Sugar and Spice (The Duty and Destiny Series, Book 6)

by Andrew Wareham

  Murray nodded, he had thought the same.

  “A threat from Cuba can be met by existing ships and men at Jamaica – they do not have a sufficient force in Cuba to conquer Jamaica and to maintain order at home. Thus, Sir Frederick, the menace is of an army sent from Spain, which you have told me is unlikely, or of militias and regulars brought north from the Spanish colonies, The Argentine particularly.”

  “Thus we come back to my present course, Mr Murray. Run south in the hope of at least bringing warning of invasion; at best we may get into the convoy itself.”

  Murray was disturbed at the prospect.

  “A division of troops, Sir Frederick, say six to eight thousand infantry embarked on perhaps thirty ships.”

  “Trident and Arnheim together, possibly in line, perhaps engaging separate clusters, depending on the disposition of the troopers. Ten minutes before they can scatter any distance. Firing both sides, one would hope, gives say ten to twelve broadsides apiece. We might hope in best circumstances to cripple, possibly sink, one half of them in those minutes. Then it becomes a question of chase, slowly overhaul and sink those individuals who cannot reach the protection of their escort. We might well destroy five thousand men, Mr Murray.”

  Murray found himself hoping they would not reach any convoy – he had no wish to be part of such a slaughter.

  “The probability is that the escort will be well enough handled to keep us at a distance, sir. The greatest likelihood is that we will never see them.”

  On their third day south they saw mastheads far in the distance.

  A telescope at high confirmed a fleet, ships of war and smaller, fat-bellied merchantmen, sailing in order and very slow, confined to the speed of the least handy and most poorly crewed civilian.

  “Close the enemy, Mr Nias. All hands. Clear for action, Mr McPherson!”

  They made slow progress against the wind, short tacks and crawling. The range closed at a snail’s pace, the Spanish showing no inclination to crack on sail.

  Rogers at the masthead began to shout information as the forest of masts resolved into individual ships.

  “Line-of-battle ships, sir… one of three decks and four, at least, of two. A fourth-rate or a very heavy frigate, sir. Three of smaller frigates and six of sloops, sir, and some sails well to windward, sir. Not fewer than twenty ships of war, sir.”

  The quarterdeck became very silent while a whisper ran along the gun crews.

  “Merchantmen, sir… eight ships, sir, of five hundred tons and greater. Thirty and more of brigs and schooners and xebecs, sir; coastal trading rigs, the most of them.”

  Forty at least of troopers and stores, many of them fast and able to out-tack a square-rigged ship. Getting into the convoy no longer sounded quite such an easy task.

  “Mr Rogers! Are the frigates making extra sail?”

  Murray, stood next to Frederick, raised a querying eyebrow.

  “The Spanish admiral must be on the three-decker, with masts perhaps fifty feet higher than ours and seeing us first. He must know by now that we are just two ships, will have placed us as heavy frigates. Assuming he has no recent intelligence from the Caribbean, he will not know of the squadron and will be likely to assume us to be the eyes of a fleet. He must, or so I believe, wish to drive us off, if he is to continue to the north; and he must obtain his own information. He should, in my opinion, send the four frigates against us while despatching say four sloops to the east of us and then to fan out to the north to discover our fleet.”

  Rogers’ voice interrupted his explanation.

  “Frigates are holding course and speed, sir. Flag hoist on the three-decker. Not battle-flags, sir.”

  They waited.

  “Flag hoist is orders, sir. Acknowledgements going to the masthead on each ship of war, sir.”

  “How does he know that, Sir Frederick?”

  “They will all hoist the identical single flag, Mr Murray. We do not know which one it may be, but if all are the same then we may assume they are a simple response.”

  “What of the convoy, sir?”

  Frederick grimaced, sympathetic even to a Spaniard who had to command forty merchantmen.

  “Most will be unable to read the signals; those who can will probably have forgotten what they mean. Was it my convoy, I would have them in five or six columns with a signals lieutenant in the leading ship of each and the followers instructed to conform at all times to the head of the column. It would not work, as there is always one master who is blind, stupid or drunk at any given moment, but the bulk of the merchantmen would probably end up sailing in roughly the same direction. The Navy, of course, has far more experience of convoying than the Spanish, they having very few ocean-going merchant ships these days.”

  “Hoist hauled down, sir!”

  “Rogers is telling us that the instruction has been given to execute the command, Mr Murray. It will be interesting to see what happens. We need not give orders to Captain Jackman just yet for he will have observed all, of course, and will be on his toes, ready for the off.”

  “Line-of-battle ships are wearing, sir!”

  “They are turning away, Mr Murray, probably to join the convoy as close escort. I might well order the same with so many men to protect. It is a cautious way of going about it and may easily lose a day’s sailing time as they chivvy the merchantmen and troopers into a tight huddle and encircle them.”

  Murray could see the wisdom of the Spanish admiral’s course of action – a division drowned would be the equivalent of a major battle lost on land.

  “Frigates conforming, sir!”

  “Repeat, if you please, Mr Rogers!”

  “Frigates are conforming to the liners, sir. And the convoy is hauling its wind, sir. They are all over the place, sir, wearing at different rates, sir. Two of them are in collision already, sir!”

  The Spanish admiral was even more cautious than Frederik had expected.

  “Running! Avoiding any prospect of action with the fleet he believes may be over the horizon. Again, if he has the bulk of the regular garrisons from the colonies of the south then he must exercise care. There is talk of independence there and a massive defeat might well create revolutionary conditions. I presume he will send the small ships out as scouts at least.”

  Rogers was silent for thirty minutes while some degree of order was restored in the enemy fleet.

  “Sloops, sir, and some brigs, seem to be forming a sort of screen out to the north of the fleet, sir.”

  “He is in full retreat, Mr Murray. He is making no attempt to discover the nature of his enemy because he does not intend to fight.”

  Murray was quite relieved; he had not really fancied a conflict with a whole fleet.

  “I would surmise, sir, that the authorities, the Governor or whatever in Buenos Aires, were less than enthralled with this expedition, ordered from Madrid, and gave the admiral the strictest orders not to lose their soldiers and particularly not to get involved in sea-battles. The Spanish colonies are increasingly inclined to dispute orders from Spain and when they comply do so with an unwilling sullenness, seeking any excuse to disobey. Besides which, they will be sure by now that they have lost the Santiago and will have expected her to have been taken by a fleet rather than a small squadron, so they will have ordered extra caution.”

  The question arose of what next.

  “Close Arnheim. Speaking distance, if you please Mr Nias.”

  Nias touched his hat, swearing inwardly: Holding Trident within conversational range of Arnheim in this bloody wind, even with a moderate sea, would be damn near impossible. If the bloody man was even half of a sailor, then he’d know what he was bloody asking!

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  “Well, Captain Jackman, there’s a turn-up for the book! We can now boast that our pair of frigates put a whole Spanish fleet to flight!”

  “Yes, indeed, sir. Not forgetting that in process we saved Jamaica and the whole of the Sugar Islands for the Crown!”

>   “Heroical, in fact, sir. We could make a nuisance of ourselves among their sloops and brigs, but that would serve only to bring the frigates down upon us and in the end achieve very little except that we would eventually run with our tails between our legs.”

  Jackman agreed; it would be a pointless exercise that would kill a number of seamen and achieve nothing of value.

  “We might follow at a distance to ensure that they returned to the South, but there is little gain to doing so, as they could turn around the instant we came back to the North.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “New Amsterdam it is, Mr Jackman.”

  Raven and Nimble were offshore, as they should be, and exuding an air of satisfaction, being surrounded by small craft, all wearing British colours over the Dutch.

  Vereker was rowed across and made his report.

  “Seventeen vessels, sir, mostly too small to be worth sending in as prizes, but you will note four schooners of about one hundred tons and one anomalous brute of one hundred and twenty. Her master tells me she is very old, was once a caravel, of all things, and has been cut down and rebuilt time and again and still keeps in the coastal trade. Importantly, sir, she was fully laden.”

  “Is there hold space on any of the schooners, Captain Vereker?”

  “I would think it possible to put as much as two hundred tons more between them and the three larger ketches, sir. That would empty the small barges.”

  “Make it so, Mr Vereker. Small craft then to be released, carrying as many crew members of the larger as may be possible. Prize crews from the four of us and we shall take the eight into English Harbour. Seven hundred and fifty tons of sugar and indigo and suchlike will be very welcome, sir.”

  It was wholly illegal to touch the cargo of any prize before it was condemned by a court; it could not be done in Home Waters. Far distant from the censorious eyes of the Admiralty it was surprising what might be regarded as a legitimate necessity of war.

  “We could not see any sign that the frigate was even considering sailing, sir. As far as that is concerned I have to report failure. She would not be tempted.”

  “That damned Dutch frigate, Mr Murray, is a potential nuisance. She could sail and be inside the harbour at Georgetown before we were alerted that she was at sea. The Dutch have a history of enterprise and we cannot treat them lightly.”

  Murray gave a supercilious smile – he had a solution and could outdo the bloody-handed mariners for once.

  “Night attack, sir. I have been thinking of the problem myself, sir, and have an answer. It is not without risk, but might well tidy up this little matter without wasting time and energy on a blockade. We would need to borrow a fishing boat, sir.”

  “And when would we give it back?”

  “That, of course, is another matter, sir, but I would imagine that as little as ten guineas in gold would serve to end any complaints from her owner.”

  It was not done to harm fishermen, or to interfere with their trade… but paying generously was another matter.

  “That is acceptable, Mr Murray. But only a little one!”

  Two nights later their boats picked up a tiny drifter with a crew of three men, separate from the bulk of the boats out and unseen they thought by any of them. They came alongside and Goldfarb and four of the African volunteers they had taken from the plantation by the tower joined Murray while the fishermen were taken aboard Trident. The few fish caught that evening were frugally placed in baskets and sent up to the galley while six barrels of pitch, all they could afford from the stores of the squadron, were stowed in their place. Two barrels of gunpowder, looted from a prize by the marks on the barrelheads, were handed down very carefully together with a coil of slowmatch and a tinderbox. A skip came last of all with pistols and powder and shot while a musketoon was passed to Goldfarb.

  Ablett and a seaman came down the side and set the single sail.

  “Owner’s name is Dirk, Mr Murray.”

  “Well thought, Ablett!”

  They relit the single lantern on the boat as soon as they were well clear of Trident and made their way openly to the harbour mouth. A sentry hailed them in Dutch as they passed the small mole.

  “You are in early tonight!”

  “Dirk is taken unwell. He has the fever!”

  “God bless the poor man!”

  The sentry stood back, noticed they were not pulling towards the fishing berths and thought they must be taking poor Dirk to his home or the apothecary as quickly as they could. He had no intention of getting close enough to the fever to find out.

  They tied up at the ships’ chandlers’ wharf and ran quickly ashore, pistols concealed.

  The nearest building was empty of clerks and customers so late at night, but there was an unfortunate night watchman who came to investigate when he heard window glass to break. Goldfarb hit him just once over the head, but very hard.

  “Silly man! When you hears a break-in you shouts for help! You don’t come to find out what’s happening!”

  They agreed he had been a very foolish chap, but they doubted he would make the same mistake again.

  Their noses led them to the barrels of tar, sold for preserving hulls and nets and rigging, and they rolled a dozen onto the wharf and down into the overloaded boat. Goldfarb nestled the kegs of gunpowder in between them and eased out their bungs and pushed a few inches of slow match inside.

  Two of the black seamen, chosen for their invisibility at night, or so they hoped, had ranged along the wharf and now came back in a small dinghy they had found, rowing inexpertly still but delighted to be taking a direct revenge on the men who had enslaved them.

  Murray slipped quietly down to the stolen boat.

  “The frigate’s guard boat is rowing a circuit of her once an hour, I calculate, Ablett. Four oars, and I think I saw two other men. Take her silently or make our attack as soon as she has gone by?”

  “Six men, sir, and all to be killed without a murmur and with no shots fired. Not easily done. Best to wait until she has tied up against the ship, sir, and then pull across to the other side. Pistols in the dinghy against need, and if she sees anything amiss, then we can kill them and clear the way for us to get out.”

  “Fifteen minutes on the slowmatch, Goldfarb?”

  “Five, sir. Whiles they are all still lookin’ at the bang, we get on those oars quick time, sir.”

  “Guard party, sir! Patrolling!”

  The call came from the wharf above them.

  “Four soldiers, sir!”

  Murray ran up the ladder, Ablett and Goldfarb behind him and far less nimble on their feet.

  “Too big a chance they will see something or smell the tar. Scrag them!”

  They quickly chose shadows to hide in, waited for the guard party, three soldiers carrying muskets led by a corporal or sergeant with a lantern. They stopped thirty yards away, sat down on the steps of the next waterfront store and pulled out pipes. It was obviously routine – they took their smoke-break there every night. The raiding party could not delay anything up to half an hour at their convenience.

  “Wait!”

  The whisper came from one of the black men who scurried along the wharf, making just enough noise to be heard, to cause heads to rise.

  He threw a stone, hitting one of the soldiers, and shouted something at them before running back. Murray, who alone of the party spoke some Dutch, gasped in admiration.

  “My word, that was rude!”

  The Dutchmen thought the same and gave instant chase, falling into the arms of the raiding party.

  Murray stood over the four knifed bodies and called to the seaman.

  “What is your name, young man? That was very well done.”

  “Klement, sir.”

  “I shall name you to the captain, Klement, and there will be an extra rum ration to you and your mess!”

  They watched for a few minutes, eying the moon with some disfavour as it came out of the thin cloud that had obscured the sky. The gu
ard boat made its patrol and they pushed off from the wharf. They dared not wait another hour in the hope of darkness for fear of the dead men being missed.

  They paddled rather than rowed, as silently as was possible, fetched up against the sleeping frigate, stretching up with their ropes to tie the fishing boat to the port covers. They crowded into the dinghy, all except Goldfarb, waited anxiously while he fiddled with flint and steel and struck a light and then blew upon the slowmatch until it had caught to his satisfaction. He scuttled across the heap of barrels and slid into the small boat and they made cautious haste into the shadow of the harbour wall and then the few yards round to the harbour entrance.

  “Four minutes, Goldfarb.”

  “Ja, is good match, sir, should be on time. We should start to pull, sir. Might be we are close here, be seen in the fire maybe.”

  The double explosion of the two powder kegs echoed across the harbour, drawing every eye to the frigate. The tar barrels caught, all of them on the top alight almost instantaneously, those underneath catching after a few seconds, and spraying gouts of burning liquid in all directions. Much of the incendiary material was wasted on the waters of the harbour but quite sufficient was blown over the ship’s rigging and deck, and some small amount actually inside the hull where it had been penetrated by the explosion.

  Ablett grunted in satisfaction.

  “Pull hard, lads! They won’t be saving her.”

  The dinghy was unchallenged through the harbour mouth, made out to sea and was picked up by Trident within the hour. The flames could be seen distinctly.

  “A great success, Mr Murray!”

  “It was indeed, sir. No losses among our people. All of them behaved very well, as was only to be expected, sir. I must mention Klement, a landsman,” Murray was very proud of the technical term, “who showed exceptionally quick thought and initiative.”

  “Klement – which one are you? One of the men who volunteered recently, I see. Well done, young man! Mr Cheek! Keep an eye out for Klement, here, if you please.”