A Sloop of War

by Philip K Allan

‘Did you just say treasure?’ asked Evans, speaking loud enough to be heard over the sound of the cannon fire.

  ‘Sh Sh Shhhh,’ hissed the Irishman, a finger pressed to his lips. ‘Not so fecking loud!’ He looked around to see if they might have been overheard.

  ‘Can’t you two be digging and talking at once, like,’ gasped Trevan. ‘At least until this bugger here is filled up, like.’ Sedgwick muttered his assent and the sailors set to again with a will, earth flying up as the trench they stood in grew deeper. The effort required to raise each successive shovel full of earth up to the open top of the wicker gabion became harder as they sank farther into the ground, causing even the herculean Evans to grunt. When it was full at last they settled down in the trench bottom behind it to catch their breath. The three gabions they had filled so far bulged like close packed barrels in a line behind them, and a definite trench had started to form at their feet.

  All along the slope similar parties of soldiers and seamen dug away, cutting an angry red scar across the glacis. None of the sections of trenches had joined up as yet, but some were getting close to their neighbours. Each group of gabions was like a little besieged fortress, bombarded with steady deliberation from the guns of the French. But the slope was also dotted with ruined gabions, dashed away before they could be filled, while occasional bodies lay in the grass to mark where the fort’s defenders had struck down one of the many diggers.

  Evans peered around the edge of their shelter and up towards the fortress. He could see tendrils of gun smoke drifting across the grass. Above him the grey stone outer wall rose up proud of the glacis. Every fifteen yards or so were wide crenulations, like the gaps in the smile of a growing child. In the centre of the one immediately above him he could see the black muzzle of a cannon, its crew huddled over it. They rolled it up to the wall and pointed it straight at him. There was an orange flash and a gush of smoke as he ducked behind the gabion. A fraction of a second later he felt a solid blow against the wicker at his back. A flurry of dirt spilt down from above, but no more apparent damage had been done than that.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ he said, ‘Did you all feel that? These bleeders really do work.’ Evans patted the curved wicker wall with affection, and then turned towards O’Malley. ‘So I know you were keen for us to volunteer to be shot at, an all,’ he began, ‘but I am a little unsure why. You said something about treasure?’ O’Malley looked around him, and then beckoned the others closer.

  ‘Lads, you are going to need to trust me on this, but I am after knowing that on this very spot, there is buried treasure.’

  ‘Really?’ breathed Evans, looking at the bottom of the trench with new respect. ‘What right here?’

  ‘Well, it may not be this fecking spot, like,’ conceded the Irishman. ‘But in this bay. I have found out that Blackbeard himself, you know, the richest fecking pirate of them all, hid his treasure here. I am telling yous, El Dorado ain’t in it!’

  ‘So have you got a map or something, Sean?’ asked Trevan, his eyes alight with greed.

  ‘Not as such, no,’ said O’Malley. ‘But I has it on very good authority. I can’t say any more. You just need to believe me, and keep up the digging.’

  ‘What’s going on here?’ said a voice. The figure of Midshipman Preston loomed up over the edge of the trench. ‘Why are you lot sulking in the bottom of that hole, instead of digging?’

  ‘That’s just what I was saying to them me self, Mr Preston, sir,’ replied O’Malley. ‘Able, Sam, go get a fresh one of them giant lobster pots.’ The two men ran off down the slope, returning shortly after dragging the bulky gabion behind them. They pushed it into place, and the labour of filling it began once more. Moments later it exploded into a mass of red earth and shattered wicker as a direct hit from the fort sent it cartwheeling down the slope.

  ‘So off you go and get another one,’ said Preston, with O’Malley nodding approvingly behind him. The midshipman waited till the next gabion was in place, and well on its way to being filled before he ran across the gap of no-man’s-land between this and the next section of trench. Once he was gone, O’Malley turned back to the others.

  ‘Now listen here,’ he said. ‘Anything we find, we share equal like, agreed? Dig as deep as you can, and keep your eye out for any boxes or chests. And when we gets back to the ship, you mustn’t breathe a word about the treasure to anyone.’

  When Evans finished his stint of trench digging, he lay down his shovel quite resolved not to mention the possibility of buried treasure to a soul. Not a soul that is, except for his particular friend Harrison, who he chanced to stand beside on the beach while they both waited to be taken back to the ship. In reality it hardly counted as an indiscretion, because before he breathed a word, he made Harrison swear on the grave of his mother that the secret would pass on no further.

  Later that evening, when Harrison came to consider matters, it seemed clear to him that the binding commitment he had made on the beach could not be meant to include his tie mate O’Neil. After all, he reasoned, wasn’t a tie mate virtually your own flesh and blood? O’Neil, in his turn agreed to keep the secret safe. Indeed he managed to do so for almost a full hour, right up to the moment when he found himself sitting in the heads alongside Fletcher, the cooper’s mate. O’Neil was not sure what it was that had made him blurt it out. Perhaps it was a desire to interrupt the incontinent flow of shipboard gossip that Fletcher delighted in sharing. For Fletcher was the last person he should have told about the buried treasure. It was common knowledge among the crew of the Rush that the cooper’s mate, unlike the rest of them, could not be trusted to keep a secret.

  *****

  ‘By Jove, I must say those sailors of yours are capital diggers,’ exclaimed Captain Webb, brushing some reddish coloured soil from his uniform. No sooner had the offensive dirt been removed than another impact against the outer face of the trench sent a fresh plume of soil cascading over him. ‘My sergeant tells me he has never seen such zeal with a shovel.’

  ‘You don’t say, captain,’ said Preston. ‘Even more so than the soldiers?’

  ‘Oh, much more!’ enthused the engineer officer. ‘Even when off duty, many of them can be found practicing their newfound skills. He tells me they have dug trenches all over the deuced place. At this rate we should be able to start on the second parallel later today. That is a full day earlier than I thought possible.’

  ‘Indeed, it is a little surprising,’ replied the midshipman, a thoughtful expression on his young face as he watched his shore party widen the trench they stood in, flinging each shovel full of earth high in the air to fall down the outer wall.

  The two officers stood in the middle of the long trench that ran like a slot across the slope. After four days of continuous work it was now wide enough for three men to walk abreast, and in places was over four feet deep. The enormous amount of earth that had been dug was heaped into a solid wall on the side that faced towards the fortress. Despite the best effort of the defenders to batter it down, and the occasional tropical shower to wash it away, it still remained, providing safe access for the attackers.

  ‘So when must the men stop their digging for the parley you spoke of?’ asked Preston. The engineer officer drew out his fob watch and flipped open the case.

  ‘Why, it is almost time now,’ he mused. ‘What can be keeping them?’

  ‘I confess to being a little puzzled by this parley,’ said the midshipman. ‘Are we expecting the French to simply surrender?’

  ‘Not immediately, no,’ explained the captain. ‘Unless the Frogs are singularly ill prepared. But most sieges do end with some form of agreed surrender, you know. It is so much more civilised than fighting on till the inevitable, rather bloody conclusion. Today shall be more about sounding the blighters out, now that we have shown that we are in earnest.’

  ‘How civilised it all seems compared with fights at sea,’ said Preston.

  ‘You forget that at sea, unlike a siege, the weaker party has the option to r
etreat,’ said Webb. ‘Ah, now here comes our party at last. Stop digging, you men!’ Preston blew a shrill blast on his whistle, and all along the line the sailors stopped their work.

  The midshipman looked down the slope at the small group of soldiers coming up the hill. The way was led by an ensign who carried a large white flag that looked suspiciously like it may have begun the day as a bed sheet. Behind him marched a drummer boy in a heavily braided tunic next to the stiff figure of Major Grafton, looking rather more pleased with himself than he had on the deck of the stricken Burford. Every twenty yards or so the group stopped for a moment while the ensign waved his flag, and the boy flogged away at his drum. Having established that there was no question of any attempt to surprise the French, the party advanced a further twenty yards and repeated this little performance.

  Once they had climbed over the trench wall with a certain amount of difficulty, the enemy fire petered out, and an eerie calm descended. The party had not advanced very far into no-man’s-land when a door swung open in the main gate of the fort, and a brisk little French officer marched out, accompanied by his own drummer.

  ‘Ah, splendid!’ exclaimed Captain Webb. ‘We are to have a foot race.’

  ‘A what?’ queried Preston.

  ‘Well, by the conventions of war the parties should meet at the midpoint between the two sides,’ explained the engineer officer. ‘But naturally if you can make the talks occur closer to your enemy, there is an opportunity to observe what your opponent is about. See how that French cove marches so quickly?’ Captain Webb looked from one side to the other, like a spectator at a race meeting. ‘Close,’ he muttered. ‘The Frog officer looks the quicker, but Major Grafton can be very determined.’

  Preston watched with open astonishment as the scramble unfolded. Both parties were now moving forward as quickly as possible, while trying to cling to a little of the nonchalance to be expected of gentlemen. The two officers finally came together, as far as Preston could judge, in the middle of the glacis. The last few yards had been covered at a speed normally only produced by long separated lovers.

  There was a few moments of pause while both sides caught their breath and adjusted their attire. Major Grafton, in particular, had come close to shedding his hat in the final surge. Then the officers saluted, shook hands, and finally got into discussions. Although they were too far away to be heard, the tone of the dialogue could be seen from their respective gestures. The Frenchman pointed at the line of trench so far constructed, his shrug of disdain clear to behold. The bristling Major pointed to the long tent lines at the bottom of the hill and to the Rush and the Agrius where they swung at anchor in the bay. He spread his arms wide, seemingly to summarise in that one gesture the hopelessness of the French position. Back came the Frenchman, waving an arm towards the untouched fort wall. He then pointed first at the sky, then at the British trench, and made a slipping gesture. Both men spoke together for a little longer, then stepped back to exchange formal salutes, and turned away towards their own sides.

  ‘What was the outcome, sir?’ asked Captain Webb when the major was back in the British trench. Grafton shook his head towards the engineer.

  ‘Back to work, captain,’ he replied. ‘They say they have men and supplies enough for a long siege. He also mentioned that we had only progressed so well on account of how dry it has been. He said wait till it rains properly. Anyway, I must go and report to Colonel Gordon now on the outcome.’

  ‘Hmm, I am not sure a bit of rain will hold us back,’ mused the engineer. ‘Probably just some Frog attempt to throw us off the scent. Well, Mr Preston, let us get your men started on that second parallel.’

  *****

  After three days of further digging, just as the French officer had predicted, the rain had come. Black clouds had loomed up out of the south in row after row of huge towering thunderheads. They looked like craggy cliffs of boiling grey with silver threads of lightening flickering beneath them. Hissing rain had poured down, filling the trenches to the brim, and turning them into a blood red torrent. Soil had become gold panner’s mud on the sailors’ shovels, washed from the face long before it could reach the gaping mouth of the next gabion. The trench guards huddled in groups, knee deep in water, while the rest of the besiegers’ found what shelter they could in Vieux Fort.

  ‘When oh when will it stop fecking raining?’ said O’Malley, as he stared out from beneath the eaves of the lean-to they had built on the edge of town. ‘I know I am a true born Irishman an all, but even I have never seen the like before.’

  ‘Just as we had finished that bleeding second trench, an all,’ moaned Trevan. ‘This rain will wash it all away.’ He spat noisily out of the door, the gob of spittle rapidly flowing away down the path.

  ‘God, it was tough, though,’ said Evans. ‘The closer we was getting, the harder them Frog guns was pounding us. We needed a double layer of them gabions just to keep the shot out.’

  ‘Might it be one of them well hid blessings, Sean,’ suggested Trevan, laying a finger next to his nose. ‘Perhaps all this rain will wash away enough dirt to reveal some’t, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘So what progress have you lads made finding this treasure?’ asked the newly arrived Rosso, part of the additional draft of seamen brought ashore to help man the siege guns. The four sailors looked at each other.

  ‘We have found nothing, Rosie,’ said Sedgwick, speaking for them all. ‘Well, unless you count the belt buckle Sam came across on the first day.’

  ‘Nice piece of brass, that,’ said Evans, ‘or would be, if it wasn’t broken.’

  ‘Tell me again why is it you hold there to be treasure hereabouts, Sean?’ asked Rosso.

  ‘Ah, I see how it lies,’ O’Malley replied, folding his arms. ‘Are we all after questioning Sean now, ’cause of a bit of disappointment? I reckon we have barely scratched the surface. The treasure could be anywhere. Why we might be sitting upon it now.’ The other four looked down at the hard packed ground and mass of tree roots from the large palm tree against which their shelter had been built.

  ‘I doubt that, Sean,’ said Evans, prodding at the earth with the point of his shovel. ‘Them roots look to have lain here for many an age.’

  ‘Come on, Sean,’ persisted Rosso. ‘Why are you so decided in your view?’

  ‘You know how Hart is a real good mate of mine?’ began the Irishman. ‘Well, the night before we arrived here, him and I were sharing a pipe in the galley, having a bit of a yarn, like. He always shares what he hears with me.’ The others all nodded at this. O’Malley continued.

  ‘“Sean,” says he, “I have just been serving the Grunters their dinner, and you will never guess what they been talking about.” What they been saying? says I. He looks around, all secretive like, then says, “I came into the cabin when they was all looking at the chart. ‘Why is this place we’re going to named Black Bay?’ says the doctor to the master. ‘Why, its coz Blackbeard himself buried all his treasure there,’ says old Fatty Apple. Then up speaks Pipe, and he says, ‘Don’t go letting the hands know that.’” O’Malley looked around at the other faces. ‘Now when I heard that from Hart, I am after thinking, why are they so keen on us not knowing about this treasure, unless it is true?’

  ‘Well you can’t fault his bleeding logic, Rosie,’ said Evans.

  ‘I am not sure that I agree with you there, Big Sam,’ said Rosso. ‘See, I have been thinking as well, Sean. It strikes me that if I was a pirate, this would be a mighty queer place for me to stash my treasure. We are in the Caribbean. There is no end of uninhabited islands to pick from. There are two just off the coast on the other side of the peninsula. So why would you chose here, with plenty of folk about who might stumble over your treasure?’ The other sailors looked at one another.

  ‘Wait a moment, Rosie,’ said O’Malley. ‘That may be true now, but what if this part of the island was empty back in the days when Blackbeard was doing all his buccaneering?’

  ‘No, Sean, that will
hold no water,’ said Rosso. ‘Blackbeard died less than eighty year ago. This fort was certainly here then. Frogs would hardly call it “Vieux Fort” if it was brand new. See, that is my other problem with all of this. The soldiers up in the fort, all the people in the town, no end of plantation owners in the hills; they’ve had years and years to find your treasure. Do you not think if it were here they might have turned up the odd doubloon?’

  ‘But what if the treasure is all a great fecking secret!’ said O’Malley, leaning forward to play his decisive card. ‘What if nobody knows that Blackbeard ever came here?’

  ‘If nobody knows that he came here, why is his name set down on Fatty Apple’s chart?’ replied Rosso. Silence descended over the group as they absorbed the remorseless logic of their friend’s argument.

  ‘Well you can’t fault his bleeding logic, Sean,’ said Evans.

  ‘I think perhaps Rosie has the truth of it,’ agreed Sedgwick.

  ‘Fecking hell,’ was O’Malley’s more succinct summary.

  Chapter 12

  Siege

  For three days and two nights the rain cascaded down on friend and foe alike. But at last the deluge moved away and the besiegers were able to contemplate the ravaged remains of their trenches as they steamed in the tropical sun. Some sections seemed to have been quite unaffected. Others had had much of the soil in their gabions washed through the mesh of wicker and back into the trench from whence it had come. The defenders concentrated their fire on such vulnerable targets. As each sodden gabion burst, the sight was received with a groan from the labouring British, and a faint cheer borne on the wind from behind the still untouched walls of the fortress.

  Once more the British set to with a will. Fresh gabions were hauled along the parallels, and plugged into the gaps. Soil again flew into them in a frantic race to have them filled before they were dashed away. After four days of hard work, and in spite of a noticeable drop in the level of enthusiasm for the task displayed by the shore party from the Rush, the approach trenches were at last restored back to the state they had been in before the rains had come.