The Sea Officer Bentley Thrillers

by Jan Needle

  He went back to the tiller and hauled it hard a’weather, up on the larboard side. He secured it with a hitch, then took an axe. He heard the splash as the bow warps hit the water, then watched the great main course drop down. It hung for a moment, flapping damply, then filled. The yard creaked as it followed the pull of Bentley’s tethered brace, and the brig trembled. The sail was fairly useless until sheeted, but it caught the wind and blew her sideways, tethered as she was by the quarter. Ashdown came sliding pell-mell to the deck to ease and haul and trim, while up forward the big grey headsail jerked up the stay, then went up with a run as Will and the black man stamped aft with the halyard.

  “Hard aback!” roared Gunning, and his roar of exultation mixed with a different roaring, from the shore. There was pandemonium. The bolder spirits surged down into the water and tried to reach the bow before it swung too far, while the quicker raised pistols and muskets and loosed off a fusillade, without much chance or hope of striking a good target. Some were beside themselves with fury, landlocked sailors without even a cockleshell. Only one of their ship’s boats had been put overboard, and that was still moored docilely alongside at the chains. The smaller one was on the deck, on chocks.

  As the ship blew round parallel to the beach, with Ashdown and Will now at main sheets and braces, London Jack Gunning cut the last warp with a roundhouse swing, and she jumped forward like a hound let off the leash. Then he leapt back to the tiller, whipped off the hitch, and eased it as he felt the ship make steerage way.

  “Let draw!” he cried out to the Worm, who let fly the weather headsail sheet then ran across the deck to seize the leeward one The breeze was stiff, but almost dead astern, so the old man did not have to haul much weight. Meanwhile, the main was set up to Will’s satisfaction, and that of his helpmeet.

  On the beach the uproar was extraordinary. There were probably no more than twenty five men, but their intensity of rage, the backdrop of sheer cliffs, the wind blowing down the western walls and then across the sand, made a natural speaking-trumpet. Some of them, in the gloom, were positively dancing, jumping, screeching, waving their arms about – like Frenchmen, as London Jack contemptuously put it. Some even threw rocks, while some fired muskets, reloaded, fired again. They were running along the cove, keeping up with their escaping home, and the cove was coming to an end.

  Their humiliation pleased the English mightily. As they tried to clamber up the jagged rocks before the eastern wall rose sheer and impassable, Ashdown and London Jack shouted jovial obscenities, which Worm completed with a superb flourish and two banshee screams of “Merde!” and “Oh revoyay!” Pale moonlight spilled through a gap in the racing clouds as the vessel cleared the beach, eerie punctuation to an eerie scene. Their last sight of the defeated was black silhouettes on pale sand, no longer prancing but just standing there. And then the cloud-gap closed, and the only whiteness was ahead of them. It was the whiteness of the tumbling seas beyond the protective funnel of the bay. Four men, two sails set, and as they felt it they realised: it was blowing like the seven bells of hell.

  “Bloody Maria,” said Jack Gunning. “We’d better rouse them Frenchies, it looks serious out there. Worm! Ashdown! Get that mains’ll hardened home a bit, it’s slacker’n a parson’s prick. No, belay that and wake those Frenchmen up, the idle bastards! God, Will, there’s a bastard blowing up!”

  “Aye,” said Will. “It’s mostly from the west, an’ all. Damn! We’ve got to get back against it, damn, damn, damn!”

  “Why we want to go that way?” asked the Worm. “Why beat into that, it bloody kill us all, we got no crew. Go with wind, we get to Kingston, eh? You crazy?”

  Three pairs of eyes regarded him.

  “You’re in the Navy now,” said Ashdown, not unkindly. “You don’t argue with the officers, my friend.”

  “Not even when they are crazy,” added Gunning, smiling. “If Will here says we beat ourselves to death, we beat ourselves to death. Mr Bentley, that is. ‘Sir.’ You understand that, you black old Mr Worm?”

  There was doubt in the old and open face. Maybe fear. Will made a gesture with his hands.

  “We have to go west, Mr Worm,” he said. “Thank you for your opinion, and thanks for all the help you’ve been. But Ashdown is right. You’re in the Navy now. We have to take you west to meet your captain. Captain Richard Kaye. He and our fellows have been shipwrecked there, and we have to go with aid and comfort for them. Now Mr Gunning, enough of conversation. The sails we have are a disgrace, and we must see to them, immediate.”

  As if to emphasise it, the brig caught the first gust clear off the open sea. She staggered, rolled, and began to broach hard round. Gunning put all his strength against the tiller, dragging it to weather.

  “Get that bastard headsail sheeted!” he roared. “And stiffen up the main. I want the tops’ll too!”

  He gave a shout of laughter.

  “Let’s take our saviour to meet Slack Dickie Kaye!”

  Chapter Four

  Slack Dickie, since the Biter had come ashore some days before, had become in fact less slack, and with a vengeance. There had been insubordination – driven, in the Navy way, by drink – and he had shot a man. The ball had struck him in the forehead, half an inch above the eyebrow line, and should have killed him. A heavy ball, a lucky shot, and only fifteen feet between them. But Slack Dickie’s powder had been damp, he had not dried and cleaned the barrel out before he’d stuffed it, so the bang was more a fizz, and Patrick Strafford had woken later on to fight and drink another day. It was a lesson; but not a very good one.

  Slack Dickie, though, Captain Richard Kaye of the Royal Navy, had been hardly in the mood for anything when he had reached the shore. The men had made way for him politely to walk across the thwarts and step ashore with leather shoes still dry, but he had hardly noticed what he was doing. He moved rather like a man half-dead with misery, as if something quite overwhelming had befallen him. It had. Dick Kaye had lost his ship, and more than that, his fortune. He stood in the soft, hot sand and looked out into the green-black Caribbean, and he could see a splintered shaft of mast half-cocked and floating on the water. Beneath it, many, many feet, was silver in great quantity, and gold perhaps, and coins and doubloons almost uncountable. And all was lost. Forever.

  They had rescued two boats when Biter had gone to bottom, or two boats, more exactly, had rescued them. While the boatswain and the two lieutenants had scrambled to load food, water, powder, balls, the captain had been frantic to bring treasure. He had been beaten by sheer necessity finally – there was hardly room for all the men who could not swim (the large majority) let alone for luxuries, and the boats had barely had an inch of freeboard. Most men had held the gunwales or been towed on ropes.

  On shore, all mustered, the ship’s company of the Biter was announced as being about two hundred men. Gunning had muttered “Ship’s company? So where’s the bleeding ship?” but no one raised a smile. Kaye did not notice anyway. His face was forever turning out to the sea, which by now was blue and smiling, with swells diminishing almost by the moment. He had his hand upon the shoulder of Black Bob, his little slave-boy, as if for comfort. In fact his hand was halfway round the skinny neck, a living collar, stealing human warmth.

  Sam Holt took charge, and separated out two watches. Jem Taylor, boatswain, was to have the one, with Tommy Hugg as deputy, and the coxwain, Sankey, would take the other, aided by Tom Tilley. Will wondered where that left the two lieutenants, and indeed John Gunning, the unofficial master of the ship. The captain was not mentioned. He was the captain. He was above all this. He was slack.

  “Right, men,’ said Holt. “Break into watches, with the idlers, marines and petty officers falling in on me and Mr Bentley here. Rat Baines, you shall be the go-between, and I don’t want to see too many bruises growing on him, do you hear, you bastards? Now, laugh you may do, but I mean it. Rat Baines is my very useful man.”

  Even Rat Baines joined in the laughter then, but they knew the me
ssage was a real one. Baines was not so much exactly hated as despised, but he had his uses sometimes, so they must not cripple him. As they split off to make two small crowds, Sam waved the three marines, their officer Arthur Savary, and the cook, armourer, sailmaker and carpenter to join him and Bentley. Mr Black, the fat-arse purser, hovered on the edge. No one asked him for anything, but he knew his place was with the gentry, as he would see it. He steered clear of big Jack Gunning, though. Their animosity was all to do with drink, and prices.

  When all was set up, Holt gave a bow towards the captain, who nodded in return.

  “Thank you, sir,” said Holt. “Now, gentlemen, I feel that speed will be our saving, here. We have some few hours left of daylight, and we cannot waste it. Our first necessities are these – find water, find food, make fire, check and clean and dry our armaments, ditto what powder we have brought ashore. The boats need emptying of anything at all that’s useful, then launched to pick up floating lumber before it waterlogs. We freed as much as possible before the Biter foundered, and we must not let it float away or sink. Mr Taylor, Mr Sankey, split up your men as you see fit, and let us get a rustle on. Mr Raper, it is up to you to make your cooking fire, and Mr Purser, your job to scavenge some vittles. Nay, do not make that face at me, sir. We’ll have no lazy bastards here, what say you, men?”

  As a rabble-rouser, Sam had no equal. The targeting of the pig-like Mr Black brought them together like a clockwork toy, eager to work and not to split and bicker. The surgeon, Grundy, had not been named, and this was by intention, also. He stood behind the captain, in shabby black, and merely looked pathetic. This was the message: if you have pains and injuries, it you break a leg, look not to Grundy for alleviation, he is useless. Grundy had his case in hand as ever, but its rescue was not a badge of honour. It might contain some drugs and ointments, even a scalpel or so, but the chiefest of its value was for him alone. It contained his alcohol, as necessary as life itself.

  When the men had scattered, the conference got down to tacks. Sailmaker and carpenter were set to plan a makeshift encampment before the night came down, while Mr Gunner collected weapons, shot and powder, and set out to test and make all workable again. Each officer was expected to sort out his own firearms, which later led to Patrick Strafford’s bonus of continued life. Another mouth to feed, but he was a good man at heart, Kaye averred. Wrongly, it turned out.

  Will, Sam and Gunning agreed amongst themselves to call Ashdown into their company, because he was “a local man, as near as dammit, our only man who knows the island.” They asked him first of any dangers in the area where they were, and if they needed to post guards immediately. Lieutenant Savary, to give him his due, had already got his soldiers fettling their muskets, and indeed Rob Simms, their keenest shot and most useful man in all emergencies, had already loosed off one ball, the acid test. It had caused the crew to jump about like lunatics, and scattered flocks of birds to rise from trees all round them, which was taken for an exceedingly good sign.

  “We will not starve, then,” said Kaye, complacently.

  Ashdown was loath to voice words that might be perceived as critical, but he did say, obliquely: “It could be more than birds we flush out, though.”

  “God, man,” said Kaye, “be not so miserable. What mean you; lurkers? This place is like a wilderness. I doubt the nearest house is miles away.”

  Ashdown nodded.

  “Aye indeed, sir. But not house exactly. There are Maroons in this stretch, it is known for them. Our gunshot means they won’t be unaware of us.”

  “Aye,” said Kaye, sarcastically. “And they would not have watched us sailing in, you think? And sinking? At least now they know that we are armed.”

  It was a not invalid point, so Will smiled in agreement. But added: “Fact is, sir, that we need to have all guns ready as soon as ever possible, and cutlasses and knives issued, do we not? What Ashdown means, is that we will not be alone for very long. Wilderness or no.”

  “By Christ,” said Gunning. “So how many of them, Jack? These Maroons – they are runaway slaves, is that so? Why do they allow them to exist?”

  “Because they cannot do no other,” Ashdown replied. “They were much more numerous in earlier years, but they have treaties now, live and let live. And divide and rule to boot. The Eastern men tend one way and the Western men another. Sometimes the Easters will fight for the planters and earn money in tracking down runaways from the plantations. Other times they fight the Westers, or fight amongst themselves, as do the Western men. And then again, sometimes they raid an outlying plantation as in the old days, just for the hell of it. They are not tame, these Africans.”

  “They are savages,” said Richard Kaye. “My pa has told me all about them. Black bloody heathens of the deepest dye. If they should try it on with us, we’ll chop them up for dogmeat. Let them come!”

  This caused a quiet air of discomfiture, and Holt said laconically to Ashdown: “How many then? The captain says we’ll chop them up. Could make dogmeat out of us instead?”

  Ashdown licked his lips.

  “It is not my place to say, sir. But some of the communities have numbers in the dozens. Some, in the mountains, are like villages, damn near impregnable. Then there are smaller bands that roam about. White men upon the roads are… well, let’s say in danger. Let’s say to the Maroon men they’re fair game.”

  This incensed the captain.

  “You are talking like a coward, sir.” he snapped. “We are British men, and white. We must strike out for the nearest settlements, the planters’ not the savages’, or failing that march straight to Kingston or Port Royal. Or will you tell me now there are no roads?”

  Ashdown had not flickered at the insults. Kaye was an officer.

  “Roads of a sort, sir, yes. And Spanish Town is nearer than the other two, but it’s still some days of marching without animals. The roads are… well, Connemara comes to mind, sir. Even an ass would balk at some of those boreens.”

  “Quicker by sea, then?” Bentley asked. “Some of us could sail round to Port Royal. Not many, though.”

  “I’m game for that,” said Gunning, suddenly. “What say I take an officer or so and Mr Ashdown here and sail round for reinforcements and a ship? Come on, Capting! That makes sense, don’t it?”

  “We’ve got two hundred men,” replied Kaye testily. “All the Maroons in kingdom come could not overwhelm us. We’ll march.”

  “And they haven’t got a boot or shoe to bless their feet with,” Gunning said, “they’re sailormen, not bloody waggoners. We’ll have a wager on it, shall us, Dickie? We’ll go by sea and you can get some volunteers to try the rocky road, and I’ll give you five guineas if you get there first. Or at all, for that matter! I’ll lay another five you’ll get eaten on the way!”

  Sam put in his ha’pence-worth.

  “You must leave the bigger boat here, though,” he said. “I’ve got more than half a mind that we’ll get down to Biter and take some more stuff off. She’s crammed with valuables, ain’t she?”

  Kaye’s eyes were on to him like arrows.

  “What? Get stuff off the wreck? She’s in a hundred foot!”

  “Sixteen fathoms by the lead,” Holt agreed. “But there’s more hamper showing now unless I am mistaken. What’s the tidal range round here?”

  The answer was immaterial. Kaye’s slightly bulging eyes were reaching out beyond his nose towards the water. Indeed, the bare broken end of mast, tethered to the spars below by tangled cordage, was angled up towards the heaven like a sea-mark. And as they watched, a bulky wooden box burst to the surface.

  “Hell’s teeth,” breathed Kaye. “They swim down for oysters in these parts, don’t they? Ain’t this where they dive for pearls, down in the lower depths? Hell’s teeth…”

  Will and Sam had only vaguely heard tell of such things, but Gunning knew.

  “Over in the Gulf of Honduras,” he said. “Or maybe Nicaragua, I can’t remember, but they do it all the time. Those bla
ck lads can hold their breath for half an hour and go down a cable’s length! Tom Hugg can swim, Capting, for all he’s like a bleeding whale. Jem Taylor ditto, I believe. And there’ll be lots of lads among this likely lot, won’t there? When I come back I’ll lay good money on it – you’ll have the Spanish treasure up! We’ll have a richer pile of gold than Creasey’s!”

  The struggle in Dick’s mind for a decision was ended by this proposition, however slim it rang to Bentley and his friends. He gave a nod of masterful command and took Sam off to check over the boats at the water’s edge. The yawl could take a pile of rescued gear. She was ideal for the salvage job.

  Work went on apace, and morale among the company was exceeding good. Geoff Raper, the one-leg cook, had a fire blazing, six feet long between two rows of gathered rocks. Purser Black had broken out salt beef and flour, and the carpenter had constructed spits of springy greenheart to roast things on. As he had thought to bring two axes and an adze ashore with him, so Raper had rescued two iron pans and a variety of spoons and trivets. The armourer had dealt out powder, checked and remixed it in his black arts way, and Simms, marine, had tried and failed to shoot a bird, before Savary had told him off for wasting precious powder. He and his fellows, though, had brought back various exotic fruits, which they had tasted, all unknown, and luckily for them had not been struck down poisoned. Some of the sailors said it was far above normal shipboard fare already, while Sam Megson, half-witted like all the Corkhead breed, declared they’d landed on the “Paradise of Eden.”

  Within some few hours they had a good camp up, rough wooden shelters with roofs of woven leaves, and lookout positions facing cleared areas that were long enough to give good warning if attacks should come. Mr Purser, under fear of death perhaps, had been lavish in his doling out of barrelled meat, and Raper as always had conjured marvels up. He was marvellous to watch himself, Will thought, prancing and hopping around the fiery pit, hurling food and imprecations everywhere, sweating like a dervish king.