“Beauty, how do we get out of here?” Fallon asked.
Beauty looked out the doorway to the beach, pensive. “I’ve been thinking on that, actually. Going through the options while waiting for you to join the living. Hard to coordinate anything with the men in the other hut, and then we’ve got the slaves who don’t exactly speak the King’s English. So, damned if I know. And Clayton may be crazy but he’s not dumb. He’s got guards on Renegade and a couple walking the beach at night. Some of them might be drunk, but they’re still there, stumbling around with guns.”
“So we’re fucked, is what you’re saying.”
“Pretty much, Nico. Fucked.”
TWENTY-TWO
ENGLISH HARBOR, Antigua, was full of ships coming and going; indeed, it was the liveliest harbor in the Caribbean. Also the most developed, with shops and government offices packed together above the beach, while pastel homes dotted the landscape like bright flowers in a forest of green hills.
Rear Admiral Sir Harry Davies was the senior naval officer in the Caribbean, based in Antigua, and his flag flew at the mast of Avenger, 74. Much of his time was spent with reports, the bane of senior officers on station, and the constant requests and negotiations with the Admiralty for more ships, more men, and less interference.
Davies had found the Caribbean simple and pleasant upon first arriving six months ago from his last commission in the Baltic. At first, he’d appreciated the contrast, the warm sun and languid pace. But in a short time the Caribbean had grown complicated and somewhat less pleasant as it revealed itself. First, there was the problem of pirates and French privateers—the same thing to his mind—all bastards. They were like damned mosquitoes, everywhere biting and sucking the blood out of the British Empire, everywhere until you tried to kill one and then off they flew. Second, the problem with slavers, or to be more precise, with his own conscience. There was a growing feeling in Parliament to take a stand against slavery, a movement that he personally subscribed to, but in the Caribbean it was business as usual and he was order bound to protect British slavers with the same zeal as attacking French or Spanish warships. Third, the French, and their constant taking and re-taking of Caribbean islands. The political map seemed to change monthly, or even weekly, as allies became enemies and friendly ports became dangerous.
The entire fleet under Davies numbered three sloops, two brigs, and two frigates—one of which was at the dockyard waiting for its copper to be refastened and the other supposedly patrolling for pirates, though there had been no news of success. In its way the Caribbean station was more frustrating and vexing than the Baltic, where at least his orders were clear and his mission understandable. Here, he was Lord Governor of a mess.
Davies was ashore often, in part to relieve the tedium of his duties aboard, and in part to find release in the company of his brown-skinned mistress, part French, part island mix, she of the dark eyes and light, quick hands. He was a handsome man of thirty-five years, lean and reasonably fit, and women had never been hard for him to find. He wore his blond hair in a club, for he had a reverence for the traditions of the Royal Navy with its prescribed order and regimen and look.
Today one of his sloops had brought mail from the north, including a report from Captain Hammersmith Bishop on his activities aboard HMS Harp trying to root out pirates in the Caribbean. Davies sat at his desk to read the report, the ship’s work going on over his head and around him as he did so, but such was his focus on the document that he was oblivious to the sounds, which, at any rate, he had heard on a thousand mornings such as this.
He knew Bishop, of course, had in fact written the orders that sent him to Bermuda to put an end to a certain pirate in command of a captured Spanish frigate. Bishop had patronage in Parliament, having been put forward by his cousin Lord Delemere, who stood for East Londonderry. When Bishop had reported to him in Antigua, Davies had taken an instant dislike to the man. He was offensive in every way that mattered to Davies: a toady who had gotten his ship through influence, not qualifications; a captain more concerned with appearances than seamanship; a soft man in a hard business.
So, it was with unusual interest that Davies began to read Bishop’s report. The more he read, the more he felt uneasy. It wasn’t what was written—that was simple enough, in its way, placing a Bermuda privateer under his command, devising a plan to flush Clayton from his hiding place and force battle, the battle itself, casualties and his own wounding, though suspiciously vague. Then the pirate Jak Clayton escaping under the skirts of the salt packets, the smoke and confusion, such that Harp was unable to continue firing lest innocent people be killed and private shipping destroyed.
That was all easy enough to understand. But Davies didn’t believe a word of it. Unable, or unwilling to continue battle? That was the damned question, and Davies thought he knew the answer.
That afternoon, he made his usual visit ashore to his always-willing mistress, forgetting Bishop and the war while her light hands moved over his body, first this, that, and the other thing. Her brown skin glistened from the heat and acrobatics as she finally arched over him, a groan in her throat, le petit mort she called it—the little death—exhausting her finally, finally, as she collapsed onto him, sweaty and spent, falling asleep almost instantly.
He lay awake, however, his mind slowly leaving her pleasures behind and returning to problems at hand, calling him back to his duty. And that damned question.
TWENTY-THREE
EZRA SOMERS had hired Nilson because he was efficient and competent, and because few people wanted to take a job on a desolate, remote island in the business of shipping salt. Somers thought he had been fortunate; now he was not so sure.
He and Elinore followed Nilson from the dock toward the company’s office, past the settlement’s few shops, the noonday heat having driven most people to indoor shade. When they arrived they found Hewes was there, hunched over his books like a rodent feeding on cheese, and Elinore fixed him with a dark gaze.
There were no preliminaries to the conversation.
“Nilson, what news of Captain Fallon?” asked Somers. “We have heard nothing for weeks.”
Nilson was clearly taken aback. “We know nothing more than what Captain Bishop of HMS Harp reported, Mr. Somers,” he said defensively. “Captain Fallon led the packets through the leeward passage, where they were set upon by the pirate Clayton. Captain Bishop drove Clayton off, at great risk to his ship—he himself was wounded—and the packets got through, which is the main thing. Of Captain Fallon we have no word, and I presume he was either killed or captured or perhaps continued on with the packets to Charleston. Captain Bishop reports it was heavy going, and he lost track of Sea Dog in the intensity of the battle.”
“You say they took the leeward passage,” probed Somers. “Is that customary?” Putting out the bait now.
Nilson took it. “It was Fallon’s plan, sir, to avoid Clayton. It seems it didn’t work. If it weren’t for Bishop deciding at the last to follow behind—locking the barn door, so to speak—it would likely have been a total loss all around, I’m sure.”
Somers noticed Hewes out of the corner of his eye, pretending to add columns, trying to be invisible. Elinore had not taken her eyes off him and the man was sweating, drops dripping off his nose onto his precious numbers.
“Is Bishop aboard his ship?” asked Somers.
“I presume so, sir,” answered Nilson. “I believe his recovery goes slowly, for I have not seen him for some time.”
Somers was clearly inflamed, but under control. Nilson’s report all sounded logical, that is if he hadn’t had Fallon’s letter in his breast pocket. “Come with me, Nilson. Let’s take a walk to the salt pans. Afterward I shall call upon Captain Bishop. Elinore, would you please wait for me on the ship? I won’t be long.”
Elinore made for the door, hesitated with her hand on the knob and then turned around. “Mr. Nilson, you do not seem overly concerned with Captain Fallon’s fate or the lives of his crew, all of wh
om are employed by the Somers Salt Company, as you are at present. All of whom are known to us, if not to you, while you, sir, are barely known to us at all.”
With that, she was out the door.
The flame inside Ezra Somers was stoked higher, if possible. What a daughter he had! What a shot over the bow, just close enough to throw up spray in anticipation of real damage to come. Jesus, that was magnificent!
He followed Nilson out the door and down the path to the salt pans, without conversation, Nilson like a child heading to the woodshed. As they came to a clearing near the beach, Somers turned on him with a fury.
“Nilson, you are either a fool, or a liar, or perhaps both. There is treachery afoot, sir, and if you do not see it I can only conclude you may be part of it!”
Nilson made to answer but no words came forth. His face seemed to suddenly sag, taking all expression with it. He stared blankly at Somers, mouth open, his mind sounding retreat.
“You are fired, Nilson, gone like you never existed. You and that rat-faced clerk of yours. And I promise you this, sir: If Nicholas Fallon is not found safe, you will not be safe. Ever in this life. Mark me, for these are the last words you’ll hear from me until Judgment Day. Pray for his safety, Nilson. Pray hard.”
With that Somers turned and walked back up the path. Nilson sat down where he stood, put his head in his hands, and tried to breathe. But the air was hot, like fire, and he could not get his breath.
CAPTAIN BISHOP was alone in his cabin, dozing in an alcoholic stupor when he was awakened by Somers’s hail asking permission to come aboard. After a few moments spent fumbling into his best uniform jacket, he received the two strangers into his quarters.
It was quickly apparent they were father and daughter and had specific questions regarding the loss of Sea Dog, a topic that put Bishop on guard and filled the crevices between his fat neck rolls with perspiration. He poured a glass to settle his nerves and offered the same to his guests, who declined.
“Captain Bishop,” began Somers with an opaque look, “my daughter, Elinore, and I own the Somers Salt Company and Captain Fallon is an employee of ours. We are naturally trying to learn the details of the battle with Jak Clayton the day he was lost. Pray enlighten us.”
Bishop considered. They seemed harmless, asking about an employee, but there was an edge in the old man’s voice. An edge Bishop didn’t care for at all. Proceed with caution, he told himself, and bear off slightly.
“Certainly, Mr. Somers, certainly,” began Bishop, shifting his mass to be more comfortable for what he thought might be a long interview. “Captain Fallon and I agreed that the leeward passage would be safer to see the salt packets through to Charleston. We further agreed he should lead the van. He seemed capable enough in conversation, although not Royal Navy, to be sure.” Here, he paused to let the shot go home; instead, he received a withering look from Elinore that told him perhaps he should stick to the story without editorial. He sipped his wine and continued cautiously. “At any rate, Captain Fallon let it be known on the island that I would take Harp on the windward route, as a ruse, for he had a rather farfetched idea that there was an informant abroad.”
“So you were never really to take the windward route, is that correct?” Somers leaned forward in his chair, not antagonistically, but physically interested.
“Er, just so,” Bishop said, trying to remember exactly what he had told Nilson. “But really, who knew where Clayton would strike next? The point is that I insisted we work together to get the packets through, do you see? We were just approaching Andros when the pirates came out: two of them, a sloop and Clayton’s ship. We engaged them, of course, and gave as good as we got, I promise you. The pirate sloop was mortally wounded and, as I was heavily engaged with Clayton—it was hot work, let me assure you—I did not see what became of Fallon. But as I held off Clayton, your salt packets were able to slip away. Which should make you very happy, indeed. When Clayton finally broke off and ran for it, evening was closing on us, and we were crippled, which made searching for Fallon impossible.”
“Hmmm, your story is very interesting, Captain Bishop. And I understand you were wounded?” Somers seeming genuinely concerned, seeming to be tracking along. Bishop finished off his glass, relieved.
“Yes, a trifle. One expects worse in battle, sir, from my experience.” Bishop feeling good now, sure-footed, in command.
Elinore had been silent until now. Silent and intent as a fox staring at a chicken dinner. “Tell us, Captain, how badly was your ship hurt?” Intentionally asking the question like a woman who didn’t know a boom from a belaying pin. “It was a very hot battle, you said. Yet your ship looks remarkably well-found.”
Bishop smelled the faint odor of a trap, but ignored it. Not from this beautiful young woman, he thought. “Thank you, Miss Somers. We have been working night and day to get Harp shipshape as quickly as possible. My orders are to find and destroy Clayton, and by God I shall do that.”
“What keeps you in port, then, Captain?” asked Somers. “Clayton is still free as a bird, presumably preying on shipping, and our Captain Fallon is still missing. When do you plan to sail?”
There was the edge again, thought Bishop. Questioning his orders? His intentions? Really, this was too much. English civility only went so far, and Bishop exploded. “I will leave when I leave, Mr. Somers, which is up to the British Navy and not to you. If your Captain Fallon hadn’t been so headstrong and poppycock sure of himself and his big ideas he might be alive today. Perhaps if he had come to my aid we might have finished Clayton, working together, as I had urged. Perhaps he just had no heart for the fight!”
“Captain Bishop,” Somers said coldly, rising out of his chair, “I believe we have learned all there is to learn here. But let me say that you go too far with your mythmaking and storytelling, and you will soon face the cold, hard steel of truth. You are a liar, sir. And a slanderer. And when I have gotten a clearer picture of what happened on the leeward passage, an honest picture, I will come back to call you out. On my word, sir, I hope you are good with a pistol. Because I have never missed, particularly a fat target.”
Bishop was enraged, trembling with emotion, the pale folds of his skin quivering. He opened his mouth to order them out, but they were leaving already. Goddamn their eyes! How dare they challenge his word! He was a British captain!
ELINORE AND her father dined alone in the sloop in the late afternoon. They spoke little, full of emotion and determination, but Elinore knew her father would not rest easy until he learned more.
By dusk, Somers had rowed himself to the town dock, two pistols in his waistband, his jaw set. The early evening was cooling down, and the moon was just making its appearance over the island. A beautiful night, really, if you weren’t chasing intrigue.
He made his way to the salt pans, pushing through the pain of his gout and into the shadows, remembering Cully’s report now, hiding like he had hidden, looking for a traitor. The hours crept by but Somers stayed alert, focused on his anger, wondering how it would play out if his suspicions held.
They held.
Just before midnight two figures crept along the settlement path, both carrying duffel bags and portmanteaus, whispering and stumbling over roots until they reached the clearing by the salt pans, and dropped their belongings on the sand. A lantern was produced, lit by a flint, and held aloft for a moment. From the darkness beyond the breakers another light, briefly, and then darkness. Slowly, a sail appeared in the gloom and a small fishing boat glided toward the beach on the soft rollers. As it crunched on the small pebbles at the water’s edge, Ezra Somers stepped out from the shadows.
“Taking a trip, I see,” he said coldly. “Where would you be going this time of night, I wonder?” His voice steady, hard, not really interested in answers.
Nilson and Hewes stood stock-still. Behind them the dark figure in the little sloop leaped ashore to control the boat in the surf.
“Let me tell you where you are going. You are goi
ng to your friend Clayton’s side, to hide under his skirts, because your work here is finished, eh? But he has no more use for your information, so what use are you to him?”
Nilson appeared frozen, his face contorted with anger. “Look here, Somers,” he feigned explanation as he quickly made to draw a pistol from his waistband. But Somers was ready, as ready as he’d been for anything in his life. He drew quickly, and two shots rang out simultaneously. Somers had told Bishop the truth, he was good with a pistol, his ball going through Nilson’s throat and sending him backward over his bags. But Nilson’s shot had been close, grazing Somers’s head and sending him down to one knee, a bloody gouge across his scalp, and making him drop his pistol in the sand.
Somers was stunned. Hewes gasped, dropped his bags and made a dash for it, plodding in the heavy sand and salt, an easy target in the moonlight for a dead shot, even one with blood in his eyes. Somers drew his other pistol and brought him down within ten strides.
The figure at the little sloop hurriedly pushed the boat off the beach and jumped in. Somers knelt on the sand, blood covering his eyes, as the figure sheeted the mainsail home and sailed away. The old man rose unsteadily, stepped over Nilson and walked to where Hewes lay. He threw down the pistol next to the body, thinking of the story the bodies told, two guns and two dead. Well, somebody would make up something. Perhaps a lover’s quarrel, he thought ruefully.
He knelt down in the surf, washed the blood from his face and held a handkerchief to his wound. The walk back to the dock was a little shaky, a lone figure looking the worse for drink if anybody noticed, which at that time on that night they did not. Two down, he thought, but not done.
TWENTY-FOUR
A NEW DAY in the Caribbean was inevitably warm, usually golden, and often found Rear Admiral Davies at Avenger’s windows, coffee in hand, contemplating his fate in life. He had to visit Government House that afternoon, always a trying affair, and then arrange for water hoys and beef cattle to be brought to his ship. The officials would want some small favor, a bestikke, as the Swedes would say. He’d had his fill of that in the Baltic.
The Bermuda Privateer Page 10