A Busy Season (The Duty and Destiny Series, Book 8)

by Andrew Wareham

  Captain Murray, being a Spanish speaker, glanced through the report and the actual papers; nodded his satisfaction.

  “Wine; wheat flour; olive oil in large and small barrels, presumably the smaller of higher quality; charcoal by the ton – it must be impossible to source in the enclave; rice; hides – all destined to merchants in the town. Ah! This is useful, sir, an amount of coarse cloth and linen, suitable for monks’ habits, one assumes, and consigned to the wharf at Tarajal. It would not be entirely out of the ordinary for the merchantman to call at the wharf. I do not know whether a large polacca could tie up there, nor am I certain of how I might discover such information.”

  Frederick suggested that he might have a source of knowledge; he begged that Mr Watson might be called to them.

  Watson arrived and said that he had been reliably told a number of things about Ceuta. Frederick had no doubt that he had called there more than once in his smuggling and slaving days.

  “The fort at Tarajal, sir? Old, the walls decayed, and now inhabited by monks, I believe, sir. It was used to be a prison, too, I am told. There is a wharf there, convenient for those cargoes run less than openly, sir. Within reason deep water and easily long enough for a pair of two hundred tonners. It is normal practice to tow in and pull the head round before tying up, sir, the passage being narrow. Generally speaking, I believe, the guard is not to be seen there – they are to be found mostly to the west along the border, perhaps two miles inland of the little port. If they have prisoners in the fort then no doubt, sir, they will have brought in guards for them.”

  “Very good, Mr Watson! You shall join us in our little jaunt across the Straits tomorrow!”

  Two ships made a far more attractive prospect than the tiny landing party that could be conveyed in one.

  “The difficulty arises, sir, that the prize has not been bought into the Service.”

  “Nor will she be, Sir Frederick – I have no use for a slow old polacca!”

  Captain Murray suggested that she might perhaps be sold to a local merchant who could lease her to the Navy for the occasion; he knew a gentleman who would be very happy to do the Admiral a favour.

  “Difficult, Captain Murray, while she has not been condemned by the Prize Court, which is not due to sit until the end of the month.”

  “I will speak with the judge, sir. I am sure I can persuade him to be of assistance to us.”

  The Admiral laughed and shook his head – the man was a cross-grained, ill-tempered lawyer who was never of service to anyone at all.

  “True indeed, Admiral – but I know how he amuses himself of an occasional evening, and I am quite sure he would not wish that information to become public. I am often told that mine is a nasty trade, Admiral, but it can be useful when one wishes to cut a corner or two. The gentleman is a judge in the Admiralty Division, and promotion is slow among his people; if he is to grace the bench in London, as he wishes, then he must not be the butt of obscene jokes and speculation in Gibraltar. I shall speak to him in a few minutes, with your approval, sir, and persuade him that he would wish to keep his little tea-parties a secret.”

  The Admiral did not like blackmail; he wondered besides just what information Murray had upon him. He agreed reluctantly that the need was upon them – the polacca’s status must be regularised.

  “I shall inform Captain Thomas that he should find men for two vessels. We will unload her overnight."

  “Thank you, sir,” Frederick said. “I shall select of my officers and men to crew the polacca and add to Harriet’s complement.”

  They sailed next morning, preferring to come into Ceuta from the east, rather than in a direct line from Gibraltar, a bare twenty miles away.

  Frederick and Captain Murray stood next to the young lieutenant in command of Harriet, a competent but uninspired young gentleman called Smith. The young man was well in command of his little brig, but he showed few signs of initiative out of the ordinary; he was a forgettable young man, which was a pity because success in this little expedition must do his career some good, might well lead to his early promotion in front of other, actually more deserving, officers.

  They were dressed merchantman style, in open-necked shirts, none too clean, and with shabby hats – bare heads would have been unacceptable, would have shown strange to any observer. Every man of the crew was equally unkempt, most wearing originally bright bandannas over their hair, a few with actual and ancient hats. A Spanish soldier seeing them coming into the wharf should have no difficulty in recognising in them French seaman out of Marseille.

  The polacca was in company, Doolan by the wheel and very carefully not in naval formation; she was to the port and less than a cable distant – indiscipline that must appal the naval observer. Doolan had the command simply because it had been impossible to discover Blenkinsop – he had disappeared from view after the court-martial, was presumed to be wallowing in debauchery in the stews of Gibraltar, such as they were.

  Frederick had informed Admiral Clerke that he was unable to find his Premier and had suggested that the man, while not without talent as an officer, was simply unreliable.

  “Given a choice between his prick and his duty, sir, I am never certain which will come first!”

  The Admiral had guffawed mightily and nudged Frederick in the ribs, most entertained.

  “Well said, Sir Frederick! The Levant Convoy is due to sail in two days; I shall enquire if any of the escort might be in need of a lieutenant – with six ships it is always possible – and put the young fellow aboard if it is so. He must learn his lesson, and, in all truth, a captain who cannot discipline himself is of small use to the Navy!”

  “A pity, sir. He is a pleasant enough gentleman and has a number of virtues, but his one failing is too great.”

  Lieutenant Doolan had Barber at his side; the pair together should be capable of handling most eventualities and either, or both, might be promoted as a result of the day. The other new master’s mate, Fitzpatrick was in command of the additional boarders sat hopefully out of sight underneath the canvas of Harriet’s false deck cargo; he too would have the opportunity to show what he was worth. Frederick was in fact quite glad of the opportunity granted to the men – they were probably the stuff good officers were made from. They had all three worked quickly and well on the disguise of Harriet, showing an intelligent understanding of the needs of the enterprise.

  The wind was set in the west forcing them to make a series of tacks to enter Ceuta, the coast trending almost northwards around Tarajal; provided there was no change it would be perfect for their escape. It was also easier to time their entrance for sundown, small and thinly manned ships being expected to make very slow progress in the circumstances; no alert observer on shore would wonder if they were intentionally delaying out to sea. Frederick, glad to be the expert for once, explained this to Captain Murray, who was somewhat theatrical in appearance in a leather waistcoat and with his hook on display.

  “Harriet will enter first and will tow her head round to berth starboard side to and pointing out of the harbour. We are told it is not out of the ordinary. The polacca will follow. The sole problem that may arise will be that if there is anything else berthed then we may lack space for both of us. Normally the polacca would simply anchor offshore and wait the convenience of the other coaster or fisherman or whatever, but I have ordered Doolan to belly up to Harriet, if he must. We must hope they will delay their protests until daylight. Mr Watson tells me that it sometimes occurs that a member of the Trade will be in some hurry – it will not look entirely out of the ordinary.”

  “What will the Trade pick up here, Sir Frederick?”

  “Slaves of various sorts, I presume, Captain Murray. I have not specifically asked Watson, or Ryder who was also in the Trade – and nor shall I – but I imagine that young females out of the French coast, and probably from the Italian states, are shipped here as a first stage in their journey into the Moroccan Empire, or east towards Egypt, though that would be a l
ess convenient route. The white slave trade is not especially great, I understand, but involves a few thousands of unfortunates each year; presumably it is profitable.”

  “Nasty, Sir Frederick!”

  “All slavery is vile, Captain Murray – but where there is money there will be those to take their profits.”

  They waited, more or less patiently, making their display of innocence, keeping the men hidden in the sweat box that was the below decks at the height of the Mediterranean summer. They had provided extra water and the Marine Sergeant was under instructions that his men must drink; they should survive the experience and still be fit and ready when the time came.

  The sun sank below the hills of Ceuta, bringing dusk a little earlier than Frederick had allowed for. It made no difference – there were a few lanterns at wharfside and more around the fort.

  Frederick had not dared use a telescope to inspect the site – it would have been out of character for a small brig even to possess one and they should be expected to know the little harbour.

  The fort lay almost a mile outside the town proper and was ancient, as he had been informed; he could see tiny bricks towards ground level, probably dating from the Romans like those at Portchester Castle, the prisoner-of-war camp near Portsmouth. The walls were collapsed almost to the ground in places, probably battered in sieges through the centuries, but there were sections in good repair. The whole occupied possibly two acres with a small tower on three or four floors at the front entrance; there was no sign of a gate across the archway but it could be taken that there would be some sort of sentry or guardhouse there.

  “One must assume that the living quarters of the monks, and the cells, are to be found in the tower, Mr Smith. We shall proceed on that assumption. Your people to hold Harriet and man her guns; my sailors under Mr Watson will take the wharf and make a guard against any relief coming from inside the city walls. I shall instruct Captain Thomas to charge into the tower itself, sending a few of his men up and leading the bulk down into the cells. Mr Doolan and Barber will take the rest of the fort, the bailey, one might call it, and discover and deal with any barracks inside. I shall inform Captain Thomas now.”

  “Where will you be, sir?”

  “In the fort with Captain Thomas in the first instance, Mr Smith; Fitzpatrick and his people with me. Captain Murray, will you join me?”

  Murray was delighted to assent; he had feared being left behind, the cripple to be cared for.

  They came in sight of the wharf and discovered a xebec in residence, a large vessel, some three hundred tons at a guess. There was space, just, for Harriet and she took it, making a fuss of being turned in the tight waters; the polacca bellied up against her unnoticed until the last moment when it was too late for any harbourmaster to wave her off.

  “Mr Watson! What sort of fellow is that?”

  “Trader, sir, I know her. She works out of Marseille and along the North African coast, sir, as far as Alexandria. She was owned by a merchant out of Aleppo, once upon a time, then she was taken by the rovers out of Tripoli and then again by the French two years ago. Now she trades under the French flag and is never to be touched by the corsairs; who made the arrangement, I do not know.”

  Captain Murray listened and then very quietly said that he would dearly like to look at her papers and talk to her officers. Frederick made an immediate change of dispositions.

  “Take her, Mr Watson, the moment the alarm is raised on shore; Fitzpatrick will hold the wharf. I will order Mr Barber to bring his party aboard as they retire and they will sail her out, Mr Barber to command, of course.”

  Barber was senior, there was no alternative; a midshipman could not command in the presence of a master’s mate, even though the mid had far the greater chance of becoming a lieutenant.

  Frederick waited for Barber and Doolan to bring their men across Harriet’s deck, quickly gave them their final instructions and then trotted down to the wharf, Murray at his shoulder.

  An officious, uniformed gentleman, accompanied by a pair of juniors, came up to him, pointing at the polacca and shouting.

  “He says he is the harbourmaster, sir, and he is threatening to arrest you and the master of the polacca. He wants a bribe, of course.”

  “Well, he ain’t getting one! Kavanagh, Bosomtwi!”

  Frederick drew his working hanger and ran the Spaniard through the body as the other two fell silently to the flagstones. He raised an eyebrow as Olsen dropped to one knee and cut the man’s throat to silence his first cries; it would seem that Kavanagh was teaching the boy his business.

  “Unmask your guns, Mr Smith. Go!”

  The landing parties ran at top speed as the first cries of alarm rose and Watson took his men aboard the xebec. Frederick and Murray, Kavanagh, Bosomtwi and Olsen immediately behind them, ran into the fort, were greeted by hasty musket shots from an open window to the side, a guard-room built into the outer wall it seemed. All five fired back, their pistols effective in the confined space and shooting out of the darkness into a candle-lit office; there were shouts and a scream and then a door thrown open and a pair of muskets tossed out in token of surrender.

  “Call them out, Captain Murray.”

  Two soldiers came out carrying a wounded third.

  “They say the other man is dead, sir.”

  They could be believed, as they had presented themselves as targets if they were lying.

  “Tell them to take him down to the wharf, out of the way. If they behave they will not be taken aboard ship; if they cause any trouble they will go as prisoners for the rest of the war.”

  They paused at the wide archway leading into the tower – an old keep, by appearance, coats of arms prominently displayed. There was shouting and screaming coming from above and below. A sudden fusillade, pistol shots rather than muskets, from the upper floor was followed by silence.

  “Captain Thomas was to send his sergeant upstairs, I believe. Rather a resolute man and one who will take no nonsense from his own Marines.”

  “I rather think he has ended all thoughts of nonsense from any man there, Sir Frederick. Should we go up?”

  “Lord, no, Captain Murray! I will never lie to any man asking me questions, so it is far better not to see what has happened. I can guess that the monastery will find itself rather short of monks, but it is wiser not to know.”

  The noise from below ground had ceased with a final, drawn-out scream; they started to move inside, were looking for the stairs when they heard a clattering of running boots coming up.

  “Over there, sir.” Kavanagh pointed to a side passage as the noise grew and then a running soldier burst out, holding his breeches and shouting to them for help. The man dropped, suddenly silent, and Kavanagh wiped a blade on his coat.

  “It seemed simpler, sir.”

  “Certainly; it kept the noise down, Kavanagh, and we do not need further alarms.”

  An English voice called cautiously. “Coming up!”

  “Harris here, all clear.”

  Captain Thomas appeared, pistol first, just in case, then turned and whistled.

  “Eighteen men in the cells, sir. We have them all. None dead, though all have been badly treated. All of the guards dead, and none ran that we saw, except the one that suddenly galloped out of the privy behind us, and I see you caught him. No mercy for torturers, sir, and we took no prisoners.”

  “None. What are your losses?”

  “One wounded, sir. Knife cut across the body and we do not yet know how badly.”

  A surprise attack, and successful.

  “Take the captives back to Harriet, if you please, then form the rearguard, as per orders. I shall call Doolan and Barber back and we shall be out of here within minutes, I hope. Withdraw on your discretion, Captain Thomas – the job we came for is done.”

  The Marine sergeant came trotting downstairs, saw Frederick and his own captain and gestured quickly behind him, a flat hand raised.

  “All tidy up top, sir.”

>   “Well done, Sergeant! Come Captain Murray!”

  The officers left, having seen nothing.

  “I wonder what those buggers had laid their hands on, Captain Murray.”

  “Who?”

  “The Sergeant of Marines – there was something he did not want me to see. Probably a few bottles of wine, but they might have got into the altar of the monastery.”

  “Do you mean looting, Sir Frederick?”

  “Damned right, I do, Captain Murray!”

  “But… what are we to do?”

  “Nothing. It was only a small place. I doubt there was a score of monks, and they did not seem rich – no wall hangings that I could see, for example. If the Marines have got hold of a few guineas worth of plate, well, good luck to them! They did a fine job.”

  Harriet and the xebec were moored on a single cable, waiting to cast off. The polacca was already out in the stream. Frederick ran aboard, called across to Doolan to go, to wait offshore for the three to leave in company. He then trotted to the stern and shouted up to the higher xebec.

  “Mr Barber!”

  Barber appeared within seconds.

  “Fitzpatrick and his party to board. As soon as I cast off you will follow.”

  Captain Thomas and his Marines were doubling down the wharf, ran straight up the gangplank.

  “Movement towards the town wall, sir. A mounted party coming to investigate the shots, I believe, sir.”

  “Thank you, Captain Thomas. Is everyone aboard?”

  “All of mine counted on, sir.”

  “Good. Wait a moment, Mr Smith. I would prefer that no messenger should return to the city wharf to alert a sloop or frigate to sail in chase.”

  They watched as Spanish cavalry appeared on the wharf, and dismounted to investigate the fort. The horse-soldiers seemed unaware that the two tied-up vessels could be the source of a threat; presumably they expected Moors from inland.

  “Broadside, Mr Smith?”

  “Loaded grape over ball, Sir Frederick.”

  “Very wise, Mr Smith. The command is yours, sir.”