by Hunter, Seth
Still, they were a welcome addition to the crew and with his extra quota of marines and the score or so of “volunteers” he had picked up from the jails and taverns of Kingston and Port Royal, the Unicorn was not far short of her full complement. With the improvement in her gunnery—they had been practising every day since leaving Jamaica—he felt a greater sense of optimism than at any time since joining the ship. But his talk of meeting with the Virginie was more for the benefit of the crew than from any private conviction, whatever Brother Ignatius had to say about it.
The notion of paying her back for the miseries she had inflicted upon them off Ship Island had taken hold on the lower deck as much as it had among his officers and he felt it advisable to nurture this ambition, rather than to reveal the true purpose of their mission as they threaded their cautious way through the Sea of Sirens. Only his lieutenants—and of course Brother Ignatius—knew of his intention of attacking the mutineers and their rebel allies in the Mouth of the Serpent. The rest of the officers and crew remained in ignorance. Sooner or later, of course, he would have to tell them but he was still working on his speech—and that would have to be as politic as any he had made.
Tully and Maxwell returned to the quarterdeck from their divisions. They were having an animated discussion about the performance of their respective guns and crews and Nathan felt a sharp stab of envy, not only for their easy intimacy but for the technical nature of their discussion. He envied them their total absorption in the detail of things. He remembered it from when he had been a lieutenant—and a midshipman before that, conversing with another junior officer about some specific aspect of gunnery, or navigation … or what they were going to have for dinner. Larger issues, such as where they were going and why—or who they were fighting and why—had rarely entered into it. They could leave that to others—remote, godlike beings like their captain, who could never converse with anyone, not with ease, and who ate his dinner alone, an hour after everyone else, unless he summoned them to join him for a formal meal in his cabin, or was invited to join them in the gunroom on some special occasion. And whenever he spoke he would be listened to with respect, his views treated with the deference due to his godly status.
Well, to hell with it. He did not have to play by the rules all the time. He intercepted a look from Tully, vaguely questioning, perhaps sensing his discontent, and summoned him with a slight sideways movement of his head as he would have on the Speedwell.
“What did you think?” Nathan asked him when Tully had joined him at the rail.
Tully replied formally with an intelligent summary of the operation, adding one or two trifling criticisms and modest suggestions for improvement. Nathan half listened; the question had been an excuse, a means of introducing a different subject altogether, though it was, he supposed, related.
“And the diverse elements, they are working well together?”
“Well enough—there are always diverse elements in any crew.”
“More so than usual, perhaps, with the Irish and the Africans.”
Tully knew him well enough to suspect there was a deeper reason for this line of questioning. It was not so unusual to have a significant proportion of Irish among the crew of a British man of war and even a number of Negroes.
“I have noted no particular tensions between them,” Tully said quietly, “or with any other sections of the crew. Of course there is a language difficulty.”
“With the Irish?”
“With the Africans.” In a tone of mild surprise until he saw Nathan’s expression. “Your pardon. Very good.”
A poor joke but it had broken at least part of the constraint that sometimes arose between them.
“The fact is,” Nathan confided, “I cannot help but fear there will be an element of divided loyalty when I tell them the true nature of our mission. Both Africans and Irish.” He kept his voice low but they were both looking out to sea and unless Gabriel had his ear pressed to the cabin window below there was little risk of being overheard—and Gabriel probably knew already what was the true nature of their mission. It could only be hoped he had kept it to himself for the time being.
“I think you are wise to keep it to the last possible minute,” Tully agreed. “But much depends on your plan for the encounter.”
“Right. Well, when I have a plan I will share it with you. At present I have not the remotest idea what to do.” Tully smiled. Did he think he was joking? “But whatever it is, it will involve some considerable violence—and to men with whom they have much in common, and probably feel a great deal of sympathy for.”
Tully said nothing for the moment. He looked away down the length of the deck where Pym’s defaulters were already down on their knees scrubbing at the marks left by the recent gunnery practice.
“Well, as to the Irish,” began Tully, “there are only twenty-eight of them left. If you fear, that is …”
Nathan sensed him choosing his words with particular care. “Come along,” he urged him. “Speak frankly with me. I want to know your honest opinion.”
“Well, if you do not believe you can rely upon them, I suppose you may limit their participation in the affair. It does, as I say, depend on the eventual plan. If it is to be a cutting out …”
He left the sentence unfinished but Nathan nodded his understanding. If the Unicorn were to remain off-shore and he or Pym, Maxwell or Tully, led the boats in with the marines and some picked members of the crew—probably by night—the Irish need never know what they were about until they returned with their captives. If, indeed, they returned at all.
“And the Africans?”
“The same goes for them.”
Nathan made a sour face. “I hate it when I cannot depend on members of my own crew and have to deceive them.”
“Well, take them into your confidence, then. As you have me. I was once a smuggler. Yet you did not appear to distrust me when we encountered the smugglers in the English Channel. Men who were my former shipmates.”
“Really? You did not tell me that at the time.”
“Did I not? It must have escaped me in the heat of the moment.”
They both grinned, remembering. Nathan sighed. “To tell truth, Martin, I am not even sure of my own loyalties. Dear God. Look at us. We are entirely opposed to slavery. The King’s chief minister is opposed to it, the leader of the Opposition and most of the Whigs, even a great many Tories. The Navy is opposed to it—I have yet to meet an officer who will speak in its favour—and yet here we are fighting to restore it throughout the Caribbean. In the next twenty-four hours we may be forced to fire on an army of escaped slaves. Why is it we are so often on the wrong side, Martin?”
But wiser heads than Tully’s had considered this question without coming close to an answer. Nathan caught sight of a diffident figure, hovering at the extremity of his vision. “Yes, Mr. Godfrey?”
The pilot approached and saluted. “I believe we will sight Cape Cruz in about an hour,” he announced, “and then we will follow the coast north to Boca del Serpiente.”
“Very well, señor.” Nathan raised his voice so that the first lieutenant could hear him at the con. “Mr. Pym, I believe we will heave to.”
He did not wish to take any chance of being observed from the coast and news of their presence carried to the rebels.
“Mr. Lamb, oblige me if you would, by finding how Mr. Lloyd is getting on with his virgin.”
A delighted grin from Lamb who was young enough to find this amusing. He dived down the nearest companionway and popped up again a minute or so later with the semblance of gravity upon his youthful features and the information that “Mr. Lloyd says her paint is still a bit wet but if you are ready to see her, he will bring her up on to the forecastle.”
Notice of the event had got about and the deck was more than usually crowded with idlers as their new figurehead emerged like Aphrodite from the waters—and with at least two of her most striking attributes.
“Dear God,” murmured Nat
han to Tully. “I believe I asked for a virgin not the whore of Babylon.”
He did not know if it was the bosom that disturbed him most or the violently rouged cheeks and the lewd and self-satisfied smirk she wore upon her face. Her creator came aft, the subject of ribald comment and with the look of a naughty Welshman who knows he has been found out and for once does not mind, knowing that popular feeling is on his side.
Pym was beside himself, discipline shot to ruin. “Mr. Lloyd, you have disgraced yourself,” he said.
“I beg pardon, sir, but I am not sure I know what you mean.”
“You know very well what he means, Mr. Lloyd,” put in Nathan. “Did you have to give her such a distinctive … profile?”
“It was unavoidable, sir, if it is to go over the ‘orse’s ‘ead, so to speak.”
“I see. Yes, I suppose that is a consideration.”
As usual, when speaking with a Welshman, Nathan struggled to avoid mimicry, not from any desire to mock but from some compelling cadence in the language.
“And the ’orn will ’ave to come off, you know, that is with your permission, sir.”
“I suppose it will. But cut it at an angle, if you would, Mr. Lloyd, so it may be securely restored when we are done.” He observed the small twitch in the carpenter’s brow. “I beg your pardon, I do not wish to teach my grandmother to suck eggs.”
He was aware that something wittier might have come to him, but it hadn’t and it was no use chasing it now. “And Mr. Pym, perhaps we may put some of the hands to painting the ship red, or that part of it as we have agreed.”
When all was done and the watch had gone to dinner, Nathan attempted to still his own hunger by having himself rowed out to a cable’s length and looking back on his ship in her new likeness: the proud-bosomed figurehead at her bow and the broad red stripe down her side, for all the world the image of the Virginie, especially when they broke out the tricolour at her mizzen.
“I am sorry, Mr. Pym,” he told the first lieutenant when he returned to the ship and caught his sullen eye. Mr. Pym was an honourable man, like his former commander, the late lamented Captain Kerr, and had no truck with privateering or flying about under false colours. “But it would not do to go hovering about the shore in our true identity and have it known from here to Port-au-Prince.”
“As you wish, sir. I am sure you know what you are about.”
It was a waste of time trying to make friends with the man or take him into his confidence. They were poles apart. He sought out Brother Ignatius who had the freedom of his cabin and was reading a book in the stern windows.
“We have set sail for San Juan,” Nathan informed him, “and will be ready to land you as close as we may a little after dark.”
It was closer to midnight, in fact, the wind having dropped considerably in the meantime, before they were close enough to the port to consider launching a boat.
“Are you sure it is not too late?” Nathan enquired of the monk. He was concerned that he might attract the attention of the watch ashore. There was almost certain to be a curfew with a rebel army camped on their doorstep.
“Oh, who would trouble a poor monk?” responded Brother Ignatius carelessly. “And we holy men are often about at night, upon some small errand of mercy.”
“Well, I shall not rest easy until your return,” Nathan said, handing him down into the gig.
“I will try to be at the rendezvous this time tomorrow night,” the monk assured him. “Failing which, perhaps you would be good enough to send back for me at the same time for the next two nights.”
“And after that?”
“After that, I think we may take it that I am unavoidably detained and you must do what you can without me.”
Fortunately for Nathan’s peace of mind they brought him back the following night, none the worse for wear and indeed, looking considerably pleased with himself. From the smell about him, Nathan gathered he had discovered his favourite form of refreshment.
“Here,” said the monk, thrusting a bundle of mint in his face. “I have brought us the necessary ingredient.” A bottle followed—unlabelled. “And a more refined version of the stuff you are insensitive enough to call rum.”
Gabriel relieved him of both items and bore them down to the cabin in their wake while the monk subjected him to a detailed list of instructions.
“Remember you must pluck the leaves from one sprig and crush them with the sugar before you add the lime juice,” he concluded. “Add another sprig for decoration in each glass and put the rest in water to keep it fresh.”
“So,” Nathan regarded him thoughtfully when they were alone. “I gather you had a satisfactory trip. If only in the gathering of herbs.”
“Oh never fear, I did more than gather herbs. I have learned everything you wish to know. At least I hope so, though as a seafaring man you are probably going to ask me things about tides and currents and suchlike that will entirely confound me.”
“I think we can safely leave the tides and currents to Mr. Godfrey,” Nathan assured him, “if only you can tell us about the Army of Lucumi.”
“Ask any question you like and I will endeavour to oblige you.”
It would certainly not be the first mojito the monk had sampled that evening, Nathan thought. “Very well. How many are they?”
“A little over a thousand—though more are rallying to them by the day. But they are very short of powder and shot—and guns. Small arms, that is, for I am not counting the cannon in the fort. I am informed that they have no more than a couple of hundred muskets between them, the few they brought down with them from the Sierra Maestra and the rest taken from the garrison at the fort.”
“And what of the mutineers—the pirates?”
“They keep very much to themselves—in the boat which they have moored in the bay. And they are somewhat reduced in number since they left the Unicorn. I am assured there are now no more than sixteen of them, the rest having fallen in the battle with the slavers or succumbed to disease.”
“But do they not have the maroons they brought with them from the Gardens of the King?”
“My informant believes that they have joined the Army of Lucumi and are camped in and around the fort. If you will provide me with paper, pen and ink I will draw you a map.”
Nathan did as he was requested and watched carefully as the monk drew the outline of the Serpent’s Mouth with the fort on the western lip and the shape of two boats in the small enclosed bay.
“Two?” he questioned him.
“One is the brig, which they have named the Fabhcun—which is to say the Falcon in the Gaelic. The other is your cutter, I believe. The maroons are mainly accommodated in Fort Felipe, which they now call Akaso—the sentinel—though some are under canvas on the beach below, just here, where there is a small jetty for landing supplies. The guns of the fort cover the entrance to the bay and there are more covering the principle approach from the shore, here.”
“And do they know how to use them?”
“Not very well, I am told. That is one of the several disputes they have with your former crewmen who wished to place one of their own number in charge of the guns. But Olumiji is jealous of his authority.”
“Olumiji?”
“The leader of the maroons, those that were in the Sierra Maestra. There is further division with those that came from the Jardines del Rey who are Kokongo. Olumiji and his men are mostly Yoruba. The one thing that unites both groups is their dislike of the pirates. Certainly of being ordered about by them. O’Neill, your former crewman, has a reputation for being overbearing, I understand. He wishes the maroons to join him in his little fleet—under his command—and sail for Hispaniola to join with the French as a privateer. Olumiji is reluctant to relinquish his own authority and his power base in the Sierra Maestra. His name means ‘one who awakens,’ by the by. He has plans for a general revolt among the slaves of Cuba. Plans that appear to involve your old friend, Imlay.”
Imlay again. �
��But how can that be? Imlay has not been near the Sierra Maestra.”
“No, but he made good use of his time in the Havana, it appears. I am not sure—nor was my informant—but Olumiji knows all about him and his promise to support them with French ships and arms.”
“Christ.” Nathan realised what he had said and to whom. “I am sorry.” He shook his head. “It is just that I cannot quite come to terms with the depths of that man’s iniquity. Or my own naivety. I had thought his only interest in the Havana was in women.”
“ Well, that did occupy some of his time—and not only for his pleasure. Many of the leading savants of Lucumi are women and not a few of them are spies. Including Olumiji’s closest adviser, a woman by the name of Adedike. Which means ‘one who comes to fulfil our plea.’ It may be an innocent expression of gratitude on the part of her parents but I am inclined to suspect a more universal application. She also has a French name: Sabine. Sabine Delatour. I am told she came from Saint-Domingue a little over a year ago with a boatload of refugees—and papers that established her status as a freed slave. It is thought that she was the mistress of one of the French planters, an aristocrat, who granted her freedom in his will. He was butchered by the rebels in Saint-Domingue, though there are those who say Sabine—Adedike—killed him. Certainly there are many in San Sebastian who consider her a witch. She arrived there recently by ship from the Havana and has now established herself, as I say, in the counsels of the Army of Lucumi. O’Neill tried his luck with her once and I am told this is one of the major sources of tension between the maroons and the mutineers.”
“Your informant seems remarkably well informed.”
“She is.”
“She?”
“Yes. Do you have any objection to that?”
“No. It was just that I thought …”
The monk smiled a secret smile. “You thought she was a fellow monk. No, she is far more beautiful and a savant of Lucumi. But she is much opposed to violence, certainly at this time and in this place. A very interesting woman …” He grew thoughtful. “Quite sincerely religious and wise beyond her years, though of course, deluded in her beliefs. Ah, here are the mojitos. I hope you have not spoiled them with too much sugar,” he warned Gabriel sternly. “It is a frequent fault of the English to be putting too much sugar into things.”