The Bermuda Privateer

by William Westbrook

  The brothers looked at him closely. It appeared to be a childish whim, not the practiced act of a thief. “If you had come to us honestly and asked for eggs, we would have given you some,” said David, making Aja feel infinitely worse. “We have been kept in captivity ourselves.”

  Ezekiel and Samuel nodded their agreement, and David continued. “We were slaves in the north, in Georgia, on a cotton plantation. From the time we were little we went to the fields before the sun came up and came back after it went down. In the spring we planted the fields, many fields as far as we could see. Then in the summer we tilled the rows until the cotton was ready to be picked. Then all day we picked in the heat, our fingers bleeding from the cotton bolls. When winter came we cleared fields for more cotton, driving mules to pull stumps and haul logs to the mill.”

  Aja’s eyes grew wide, and wider still. He thought of his own parents in the tobacco fields, and what it must have been like for them, leaving before sunrise, shuffling barefoot down the same path every morning, working in the heat every day, never bringing a complaint home at night.

  “We had no shoes in the winter,” Samuel continued, “so we wrapped our feet in rags and tied the rags with twine. The master was very bad to us and did not care if we froze. I lost the toes on my right foot. Ezekiel lost two fingers.” With that, Ezekiel held up his left hand to show his remaining three fingers.

  Samuel leaned forward in his chair, into the glow of the single candle on the table. “Tell me,” he said, “how does your master treat you?”

  Aja was a bit taken aback. He described Fallon like a father, not a master, though certainly he was a captain. He described a man who had taught him not to be afraid, but to be brave, a kind man whom the crew respected, perhaps even loved. A man who did not flinch under fire. And when he spoke of Fallon’s desire to escape from Fort Mose, to lead his men to freedom, the brothers listened even harder, nodding their deep understanding of a dream to be free.

  The freedmen rose from the table and went into another room. Aja could hear them talking quietly but understood nothing of what they said. Finally, they returned to the kitchen table and sat down, looking at him kindly.

  And then Ezekiel told him about the Slave Trail.

  FIFTY-ONE

  THE NEXT morning Fallon listened to Aja’s remarkable tale, including his heartfelt apology for attempting to steal eggs. But when he described the freedmen and their escape years ago along the old Slave Trail from Savannah to Fort Mose, Fallon was stunned into silence. Good God! If the trail led one way it would certainly lead the other way! But there was more. The freedmen had promised Aja they would show him the trailhead, provide some food and supplies for the men, and then cover up the entrance to the trail, overgrown anyway and known to very few people outside themselves.

  Fallon stared at Aja in wonder. Really? “Why would these men want to help British sailors escape?” he asked.

  Aja looked at Fallon curiously before answering. “To be a slave is to be a prisoner,” he said softly. “They remember.”

  Aja’s eyes burned brightly. It was clear he remembered, as well. Fallon nodded his understanding and turned to look at his men in the fort’s courtyard, idly sitting in the shade, pacing the walls and doing—nothing. They had to leave, simple as that.

  Plans were made to escape on the next full moon, a week away by Colston’s observations. Aja would communicate their intent to the freedmen, along with Fallon’s grateful appreciation for their help. Jones picked men to neutralize the guards, which wouldn’t prove hard as they usually slept off and on. After all, where were their prisoners going to escape to? Meanwhile, Fallon asked Aja to do one more important thing. He wanted to meet with Alvaron before they left.

  The next night Aja slipped away from the fort and into the village after dark, moving stealthily along the alleys, and made his way to the barn where the Spanish crewmen were billeted. He tapped lightly on the barn door, and when a seaman opened it Aja asked to see the capitán. Alvaron grabbed his rough crutches and came to the door. Aja briefly explained that Fallon would like to see how his friend was doing. Alvaron nodded and smiled.

  Aja suggested a spot on the edge of the town near the ruins of an old Franciscan abbey close by. Alvaron quickly agreed. Tomorrow night then. Goodnight.

  FALLON WAITED at the abbey at the appointed time, not long, and Alvaron hobbled out of the shadows on his crutches. He appeared thin, perhaps that was to be expected, but somehow strong as well and genuinely glad to see his English friend. They sat on a bench in the glow of a rising moon.

  “How is your leg, señor?” Fallon asked. “You seem to be adapting quite well.”

  “Oh, I am, Captain. I would rather have my old leg, of course. But I now have a new friend in you, and that is a better trade for me.” He looked at Fallon and smiled warmly.

  Fallon accepted the compliment, aware that it was a lie, but a lie from a gracious man who accepted the reality of war. Men died, men were maimed for life, men lost everything in war. At least something had been found.

  “Are your wounded recovering?” continued Fallon, concerned since Crael was no longer caring for them.

  “Well enough, I think,” answered Alvaron. “Though the doctor in St. Augustine seems to have a hard time finding his way to us. He comes only irregularly. But all my men are able to walk and are gaining strength.”

  Here Alvaron paused, and looked at Fallon as one captain to another. “Truthfully, my men are becoming indolent, I’m afraid,” he said in a low voice, almost a confession. “I try to cheer them and set them to menial tasks to keep their minds occupied, but we are in a situation with no end in sight. Even I cannot see a hopeful ending—we are not prisoners but there is no place to go.”

  Fallon looked at Alvaron closely and could see the frustration and worry in his face—and sense the feeling of impotence he felt as a leader losing control of his men.

  “Capitán, I must tell you something in total confidence. Will you allow me?” asked Fallon.

  “Of course, señor,” replied Alvaron. “At this point we have no secrets between us.”

  “We have a plan to escape soon,” said Fallon quietly. “To take an ancient trail to Savannah to the north. How we discovered it doesn’t matter, but we believe it is an old trail that slaves used to escape from the British Colonies to Spanish Florida. Since there are no boats to be had here, as you well know, we must walk away from here if we want to be free.”

  Alvaron’s eyes widened, not in shock but in admiration, and considered his friend’s face in the moonlight. Honest. Open. Trusting. Telling him a secret that could end any hope for escape.

  “I envy you, Captain Fallon,” he said. “I fear I will rot here, and even if, by chance, we reach Spain again I have no future there. I will never have a command again after losing my ship and losing the treasure, never.” Fallon stirred; Alvaron did not mention losing his leg. “No, do not say it is your fault, Captain. You do not blow the wind or make the waves, nor do I. We only make the war that our governments decree. Nothing more.”

  “Thank you, señor,” said Fallon. “You are an honorable man, as well as brave. But I am wondering now, will you come with us? You and your men?”

  Now Alvaron’s eyes widened in astonishment. It was impossible, of course, it would be desertion or aiding the enemy or worse, whatever that could be. But…well, they were Spanish in a Spanish territory…surely they could move about freely, but to Savannah? He considered the only alternative, which was to rot in St. Augustine waiting for a Spanish ship that might be years coming. His men were bored and dispirited and might welcome the chance to reach an active port and find a way home to Spain. He was already dishonored, they were not, and he could give them this chance, but still…all of them?

  “All of you, señor,” Fallon answered the unspoken question. And then, as if reading more of Alvaron’s mind, he said “If we are stopped by Spanish authorities we will act as your prisoners, señor. That will be our story.”

 
; Alvaron’s head was spinning at that, but perhaps it did seem plausible. He had almost thirty men and they could perhaps pose as guards. But how? When? Was this even possible? His mind raced for answers.

  And then Fallon told him the plan that Aja had arranged with the freedmen and laid out how it could work for the Spaniards. They would need to cache extra food and water, of course, and Alvaron would need to purchase a horse for himself, as well as pack mules to carry supplies.

  Alvaron closed his eyes. He had more than enough money from the treasure ship, so purchasing extra food and water casks would be no problem, if done discreetly, away from the sergeant’s eyes. And he could buy mules and a horse for himself. That wasn’t the problem, either. It was the absurdity of the idea that was the problem.

  Then he thought briefly of Savannah, a port he knew nothing about, other than it was open. Spanish and British ships alike were welcome, and French ships for that matter, but he had no real idea how far it was, or what the path would be like. Still, he knew what it was like in St. Augustine, which was not good and getting worse for the men.

  Fallon watched Alvaron’s thoughts play out on his face. No and maybe. Maybe and yes. Definitely not. Finally, yes. What a strange story to tell his children one day, no?

  FIFTY-TWO

  THE SALT trader Castille under the command of Captain Wallace, strained at her anchor in a southeast breeze that was anything but steady, having williwawed its way around Cockburn Harbor all afternoon, quite unable to make up its mind. Wallace squinted into the sunlight, anxious to see his cargo aboard, wondering at the delay. His bushy side-whiskers marked him as an old-fashioned, conservative man not given to fantasies, or vulgarities either, for that matter. He was devoutly religious, strict, and plainspoken. At society gatherings on the island, a dud.

  When Wallace had returned to Bermuda from Charleston, Somers had talked to him at length, questioning him closely to get the full picture of the battle with the pirate Clayton. Wallace had expressed grudging admiration for Fallon, and some little remorse for sailing away in his hour of need. Well, how could he have known Bishop would turn out to be a coward?

  Rather than send the ship to Grand Turk for another load of salt, Somers had another idea. He asked Wallace what he knew of Nassau, the capital of the Bahamas and the historic center of pirate enterprise throughout the Caribbean. Wallace knew the place well, having worked in a chandlery office there for several years outfitting ships for sea trade. Yes, he admitted, he’d also stocked the occasional pirate vessel, though he viewed it as a sin of the past now.

  What Somers had in mind was to sail to Nassau for information. He reasoned that word of the Spanish flotilla’s fate could be found there, and he hoped something of the British ships could be learned. Nassau was a busy port, a trader in salt and merchandise would arouse no suspicion, and every instinct in Somers’s body told him Nassau was where he would find news. His great fear was that the news would be bad.

  It was late afternoon when he and Elinore stepped into Castille’s boat and were rowed out to the ship. Their baggage had been sent out hours before, but there was no rush for them as the tide would not ebb until nearly sunset.

  Wallace met them at the side and invited them to dinner, which they politely refused, preferring to dine together the first night and not wanting to include Wallace in their small, anxious circle at the beginning of this journey. Nassau was some fifteen hundred miles to the southwest, and that night they felt like very long miles indeed.

  After dinner, as Castille slowly made her way out of the harbor on the ebb, father and daughter took a turn around the ship. The sun was low in the west as the ship found the wind and plowed along, not a great sailor by any means. As they paused by the larboard railing to watch the sun sink toward the horizon, Somers noticed that Elinore had grown quiet and was staring at the sea below. The look on her face seemed unbearably sad, and Somers knew dark thoughts had overtaken her and she was losing her confidence that Fallon would be found alive.

  In an awkward effort to engage her and hopefully change her mood, he said quietly, “Elinore, have you ever heard of the green flash at sunset?”

  “No,” said Elinore, her voice flat and uninterested.

  Somers pressed on. “Well, just at the moment when the sun dips beneath the horizon at sea, the sailors say look for a green flash. If you see it, it’s good luck,” he said as brightly as he could. He was hoping Elinore would at least look up, but she didn’t.

  The sun was sinking fast now. “Nico told me he’s seen it many times, and you know how lucky he is,” said Somers. Elinore raised her eyes and they both stared at the sun now, just touching the horizon, its golden glow washing over the ship and themselves.

  Suddenly, Elinore turned and buried her face in her father’s chest. “I don’t want to look,” she sobbed, her body racked in convulsions. “I…am…praying…so…hard…” she cried, her breath coming in gasps between each word, and Somers held her tightly to his chest. He knew all the emotions she’d held inside were finding release, all pretense at stoicism going out to sea. The brave face she’d been wearing like a mask was off.

  Somers closed his eyes, for in that moment he felt like the father he had desperately wanted to be for so long. He held his daughter’s shaking body, her hair blowing wildly about his face. And when at last he opened his eyes it was just as the sun left their side of the world, a bright tip of yellow, followed by a green flash.

  FIFTY-THREE

  THE ROYAL Navy of St. Lucia was nearly ready to sail. The rafts were quite large; each could hold more than twenty men plus stores. The seamen had rigged an ingenious scull to propel as well as guide them: a single long oar roughly hinged at the stern of each raft. The idea was that when the sculler pushed the scull back and forth in a thwartwise motion, the raft would move forward. There was also something of a mast with a small square sail set on each raft, which would help the raft sail faster than the speed of the current so the sculler could have steerage. The hope was to reach the current as quickly as possible and ride it northward.

  For the past weeks, Kendricks had paid particular attention to the clouds, studying formations and noting the weather patterns around each. He’d always studied clouds, of course; it’s what navigators did when captains thought they were just idly looking off. But this study took on a particular urgency, for it would not do to be caught in a strong current with an opposing wind in a raft with only a foot of freeboard. No, it would not do at all. It was to be his call when they left, and he felt the responsibility keenly.

  Beauty was in full command mode now, ordering the men to quickly complete the rafts and to gather what they would need for the journey north. Food parties were sent out, returning with coconuts and berries and fruit, and were then sent out again. Fishing parties returned with their catch, and the fish were either smoked or dried in the sun and wind and stored away. Water would be precious, and the few buckets they had would have to last them, which they should, of course, but nothing was certain at sea.

  The men went about their preparations with eagerness and anticipation. Beauty knew they were relieved to have a plan, especially as it meant getting to sea where they were most comfortable. Those men building the rafts did a remarkably good job considering the lack of tools and the materials at hand. Luckily, Sea Dog continued to do her part to help, sending planks and ropes and bits of furniture to shore as the ship continued to break up.

  Sometimes Beauty would pause on shore and stare out at her old command, and a great feeling of sadness would engulf her. She had known every inch of that ship, every quirk and nuance and smell and sound and vibration. She had stood at the helm and seen sunrise after sunrise and also bid days good night without number. My God, she thought, it is a lot to let go.

  At last, enough food was gathered, the water buckets were full, and the rafts were complete. It would take all hands to get each of the three rafts to the surf, even with rollers under them, for they were that heavy. Each raft had a rough bo
x in the middle for food and water, with a sail cover tied down over it in case of rough weather. They were as prepared as they were going to be.

  And finally Kendricks looked at the sky and said: Today.

  The crew grunted and strained to move the rafts over the soft sand; it was heavy going, and without the aid of some imaginative and motivating curses it might not have happened. But at last the fleet floated and three scullers began their slow back and forth to take the rafts out to sea, with some small help from the sails.

  It was a very sad and reflective moment as they approached Sea Dog, or what was left of her, balanced on the coral reef, her guts torn out. All hands were silent as they eased by their old ship; it was not easy to tear their eyes away and look forward. Beauty steeled herself to give Sea Dog one last farewell look, then called to the men to give a cheer. They did, and it seemed to lift their spirits immensely. And hers.

  Kendricks estimated the current to be ten to fifteen miles to the east, but it was only a guess from his memory of the charts. He hoped they would notice the water temperature change; the current was noticeably warmer than the surrounding sea. It was slow work, the rafts being awkward craft, and the scullers and the little sails did their best to keep the rafts moving. With every hard-won yard of progress, Beauty adjusted their estimated arrival at St. Augustine backward.

  Soon they were strung out over a half a mile, a ragged line to be sure, but all making small gains with every stroke of the scull. Beauty looked back over her fleet, which is to say she looked back over her decision, and she still felt that leaving the coast was the only option. The men were behind her, as well. It was a simple black-and-white world for most seamen. No one wanted to eat coconuts the rest of their lives.