The Tempest: The Dorset Boy Book 5

by Christopher C Tubbs

  The officers sat around the table in Marty’s cabin after yet another excellent meal and studied the list of ships they observed in Santo Domingo harbour.

  “As far as I can tell, there were seven ships that could be of interest in the harbour,” Marty said to open the discussion. “Five flying French colours, one American, and one flying no flag at all, but from the design of her hull, probably Dutch built.”

  “Aye, she had a belly on her,” Tom laughed, referring to the Dutch habit of building ‘fat’ ships.

  “That American could be the twin of the Eagle,” Wilson said. “I would swear they were built in the same yard.”

  “Did you notice there was a dock that had a couple merchant ships tied up?” Tom added with a frown. “One looked British built and she had no name on the stern. I wonder if it was the Pride of York?”

  “I thought James said that the Eagle’s former Mate maintained they sold it at Puerto Rico?” Marty replied.

  “Aye, he did. She must have been another one,” Tom conceded grumpily.

  “Anyway, seven ships don’t make a base, but we should come back down here and catch us one or two of them to check that out,” Marty decided. “We need to get up to Jamaica, contact the admiral and find us some more men.”

  Chapter 4: Jamaica

  They entered Port Royal a day later and made their way into the harbour. The flagship was there along with a number of other warships. It felt strange not to fire a salute, but they were supposed to be independents. Marty sent a message via the Port Administrator to the admiral and waited.

  The boys went recruiting and were soon sending back likely candidates. They appeared to be frequenting the taverns further away from the shore and finding men who had avoided the Navy’s regular sweeps through the town. They needed to get both ships up to complement and needed another hundred men.

  By then, Marty was walking on crutches that the carpenter made for him. The man was inordinately proud of both them and the chair he made for his injured captain. Marty was flattered that the man thought so much of him. He still woke at night wondering what the hell he was doing being in charge of a ship let alone two.

  Two days passed and a rowed cutter left the flagship and headed in their direction. As it got closer, they could see that it had a flag lieutenant and a squad of marines in it. It hooked on to their chains and the flag lieutenant came up the side closely followed by the marines. Marty made his way over, and the lieutenant pulled out a paper and said in a loud voice.

  “Who is the captain of this ship?”

  “That’s me,” Marty stated, wondering what was going on.

  “I have here a warrant for your arrest on suspicion of piracy. You have taken an American ship and we have received a complaint from the American Ambassador. You will accompany me to the flagship to answer to the admiral.”

  His voice could carry to Trinidad, Marty thought as he caught on this was a ruse.

  “Well lead on,” Marty chided him, “mustn’t keep the admiral waiting.”

  He looked over to Tom, “If I’m not back by the morning, invade Jamaica.”

  “Aye, aye, skipper,” Tom laughed.

  He scooted over to the side on his crutches and stopped.

  “Aaahhh, it looks like I am going to need a bit of assistance,” he said to the lieutenant who gave him with an impatient look and turned to say something to his marines when a deep, dark voice said,

  “I’m here boss. Just climb on my back and I will take care of it.”

  He looked around and Samuel stood there glaring at the marines and daring them to touch his captain. Marty took him at his word and after handing his crutches to the lieutenant, hopped up to get a piggyback from Samuel. The big African went to the port and started down it, showing no signs of exertion as he climbed down into the cutter, his toes curling onto the batons. It wasn’t the most fun ride Marty had ever had, but it impressed the hell out of the sailors in the cutter and the marines.

  Once the marines and the lieutenant were onboard, they headed back over to the flagship. Samuel stayed with him and it seemed no one had the nerve to tell him he couldn’t. At the flagship, Marty looked up at the curved tumblehome of the big second rate and wondered if Samuel would even consider pulling the same trick, but he just crouched down for Marty to climb aboard and then started climbing.

  Marty would rather have climbed around the mainmast futtock shrouds blindfolded! It was one of the scariest moments he ever had. The tumblehome had them hanging out over the cutter until they rounded it. At the top, he was handed his crutches as he slid down Samuel’s back to the deck and he could have dropped to his knees and kissed it. He tried not to think about the return journey he had yet to face.

  He was placed under escort by four marines and taken across the deck to the stairs down to the admiral’s quarters. He negotiated them and waited while the marine announced them.

  He entered the cabin to be greeted by,

  “Martin, my boy! What the hell have you done to yourself?”

  “Hello, Admiral.” He grinned at his mentor, who sat in a comfortable chair and bowed to Admiral Duckworth, who sat at his desk. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

  Duckworth looked him over and waved him to a seat.

  “I am told you are to be referred to as Captain Stanwell,” he said, glancing at Hood.

  “Yes, that is who I am this year,” Marty quipped.

  “You change identities regularly?”

  “As the mission dictates,” Marty replied more seriously.

  “What did you do to your foot?” Hood asked.

  “Slipped on some American blood and broke it. Amateurs didn’t sand their decks.”

  “Why did you attack them?” Duckworth asked.

  “We didn’t, they attacked us. They chose the wrong target,” Marty replied and pulled a packet out of his pocket. “The details are all in here. They attacked and took a British Merchantman called the Pride of York and cast the crew adrift in the ship’s pinnace. We picked them up and left the ones who didn’t want to join us at Aruba. The first mate of the Eagle told us they sell their prize cargos in Curaçao and the ships in Puerto Rico.”

  “Interesting,” Hood commented then asked, “any idea on their bases yet?”

  “No, not yet although we have some ideas we will be looking into. We can rule out Santo Domingo though as we visited there and although there were a few privateers in port it wasn’t a base. By the way, did you know the Commissioner at English Harbour, Mr. Chapman, has died? His replacement is an unsavoury fellow by the name of Seymour Owen.”

  “Has he?” Duckworth said in surprise. “Nobody has informed me of that. Who is this fellow Owen?” He called his clerk and asked him if he knew.

  “I have seen his name in the past as the clerk to the Commissioner, sir,” the clerk informed them.

  “Rather opportunistic of him, don’t you think?” Hood offered.

  “He is making the most of it,” Marty told them. “He shows all the signs of new wealth spent in bad taste.”

  “Something you never did?” Hood laughed.

  “I got married young and Caroline would never let me buy anything in bad taste,” replied Marty with a chortle of his own.

  Duckworth looked confused, so Hood shooed the clerk out and when he closed the door behind him, looked sternly at Admiral Duckworth and said,

  “I should have told you but now is as good a time as any. What I am about to tell you is as secret as this mission,”

  Duckworth nodded intrigued.

  “The true identity of our young firebrand here is Lieutenant Martin Stockley, otherwise known as Baron Candor,” Hood said in a loud whisper.

  Duckworth looked as if he didn’t know whether to bow or salute. Marty quickly stated, shooting a look at Hood,

  “But here, I am just Captain Stanwell privateer. I expect no treatment other than that position merits. In fact, it is essential the fiction is maintained at all times. My life and that of my men de
pend on it.”

  “Well, you will have my full support if you ask for it,” Duckworth assured him.

  “Thank you. We need a method whereby I can get messages to you without it being obvious. Do you have any suggestions on how we can do that?” Marty replied, getting things back to business.

  Duckworth thought for a moment then blushed and said,

  “I, aah, visit with a lady in the town, a courtesan of some, aah, quality. I would suggest that she could be a trusted intermediary.”

  Hood laughed delightedly.

  “You old dog! I would never have thought! Ha Ha Ha.”

  Duckworth blushed even more and stuttered,

  “Well, a chap has to keep the juices flowing. What?”

  Marty came to his rescue and said,

  “Please inform her that I will visit her when in port to leave reports and messages. I would impress on her the need for discretion in this if you please. If she were to be indiscrete, it would probably put her life at risk as well as mine.”

  “Now, if you please, have your flag lieutenant have me returned to my ship by calling a boat, I am not worth the effort of getting the cutter around for, then eject me from the ship with a show of disdain.”

  The Flag did just that and Marty was bundle unceremoniously off the flagship with all the disdain the worthy could muster, which was a lot. Halfway back to the Tempest, Marty sat up straight and gave him the universal salute, “up yours”, of a bent right arm gripped at the crook of the elbow by his left hand. The flag didn’t deign to respond.

  Back on-board Marty asked Ryan Thompson for a report on the recruitment situation and was told that they were surprisingly lucky.

  “Oh! Have we?” he stated, immediately suspicious. “Let me see these lucky men.”

  Tom got the new recruits, which numbered some thirty-four, lined up on deck. He waked down the line, looking at each man in turn. He stopped at one rugged-looking individual and pulled up his sleeve. There was a tattoo of a fouled anchor. He looked him in the eye and the hand grinned back at him.

  “Rating?” Marty asked.

  “Bosun,” he replied.

  “Seen action?”

  “Some.”

  “Where?”

  “Toulon.”

  That was all Marty needed to know. He would bet that at least a dozen of the recruits would have connections to actions that Hood had commanded. The old fox was planting his own men in his crew. Well two can play silly buggers, Marty thought and divided the recruits in half, ensuring half the suspected plants went to the Eagle. He kept Bosun Norris on the Tempest as he needed a seasoned Bosun to replace Wilson, who had gone with James.

  They still needed more men, so now his ankle was all but healed, Marty went ashore with Samuel and limped into a section of town that was normally off limits to white men, the slums. This was where escaped slaves hid out and freed slaves that couldn’t find work ended up. He walked brazenly down the track into the shanty town of lean-to shacks.

  When he found out what Marty planned, Shelby made him rub an ointment into his skin made from something called citronella. He said he researched the herb as it was widely used in China as a repellent and believed it would help keep the mosquitos away. Marty was grateful as mosquitos were thick in the air here and the damn things would have eaten him alive without it.

  As he made his way deeper into the slums, he was aware that there were many eyes on him, and Samuel was getting nervous. Then, five ragged men stepped onto the road in front of him, blocking his way. A glance over his shoulder showed at least five more had moved in behind him. A big coffee coloured man stepped forward carrying a machete and confronted them.

  “What you doin’ here with yo slave mon. Dis isn’t da place for white folk. Ya lookin to die?”

  Marty looked at Samuel.

  “Are you my slave?”

  “No, skipper, I ain’t no slave. You freed me with my brothers.”

  That statement was met with a derisive laugh.

  “What you doin’ with him then if you is free?”

  Samuel looked pointedly at the brand that was burnt into the man’s forearm. He held out his arms to show they were free of brands.

  “There ain’t no slaves on de ship. Any that come wid us be freed and given paper,” he stated.

  Marty let that sink in then told them he was recruiting for his ships and that any man that joined him would be treated equal to every other member of the crew and would share equally in any prize money that was won. He noted that there was a bigger crowd now.

  Samuel stepped forward and held up a sovereign.

  “Dis is my money,” he said. “The skipper, he give it to me when I join. You get one of dese as when you join too. He teach you to sail and fight.” A wave of comments went through the crowd and stopped when the big man said,

  “I already know how to fight!”

  “Really?” said Marty. He took his jacket off and handed it to Samuel. “How about you show me.”

  That prompted a whole flurry of comments and calls from the crowd. Some taunting and others calling for Marty’s death. Marty sensed this was a critical point. If he lost, he would be killed. If he won, he had a chance to walk out with his life and a bunch of recruits.

  The two men faced off. Marty didn’t arm himself even though he had his knife on his belt. The big man smiled. He had bright, white teeth with one missing from the top right. He twirled the machete like it was a table knife. Marty waited and watched his eyes.

  He saw the tell tail flicker of the eyes and the attack was launched. He drew his fighting knife and parried in one movement then switching to a backhand grip, he laid the blade down his forearm and used that to parry the next three swings as well. His opponent was surprised at the speed he moved and tried to swing his blade again in a last attack. Marty flicked it to the side and followed up as the momentum of the swing overextended him.

  The fight was over. Marty removed his knife from against his opponents’ neck and stepped back.

  “You’re not a bad fighter, but you need to be more patient,” he said.

  Marty returned to the ship with another twelve ex/runaway slaves in tow. He sent half to the Eagle. Shelby met him in his cabin to find out how the citronella had worked.

  “I was bitten once or twice, but in general, it kept the little buggers off me,” Marty told him.

  “I am thinking that if we could find some way of getting it into the air in the ship, it would help keep them away while we are in dock,” Shelby said as he pondered the problem. “I think it will also help to keep the malevolent vapours away and prevent fever as well.”

  “You said it comes from China?” Marty asked.

  “Yes, it’s hard to get but I have built up a significant stock over the years.”

  “I saw a shop run by a Chinaman in the town. Why don’t you go and talk to him?” Marty suggested.

  After Shelby left, he got back to organising the crew into watches that would distribute the new landsmen in a way that would not adversely affect the running of the ship. He also ran training sessions on sail handling and running up and down top masts, spars, and so forth. The old hands helped the new hands, and the mates pushed, cajoled, and swore to get the men in the right place on the right ropes.

  In the meantime, Shelby talked to the Chinese shop owner and promptly requisitioned a gallon of lamp oil from Fletcher. He took over the galley and conscripted the cook into helping him. Marty paid him a visit and saw that he was gently heating the oil by placing the container into some hot water. He added a portion of the citronella and let it infuse. After an hour or two, he strained the oil through a cloth and rebottled it. It took on a yellow tint. He explained that any lamp filled with this oil would disperse the vapours of the citronella and help keep the biting insects away.

  After a day of training, they attracted notice from the Navy ships in the harbour and cat calls and remarks started to come across from sailors loafing against the rails and in the rigging. Marty th
ought the verbal abuse would dishearten the men but was surprised when it had the opposite effect. The more comments that came across the more determined the men were to get the evolutions right and done in good time.

  It came to a head the next evening in a bar on the docks when a Navy sailor made a disparaging remark to an Eagle crewmember and got a punch in the mouth as a reply. That would have been it had he been the only one of their men ashore, but Marty gave everyone but a harbour watch on both ships the night ashore as a reward for their hard work. The fight spread and turned into a spectacular brawl that set every independent crewman against the Navy crews on shore. It took a contingent of marines and mates from the flagship to restore order with rattan canes and clubs.

  Marty had his men lined up on deck and a sorry sight they were with an assortment of black eyes, broken noses, and missing teeth. Shelby stood on one side and noted the injuries he would be treating later. Far from looking chagrined, Marty saw they were looking proud. They had taken on the Navy and held their own, and in their minds, even won.

  “Well, you sorry excuses for sailors, did you have fun?” he shouted to them. The reply was a roar with fists waved in the air.

  “Did you win?”

  Another roar and fist pumps. A couple even posed, showing off their muscles and laughed.

  “Well, you’ll be pleased to know the Navy was so impressed by your talents as fighting men that the Tempest and Eagle have been given twenty-four hours to get out of port. No more shore leave. We sail on the next tide.”

  That was greeted with good natured groans and one, “What will Rosy do without me staff to keep her happy?” comment, which was met with a host of claims to the effect that his staff couldn’t interest a wood worm, let alone an energetic young whore like Rosy.

  Marty was happy. The brawl pulled his crews together at the small cost of a few minor injuries. James reported the same effect on the Eagle, which made it doubly good. He got them underway. He had enough men to man the ships plus a prize or two, which was enough. Now, it was time to start looking for trouble.