pistols, his hanger and fighting knife.

  The Shadows were going with him and were all dressed like Marty in loose black trousers and jackets buttoned up to the neck with an attached hood that covered the whole head except the eyes. Their shoes had soft chamois leather soles and all wore black gloves. They left thirty minutes before the others to give them time to deal with the sentries.

  The boat pulled up at a wooden dock extended out from the beach, the shore team disembarked and melted into the darkness. All but two, headed straight for the isolated warehouse, the others followed the beach around to the town.

  Marty and Sam came upon the first sentry walking up the beach. He didn’t see them crouched with their heads down as they looked just like any other part of the beach. He walked straight past them, and Marty rose up silently, slipped a garrotte over his neck, choked him, and as he dropped to his knees, placed a knee in the small of his back and a with jerk of the chord, broke his neck.

  The second sentry stood on a dock and was outlined against the stars. He walked up and down the dock to stay awake and suddenly stiffened as he heard a noise. He brought his musket around from his shoulder and moved to the edge of the dock with the bayonet advanced. He stopped and peered into the dark, then suddenly his feet flew out in front of him and he landed with a thump, back first on the deck with a squeak of surprise. He was even more surprised as he was hauled out into thin air, but his surprise ended as a leather bag of lead shot smashed into his temple, crushing his skull.

  Two dark patches of night slipped from moon shadow to shadow along the front of the shops until they came to one that sold general goods, including lamp oil. The locked door opened after a few seconds of manipulation and the two moved into the interior. Carboys of oil were opened and spilled over the counters and floor, a small pile of priming powder was poured, and a brass timer/igniter set on top of it.

  Their next stop was a ship’s chandlers, and they were halfway through gathering inflammables when the door opened, the shape of a French soldier silhouetted against the starry sky. Sam was behind the counter, but Marty was exposed in the centre of the room as he piled up some cloth and hemp.

  “Who are you? What are you doing?” he advanced his musket, pointing it straight at Marty.

  Marty stood slowly, raising his hands above his head as he turned around. He knew that all the soldier would see was a dark shape, so he stepped forward into the scant light from the stars that shone through the window.

  The soldier stepped forward.

 
“I’m just doing some cleaning up,” Marty told him.

  “At this time of . .” he started to say when Sam stepped out behind him and broke his neck with a vicious twist of his arms.

  “Get the timer set and let’s get out of here,” Marty instructed him and went to the door to check for any other unexpected visitors.

  The rest of the Shadows moved up the beach to the North, eliminating any sentries that they found on the way to the warehouse. They found two more stationed at the gap in the berm, who were efficiently disposed of. The doors to the warehouse were secured with a large padlock but that only held them up for a moment and as it opened, the unmistakable smell of gunpowder wafted out.

  They had a shuttered lantern with a reflector that shone a faint beam of light in through the door. It was just enough for one of them to be able to see to stove in the top of one of the casks and set one of their brass timing devices on top of the powder. As insurance, a second cask was broached, and a slow fuse was set.

  “Is that long enough?” Matai asked.

  “I tested this fuse and it burns at a foot a minute. There be twenty foot of it here,” John Smith answered. “You want to set it?”

  Matai didn’t answer the irascible quartermaster, just led the team out and along the shoreline towards the battery.

  Eric Longstaff was nervous. Not only was this his first night cutting out mission, it was the first time he had been out in sole charge of a team. Captain Stockley had trained him well enough and he knew exactly what he and his men had to do, but his stomach was knotted, and his bowels rumbled.

  They left the Bonne Marie some thirty minutes after the captain and his team and with muffled oars, made the short trip across to the closest East Indiaman. His job was to secure the ship. A second group of men would join them when the boat returned after dropping them off. That would give him enough men to sail the ship out. If the captain and crew were still aboard, he would enlist them to move the ship out.