The Bermuda Privateer

by William Westbrook

  FIFTY-FOUR

  SOMETIME AFTER 3:00 AM, Fallon ordered the first guard to be knocked on the head, his rifle and powder taken, his arms and legs tied up. The other guards put up more of a fight, but all five were rushed by sailors simultaneously so when they yelled for help it did no good.

  Jones pulled the men together and they marched single file out of the fort with Aja in the lead, the only one who had seen the world outside the walls. It was a darkish night, the moon obscured by low clouds, but Aja was sure-footed and in short order he raised his hand and the group stopped at the edge of the village. He went forward alone, picking his way through the streets until he reached the barn where the Spanish sailors were billeted. He gave a low whistle. A horse whinnied, as if in reply, and Capitán Alvaron stoically rode his horse out from the shadow of the barn, followed by all of his men and several mules. They moved silently, the men calming the animals, and there were no shouts of alarm from the soldiers’ barracks as they moved away.

  Soon enough the two groups were reunited, Spanish and British, and Fallon and Alvaron clasped hands, showing tight smiles. It was all madness, and both men knew it. Fallon turned over the guards’ rifles to Alvaron so the Spanish could appear to guard the British sailors if they were stopped. “Aja,” Fallon said quietly, “lead the way, if you please.”

  Slowly Aja led them around the town to where the outlying farms were, farms he once scouted on his nightly forays. After some time, perhaps most of an hour, they came to the freedmen’s homestead and, true to their word, three black faces appeared in a window of the barn, looked at the unexpectedly large assembly in amazement, and smiled broadly.

  The freedmen introduced themselves through the window, and then invited the sailors to bring water casks out of the barn along with many sacks of food, including smoked hams and pickled vegetables and dried meats, and also machetes and axes; the seamen would need the latter to clear the path from overgrowth, certainly, as the Slave Trail had not been traveled for many years.

  “Look for the old machete marks on the trees,” said David. “I put some of them there myself to help mark the trail,” he added proudly.

  Since Alvaron was the only one with money, he and Fallon had agreed that he would pay the freedmen for their help and supplies. Now he produced a purse that jingled with coins and held it out to them.

  “No, no payment is necessary,” said Samuel, as he and his brothers physically backed away from the money. But Fallon and Alvaron put on a united front and Alvaron pressed the purse into Ezekiel’s hand, his three fingers grasping it, his face showing surprise and appreciation for something never expected. It was more money than the freedman would normally see in a year.

  To this point, Fallon and Alvaron had been spectators behind Aja’s leadership, and now the freedmen took the lead for the final leg to the edge of the woods, nearly a mile distant. No one talked on the way as Alvaron rode his horse and the mules carried all the food and water.

  At last the group approached the edge of the pine forest, and the freedmen began to move in and out of the tree line, talking in low tones among themselves, probing for the overgrown entrance to the Slave Trail. It was here somewhere.

  With something like a muffled Eureka! they converged on a spot between two tall pine trees and began cutting the small vines and saplings in between them. Gradually a hole in the forest was revealed, like an overgrown tunnel made by overhanging branches. It was nearly impossible to see, even in the moonlight, it being much darker in the woods, but soon enough the path opened up to a clearing of sorts and the men could gather and rest. It would be daylight soon, and then they could see what lay before them.

  The freedmen stood silently as the men hobbled the animals and began to settle down. Fallon and Alvaron approached the brothers with gratitude on their faces, an unspeakable gratitude for the risk they were taking to help them escape. The freedmen extended their hands in friendship. That was enough.

  “Every man should be free,” David said simply. As Fallon looked into his dark face he felt the man’s strength enter his own body, and his own fears for the journey leave, for David had taken the trail to freedom that Fallon would now take in reverse.

  For Aja, the freedmen reserved a special affection, gathering around him to shake his hand and pat his shoulders. Fallon watched these former slaves all, and knew there were some things, some emotions, some bonds he would never feel.

  Finally, the freedmen did their best to explain to Fallon and Alvaron what lay before them on the trail, the vines as big as a man’s leg, thorny underbrush that could slice open flesh like a knife, and rivers and marshes teeming with danger—what they could remember from their own journey years ago.

  Then they produced three drawings of animals—monsters, by the exaggerated drawings—that they had seen on the trail with warnings to avoid them specifically. The first was a long brown snake with a head like a triangle, rough in the drawing, but plenty evil looking. This snake could swim fast in the water and if it bit a man, he died. The second drawing looked like a log—with eyes—a log with a long snout full of teeth and a long tail like a lizard. This animal could swim very fast and could also run on land. It was so large it could grab a man in its teeth and pull him into the water. Aja, who was standing close by, looked at Fallon and Alvaron, imagining what the monster lizard could do to a boy. The last crude drawing looked like a rock sitting in water, a large rock with a smaller rock for a head, only the smaller rock had its jaws open wide. The freedmen explained it was a giant turtle that waited quietly in the water for prey to come along, perhaps a frog or another turtle, and it had a little tongue that it could wiggle, like a worm, and when the prey came by to eat the worm—snap!—the jaws would close with a sound like a tree cracking. The message: Do not sit on the rock.

  And then, with handshakes all around again and good luck wishes, the brothers were gone. At the edge of the woods they piled the bushes and saplings back between the two trees to cover the entrance to the trail. Then they began sweeping, using long branches to smooth out the animal hoof prints and the human foot prints until they reached the edge of their farm. It took them until dawn to sweep the full mile, all the way back to their home.

  At first light Fallon roused the men and they began hacking their way through the forest, following the old machete marks. Aja went ahead, wriggling under vines and calling back when he reached a marked tree so the men knew in which direction to follow. The Slave Trail was greatly overgrown in spots, still remarkably open in other stretches, and the journey thus had fits and starts and stops while branches were cut and tossed aside. Alvaron was forced to duck low in some parts to avoid being swept off his mount. But they made progress and put first one mile and then another behind them, and finally Fallon began to breathe normally.

  The sergeant at Fort Mose, however, could barely breathe at all. He had walked idly to the fort this morning, thinking idle thoughts, but this! What happened? Everyone was gone, Holy Madre! His guards were tied up and knew nothing. Quickly he returned to the garrison to rouse his other soldiers and report to Alvaron. Aye aye aye!

  It was all too horrible, it would be the end of him, but then it got worse! The Spanish sailors were gone, too! Holy Madre de Dios! It was a terrible dream—more than one hundred men had disappeared into thin air. And he had no idea where to look.

  FIFTY-FIVE

  REAR ADMIRAL Harry Davies walked the deck at dawn and was still walking some hours later. He was of two minds or, better said, two hearts that morning. He was on fire for Paloma, with a longing whose intensity surprised him and overtook his thoughts when they should have been elsewhere. The elsewhere was the search for a needle in a haystack, for above all his focus had to be on finding Fallon and Beauty. God, he thought, get to the job!

  The Florida coast was very long, with several natural harbors, but charts were poor on the matter of soundings and Davies dared not attempt to take his ship inside. The alternative meant heaving-to off the coast and sending in the pin
nace to nose around and look for wreckage or signs of life, English life. But this was hostile country, and at any moment a Spanish warship might appear, and thus Captain Kinis paced the deck incessantly until the pinnace returned from its forays and they were under way again.

  They had begun the search among the small islands and keys off the southern tip of Florida, reasoning that the storm may have pushed Beauty that far. The idea that Sea Dog might simply have sunk never occurred to Davies; no, Beauty was too good a sailor for that, hurricane be damned.

  It was hot work in the late summer so far south, sailing and heaving-to, lowering the pinnace, waiting, raising the boat, repeat. Telescopes were trained on the coast, and the masthead lookout scanned the horizon for enemy ships, but nothing and nothing.

  With each empty harbor or bay, Davies felt his optimism sink a bit, but St. Augustine still lay ahead and Davies had seen Fallon make for that harbor, though he did not see him succeed. Avenger’s view had been blotted out by Nuevo Año bearing down upon them, and the need to loose a broadside of bar shot and langridge on the up roll had taken precedence. It had been a glorious sight, seeing rigging part and sails shot through with holes; Nuevo Año had sailed past but how far she’d managed to go he didn’t know. His own Avenger had been forced to reduce sail once again and flee south before the storm to survive. His last glimpse before sunset was a strange sail to the east, though in the dimming light and spume and rain he could not be sure.

  “Nothing, I’m afraid, sir,” said Kinis as the pinnace was hoisted yet again to the deck. Davies looked at his captain’s face, but Kinis betrayed no frustration or impatience, though he might well have been feeling some.

  “Very well, Captain Kinis,” replied Davies. “Secure the pinnace and pipe the hands to dinner. We’ll continue the search tomorrow.” He could have added: And every tomorrow after that.

  Over the next several days Avenger looked in on Cayo Largo, Los Tetas, and then Cayo Biscayne without sighting anything that resembled a ship or a shipwreck. The pinnace reported signs of the hurricane and devastation of settlements, but no ships or evidence of survivors. By week’s end they had looked in at Boca de Ratones, still farther north, with nothing sighted, and spirits on Avenger were low. Even Captain Kinis let some emotion creep into his face and seemed increasingly dispirited at their lack of success. He gave the repetitive orders to heave-to in a more desultory tone than usual.

  IT WAS LATE in the afternoon, a sultry afternoon with a middling wind, when the hail from Avenger’s masthead brought all telescopes to bear on a tiny indentation in the coastline, not really a harbor. On the chart it was Río St. Lucia, and the image in Davies’ telescope revealed part of a ship aground on a reef about a quarter of a mile from shore. Quickly the pinnace was lowered, along with several of the ship’s boats, and Davies himself elected to join the search party. Kinis remained behind and paced Avenger’s quarterdeck, deep in hope.

  As the boats moved in closer, the crews could see the wreck more clearly, and Davies knew immediately they were approaching what was left of Sea Dog. Small breakers ran under her uplifted stern, part of her name board plainly visible now, but it was not until they approached even closer that they could see her hull was mostly gone; in some places they could see clear through the ship. Davies’ heart sank, but he led the boats down the reef line until they found a small opening through, and they made for the beach in flat water. He looked over his shoulder at the gaping hole where Sea Dog’s bow had been; it looked empty and dark inside.

  As they approached the beach it became clear that much of the ship had broken up and drifted to shore. Even from a distance they could see deck boards and ropes and all manner of shipboard items. A barrel floated in the surf, rolling up and back on the beach.

  But something else. The black outlines of a fire, by God! And cracked coconut shells and the remnants of a lean-to stood out as they drew closer, and all hearts leaped. The men beached the boats and pulled them easily up onto the sand. It was completely, utterly quiet. Davies yelled, they all yelled, but no sound came back, not even an echo. They fanned out, yelling and searching for any sign of the Sea Dogs.

  Davies studied the beach carefully. It looked like the crew had been chipping wood and dragging trees from the forest. The furrows were clear enough. He thought of rafts right away, and indeed all the evidence seemed to suggest it. How many were still alive he could not guess. But at least some were, and they were desperate enough to take to sea.

  One thing more Davies noticed. There were deep holes in the soft sand, the kind a small-diameter pole would make. Or a peg leg.

  AT THAT very moment, that peg leg was stretched out in front of its owner in the lead raft, riding a fast-moving current northward, feeling pretty good about the Sea Dogs’ chances.

  The rafts had found the current about ten miles offshore as first one and then the other began to move northward with real purpose. They had steered by the stars all night, and morning had found them off Cape Caniaberal, pushing off to the east enough to round it with room to spare, then edging back to the west as the current swept them along by some peculiar force of nature. Kendricks had been right to wait; the weather was cooperating wonderfully. The men were in good spirits, the sculling having ceased and the small sails drawing just enough to allow steerage. Water shipped aboard only randomly, the northeast wind being mostly light and their path being on the far western edge of the current.

  On board the rafts, the Sea Dogs looked to the east for any sign of a ship, but the horizon revealed nothing. The men were comfortable enough, stretched out around the ration box, tending to the sail or taking turns steering with the scull. Many chatted about home and what they would do when they returned. Being back at sea had made them somehow optimistic in spite of the fact that they had no idea what lay before them, no weapons, and were sailing so close to a hostile shore.

  Beauty had been working out the logistics of getting into St. Augustine, for they would have to depart the current early to avoid being swept right by. If that happened, there would be no turning back on the awkward rafts.

  During late afternoon Beauty made the decision to leave the current and begin sculling and sailing in a northwest direction under their own power. This shift slowed them down enormously, but there was nothing for it. Running past St. Augustine wouldn’t do. As dusk approached she ordered the rafts to shore, and they nestled in a small mangrove swamp and tied off for the night. They were safe, and tomorrow should see them in St. Augustine. What they would find there was anybody’s guess.

  But probably not what they were expecting.

  FIFTY-SIX

  FALLON AND Alvaron kept the men hacking at the Slave Trail, resting often in the hottest part of the day but moving until it was too dark to travel. They had no idea how far they’d come or how far they still had to go. The trail had its twists and turns around swamps and thickets, so estimating distances was impossible. They just kept at it, one slash mark to the next.

  Often they came to streams or shallow rivers that had to be crossed, and this could take the best part of a day. Scouts had to go east and west looking for the best places to cross and, once across, they had to pick up the trail on the other side. Colston’s unerring sense of direction was critical.

  The biting flies were the biggest irritant, and humans and animals alike felt their stings. The men cursed, but the animals bore their irritation stoically. There were minor cuts and abrasions for Crael to tend to as well.

  Jones rationed the food so each man ate just enough to keep strength. They saw little in the way of wildlife, just the occasional bird or squirrel. Then one afternoon Aja came bounding back from ahead with news that a giant lizard with a long snout was in the water. A monster! Fallon halted the group’s progress and proceeded cautiously ahead with several British and Spanish sailors armed with machetes and rifles. They walked slowly, flies buzzing about their heads, measuring every step carefully until the ground grew soft from water and they knew they were coming to a
swamp. They stopped and listened, but heard nothing except the sounds of the forest, a distant bird’s call, and buzzing insects.

  Fallon moved to his left and motioned for the men to fan out. Slowly, they came to the edge of swampy water, shallow and brown. They would have to cross this water or find a way around it. He looked carefully at the surface, at the downed trees and branches, looking for eyes.

  Suddenly a scream from his right, a horrible scream with fear and pain in it, and immediately Fallon moved toward it, his machete held out in front of him like a sword. One of the Spaniards was being pulled into the swamp by a large reptile, its giant jaws clamped around the man’s leg. Two British sailors had jumped into the water, ignoring their own safety, and were hacking at the reptile furiously. The reptile’s hide seemed almost impervious to the blows. Two Spaniards fired their rifles into the reptile’s body to no effect. Quickly, Fallon leapt into the water, stepped past the screaming man, and with all his might brought his machete down on the reptile’s snout. Again and again he swung at the snout, summoning all his strength until he cut through the nose with a last, desperate blow and the reptile released its grip. Slowly it made to swim away when, finally, a last rifle shot to the eye seemed to kill it. Quickly the men gathered the flailing, wounded man and carried him to shore.

  “One of you men get Crael,” Fallon called, clearly exhausted as he staggered to shore himself. He half crawled to where the wounded man lay writhing in pain, the blood running down his left calf in rivulets. “Easy, señor,” Fallon said softly, speaking in Spanish to give the man any comfort he could. “The surgeon is on the way now. You’re going to be all right.”

  Crael arrived quickly and the wounded man seemed to relax. A quick examination told Crael the leg was not broken and the man had suffered only puncture wounds—many puncture wounds—and barring infection should make a full recovery. Still, a little laudanum wouldn’t hurt and Crael dribbled a few drops into the poor man’s mouth.