The Bermuda Privateer

by William Westbrook

  But the moment called for a brief speech, something that Fallon should have anticipated. He looked out over the faces of several hundred men, his men now, and put himself in their shoes. What would he want to hear?

  “This will not be a long voyage, and while you know who I am, I regret I will not get to know all of you,” he began. “It is an unusual situation that’s brought us together, but right tarpaulins handle everything the world throws at them, everything the French throw at them, and everything a rear admiral throws at them.” That got a few smiles, maybe a laugh or two, so a start. “Hear me: This is a King’s ship, and we all must do our duty. Whatever is in the past must be left in the past, and we will go forward together. I know I can count on you.”

  Those last words had the power of a broadside, and every eye came off the deck and looked squarely into Fallon’s eyes. It was forgiveness, and every man jack knew it. He dismissed the hands, but they did not dismiss, did not move in fact, and had no thought of moving. Instead, they stood quietly as the officers assembled for introductions and Fallon went down the line. First, he shook hands with the second lieutenant, Samuel Jones II, there being another Samuel Jones serving as an officer in the Royal Navy. Then Fallon went on down the line of officers to the other lieutenants; the master, Colston; then Crael, the surgeon—looking a bit worse for drink, almost a cliché for a surgeon; the purser; the major in charge of marines; and then the young gentlemen and the gun captains.

  After, Fallon again dismissed the crew, and they finally shuffled off to their stations or below decks. Davies motioned for him to take a turn around the ship, and the two walked slowly down the starboard rail toward the bows.

  Harp was 135 feet on deck, drew 13 feet below the keel, and had 16 long guns to each side, all located along one continuous deck, the upper deck. Below this was the berth deck where the men lived, slept, and ate their meals. She was full rigged and, though lighter in armament than Avenger, she was faster, lighter, and could stay at sea for up to six months. Total complement of men: 195.

  “Captain, I want to thank you for joining me,” Davies said with appreciation. “I know it is a great sacrifice, no doubt on many levels, but I believe we have a chance now, a fighting chance, to alter the course of the war against an enemy who will stop at nothing to destroy England. We must not fail. It will call for all our ingenuity and cooperation if we are to succeed.”

  “We will have Sea Dog with us, sir,” said Fallon. “Beauty McFarland and the hands have all signed on, and Somers has agreed to lend his ship.”

  Davies stared at him a moment, then smiled broadly. “Damn, that is good of Somers!” he said with real enthusiasm. “And what a testament to you that the entire crew volunteered. Now I know we will not fail!”

  They walked around the ship, then around the ship again, with Fallon stopping occasionally to have a word with a seaman at a task. Davies took note of the respect the crew showed. As Fallon was seeing Davies over the side, he asked for Jones to be promoted to first lieutenant, which both surprised and gratified Davies, appreciative that Jones would be given a chance to show his mettle out from under Ramsbottom.

  They agreed to meet for dinner on Avenger that night, Beauty included, to begin laying out strategy for the weeks ahead. There was much for Fallon to learn, and maybe something he could contribute, as well. It would be a long dinner, lasting well into the evening and, when it was over they would all know each other immeasurably better. They would need that knowledge in the weeks to come.

  SEA DOG led the way out of Cockburn Harbor, followed by Avenger and Harp. It was a perfect late summer’s sailing day, blue sky like a glass dome over the world. Fallon watched intently as Samuel Jones II gave the orders to up anchor and let fall, and then sheet home. He observed the sequence of actions on a frigate, the scale of the thing intimidating, although he remembered much from his time as Second on Bon Vivant.

  Fallon stood at the binnacle as the ship cleared the channel and Harp’s full complement of sails billowed out like powerful white kites. The men seemed particularly intent on performing their duties properly, being under the eyes of both a rear admiral and an acting commander.

  “Nicely done, Jones,” Fallon said when they were under way. “Take station two cable lengths astern of Avenger. And when everything is squared away join me for breakfast, please. There are a few things I’d like to discuss.”

  With a final look around, Fallon went below deck to his cabin and called for Wilkins, his official steward, as opposed to Aja. It was Wilkins, wasn’t it? Well, it would come in time. “Coffee and cheese toast and eggs for two, if you please,” he said to the steward.

  Fallon’s new cabin was enormous, at least in comparison with his old one on Sea Dog. Bishop had spared no expense on furnishings, certainly, with velvet cushions on the stern window seat, a beautifully carved oak desk, and a wooden cabinet to match that held books by English writers and thinkers on everything from philosophy to economics to ancient civilizations. So Bishop was a reader, Fallon concluded, or perhaps the books were for show only. Likely that, Fallon mused, remembering Bishop’s bluff and bluster and concern for appearances.

  Samuel Jones II was shown in, drawing Fallon’s attention away from his cabin appraisal. Jones was tall, with a fair, perpetually sunburned complexion, carrot-colored hair, and an appetite like a starving man. But he was extremely nervous, and Fallon hoped all that food would stay down where it belonged. Fallon went over the plans for the drills that he and Davies and Beauty had discussed, and then asked Jones for his assessment of the ship’s readiness for battle.

  Jones hedged. “Well, sir,” he began and halted, then fumbled on. “The men are able enough, and willing to fight, no question. But they’ve had no real experience aside from, well, fighting…ahem, you know, sir.”

  Fallon guessed that the broadside against Renegade was quite literally the first time Harp’s great guns had been fired in battle. Clearly Jones was reluctant to bring up that shameful experience to Fallon. “Tell me, Mr. Jones,” Fallon asked, “how is our supply of powder and shot? I assume we have plenty?”

  “Aye, Captain,” said Jones, looking at his feet. It was what Fallon had expected. Bishop had not trained the men at the guns to any extent, hoarding shot and powder like so many British captains did, but the consequence for the Harps was woeful inexperience at war. Well, Jones would not directly criticize his former captain, which was admirable. Fallon could see his obvious discomfort in reliving Bishop’s command, so he decided to look forward and, turning serious, he explained in detail what he expected of the ship, putting it all on Jones’s shoulders: the sail handling, gunnery, discipline, and execution of simple and complex maneuvers critical not only to success but to their survival.

  “It will not be easy, Jones. We have but weeks before we expect to rendezvous with the flotilla. I want the men motivated to perform their duties, not punished into submission. But they must be driven, night and day, with practice and practice again. Nothing less will do, Jones. Nothing less.”

  “Aye, aye, sir. Nothing less.” Jones sat with the gravity of Fallon’s words and the urgency with which they were spoken. Not Bishop’s way at all. “And may I say, sir, I am aware that you were offered a first lieutenant from Avenger and decided against it. You will never have reason to doubt that decision, sir.”

  Jones was dismissed, and Fallon turned to his breakfast with zeal. Jones would be given his chance to lead the men, and Fallon knew he would need his new first lieutenant to be a bridge between himself and the crew. Time would tell.

  Meanwhile, Fallon lingered over a cup of coffee and thought of Elinore, who was almost home by now, and their last night on the beach. The memory brought back a rush of emotions, most of which needed to stay below the surface. Only the broad smile showed as he ascended the companionway into the warm Caribbean sunshine, alive and eager for the day.

  A day when anything was possible.

  THIRTY-SIX

  “MR. JONES,” said Fallon, �
��you may begin the gunnery drill. We will fire first, then Avenger, and the lookout on Sea Dog will tally the shots.”

  They were off Miguana Island in the lower part of the Bahamas’ chain of islands, having left Grand Turk far to the south. Barrels had been thrown overboard, and they now floated calmly almost half a mile away. Fallon had challenged Kinis in Avenger to a gunnery competition, and the flag captain had quickly accepted, welcoming the chance to exercise his gun crews. For Fallon, it was a chance to see Harp’s crew in action, timed action, where speed as well as accuracy counted. Each ship would fire two broadsides and the damage assessed. There was certainly no shortage of powder and shot aboard Harp; Bishop had used it only once.

  The ships were hove-to in a gentle swell, visibility was excellent, and the eight barrels bobbed slightly, staying relatively nearby. Harp’s gun captains stood by, waiting.

  “Load and run out!” came Jones’s yell. The crews bent to their guns, rammers at the ready, and a little unevenly sixteen guns were loaded and slowly pierced the sides of the ship. “Fire!” Smoke and flame belched as the balls soared over the ocean. Fallon stood on the quarterdeck with his telescope to his eye watching the fall of the shot.

  “Reload!” Jones called again as the men bent to their tasks. “Gunners watch your aim!”

  Fallon saw no barrels explode, and no “hit” signals came from Sea Dog. He drummed his fingers on the railing; this was taking much too long. Finally, the order to “Run out” and then, “Fire!”

  More than three minutes between broadsides. One barrel “killed.” Fallon winced and watched to see what Jones would do. He stood holding his watch, wondering what to do himself. Meanwhile, Avenger’s guns roared, only sixteen of them to be fair to Harp; Sea Dog signaled two hits, and Fallon timed her second broadside: two minutes, fifteen seconds. Two more hits. Not great shooting, but damn good by comparison.

  With Jones standing meekly by, Fallon called to him curtly: “Assemble the gun crews.” But suddenly the air was rent with another broadside, this from Sea Dog, unexpected, the schooner sending a message: This small dog can bite! Fallon whipped his telescope to his eye as the three remaining barrels flew to pieces.

  Ah, Beauty.

  Fallon stood in front of the gun crews, their faces seemed indifferent, certainly not embarrassed by their performance, not exactly pleased, but still…

  “Men,” Fallon began, “put your hands on the shoulder of the man next to you. Go on, everyone find your mate’s shoulder.”

  The men shuffled closer to their mates and shyly did as they were ordered. “Good,” said Fallon. “Now I’m going to explain some mathematics to you. Simple mathematics.”

  Every man looked at him like he was, well, acting like a commander.

  “If we take three minutes to fire a broadside, and the enemy takes two minutes to fire a broadside, in six minutes they will have fired one more broadside than we have. In twelve minutes they will have fired two more broadsides than we have. And if we shoot with anything like the accuracy we just did, every man with a hand on his shoulder will be dead.”

  That effectively covered every gun crew, dead. The men looked at each other sheepishly, many jerked their hands away, as if that would save their mate. It was plain to see they’d never thought of gunnery in quite that way.

  “We want to live for England, gentlemen,” said Fallon soberly, “and keep living and fighting for her. Not die for her.” He turned to Jones, but spoke loudly enough for the men to hear. “Mr. Jones, we are going to practice at the great guns every day until we take only two minutes between broadsides, and then we’re going to learn to hit what we’re shooting at!”

  This said loud enough for the men to hear. “You may dismiss the hands from the guns and make sail. Signal to Avenger and Sea Dog:thank you.”

  This was just the beginning of daily and even hourly exercises in sail handling and gunnery. The off-watch men would crawl into their hammocks, utterly spent, and often immediately hear “All hands! All hands!” and have to scamper up on deck to their stations. It was brutal and tedious work, and roaring hot under the summer Caribbean sun, but there was remarkably little complaining. The men now knew their lives depended on their skill, and their trust in their new captain grew each day. In one week they reached 2:30 between broadsides. It was time for more barrels.

  Again the ships hove-to, and this time Fallon signaled for Cully to come aboard Harp to instruct the gun captains in laying their guns. Harp’s men could have been resentful, but they had seen with their own eyes Cully’s handiwork. Davies in Avenger stood by silently, knowing it was costing valuable time but also knowing the success of their mission depended on Harp’s readiness.

  Three barrels floated two cable lengths away. First, Cully had each gun crew fire a ranging shot, carefully sighting the fall of the shot and noting the gun’s elevation. Sixteen shots, no barrels dead. Cully went gun by gun, suggesting adjustments to the crews and, when he was satisfied, the guns roared again. Two barrels blown to pieces, by God! Fallon couldn’t keep himself from smiling and yelling encouragement. But now Cully went gun to gun again, and each gun crew sighted and fired individually. No hits from the first twelve guns, but reasonably close. Number 13 gun blew the last barrel apart, and Fallon called for an extra tot for the crew. Avenger made “good shooting” to Harp, and Sea Dog dipped her colors in respect. Now we’re getting somewhere, thought Fallon. And they were.

  But the practice didn’t let up. They tacked and wore, tacked and wore, and day after day climbed aloft to furl, unfurl, and furl again. Jones seemed to manage the men well, with new confidence, sensing when to push and when to encourage and when to bribe with rum. In two weeks Fallon wanted HMS Harp to be a new ship, one that belonged in the Royal Navy.

  “COME,” FALLON responded to the knock at his cabin door. Crael, the ship’s surgeon, entered and Fallon motioned for him to have a seat while he finished up some paperwork. Crael sat uneasily, bleary eyed from lack of sleep or drink, or both. There had been a steady stream of minor injuries these past days as men struggled with torn muscles, sprains, and contusions, the inevitable result of heavy drills and practices without end. So the surgeon had been busy.

  Finally, Fallon put his papers aside and contemplated the man sitting in front of him. Crael was of rather indeterminate age; Fallon had known drink to age a man badly. And the surgeon’s complexion was pale, the eyes reddish going to yellow.

  “Crael, I will not mince words with you,” began Fallon. “In a few weeks, or even days, we will hopefully engage the enemy. It will be hot work, and every man aboard ship will be expected to do his duty. You, sir, are not fit to do your duty.”

  Crael looked up from studying his lap, a tremble on his lower lip, and made to protest.

  “No, Crael, it will do nothing to argue. You are a drunk and discredit the Service. I have no idea what your problems are, and I don’t care. I only care that these men who are carrying the fight to Britain’s enemies are well fed and well cared for. It is the least we can do and, as it stands now, more than you can do. Damn it, man, you are not fit to tend screaming, wounded men! Men who need limbs cut off and splinters pulled out if they are to have any chance to live. So I am going to make you a simple bargain, Crael, one I hope you will accept.”

  Crael stared at Fallon, waiting for something he would not like. God, he needed a drink just then, just a little something to buck him up. Where was that bottle he’d hidden?

  “Here is the bargain, sir. If I ever see you in a drunken state again I will tie you to the grate and personally give you twenty lashes!” Crael involuntarily jumped. “Then I will clap you in irons for the remainder of this voyage. I am sure you have seen what twenty lashes do to a man’s back, not to mention his spirit. Mark me, Crael, I keep my promises.”

  The surgeon rose up out of his chair. “You can’t do that! I am an officer in the Royal Navy. You can be court-martialed for this!”

  “If I were in the Royal Navy you would be very right, si
r,” said Fallon coolly. “But as I am an acting commander only, and this is to be my first and last voyage, I don’t fear a court-martial.” That was not exactly true, but he said it.

  Crael slumped, the hopelessness of the situation settling onto his body like a dark, massive weight. He had feared this from the moment Fallon had come aboard, in fact had kept his distance, refusing to dine with Fallon when all the officers had been invited. Bishop had been different, they had even shared a bottle or two, but that time was gone, ended with a bullet in Bishop’s temple and his brains on the bulkhead. Crael feared he would be suddenly sick. He looked up, a plea in his watery eyes.

  “Dismissed,” said Fallon curtly, and went back to his papers.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  CAPITÁN ALFONSO Camaron, comandante of the Spanish treasure flotilla comprising six ships, including his own, was so frustrated and angry he could scream. Actually, he had been screaming quite a lot, but to little effect.

  It had taken more than a week to load the bullion from the Silver Train, which put him further behind schedule, which pushed his departure deeper toward August and unpredictable weather crossing the Atlantic. From experience, he knew the rendezvous with the larger Spanish fleet in Havana was coming into question.

  The heat was nearly unbearable and the men seemed to work hard, but the days dragged on. Matters weren’t helped when a block on Valiente broke and three hundred pounds of silver bars fell through the bottom of one of the loading boats, sinking it and nearly drowning the men onboard. The bullion was retrieved in due course, as were the men, but that in itself took the better part of a day. Madre de Dios!

  The crews of his small flotilla were capable, though certainly inexperienced—the Spanish having for years avoided conflict with the French as much as possible before becoming their allies. Camaron was the most experienced and most battle-hardened capitán the Spanish government could send on such an important mission. But the list was not long.