by Michael Aye
“Am I to wait for a reply, sir?”
“Yes, but have Hex or Lieutenant Laqua return to the ship with it.”
“Am I to know what’s in the note, Captain?”
“I suggested if this was to be a council of war, it might be good if each of the ships’ first lieutenants and masters were to attend also. Lord Skalla is a good man, but he’s not a sailor…yet. The dinner is not until eight o’clock tonight. It is not yet noon and I’d think it amiss, Lieutenant, if you didn’t find something that would amuse you until which time you have to get ready for the dinner. You deserve a few hours away from the ship. That, and more. I don’t know what I’d have done without you.”
Campbell made to protest but Gabe waved it away. “I understand you are not a married man, Don.”
“No sir.”
“Well, I am. Now go see if you can charm some lovely Dutch maiden. Tell her you are an admiral and you are in charge of the British fleet.”
Smiling, Campbell responded, “Damme sir, but that sounds rehearsed. Have you used it?”
“There was a time,” Gabe admitted with a grin. “There was a time.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Having never tasted a South African dinner, Gabe had nothing to compare it with, but it did not stand up to what he was accustomed to. Those dinners at Government House on both Antigua and Barbados were much more traditional in regards to etiquette and the fare. Most of the food served that evening was cooked over an open fire in a three-legged pot called a potjie. Gabe did not attempt to identify the meat in the pot, which was cooked together with several other ingredients so as to make a stew…a damn spicy stew. He did recognize a type of corn, rice, carrots, and cabbage in it.
There was also a dish called bredie. It was cooked sweet potatoes mashed with butter and sprinkled with a nut and topped off with a drizzle of honey. Tripe was also served, perhaps as a nod to the guests’ culture,. Roasted kid was also available, but the sauce on the goat caused Gabe’s forehead to sweat.
“Damned if this is not worse than some of Chen Lee’s concoctions,” Gabe whispered to Dagan.
“Aye,” Dagan whispered back. “They do not hold back with the chili peppers and spicy curries.”
Gabe saw Hayes, the master, appear to be playing it safe, eating the tripe and pickled fish along with a helping of mieliepap, a porridge made from maize and meal served with butter. A South African wine from the Constantia Estate, and which was reportedly from the first vines planted in South Africa, was particularly appeasing to the palate.
Campbell, whose taste for the wine was less than enthusiastic, was drinking a cloudy beer that was said to be made by the native women. Lord Skalla had been seated to the right of their host, Mr. Bridges, with Gabe on the left.
Getting Gabe’s attention, Lord Skalla said, “Bridges here is going to give us a supply of droëwors.” Realizing Gabe had no idea what he was talking about, Skalla explained, “Droëwors is a dried sausage. It provides a quick, between meals bite that will stay with you. I always get a case when possible. If we were going to be here longer,” he continued, “I would impose upon our host to have his cooks prepare us a dish called Bobotie. You would love it.”
Little did either one of them know the opportunity would arise. After the business had been completed and the latest scouting reports gone over, Hayes said, “It will be a dangerous bit of navigation. Ambodifotatra is where you say the rebels are likely anchored. I don’t even have a chart that shows the place and only a couple that list St. Mary’s. We know nothing about the depths close in, what the bottom is like, sandy or rocks or how quickly it shoals. All we have is your scout’s theory that we should be able to get close enough to the blasted enemy for our guns to be in range. We are told Ambodifotatra lies just southerly to here,” the master said, pointing to a spot on a chart that jutted out. “Depending on the direction of the wind, we may only be able to attack from the north and then have to sail around the island for another pass.”
“Why so?” Bridges asked.
Seeing the man was truly interested, Hayes answered, “St. Mary’s is wide about the middle but narrows considerably where we think the anchorage lies. If we came from the south steering northerly we’d have to be ready to go about quickly, else chance running aground where the island juts out. If we knew for certain the island’s defenses, would it not behoove us to heave to?”
“We could put a spring on the cable and thereby shift our fire,” Lieutenant Campbell said.
“A good thought, Mr. Campbell. I feel we need to know more about the channel, how deep it is, and then discuss how to attack the place,” Captain Peckham of Venus volunteered.
“Well, you can’t sail in with a man in the chains,” Chatham, the captain of Brilliant said.
“No,” Gabe said. “You can’t, but a couple of men doing a little night fishing might be able to take a few soundings.”
“Aye,” Hayes said, taking up the idea. “Should someone become suspicious and investigate, the lead could always be dropped over the side.”
Looking to Bridges, Gabe said, “Can you get a couple of men in close?”
Nodding his head in the affirmative, the man spoke softly, “It can be arranged.”
The following morning, Bridges sent out his coaster to do some trading on the eastern coast of Madagascar. From there, a few men in one of the island’s many fishing boats should rouse no alarm. Three of Trident’s men went along: Harper, who once earned a living fishing; Thorpe, the poacher, and to Gabe’s astonishment, Dagan.
“I feel the need to get away a few days,” was Dagan’s only explanation; a reprieve from the day to day on board Trident or to get a feel of where they’d likely do battle…and possibly die?
A sudden thought came to Gabe that made him shiver. He’d never for once considered that Dagan might die. Now, it was like a ghost ran through his soul. Did Dagan have some premonition? Did death await him or Dagan or even Hex? The odds were not in their favor: a hostile enemy, an uncharted coast…and the looks of nasty weather. Not a damn thing was on their side.
Certainly not the island cuisine. In fact, Hex had had to see the ship’s surgeon, as his innards were in such a mess. He still looked pale as he sat checking Gabe’s weapons for rust.
“Feel better, Jake?”
“Aye, cap’n. It was like a broadside from both ends at once. But I drank the surgeon’s pickle juice and now I feel some better.” A grin broke out on the cox’n’s face. “At least now I can fart without fear.” A chuckle came from the pantry. Even Nesbit was amused by Hex’s comments.
***
The sun was going down. Nesbit lit a lantern so his captain could see to sign the last of the papers the purser had brought down. Gabe had been so intent to get through the purser’s pile that he hadn’t noticed that the wind had picked up until it blew through the stern windows, causing some of the papers to fly about, scattering across the desk. The hanging lantern had started to sway, casting shadows across the cabin.
Hearing the captain swear got Nesbit’s attention. He approached Gabe and asked, “Should I go ahead and prepare your evening meal, sir?”
“Yes,” Gabe replied.
Gabe, the first lieutenant, and the master were to dine with the young gentlemen that evening. Would it have to be postponed?
“Captain, sir, midshipman of the watch.”
Seeing Mr. Brayden, Gabe beckoned the boy to come forward. “How may I help you, young sir?”
“The first lieutenant’s compliments, sir, and you may wish to come on deck.”
Typically, the master and first lieutenant were quick to go topside should anything arouse their suspicion that something amiss was in the offering. Therefore, something must be brewing for Gabe to be summoned.
“A dirty night I’m thinking,” Hayes volunteered. “Barometer has already dropped to 30-30. Wind is already stronger than usual and is from the south-southeast.”
“Are we in for a blow?”
“Aye, Captain
, that’s what I’m thinking. I noticed heavy white clouds over Muizenberg earlier but the wind had not picked up then.”
“Do we lay out another anchor?” Campbell asked.
“I think so, Don, before it gets any worse.” Looking across the anchorage, Gabe could see the other ships in the squadron were busy breaking out second anchors. Would Trident drag her anchor? Maybe not, but why chance it. It was full dark when the task was done.
On shore, lanterns and candles were being lit so that it created a flickering appearance. Not unlike the lightning bugs Gabe had seen in South Carolina when he’d met Faith. A patter of rain started to fall. Big drops turning the deck dark, like spots on a leopard’s back, Gabe thought. Bridges had one of the big cats on a chain in his backyard.
“Better than a watch dog,” Bridges had said as he walked up, offering the big cat a morsel of meat from the palm of his hand. Gabe wasn’t sure he was any better, thinking of Sampson, but he was scarier.
The watch had just been changed and Holton had the deck. Good. He was a good officer and would not hesitate to sound the alarm if need be, Gabe thought. The wind was now gusty. The rain picked up and the shower was replaced by a hard driving rain. Waves had turned from heavy rollers to churning white caps that crashed into the ship and onto the shore.
Hex had brought Gabe his tarpaulin and handed him one of the African sausages. “Good time to try one of these droëwors, Captain.”
Biting into the dried sausage, Gabe was amazed at how flavorful it was. “Tried one?” Gabe asked.
“No sir.” Breaking his in half, Gabe gave his cox’n part of the sausage to try.
“A little spicy, but not hot like the curry,” Hex said. “A little salty though. We’ll need a wet before long.”
“Is there any of that Shebeen beer left?” Gabe asked.
“A pint or so I’d think,” Hex replied.
“Might go good with this,” Gabe said, holding up the sausage.
“I’ll go check,” Hex said, knowing the captain would not leave the deck in a blow.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
The cry of “sail ho” caused a momentary bit of excitement. However, when the ship was identified as Bridges’ coastal ship, the hands went back to their make and mend. It was Sunday, but being in port, Gabe had allowed the first lieutenant to declare Sunday afternoon make and mend, as had the other ships in the squadron that were at anchor.
In spite of Bridges’ and Lord Skalla’s assurance that they had little to fear from the enemy in a neutral port, Gabe’s years at sea had taught him to always expect the unexpected. Right now, Venus and Thorn were patrolling. The frigate was always in sight of the bay and the brig. Should the enemy approach signals could be relayed and the rest of the ships would be ready.
The enemy had not showed up, nor had any other ship for that matter. It was like Simon’s Bay was deserted except for the British ships and a few fishing boats. It had been eleven days since Dagan’s group had set sail. They were overdue and anxiety was causing Gabe to be snappish. Madagascar was said to be two hundred fifty or sixty miles away. St. Mary’s lay about five miles off the western coast of Madagascar. If the coaster averaged five knots, they should have been there in three days at most. A day or so for sounding, then they should have been back in a week. Add a day or so for bad weather, and they still should have been back in nine days. Hopefully, the trip was fruitful.
The coastal tied up at its usual mooring and a boat was put over the side to row the three men from Trident home. The men’s return was met with a warm welcome. The first lieutenant waited a while and then escorted Thorpe and Harper down to the great cabin, having given Dagan and the Captain a few minutes alone.
Once the men were brought down, Gabe asked their preference in drink, “Straight rum, hock, or a glass of wine?” He knew lime juice was not acceptable. Gabe winced as he also offered them the choice of bourbon.
“We’ll take what that ’un be drinking,” Harper said, speaking of Hex.
“Aye,” Thorpe added. “If it be to Jake’s liking, it’ll be to ours.”
“We…ah…confiscated a few cases of Cruzan rum from St. Croix,” Hex said. “To my way of thinking that be a man’s drink.” Looking at Gabe, his cox’n added, “No offense meant, Cap’n.”
“None taken,” Gabe responded, all the while thinking, you silver-tongued devil, Jake Hex.
Catching Dagan’s eye, he realized Dagan must be thinking the same thought. Both of them knew Hex preferred the bourbon, but with it in short supply, he’d taken steps to see it lasted a while longer.
The men began their story with the storm that hit them the first night at sea. Gabe remembered it well. He’d spent the entire night on deck, eating those sausages that gave him a bad case of dyspepsia. The surgeon had promptly recommended the pickle juice and damned if it hadn’t done the trick.
Smacking his lips then eyeing the rum appreciatively, Harper spoke, “Once at Madagascar, the ship pulled into a couple of ports, setting up our, ah…”
“Alibi,” Dagan added for the man.
“Then we pulled right over to where the bloody buggers were anchored. Greeted the cap’n like ’e was a mate,” Thorpe added.
Gabe looked at Dagan, who nodded his affirmative.
“We were fishing off the ship’s stern when this bloke in a boat says there’s better fishing just off shore. We waited until it was dark and out we went. Dagan there, ’e did the soundings, while me and Thorpe fished.”
“Gave a right smart of our catch to the bloody buggers,” Thorpe added. “But it was worth it, as taking the fish ashore we got a peek at their defenses. Not so much there, but on the little island there be.”
“Little island?”
“Aye,” Dagan said. “Ilot Madame, it is located at the mouth of the harbour. This creates a narrow approach to the harbour making the island easy to defend. It has a fort of sorts, more a palisade with a few cannons on each side. There’s also a similar defense on Ile Ste.-Marie and they have a guard boat of sorts that patrols the harbour at night. There are enough ships in the small harbour to make maneuvering difficult. However, we did see a ship that was beached on Ilot Madame. They were careening the sides, so the bottom there must be sandy. In truth, it would be a tricky piece of work even if the rebels were all we had to worry about.”
“All?” Gabe asked, his mind still trying to digest all he’d been told.
“Aye,” Dagan replied. “There’s also the French.”
“Well, damme,” Gabe responded. “Aren’t you all full of good news?”
“It’s possible they won’t be there when we attack,” Campbell volunteered.
“Not with my luck,” Gabe said, running his hand through his hair.
“It were a squadron of the Frogs, Cap’n,” said Harper. “Had a big eighty gun with a commodore’s pennant, they did. Rowed right under the big ship’s stern we did.”
“Aye,” Thorpe said, adding, “Friendly sort of bloke, howsoever. Tossed us a bottle of wine ’e did. They may be frog eaters but ’e didn’t want no fish, did ’e, ’arper?”
“Nay, mate, ’e didn’t.”
“You talked to them?” Gabe asked incredibly.
“Why not?” Dagan replied. “We heard several different accents and languages among the privateers.”
“No one country ’as a monopoly on rogues, Cap’n,” Thorpe said.
He’s heard that somewhere, Gabe thought. Thorpe is a good man but he didn’t put that sentence together. Seeing Dagan smile it was obvious where Thorpe had heard the phrase.
“How many ships were there?” Gabe asked.
Before Dagan could respond, Thorpe replied, “Eight at least. The big two decker what flew a commodore’s pennant, and several smaller ships. One was a small frigate.”
Gabe felt like he’d been hit in the midsection with a belaying pin. After a few more minutes and another glass of rum, it was obvious there was nothing more to be gained. Thorpe and Harper were dismissed.
“We need a captain’s conference and I need some fresh air,” Gabe said. “Jake, go ashore and see if it’s convenient for Lord Skalla to return to the ship. I’m sure Bridges’ captain has filled him in already. Mr. Campbell, see if the master has any charts with this Ilot Madame on it. If not, Dagan and he need to get together and draw it on the charts he has.”
“Aye, Captain.”
Once on deck Gabe and Dagan walked toward the stern where the signals midshipman was working at something in the flag locker.
“Mr. Sebastian!”
Startled, the young man whirled around and, seeing the captain, he smiled. “Yes sir, Captain.”
“Make a signal, ‘Captains Repair on Board.’”
Dagan and Gabe stood by the taffrail. Both were taking in the surroundings but neither was speaking. Boats were being shoved off from the squadron’s ships. Hex had made it to the beach. The bargemen were sitting easy until his return with Lord Skalla. Dagan busied himself lighting his pipe.
When he spoke it was little more than a whisper. “I’ve letters in my sea chest.”
Hearing this, Gabe looked up shocked, “Uncle…surely nothing will happen to you.”
“No one is promised tomorrow, Gabe. It is best to be prepared. I set up things with Hugh as you did while we were in Portsmouth. Maria will be taken care of until she passes if I were to fall. When she passes, you are to get that which is left.”
“Uncle, don’t talk like this.”
“We must, Gabe. I want you to know you’ve been more than a nephew to me. I remember when you were small and I promised your Grandfather Dupree that I would watch over you until you were a man. I often wondered what I’d gotten myself into. You are a man now, Gabe, and I have to say it has been a journey I wouldn’t have changed for the world.”
The cry of “boat ahoy” interrupted the conversation. Hurrying, Dagan said, “There is a letter to Betsy. I would ask that this be delivered personally, even if it has to wait until the war is over.”