The Star tied up at the quayside and took in stores; Tom counted ten crates of two dozen bottles of gin going into the captain’s cabin. Four cannon were wheeled out of a chandlery and set to the empty ports on the broadside.
“Captain had to pledge them to get anything before we could sail last time,” Smith explained.
Tom nodded, leaning on the railing, staring fixedly out to sea, having no wish to show his face in port.
“We’ve signed on another twenty hands, a boatswain and two prize-masters. And we’re properly stored for three months. If you want off, Tom, you’re welcome – I never did like getting men from the crimps, it ain’t right! If you stay, you’re a two-share man; all the other two shares are topmen, but you’re to be leading hand of the boarding party, if you want it. Nobody’s going to argue, to say you’re too young, not even they bloody Coles got any objections, not once they seen you with them pistols. Do you want it?”
“There’s nothing waiting for me in Poole, Mr Smith. I’ll stay.”
“Good. My name’s Jack, by the way.”
The share-out was not really enough for a proper beano, a shore-run lasting a week, and there was a feeling among the crew that they would be better employed chasing their newly turned luck, for it could not, in the nature of things, last for ever and should not be treated with disrespect while it did. There was no agreement, however, as to where they should go; the owner, and captain in this case, would take the final decision, but if he wanted his crew to follow him, then it had to be a decision they could easily tolerate.
On the one side was the argument that the sea-lanes from Bordeaux to Rochefort had showed profitable once, so it made sense to return there; opposed to this was the school of thought which held that that particular stable door would now be well and truly bolted – there would be at least a sloop on patrol there, possibly a frigate, even two, depending on the amount of noise the aggrieved merchant community had been able to make.
Blaine wanted to go back to the scene of his success, but the gin was slowing his brain, leaving him unreceptive to new ideas – he found it easier to repeat the past. Fast talking by Jack Smith brought him to agree that they should head further south to hover off the mouth of the Garonne for a few days before making for the coast of Spain to look in at Santander and then at Vigo; after that, if they had not made their money, they could think again.
The Royal Navy thwarted the first part of their plan, having itself sent a squadron to blockade the Bordeaux stream and being notoriously unwilling to allow shares to private men of war. The Star changed tack on the instant of identifying the national ships, not wishing to have half of her crew press ganged before being told to bugger off.
They approached Santander cautiously, knowing nothing of the port other than that it served a part of Spain said to be richer in iron and metal-wares than the rest. It was also, they discovered, home to the Biscayan Fleet – they saw a dozen and more of two-deckers and a couple of threes together with a swarm of frigates and lesser craft; there were merchantmen in the approaches as well, but it would have been a very bold, not to say a foolhardy, corsair who made a touch at one of them in such circumstances. They wore ship and came away, slowly and looking as much as they could like a slow, undermanned mercantile sheep who had innocently made a landfall to establish her position and was now on her way home, thank you. They pointedly did not turn telescopes on the frigate that might have been patrolling and was now, coincidentally, they hoped, taking a north-north-westerly course behind them.
An hour later the Star tacked, coming across the wind to a south-westerly bearing; the frigate, which had been slowly closing on them, did the same. The wind was strong, gusting, and they had been content to potter along as a merchant hull would with two reefs in the topsails; Blaine now gave the order for full sail and sent another hand to the wheel. The Star heeled and the noise of the rigging climbed in pitch as she pushed up to very nearly nine knots; the frigate responded with a positive cloud of sail, was very soon nudging eleven.
“Four hours to random shot, Mr Smith and eight hours of daylight, even if the cloud thickens somewhat.”
“With her crew she will tack quicker than us, sir. The Star might just point up a might tighter than her, sir? If she has a good point of sailing then it is into the wind.”
They set two more jibs and braced the yards as hard round as they would go, bore up as near into the wind’s eye as they could force her, found they could lay almost a point closer than the Spaniard. Then for the rest of daylight they sailed the Star as hard as they could, all hands on deck, concentration unbroken, anticipating every fluke in the wind, driving fast out into the Atlantic, the Spaniard hauling up on them, but more and more to their leeward, unable to close the range sufficiently to overwhelm them. The sun dropped slowly in the west, the cloud cover thickening steadily, their rather unreliable barometer dropping slowly, the wind strengthening fractionally. Night fell, the half-moon obscured, black as pitch.
Blaine dithered, the capacity to take vital decisions vitiated by two years of neat gin; if he held his present course, and the wind held constant, then he would be at least three more miles to windward of the frigate by dawn, still well in sight though unreachable, and with another day to run, at least, before they could be safe. Could he trust the wind? Nearly twenty years at sea said ‘never’. The alternative was to tack and run almost before the wind, not the Star’s strongest point of sailing, to cross the Spaniard’s stern unseen and disappear into the wide Atlantic. If they were observed then dawn would find them under the Spaniard’s guns, a broadside of twenty, eighteen pound long guns making a fight impossible.
A fluke in the wind, a little stronger and longer-lasting than those before, made up his mind for him – if the wind was veering then Star was lost. They had to tack.
It went against nature to bear up, to brace the yards round, to cross the eye of the wind in absolute silence – shouting was part of the seaman’s life, it was the way it was done, it was ridiculous to whisper ‘helm’s alee!’, to sheet home without a bellowed order or insult. They swore quietly to each other, then slightly louder at each other, but whispered profanities were very unsatisfying as well. They froze in utter silence as they picked out a lantern at a mile on the starboard bow and then slowly watched the lights of the stern cabin slide by: not a man went below that night; they sat or napped at the braces, watching the sails anxiously, listening for the first hint of flapping canvas, trimming and resetting them to give every last fraction of a knot and cut leeway to its least possible, and all without a word said.
Unsaid as well, but known to all, was the expectation that the Spanish navy would take no prisoners out of a privateer – they were pirates in Spanish eyes.
As dawn broke they scanned the sea anxiously, taking comfort in the legendary poor seamanship of the Spanish navy – their officers were brave fighting men but rarely paid attention to seamanship, leaving that to the menials who they treated with contempt and who consequently responded with slack idleness. The Spanish ship would have continued on her original course, or returned to port on losing sight of them, they were sure. It helped, a little, telling each other all of this, but their eyes never ceased their anxious watch.
Full light showed a grey, gathering sea, a storm building to their west, but no sign of a sail, not even a hint of topsails to their north. They had lost their pursuer, and it now remained to stay lost.
“Thirty days on this course, sir, and we are in the Sugar Islands. Maybe only twenty-five days, if we can keep the sail packed on. If we change course to a little bit west of north then we will find the south of Ireland in, what, four days? No trade there, though.”
Blaine was exhausted, and thirsty – he had been on deck for twenty-four hours unbroken, his metabolism was short of at least a pint of gin, he could not think. He nodded his agreement, though to what he had no idea, and stumbled down the companionway to his cabin and his bottle.
“Single reef topsails; strip to s
ingle jib. Course West-sou’-west.”
Smith glanced around the deck, inviting comment, received none.
“Sugar Islands, lads, the West Indies. There are rich cargoes there, and a damn sight less in the way of patrolling frigates!”
They were too tired to argue.
Book One: A Poor Man
at the Gate Series
Chapter Three
Beef, beer, biscuit and water were all running short by the time they reached the Trinidad, a week of calms having extended their voyage beyond Smith’s expectation; gin, however, seemed still to be in good supply – they had hardly seen Blaine on deck since evading the frigate and on those few occasions he had seemed unsteady on his feet, as if he were losing his sea legs.
The month of near idleness had led to any number of second thoughts among the crew, to doubts about the wisdom of penetrating the Caribbean – they knew that Britain was losing the war, that the American rebels and, more importantly, their French allies were winning on land and that the French, Spanish and Dutch were in loose alliance at sea. For the first time in a century the oceans were not an English domain; it would not last, that was for sure, the navy would organise itself and restore the proper order of things very soon, but, for the while, the enemy might be found anywhere. Of course, that was why privateering was profitable at that moment – many more French and Spanish merchantmen were at sea than would be the case if the navy was snapping them up whenever they showed their noses outside of their harbours; even so, the possibility of escorts and patrols had to be borne in mind – they might be about to stir up a hornet’s nest. In the Mediterranean, for example, the Spanish had to keep a very careful eye on the Barbary pirates whilst watching what the Austrian Empire might be doing in the Italian states; Atlantic waters gave the Spanish another set of problems, the English particularly, the net effect being that they could not devote a great deal of attention to the activities of one little privateer. In the Caribbean they might have nothing better to do than protect their traders…
They closed the coast of a bright afternoon – dawn would have been better but their precise position posed a slight problem – Smith had no navigation at all and Captain Blaine had some difficulties taking a sextant reading with his hands shaking so. It had been thought better to hold well away from where the shore should have been in the hours of darkness.
They spotted eight separate sail of merchantmen making for the port, all unconcerned and pottering quietly along, one man and a dog on watch – evidently sure that no English ships would be about and that the few small pirates remaining would be holding a safe distance from the naval base.
Two brigs and a schooner were of a hundred tons or more, would be profitable captures – Admiralty Court fees in England ate up the value of smaller prizes to such an extent that they were more bother than they were worth. Each surrendered to a single shot across the bows, surprised and indignant to discover a corsair in their own back yard, but certainly not about to argue with loaded guns pointing very directly at them. Star turned her head northwards, towards Antigua, shepherding her chicks in front of her – rations demanded a port sooner rather than later and the manpower for prize-crews was not there.
“Five quid a share, at least, Tom, when we get them to court. The lads will be better for a good piss-up in English Harbour, cheaper there than in Poole.”
Tom nodded, not entirely sure why that should be the case but unwilling to argue about anything so unimportant to him.
Dawn off Martinique brought them a bright, clear, sunny morning, the mountains of the volcanic island fresh-washed and black to their west, a large merchantman to their east, hove-to and waiting full daylight to close the coast and signal for the pilot cutter. Blaine was called immediately, staggered bleary-eyed on deck and peered about him in puzzlement until Smith nudged him in the right direction.
“French West Indiaman,” Blaine announced. “Far too big for us to handle, except we get lucky. Load all.”
Three minutes to cross the stern of the big ship, four times their size, two-decked, her rails at least ten feet higher than Star’s, taken unawares for expecting no trouble within sight almost of a great naval base. First stirrings of surprise turned to panic as the three prizes conformed to Star, seemingly a whole squadron of privateers, or, much worse, pirates.
Star fired her broadside, high on the roll, skimming across the poop and spreading a few splinters and a great deal of roaring. A few screams arose from unlucky crewmen, drowned by the howling of shocked passengers, rudely awakened by cannonballs about their ears. Initial panic turned rapidly into whole-hearted chaos as Star thumped alongside and her boarders scrambled awkwardly over the bulwarks, Tom leading them in a charge towards the wheel where a sole, uniformed, officer was waving a sword. Just in time Tom saw he was offering it, hilt first, in token of surrender.
“We do not fight! Do not kill us! There are passengers.”
Tom took the sword, a heavy but well-balanced working hanger, he noticed – that was not going back to its owner.
“Everybody on deck, quickly! By the mainmast, for the crew, passengers here. Now!”
The French officer sprinted, shouting, slapping and kicking at his men when they did not move fast enough, galloping below and bursting cabin doors open, bellowing the sleepy into a run. He had all of the passengers in a huddle at the stern, part-clothed or in nightshirts, within two minutes, before the privateersmen could get at them in their cabins. There were half a dozen of wives and daughters amongst them and the Frenchman knew of the reputation, commonly well-earned, of corsairs.
Tom was concerned only to get the ship under way, well out to sea before any investigation of their single broadside took place – just possibly the French in the harbour might think there had been a thunder clap in the mountains, a common enough event, and one they might ignore. He ordered the French crew to make sail and they ran enthusiastically to their duty, hoping that if they showed useful they might not have their throats cut as an inconvenience to their captors; in the Caribbean the difference between pirate and privateer was often very small indeed and they worked more efficiently than at any time since leaving Bordeaux, to the mordant amusement of their captain.
“They work harder for you than for me, young man,” he observed. “Perhaps six pistols are a good idea!”
English Harbour had its own Admiralty Court and prize-agents only too anxious to oblige. The three Spaniards, laden with the produce of the Main, were welcome and sold easily, local merchants having a market on the island for the foodstuffs and contacts in London who would happily dispose of the cocoa and hides and mahogany that made up the bulk of their cargoes. The eight hundred tonner from Europe was fallen on with delight, the merchants bidding each other up, all having customers who had hardly seen any goods from England in more than two years. Wines, brandy, silks and satins, porcelain, made furniture, clocks and mirrors for the genteel; shovels, prongs, axes and hoes, cast-iron cooking pots and thick earthenware for the plantations – all went to auction and were snapped up at vastly inflated prices.
The first share-out was sufficient for a very thorough celebration.
Tom had never been on the spree before, for lack of friends at home, was not at all sure of the procedure; Luke, who evidently knew all about enjoying himself, took him in hand, leading Tom and Dick and John uphill from the waterfront, on the grounds that the drinking houses nearest the quay were no better than rough shebeens.
“Pox-holes, mate – wash yer cock before you goes in there, because it’ll be too bloody late afterwards!”
Dick and John laughed uproariously; Tom didn’t understand.
They went inside a better looking hotel, cleaner and brighter than the dockside haunts, and the barman, knowing they were from Star, and rich, temporarily, made them welcome with something he called ‘rumbullion’, a long drink based on rum but with lime juice and guava and sugar and water added. The drink went down well and the four were joined at table by a group of young
ladies who seemed inclined, to Tom’s eyes, to be surprisingly friendly to men they had not been introduced to; the girls were of various colours from a deep cream to a rich brown, something wholly new to Tom, who had previously not really been aware of the existence of black people, Dorset not being the most cosmopolitan of counties. Whatever their colour, they were jolly girls, laughing and joking and drinking with them and quite rapidly pairing off, one apiece, the extra couple finding other company at another table.
Tom found himself talking in the friendliest fashion to a tall, well-built young lady who said she very much enjoyed big men and would like to see his muscles, inviting him along to an upstairs room for the purpose. To his surprise, and eventual pleasure, she seemed to want to show him her muscles as well, for she stripped all of her clothes off as soon as they were alone together, and then helped him remove his before gripping him in an unexpected manner. He soon discovered what he was supposed to do, however, and decided that it was really quite a good idea. His young lady, Sally by name, was touched and pleased to discover that she was his first, and threw herself into the task of teaching him, if not all that he needed to know then at least a very thorough introduction. Four days later she led him back to the Star, penniless, very, very tired and with a headache and a singularly foolish grin on his face, handed him over to Smith with instructions to make sure he got a good sleep and the message that he should be sure to come back again after his next cruise.
The Privateersman (A Poor Man at the Gate Series Book 1) Page 4