“We are closer on the wind than she is, but now I wonder if we might not weather the island, Mr. Catchpole. I think she will, though, so if we don’t catch her before the rocks we will have to tack-and-tack and lose hours of time.”
“Do you think we will catch her first, then, Commander?”
“Possibly not, but if we can do her some damage she might not be able to weather the island either.”
“But what right have we to fire on an American vessel?”
“Suspicion of contraband, I’ll say, if she proves not to be French. Go aloft again, Mr. Foyle, and see if there is any other thing to be seen. If she’s a merchant, there should be no uniforms aboard.”
“Mr. Jimson, ready a foredeck long twelve for a shot across the chase’s bow. Fire when you think she’ll bear.”
“Aye, Sir,” Jimson said with a big grin, and went off quickly.
“Deck, ahoy!” called Foyle. “No uniforms, and I see only eight men. Ship’s not real tidy, Sir.”
“Merchant, then,” said Neville, “French or contra…”
Jimson’s cannon fired. The smoke drifted quickly off to the west.
“Where, Mr. Foyle?” Framingham yelled up.
“Din’t see it. Sorry.”
“Pass word for Mr. Jimson to fire again and ready the other forward twelve as well, Mr. Framingham,” Neville said. “Our chase has not changed a thing.” Superieure was now within a cable.
“A reasonable gunner should be able to make it clear that the chase should heave to,” said Neville.
His sentence was followed by the ‘bang’ of Jimson’s second shot.
“Off her windward bow, Sir!” yelled Foyle.
“Oi, Commander, there she goes!” yelled Catchpole. “She’s like a rabbit!”
The ketch wheeled suddenly to larboard as if she were a ballerina on stage. The moment she was before the wind, she fired a gun at Superieure. A short length of chain whistled across the water between them, and a big hole appeared in the forestaysail.
“Nimble, the bugger, I’ll say!” said Catchpole.
“American colors coming down, Sir.”
“Fall off to larboard, Mr. Catchpole. Now!
“Call all hands Mr. Johnson.
“French colors going up, Sir,” said Foyle
“Fire the larboard gun, Mr. Jimson!” Neville howled. “Fire!”
Forever it takes him. What on earth could take so long to… he heard the bang of Jimson’s gun.
“I saw splinters fly from the taffrail, Sir,” announced Foyle with his eye still at the long glass.
“Her name is Le Serpent, Sir.”
“Of course it is. What an appropriate name for a merchantman.” I never thought this ship would feel so cumbersome. “Helm up!” he yelled. “Loose sheets there! Mr. Johnson, get those men to haul there larboard! Haul, I say!”
Superieure slowly began to respond. Not slowly, possibly, but in Neville’s mind the comparison between the performance of his prey and his own beloved ship was embarrassing.
“Mr. Foyle. Run forward there and tell Mr. Jimson not to stop firing until I give him leave.”
“Again to the other tack, Commander!” shouted Catchpole. “He tricks us! How can an undermanned ship haul her wind so quickly?”
Le Serpent this time fired all three of her starboard guns as she sprang off at right angles to Superieure. Superieure’s spritsail yard exploded into splinters. The sail dropped into the water and dragged under the hull.
“Haul our wind, Mr. Johnson! Helm down, Mr. Catchpole! Damn his eyes; he’ll not get away from me! Mr. Johnson, send men up there to cut that rubbish away.”
Foyle arrived by the binnacle, and Neville sent him back forward, “Chain, Mr. Foyle. Tell Mr. Jimson to use chain. Let’s tear out his rigging.
“She’s bought herself a bit of time, Mr. Catchpole, but now I’d say we can weather the point as well as he can.”
Superieure climbed up the wind to find Le Serpent had gained fifty yards in the process. As directed, Jimson fired again. Only a small hole appeared in Le Serpent’s mizzen.
“Pass word to run out larboard, Mr. Johnson. If she does that again she’ll get more than a ball from our chaser.”
Jimson fired again.
“I thought I saw the mizzen jerk, Sir, but it’s still up.”
Neville heard another small ‘bang’ from Le Serpent, and a man forward shrieked. Wood flew from one of the boats stacked amidships. “They’ve hauled a gun aft.”
The shot was returned by Jimson. “I don’t see any…” began Foyle. He stopped mid-sentence as they all watched the mizzen lateen boom drop straight down across the deck. It broke in half; one half off drooped off each side of the ship. Le Serpent’s speed began dropping as quickly as her colors were coming down.
“That’s the end of that,” said Neville. “Thank you, gentlemen. Pass word to Mr. Jimson that he may cease fire now.
“Ready the swivel guns at both ends and prepare to grapple alongside.”
“Her master’s waiting for you, Sir. We are grappled.”
Neville crossed from Superieure to Le Serpent, where her master was standing by his binnacle. He was looking quite annoyed and defiant by the time Neville arrived there.
“Pourquoi est-ce que vous a fait voler le drapeau américain? (Why did you fly the American flag?)” he demanded.
“Pourquoi avez-vous exécuter? (Why did you run?)” asked Neville.
As he had seen in previous incidents, the man seemed to deflate when confronted with a French-speaking opponent. The conversation continued in French.
“You have cargo?”
“Yes.”
“Does it need any special care? It is not animals, is it?”
“No. Only products of the land from Cartagena.”
“Understood. We will take your ship to Port Royal, then. You and your mate and half your men will come aboard Superieure. We will place several of our men aboard your ship. Mr. Foyle will command. He is young, but he will do your ship no harm. Our bo’sun, Mr. Johnson, will assist him.”
Given the small numbers of men to be exchanged and the similarity of the ships in size – meaning an ease of stepping from one to the other – the transfer took very little time. The two ships freed themselves from each other and turned for Jamaica before sunset.
Mr. Framingham sidled up to Neville after the two ships parted. “Thank you for not sending me as prize commander, Commander,” he said in a quiet voice.
“Never mind, Mr. Framingham, I try to make my decisions about the good of the ship. I can’t have my senior midshipman away when I’ve sent off my boatswain, can I? I have need of you here.”
“Aye, Sir, of course.”
“She sailed well until that hard blow just north of Jamaica, Sir. Then she went right crank,” Foyle began telling Neville after they had completed the transfer of Le Serpent and her company to the Jamaica Station shore forces. “By God’s grace we had their most excellent petit officer aboard, who was himself not interested in drowning, or we might all have done. I feared for my life on one big wave that we were about to broach…”
“I thought we were done,” interrupted Johnson.
“…but he swung her nose down and we slid down that wave like a sled in winter. She’s a very different ship, that ketch.”
“They are, Mr. Foyle. I should have given you some warning, though I’ve not sailed one myself. Not to make light of your adventure, but what was her cargo?”
Foyle’s eyes lit up with the news he was to deliver: “Logwood, Sir. Logwood and mahogany from Spanish Cartagena. I think it’s quite valuable.”
“That cargo doesn’t come from the Spanish Main. It comes from our own colonies in Honduras. Whether our Master is a good trader or he’s into mischief, Le Serpent is a legitimate prize. We’ll have a nice share from her since we captured her with no help from others.
“I expect Le Serpent will sit here for some time while they deal with her, but that’s naught to do with
us. We could be ordered to sail at any time. I will allow some shore leave when you, Mr. Catchpole, Mr. Framingham, and Mr. Johnson can make me a proposal for keeping it organized. I’ll expect that by morning, because I have some plans ashore myself.”
Neville had taken his time in the evening to create a simple note to leave for Marion Stillwater at her office. He did not want to spend any time loitering about the premises. The thought of meeting either Mr. Stillwater or Mr. Stearns was not at all to his liking.
Port Royal harbor
12th January, 1804
Dear Miss Stillwater,
I admit I’m at a loss as to how to approach. I do not wish to interrupt your Worke, and I am not familiar with Kingston to the extent I can propose an appropriate Meeting Place.
I pray you will be able to offer the suggestion of a location where we might continue our conversation tomorrow. I humbly request the Favour of your Reply this afternoon.
Sincerely yours,
Neville Burton, Commander
HMS Superieure
Neville’s ‘gig’ – that is, Superieure’s little jolly boat – deposited him on the strand opposite the end of King Street shortly before noon. He ordered his coxswain to collect him at dusk. He began his walk up to Water Lane, where he turned right. A half block down on the right were the two big entrance doors. He swung the right one open and strode boldly into the lobby, scarcely daring to look into the office windows. The clerk sat at his reception desk, head down. Neville walked forward the few steps to his desk and stopped there. He stole a glance at the windows as the clerk’s head was rising. There was a silver-haired head in the center office, and the back of another brown-haired man’s head with him. Marion was not in her office, at least from what Neville could see.
“Yes? May I help you?” said the clerk. He gave no sign of recognition.
Neville’s hand trembled ever so slightly as he placed the note on the clerk’s desk and said, “If you would be so good as to deliver this to Miss Stillwater, please. I shall return later for her reply. Thank you for your assistance.” What a farce I am. I can sail my ship into the mouth of a cannon and stand defiantly while the bullets fly past my head, but I cannot deliver a note to a woman and face her father without trembling? He stole another glance at the window as his head rose from speaking to the clerk. Mr. Stillwater was looking at him, and the other was turning to do the same. It would be wrong not to recognize him, thought Neville, and nodded politely in his direction. The other face came around. It was Mr. Stearns. Neville nodded again, turned, and departed at the most leisurely pace he could manage.
That was quick. Would they read my note, or divert it from Marion? he wondered. Now I have time to kill before I go back in hopes of receiving an answer.
Expecting just this situation, Neville had brought his portable writing case. He headed for the Morgan Arms. His mother and sister would appreciate news of his situation – not that they would read about Marion…
There was a note waiting for him when he returned to the Stillwater Rum Company. The clerk passed it to him when he arrived as if he were passing a lump of tallow.
Neville carried it to the street before breaking the seal and slipping the neatly folded paper out of the envelope.
Stillwater Rum Trading Company
Commander Burton,
Luncheon tomorrow at Stillwater House?
(Father at work, staff present)
M. Stillwater
Neville noted the flowing hand – quite sensual by itself, he thought.
“What’s this, then, Mr. Catchpole? Looks like a Station boat, if ever I seen one.”
“It does, doesn’t it?,” queried Catchpole. “We’d better call down for Commander Burton.”
“Packet for your captain,” said the shore boat’s coxswain when it bumped alongside fifteen minutes later. Neville was on deck by then, waiting for whatever they were bringing. “No need of response.”
Neville took the packet below to open it.
“One never knows what we’ll get,” pontificated Framingham to no one in particular. “Could be orders to keep secret ‘till we’re at sea.”
“Well, it’s not,” said Neville, already climbing back up the companion ladder, “but it is orders to shove off with reasonable haste – to go back out and catch another, one would presume.”
“May I speak, Sir?” asked Foyle.
“Come ahead.”
“Just passing this along, Sir. It’s not my question, but some of the men are asking when they might see a bit of coin from the last.”
“My God, Foyle. The body’s still warm. It’s that grasping Kilburney, isn’t it?”
“Aye, Sir, ‘tis.”
“You may tell him, and let the word go ‘round with it, that they should be lucky the wee boatie’s not navy or we wouldn’t be seeing a thing for a year. Admiral Duckworth will probably settle the bill right here in Kingston, and right quick-like, but none of us will see a groat ‘till we’re back in next, and maybe another cruise as well.”
“Aye, Sir. When do we sail, then?”
“Sooner gone, sooner back, eh? Well it won’t be today, and not tomorrow, either. We’ve still to complete our water, and… what else, Mr. Johnson?”
“Bloody wood, Sir. Always the wood. Hills full of trees here, and the wood takes an age. It should be here tomorrow, though, if them ashore can keep a promise.”
“Right, then, it’s day after tomorrow on the morning tide. We’ve had wind every day, so then shouldn’t be different. Pass me letters, if you’ve got ‘em. I’ll be off again about six bells in the forenoon. And, Mr. Foyle, raise the Blue Peter in way of acknowledgement to Station.”
Independence Hall, as Chester Stillwater had dubbed the place, was more imposing than Neville had remembered it from the New Year’s parties. The house was a mansion, sure, but it was not out of keeping with the style and size of several others in St. Andrew or Kingston Parishes. It was the great hall to the side, where the parties had been held, and the gardens roundabout that bestowed it the air of wealth. Neville had at least thought to hire a carriage in which to arrive rather than trudging in by foot, and the first thing he saw when arriving from the front was the centerpiece of the garden – a huge old plumeria tree. Sea-faring party-goers who did not hire their own transportation had been shuttled up from the harbor for the parties via the lane to the side of the ‘functions hall’. Neville had therefore never noticed the tree and had assumed the entire smell of it emanated from Marion’s hair decoration.
The jingling of harness and light thumping of hooves on the fine gravel of the entrance road was enough to alert the staff to organize for Neville’s arrival. The ostlers of Independence Hall whisked both horse and driver around back, and a butler in tails and white shirt gave him a shallow bow while gesturing with an outstretched arm for him to enter the house.
Marion’s “I’m so glad you could come,” was the first music his ears heard as he entered the doors, which he estimated to be ten feet tall.
“I would have been sad indeed to have missed the opportunity. You look positively lovely, Miss Stillwater.”
“Thank you, Commander Burton, but it’s Marion, remember, Neville?”
“We in the navy continue to be quite formal aboard ship for reasons of discipline, I’m afraid, but I would love it of all things to think us that intimate. Your house, by the way, is even more remarkable than I realized.”
“Father has done a superb job – with mother’s help on almost all of it. Money changes everything, as you know. Well, I’m glad you’ve arrived a bit early. I can give you a tour of the first floor while the staff is setting out our lunch in the garden. Take my arm, please.”
From then forward the conversation flowed freely and easily, beginning with the walk through the parquet-floored halls to see views from the windows, paintings by American artists of such subjects as the Hudson River and mountains of Vermont, porcelain from China, and a glance into Mr. Stillwater’s study.
&nbs
p; “You must tire of giving the tour,” Neville said when it ended at the door to the back garden.
“Oh, I rarely give it. We don’t oftern have guests in since mother died three years ago.”
“I am sorry to hear of…”
She cut him off. “Your mum still with us?”
The question gave him pause. He rarely talked about his family. “Yes, she is. And I’ve a sister and nephew back home in Suffolk.”
She’s trying to change the subject.
“It’s a beautiful day for lunch out here, don’t you think?” A simple metal table and two chairs stood on a flagstone patio between flowering bird-of-paradise plants. The table was covered with a blue and green checked cloth, and silverware was already set.
But I’m not quite done with it. She expects me to believe she doesn’t have suitors around often? “With the crowd around you at the party, I would have thought your tours to be a regular thing.”
“You must think me quite the trollop,” she said. Her eyes twinkled mischievously. He held her chair to sit.
“Why me, then?”
“I don’t know what it is. I feel like I’ve known you all my life; like my brother or something, God Rest his Soul.”
“Where’s he, then?”
“My older brother Freddie was killed by French privateers just last year. It has been a hard time.” A tear dripped from her left eye. Neville fought the urge to grab her and hold her in his arms. It would have been most inappropriate.
“I’m very sorry.”
Their conversation stopped while a waiter arrived and arranged two small plates of cold shrimps and a red sauce in front of them.
The Stillwater Conspiracy (The Neville Burton 'Worlds Apart' Series Book 4) Page 7