The Bermuda Privateer

by William Westbrook

  It was organized chaos aboard ship as the crew scrambled to save themselves. Down the men went over the side into waist deep but boiling surf, handling the wounded with special care, Crael—a sober Crael—directing all hands to be careful though many of the wounded were nearly dead already.

  All of this Fallon noticed from the steeply angled quarterdeck where he leaned against the binnacle, all attention and care and focus. He alone saw the clustering Spanish seamen high on the beach, many armed, all looking weary but dangerous, many shaking their fists in anger. He could not see an officer, but assumed there was one organizing the rescue. Well, no one was in any condition to fight for anything but survival.

  At last the wounded were handed down and all the able-bodied men evacuated. The ship was still largely intact and, as there was a semblance of a settlement nearby, Fallon did not think to attempt to off-load food or water.

  For now, his men were as safe as he could make them on a hostile shore, controlled by the Spanish government, with many among them wounded, some mortally.

  So, not so terribly safe.

  FORTY-FIVE

  THE HURRICANE lasted 24 hours. All through the night and the next morning it savaged the coast of Florida before it moved northward up the coast of the United States. Branches were stripped of their leaves. Skiffs were found hundreds of yards inshore. In trees. Sand was blown over two miles inland from the beach. Inlet channels were rearranged and sandbars erased and rebuilt. Beach shacks simply disappeared, often with their inhabitants.

  The beach at St. Augustine continued to grind up the two ships. The men who belonged to those ships were divided into two camps: Spaniards and British. The camps were roughly fifty yards apart; men huddled against the wind and rain, happy to be alive but also miserable. There was no shelter or protection of any kind. Thirst was no problem—a man could open his mouth—but food was another issue.

  Both Río de Oro and Harp were utterly destroyed, battered hulks resembling ships, too dangerous to go back into for stores, still heaving and breaking up. Crael had had the good sense to bring his supplies of laudanum and his instruments, such as they were. The wounded men moaned throughout the night, and Crael and his shipmates did their best to comfort them.

  By mid-morning the next day the wind had lessened and, ironically, a blue sky appeared through the clouds. The sea was still up, however, and both ships ground into each other and the sand continuously with a sound like nothing the men had ever heard.

  Fallon awoke from a deep sleep, stiff and worn and soaked from having lain on the open ground. His men were scattered about, many awake, some asleep, and others dead. He looked through the trees toward the Spanish sailors, who looked as bedraggled and wretched as his own men.

  He rose and motioned for Mr. Jones. “Give me the butcher’s bill,” he said somberly.

  “Sir, we lost 63 confirmed dead or missing,” Jones replied. “Another 51 are wounded and dying. And we have 40 wounded that Crael believes with any luck will live. The rest are as fit as possible given everything they’ve been through.” It was a horrible loss of life and Fallon dropped his head to his chest. “My God, Jones,” he said softly. “My God.”

  Fallon shook himself out of his stupor at Harp’s losses, for there was still the Spanish crew to deal with, though their number was necessarily small owing to their ship carrying cargo, not men to fight a war. Still, the situation was volatile. He asked Jones to come with him down the beach to parlay, and Aja dutifully followed behind. The trees were denuded, stripped clean, and new sand and leaves littered the woodland floor. They walked uneasily toward the Spaniards, not sure what to expect, Fallon looking for an officer.

  One appeared from the center of the group, his uniform proclaiming him a capitán, his mangled left leg dragging uselessly. Two of his men held him almost upright. Fallon could see he was deathly pale, obviously in pain and barely able to hold onto his aides.

  “Señor, I am Captain Nicholas Fallon of HMS Harp,” began Fallon. “To whom do I have the honor of addressing?” This in his best Spanish, which he hoped would be good enough and acceptable to a proud man.

  Breathing deeply cost the Spanish capitán much, but he drew back his head to look Fallon in the eye. “I am Capitán Enrique Alvaron, at your service, Captain Fallon.” He gave a slight bow; all he could muster given the circumstances.

  And then he simply fainted.

  Fallon and Jones quickly helped catch him before his aides dropped him, and Fallon asked for the Spanish surgeon but was told he was dead. Aja scampered to get Crael, who was fortunately awake and tending to several of the British sailors. Fallon looked at the Spanish faces gathered around him, fear and anger in their expressions. Alvaron was lowered to the ground gently and here was Crael, kit in hand, coming to his side while the Spanish sailors backed away, Crael seeming like authority.

  Crael quickly examined Alvaron’s upper body for serious wounds and, finding none, turned his attention to the leg. He tore the pants away and Fallon barely concealed a gasp of air as he looked at the mangled and bloody semblance of a leg before him.

  “What do you think, Crael?” asked Fallon, but he was afraid he knew.

  The Spaniards crowded around now, wanting to see the wound for themselves, fascinated and frightened for their capitán at the same time.

  “There is nothing left to save, Captain,” said Crael softly. “It is bad, very bad. He’s lost a lot of blood. And if the leg doesn’t come off he will die from infection. The leg will rot upwards into the body. The fever will be next, and he will likely live but a few days.”

  Crael stood to look at Fallon, then around to the circle of Spanish seamen, who knew from the surgeon’s eyes that the wound was very grave, indeed.

  Fallon looked for another officer, then asked in Spanish if there was anyone to authorize surgery on the unconscious capitán, but there was no one, all their officers were dead. The seamen all hung their heads.

  “Do it, Crael,” Fallon ordered, not easily, for if Alvaron survived he would always have Fallon to thank for being one-legged. Still, as his father used to say, a man with no options has no problems.

  Crael sent Aja back to the British camp for bandages and ointments and the saw. In a moment he was back, and some canvas was spread on the ground onto which Crael placed the things he would need. Then Alvaron was lifted from where he had fallen and placed on the canvas, as well, next to the instruments needed for the amputation.

  Two of Alvaron’s men held the unconscious man down with little effort, for he was plainly delirious with shock and pain. Still, Crael dribbled a liberal dose of his precious laudanum into Alvaron’s mouth.

  Crael took one last look around, as if for a final permission, and then he began sawing.

  SOMETIMES IN war humanity wins.

  Fallon witnessed it that day, when the basic, human goodness that lives within most men, warriors or poets or warrior-poets, overcomes even their most evil and wretched instincts. That day on the beach of St. Augustine those instincts were held at bay as Spanish and British seamen alike gathered around the wounded capitán and watched an alcoholic Royal Navy surgeon try to save his enemy’s life. And when the dead, useless leg was unceremoniously thrown into the harbor, the men all nodded in the universal language of approval.

  Capitán Alvaron was carried gently back to his camp, with Crael in attendance, for there were several more Spaniards who needed urgent attention. Fallon sent Aja back to the British camp for two men to assist the surgeon, as the loblolly boys were all dead or missing.

  In the early afternoon, as Fallon considered going into the settlement under a white flag in search of food, a ragged column of Spanish soldiers appeared and surrounded the British camp. The leader of the soldiers, a sergeant of militia, faced Fallon and ordered an immediate surrender. Fallon was in no position to refuse armed soldiers on the point, but several of the Río’s seamen stepped forward to plead for mercy, as much to retain Crael’s services for their capitán as anything. Though
Alvaron was the senior officer, he was clearly incapacitated and the sergeant, totally out of his depth, became bewildered and then completely flummoxed when the Spanish seamen told him what was in Río de Oro’s hold.

  Holy Madre de Dios!

  The sergeant immediately placed guards around the ship and, because there were not sufficient accommodations for so many men in the barracks where his soldiers were billeted, gathered up both Spanish and British seamen and marched all who could walk toward Fort Mose, some two miles north of St. Augustine. Litters were sent back for the wounded including, of course, Alvaron. By the end of the day all the Spanish and British seamen were more or less settled in their new quarters.

  Fort Mose had been built in 1738 as a haven for kidnapped Africans escaping the tyranny of slavery in the British colonies to the north. Slaves largely built the fort and the surrounding settlement of small houses. All that Spain required in return for giving the slaves their freedom was conversion to Catholicism, each slave saying the magic words, “I want to be baptized in the One True Faith.” Then they would no longer be slaves, but freedmen.

  But Fort Mose hadn’t been in regular use since 1763 when Spain traded Florida to the British. After that, most of the free black inhabitants had migrated to Cuba with the evacuating Spanish settlers. Now, of course, Florida was back in Spanish hands—such is the way of war and negotiation. Years of neglect had taken its toll on the fort, however, and much of it was overgrown and fallen down. Some of the settlement’s houses were without roofs, as well. The sergeant did his best to separate and accommodate the men, though the wounded were grouped together in a common area to make it easier for Crael to tend to them. Holy Madre de Dios! was all the sergeant could mutter as he posted guards and sent a courier west on horseback to find an officer with more rank to take charge of the situation, which was unlike anything he had ever seen or would ever see again.

  In the event, it would be days before a sergeant major would appear, a fat man on a burdened mule, the gold in his uniform no doubt adding to the burden the mule felt. When he had the situation thoroughly explained to him by the sergeant, and when he had seen the ships and some of the bullion that had been carried ashore, he immediately left to find an officer of higher rank to take command. It was all too much.

  Fallon himself had lost all interest in the treasure, concentrating instead on the health and well-being of his men who, on the whole, were marginally improving. Still, each day he led a burial detail into the woods carrying both British and Spanish dead, and each day they returned despondent. Fallon said the prayers, in both English and Spanish, which all the men seemed to appreciate but which, of course, brought little consolation to the dead sailors.

  Alvaron, meanwhile, put all his feeble efforts into living. He was delirious with fever much of the time, with Crael by his side often, checking the ligatures that bound the arteries and smelling the stump for telltale signs of infection. During the worst days of Alvaron’s fever, Fallon was often seen by the Spanish crewmen sitting with his counterpart, talking in low tones, even holding Alvaron’s hand to give comfort. It was odd for them to see sworn enemies hold hands, men who had tried to kill each other and very nearly succeeded. They all agreed war was strange.

  For Fallon, the daily conversation with Alvaron gradually grew into a small friendship of sorts. As Alvaron became more lucid, Fallon found a kindred spirit, a decent man who cared for his men more than he cared for glory.

  Alvaron ordered the sergeant to retrieve a bag of coins from the treasure ship, which was accomplished at low tide when it was safest. The sergeant returned with the bag, a small portion of the treasure, yet more money than he had ever held in his hands before or ever would again. The sergeant handed it over to Alvaron with a curious look. His curiosity was quickly satisfied, however, for Alvaron gave him enough to purchase food and water from St. Augustine for both the British prisoners and his own men. Alvaron would continue to do this each day, for which the crews were grateful and as happy as shipwrecked sailors ashore could be.

  The days were monotonous and long and filled with small walks, small talks, and much staring at the sky. The sun was relentless, and the noonday heat found everyone under shade of some kind, as if drugged or incapacitated.

  One morning Fallon and Alvaron sat under a tree with naked branches overhead, the light breeze finding no leaves to tremble. The sky above was mercifully cloudy, and there was a hint of later rain in the air. They had just finished breakfast together, a little bread and blackberry jam and oranges. They spoke in both English and Spanish, moving back and forth between languages with ease.

  “Tell me, Captain,” Alvaron asked as he bushed a few crumbs from his shirt, “do you have a wife or family?”

  “No, no wife or family save my father,” replied Fallon. “And you, sir?”

  “I have a wife, yes,” said Alvaron, and then paused. “But I have not seen her in some time. Maybe it will be some time more before I do, no?” They both laughed at that, for they had no illusions about their predicament.

  “I want to thank you for saving my life, Captain,” Alvaron continued, getting to the point he wanted to make. Fallon moved to shrug it off, but Alvaron was not finished. “Another man would not have acted as you did. It was the surgeon’s hands that operated, but it was your order that saved me.”

  Fallon looked at Alvaron, appreciating a growing level of intimacy between them. “It was an easy decision, señor. You would have done the same for me. And somehow I knew that.”

  “No,” Alvaron corrected. “You would have done it anyway.”

  FALLON SPENT part of each day comforting the men and part wondering what the hell would become of them all. It was by no means clear, and he missed the pragmatism of Beauty more than ever for, try as he might to think of one, no strategy came to mind. On foot, guarded, unarmed, with abundant wounded in tow, and in a strange country with no maps or charts, there was no flyer to take.

  Beauty—was she even alive? Fallon often dreamed of her at night, returning again and again to when they were caught in the harbor in a storm as kids, floating into shore on the swells, clinging to each other and singing. His confidence in Beauty was such that Fallon never doubted that she was alive after the hurricane. Or, more truthfully, he would not let himself doubt she was alive. But the reality of his own situation began to gnaw at his optimism for ever seeing Beauty again.

  At least Alvaron and his men were Spanish, and Florida was under Spanish control. Yet for all intents and purposes, the Spanish seamen were prisoners at Fort Mose just as much as the British. Ships came infrequently from Spain; indeed, the sergeant told them the last one was eleven months ago, so there was no real expectation of another ship anytime soon. And though they had food and water thanks to Alvaron, Fallon felt the current situation was untenable and could not last.

  In that, he was prescient.

  FORTY-SIX

  LIKE A message in a bottle, Sea Dog eventually washed ashore. Dismasted and helpless, the ship struck the reefs near St. Lucia and the bottom went out of her. Not the life, the bottom. In a miracle, fifty of the crew—Sea Dogs and former slaves—managed to fight the surf and make their way to shore; the rest drowned or were already dead. Beauty had jumped overboard, her peg in her hand, the last to leave. She rolled over on her back and kicked and sang until her bottom hit bottom. An old lesson.

  The crew dragged themselves to shore with only the clothes on their backs. Kendricks had helped Theo to shore, and together they had dragged gasping men through the surf, many of whom were spitting up seawater and vomit. There was no thought of going back to the ship, not now, perhaps not ever. Already bits of wood and wreckage detritus were washing ashore. Most of the crew huddled together for warmth and support, stunned into silence and sobered by the sight of their ship, their home, their livelihood grinding itself to death on the coral. Some of the men were simply too drained to think.

  Beauty sat off to herself, thinking very low thoughts. She had lost sight of Fa
llon after he had turned for St. Augustine, so busy was she with her own situation. And Avenger—who knew? What a fucking storm, she thought. And we had the buggers!

  She had seen Clayton, for a brief moment, and wondered if Fallon had as well. Before she could ask herself how in the hell? she thought of the waterfront bars of Nassau that Cortez had described. Of course. Clayton may even have been there that night, picking up information, making his plans. Well, to hell with him, too. He was probably wrecked somewhere himself or at the bottom, where he belonged. She had other things to worry about now. When the storm moderated she would send parties out to scout their situation and search for fresh water and, hopefully, something they could eat.

  Maybe they weren’t as fucked as she felt they were. Maybe.

  IN FACT, the next morning a scouting party found a freshwater lake about a mile inland, which was excellent. Several buckets had washed ashore and were put to use carrying water to the camp. But as yet the scouting party had found nothing to eat; actually, nothing that even looked like it could be eaten. That made the men even hungrier, of course.

  Beauty began work on a serious plan to stay alive. Sea Dog had broken up badly, was continuing to break up even though the surf had lessened, and a great many deck boards had washed ashore along with the remnants of life aboard—a few pots, some empty barrels, a slops chest with Theo’s evening wear, and a shoe. More seemed to come in every wave, and Beauty set rotating details to gather up everything and pull it well up the beach, separated into two piles—building materials and other. Well, you never knew.

  By afternoon they had enough material to make a rough lean-to. A sail had washed ashore to make the roof, and one of the freedmen had slipped off to the lake and returned an hour later with four fish he had speared using the whalebone stays in Theo’s corset for spear tips. Of course, they had no fire, and the men refused to eat the fish raw. They were hungry, but not starving. Still, it was a useful exercise in sustainable living, and soon enough they would be hungry enough to eat anything.