by Jay Worrall
“Begging your pardon, sir. Lieutenant Bevan’s respects. He says to tell you the frigate’s been called off, he thinks.”
“What do you mean?”
“She was signaled back by the bigger Frenchie. I seen the flags myself, sir,” Hitch said with a large smile.
“I see,” Charles said, the message sinking in. “If you will come with me.” Still seething, he moved to the fore of the quarterdeck and looked down at the men securing the guns. Every eye turned up toward him; some who had seen the frigate’s departure smiled. “Don’t you dare be pleased with yourselves,” he said loudly. “It was through no effort of yours. I assume that the Frenchman passed on after witnessing your performance and was troubled that you would lower the standards of their prisons.” He turned back to the midshipman. “My respects to Lieutenant Bevan. Tell him to reduce the canvas aloft; topgallants and topsails only until the rigging is repaired.” Hitch touched his hat and hurried off.
Bevan himself approached a few moments later. He did not speak.
Charles looked down at the men in the waist again and fumed. “We will resume practice with the guns immediately the rigging is spliced. In the mornings we will exercise the topmen aloft. See that they put their backs into it. We will continue day by day until they know what they are doing. I’ll tolerate no further slackness. If they don’t improve I’ll stop everyone’s spirits, their food if need be. By God, I’ll never have another performance like this one.”
“Aye, aye, Captain,” Bevan answered. He gestured toward the taffrail and over the stern.
Charles saw the departing frigate, close hauled, a mile and a half away. Beyond her, just on the horizon, the larger French two-decker sailed purposefully southwards. “Why do you think she was called off?” he asked.
“I don’t know. The captain of the seventy-four must have grown unhappy at the length of time it was taking, or that it was drawing him too far off course. It’s just possible he just didn’t want to expend powder unnecessarily or be burdened with a prize. Depends on what orders he has, I guess.”
As Bevan left to attend to his duties, Charles leaned by the rail looking out at the receding French warships. What orders could they have that called them so urgently southward?.
As a sure sign that there was a God that looked out for ships and seamen, a clear streak of blue sky showed on the horizon to the north in the early afternoon. The winds fell away to a steady northeasterly breeze and the sea surface tamed itself on the long Atlantic swells—all to the sounds of the rumble of the gun carriages as their crews labored to run them in and out, and in and out again.
*****.
“It ain’t too bad in all, zur,” Aaron Burrows, Cassandra's carpenter said, holding his lantern so that Charles could inspect the repairs to the hull where French shot had penetrated. “That’s the last. They wuz all above the waterline, do you see.”
Burrows was a stump of a man with muscular forearms and an even-tempered, agreeable way about him. After giving his report on the damage sustained, he had virtually insisted that Charles personally see that the repairs had been done properly. As one of the standing officers, he remained on the frigate from commission to commission and probably knew her peculiarities better than anyone else.
Charles dutifully bent to stare in admiration at the carpenter’s handiwork. “It seems very well done to my eye, Mr. Burrows,” he said. “I can hardly tell where the boards have been joined.” He said this even thought it was obvious enough where new wood met old.
“Thank you, zur,” the man said proudly.
There was another issue which nagged at him, and upon which he thought the carpenter might shed some light. “Tell me, how long have you been posted on board Cassandra, Mr. Burrows?”
Burrows scratched behind his ear. “Neigh on five years, I think. Since ninety-four anyway. Why would you be asking, zur?”
“I was wondering, has she always been so slow a sailer?”
“Oh no, zur,” he said with a look of puzzlement. “Well, she were never what you’d call real fast, but faster than now. I can’t figure what they did to her in the yard that changed her so.”
Charles was pretty certain that they had done nothing in the yard, besides applying new copper sheathing, and that should have helped, not slowed her down. “Thank you, Mr. Burrows,” he said. “I am appreciative of your efforts.” He was also certain as to whom he should speak with next. It was something he should have looked into long before.
“Mr. Cromley, a word with you please,” he said as he regained the quarterdeck.
“Sir?”
“Might I inquire as to how you have decided on Cassandra's trim?”
The master nodded seriously. “About even fore and aft, maybe a trifle down by the head. It takes away a little of her speed, but I find most ships hold better than way.”
“I see,” Charles said. “Would it be agreeable to you if we transferred some weight aft? I am in hopes that lightening the bow will improve her way through the water.”
“I don’t know, sir,” Cromley said with a frown. “It might give her a tendency to gripe.”
“Then I shall have to insist upon it,” Charles said. “You will please see to the shifting of one-half ton of shot from the forward locker to the aft most. If that gives a beneficial result we may try an additional amount. I trust you will inform me if she shows any undue inclination to fall off in a forewind.”
“Yes, sir,” Cromley said, tight-lipped.
Cassandra did improve her speed almost as soon as a bucket brigade of men began passing nearly a ton of round shot, ball by ball and hand to hand, from the bow to the stern. She was still no race horse, but eventually gained two knots under all plain sail, by the casting of the log. Charles took a great deal of satisfaction from this, which he was careful to keep from the master.
*****.
Early in the afternoon watch on the fifth day since their encounter with the French, Charles watched Lieutenant Beechum exercise the gun crews on the quarterdeck cannon and carronades with a critical eye. The open deck baked under the midday sun, and the men worked shirtless, heaving on the relieving tackle to run the guns in and out, their progress measured by the Beechum’s stopwatch.
If not exactly enthusiastic, his crew had adopted a seriousness toward their work, perhaps a grudging acceptance that they were where they were, and any further grousing might get them killed. Cassandra plowed resolutely across the sea, propelled by the steady northeast trades. They had rounded Cape Vert, the westernmost extremity of Africa, two days before. Their noontime sighting revealed that they had already crossed the eighth parallel and might reasonably expect to make the equator within a further week. With any luck they could raise Cape Town in a scant month and a half. At present their course roughly followed the coast of the continent, just visible as an indistinct line on the horizon to port.
“Hoy, the deck there,” a familiar cry came down from the lookout posted in the mainmast tops.
“What’s your report?” Charles heard Winchester call back up.
The voice came down clear enough. “There’s a barky off the port beam, mebby five leagues. She’s schooner-rigged, like. Yankee, I’ll wager.”
Moments later, Midshipman Hicks mounted the ladderway and crossed the quarterdeck. “Mr. Winchester’s respects, sir,” he began, touching his hat.
“I overheard, Mr. Hicks,” Charles said. “My thanks to Mr. Winchester. We will take no action.” The schooner would in any event be too fast for them to catch, even with Cassandra's increased speed.
Cromley, standing nearby, observed conversationally, “Bound for the fort at Bunce Island most likely.”
“You think she’s a blackbirder, Mr. Cromley?” Charles asked. He remembered hearing that the island in the mouth of the Sierra Leone River was a common port of call for the slave trade.
“Aye,” Cromley said, a wistful tone in his voice. “Probably on her way to the Bight of Biafra to take on a cargo. Bunce is the first place after
crossing the Atlantic to refill the water casks. “Or,” he added, still slowly thinking the possibilities through, “she might be calling on the fort itself, if she’s a trader out of Charleston or Savannah. It’s the rice plantations, you see.”
Charles knew that this stretch of the African shoreline was sometimes referred to as the Rice Coast, and that the grain was also grown in South Carolina. He reflected that he still had a deficit of more than thirty in the makeup of his crew. “You have called at Bunce Island, Mr. Cromley?” he asked with new interest.
“Oh, yes sir. More than once or twice. I was a mate on several slavers in former times. It lies just over to the east there.”
This was an aspect of Cromley’s experience of which Charles had been unaware. “And how many blackbirders do you figure might be found off the island this time of year?” he said.
Cromley squinted in concentration. “Could be any number, if I recall. Sometimes one or two; others mebby a half score. ‘Tis a fair busy place. Why do you ask, if I might inquire?”
“We will alter our course to the east, if you please,” Charles said. “I have a notion to see the island for myself.”
CHAPTER FIVE
A shimmering glare reflected off the broad waters of the mouth of the Sierra Leone River under a sweltering noonday sun. Cassandra glided easily through the entrance under her topgallants alone. The seemingly lifeless village of Freetown squatted above the mud banks to starboard. Despite the lush jungle crowding the water’s edge, the place had an air of desperation and abandonment. Near the center of the inlet lay a small finger of an island with a low rectangular fort at its western end. The fecund odors of the land and the heavy, sultry air overwhelmed the cleaner scent of the sea. Below the fort four sleek merchantmen rode at anchor.
“Hoist the colors, Daniel,” said Charles. “You may run out the starboard battery. We will come to anchor between those vessels and the sea. May as well not encourage any false hopes.”
“Aye, aye,” Bevan responded. He nodded to Sykes to send the ensign up its halyard and shouted for Winchester on the gun deck to set the cannon crews into motion.
Charles watched as three of the ships, all schooner rigged, hurriedly sent up the peculiar red and white striped flag of the new United States, with its blue square in the upper corner and white stars. The forth, a brigantine, flew the familiar union flag of Great Britain. One of the schooners, more alert than the others, immediately began to heave her anchor cable short. “Fire off a gun,” Charles ordered.
Bevan spoke to one of the gun captains. A single six-pounder cannon exploded inward on the quarterdeck, its smoke drifting lazily forward. The ball sent up a spout a hundred yards from the schooner’s bow. All movement on the schooner ceased.
As Cassandra came about and hove to a half-cable’s length from the slave ships, Lieutenants Bevan, Winchester, and Beechum collected on the quarterdeck. The marines had gathered in the waist under the watchful eyes of their officers. One by one, the launch, both cutters, and the jollyboat, were hoisted out and lowered into the water. “I’ll have eight seamen off of each of those ships,” Charles said firmly. “Mind you, I want prime seamen, no lubbers or ship’s boys.”
“What if they resist, sir?” asked Beechum, fingering the hilt of his sword. “Surely, some may not come willingly.”
“I doubt any will come willingly,” Charles answered. “You will each have a detachment of the marines to keep order. It shouldn’t be difficult. They’ll only have crews of twenty or so. Ask for volunteers first. You may offer the king’s guinea as an inducement. No one will accept it, of course, but make the offer anyway. You have my authority to take anyone you like who cannot produce a certificate of exemption from the Admiralty in London.”
“Even if they claim to be American citizens? None of them will have that.”
“Mr. Beechum, if they are older than sixteen years of age they were born as the king’s subjects, and the king’s subjects they remain. Besides, a goodly number are probably British deserters, no matter what they claim.”
“Yes, sir,” Beechum said. “I got it.”
“You have your assignments?” Charles said, looking at his officers one at a time. The boats’ crews, he saw, were settled at their oars and the marines preparing to climb down. The three men nodded. Winchester and Beechum started forward while Bevan hung momentarily behind.
“You do know that you’ll be leaving them with barely enough of a crew to make it home, don’t you?” he said.
Charles met his friend’s eyes. “Barely enough is still enough, Daniel. It’s more than they’ve a right to.”
Each lieutenant was to call on one of the American schooners. Charles had reserved the British flagged ship for himself. “You are in command until my return,” he said to Sykes, standing stiffly self-important by the wheel.
“Aye, aye, sir,” answered the midshipman.
“Keep them under your broadside. If I am needed back on board, you may fire off one gun. Don’t hit me with it.”
“Yes, sir. I mean, of course not.”
Charles made his way forward to the entry port, then down into the waiting jollyboat. The boat already held six red-coated marine privates and Lieutenant Ayres in addition to its regular crew. Augustus had taken up his usual place at his oar, seated rearmost to larboard.
“Shove off,” Charles said to Malvern as he settled himself in the sternsheets.
“Out oars,” the coxswain ordered. The jollyboat pushed off from Cassandra's side and started toward the brigantine. Approaching her stern, Charles saw that she was Amelia Jane, out of Bristol.
“You needn’t come aboard if you don’t want to,” he said to Augustus as they glided to a stop alongside. Charles assumed that being onboard the slaver would be unwelcome for his steward.
“I’ll just follow anyway,” Augustus said, his eyes narrowed. Charles nodded his assent. “As you wish.”
A man of middle age with long strands of wispy gray hair protruding from under his hat stood at Amelia Jane's entry port. “What’s the meaning of this?” he demanded as Charles gained the deck. His focus switched to Augustus as he came onboard and then the marines with their muskets much in evidence.
Charles did not answer until Ayres had his men lined up smartly on the deck. “May I know to whom I am speaking, sir?” he asked politely.
“Owen Harris,” the man answered. “I’m the master.” The sailing master on a merchant ship effectively served as her captain.
“Your certificates please, Mr. Harris,” Charles said, “registration, bill of lading, and muster book.”
Harris quickly produced several papers from his pocket and held them out. Charles unfolded the documents and saw that they were the brig’s registration and manifest, showing that she carried mostly rum and bolts of cloth from Liverpool and was bound for Lagos in the Bight of Benin, where the cargo would almost certainly be traded for newly captured slaves. These were the papers usually requested when stopped by a British naval vessel, and the master had them ready to hand.
“Your muster book, please,” Charles said.
“What do want me muster book for?” Harris said suspiciously, but Charles could tell from his eyes that he knew. In a last-minute attempt to stave off the inevitable, the man added, “Besides, in a barky this small we ain’t no need for such a record.”
“Augustus,” Charles said, “in the master’s cabin aft, you will find a desk. Bring me all the papers you find in its drawers. Do you have a knife?”
“Yes, Cap’n,” Augustus answered, touching the handle of a blade tucked into his belt.
“It’s possible you will find it necessary to force the drawers. There may even be an axe about somewhere. You needn’t worry if you have to break something.”
Amelia Jane's master looked around him in dismay. “All right,” he said. “I’ll send for it.” He turned toward a seaman standing beside the ship’s wheel. “Huggins, go below and fetch the roster, do you hear?” He produced a key from his p
ocket and held it out.
“But, sir, he means to. . .” the man began.
Charles noticed that the master nodded his head ever so slightly to the seaman in a conspiratorial kind of way. He would have none of that. “Augustus, you will please accompany Mr., er, Huggins. You may assist by carrying the muster book back in your own hands. Lieutenant Ayres, if you would be so good as to send one of your men along to keep them company.” As the men started toward the ladderway, Charles spoke to Harris. “You will be pleased to assemble the crew on deck.” The master shrugged and did as he was told. Charles watched as the odd assortment of Europeans, two Lascars, and even a number of blacks tumbled up from below. Some regarded the naval captain and the marines with curiosity, others with hostility; still others would not look at them at all. Charles counted their number at twenty-two. “Is this the entire company?” he asked.
Harris studied the group sullenly. “Aye, it’s all of ‘em. You have my word on it.”
Charles accepted the statement for the present. The party dispatched below soon returned. Augustus held out a slim ledger, “That be it, I’m told, Cap’n.”
Charles opened the book and soon found the correct page. He counted twenty-four names, which, including Harris and Huggins, matched the number on the deck. Four were entered as having American citizenship. He called out their names, then added, “You will collect your sea chests and go down into the boat alongside.”
“I ain’t going,” a man who had answered to the name of Peterson said defiantly. “I ain’t no British subject. You can’t . . .”
Charles put his finger on the ledger by the name. “It says here you were born in Alexandria, in Virginia, in 1775. At that time Virginia was a colony to the crown, was it not?”