The Bermuda Privateer

by William Westbrook

  Last night dusk had come to Antigua softly, like a whisper carrying a secret. Indeed, last night Rear Admiral Davies had received an Admiralty dispatch marked Urgent, with the latest intelligence on Spanish movements in the Caribbean. Since signing the treaty with France against Great Britain, Spain had felt the French Revolutionary government’s pressure for silver and gold to fund its armies and navy. Spain had given, but France wanted more. British intelligence believed a large fleet of Spanish ships had left Cadiz laden with mercantile goods, arms, and manufactured items as ballast and sailed for South America some months ago, passing through the Lesser Antilles, though not undetected. They were to off-load their goods in Cartagena, Colombia. Then several ships—a treasure flota—were to split off and sail for Portobelo, in Panama, to load silver and gold brought from the mines of Bolivia. This flotilla of heavily laden treasure ships was expected to sail across the Gulf of Mexico to reunite with the main body of the Spanish fleet in Havana. Thence the re-combined fleet would sail northward, up the coast of Spanish Florida to catch the northerly winds back to Spain. The treasure fleet would be heavily armed, for it carried the fortune France would need to continue to press the war with Great Britain.

  Now Davies faced a critical decision; indeed, it would not be coming at it too high to say the fate of Great Britain might rest on his shoulders. Stop the flotilla and it might strangle France, or at least slow her advancing armies for want of food and supplies. Britain could perhaps catch her breath and regroup.

  But he had no ships with which to patrol the Caribbean! One frigate was in for repairs, its captain gone back to England. A fraud commanded the other frigate. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!

  Of more immediate concern to Davies was the knot in his stomach. It was the knot in his stomach last night, remembered. What to do about Bishop at Grand Turk, or wherever the hell he was right now? It was no small thing to distrust a captain’s reports, more serious still to confront him, and more serious still by a hundred to recall him, especially a captain with influence. It had ended many a career, and Davies was under no illusion about his own stature in the Royal Navy. He was a minor player in the British Empire and easily replaced, transferred on an Admiralty whim to blockade duty, his position in the Caribbean eagerly coveted by a hundred senior captains on the list. Shit, this was a damnable position to be in on a fine morning.

  As always when big decisions loomed, Davies asked himself what his father would do. His father had always been right, all his damned life; he was a man of little education but strong in the department of judgment. What would his father do? Chase an intuition or stay home under the covers?

  The sounds overhead told him the ship was fully active now, fulfilling the destiny of every crew of every King’s ship the world over, tending to a thousand small tasks aboard. Davies listened intently, hearing the quiet talk of the men, the running bare feet, the snap of the bosun’s starter on a laggard’s behind; he listened until he heard what he needed to hear.

  His father’s voice.

  ONE HOUR into the first dog, the flagship was coming alive, with anchor pawls clicking as the huge two-ton anchor was pulled out of the seabed dripping mud and weeds. The tide was making, and it was no trouble navigating the maze of boats in English Harbor until at last Avenger sailed into the open arms of the sea. Soon enough they caught the trade winds and turned north for the one-thousand-mile run to Grand Turk.

  Rear Admiral Davies stood on the quarterdeck, feeling alive after the stifling time at anchor, sailing into what he didn’t know, and somehow thrilled by it. At the least he would teach Captain Hammersmith Bishop how to write a fair report; at the most he would face something darker.

  “Captain Kinis,” Davies called to his flag captain, “it is a beautiful morning, is it not?” Kinis turned away from the binnacle, a stoic expression on his face. “It is, sir. A capital morning, as you say.”

  Kinis was tall and dark, with coal black hair and a grim set to his mouth. These two men had a somewhat formal relationship owing more to the strict hierarchy of command in the British Navy than to their personalities, although Davies felt Kinis would be hard to get to know even in different circumstances. The morning greeting done, Davies took a stroll around the ship to reacquaint himself with the movement of a ship at sea and the sights of the crew at work. As rear admiral, and a thoughtful rear admiral at that, Davies would not deign to interfere with the running of the ship. That was Captain Kinis’s responsibility, but he noticed what he noticed and could have a word with his captain in private if necessary. He knew Kinis took his rare criticism in stride and would take care to set things right in his own time. Satisfied that all was well and in extraordinarily good hands, Davies went below for his breakfast and coffee. Enjoy this sail, he told himself, for in a few days he had to go to work.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  A WEEK PASSED on the small pirate stronghold and Fallon’s strength began to return, the headaches less frequent. He wasn’t strong yet, but he felt that he would be strong at some point, and that was strength in itself. He could feed himself, sit up by himself, and lately stand by himself. Walking was a concern, still.

  In fact, he was standing at the entrance to the hut when he saw Clayton emerge from his own bungalow down by the beach, walk along the shoreline, and begin the climb uphill toward the prisoners. It was the purposeful stride of a mind made up, and Fallon could not help feeling that today was the day he would be hung.

  Fallon looked past Clayton to the harbor, the three ships almost repaired now, rigging and yards set up, a small evil fleet. He gazed longingly at Sea Dog, almost set to rights, and despaired of ever sailing her again. Already, he was beginning to let her go in his memory.

  “Ah, Captain,” said Clayton as he stepped up to the doorway, “I see you are up and about. Excellent. We must arrange to dine together one night when you are able.”

  Fallon recoiled involuntarily, as much from Clayton’s breath as the idea of dinner with him. Really, what had he eaten last night? “I would like to check on my men,” he said, ignoring the dinner invitation, “but your guards will not allow it. Surely that is not too much to ask.”

  Clayton rested his hand on his sword hilt, fingering the gold knob, and decided to be magnanimous. “You may check on your men, yes. But only once, and a guard will be with you. And, Captain, you should check soon. Your ship is almost out of food and water, and unfortunately that means your men will soon begin dying.”

  Fallon refused the taunt. “Death is preferable to living without honor,” he said evenly, looking directly into Clayton’s eyes.

  Fallon saw Clayton’s eyes flare as the insult hit home, but the pirate shrugged it off.

  “Captain, there is a way to save your men,” Clayton said evenly, “but it will take your help to do it. Are you willing to save your men, Captain? And yourself?”

  Fallon looked past Clayton toward Cully and the Swedes. “What do I have to do?” he asked, suddenly tired from standing, going a little wobbly in the knees. He literally had not much of a leg to stand on in this negotiation, with no leverage and no strength.

  “I think you are a very important man to the Somers Salt Company,” Clayton said. “I’m sure they would want you returned unharmed. I would propose a ransom, Captain, or rather you will propose a ransom in a signed note which I will have delivered to your employer. If he agrees, you and your men will be exchanged. So, Captain, it had better be a good note, eh?” Clayton laughed in his high voice now, amusing himself.

  “I won’t do it, Clayton,” spat Fallon. “So don’t waste your time. I won’t beg for my life.”

  “Wait, Captain, you haven’t heard my terms yet,” said Clayton with a smile. “I think you will sign the note, because I will kill one of your men every day that you don’t.” With that, he drew his sword, lunged to the back of the hut, and plunged it into the chest of one of the wounded Swedes. Fallon gasped and stumbled as he lurched for Clayton, but fell to the ground, supported by Beauty’s arms. “Bastard,�
�� he said through clenched teeth. “Bastard.”

  “Yes, I admit it, Captain,” Clayton said. “I was an illegitimate child.” Again came the high falsetto laugh of a madman, filling the hut and no doubt ringing across the harbor. “He was for today,” snarled Clayton, motioning to the bleeding Swede, lifeless in the dirt. “Who will be tomorrow?”

  Clayton wiped his sword on his pants leg and sheathed it, looked around the hut a last time, and left. Fallon could hear him order the guard to allow him a visit with the other prisoners. Then, silence.

  My God, thought Fallon, what have I done? The Swede’s blood was on his hands because of his stubbornness and arrogance. He closed his eyes and punished himself with his thoughts, ruthlessly. God, what a fool. Friends who trusted me are dead. Over and over again.

  Fallon looked into Beauty’s eyes and saw her defiance, and he knew he’d given Clayton the right answer, but that would not bring the Swede’s life back. He followed her gaze to the back of the hut and the Swede’s body, the other Swede crying over his friend and countryman, and then Fallon looked to the corner and there sat Mr. Boy, eyes wide open as always. Had he seen Clayton through the boards? Jesus, what this boy had seen in his short life, Fallon thought. What does he think of the world?

  Then, something remarkable. Mr. Boy crawled to Fallon, leaned over to where he lay, and spoke.

  “Captain, sir. We must leave here, yes?”

  Fallon’s eyes opened wide in astonishment. The boy could speak! Which meant he could always speak, could always understand. For a moment it was all he could think: The boy could speak! It was just for a moment, and then he thought about what he had said.

  Fallon sat up, out of his stupor now, free of his pain and guilt and his self-punishment, and focused his mind on the task at hand: Leave this fucking damned island.

  The thought hit him like a fist, energized him and seemed to simultaneously leap like lightning to everyone else in the hut, Beauty and Cully and the lone Swede, who now looked up from his crying. They had to leave, but how?

  “Beauty, what time do they change our guards?” Fallon asked.

  “Every four hours,” said Beauty. “But the guards who come at midnight are usually drunk and late.”

  “Cully, can you walk?” he asked his gun captain.

  “Aye, Captain, I could run out of here!” said Cully, and made to rise as if he were ready to leave then and there.

  “Captain, sir,” said Mr. Boy hesitantly, “there is a big fire tonight. The pirates have piled wood high on the beach. I think they killed a cow to eat.”

  Fallon looked at the boy in wonder. Really, had this young boy been spying on the pirates this whole time? Crawling among the rocks, watching and listening without being caught or even noticed? It seemed impossible. No one knew? Good God! thought Fallon.

  “How do you know this?” Fallon asked incredulously.

  “I squeeze through the boards at night and sneak around,” the boy answered humbly. “The pirates are usually drunk and asleep so they don’t notice. Plus, it is dark and so am I.”

  Here the boy smiled weakly, and it seemed to break the tension in the hut a little. Fallon looked at him with new appreciation. Then his mind returned to the news of the fire on the beach tonight. A big fire meant a celebration of some sort. Drinking and who knows what debauchery. Maybe there was a way.

  Fallon asked, “Tell me, can you communicate with the slaves?”

  “Yes, Captain, sir,” said the boy. “They came from my ship and are mostly from my old village so we understand each other.”

  So it was Clayton who had attacked the slave ship! Fallon remembered the boy shaking his fist at Renegade from the companionway during the battle off Andros Island. Now it made sense. The slaves would be anxious to help, and perhaps exact revenge.

  “It will be dangerous,” Fallon said, “and some may die tonight, but promise them this for me: Every man who escapes will be set free. Tell them that. Then sneak back here just before the guards are to change tonight. We’ll go over the plan then. I just have to come up with it, he thought ruefully.

  Then, an afterthought, Fallon added, “And pay no attention to the fighting and screaming you hear in here later. We won’t really mean it. Now, off with you.”

  The boy scampered out the back, and Fallon and Beauty put their heads together. His own head was throbbing, but he had the beginning of an idea. Beauty must play her role. Then luck must play its role.

  It was to be all or nothing tonight.

  TWENTY-SIX

  THE FIGHT started like fights do.

  Beauty screaming, Fallon yelling back. Then, more serious, Beauty throwing herself on Fallon, her hands at his throat, yelling obscenities and bent on murder. The guards rushed in and quickly pulled them apart, Beauty kicking with her wooden leg and catching Fallon smartly on the shins, sending him rolling in the dirt in pain.

  “Get the bitch out of here,” he yelled. “I’ll kill her.” And he looked like he meant it.

  “You fucker, after everything I’ve done for you it’s come to this!” Beauty shouted. “Goddamn your eyes for a whoreson!” And she lunged at him again, only to be restrained by one of the guards.

  “Here, throw her in with the other prisoners and be done with this shit,” said the other guard. “We don’t need this!”

  With that they dragged Beauty kicking and cursing and threw her into the other hut with the healthiest prisoners. She landed on her behind in the middle of the men. She lay there cursing some more, until the guard had left and returned to his post, and then she motioned for the men to gather close.

  DUSK CREPT onto Rum Cay on a dying breeze, and then suddenly it was dark. The moon would not rise until well after midnight, and by then the plan would have either worked or failed with disastrous results. Or something in-between.

  The fire was lit on the beach, a great roaring thing, and the yelling and drinking began. Fallon wondered what the pirates were celebrating, thinking it could be the anticipated ransom money. Or it could be a morale booster on Clayton’s part. The scene was eerie in the light of the fire, pirates coming in and out of darkness, whooping and laughing like madmen. It went on for several hours, getting louder and drunker, more laughing and fighting, higher flames.

  Midnight. Just before the guards were supposed to change. Mr. Boy crept through the loose boards in the back of the hut and moved to where Fallon was. For some time, Fallon had been sitting stock-still, anxiously reviewing the plan in his mind, trying to ignore the obvious holes in his thinking. By now Beauty had briefed the crew, so Fallon explained it all to the boy, who nodded his understanding and left to communicate it to the slaves. Two of the bravest and strongest had to execute the first phase.

  Now it was down to waiting. Fallon had given up the success of the plan to the gods; it was himself he was worried about. He was still very weak and would need help just to get to the beach. Fighting, if it came to that, was out of the question.

  Up the hill stumbled the two replacement guards; one fell on a loose rock and cursed, and the other laughed. Finally, they settled into their posts, and the guards they replaced left immediately to join the revelry on the beach. The two pirates sat on crude chairs at each end of the string of huts, maybe 75 feet apart, in view of each other and the openings of the huts. Within an hour they were nodding, and within another half hour one was snoring.

  Two black shapes moved silently along the rear of the huts, one large, one small. They took their time: A step and then listen, a step and wait. The larger figure crept behind the sleeping guard outside the slave hut, slipped his own rope belt around the guard’s neck and tightened it. After a few kicks, it was over. The far guard was up, and the warning yell was in his throat when Mr. Boy plunged a fork into his neck from behind with remarkable strength and passion and, when the guard had fallen, into his heart. It was not supposed to be this way; the boy was to ask two of the men to do the killing. But he’d elected himself, for his own reasons, and now the boy was blood
ed.

  Quickly, several prisoners pulled the dead guards into the larger hut and stripped off their clothing. Then two seamen put on the dead guards’ shirts, pants, scarves, and hats and attached the guards’ powder bags to their own belts. A paste of dirt and water was put on their faces to both partially disguise them and also to match the filthy look of the pirates.

  Fallon sat outside the large hut with Beauty and Mr. Boy, who had ascended to a leadership role in rather dramatic fashion. They could see the celebration still going on the beach, perhaps 75 yards away. They could also see that several pirates had collapsed or simply passed out where they were standing. Close to two hundred pirates were still at it, many holding torches and dancing around. Fallon could see Clayton sitting on a wooden throne-like contraption with his woman, a sword in one hand and a bottle in the other, watching, roaring with laughter, hopefully blinded by the firelight.

  Fallon looked at the sky. The moon would be ascendant in less than an hour. The thing had to be timed right: Get to Sea Dog under cover of darkness, then sail with the moon coming up to show the way out. This was assuming they could even get to the ship. They could barely see the ship at this point, but Fallon knew that the yellow sloop was closest to them, with Sea Dog anchored in the middle and Renegade on the far side of the harbor, closest to the pirate huts and Clayton’s bungalow. Four small boats, which were used to ferry men to the ships and back, were pulled up onto the beach, not far from the fire. The closest boat was the largest, for it was used to take the men to work on the ships each morning and return them each afternoon.

  The two seamen dressed like pirates began to ascend the hill behind the huts. Quickly they were invisible, beginning their loop around the island to reach a point near the fire undetected. Theirs was the most dangerous role, and Beauty had chosen them especially for their courage, cleverness, and ability to swim. Since most seamen couldn’t swim, and many weren’t particularly imaginative, the pool of candidates had been necessarily small.