At last, the sun came out near the end of the week and, though the wind had picked up, the bargeman signaled he would go out. Indigo Jones had arrived, punctual as always, seeming no worse for wear for his daily efforts. After an hour of maneuvering, the bell went over, followed by Jones, and the little group on shore settled around the fire as usual.
The minutes dragged on and the air warmed slightly, the sun doing its best to cut through the chill. Gulls swooped and dove, and one alighted on the top of the barge’s mast to keep sentinel over the goings-on. At last, the bargeman signaled the bell was coming up. Indeed, it was almost beyond comprehension that Indigo Jones had been below the surface for almost two hours, especially taking into account how cold the water was. From the shore the group could see no sign of any success, however, and spirits were low as the barge beached on the sand and Indigo Jones had to be practically carried up to the fire.
Once more Elinore put an extra blanket around the shivering figure and Visser tried to rub some life back into his shoulders. Somers put his arm around Visser’s shoulders, as well, and even Little Eddy hung his head in sympathy.
“We’ll find something eventually, Caleb,” said Somers, as optimistically as he could, though he was feeling decidedly less optimistic by the day.
Visser nodded and managed a weak smile.
“Thank you, Ezra. Thank all of you. I don’t know how I can ever repay you unless we find the gold,” he said, and the futility of the whole enterprise seemed to overwhelm him as his voice cracked.
He only looked up when he heard Little Eddy shriek as Indigo Jones extended his right arm and opened his shaking hand.
Inside his fist was a gold coin, bright and like new.
THIRTEEN
GRAND TURK CAME INTO VIEW IN LATE AFTERNOON AND, AS RASCAL entered Cockburn Harbor, Fallon could see the salinas, or salt flats where the salt was harvested. Closer on shore were women in wide-brimmed straw hats working in an open building packing 40-lb bags with salt. Ahead, Eleuthera was tugging at her rode well out into the harbor while Lucille was already low in the water, awaiting the small boats which would bring the last of the salt out to her.
Fallon’s gig had been repaired enough to float and he sent a crewman with an invitation to both Pence and Ashworthy, captain of Eleuthera, to come aboard for dinner. In the event, they were both coming up the side just as dusk approached, darkness just behind them. Fallon welcomed them to his cabin and asked Beauty to join them, as well.
Ashworthy was a rotund man, obviously given to food and drink, with white mutton chop whiskers and a quite red nose. His puffy cheeks made his eyes seem rather small and piggish, but as they darted about the cabin he appeared to miss nothing.
“Tell me, Captain Pence,” Fallon began, “how was your journey? I am all attention.”
“You were right, by God!” Pence exclaimed. “It was the damnedest thing ever, I can assure you!”
“What was, sir?” asked Fallon, wondering what in the devil he was talking about, for he’d seemed to begin in the middle of his story.
“Why, the grenados, of course!” said Pence, acting surprised that Fallon was lagging behind. “We were set upon by a privateer not two days from Grand Turk. He came up under our counter and attempted to get under our guns. My men were ready, sir, and lit the grenados and threw them overboard.”
“And what happened?” asked Beauty, catching the excitement.
“Why, they blew up, of course!” exclaimed Pence. “Glass and nails went everywhere, even into the side of my ship. I saw the buggers run below howling! They pushed away but we kept throwing grenados until they were out of range. Then we fired our 6-pounders at them. It was a glorious thing. Glorious!”
Pence looked around the cabin, beaming. Ashworthy, who had already heard the story when Pence had first arrived in Cockburn Harbor, burst out in laughter, slapping his big thighs at hearing it again.
“I want some of those things, those grenados,” he said to Fallon. “Did you bring some along for me?”
“I did indeed,” said Fallon agreeably, “and may I congratulate you, Captain Pence, on a wonderful victory. I take it none of your men were hurt in the battle?”
“Not a scratch, sir,” said Pence. “But I daresay the Frenchies were scratched about and some of them might never sit down again.”
“Excellent,” said Fallon, smiling broadly. “God, how I love a lopsided victory!”
Ashworthy, who had already been in harbor a week, was quick to call attention to the fact and offer a suggestion that they leave that very evening since Lucille was now fully loaded.
“Thank you, Captain Ashworthy,” said Fallon as diplomatically as possible. “But I would like to review our signals and, of course, our procedures for night sailing. I have made plans to leave at three bells in the morning watch to catch the first of the ebb. I believe that will be most satisfactory and give us the day to sail together.”
What Fallon meant between the lines was: let’s see if you obey my signals during the daylight hours before we get to our first night together. Fallon knew that packet captains were notoriously unwilling to heed signals and he wanted to be clear on the point that his signals had better be obeyed.
Ashworthy harumphed. Pence eyed Fallon with some small respect and Beauty only smiled.
“Now, let us review some elementary signals, gentlemen,” said Fallon. “And Captain Pence, please help yourself to the lamb, for I believe you will find it as tasty as lamb can be aboard ship.”
Sometime later the dinner was finished and Fallon had reviewed all the instructions he expected the packet captains to obey. As the little party broke up and Ashworthy and Pence made to return to their ships, Fallon added the asterisk he’d been saving for that moment.
“Gentlemen,” he said, looking directly at the two men. “I have it on excellent authority that there is a French frigate operating off the coast of the U.S. This would be in addition to the privateers and pirates we know lurk in the Bahamas and, indeed, who scout the U.S. coast for British and American shipping.” And then he leaned in closer to the two mens’ faces. “If you do not obey my signals I cannot protect you. And in the event the frigate attacks, I won’t protect you. I will not allow my ship to fall under a superior weight of metal while the ships I am trying to protect sail about stupidly. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”
He didn’t wait for an answer from the astounded captains.
“Good,” said Fallon. “Then I will bid you goodnight.”
After seeing both captains over the side, Fallon retreated to his cabin to write a brief verse to Elinore. He kept his little verses in a drawer in his secretary and read them to her when they were together in the old fisherman’s shack on the edge of the marsh. It was in that shack that they’d always made love, and he shuddered involuntarily at the thought of their last night together there.
All I ask is your arms around me now,
Your face next to mine,
Your breath the small breeze I need on my cheek,
The wind to guide me home.
It was a poor excuse for poetry; it didn’t even rhyme. But Elinore always listened with her eyes closed, which was a good way to start the night.
FOURTEEN
ONCE AGAIN THE WIND WAS MODERATE AT NORTH ROCK BUT MARE’S tails and mackerel scales began to push up from the horizon. As every sailor knew, weather was coming.
Thus, there was a sense of urgency as the barge was pushed off the beach into the shallow surf, with Indigo Jones in the bow and the Bermuda Bell just behind him. He had recovered from the devastating chill of yesterday afternoon and was smiling, no doubt anticipating a good day on the bottom.
The gulls were absent today, having apparently figured out that no one was fishing from the barge and thus there was no reason to be present.
On shore, Caleb Visser, Elinore, and Ezra Somers paced the sand once again, heartened by Indigo’s find yesterday. Little Eddy was chasing shore birds, trying to stay warm. Today was not
as sunny, so visibility would not be as good, but Indigo claimed to know where to go. He had brought along a large wire basket, fine meshed but strong, with a stout iron handle to which was attached a rope. He certainly seemed optimistic. From the shore Somers could see Indigo standing by the basket as the crew made the bell ready. The mast was swung into place and the rope attached to the top of it, the creaking of the block sounded clear and cold.
Once again, the bell was lowered over the side of the anchored barge and, once again, Indigo dove over the side and up into it. His basket was lowered next and he took it inside with him. A single tug on the line, and the bell sank beneath the surface.
Optimism is like the tide: it ebbs and flows. After an hour it had ebbed badly on the beach, and then after almost two hours it had gone out to sea entirely. The little group on shore busied themselves building a fire, trying to keep their spirits up, for if Indigo found nothing today it was unclear when he could try again. Already it was becoming cloudier, and the mares’ tails seemed to be fairly galloping across the sky.
At last, a yell from the barge, which meant two tugs on the rope. Slowly the bell was retrieved from the bottom, coming up hand over fist, until the top broke the surface and Indigo swam out from inside. He had to be pulled out of the water and stood shivering uncontrollably as the bell was raised higher and finally swung over to be settled on the deck of the barge.
Those on shore could feel the bottom drop out of their hope, for there was no sign of any discovery aboard the barge. The boom was untied from the bell and there was some little effort to run the wire basket’s rope through the block, and then the crew began heaving the rope down through the block with grunts aplenty.
Slowly the wire basket rose from the water and swung onto the barge, water running through the wires and onto the deck. Inside the basket were hundreds of what appeared to be bright gold oysters.
A great shout went up from the crew and was taken up by those on shore. As quickly as possible the barge weighed and one crewman used the skull to maneuver the unhandy craft to the beach, running it ashore on a breaking wave. Indigo was led off the barge onto the sand shivering in spastic movements. Elinore immediately wrapped him in a towel and began rubbing his back and shoulders.
Next, two men carried the basket laden with gold coins off the barge to where the group was standing at the water’s edge. The basket was dropped onto the sand at Caleb Visser’s feet, and at first he simply stared at it in disbelief, seeming not to comprehend the sight before his eyes. And then tears leapt from those eyes. There was the gold, a mound of it, as bright as the day he’d packed the chest. Little Eddy fell to his knees and dug his hands into the coins in amazement.
Elinore put her arm around Visser’s shoulders, for the retrieval of the gold meant his dream was still alive. She only hoped his father was. Soon enough the moment was past and Caleb shook Somers’ hand and pounded Indigo Jones’ back and went to each of the crew and thanked them, as well. His eyes were dry and bright blue again.
The crew left to return the barge to Tucker’s Town, for the wind was getting up as the weather moved in and would just serve to take them around the island. Meanwhile, Ezra, Elinore, Caleb, and Indigo loaded the basket full of coins into the back of their carriage and, with Little Eddy sitting next to the gold as guard, made off for St. George Town. To a person they were astonished by their good fortune, none more than Caleb Visser, of course.
Once back at Somers’ office the gold was counted and the total was just shy of $11,500. It was remarkable, really, for almost all the treasure had been recovered and whatever was left, well, the sea could have.
Except that Indigo Jones stood by patiently, smiling. A really big, wide smile.
FIFTEEN
WILHELM VISSER LAY IN HIS CELL LOOKING AT THE STARS AND WONdering, for the hundredth time or more, whether by some chance his sons could see the very same stars. It brought him comfort to think Caleb or Alwin were looking up, wondering how their father was doing, though in truth their father wasn’t doing very well.
The old man’s body ached terribly at the end of the day unloading ships, and his was considered light labor compared to what the other slaves did daily. The sun was relentless as always, and sores had developed on his arms and head that scabbed over and then bled and scabbed over again.
The elder Visser was a simple man who had always preached tolerance and pragmatism to his sons, and the twin pillars of his philosophy bore him up now. In fact, he bore no malice to his masters; they were human as he was. They could be wicked and cruel, to be sure, but all men could. The pragmatic view was to abide his situation as best he could, make the best of a very bad thing, and live to see tomorrow.
As he lay looking at the stars, the thought struck him that the rational, pragmatic thing for his sons to do was to continue on with their lives and refuse the temptation to try to free him. Lord knew they had enough to worry about just to survive the cod market. Whatever the pasha was demanding was too much for an old man who was not far from death, at any rate. He hoped and prayed his boys would see the situation as he did and he did his best to communicate his wishes to the stars, and thus to them.
Zabana entered the palace of the dey of Algiers, Mustapha Pasha, confi-dent that he would be given an important assignment. After all, his corsair navy virtually ruled the Mediterranean and no merchant ship escaped his notice. He was shown into the Audience Hall, a long and magnificent colonnade with alabaster columns and intricate inlaid tile. Torches and candles set the hall ablaze with light, and a faint breeze wafted the smoke out the windows.
At the end of the hall the dey sat on a golden cushion, looking every inch the potentate. His thick beard seemed to cover much of his face and gave him a deeply sinister look calculated to terrify. He was dressed in flowing satin robes which disguised his considerable bulk.
Mustapha Pasha was appointed by Ottoman decree ruler for life. He was a master of intrigue, staying in power in the shifting political winds of the Ottoman Empire by pitting his enemies against one another, his friends against his enemies, and exerting control over whomever was left over. He received visitors in the Audience Hall under a painting he had commissioned showing him standing regally in robes and turban, his hand on the hilt of his sword, the severed heads of his enemies on the floor around him. If it was designed to strike fear into those who came before him it was inordinately effective.
All of Mustapha’s political machinations were driven by a relentless greed for the sake of greed, for he already had more wealth than any of the deys who preceded him, a large harem of wives and concubines and countless servants and sycophants. Each week his income was reported to him by the Collector of Tributes and was mostly based on the activities of his corsairs against Mediterranean shipping.
Zabana led those corsairs and, after Mustapha, was the most powerful and cunning man in the regency of Algiers. Their relationship was mutually beneficial, but wary. It showed in the way the men looked at each other, their eyes dark and cold and suspicious.
“Zabana Reis,” said the dey, addressing him as captain, “the tribute from the United States is late, as it always is, and when it arrives it will disappoint me, as it always does. Meanwhile, your corsairs take fewer prizes, American or otherwise, and that disappoints me, as well. I am disappointed, Zabana Reis, and growing poorer by the day.”
Zabana said nothing, but anger flushed his face red.
“It is possible for a man to be too comfortable in his own house,” said the dey, “tending his little garden every day, and never looking over his wall to the next world. I know this to be true. I hope you are not that man, Zabana Reis.” The dey paused here to let the effect of his words sink in. “I think it is time to leave your garden.”
The dey’s words were not lost on Zabana. It was true that captures had fallen off, but most countries paid tribute and were safe, and the American merchants were wary of sailing to the Mediterranean. He was not to blame for that, except that he had taken so ma
ny ships already. Truth be told, he had also grown comfortable on land; his mistress found amusing ways to satisfy him.
“The British have not agreed to new terms, as well,” continued the dey, “for their attention is directed towards the war with France. They must learn that it is not wise to ignore their important obligations here.” The dey stared at his captain for a long moment of silence, hoping that he did not read the lie. Indeed, Great Britain paid over £1000 a year in tribute, an amount that would not go unnoticed by the Collector of Tributes were it not forthcoming.
“What would you have me do?” asked Zabana softly, for he thought the dey was being deliberately vague on the question of which ships were fair game.
“I want wealthy men and beautiful women, Zabana Reis,” said the dey without emotion. “Leave your garden and find them.”
SIXTEEN
IT WAS THE FORENOON WHEN LOIRE SAILED INTO HAMILTON’S HARBOR and let go. There were random ships about at anchor, including Royal Navy sloops and a brig, but not much movement on the water itself. Aja had the newly patched gig lowered and the little crew pulled for government dock, where the Admiralty prize agent kept his office. Aja was understandably proud of sailing Loire to Hamilton; indeed, there had been no surprises and his small prize crew had done all they could with what they had available to make the ship presentable. There was still quite a bit of work to do but, yes, he was proud.
But, of course, life then pricked his pride. There was no prize agent in Hamilton at the moment, and might not be for some time. The word on the docks was that he had been recalled for scandalous behavior involving false appraisals and shoddy paperwork and missing funds that had ended up in the wrong pockets—his, apparently.
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