“How can a man claim the property of a man dead an ‘undred years?’ he queried after a minute’s thought.
“The letter has its own instructions, regardless of the owner, so it should be fine. As to the other, you do remember Sir William Mulholland, don’t you?”
“Him, I remember. How is the old fellow?”
“Still up to his old tricks,” said Neville with a crooked smile, and walked away.
Experiment had been cleaned and repaired to a state that would impress any visiting admiral. On the morning of the 29th September, a few silvery flakes of snow fluttered to the deck. They disappeared entirely when they landed, but they carried a clear message: It was time to return Experiment to Jamaica. A gathering convoy in need of protection told the same story. This smaller convoy would consist of only five merchantmen. One belonged to Elliott. For a time they had expected Wasp to rejoin them from Providence, but as the day neared, she still had not arrived. None of the merchants had firepower to match Wasp, and thus it would be with greater trepidation that Captain Burton sailed south.
Neville joined the Burton family for his final dinner in Norfolk and collected the last of the gifts that had been shipped down from Providence and Philadelphia. Talk turned to Maria.
“I would like very much to bring Maria here. I have only seen this place in summer. Is there another time of year you would fancy more?
“Come in the autumn,” Jane blurted. “If she has always lived in Jamaica she will not know of the glorious colors of the trees here. In addition, when the harvest is in, the feasting here is unmatched anywhere. If you sail at the end of the hurricane season, you can see the glory of it and not endure this wretched heat. Then return to Jamaica before it is colder than she has ever felt in her life. We shall look forward to your letters and pray for a visit by our new daughter-in-law. And maybe another small one?” she suggested with a wink.
21 - “Return to Jamaica”
“Are we still on for Tuesday, day after tomorrow, Sir?” asked Lt. Ratshaw.
“You know we are. There’s no reason to change it, though I do wish we had Wasp with us. I would feel much more comfortable. I wonder where she is now.”
“Right there, Sir, entering the harbor,” he answered with a smirk.
Neville, who had been leaning against the poop rail studying people walking about town, jerked his head around to look. Ratshaw was pointing north toward the bay’s sea entrance from their anchorage.
“Well, that is a joyous surprise!”
Wasp had taken five days from Providence due to foul winds and calms after waiting in harbor four days for a storm to pass. She needed nothing in Norfolk other than to join the convoy and take on some water and wood.
The convoy stood for Jamaica in two days, as planned, and sailed south-east on fair westerlies for three hundred-fifty miles before they fell off to the south. In addition to Experiment and Wasp there were five merchantmen: Saracen, Elliott’s two-masted bark, two Jamaican sloops Racehorse and Calypso, the small Hudson’s Bay Co. ship Avon, and Rambler, a heavy ship-sloop. They all seemed to sail well. Neville guessed that the owners were smart enough to choose which of their ships were capable of the passage to Norfolk and straight back rather than being sent around to England in order to return across the Atlantic from the north of Africa.
The hot summer weather had been giving way to cooler breezes with a whisper of winter about them, but Neville reminded himself that hurricane season was not yet done. Conditions became less boisterous after the convoy crossed the great warm stream. Routine set in quickly, despite not having been to sea for over two months. The ship’s company, however, who had until now been generally a pleasant set, seemed crankier and less enthusiastic about their duties.
“Have you noticed an unhappiness about the men, Lt. Ratshaw?” enquired Neville, “To me they have seemed out of sorts since we left Norfolk.”
“I must agree, Sir. There were a good number who favored Norfolk as being noticeably more like England than Jamaica, despite the heat and humidity. Norfolk’s people are almost all English, and pleasant hard-working folk that the men can relate to. Mr. Walshe has it that two of those who deserted had eyes for women, and offers of paying work as well, and t’other two had a lust to wander the great wilderness. He also says the men kept a hope in their hearts that we would sail for England rather than go south, and now that hope is dashed.”
“Not much I can do about that, I’m afraid. Personally, I’m excited about going home to Jamaica, and you know why! Anyways, look at that cloud there, will you? It’s something I don’t remember seeing before. Pass word for Mr. Greaves, if you please.”
Neville had seen something like it before, he vaguely remembered. On his first passage out of England into the Bay of Biscay in HMS Castor, Lt. Froste had remarked that this long lacy cloud meant bad weather in three days. Such had not been the case in Jamaica, and at any rate, he had not seen the phenomenon in several years.
“What do you make of it, Mr. Greaves?” he inquired when his sailing master appeared.
“Bad weather in three days, I’d say.”
“That’s what I was thinking. Lt. Ratshaw, keep an eye to storm preparations during today’s inspection.”
The convoy sailed another hundred and twenty miles south under darkening skies the next day. Cloud cover was not so complete that it was impossible to take a noon sight. The day after that the sky was completely overcast and unsettled in appearance, and the seas were growing. Concerned for a place to shelter, they began to compare Fuller’s Spanish rutter to the new chart of the Bahamian Islands that Elliott Burton had given Neville. On the sixth morning out of Norfolk, Experiment, Wasp, and the five traders were scudding south under topsails alone before fifteen-foot seas. Light rains that fell from continuous yellow-tinged gray cloud occasionally washed the decks.
“This seems all too familiar, doesn’t it, Mr. Greaves?” queried Neville.
“Aye, Sir. The rain is warm, you notice. It’s come up from southern Africa, not down from Canada, hasn’t it? You can feel the grit in it. It’s a hurricane – or a big storm, at least, and this time we’ve no place to hide.”
“It’s worse than that, Mr. Greaves. We have islands less than a day’s sail ahead. We’d be better to run off than heave to, but we can’t go too much further. If that’s what we’ll do we had better do it whilst the convoy can still see us.”
“Aye, again, Sir. Give us the order and we’ll be hove to in fifteen minutes.”
The weather remained unchanged. Neville waited a half hour before ordering the maneuver. Upon doing so, he could see the other ships following his lead. No sooner had Wasp stopped her motion and begun bobbing quietly in the waves did the rain begin. It poured so hard that the scuppers ran like water hoses from the bilge pumps and the bowsprit was not visible from the quarterdeck. The sea was beaten down from fifteen to five feet in a matter of a half hour. Following that, the sky cleared like a curtain being drawn back, the sun came out and the wind that had blown for the previous three days went calm. Mist rose from the decks and canvas in the heat, and the men took off their shirts and waited on the decks for the next order.
On the quarterdeck, Burton, Greaves, Ratshaw and Tilburne stood amazed at the event until Mr. Greaves commented, “I say we’re in the eye of it. The bad side is that there is more to come, and it will come as sudden as it went away. The good side is that it must be a storm only, and not a full hurricane. A cyclone should not be expected to blow harder on one side of it than it does on the other. What say ye, Captain?”
“I agree with that, and I say we sit here and wait. There’s no good in trying to sail with no wind, anyway. I’d wager the wind will come at us from a different quarter when it comes again, so we had better be ready to adjust sails and rudder. Make sure the men stay at the ready, but pipe them to supper.”
The men ate, but only half the rum was served out when the weather came back at them. Despite what Greaves had said, it was worse. A wind that s
hrieked in the rigging and howled about the ship raised the seas in minutes. As the afternoon drew on into evening, the light left them early. Dinner was cold because the galley stove had been extinguished. No moon or single star shone through the heavy cloud, and sometime in the night a great wave crashed into them, carrying away the forward halyard tub and wrenching the foremast on which the solitary reefed topsail was set. A loud groaning was then heard forward as each wave passed beneath Experiment’s keel.
The morning was a long time coming, but the foremast and sturdy topsail held until the sun rose. The cloud cover appeared to be breaking up, or at least thinning from what it had been. The seas were still running twelve feet or more, but the wind had ceased to vibrate the shrouds like fiddle strings. They all knew the blow was over, and before the light was much above that of a tallow glim Neville ordered a lookout to the main top. The man hailed the deck shortly after an actual glow gathered in the east.
“Haloo, Deck there. Sail.”
“Where away, lookout?” yelled Ratshaw. He, like his captain, preferred to address the men by name, but he didn’t recognize the voice, had not been told who went aloft, and certainly could not see him in the gloom of morning.
“Which it is three points abaft starb’d beam, it is.”
Ratshaw recognized Worth from his expression ‘which it is…’, and called back, “Only one, Mr. Worth? Not six?”
“Which it is one, Sir.”
“Mr. Stokes, knock up cap’n if you would, please. My compliments, and could he join me here?”
When Neville strode across the deck to Ratshaw’s position, he had no hat or coat and his shirttail was out. Neville was flustered by the urgency of Mr. Stokes’ request, which might have been expressed a bit more strongly than Ratshaw had intended. “What is it Lt. Ratshaw?”
“Which it is…. ahem… Sorry, Sir. It’s getting lighter, as you can see, Sir, but lookout reports only one sail visible. We have apparently lost five of our number in the dirty night.”
“Who do we have there, Wasp?”
Lt. Ratshaw looked upwards and bellowed, “Can you tell who it is, Mr. Worth?”
Neville and Ratshaw waited nervously for a minute. Worth called down, “No, but not Wasp!”
“Just as well, I pray,” said Neville. “If we have one, maybe Wasp has the other five. Set sail on our previous course. Spritsail, too, but no more on the foremast ‘till Chips has a good go at it. I’ll rouse you up some coffee.” Tilburne and his mates were piping before Neville reached his cabin.
By mid-morning Chips had pronounced the foremast healthy with some spliced stays and a single hoop, and the weather and sea conditions had returned to very much as they had been before the storm. All plain sail was abroad and Experiment was making eight knots. The single trading vessel, which they now had seen more closely and could recognize as the bark Saracen, was showing her spunk and not losing ground against them at all.
“Ahoy! Deck, there!” yelled down Mr. Silas from the foretop. “Ship.”
Neville, enjoying his second cup of coffee on the quarterdeck, wondered why Silas had called ‘ship’ rather than ‘sail’, but responded with the usual, “Where away, Mr. Silas?”
“Two points – larboard. No sail up, Sir. Hard to see. Lying ahull, Sir; close.”
“Have Mr. Russell fire a foredeck minion to signal Saracen, if you please, Lt. Ratshaw,” said Neville.
“She’s a two-masted sloop, Sir,” said Ratshaw when he returned from the bow. Her name is the Soufflé; probably French. She has French lines. Maybe a trader disabled by the storm?”
“Flying no colours, I see. There is a small group of people on her upper deck, I think.” Neville closed his telescope.
Experiment was hove to alongside the mid-size ship within the hour. The vessel, while still riding high in the water, was listing slightly to larboard.
“I can’t see any reason why she’d be listing, Captain,” volunteered Mr. Stokes.
“Nor do I,” said Greaves. “There are no holes in the hull, unless they’re on t’other side. She must have water above the ballast, though, and her rigging’s a mess.” Numerous lines flew from the rigging, several trailing into the water.
“She does not appear to be any sort of threat, Captain,” suggested Ratshaw. “Verily, she looks as if we may be her rescuers. I wonder why there is no one attempting either to set sail or to pump.”
“That bothers me, as well. Let us proceed with caution. I will take Sgt. Daweson and three marines with me in the launch to investigate, and you will command here. If she is French, as she appears to be, and has no English speaker aboard, I will be required, so I might as well go at the start.”
Saracen was heaving to a cable away as Neville climbed down into the launch.
“Shove off, cox’n.”
“Oars down,” said the cox’n. “Make way all.”
“I count seven at the rail, Cap’n,” said Sgt. Daweson, “I think they’re just laughing at us.”
“One’s raising a musket our way, Sergeant. Very clumsily, it seems. Maybe they’re all drunk.”
“I’ll shoot him first,” declared Sgt. Daweson. He stood in the boat like a proper sea-going marine, his lower body moving as the launch rolled over the waves and his upper body rock solid. He raised his musket and fired at the man fumbling with the weapon on board ship. Daweson was known as an excellent marksman, and Neville has seen him prove it on Guadeloupe, but under these conditions, it would be almost a miracle if he hit his target.
“That was close, Sergeant, but you’ve missed. You hit the rail a few inches to the fumbler’s right. He might have a splinter in ‘im, and he’s jerked up and fell backwards.
The man’s musket discharged into the air. The other six broke out in hilarious laughter. The launch neared Soufflé.
“Another’s gone down below the rail, Sergeant. Keep an eye out, said Neville.
The rest of the leering men continued to stand, leaning over the rail to peer down at the British party in the launch. They did little more than stare stupidly, however.
“They’re all drunk, Captain!” Daweson announced. “Literally falling-down drunk, as you can see.” As the launch banged roughly against the side of Soufflé, another musket barrel poked vertically up over the rail above them and was waved about, accompanied by considerable clattering noise.
“Someone’s trying to stand, I think,” said Daweson, “I’m going up.” Sgt. Daweson clambered up first with his sword in hand, but no musket. The remaining five leering men made no move. One of Daweson’s marines was now standing with his musket trained on the spot where the struggling drunkard would appear over the rail when and if he stood.
“He’s up, Corporal,” yelled Daweson, “Fire.”
From this close range, the marine had better luck with his shot than Daweson. His ball jerked the drunkard’s head backward and sent a spray of blood across the other five. They again all burst into hilarious laughter. Another man disappeared below the rail with a motion that suggested he had also fallen.
“Musket,” Daweson yelled down from the top of the boarding ladder. “Then the rest of you get up here.” A musket was handed up to him, and his men followed, making a semicircle around the sally port on deck, and Captain Burton swung quickly up into the chains.
In addition to the seven men who had been at the rail, three of whom were now lying on the deck, there were a dozen more lying in various awkward positions about the deck.
“It appears Soufflé is – no, was - a French privateer, Captain,” announced Daweson.
“I agree, Sergeant. She’s better armed than Wasp. She was in fair condition, before all this, I’d wager. The torn sails and trailing lines might simply mean that these drunken fools couldn’t control her when the storm hit, and then gave up trying.”
“One larboard gun’s missing up there, and that’s where it went, there - that great hole in the starboard rail, Sir. Clearly it came loose in the great waves and went over the side.”
> “Start rounding them up, Sergeant. Push them or drag them into the hold and lock it. Find the spirits room and lock it up as well, if you please. They’ve obviously broken in to it. Use all the oarsmen except six to help, but give me one of your men. Report what you find below. I’m going to the master’s quarters.”
“Aye, aye,” he said enthusiastically. He would enjoy this much more than hauling on mizzen sheets and halyards.
A door that Neville suspected led to the master’s quarters was visible at the aft end of the waist. As he walked thence, he noticed that a large lock hung on it. Strange. Why would there be a lock on the outside of the master’s cabin? “Corporal, break that lock, if you please,” he commanded.
The lock was quickly smashed by the butt of the corporal’s musket, sending the pieces clattering to the deck.
“I’m going to open this. Be prepared to fire if there is motion inside,” said Neville, and the corporal dropped to one knee and pointed his weapon at the door. Neville raised his sword to the ready as a voice called out from within.
“Haloo,” a male voice called out. In excellent English, it asked, “Are you English?”
Neville was startled at the unexpected voice, but stepped back and answered, “Yes. Open the door.”
A burly, hatless gentleman, well dressed in English fashion, timidly pushed the door open and peered out into the sunlight.
A Journal of The Experiment at Jamaica (The Neville Burton 'Worlds Apart' Series Book 2) Page 33