The Bermuda Privateer

by William Westbrook

  SIXTY-SIX

  AT THE very moment Fallon dove into the water off Great Bahama, Ezra Somers was diving into the wine aboard Castille in Nassau Harbor. To say he was both livid and flummoxed understated his condition, but it was close. He had grown increasingly despondent as he and Elinore had made their way back to Nassau from Fort Charlotte and were then rowed out to the ship. Elinore knew her father was a man of action, decisive in a pinch, and yet he could think of no action to take.

  She and her father had said little that evening; she was in her own mood, as well, complicated by her worry for Fallon. They still needed news, for the only information they had at the moment was that Jak Clayton was not in Nassau Harbor at present. That didn’t help the search for her captain.

  Just before turning in for the night, she stepped up the companionway to take a turn on the deck. The sky had prepared a rich show of stars, a show for lovers, and she looked at the constellations with a worried heart. She made her silent wishes, the music of Nassau’s waterfront drifting over the water as a counterpoint to her low spirits.

  MORNING BROUGHT a massive hangover to Ezra Somers, and the bright sunlight did nothing to make him feel better; in fact, it made his head hurt worse. He had wisely skipped breakfast and gone straight for coffee on the deck with Elinore, and they watched Nassau’s day begin together from the bow. Ships were moving about the harbor, some weighing anchor to get underway for points unknown.

  “I am going ashore this afternoon, Father,” Elinore announced abruptly. “And I am not coming back until I have talked to every person on that damned island to see what they know.” Elinore had her chin out and her head up, meaning business.

  Somers took his daughter’s hand in his own and held it tightly. “I’m going, too, Elinore. Two will be better than one; we can cover more ground. By God, we’ll find someone who knows something.”

  He said this, and he mostly believed it, but his normal determination was under siege at the moment and the ridiculousness of an old man and his daughter traipsing around an island talking to people they didn’t know about hurricanes and lost British captains hung like a cloud over his thoughts.

  As they squinted into the bright sun a lovely schooner rounded Hog Island under all plain sail. Her oiled hull cut a fine figure dancing into the harbor to pass by their stern. They watched the ship, transfixed for a moment, Elinore staring intently at the man standing near the helm, his dark hair blowing straight back off a fine, lean face.

  Then she screamed, and everyone on Nassau who wasn’t already awake sat straight up in bed. “Nico!”

  “My God!” yelled Somers. “My God! My God!”

  BEAUTY BROUGHT the schooner into the wind and the sails were taken in as the anchor dropped toward the seabed some twenty fathoms below. Fallon had spotted Castille’s stern immediately upon rounding Hog Island but so intent was he on absorbing Wallace’s presence in Nassau that he had not seen Elinore nor her father in the bows of the ship until she’d screamed. Now a huge grin plastered his face as he rushed to the railing, ordering the ship’s boat lowered almost before the anchor had set.

  Quickly he and Aja scrambled over the side, Beauty watching them go as she waved to Somers and Elinore not half a cable’s length away. She had no idea why they were here, or what they’d hoped to gain by coming, but already something significant had been accomplished: Nico Fallon was laughing like a madman.

  Fallon and Aja hurried up the side of Castille into waiting arms and enough tears to start the pumps, with the hands standing quietly to the side, Wallace himself a little watery. Well, it was a moment. Every time Fallon made to speak he had the wind hugged out of his lungs, or his back slapped, or Elinore’s hands searching his face to make sure he was, in fact, real.

  At last it seemed he was, and Fallon waved to Beauty to join them and, as soon as the ship was squared away, she left Cully in charge while one of the hands rowed her over. After the bosun’s chair brought her over the side, grinning broadly, and after that reunion was celebrated, they all repaired below to the great cabin.

  There was just room enough for all of them, Wallace included, as there was no cannon in the cabin. Castille’s cook produced cheese and toast, a steward poured wine, and they ate like they’d never seen food before as the tale of Harp’s battle and wreckage unfolded, followed in turn by Aja’s nightly forays and their escape via the Slave Trail to Savannah. Fallon’s voice unconsciously lowered when he mentioned Nuevo Año and the treasure, but he was back at full volume recounting their escape downriver and the joy of finding Davies and Avenger with Beauty and the rest of Sea Dog’s surviving crew aboard.

  Somers and Elinore listened raptly, as if a great mystery was unfolding before their eyes, now coming to be understood but no less astonishing. Now it was their turn to describe finding Wicked Jak in Nassau’s harbor, the governor gone, and the acting governor no help. Fallon could feel the anger in Somers’s voice as he described Renegade sailing away. He was becoming angry himself.

  “We are not through here,” Fallon said evenly. “In fact, we haven’t even begun.” And then he told them about the plan to place Theo ashore that very night, ostensibly in her old profession, to learn what could be learned about Clayton’s whereabouts.

  “Elinore,” Beauty having a thought now, “this is a Godsend because Theo has nothing to wear tonight except ship’s slops and, if you take my meaning, she’s used to dressing up a bit ashore. Do you think you’d have something that might serve? You’re about her size, but I warn you not to expect it back, at least not the way you remember it.”

  “I think I may have just the thing, Beauty,” replied Elinore enthusiastically. “Bring Theo aboard late this afternoon and let me have two hours with her. I think she’ll turn a few heads when we’re finished!”

  SIXTY-SEVEN

  FALLON AND Elinore had spent most of the day on Castille’s deck, holding onto each other tightly, decorum thrown to the wind. Everything he’d prayed to the stars for was in his arms and he was not about to let her go until Theo came aboard. By then they’d talked their way into low voices and very soft words and it was probably a good thing to be interrupted.

  Theo climbed eagerly over Castille’s side, anxious to repay the debt she felt she owed Beauty and Fallon, though not without a little trepidation at returning to her old haunts ashore. They’d given her a plausible story for her absence, however: Being kidnapped by a scoundrel and held against her will at the far end of the island, a virtual prisoner is what she was, until at last she’d hit the bugger with the biggest stick she could lift and run off. The message clear: Don’t fuck with me.

  She went below with Elinore immediately, the two of them instantly comfortable with each other, to begin Theo’s transformation from deckhand back to hussy. Dresses were tried on, accessorized, and discarded. Makeup was applied, heavy on the rouge. Jewelry was tried on, taken off, and put back on again. At last a dress was found that seemed to fit the occasion, though Elinore cut the bottom off to make it a bit shorter than she’d ever worn it. A scarf around the waist seemed just the thing to bring the ensemble together. Theo looked in the mirror and smiled nervously, certainly liking what she saw, but aware that what lay ahead would be dangerous. She was determined to see the thing through.

  Meanwhile, Fallon and Beauty fretted about the plan and what could go wrong, which was quite a lot, weighing the risks against the possibility of valuable information, the time growing closer at hand. This was their best chance and they knew it.

  Evening came and the waterfront buildings began to light up slowly, first this one and then that one, the darkness between them still an incubator for mischief. At last Elinore appeared on deck with her wonderfully tarted-up new friend, one Theodora of the Night, looking you would have to say spectacular. A few last-minute words to settle her nerves, details of the plan reviewed, and she was over the side with a brave smile. Cully rowed her to shore, choosing a spot on the beach close but not too close to the now noisy waterfront. He woul
d not leave until he had her back aboard.

  Cully looked around the beach and, seeing nothing out of the ordinary, lay down in the bottom of the boat to look at the sky and stay invisible. It was a warm night, and he could have been drowsy if every nerve in his body wasn’t jumping with excitement. Fallon had entrusted him with this duty of bringing Theo safely back to the ship even if he had to go into town to find her.

  The night dragged on and the music picked up, and Cully could hear the laughter growing louder, spilling out of the shutterless bar windows and doors onto the beach. He was only reasonably comfortable stretched out over the length of the boat. He amused himself by counting stars, then trying in vain to remember the name of every sweetheart he’d ever had, without success.

  It was sometime later that he heard Theo, in a loud voice he thought was meant for him to hear, arguing with a man, pleading with him to let her go. He raised his head up over the gunnels of the boat and saw Theo wrestling with a drunken oaf of a sailor, half running away, only to be caught and pulled back again. As they drew closer, Theo maneuvered herself so as to leave the man’s backside to the water, and Cully slowly rose up, lifting an oar with him, intent on his duty to bring Theo back.

  The oar’s blade landed with a satisfactory thump on the back of the sailor’s head, the blood coating the back of his shirt even before he hit the beach. Cully smiled at Theo, and she smiled back coyly, still in character, before stepping into the boat to be rowed back to the waiting ship, Theo of the Night.

  Fallon, Beauty, and Wallace huddled in the great cabin to hear Theo’s report, which she was able to give without slurring or giggling, for she’d nursed one rum the entire night.

  “I knew where to go first, my old favorite place, but there was no one there who knew anything,” she began. “But at the next place I went I heard that Clayton had attacked a flotilla of Spanish treasure ships off Great Bahama Island in the hurricane. No one seemed to know for sure what had happened, or if he’d gotten any treasure, so I kept moving.”

  Beauty looked at Fallon, who was totally engrossed in Theo’s story.

  “Then I heard from a grizzled old sailor that British ships had attacked the flotilla in the hurricane, as well. But they wrecked on the coast of Spanish Florida. And then,” she paused for effect, “I heard what happened to Clayton. He fired a broadside at the last treasure ship in the flotilla and a lucky shot took her mainmast down. The Spaniard was driven onto a reef off Great Bahama Island and broken up. Clayton ran into a secret cove where he used to hide and waited out the hurricane. When it was over he went back to the Spanish ship and sent his boats in to get as much of the treasure as he could. It took over a week, and he made what was left of the Spanish crew help him until they’d finished; then he fired the ship and murdered them all. He got all that he could.”

  Here Wallace’s eyebrows went up, perhaps remembering Renegade in the harbor, low in the water, which he’d thought was caused by the storm.

  “My God, young lady,” he blurted out, “you’d have thought you were talking to Clayton himself!”

  “It was just as good, sir,” Theo answered coolly. “It was his woman.”

  The end of her story was even more interesting. Clayton had made for Nassau Harbor to effect repairs to his ship, it being the closest harbor to get spars and cordage, for he had no spares aboard. After three days in harbor, he had put most of his crew ashore, including his woman, and sailed away to hide the treasure, trusting as few of his crew as possible with the exact location.

  But he was coming back for them. He promised. In one week.

  Fallon looked at Theo with a mixture of admiration and astonishment. Really, women talked, but this? This was incredible, and had the ring of truth in it, and he believed every word. Now the question was how to use the information?

  Wallace was the first to get his brain into action. “We should try to find his Goddamned hiding place!” he exclaimed, temporarily forgetting his religion in the hope of riches. “We could poke into every harbor and cove in the islands until we found it!”

  They all absorbed this idea until Fallon finally responded with some sense. “There are roughly one thousand islands, Wallace. It could conceivably take us the rest of our lives. Besides, it’s not like he left signs about.”

  Wallace’s face fell, struck by the absurdity of his own idea. “But tell me, sir, just as a point of information,” said Fallon soothingly, “do you think Clayton saw you in the harbor? How far away were you?”

  “I doubt very much he saw us, Captain. We were a good ways off and there were many boats anchored between us. Besides, his ship was very busy and likely occupied all of his attention.”

  “Why do you ask, Nico?” Beauty curious now, hearing the old Fallon plotting and scheming something.

  “Oh, nothing,” replied Fallon with a far-off look in his eyes. Which meant, in effect, something.

  “One more question for you, Mr. Somers,” said Fallon. “Or Elinore. You say you saw Clayton sail out of the harbor. Could you tell which way he was headed?”

  A moment’s pause, then Somers responded, “North. He sailed north.” He was sure, and Elinore agreed.

  IN THE beginning, Fallon had only wanted to stop Clayton’s predations on the salt ships, but it was more now. He wanted the treasure for his men, and for the men’s families who had died. And, truth be told, he wanted revenge for the misery and the murders Clayton had caused on his hell-hole of an island hideout. And he wanted Clayton dead.

  That night Fallon sat with Wallace’s chart of the Bahamas and studied it carefully. Where could Clayton have gone?

  If he stayed north, the most logical choice would be a small group of islands to the west of Abaco, the Berry Islands, which were uninhabited as far as Fallon knew, with reefs and coves only a local would know, particularly a local pirate. Still, Renegade’s draft would mean not every cove would suit, unless they stood off and ferried the treasure to shore, which would be impractical and take longer than a week to accomplish.

  Here the soundings were incomplete or inaccurate at best, being only approximations of depth on the chart. Fallon did his best to think like a pirate, what would I do? He decided he would look for a cove not easily seen from Providence Channel, of sufficient draft that he could beach the ship and off-load the treasure directly to the shore, like Alvaron had done on Hutchinson Island. But the island had to be easily defended in case of attack, with a quick exit to the channel.

  His finger went to Misery Island. A small island with a tiny indentation on its north side, it appeared to be a cove, located about ten miles north of Providence Channel. Misery Island was part of the Berry Islands and was named for the bones of shipwrecked sailors found there in the late 1600s who had perished from starvation and thirst. It was inhospitable to say the least. So, a good guess.

  Suppose he was wrong?

  Well, Providence Channel was the east-west passage through the upper islands of the Bahamas, as was clear from the chart. If Clayton had indeed sailed northward, he would need to cross the channel to return for his woman and crew at Nassau. It was a pig in a poke, as Fallon’s father would say, but the only idea he had.

  Even though Clayton’s ship was undermanned because he wanted as few people as possible to know the exact whereabouts of the buried treasure, Renegade was still a formidable enemy. Fallon had no thought to come under her guns—he’d done that once, and once was enough.

  He stood at the stern windows of the great cabin, staring at the moon’s dance upon the water, presumably everyone in the ship except the watch asleep. He had seen Elinore to bed and had wanted to stay, but a long and very suggestive kiss was all she would allow. After all, her father was literally behind the screen next to her cabin, there being no privacy in a ship.

  And so he gazed astern, feeling the weight of responsibility on his shoulders, wondering what if anything was possible to deal with Clayton. He thought about the man, that high-pitched laugh, the merciless killing of the Swede, the deb
auched mind, and the insatiable need to raid and plunder. Renegade probably carried almost three hundred crew, which was a lot of mouths to feed and water three times a day, with a prodigious amount of rum required, as well. The pirate credo was equal shares for everyone, and a vote could be held at any time by the crew to remove the captain. Perhaps that was one reason Clayton was so fierce—it was his insurance policy against insurrection. But a pirate captain, even one as wicked as Wicked Jak, had to be successful to stay in office. So greed was the driving force in every decision.

  Greed. The word stopped Fallon’s mind from spinning in a hundred directions and settled it on one. And as it did, the old familiar feeling came to him, and the hair on his arms stood at attention.

  He called for Aja to rouse Beauty, Somers, and Elinore from their sleep, and to fetch Wallace, who was on deck. He was burning with the idea now, mad with excitement and fear in equal portions, fully committed to risk everything for the main chance.

  The sleepy group assembled around the chart table, waking up quickly when they saw Fallon’s eyes on fire; now they were prepared for anything. He outlined his thinking on the probable route Clayton might have taken, and his best guess where the treasure was to be buried.

  “Strictly from a timing standpoint,” Fallon said by way of explanation, “the burial place has to be where the bullion could be off-loaded easily from the ship. I can’t imagine that taking less than several days under the best of circumstances. Then they have to bury it. My guess is here, somewhere in the Berry Islands.” Fallon pointed to a spot on the chart, a cluster of small islands north of Providence Channel. The little group leaned in to study the chart. “From here,” Fallon continued as if to himself, “he’s got time to sail back to Nassau to pick up his woman and crew within seven days.”

  They all looked at him, blinking skeptically, but as they had no other ideas to offer they had to admit it sounded plausible. And then he told them about the monsters of the south, and the giant snapping turtle, and the crazy idea he had to wiggle his tongue at Clayton.