The Cursed Fortress

by Chris Durbin

  Carlisle knew there was nothing to be gained, and much to be lost, by arguing with his wife. Privately he’d concluded that the best solution was for Chiara to stay in Boston, where a more normal existence could be maintained. The New England winters were cold, but the worst would be over by the end of March, and she’d have the temperate summer for the latter months of her confinement. Boston had proper doctors also, and that was an important consideration. He’d have to talk privately to Carlton and determine the scope of his experience of the care of expectant ladies. It was quite possible that, as a naval surgeon, he had absolutely no first-hand experience and little knowledge of the subject.

  Of course, Medina would probably make Hampton Roads in three weeks, and his home in Williamsburg was only thirty miles by land from Hampton. On the face of it, that would be the ideal place for Chiara to stay for the next months, but Carlisle had never seen eye-to-eye with his father, and his older brother Charles was growing into a facsimile of the father, Joshua. And then there was the plantation which his father and brother operated – none too gently – with a few hundred African slaves. Carlisle understood the economic need; no Virginia plantation could survive without slave labour, but he’d rather Chiara didn’t see too much of that side of his family. No, if it could be avoided, he’d keep his wife away from the Williamsburg Carlisles except for a brief visit as they passed through. Now all he needed was a plan to persuade Chiara to take up residence in Boston.

  ***

  As it turned out, Carlton was quite familiar with the medical aspects of childbirth. He’d been an assistant to a moderately fashionable physician in Bristol before the wanderlust had taken him and he’d applied for a naval surgeon’s warrant. When he reported to Carlisle after Chiara’s examination, he was quite relaxed at the prospect of the captain’s wife spending part of the second trimester on board a man-of-war.

  ‘The worst discomfort will soon be over, sir, and the risks to the mother and child are reducing with each day that passes. I can’t imagine how Lady Chiara kept the inevitable sickness from you for those months at Kingston, but women have ways of their own, I find…’

  He’d have continued in that vein, but for the forbidding look on Carlisle’s face.

  ‘… however,’ he continued hurriedly, ‘I can see no reason why Lady Chiara shouldn’t remain with us for the next two months ...’

  Carlisle interrupted to prevent any more details.

  ‘What is your opinion of my wife spending the last months of her confinement in Halifax Doctor?’

  ‘Halifax? I had assumed she’d be leaving us in Boston, if not in Hampton. I know little of the facilities in Halifax and nothing whatsoever of the medical expertise that may be available. I would advise a more, how shall I put it? civilised city. Boston is as good as Portsmouth or Bristol with fine physicians and a new hospital if it’s needed.’

  ‘Thank you, doctor. It’s possible that I may require you to state that opinion to her ladyship, but for now, keep that between ourselves.’

  ‘Aye-aye sir. And of course, nothing of these matters will escape my lips. If her ladyship requires any potions, I’ll prepare them myself. Neither my assistant nor the loblolly boy will be involved.’

  ***

  2: A Curious Incident

  Thursday, Twenty-Third of February 1758.

  Medina, at Sea. Cape Florida West 12 leagues.

  The lookout had sighted the schooner to windward just after sunset. It was Whittle, of course, Nathaniel Whittle, the acknowledged best eyes in the ship and a volunteer from Carlisle’s home city of Williamsburg in Virginia.

  ‘She’s veered, sir, she’s on the same course as us now and I’m just losing sight of her.’

  The night fell with its usual abruptness at this latitude, and suddenly it was fully dark to the east. To the west, towards Cape Florida, the twilight lingered but in a few moments that would also be in blackness.

  ‘She’s gone, sir,’ said Whittle, ‘last I saw she’d settled on a northerly course and looked set for the night.’

  ‘Mister Moxon, relieve Whittle at the masthead, if you please, and send him to the quarterdeck.’

  ‘Aye-aye sir,’ replied the first lieutenant. Medina, being a twenty-eight-gun sixth rate, had only one lieutenant, called the first lieutenant by courtesy. In fact, he had all the duties of the premier in a larger ship but less opportunity to delegate. To make matters worse, there was no hope of taking him out of the watchbill until the new master’s mate had settled in; he had to stand his four-on, eight-off with the master and the best of the mates.

  Moxon leaned back and projected his voice to the masthead. He was old for his seniority, probably around thirty, Carlisle guessed, only a few years younger than his captain. He’d passed for lieutenant years ago but had only been commissioned with the huge expansion of the navy since 1756. He hadn’t yet had a real chance to prove himself. Medina had encountered no enemies since leaving Port Royal with the convoy, and only the steady north-easterly trade wind to test his seamanship. Well, that would end in a day or two, thought Carlisle, as Medina followed the Atlantic stream out into the wide ocean and the winds became more variable. They could expect squalls off Georgia and Carolina.

  Carlisle watched Whittle slide down the backstay and run onto the quarterdeck, apparently without pausing for breath.

  ‘Well, Whittle, what did you see?’ he asked. Not only was Whittle from his hometown, but he’d been raised on the Carlisle plantation. His father had come to Virginia as an indentured servant – a time-limited, voluntary slave in effect – and he’d stayed on when he’d worked out his servitude.

  ‘A two-masted schooner, sir. She was before the wind when I first saw her, but she veered in a hurry, I think as soon as she saw us. Anyhow, she’s snugged down for the night two leagues to windward of us, and if they’re honest men they’ll head reach on us and be out of sight in the morning.’

  Carlisle wondered. It was odd behaviour, and yet a schooner of that size could hardly be contemplating an attempt on the convoy, at least not in the daylight.

  ‘There was one other thing, sir. Just an impression, but she looked jury-rigged, her size was all wrong.’

  ‘Go on, Whittle, what exactly did you see?’

  ‘Well, sir, her sides look too high for her length, and her masts and spars looked bulky, too heavy for her rig and size.’

  Carlisle looked thoughtfully at the able seaman.

  ‘Very well, Whittle. If you think of anything else, let me know.’

  ‘Mister Hosking,’ he said to the sailing master, ‘make more sail. I’d like to speak to Shark as soon as possible.’

  He looked around at the fading light.

  ‘I don’t want to sneak up on Mister Anderson in the dark, so we’ll show a top light. Please make it so.’

  ‘Aye-aye sir,’ Hosking replied and busied himself with the necessary orders to set the t’gallants. That should give the frigate an extra two knots of speed to move them rapidly up the windward flank of the lumbering convoy.

  ‘Mister Angelini!’ Carlisle called over his shoulder.

  The midshipman of the watch ran for’rard from where he’d been stowing the log after the half-hourly cast. Enrico Angelini had a curious status in Medina. He was the captain’s cousin by marriage, being the immediate cousin of Lady Chiara. He’d come with his cousin to Antigua, and when she’d married Edward Carlisle, he’d been offered a place on Medina’s quarterdeck as a midshipman. This was quite an ordinary arrangement, the appointment of midshipmen being almost entirely in the gift of the captain of a man-of-war. What was most unusual was that Enrico, like his cousin, was a Catholic; how could he be anything else as a member of Sardinian nobility? This placed Enrico in an anomalous position. The whole purpose of being a midshipman was to gain enough sea-time and experience to pass the lieutenant’s examination and so be one step closer to a King’s commission. However, as everyone knew, the acceptance of a commission was dependent upon taking an oath of allegiance which,
in protestant England, included a repudiation of the Pope and all his works. Enrico was in a promotional dead-end. At some point, he’d have to resume his service in King Charles Emmanuel’s army, a service that he had temporarily set aside in frustration at his nation’s refusal to be involved in this war.

  ‘Pass the word for my servant, Mister Angelini, and then tell the master-at-arms to check that we’re showing no lights other than the binnacle and the top light.’

  ‘Aye-aye sir,’ replied the midshipman, replacing his hat and turning fast to find Black Rod.

  Carlisle could never bring himself to refer to his temporary servant as Black Rod. It seemed to confirm that he, the captain under God of this frigate, had no more idea of his servant’s real name than did the poor intimidated purser, and that would never do.

  ***

  Carlisle watched Black Rod as he made his stately way up the quarterdeck ladder. He was a most un-seamanlike figure: tall, ramrod straight (that was the origin of his nickname) and with an imperious air. Carlisle had to resist the urge to defer to him. At one time, in the Mediterranean, Carlisle had suspected this same Black Rod of being in league with a corsair from the Barbary Coast, but he was proved wrong. The corsair was an innocent Tunisian trader and a lost acquaintance of the Angelini family; Chiara’s Godfather in fact. And yet, there was an air of mystery surrounding Black Rod that extended beyond his apparent lack of a name. Chiara wouldn’t discuss it, and yet she trusted him completely.

  ‘You sent for me, sir?’ he said in his precise but accented English.

  ‘Yes. Would you tell Lady Chiara that I will need to spend the night on deck? There’s nothing to concern her and pray advise her not to endanger herself by coming on deck and subjecting herself to the falling damp.’

  ‘Very well, sir,’ replied Black Rod, as he bowed slowly and returned the way he came. The tall, urbane Sardinian may have mastered English, but he saw no need to adopt a seaman’s speech.

  ‘Mister Moxon, would you join me for a moment?’ Carlisle said into the blackness. The first watch had hardly started, the air was warm, and yet it was now totally dark. The moon, just a day past full, had risen an hour before but was completely obscured by high cloud that scudded before the wind.

  ‘I don’t like the sound of this schooner. If she was planning to cross the channel, she’d have stood on and passed astern of us. If she was on passage to the north, why stand so far into the channel before turning? Now, I’m not saying that she’s a French privateer, but there’s something not right about her. I’m going to tell Shark to beat up to the east of her. If I’m wrong, she’ll already be far to the north of us on her lawful occasions and there’ll be no harm done. But if I’m right, we’ll have her between Shark and Medina, and then we’ll know what she’s about.’

  Carlisle watched his second-in-command’s face in the meagre light from the binnacle. He could have wished that it showed more understanding of the situation, just some spark of intelligence rather than this dumb acquiescence. Oh, for the days when George Holbrooke stood beside him on the quarterdeck! Holbrooke was almost ten years younger than Moxon but far, far older in intelligence and initiative.

  ***

  Carlisle could feel Medina gathering speed. Hosking had shaken out the reef in the fore tops’l and that, combined with the t’gallants, brought a new lively feeling to the frigate. She sped through the dark night, the barely visible shapes of the convoy to leeward appearing to be stationary, so great was the disparity in speed.

  ‘Shark’s top light is visible now, sir,’ said Enrico. ‘A point on the larboard bow.’

  ‘Very well, Mister Angelini.’

  Like many convoy commanders, Carlisle had issued a list of signals that they would use on the passage. The signals detailed in the Admiralty’s Sailing and Fighting Instructions were meant for manoeuvering fleets and squadrons in battle, not for the subtleties of defending against nimble and aggressive commerce raiders. In any case, naval signalling was in its infancy and still relied largely upon getting two men-of-war close enough so that instructions could be shouted across. Carlisle needed Medina to be at pistol-shot distance from Shark – about twenty-five yards – to be sure of communicating effectively. He just hoped that Anderson had an alert lookout astern. A frigate looming unexpectedly out of the black night on his starboard quarter could be tragically misconstrued. He knew there was no need to tell Hosking what to do. The sailing master knew the situation perfectly, and what Carlisle knew of Anderson – a smart and lively young commander, eager to do well – reassured him.

  Shark could be seen easily now, and the people on her quarterdeck must be aware of Medina’s presence. As Carlisle watched, Anderson backed his main tops’l, and the sloop lost way, her speed dropping to little more than a knot.

  ‘Back the fore and main tops’ls,’ shouted Hosking, and the deck became a hive of activity as the waisters hauled on sheets and guys. Medina’s speed decreased rapidly until she closely matched the speed of the slower, smaller snow-rigged sloop. The trick now was to keep the two vessels close enough together so that Carlisle could shout his instructions across the twenty-odd yards of water that separated them. It would be difficult in any circumstances, but on a black night with two very different rigs – a ship and a snow – it was a task that called for the highest level of seamanship.

  Carlisle was aware of the flow of orders from Hosking to the teams of men on deck, but he could see that it was in good hands. Thankfully the first lieutenant was leaving this to the sailing master; at least he knew his own limitations and curiously didn’t appear to resent the fact that he was being sidelined.

  ‘Good evening Mister Anderson,’ shouted Carlisle through the copper speaking trumpet. A wave of the hand confirmed that Anderson could hear him.

  In rapid but deliberate short sentences Carlisle outlined the situation. It appeared that the lookouts in Shark hadn’t seen the schooner, perhaps because their masthead was so much lower than Medina’s. Anderson quickly grasped the situation, and with a final exchange of wishes of good fortune, Shark let draw her main tops’l and moved rapidly ahead while Medina waited for the sloop to clear the frigate’s bow. The last that Carlisle saw was Shark hard on the wind beating up to north-northeast. With her top light now extinguished she rapidly disappeared into the enveloping darkness.

  ‘We’ll drop back to our old station, Mister Hosking. I guess that the schooner will strike at the rear of the convoy if indeed she has evil intent.’

  ‘Aye-aye sir,’ replied the sailing master. ‘I’ll just keep her as she is until we see the tail of the convoy abeam.’

  ***

  The first and middle watches passed slowly under the darkness of the cloud-covered night. Naturally, there was no sign of either Shark or the schooner. When the morning watch came on deck, they found it as silent as when they’d left it four hours before. The vigilance of the officers had been communicated to the ship’s company, sensitive as always to the mood on the quarterdeck, and the watch below didn’t leave the deck when they were relieved. Carlisle remembered other times when he had waited for the light; it was always a dangerous time for King’s ships. The darkness lent a false sense of security, but when the light of either the sun or moon was suddenly cast on the scene, it could reveal an enemy so close that an engagement was started with none of the usual preamble. That was why King’s ships often cleared for action before dawn and the hands were ordered to their quarters. In this case, the order was unnecessary; they were at their stations already.

  Over to the east, the sky was just starting to lighten with the pre-dawn glow. The marine sentry struck four bells. Every idle pair of eyes was staring out to starboard.

  ‘Sail ho!’ It was difficult to know who spotted it first as a dozen voices shouted simultaneously.

  ‘Two points for’rard of the beam, sir.’

  That was Whittle, helpful as ever. Now that he knew where to look, Carlisle could just see the fore-and-aft sails of a two-masted schooner shimmering
in the first light. God, she was close! Only a mile or so to windward of Medina, and another half mile from the nearest ships of the convoy. There was no question now, his convoy was being stalked. If the schooner’s master had been bolder, if he’d arranged to be amongst the convoy at moonrise, he may have succeeded in boarding and carrying away one of Carlisle’s valuable charges. Carlisle wouldn’t have dared to chase too far to leeward for fear of leaving the remainder of the convoy unprotected.

  ‘I can see Shark now, sir,’ called Whittle from the main topmast head, ‘about two miles beyond the schooner.’

  ‘Hold your course, Mister Hosking. We’ll let Shark run down to take possession, she can’t escape now.’

  Carlisle looked carefully at the schooner. He could see what Whittle meant by her over-high sides and her heavy masts and spars. She looked almost as though she’d been cut down from a larger vessel, shortened as well. No regular privateer then. Perhaps a local fisherman or trader with an eye for a quick profit, but that was piracy, and that scourge had been eliminated decades ago from these waters.

  ‘That funny quarterdeck reminds me of Mister Holbrooke’s sloop,’ remarked Hosking looking through the telescope. ‘Just the same sort of slope from aft to for’rard.’

  ‘Mister Angelini, my telescope if you please,’ said Carlisle, a sense of foreboding rising within him. It only took a quick look to confirm his fears.

  ‘Harden up, Mister Hosking,’ he said urgently. ‘Make all sail and close that schooner as quickly as possible.’

  He turned to the waist and shouted to the first lieutenant.

  ‘Mister Moxon. A broadside to windward, as fast as you can.’

  The whole quarterdeck was staring at him now. Why was he reacting in this way to this mere schooner? It couldn’t harm even the small Shark.

  ‘That schooner, Mister Hosking, is the second Dutch pirate! They must have sailed her through the Old Straits of Bahama until they found a deserted island to careen. Then they cut her down to a schooner. If Mister Anderson’s lieutenant gets on board he’ll be cut to pieces. They’ve nothing to lose with the noose awaiting them!’