Barbarians on an Ancient Sea

by William Westbrook

  There was nothing for it. Obviously, Ezra Somers would have to decide what to do, for the prize partially belonged to The Somers Salt Company. The closest prize court was English Harbor, five days sail to the southeast. Aja climbed back down into his gig and, once aboard Loire, made ready to sail for St. George’s to present the ship, and the problem, to Somers.

  It seemed the prize money would have to wait because, as Fallon was wont to say, nothing was certain at sea.

  Barclay worked out the distance to Boston from Grand Turk as 1500 miles, give or take, and laid a course which would allow the little convoy to pick up the fast-moving current that flowed up the east coast of the U.S. from the Gulf of Mexico to Newfoundland.

  “Mr. Barclay,” said Fallon, approaching the sailing master. “What can you tell me of the coastline of the U.S.? Have you been in those waters before?”

  “Yes, a bit,” answered Barclay. “I sailed the Chesapeake Bay as a young man, for my parents came from Bristol to Virginia, where they began raising tobacco. My youth was spent mucking around in boats in tidewater Virginia and, when I was older, I went to sea. I knew the farming life wasn’t for me. I joined a ship trading up and down the coast as far as New York and worked my way up to second mate. I did that for a lot of years before the American Revolution. But the war put me in a quandary. I couldn’t very well fight Great Britain, and I couldn’t see fighting against the Americans, so I got a berth on a packet sailing for Bermuda to wait out the war. I’ve lived there ever since, except when I’m at sea, of course.”

  It was the most Fallon had ever heard the very private sailing master say about himself, or his family, and he chastised himself for not asking sooner, for Barclay had been sailing with him for several years.

  “The stream next to the coast is about five miles off and moves quickly, maybe six knots,” continued Barclay, getting back to business. “It’s sixty miles wide in places and warmer than the water around it. Very strange, it is. And dangerous when the wind comes north. Many ships have been lost around North Carolina’s cape and outer banks, in particular. We’d best beware in getting our ships around those banks.”

  And then Barclay ambled off to take a sight, for it was almost noon on a clear day and a good sight might not be possible for days.

  Eleuthera and Lucille were behaving themselves so far, and Fallon was feeling a bit guilty that he’d been so harsh with their captains. But his experience told him that, often as not, packet captains went their own way. As dusk approached on the first day he met with Beauty at the taffrail as she made the evening signals to the merchantmen, which they both acknowledged.

  “I must say you put the fear of God in those men,” she said to Fallon. “Look how they are shortening sail and keeping station to leeward.”

  “Yes, so far so good,” admitted Fallon. “But, of course, we have many miles ahead of us. We’ll see if the fear holds.”

  They passed the next few minutes in companionable silence, two old friends who never felt the need to talk to fill in quiet gaps. They both instinctively looked west to catch the green flash, that mystical and magical flash of light that sometimes appeared just as the sinking sun dipped below the horizon. All sailors thought it good luck, but tonight they did not see it.

  “Tell me, Nico,” said Beauty in the gathering darkness, just making conversation, “how are the wedding plans coming with Elinore? What have you decided?”

  “We’ll be married in the little chapel at St. George’s, by the sea, in the late spring,” answered Fallon. “Ezra says this is our last cruise for a while, so I’ve promised Elinore I will be back to help her plan things, although I confess I am out of my depth with weddings.”

  “Yes, I expect you would be no help at all,” said Beauty with a knowing smile. “You know, for as resourceful a captain as you are you are remarkably incompetent at some things.”

  “What else besides wedding planning?” asked Fallon, laughing.

  “Remembering birthdays,” Beauty said with a smile.

  “Whose birthday did I forget, pray?”

  “Mine, you dunderhead. Today is my birthday and I am terribly offended that you forgot it.” Beauty laughed aloud in spite of herself, for she clearly meant no such thing.

  “Oh, you’re right, Beauty,” Fallon said. “How could I have forgotten? Oh, wait, I didn’t forget.”

  And he pulled a small package from his pocket. Beauty looked at him in surprise, looked at the package, and looked at him again.

  “You didn’t forget.”

  “Open it.”

  “You didn’t forget!”

  “No, now open it.”

  Beauty opened the package to find a necklace. A piece of rawhide strung through a small, hand carved wooden dog.

  “Sea Dog,” he said. “I kept a piece of wood from our old ship. Not my best carving, but, like you said, I am totally incompetent at some things. Many things, truth be told.”

  It was doubtful Beauty had cried many times in her life. But the memory of their old ship swelled up inside of her, that good and true ship that had battled a Spanish flotilla in a hurricane and paid the ultimate price, her bottom ripped out from coral, her shipwrecked crew using her timbers for rafts as Sea Dog looked after them at the last.

  Those memories and more washed over her like the waves that had driven Sea Dog ashore, and she looked at Fallon silently for as long as she could see him through watery eyes, mouthed “Thank you” and then left to go below.

  SEVENTEEN

  THE SKIES WERE CLEAR AND THE AFTERNOON BREEZE MODERATE WHEN the two pirates slipped from behind Lucayo on Bahama Island and glided out into the Atlantic. The wind was from the northeast and the two sloops bore off northwards, close-hauled on starboard tack, looking for whatever the day would bring. The ships were C’est Bon and Jean Claude, which attested to their French build but not their present ownership, for captured ships were commonplace in the Caribbean.

  Pirate activity in the Bahamas was robust and had been for a decade or more, with little appetite by Bahamian authorities to drive the pirates out. Well, in truth the government in Nassau had no ships to fight pirates and petty officials took bribes to let them wood and water there.

  Pirates like C’est Bon and Jean Claude were typical, their ships crammed with the dregs of Bahama’s waterfronts like Nassau and Freetown, their captains elected by majority vote of the crew. They could be un-elected, as well, if they failed to bring their crews wealth. That could mean simple demotion or even hanging, or anything in between.

  So it was that both captains were relieved when their lookouts reported that two fat packets were to the east, sailing northwest. They did not report the third ship, sailing to windward, for she was hidden by the bulk of the salt ships.

  In moments, the lookout on Rascal yelled down to the deck.

  “Deck there! Two sloops on larboard sailing northeast!”

  It was the call Fallon had prepared himself for, because he knew well that pirates and privateers were thick in the Bahamas, in particular, and merchantmen were prime targets. He ordered Beauty to call the hands to stations and send a signal to Ashworthy and Pence to close up their positions.

  Barclay and Beauty studied the oncoming sloops through their telescopes while shot and slow match were brought up from below decks, and Cully mustered his gun crews at their stations. Everything depended on how the sloops went about their business.

  “The buggers are obviously working together,” said Barclay. “How do you think they will attack?”

  “Well, if it was me I’d stay to leeward and fire into the convoy,” replied Beauty, “which they have the angle and speed to do. I’d try to draw Rascal down to leeward and then I’d cut through the line and try to separate the ships and get up to windward. That would put us at a disadvantage trying to claw to windward and engage them. Meanwhile the ships are all ahoo and sailing on their own. That’s what I’d do.”

  Fallon had been listening to them as he studied the developing situation h
imself, judging the wind and shifts and calculating speed and distance.

  “I think you’re right, Beauty,” he said, and as he looked at her he noticed the small wooden Sea Dog around her neck and he knew he’d done a good thing. “The question is whether they’re as smart as you are.”

  Fallon watched as the sloops came for Eleuthera, firing from a distance of perhaps a half mile, not doing any damage but likely scaring Ashworthy to the soles of his feet. But Eleuthera was firing back gamely, her crew managing her larboard 6-pounders and doing their best. Both Barclay and Beauty eyed their captain, who did not take his eyes off the sloops. The ship was ready for action; gun crews waited anxiously for orders with the slow match coiled in a tub next to each cannon, little tendrils of smoke drifting upwards.

  Rascal maintained her station to windward of the salt packets even as the sloops drew closer to Eleuthera and continued firing into her hull.

  “Signal to both ships, Beauty,” ordered Fallon. “The letter ‘A’.”

  The letter ‘A’ was the signal to follow a plan Fallon had laid down for just such a circumstance, and Beauty ordered the signal sent aloft. Everything depended on the packet captains’ courage.

  Now the trailing sloop spilled her wind and dropped astern towards Lucille, firing her starboard guns as she came at the big packet, and Pence was firing back. Both packets had slowed imperceptibly, however, luffing their sails slightly as if the battle caused inattention to them.

  “Beauty, I think the sloops will try to board as soon as they can,” said Fallon calmly. “No doubt they are wondering what the schooner to wind-ward is doing, or not going to do, perhaps thinking her captain a coward.”

  Beauty and Barclay both smiled. That did not describe Nicholas Fallon.

  “Let’s take way off as soon as they move to board,” continued Fallon. “Duck Lucille and harden up to sail up her larboard side and rake the first sloop. Then, on to the second sloop. Have Cully ready with the long nine and the starboard battery. And raise the colors, if you please.”

  The sloops indeed appeared hesitant, perhaps confused that Rascal had not joined the fight. They edged closer to their prizes, feeling shielded from Rascal’s guns. Both Ashworthy and Pence depressed their 6-pounders as far as possible and fired as long as possible until the sloops were about to grapple on.

  “Now Beauty!” Fallon said with barely contained excitement. “Duck Lucille’s stern. Cully, ready with the long nine!”

  Now there were explosions of a different sort, smaller and irregular, and as Rascal sliced behind Lucille and quickly came up to the wind Fallon could see Pence’s crew lobbing grenados over the packet’s railing which were exploding on the deck of the sloop called C’est Bon, which was trying to board. Men were screaming in pain, likely not dying but wishing perhaps they could.

  Plan ‘A’ was rolling out.

  “Fire as you bear, Cully!” Fallon yelled, and the long nine roared its ball into C’est Bon’s stern, shattering her small gallery windows and causing untold damage to the insides of the ship. Quickly Cully ordered the gun reloaded and ran to the starboard battery to order those guns run out, with a wave to Fallon.

  “Low into the hull, Cully!” called Fallon, for it would not due to fire into Lucille by mistake.

  “Fire!” Fallon ordered.

  One by one Cully went to each gun, sighted it himself and ordered the crew to fire. Every shot told and blasted the larboard side of the sloop at the waterline. There would be water pouring through some of those holes into the ship even as the men on deck flung themselves about, trying to avoid those horrible bombs raining down on them.

  “Reload the starboard battery and back to the nine!” yelled Fallon without another glance to C’est Bon, which had now disengaged and was trying to limp away from Lucille. Not a single shot had come aboard Rascal.

  “Fire when ready!” he yelled to Cully. And once again the 9-pounder sent its ball towards the lead sloop—Jean Claude— and into her gallery, blowing out the windows and playing hell inside that fragile ship and no doubt killing anyone in its path. Eleuthera’s crew were now throwing their grenados down on Jean Claude, as well, exploding nails and glass into the men preparing to board. Pirates were screaming like devils and some jumped below decks to escape. But there was no escape, and here was Rascal coming up beside them at less than half a cable and running out her reloaded starboard guns.

  “Fire!” Fallon screamed, and one by one each 12-pounder thundered a ball into Jean Claude’s waterline as Rascal swept past. Again, so total was the surprise between the hail of grenados and Rascal’s sudden and swift appearance that the captain of Jean Claude managed to get only one shot off. Fallon was about to remark on it when he heard Beauty call Barclay’s name and he turned to see him on the deck, his face twisted in pain, his left arm mangled and bloody. The single shot had found him, likely the ball’s only damage, and even now men were bending to carry him below to Colquist. It was the kind of wound that could kill a man, as everyone aboard knew. At the least, he would lose his arm. But at the most…

  Jean Claude appeared destroyed, with men lying about screaming and clutching their faces and bodies as the captain hacked at the grappling ropes with his sword in an effort to be away. At last the ship was free, sinking but free, and Jean Claude came before the wind to sail off to the southwest, back where she’d come from.

  Now Eleuthera and Lucille hardened up their sails and began picking up speed on their old course, their crews cheering as they passed Rascal, which was standing by to leeward in case one of the sloops changed its mind and returned.

  But Fallon couldn’t enjoy the cheers. His mind was below with Barclay, fighting for his life this very moment. His arm was likely already off, lying in a tub.

  EIGHTEEN

  LOIRE SPENT THE NIGHT OFF THE ENTRANCE TO ST. GEORGE’S HARBOR, Aja not wanting to dare the channel on a black, moonless night. The ship was safe and secure and the breeze was light as the ship sailed back and forth. Aja stayed on deck, putting the ship about every hour to keep station and to look at the stars until they winked goodbye in the morning. The weight of the world was off his young shoulders, for he’d gotten the ship to Bermuda, albeit twice, and tomorrow would see Loire finally delivered.

  At first light, with the sun coming up behind the ship, Aja crept into the channel. By the time Loire’s anchor was down and her sails were furled and his gig was lowered, Aja could see Caleb Visser standing at the end of the dock. The American took off his hat and bowed, and Aja took that as a good sign that his spirits had improved.

  But the news was better than that, far better as he soon learned. Upon climbing to the dock he was embraced in a big bear hug by Visser, who squeezed the very breath out of him and exclaimed that they’d found the gold.

  “Mr. Caleb, sir,” said Aja, once he’d gotten his breath back, “it is a wonderful thing to find your gold. I believe it is a miracle.”

  “Yes, indeed it is,” said Visser. “But I was on my way to have breakfast with Ezra and Elinore when I saw you sailing in, and they will be delighted to see you and learn of your prize. I trust Nicholas and Beauty are well? Excellent, then pray come have a bite and tell us all about how you took that ship!”

  They walked up the dock and down the small road to Somers’ house, which sat on a hill facing the harbor perfectly placed to catch the sea breeze. Elinore met them at the door, welcoming Aja with open arms and questions about Fallon and Beauty. Assured that all was wonderfully well, she led them into the dining room where Somers sat drinking coffee. After Aja received another welcome and the same questions about Fallon and Beauty and, after an extra place was quickly set, the little group sat down to breakfast.

  Aja related the events since Rascal left Bermuda for Grand Turk, the battle scene between Ceres and Loire, and the taking of Loire without a terrible price due to Fallon’s decisiveness and Beauty’s ship handling. He omitted anything to do with his own role; he had learned from Fallon how to give a report that gave cr
edit to others.

  “So you went to Hamilton and learned that drunken fool of a prize agent had been booted back to England, I take it?” asked Somers between mouthfuls of egg and fresh biscuit. “He was a thief, too, as I’ve just heard. We’ve been getting cheated for years.”

  “What’s to be done with Loire, then?” asked Elinore.

  “Damned if I know,” said Somers, chewing contentedly. “Aja, what kind of condition did Rascal leave Loire in? She obviously got you here.”

  “Yes, Mr. Ezra, sir,” replied Aja. “There are no holes below the water-line and the crew spliced the rigging, though much of it should really be replaced. The ships’ boats need re-building, the railings still need some repair, the deck is gouged, the stern windows were blown out and there are shot holes we haven’t gotten to. But I think she is a fine sailer, though the sails are old. I think she has bugs in the hold, however. The men would not sleep below decks.”

  Caleb Visser laughed loudly and the others joined him, for French ships seemed to often have cockroaches and bed bugs. The ship would need to be cleaned from stem to stern and probably smoked to kill them all.

  The breakfast topic then moved on to cod fishing and days and nights spent on the Grand Banks in all weathers, for Visser had many stories of storms, tangled nets, and clashes with other fishermen, particularly Portuguese, who had fished the banks since, well, since cod. Visser was a good storyteller, with an easy charm and humility that kept his little audience enthralled, for they knew very little about fishing and even less about fishing the banks.

  As the dishes were cleared at last, Somers brought the conversation back around to Loire, for it was obvious he had been turning the problem of what to do with her over in the back of his mind even as he listened to Visser.