The Bermuda Privateer

by William Westbrook

  How could that be? Bishop half lay, half sat in the stern seat and closed his eyes. Everything he had worked for all his life, his reputation, his place in London society, it was all over. He slowly began to cry, like he had cried in his mother’s arms as a boy, ashamed of his childhood cowardice at the hands of schoolyard bullies. His life, indeed his whole career, had been a mask of bluff and bluster, and now he was exposed. His mother’s arms had brought safety and comfort, but there were no arms to hold him now, and his body shook with great huge sobs of hurt and shame and helplessness.

  On the ships came to their anchorages, sailing into the pretty harbor, the low buildings of Cockburn Town glowing like gold. They shortened sail, crawling past the dock and Harp at anchor and, as they rounded up to let go, a sound like a shot rang out, though from where the sailors could not tell.

  For a moment, silly as it seemed, Fallon actually thought someone was glad to see him come back alive.

  TWENTY-NINE

  THE SUN was gone from Cockburn Harbor, but a golden light still lingered, if barely, and it certainly was enough for Harp’s lookout to see his ship’s number hoisted to Avenger’s gaff, followed by a signal: Captain repair on board.

  Rear Admiral Davies was anxious for the interview with Bishop, though he was fairly certain he had the facts in hand. Still, Bishop deserved to tell his story and would be given the chance. He watched impatiently as Harp’s gig dropped into the water.

  Davies had quickly called away his own gig to take Captain Fallon and Aja back to their ship. This was not a time to have Fallon aboard. In the event, he offered one of Avenger’s boats to be made available to Fallon and, indeed, it trailed along behind the gig as the pair were rowed to their ship.

  It was growing dark quickly and, as the moon was still some hours from making its appearance, Davies could not see the corpulent Bishop in the stern but soon enough heard the gig’s hail.

  But Bishop did not come aboard.

  Instead Harp’s first lieutenant, Ramsbottom, came climbing up the side and, once on the deck, presented himself to Davies with a solemn, almost ashen face. He was tall and awkward, with a perfect uniform and real silk stockings. He didn’t pay for those on a first lieutenant’s pay so, one of those officers. Davies knew of Ramsbottom, knew he had been specifically requested by Bishop to serve as first lieutenant. Scuttlebutt had it that he was insecure in the extreme with regard to his abilities and experience and masked his weakness by constantly finding fault with his men.

  The man looked like he could use a glass of wine, and Davies immediately invited him below, eager for an explanation for Bishop’s absence. The door of the cabin had barely closed when Ramsbottom blurted it out.

  “Captain Bishop is dead, sir. He killed himself with a pistol this evening. I don’t know what to say, sir.”

  “Good God!” exclaimed Davies, genuinely shocked. “Shot himself? Jesus, are you sure? Well, of course you’re sure. What was wrong, Ramsbottom? Was anything amiss in the ship?”

  A clearly agitated Ramsbottom said, “I don’t know, sir. He had been keeping to his cabin more of late. I believe his wound may have been troubling him greatly. But…”

  Davies could understand Ramsbottom’s predicament. He was obviously hiding something, but to reveal its nature would likely cast a bad light on a dead man, and possibly on himself, as well.

  Davies sat down heavily. Well, Bishop was dead and there was nothing for it. Ramsbottom still stood at attention, and Davies let him stand there while he considered the situation. Bishop would need to be buried, and Davis preferred to do that at sea, not knowing Bishop’s religious preference for a service on land. And the sooner it was done the better. Then there was the matter of petitioning the Admiralty for a new captain—or promoting Ramsbottom to command, which Davies was loathe to do. He could instead promote Avenger’s First into Harp, which Kinis would understand but not like and Ramsbottom would surely object to. No matter, he had a frigate without a captain, so a problem.

  That presented a particular problem just now, with a Spanish flotilla due into the area within a month carrying enough bullion to win a war, if the intelligence was to be believed. And even if that weren’t true, that damned Clayton was still about. Damn and hell, Davies thought. I have no idea what to do.

  Ramsbottom cleared his throat, an effort to remind his Rear Admiral that he was still at attention. Davies ignored him; in fact, disliked him all the more for his sense of entitlement. But reality prevailed. Captain Bishop couldn’t be allowed to rot in his cabin; he must be given a decent naval burial, and Davies was recalled to his duty.

  “Mr. Ramsbottom, Captain Bishop is to be buried at sea,” he said. “Please prepare to weigh tomorrow and sail with the first tide. I will accompany you, of course. And Mr. Ramsbottom…” Here he hesitated, but thought better of what he was about to say. “You are dismissed.”

  THIRTY

  EZRA SOMERS and Elinore had settled into the small rooms above their company’s office on Grand Turk, nominally used for storage but perfectly suitable for them temporarily. Before Somers bought the building, in fact, the upstairs had been rooms to let.

  Life on Grand Turk had pretty much returned to normal since the discovery of two bodies on the beach near the salt pans. A double murder, some said, or a falling out of some sort. Somers did not comment, nor did he feign to grieve. There was no real law or system of justice on the island; serious grievances were filed with the Bahamian authorities or, more likely, settled on the island. This was one of those times.

  Of course, the Somers Salt Company still had a business to run, and Ezra searched about for replacements to staff the office. After a week of interviews—well, two interviews—a possibility presented itself in an unlikely form: a tax collector sent from the Bahamian government to attempt to collect taxes on salt exports. Of course, it was preposterous. Bermuda controlled Grand Turk’s salt—not the Bahamas—but nonetheless Nassau used every opportunity to press its claim on the island. Somers was not about to be intimidated by the tax collector but, rather than shoot him—for there had been too much of that lately—he invited him to dinner.

  He was an amiable tax collector, Mr. Carteret by name, and seemed to grasp both the absurdity and futility of his mission to Grand Turk. In a previous life he had been a milliner in Nassau selling women’s hats, the big straw ones the best sellers. He found he had a head for numbers, not for hats, and opted for a steady paycheck over the limited joys of the small merchant. That evening, after two bottles of claret, after the delicious chicken and vegetable dinner Elinore had prepared, Carteret was officially the new head of the Somers Salt Company’s Grand Turk office.

  That done, Somers turned his mind to Bishop, whom he knew was lying, but knowing that and proving it were two different things. What infuriated him more was Bishop’s lack of interest in finding Fallon. Bishop had been in harbor for weeks, hadn’t moved, hadn’t made any effort to move, and for all Somers knew Fallon had been captured and cast ashore on an island without food or water and was very probably dead by now. He didn’t share his thoughts with Elinore, of course, but she had her own thoughts and they were no doubt just as dark.

  That is, they were dark thoughts until two days later when word swept the settlement that Sea Dog had sailed in.

  Elinore and her father had been taking a walk after dinner, walking toward the harbor as they usually did, when the dock boy had run to them with the news. Sea Dog and the biggest ship in the world had sailed in and dropped their anchors just at dusk. Could it be?

  Then there was a shot, from where they could not tell, but it seemed to confirm the news.

  That sent Elinore running and Somers hobbling as fast as he could go and they burst onto the dock and, “By God there she is!” exclaimed Somers. A small skiff was at hand, tied up to the dock, and they leapt into it and hurriedly began rowing out to the ship. It was a zigzag course—they were not expert with boats—but soon enough they reached Sea Dog. They were hailed and welcomed aboar
d by Beauty, and stood in shock as Fallon emerged onto the deck wearing only his pants, his ribs sticking out of his chest, surprise on his face. Elinore held the gasp in her throat and ran to him, would have thrown herself at him but that would have sent him back down the companionway. Instead she stopped just short, mouthed I love you and put her arms around him gently so that he wouldn’t break.

  Somers and Beauty and Aja looked away. Well, Aja didn’t really look away, this being all new to him. It was clear to him that, whoever this woman was, she was obviously very important to his captain. Finally, they could all gather around Fallon, Ezra pumping his hand, Elinore holding him, Aja in the dark until he was introduced and then smiling broadly, a little important himself.

  The crew stayed in the shadows, giving the moment its due. It was overwhelming and wonderful and Fallon worried he would cry. And later, after all the questions were answered and the wine drunk, when Elinore and Somers been seen safely back ashore and he had finally tumbled into his cot, he did.

  THIRTY-ONE

  DAWN FOUND Fallon on deck looking across the harbor at Harp. She was a beautiful ship, one of the class of smaller frigates the Admiralty had ordered to be built at the beginning of the war. There were sixteen gun ports to the side, two acres of canvas aloft when she sailed, and enough timber to build several good-sized homes. In fact, England was building so many ships that the countryside was rapidly losing all its trees. War took strange things from a country.

  Fallon clenched his jaw. There was business at hand with Bishop, and he intended to take care of it this morning. The tide would make within the hour, and he could see Harp making preparations to weigh. He would need to hurry. As he turned to go below to dress and get his sword he heard a hail from Avenger’s gig, which had come up from astern totally unnoticed by Fallon, so absorbed was he with Harp.

  Rear Admiral Davies rose from the stern sheets, and once the gig’s crew had clapped on he climbed up the side and was aboard.

  Fallon stood in his nightshirt, looking at Davies come over the side in his Rear Admiral splendor. He was puzzled at this early visit, and worried Harp would sail before he could get aboard.

  Davies read the expression on Fallon’s face. “Good morning, Captain,” he said. “You are looking better this morning, I’m glad to see. I also see you are looking at Harp, perhaps wondering where she is going, perhaps wanting to have a word with Bishop. I don’t blame you, but believe me, Captain, she will not sail without me.”

  Fallon stared at Davies, uncomprehending, his nightshirt flapping about his legs. Davies stepped closer, his voice lower. “Captain Bishop is dead, sir. A victim of…himself. I suspect he saw our arrival and looked into the future and did not like or could not endure what he surely knew would happen. He shot himself last night, Captain Fallon. And for the sake of the service I will bury him this morning at sea.”

  Fallon was stunned. His father had always said life was just one damned thing after another, and it was true. He took a moment to absorb the news. Well, he thought, he wouldn’t be killing anyone this morning, which is exactly what he’d been contemplating ever since Bishop abandoned Sea Dog and ran from Clayton.

  Davies looked at Fallon and thought carefully about how to phrase what he wanted to say next. Something about injustice and apology, but he had the sense to be silent while Fallon’s mind worked it out. In the event, he took his leave with a long look into Fallon’s face before he turned and climbed over the side.

  Fallon watched him being rowed to Harp. He liked this man, respected him and the way he handled situations. Soon enough Harp would weigh anchor and let fall, sheeting home her sails to glide out the channel for sea. Fallon tried to figure out what he was feeling, but he was empty. Perhaps Bishop had done him a favor, but somehow he felt sorry for the man. His hatred was gone, which surprised him. And it made him wonder if it had ever truly been there at all.

  Fallon wanted to shave and dress and have a massive breakfast. Today he would leave the ship and not return until he was too tired to stay ashore. He wanted to see Elinore, to walk with her on the beach and say all the things he wanted to say in private. And he wanted to talk to Somers, who had said last night that Nilson and Hewes were no longer employed. And he had said it without emotion. That was something to find out about.

  WHEN BEAUTY had seen Fallon safely over the side and handed down into Avenger’s boat, with the crew being extra careful with their captain, she set about inspecting Sea Dog from stem to stern. They would need wood and fresh water before leaving Cockburn Harbor, and two weeks’ worth of rations, although the trip to Bermuda was only a week. It paid to err on the side of safety when going to sea.

  When she had made a mental note of repairs and things to be set to rights, she divided up the hands for the tasks, being careful to place the former slaves into groups with the older hands. Every man would be expected to pull his weight, experienced or not, else morale would suffer.

  The thought of going home pleased Beauty. She was comfortable around men, found she had much in common with them, but needed time away from the ship. She was ready to tend to her own private life.

  It wasn’t at all clear to her what Sea Dog could do about Clayton. Fallon’s plan to winkle him out of his hiding place while under Harp’s guns had been a good one, but it wouldn’t work twice. And, anyway, Bishop was dead and on his way to the bottom by now and a new captain would have to be appointed or sent for. Who knew what Davies’ orders would be now? Certainly Fallon would not take Sea Dog against Renegade’s guns again, and no one could blame him. But meanwhile, Clayton.

  The day was warming quickly, even with the sun mostly hidden behind enormous puffy clouds. Beauty had no desire to go ashore, but she did need clothes and a few things since the pirates had stolen everything in the ship that wasn’t bolted to the deck. This afternoon would be make and mend on the ship and all hands would strip down and wash their clothes. Probably best to let Fallon come back for that. Then she could row herself to shore.

  Her mind turned to Aja and the former slaves and what they might decide for their future. Sea Dog could use the hands, no doubt of that, but adapting to a life at sea from life on a farm would not be easy. And then there was the language issue, although most of the newly freed men were beginning to understand and speak English to some degree. None, however, like Aja.

  He had certainly blossomed into a surprise in the weeks since he’d been rescued from the slaver. He was a natural leader if Beauty had ever seen one, and he was filling out nicely into his clothes, a young man now. Cully had done wonders with him, showing him knots and splices and the rudiments of gunnery, the thousand names of things aboard. He learned quickly and was clever, and Beauty believed he would stay aboard in Bermuda.

  Bermuda. It couldn’t come fast enough.

  THIRTY-TWO

  PORTOBELO, MIDNIGHT.

  Capitán Alfonso Camaron walked the deck of his ship, the massive Punta de la Concepción, and looked across the bay into a darkness that stretched to Spain. He wished he were there now. For the hundredth time, no the thousandth time, he asked himself where the damned Silver Train was.

  At sea nothing was predictable, only perhaps probable due to wind and weather. But on land? Surely a mule train could be loaded, even a mule train of one hundred mules, and sent on its way in a reasonable amount of time.

  The Silver Train carried silver and gold by mule from the mines of Potosí, Peru, across the Isthmus of Panama to Portobelo. Camaron’s orders were to load the bullion as soon as possible and rendezvous with the Spanish Combined Fleet, comprising seventy ships, in Havana before they all sailed for Spain.

  Besides his own Punta, a 79-gun ship-of-the-line, Camaron had Estrella, 54, as his only frigate. Río de Oro, Valiente, Corazón de España, and Nuevo Año were cargo ships, so lightly armed. Camaron estimated it would take less than a week to load the treasure on his ships and be away. But first, the damn mules had to get there.

  Capitán Camaron had never been a patient
man. He was short and dark, with a body that had seen leaner years. His black mustache had lately shown flecks of gray, which he refused to see, even when he shaved each morning, concentrating his vision on his cheeks and chin.

  The bullion, if it ever arrived, would need to be off-loaded from the mules and loaded onto the ship’s boats and rowed out to the fleet’s anchorage, for there was no deepwater dock in Portobelo. The silver was in bars weighing thirty to forty pounds each, the gold in coins. Once the boats were alongside the six ships, the treasure would be hoisted aboard using the ships’ booms and block and tackle. Maybe a week was too conservative, but Camaron would order the capitáns to push their men to the point of exhaustion. They were already three weeks behind schedule and every day would be a black mark against him.

  Tomorrow those damn mules had better show up.

  IN THE event, the mules did come plodding along the next afternoon, up over a rise and down the hill into Portobelo, moving, as mules do, at their own pace. Each mule carried three hundred pounds of silver and gold, with the whole accompanied by a regiment of seventy guards on horseback and various wagons and carts to supply the entirety of the Silver Train. The treasure was unloaded by nightfall, guards posted and mules hobbled, and Camaron called a late night capitán’s meeting to stress once again the need for haste in getting the ships loaded beginning the next morning. If anything, he was even more agitated than he’d been the last three weeks, the gold and silver being so close by. He was anxious to be away and felt the burden of his responsibility keenly, knowing nothing was certain at sea.