A World of Possibility

by ASMSG Authors

Captain Alfie P. Bertram couldn’t have wished for a better day. The sea was calm, the winds were gentle and the sky was a perfect azure blue. Yet though all sea-faring signs were favorable, he commanded his men to stand down, and delayed their voyage for a few more days.

  Anxious to sail, his First Mate Martin Johnson had arrived at the captain’s townhouse in Portsmouth at first light. Martin now stared into his tea cup, his young brow twisted into a skeptical knot. “I fear the crew is getting restless and I urge you to sail on this morning’s tide, Captain.”

  Captain Bertram drained his own cup and slapped the back of his friend and fellow seaman. “The King’s sailors are not so easily turned; and in any case, it’s not like they can desert us – they’d have to fear for their necks. Look out the window, man. Did you ever see such a fair sky and a wind so mild? No, my mind is settled: let Helen deliver our baby, we can set sail after that. She’s already near her time, so we’ll be delayed by no more than a day or two. What possible harm could come from that?”

  “Perhaps none, but I’ve seen signs of unrest in the taverns, the men are getting anxious about when we sail, if at all. They were told we’d sail a week ago.”

  “A day or two more won’t matter then. It’s just a storm in a teacup, Martin. If they weren’t whining about this, they’d find something else to harp on. I’m the captain, and I say when we sail, not the men under my command. Don’t worry, Martin; we have no cargo to spoil, and no mission to fulfill. As long as we join the fleet at Gibraltar by the end of the month, all will be well. And if they have any concerns, let them bring them either to me, or the Admiralty. All the same, muster the crew, keep them on board and have them working the ship. I want those decks gleaming when we sail. Oh, and post marines on deck to make sure no man returns to shore. A little discipline and leadership is what’s needed here. That is all.”

  Martin knew when he was beaten. “Very well,” he said. He rose from his chair, drained his cup and tipped his slope hat respectfully. “Forgive me, I must seek out the harbor master and tell him the Sea Turtle will not be sailing on the morning tide.”

  “Thank you,” said the Captain. He opened the study door and ushered his first mate out. As soon as the door closed, Captain Alfie threw his own slope down on a table and dashed up the stairs to his wife’s bedchamber. Though the hour was early, Alice was already awake, though she’d not quite risen from her bed.

  “Good morning, husband. How did Martin take your news?”

  “He doesn’t agree, my love, but he hid his disappointment well. Perhaps when he finally marries his sweetheart and begins a family of his own, he’ll understand.”

  Alice raised her eyebrows but if she had any doubts, she didn’t voice them to her husband. Alfie took Alice’s hand in his and kissed the back of it. “Any sign of the child arriving?”

  “I couldn’t say, Alfie, I’ve nothing to compare it to. I wish I could get comfortable at least, my poor back is aching.”

  Even as Alfie smoothed the pillows for his wife, the front door slammed and they heard the sound of steps running quickly up the stairs. The maid, Juliet, came bursting into the room, still in her cape and with a punnet of fresh strawberries on her arm.

  “What is the meaning of this?” said Alfie.

  Juliet struggled to catch her breath, her hand in the air requesting a pause as she tried to compose herself.

  “My apologies, sir, allow me a moment, I can hardly breathe.” While Juliet gasped, she bent over and put her hand to her stomach, dropping the fruit basket to the floor. “Madam, sir, forgive me, but I’ve just heard news of a most alarming nature and wanted to bring it to you immediately. There’s a fire started on the Eastern dock. Captain, it’s… I’m afraid it’s the Sea Turtle.”

  “What?” Captain Bertram’s frame stiffened, and then, without so much as a backward glance, he dashed from the room, ran down the stairs and out into the street. His heart pounded as he ran, a million questions whirling violently in his head.

  As the Captain approached the dock, his worst fears were confirmed by the scene in front of him. The flames tore through the canvas and burned clear of the mast, crashing onto the main deck and igniting all the wood around it. In a few seconds, the entire midsection of the frigate was ablaze, and though buckets of water were already being passed towards the stem, Captain Bertram’s heart sank in the sure knowledge they were already too late.

  He ran forward to assist the fire fighters. “Good God, how did this happen?” First among them was Martin Johnson, his First Mate, his regulation doublet abandoned while he led the efforts to either save the ship, or perhaps more accurately Captain Bertram thought, to save the fire from spreading to other vessels docked in the port.

  Martin never stopped passing buckets as he shouted his answer out over the roar of the blaze. “Arson, Captain. They couldn’t have picked a better time for it, for the winds have just picked up and have fanned the flames into an inferno.”

  “What about the Turtle’s gunpowder?”

  “There were just a few barrels and we managed to get those off before the fire intensified.”

  Captain Bertram stripped down to his shirt to join the rescue efforts. The Red Admiral was moored a few hundred feet away and the flames were being fanned in her direction. Martin followed his Captain’s gaze along the dock and nodded. “We’re focusing on the stern now; if we keep it dampened we might prevent the spread. Red Admiral is fully laden with gunpowder destined for the Napoleonic effort. If the flames reach her the entire dock will go up.”

  “God help us all.”

  For an hour they labored, but though most of the men at the port joined their efforts, the indomitable fire hissed, spit, licked and crept ever closer to the Red Admiral.

  “Did anyone see who started it?” said Captain Bertram.

  “The watch reported a man running from the ship but we’ve yet to identify the culprit.” Martin, his face caked in black smoke, raised his arm to wipe the sweat from his brow. As he paused he looked to the sky, then over to the Red Admiral anchored a short distance away. “The wind is against us, Captain. I think there’s no hope for it, may I suggest we try and scuttle the ship?”

  “We can’t send someone on board, it’s far too dangerous, and I’ll not risk a man for that.”

  “Since we can’t get to the scuttlebutts, I was thinking we could fire cannon into the hull and simply sink her. The dock’s deep here, it’s possible she’d submerge completely.”

  Captain Bertram turned his head and scoured the length of the dock. “Perhaps we could, but not while she’s still moored here. If the wind changes direction before she sinks, she might ignite the entire dock. Plus, it would take too long to drag the cannon from the fort and put it in place.”

  “Should we set her adrift, then?”

  “No, too risky again; who knows where the wind will take her. Find the harbormaster, there’s a longboat secured at the end of the dock. We’ll tie the Sea Turtle to the long boat, tow her out of the harbor, and scuttle her at sea. If you man the longboat, just keep her within cannon range.”

  “And set her adrift there?”

  “No. Keep the long boat anchored; we’ll need to keep her steady if the cannons are to hit their mark. Take a dinghy for yourself and crew to return on. It’s our only chance. Make haste. Gather as many rowers as you can.”

  Captain Bertram obtained tow ropes from one of the other ships, drawing assistance from the line of men still battling the fire. He could see Martin at the far end of the dock, with five other men following him into the longboat. The harbor master untied the lines, and very soon the longboat, with a small dinghy in tow, was at a safe but close distance to the Sea Turtle.

  Captain Bertram turned his attention to his band of helpers. “We need to secure the lines to the burning frigate,” he said. “Come men, be quick about it.” The lines were swiftly tied and the Captain gave the order for the tow crew to proceed. “Make haste, make haste,” mumbled the cap
tain under his breath. His pulse thumped as the flames crept ever closer to the Red Admiral, its large hull bobbing ominously along the dock. It would be a close call, and if Martin failed, the gunpowder would blow them sky-high or take them down to Davy Jones’ Locker before the timber hit the sea. The long boat’s progress was slow and painful, and it was a few minutes before the rowers eased into any kind of momentum.

  The men watched in incredulous awe as the ill-fated Sea Turtle slowly made its way through the port to the edge of the harbor, the oars of the long boat rising and dipping in unison as Martin called out the beat.

  All the while the fire on board raged, and with a tremendous splash, part of the Sea Turtle’s rigging fell into the water, barely missing the rowers and almost capsizing the longboat. Still, Martin never flinched from his task and the watchers at port burst into applause as the valiant sailors continued on their mission.

  Only once she was clear of all boats did the Captain allow a sigh of relief, satisfied that at the very least, he’d saved them all from a potential disaster. As he wiped the sweat from his own brow he turned to look at the men who’d helped him. Their comments set his blood on fire.

  “Funniest sight I’ve ever seen…”

  “Let’s see how fine things turn out for him once he’s up in front of the Admiralty…”

  “Damned waste of a fine ship… should’ve sailed a week ago… I blame the captain...”

  The captain scowled at his malevolent crew. “How dare you look at me as if I were at fault? One among you lit the fire, not I. As soon as I find out which one of you did it you’ll be hanging from the yardarm, depend upon it.”

  The men grew silent, their aggrieved eyes on both their captain and the growing number of marines now gathering around the dock. Captain Bertram was also aware of the expanding crowd, including the Captain of the Red Admiral, who even now was shouting at his men.

  “Damn it, men, get back onto the ship, or see yourselves clamped in irons for the outbound journey. There’s a war to be won.”

  The brutal reminder of the war made Captain Bertram sick at the prospect of having to report the loss of a ship of the line, and worse, without a single enemy boat in sight. For now, the most pressing matter was the scuttling of the ship, and, as the Sea Turtle was in position, he sent the order to the fort.

  Black smoke hovered malevolently over the dock, and though the captain inhaled a huge gulp of air, the smell of salty sea he’d always loved so much was polluted by smoke and dead ash. At least the gulls had returned, their familiar cries lamenting dolefully over the space once occupied by the proud frigate.

  The sound of cannon fire broke him from his reverie. He hadn’t expected the blast to come so quickly. Six shots blasted over the port; two fell short of the mark, one clipped the mast, and two directly penetrated the hull just at sea level. The final shot hit the main sail, which slowed its velocity and caused the ball to change its course, just a fraction.

  Captain Bertram’s mouth dropped as the errant cannonball directly hit the small dinghy, still carrying the rowers away from the burning ship. It hit with such force the men and boat were all catapulted into the air, before falling back to the ocean which a visible splash.

  All the men on the dock stared in stunned horror, waiting for signs that any of the crew had survived. Six men had manned that dinghy, and the captain watched as, one by one, six bodies floated to the water surface, face down. White as a ghost, the captain stood at the edge of the dock, a great nausea rising in his throat. Martin Johnson was not only his First Mate; he was also a personal friend. And though he knew none of the men who sailed with Martin, he knew he was indirectly responsible for all of their deaths.

  The captain’s spirits sank along with the Sea Turtle as ever so slowly, the frigate capsized and was engulfed by the relentless waves. Only the screeching gulls and the water lapping against the pilings could be heard. The malignant awareness of new death became more powerful than the lingering smoke, and one by one the faces on the dock turned towards the penitent captain.

  Captain Bertram turned to find the mob had slowly circled around him.

  “Stand aside, men, let me pass.”

  One of the men carried Martin’s doublet loosely in his hand. The captain stepped forward and took it, holding the garment tight to his chest. “I’ll see this gets returned to the proper person.” The image of Martin’s young sweetheart rose in his mind, and he shuddered, not looking forward to their next encounter.

  “The bodies, the bodies must be recovered,” Captain Bertram said. He turned to some men standing quietly at the edge of the circle. “You men, take a boat out to the wreckage. The harbor master can furnish you with one. We must bring the bodies back.”

  The captain of the Red Admiral stepped forward, and Captain Bertram felt a strong grip on his shoulder. He looked up into the ruddy, sea-weary face of his fellow seaman, not sure what he’d find there. The other captain handed him his own coat.

  “I saw the man that started the blaze and, though he got away, he can’t get far. My men are already in pursuit, we’ll no doubt have the scoundrel in custody by nightfall. I wanted to thank you, you saved my ship. When you go before the Admiralty to answer for the day, I’ll make sure they’re aware of that fact. Damned bad luck, Bertram, I must say. But why on earth hadn’t you sailed before now? Conditions were perfect, man – the Sea Turtle was ready to sail a full week ago.”

  ”My wife…” The words trailed on his lips. He knew that answer would ruin his career. It would be viewed as a sign of weakness, and the Admiralty might never trust him with a commission again. Could he lie, he wondered? Blame the crew; blame the ship, lack of winds, anything? His head dropped as he anguished over the matter, and he clung to the doublet tightly.

  “Why wasn’t the ship guarded?” asked the other captain.

  “I… we had nothing on board, we had no gunpowder to speak of, merely provisions of food. The one man I did have on guard seemed sufficient for the task.”

  “Clearly not, it seems. We’ve received word that you’re to report to the Admiralty immediately. And, for what it’s worth, you have my personal thanks.”

  Captain Bertram nodded and bid the man farewell. His feet dragged like lead as he pushed past the others and he felt their eyes bore into his back.

  His house was situated on route to the Admiralty building, and though he’d been ordered to go directly there, he needed to see his wife, Alice, first.

  With the slowness of a much older man, Captain Bertram reverently laid Martin’s doublet over the back of the very chair he’d sat in just a few short hours ago. His hand lingered on the fabric, but then a whiff of smoke reminded him of his duty and he backed away.

  “Is everything okay?” called Alice.

  Alfie looked up at the ceiling and wondered how his wife would take the news. He would spare her the news about Martin for as long as he could. “Yes my love, send down Juliet – I need to speak to her. I shall be up in a moment.”

  The tall man poured himself a large glass of sherry, which he drained in a single shot, and breathed deeply as the alcohol flared hot in his belly. He would have need of its courage.

  “How fickle is fate,” Alfie thought. And though he’d neither lit the fire that burned the frigate, nor fired the cannon that killed Martin, he knew he’d carry this burden for the rest of his life. He stared down into the empty glass and thought of the calm of the morning and how pleasant the forecast had seemed then. He shook his head and placed his glass down on the table.

  “How is everything?” said Juliet. The servant stood in the doorway, eager to hear more news from the port. “Is anyone hurt?”

  “I’m afraid so.” He relayed the ugly business and watched the color drain from Juliet’s face. Captain Alfie P. Bertram patted her shoulder as he walked around her, and then climbed the stairs. He needed to reassure Alice he was quite well, but, more than anything, he needed her words of comfort before fac
ing the storm to come.

  THE END

  A DATE TO DIE FOR

  by Rosary McQuestion

  https://www.rosarymcquestion.com/