He’d also learned enough to raise his suspicions that there might indeed be something to Sir William’s curiosity. It seemed to Neville that Stillwater – or some minion – was always about when a prize came in. They would buy any unopened rum – presumable for resale – that wasn’t appropriated by the prize captain. That was no particular surprise, except that ‘excess rum’ was a rarity. But then they would ask questions-, more questions than seemed appropriate. Were they just gossipy fellows, or was there more? Was hanging around the docks just part of their sales approach, or did asking a lot of questions mean they expected to learn something?
Once he determined the dangers and procedures necessary for the work ahead, he found a room that he could use for a short-term headquarters ashore. A nondescript canvas bag would suffice to carry civilian clothes. Choosing the clothes was not an easy task for Neville. He’d worn nothing but his navy uniform for many years and paid little attention to civilian custom. His costume needed to be something between that of a common sailor and that of a common working landsman, so at least nothing fancy was needed.
His objective at this point continued to be waterfront gossip, expecting to find it in noisy little bars like the Boar’s Head on Harbor Street. I don’t want to appear too nosy, Neville thought, but I can’t take a table in the corner and write letters if I want to find out anything. Just knowing that I know how to write might scare off some of my best possible contacts.
He entered the Boar’s Head and walked to the bar.
“Barmaid,” he called, “I’ll have a pint of your house ale and a meat pie.”
Here’s a group I might sit near and just listen awhile. “I’ll take it over there,” he told her.
“When do we go, Captain?” he heard one of the four men at the other end of the long trestle table ask another. The man addressed as ‘Captain’ did not look to Neville as he would have expected any captain to look. He was dressed about the same as the others except that his clothes were slightly less ratty, he had actual shoes rather than the things the others wore, and his belt held a long dagger..
“When we can find a cargo, Jason, and not before. I’ll not…”
The barmaid rattled her tray in Neville’s ear and set his pint down with a thump.
“…rum companies here that…” the captain continued.
“That’ll be a tanner,” said the barmaid. Neville raised his eyebrows. He remembered Port Royal being outrageously expensive, but he hadn’t thought that Kingston might carry on the tradition.
“… one our countryman owns. He might be more willing to deal with us.” The captain looked around the room. Neville was closest. “You, there. Been here long?”
Neville looked behind himself, assuming he was not the one being addressed. Nobody there. “Me, Sir?” he asked. “I just sat down.”
“Aye, you. Nobody else there. And I don’t mean at the bar. I means in Kingston.”
“Middlin. Why?”
“We know there’s rum companies here. It’s what this place is famous for.” His speech was
‘less English’ than most. “What we’d like is to carry a cargo of it home to Norfolk with us.”
“So?” Neville asked, “You need crew?”
“No, we’ve got crew. We need paying cargo. Do you know if there are any American rum companies?”
“Well…” Neville paused. He knew the answer, but decided to look like he was trying to remember. “Stemwater, Stemwinder, Stillwinder, Stillwater,” he said. “Yeah, that’s it, Stillwater.”
“Heard o’ them, Captain. They deal with the French,” said Jason.
“Any others you know of, matey?” ‘Captain’ asked Neville.
Neville finished his mouthful of meat pie and washed it down with a swig of ale while he gave his impression of being deep in thought. “Nope,” he said.
“Thankee,” said Captain, and turned back to his associates.
Just like that? thought Neville. I could probably sit here the rest of the day and not contrive that again.
“So what difference… letter we’ve got… half in South Carolina-” was all Neville could hear from Captain, who sat with his back toward Neville.
“We’d better be sure it don’t have no French writing on it or the limeys will take it for sure when they stop us. And you know they will somewhere,” another of the four said. He was facing Neville’s way.
“Best idea… go see ‘em… eat here,” said captain. He drank the last of his pint, rose and walked out. The others lingered fifteen minutes or so talking about other mundane chores they needed to finish before sailing, and following their captain out the door.
Neville decided to finish his lunch and try some other ale house down the street.
The Anchor Bar and the Three Pieces of Eight proved useless. Traffic was light. The talk he could overhear was either about farming or old pirate nonsense. He decided to make one last stop before giving up for the day.
Well, I’ll be dipped in tallow and lit for a candle, thought Neville as he walked back into the Boar’s Head. There sat Captain and his three men. He didn’t say ‘eat here’. He said ‘meet here’. He decided to take the bold approach. He stopped by the table and asked, “Any luck, Captain?”
“None o’ yours,” said Captain.
“Sorry. S’awright I sit there?” he asked, adding a slight slur to his speech and indicating the seat he had used earlier. He realized that the three pints he already drank this afternoon improved his unsteady appearance. The breeze outside had mussed his hair and, with the sweat of the hot day, had plastered it to his head. He probably looked more the part of an out-of-work jack than he did before. He could still feel the sweat trickle down his chest from the walk back here.
“Ain’t ours to say,” grumbled Captain at him, and turned back to the others.
They had apparently just arrived. Their ales thumped on the table and they paid. Neville raised his hand to the barmaid for another ale that he knew he really didn’t need.
“He’ll do it, but there’s a catch,” he could hear Captain begin.
“What’ll it be, blue eyes?” asked the barmaid.
“Pint o’ your house ale, please.”
“…wants us to take…” Captain continued.
Now the barmaid was beginning to annoy him. He couldn’t hear Captain. “Which one, luv?” she asked. “We’ve got two this afternoon.”
“That’s a risk,” said Jason.
“The dark ale and the beer. Both same price.”
“- like dealing with the French, either -”
“The dark one,” said Neville. “The ale.”
“- only way he’d -” said Captain.
“You’ll quite like it,” the maid said to Neville before she walked off.
Now what have I missed? fumed Neville.
“A big fellow,” said Captain. Neville could hear the man better now as he began turning his body. “He’s the contact man, I’m sure. I heard him talking French to someone in the back room there, and then he come out with the number of barrels we’ll carry for him.
“You there,” he said to Neville again. His tone turned friendly, “Sorry to be gruff earlier.”
“S’awright, Cap’n.”
“Do you know where the Isle of Ashes is?”
Neville stifled a smirk. “Yea. Isle of Ash. South of Hispaniola at the west end. Know it well, I do. I was caught there in a hurricane back in…”
“Still need a crew job?” Captain interrupted Neville’s made-up yarning.
“Nossir, Thankee.” He puffed his chest out and said, “Signed on one of Fuller’s barkies just s’afternoon, I did.”
“Fine; never heard of him. Best o’ luck,” said Captain, and turned away.
“What do you think, men? I’m giving you your say,” he heard Captain finish his explanation. He was apparently using a bit louder speech to display enthusiasm.
Jason said, “I’m in.”
The third man wagged his head strangely, and then fin
ally nodded ‘yes’”
The fourth man stared at the table for a minute, after which Neville heard him say, “I don’t like it, but if you lot are all for it, I’ll go along.”
As before, Captain downed the last of his pint, stood suddenly, and walked out after throwing a few more coins at the table.
The other three stared at each other for a moment, and then continued talking in voices so quiet that Neville couldn’t hear a bit of it. He decided it would be better to depart than appear to be listening, and if it was anything akin to a mutiny, he didn’t want to hear it. He carried his dirty plate to the bar. “Barkeep, can I ask you about someone ‘round here?”
HMS Superieure
Port Royal Harbor
29 December, 1803
Sir W’m Mulholland,
Three times I have gone in the Guise of a Civilian into Kingston Towne this last fortnight in search of Information regarding my Assignment. I have a strong opinion that our man’s Company has dealings with the Enemy, although it may be his Associate rather than the Man himself. I believe a small Cargo will be carried to a Rendezvous with a French ship at the Isle of Ashe by an American ship this next week. What type of French ship I know not. I believe that another part of the Cargo was paid for by this dangerous service. I have also determined that our man’s Company owns a small sloop that is used for Deliveries - which may of course also be made Wherever this ship desires to sail.
I am sorry it is not more. What I have heard was obtained through ale-house gossip, which I must say has not been very effective. I may need to find a new Tactic after I return from another Several Months on the Blockade at Saint-Domingue.
In service of the King, I am
Neville Burton, Commander
3 - “1792 – 1796”
United States Navy Midshipman Candidate Michael Stearns sat at the rear of his Norfolk, Virginia classroom doodling in his navigation ledger while his classmates reported their findings to the instructor. Most were giving the same answer. He could simply have written down what they said and replied in kind – perhaps adding some small error to make it look as if he’d done the problem himself. There were a few other students who reported something completely different, and were chided by the instructor for trying to sail their ships in western Virginia or southern Africa.
Michael saw no point in cheating. It wasn’t that he wouldn’t have cheated. That wouldn’t bother him. What bothered him was knowing that to be a naval officer this material was important. Without understanding it, he would never be a very effective officer. Yes, he might last quite a few years as a lieutenant by cheating the system somehow, but he would never make it to captain.
Michael was a good sailor. He did well in a boat, and he enjoyed a day on the water as well as the next, but navigation was an abomination to him.
“Mr. Stearns. Mr. Stearns, you are here, aren’t you.”
“Ahh, yes. I am sorry, Sir. Yes?”
“Your answer to the problem, please. You’re not just auditing my class, are you?”
“No, Sir. I’m sorry. I don’t have it.” But he knew how important it was. He was out in the Atlantic one day when the fog rolled in, and suddenly he knew what ‘navigation’ meant. He had a compass, sure, but where was he along the coast? It was only a day-sail in a small boat, and he could go slowly west until he saw land. You wouldn’t start taking celestial sights for that situation anyway, but what if he were a hundred miles out and had to find Jamaica or Martinique? He understood his problem.
“Report to my office after class, if you would, please, Mr. Stearns.
”The rest of you go on to problem number two.”
In the instructor’s office later that day they had the conversation Michael had been expecting for some months.
“Mr. Stearns, is something bothering you? Is there some reason you aren‘t doing the work?”
“Only that I don’t understand it.”
“You have done well at sea. You are one of our better sailors, and your small-boat handling is excellent. You seem to be a good supervisor of the training ship’s company. Surely, if you put it in your head that you will learn navigation you will learn it in time.”
“It’s the mathematics. It makes no sense to me at all… might as well be hieroglyphics. I have tried. I’ve had friends try to explain it. It won’t sink in. And I understand the importance of it.”
“Well I certainly am sorry to be the one to suggest this, but maybe you should find another career, then…”
The expected letter came to his quarters the very next day. He was dropped from the program. Michael Stearns left his midshipman’s uniform in the closet at the boarding house when he stepped out into the street. He had no use for it. He would have to make arrangements to send his sea chest home; he had no idea where else he might send it.
He pulled his collar up behind his ears to fend off the chilly autumn wind coming directly off the Atlantic. He was determined to find a good tavern, far enough away that he wouldn’t see any midshipmen candidates. He was realistic enough to know that here in Norfolk there was probably no place he could go where there wasn’t a navy officer. That was fine, as long as his classmates weren’t there.
“Where to now?” he asked himself out loud, realizing that he felt a bit lighter in his step just for having finally reached the end. It had been worst in the beginning, when he began to realize his problem.
“Hello, there, Mr. Stearns?” called a voice from a bench at the edge of the park he was passing.
“Yes, I am.” He stopped to face the man. The officer. The man wore a navy uniform. “How do you know me?”
“I had a chat with your instructor. He speaks highly of you, by the way.”
“Sure he does. That’s why I’m here instead of in class, isn’t it?”
“You don’t look to be taking it so hard. Where are you off to?”
“What’s it to you?”
“What say we go find a fire somewhere, sit by it, drink a pint, and get out of this wind?”
“That’s what I was thinking, but somewhere my classmates won’t be. Are you buying?”
“Sure. I’ll throw in lunch.”
“What branch are you in? I don’t recognize the insignia.”
“There’s a nice little hotel I know a few blocks down with a very cheery dining parlor. Seafood sound good?
“We’re in Norfolk, aren’t we?”
“Tell me about yourself,” was the officer’s first question after they found a table and ordered.
“Let’s start with your name and why you’ve asked me in out of the cold.”
“I’m Leonard Robinson. Lieutenant, obviously. We’ll get to the ‘why’ of it soon enough – or not at all, depending.”
The two stared at each other for a few moments. Leonard, well-versed at this sort of thing, could tell Michael was making his decision.
“All right. I guess it’s worth telling a story for a good lunch.”
He began with his childhood, which Leonard was not particularly interested in. At age twelve he started to get into some details that Leonard wanted to hear; not that Leonard did not already know Stearns’ history.
“Why did you want to join the navy? Just because your father was in it?”
“So you already know the details. Why’d you bother to ask?”
“Just wanted to hear how you told the story…”
“Well, as you know, then, he died when his ship was sunk in the Gulf of Mexico in 1781.
“It was a damned French ship that sunk Father’s and it was the damned British who are responsible for that war. I was just twelve then.”
“Why join the navy?”
“To get back at the buggers. I’ll do my part to sink ‘em all. We’ll be at war with England again in not too long, mark my words,” he said. “I would’ve got my payback!” His embarrassment after slamming his fist loudly on the table was enough to cause him to turn and apologize to the patrons at the next table. “But now?” he said quietl
y to Leonard, “How do I go about it now?”
“I said I’d answer your question, ‘depending’, so I will, but we shouldn’t do it here. I think you’ll find my proposal interesting…”
“Waiter, the reckoning, please.”
They moved to a noisy pub that had a set of booths at the back and ordered another pint.
“Here it is, Mr. Stearns: this insignia, you asked about? I’ve been allowed to make my own, since no such branch of the Navy actually exists. I’m considering not wearing it after all for that reason. I probably should not announce the concept. Thank you for letting me say that. I’ve just decided to take it off. But here’s the thing, in simple words. We’re spies.”
“Spies? You’re asking me to be a spy?”
“It’s still the navy – with navy pay, but you probably won’t be wearing a uniform. And you can get back at both the Frogs and the Limeys. You could be very useful to your country. You already know how our navy works. The others aren’t that much different.”
Michael thought for a minute. He took another swig of his ale. “How do I go on from here?”
“Classes, still, but not years of it, and then field work. You have to know ciphers, of course, but not navigation… nothing that requires cosines and tangents.”
“Thank God for that. Where?”
“Some here. We’ll start here, but after that it will be wherever we have an instructor for a specific subject. You might have to move around a little.”
“When do I start?”
“You’ve graduated, it appears,” said Stearns’ sleuthing partner of four years. “Boss says you’re going to France; a real assignment.”
“That’s good news. No offense, James, but this standing in the shadows to watch these Brits come and go, waiting to see if they are doing something we don’t like, has gotten pretty tiring.”
“That’s most of the job here in country. It gets much more interesting overseas, and you’d better be real careful in France. Old Boney runs a tight ship. Here’s your letter.”
The Stillwater Conspiracy (The Neville Burton 'Worlds Apart' Series Book 4) Page 3