by Jan Needle
“Aye, sir!” came from forward. “Aye aye, sir!”
“Good God,” Kaye said to William, “it’s like a bloody pirate ship.” He roared at Gunning: “Moderate your fucking language, man! There’s quality approaching! Keep down your Thames-side filth!”
Indeed there was a pinnace heading from the shore, a gleaming blue picked out with painted cable at the rubbing band and pulled by black men dressed in white. In the sternsheets, under an awning, sat two officers in blue and bright-work, one with a leg that stuck out at an angle.
“And get a tackle rigged,” continued Kaye. “It’s that bloody cripple, Shearing. Well, he’ll have no argument with us this time, I do believe. The Santa’s gone and so’s the treasure, and the Spaniards can whistle up their arse before they can blame us.”
They had talked it over “to ad nauseam” as Holt had put it jokily, but for Kaye it needed constant repetition, to reassure him nothing would rebound. Shearing would be told the simple truth – that they had sunk the Santa as per orders, and under a black flag to hide identity – and that the Biter, too, was gone. The capture of the Jacqueline, he hoped, would be the big new interest point.
In the event, to Dickie’s great relief, Shearing’s pinnace provided its own distraction. The second figure in the sternsheets was Lieutenant Jackson, shaky and bleary-eyed, and apparently rather drunk. While Shearing, perched in a sling, rose with easy grace to land upon the deck on his good leg, Jackson spoiled the effect by slipping as he clambered across the bulwarks, to be grabbed by Kaye and Bosun Taylor and stopped from rolling overboard. Shearing cast off the sling and stood steady as a rock until Dickie was clear to take his proffered hand.
“Captain Kaye,” he said. “I confess that every time we meet it is a carnival. Forgive my clumsy adjutant, and tell me, pray, what ship is this?”
“Captain Shearing, sir. I have pleasure to report she is the Jacqueline, latterly a private cruiser for the French. No wealth to speak of, sadly, but below in irons some forty captured men, including Captain Bethany, who has surrendered but refused to give parole for good behaviour. The ship was damaged, sir. We have re-rigged her, after a fashion, but she needs careening, urgent.”
Jackson, now properly on board, walked as steadily as he could to Captain Shearing and handed him his crutch. It was in polished ebony, with silver trim. Jackson, by contrast, was a sloven, both eyes shot with blood.
“But your ship is called the Biter,” said Shearing, mildly. “Pray tell me what you’ve done with her.” He stopped, glancing about the crowded deck. “And can we go below, sir? These bumboateers are like a swarm of bees.”
A minute later they were in the cabin, while the peddlers, pimps and prostitutes continued their trading on the deck. Once settled, Shearing launched in without preamble.
“Well, Captain Kaye – explain yourself. We have been visited by a representative of our Spanish allies, and the tale they told is… strange. The Santa was beset by, they think, the ship that had been seen before, but this time they scuttled her and then flew off. The Spanish chased, but the marauder – crippled, they insist – slipped off into lucky night. She was, however, the same brig, and she flew the skull and crossbones. It was you, I take it?”
Kaye laughed.
“A little something we ran up, sir,” he said, levelly, “because you made it clear the Navy must not be involved. And we got clean away, and it was daylight, the lying rogues. We dismasted one and outran the other, and they can search for Biter till Kingdom Come and they won’t find her, that is guaranteed. She is no more. She is on the bottom. Sunk.”
“With her all the treasure, I suppose?” said Lieutenant Jackson, sarcastically. His voice was weak, but not slurred by alcohol. “Well, if that’s a triumph, you must pardon me.”
Kaye said defensively: “We did fight off two Guarda-Costa, sir. That is to say, two pirate ships by any other name. If that’s not a word too old-fashioned for Jamaica ears.”
Shearing smiled.
“Don’t mind Jackson,” he said. “He suffers; leave him be. Your achievement, sir, is understood, believe me. It is a pity, that is all; to risk so much to get so little. Had you been found out and captured by the Dons it would have caused a war, and the Navy’s lost a ship and tons of coin and specie.”
“More a wreck than a ship, sir, and we’ve won a better hull by far,” Holt said. “The Jacqueline may be small, but she is sound, unlike the Biter.”
Jackson lit on this statement like a homing bird.
“So she was rotten, was she? We had heard the rumours, sir. And the bottom dropped out at last, did it? Very heroic, I must say.”
“Fiddlesticks!” snapped Kaye, with a respectable imitation of an honest man traduced. “We fought a hard action against two Spaniards and took a weight of metal at close range. If Biter’s bottom had been suspect she would have gone down like a stone!”
“What did she sink like, then?” said Jackson. “A ball of fluff?”
The two men faced each other like angry dogs. Then Slack Dickie turned to Shearing.
“I find this abominable, sir,” he said. “My ship was excellent, and sank from stress of action, nothing else. And there is another part, which may well lead to riches yet. The Jacqueline is a fine prize in herself, but she was a private ship, and the prisoners are men of quality. Who knows what ransoms might accrue? The French-held islands are not poor, I understand?”
Captain Shearing moved his buttocks in the wooden seat, easing the discomfort of his crippled frame. It was getting hotter in the cabin.
“You surprise me still, Captain,” he said. “Surprise me further with a drink, I beg of you. Lieutenant Jackson, I fetched a bag of limes and such from my own little garden as a token for good Captain Kaye. I stowed ’em in the sternsheets and forgot. Will you do me the honour, sir? So kind.”
As Jackson went off – with palpable bad grace – Will called a steward and instructed for water, sugar, glasses and a jug. But Kaye wasted no time in waiting. He told Shearing of the disaster with his prize crew, how they had skipped from off the Santa with silver, gold and money in a handy skiff, giving the Biter no chance at all to run them down. Shearing blinked sweat from out his eyes and rubbed them. He looked as if he could not believe his ears.
“Let me test you, Captain,” he said, at last. “Do you tell me that the men you put on board the Santa to guard and keep her for you, took a skiff and made off with the booty? Good God, sir, how was this? Good God, sir, were they renegades?”
“Three Scotchmen, sir. There were some Spanish men alive when the ship was taken, and they killed them in cold blood. But when we found that out it was too late, they were overside and gone, they had had the skiff prepared and ready on the blind side of the Santa. It was a wicked plan, but neatly executed. As they will be, one hopes, if God is willing.”
Shearing fixed Kaye with a steely eye.
“And the good news, then, is that all witnesses are now disposed of, I suppose? The Scotchmen killed the Pedros, the Santa’s on the bottom, so is the English ‘pirate’ ship.” He sighed. “I will give you best in this, Captain. At least there should not be a war. Ah, Mr Jackson. Good man. I think my mouth has turned to mule dung.”
The frail lieutenant had come in with the captain’s steward, with the jug already full, and glasses bearing slices of tropic fruits. The drinks were poured, the healths were given, and all the men drank gratefully. Shearing was more friendly when he spoke once more.
“Come on then, Captain. Spit it out. How might all this sorry saga ‘lead to riches,’ as you put it? It seems to me as if everything is lost. The only riches is a little captured ship to make up for a big one, and a hope of ransom for some forty Crapaud peasants you claim are aristocracy. When did they get fresh air last, incidentally? Men die in Port Royal if they stay below too long, even French peasants. If the heat and rats don’t get ’em the stench will choke them pretty soon.”
Jackson put in: “Or perhaps they’ll crush to death. Forty? On t
he orlop of this cockleshell? They’ll be wilting like wax candles.”
Kaye was a picture of irritation and contempt.
“You say so, sir,” he said. “I say they are the enemy. If they are sweltering, they should have stayed at home. No matter – in the matter of the treasure I will tell you this. One of the men we have on board here has seen the Scotchmen and knows where they are lurking. They are in the west part of the island, and from what I have seen of the terrain, they will move nowhere very quick. My proposition is we go and seek them out, and bring them back and hang them, and there’s your treasure, pat. And what is more, the final witnesses are gone. These three Scotch, and their two accomplices, one Miller and one Morgan, are all that’s left alive to speak badly of our Spanish enterprise.”
“But they have a boat,” said Jackson, thinly. “And Hispaniola is an easy sail away, or Cuba.”
“In a skiff?” said Slack Dickie, acidly. Jackson was not abashed.
“They sailed away from Santa in some sort of storm, not so? While your ship was prevented from a chase by the same weather, so you say?”
“In any way,” said Will, feeling somehow sorry for his hapless commander, “they do not have a skiff no more. Ha’ you forgot it, sir? I picked up Worm when he was sailing it.”
Shearing was on the verge of laughter. “Gentlemen! Gentlemen!” he remonstrated, good-naturedly. “This is like a Punchinello show! What have worms got to do with it, pray God? Must I remind you there’s a war on? Worms? Whatever next!”
Sam said judiciously: “It is a man, sir, not a worm or snake in actuality, just very, very thin and wiggly. A black man, sir, Lieutenant Bentley found drifting in the skiff, which he had stole, apparently, from off the Scotchmen. He looks to be a hundred, give or take, and indeed he has the craft of many years. He must have, for no one else of us has give those bastards worst!”
“Nay,” said Jackson, back on acid. “But the Maroons down to leeward will, believe me. If those rogues have gone ashore there, they’ll end up in the cooking pot.”
“Fie, sir!” Captain Shearing’s rebuke was genuine. “Mr Jackson, enough.” He turned to Kaye. “They are not cannibals, the Leeward Maroons, but they’ll hunt these men down certainly, and kill them willy-nilly. The only thing that could save them would be armaments, a lot of fighting men – and luck. Believe you me, sir, if they had treasure when they came on shore, they will not have it now.”
Kaye knew the value of discretion. If authority thought the treasure must be lost, then let it be so. And when he found the Scots and got it back off them – it would be his.
“Aye, sir,” he said, regretfully. “I bow to greater knowledge. But forgive me, though, I thought the Maroons were our men now? There have been treaties, surely?”
Shearing nodded.
“Aye, that is true, sir. And the Leeward men are sometimes biddable, so perhaps the word might be put around, the Governor might be persuaded to offer some reward. What think you, Mr Jackson?”
“I think they’re savages,” Jackson replied. “I would not trust Maroon men with a twisted groat. Consider Siddleham, for example. Have the paid Bloodhounds tracked down his runaways, a simple task indeed? I think not, sir. They’re savages.”
The name Siddleham struck Will Bentley like a clamour. Siddleham was the planter, Sir Nathaniel, who had first revealed that Deb was on the island, employed as a servant by his neighbour, Sutton. He had called her whore, had boasted, indeed, that his own sons had been involved in the scene of violence that had injured her. Will was sickened and exhilarated, all at once, at the prospect of some news of her, any news.
“What?” he said. “Have they run away? Sir Nathaniel’s slaves and servants? But what of –”
“Hah!” Kaye gave a shout of laughter. “We remember Sir Nathaniel! He had kind words to say of Bentley’s little fancy piece! And have they run, sir? Well, serve him right says Will, I’ll warrant you! Eh, Will?”
Shearing was staring at him, his face a picture of distaste.
“Captain Kaye,” he said, “this is most unseemly. Sir Nathaniel, I have to tell you, has had a dreadful accident. He is paralysed, it is feared he might not live.”
“Oh glory,” said Kaye. “Sir Nathaniel. Oh glory be. I crave your pardon, sir, I did not know.”
“As how could you, sir?” said Captain Shearing. “It’s a dreadful tale, that happened after you had gone. Some twenty ran, as I believe, including, sadly, the young English maid. Sir Nat and sons, and Alf Sutton’s men, set off in pursuit, and Sir Nat came off his horse and broke his back. As Jackson would have it, the Maroons are much at fault that they have failed to find the runners yet, but I believe he errs. Only plantation blacks have looked so far, and it is early days.”
He stretched his spine, and grimaced painfully.
“Gentlemen,” he continued, “I am getting very hot, my leg is paining me – the leg that is not there – and I must go ashore and arrange accommodation for your prisoners. But Captain Kaye, and gentlemen, I do congratulate you on your successful mission in the matter of the Santa, and despite what I have said, I feel your intention has some merit after all. The treasure would be more than comfortable, but I cannot stress too heavily how delicate the matter is, to keep the Spanish sweet. If the Maroons don’t shut those Scotchmen’s mouths then you must, nothing is more necessary. You have my permission in this, and my full weight behind you, and you will have a slipway and all the shipwrights that you need to get your vessel right. On shore, I promise you, there will be a right warm welcome, both for officers and men. The word will go around immediate.”
He raised a hand to Jackson, who helped him upright with bad grace. On deck the crowds were sparser, and the boat’s crew were still stolid, tethered to the new-rigged mooring boom. Shearing was swung up on a tackle and then down, while Jackson made an ungainly scramble down two pendants from the boom. Salutes from waist and sternsheets, and the oarsmen pulled sharp away.
A young black whore came up to William and beamed into his face, so close he caught her lovely female breath. In a kind of agony, he turned his face away.
Chapter Fourteen
The organisation of a berth for the Jacqueline, the transfer of the prisoners, the noting and securing of all consumables (and thievables) on board, a never-ending list of other mundane tasks, kept officers and men at work without a break for half a week, in spite of Shearing’s optimistic picture of their new life. Dick Kaye was spirited away to take up shore accommodation with Mr Andrew Mather, the acting governor, who had a wife and young children, while Holt and Bentley, inevitably, mucked in with the men. The Jacqueline was vilely dirty, hot and horrible, noisy, and infested with bugs that both lieutenants found terrible until they got used to them (about three days). The yardmen over here were black, but apart from that were like yardmen everywhere, in every detail. They were idle, often drunk, worked imperceptibly if at all, and stole everything that was not tied or bolted down. It was, said Samuel dryly, like being back at home.
Kaye, playing the good captain, came visiting a lot, and systematically cleared the ship of all the creature comforts its French owner-officers had enjoyed. They had wine on board that made the wine on Navy ships “turn green with envy” (Sam again), brandy that was wonderful, and various hams and sausages and preserved things that Purser Black dared not try to sell as they could only ever have had the Jacqueline as their source. Kaye was on the lookout for such dealings from the very first, because any profits that were going to be made were his and no one else’s, he made clear. But very generously, his lieutenants were allowed to eat and drink…
He told them tales of idleness and debauchery on shore that were meant to make them jealous, but they guessed his life with Mr Mather was a pain to him, because the family was respectable, the wife prim, the children “little prigs.” The whole society, in fact, was not “top drawer”, he said, not like London, nor even like the best of English country life. The people, even at the pinnacle, were denizens of a very littl
e island, pining in the midst of a very wide blue sea.
The fellows left on Jacqueline, though, were living by debauchery as far as Kaye could see, and he showed a certain wistful hunger for it. Men gained liberty every night as the chance of running far was laughable, and returned in handcarts in states of degradation he could only dream about. There were boys in plenty to be had, and women too if that should be his preference on a given night, but the captain slept alone. As he told it frankly to Bentley and Sam Holt, it was killing him.
“The trouble is,” he said, “the maids I meet are surrounded by their pas and fond mamas, and their brothers and their cousins and their beaus. I only ever see them in formality, in dining-room or on a portico for ‘sweet cooling lemonade.’ ’Fore God, lads, it will drive me wild! Surrounded by such loveliness, and I may not even touch!”
Sam and Will, for this tête à tête, were seated in the cabin smeared with grease and sweat, while their captain was in knee britches and light pumps, with a silk kerchief in his hand to dab his lips; they were tempted to toss him overboard. For their part, days and nights were drab affairs. They were at liberty to go and do whatever they should wish, but that, in truth, was little. To search for Deb or search for information was the top and bottom of Will’s needs and wants, and that was quite impossible for now. Apart from seaman work, they must needs to be vigilant as hawks, at least until the valuables had been taken off the ship and stored. Even their most trusted men obeyed the seaman’s law in port – if anything would move then move it must, to become hard cash for drinking or for whores. Will knew that Deb had run away, he knew she was a criminal, and beyond that there was nothing he could learn.
Within five days, however, changes were beginning, and the two lieutenants received an invitation to “dine out,” in the company of their captain and Savary, in his capacity as the gentleman of marines. The dinner was at the house of Ephraim Dodds, a planter they had met in the Assembly before they had gone off to sink the Santa, and he was a crusty man, who held contempt for everyone except himself, and the English Navy in the most particular. He had invited them, apparently, to vent his spleen about perceived lacunae in their protection of the island, but took time out to rail at females, tradesmen, slaves, and all. There were no women in the party, Mistress Dodds “having scuttled back to the old country these many years ago and damned good riddance to her,” and his “best servants” were all white. The black ones (“merest scum”) were younger, and had indeed a rather skilful line in achieved incompetence. For a while, William could forget his woes, and watch the passing show.
