The Fireraisers

by Malcolm Archibald

  'You were right, Ragina. We should have turned back.'

  'Too late now, Sergeant. We'll have to ride the squall,' Ragina shouted.

  Watters abandoned all thought of reaching the Nesshaven fleet as the waves raised Joyce, shook her like a cat playing with a mouse, and tossed her back into a trough of the waves. The wind veered, coming from the north, then the east, hammering walls of chill water against their hull. Sudden darkness descended as the squall closed and rain scythed horizontally.

  'We're being driven back!' Ragina said.

  Watters nodded. He could hear a rhythmic pounding, and somewhere ahead was a high ridge of white.

  'The Sisters! We're being driven onto the Sisters!'

  A sight that had been ugly from the land was terrifying at sea. From here, the Sisters formed a long, wickedly-fanged barrier of rocks across which the sea surged and broke in mast-high spray.

  'We'll have to get out to sea until the weather breaks!' Ragina worked the sail, fighting the taut canvas to try to head them away from the rocks.

  Watters swore as the sea struck them broadside on, half filling the boat as he steered her away from the Sisters. For a long moment Joyce hovered a few yards from the rocks, and then a backlash forced her further away. The wind altered again. It blasted from the land, strengthening until the sail filled and the rigging strummed with the strain.

  Watters felt the muscles in his arms ache as he wrestled the tiller, pushing against the weight of wind and sea. With the wind still veering, Watters eased the bows further east, out to sea, away from one danger and straight for the froth-crested rollers that hissed toward him.

  The wind was gusting, alternatively filling and leaving the sail, but Watters still headed out to sea, aware that these German Ocean squalls often had a nasty kick in the tail. The more distance we put between the boat and the coastal rocks the better. The rumble of thunder came as a shock, the near-simultaneous flash of lightning startled him, and then the world collapsed.

  There was sudden, intense, stuffy darkness combined with a stench of burning and a tingling sensation that made Watters's hair bristle. He swore loudly, thrashing his arms to free himself of whatever seemed to be smothering him.

  'You're all right!' That was Ragina's surprisingly calm voice. He hauled away the sodden canvas sail.

  Watters looked around. The mast had broken, bringing the sail on top of him. He swore again. They were adrift on the German Ocean with the cliffs of Forfarshire a mile away and the wind veering wickedly. The mast hung half over the side, attached by a tangle of loose ropes and canvas.

  'Come on, Sergeant,' Ragina said. 'Let's get this shipshape.'

  They cleared the raffle from the boat, cutting the loose ropes, lifting what remained of the mast and rolling it into the sea. The residue drifted quickly away, leaving them with a splintered, blackened stump about five feet high.

  'Now we row back to Nesshaven.' Watters tried to sound optimistic as he searched for the oars.

  'No, we don't,' Ragina said. 'The sea's taken one of the oars. We'll have to scull.'

  'Damn!' It was many years Watters had last sculled, and his muscles and hands were soft, but there was no choice as he stood in the stern with the cold numbing his face. 'We'll take spells each. I'll go first.'

  'We're caught in a rip-current,' Ragina said. 'It's taking us out fast, so we'll have to work hard to get back to land.'

  Watters sculled, cursing, feeling the oar rasp the skin from the palms of his hands as his back and thigh muscles screamed with the unaccustomed effort.

  After half an hour, they changed places. Ragina now held the single remaining oar. Their combined strength was not enough to fight the combination of the fast rip-current and the ebbing tide, so they were drawn further out into the wild waters of the German Ocean.

  'It will be dark soon,' Ragina said.

  Watters did not reply. There was no point in stating the obvious. He looked up, hoping for a sight of a sail, but saw only the waves. Although the storm had abated, there was still a mist on the sea, limiting visibility to less than a quarter of a mile.

  Eyeing the waves, head bowed, they worked through the night, fighting the pain, with Watters feeling despair settle on him, hoping for the tide to turn.

  'Listen! What's that?'

  There was a regular thumping, combined with a faster splashing sound that Watters recognised at once. 'It's a paddle steamer. That's the sound of the walking beam and the smack of the paddles hitting the sea.'

  'It's getting louder! It's coming this way!' Ragina waved both hands. 'Here! Over here!'

  The noise increased until the splashing was a definite churning, and Watters began to worry that the steamer might run them down. He joined Ragina in waving and yelling as the sound rose to a crescendo, then the shape of a ship loomed from the mist, its starboard paddle threshing the sea only twenty yards away as smoke from its funnel formed an ugly fan astern.

  'Steamer, ahoy!' Watters yelled.

  The steamer continued, with the wake of its passing rocking the small boat, and it disappeared into the mist leaving only disturbed water and the smuts of its smoke.

  'There'll be others.' Watters moved to the stern to relieve Ragina at the oar. 'And the tide will turn soon.' Ignoring the screams from tortured muscles, he bent to his work, feeling the pressure of the wood against the fresh blisters on his hands.

  By midnight, the mist had closed upon them, blocking stars and moon, so they steered by the compass alone, hoping the tide was helping. With no bandages in Joyce, Watters tore off a sleeve from his shirt to cover his raw blisters. They fed on a biscuit, drinking half the flagon of water they had brought with them.

  'How far out do you think we are?'

  'No idea, but the tide's with us now, so we're moving in the right direction.'

  'You said that an hour ago, Sergeant.'

  It was the sound that alerted Watters. 'What's that?'

  'It's a fog horn,' Ragina said. 'Probably from the Bell Rock Lighthouse.'

  Watters said nothing. He continued to scull. There was nothing else he could do.

  They heard the foghorn one more time, fainter than before, and then there was silence broken only by the lapping of waves and the harsh gasps of whoever was sculling.

  Watters saw the lights but waited until they came close before he stood up and waved, yelling. Although he had no lantern, the vessel obviously had an efficient lookout, for there was an almost immediate alteration in her course.

  'Ahoy!' Ragina's voice was hoarse with salt. 'Ship, ahoy!'

  The vessel steered close, with men reaching out with boathooks to pull them close. There was the gleam of lanterns, the chatter of conversation, and three wiry seamen thumped onto the boat. Bearded faces smiled upon them; friendly hands raised them over a low bulwark and onto the waist of a two-masted vessel.

  'Bring them here.' The voice was familiar, but Watters was too cold and exhausted to say from where. There was the whiff of cheroot smoke, the click of hard heels on the wooden deck, and Walter Drummond smiled down at him.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN: GERMAN OCEAN: NOVEMBER 1862

  'Well now.' The Southern drawl was less pleasant as Drummond ran his eyes over Watters. 'This one I know. Sergeant Watters, I believe?' He raised his voice. 'Take them below. Keep them separate.'

  Watters had time for a single glance along the deck. He was on a two-masted sailing vessel with a large crew and various canvas covered bundles tied to the deck. The crew looked efficient but spoke in a variety of tongues, from the accents of the Confederate States to French and others that Watters did not recognise. Powerful hands grabbed him and hustled him down a steep companionway that descended into the depths of the vessel. A door opened, and he was thrown into darkness.

  Drummond thrust his head in. 'We'll speak later,' he said, nodding. 'And you will tell me why you are here.' His nod carried more of a threat than the long-barrelled Colt that filled the holster at his belt.

  'It would be best if you t
old me why you were here,' Watters retaliated as the door slammed shut. He began to examine his surroundings. The coiled rope and canvas told him that he was probably in a cable and sail locker, but one that also contained tar, by the smell. A painful experiment taught him that the deck beams above were far too low for him to stand upright, while he had perhaps three feet of space between the stacked stores. It was then that waves of tiredness hit him. He slumped on the deck, hoping the scurrying rats left him in comparative peace.

  The creaking and swaying were unfamiliar when Watters opened his eyes, but the sharp nibble of teeth on his feet brought him back to the present. Starting up, he again banged his head on the deck beams, cursed, slumped down again, and tried to ease the stiffness of cramped limbs and still the shivering that sleeping in wet clothes in an unheated space brought on. He was glad that years of living outdoors had hardened him to heat and cold alike.

  With nothing else to do, Watters fell back asleep to be wakened by the crash of the door opening. A lantern gleamed in his eyes and a shadowy figure hauled him out where other men surrounded him speaking in a mixture of languages.

  'This way!' With somebody shoving from behind, Watters was soon in the cold daylight of the upper deck.

  Drummond was waiting, with the suave Alain Dumas at his side and half a dozen burly seamen behind him. 'I hear that you are Sergeant Watters,' Dumas spoke quietly.

  'That's correct. I am Sergeant George Watters of the Dundee Police.'

  Dumas glanced at Drummond. 'You're not in Dundee now, Sergeant. I believe that you were searching for gin copers.'

  'We were.' Watters ignored the grins of the seamen around.

  Dumas raised his voice incredulously, while his seamen began to openly laugh. 'I am not sure whether you are a complete fool or just a liar, Sergeant Watters, but either way, I don't believe you.' He leaned closer. 'Well, congratulations. You are aboard your gin coper.'

  Drummond was wearing a seaman's canvas jacket and loose trousers with the feathered bowler hat balanced on the back of his head and a long-barrelled colt revolver thrust through his broad leather belt. 'Welcome aboard Pluton, Sergeant.' He was as much as ease on the deck of the brig as he had been in Mr Beaumont's grand house. 'Just do what you're told and things will be easier for you.'

  'Where is Ragina, the man who was with me?'

  Drummond glanced significantly at the sea. 'Didn't you hear the splash?' His smile was as sinister as anything Watters had ever seen.

  Watters felt a cold chill creep up his spine. 'Did you throw him overboard?'

  'He was no further use to us once he told us what he thought you were looking for.' Dumas said.

  Some of the crew laughed. Others watched Watters, gauging his reaction.

  Watters hid his anger. 'I see.' he kept his voice neutral. 'You murdered him.'

  The sound of the fiddle called Watters's attention to the mizzenmast. Isabella Navarino sat cross-legged on the cross-trees with the violin to her shoulder and her hair loose around her shoulders. Lifting her bow, she waved to him and slid down the backstay to the deck.

  'Good day to you, Sergeant Watters. What brings you out here?'

  'Good day to you, Captain Navarino. I'm searching for a gin coper.'

  Navarino grinned and tossed back her hair. 'Did you find one?'

  'I believe one found us.' Watters felt the fury burning behind his eyes. 'Where is my companion? Mr Ragina was with me, and he appears to have vanished.'

  'I heard.' For a moment, Navarino looked angry. 'I would wish that had not happened. I had no part in that affair, Sergeant.'

  Dumas stepped closer to Watters. 'I was going to throw you to the fishes too, Sergeant Watters, but Mr Drummond tells me that you are a capable man. You might have found out something that is none of your business.'

  Watters said nothing.

  'What do you think you know of our operation, Sergeant Watters?' Dumas's voice was soft. 'More important, what have you told your superiors?'

  'They know everything.' Watters tried to sound calm. 'You may as well sail back to France, Mr Dumas.'

  Dumas nodded. 'I've no time to deal with you now.' He raised his voice. 'Take him away, boys. Don't worry if he gets a little hurt.'

  Although Watters tried to defend himself, he fell as a gaggle of seamen fell upon him. Punches and kicks propelled him along the deck until he was pushed down the companionway, saving himself from serious injury only by grasping the rails as he fell. He landed just one telling punch before he was back in the store, where two of the seamen kicked him a fond farewell. Even as he curled into a foetal ball and rode the blows, Watters knew that he could not blame the sailors. Dumas had given them a direct order. All that was little consolation as the last seaman slammed shut the door. The darkness was a welcome friend, while the pressure of Marie's New Testament in his pocket was more comforting than he would have believed.

  Time passed slowly in the storeroom as Watters considered what Dumas had said. They had thrown Ragina overboard: cold, brutal murder. He would not forget that. He would pursue Dumas and Drummond, somehow, when he could. Watters put Ragina's death to one side to concentrate on the other questions.

  It was evident that Dumas and Drummond were not here to sell gin to Scottish fishermen; they were here on business connected to Alexander MacGillivray. Watters tried to sort the disparate pieces in his head. There were two opposing parties in his case. There were William Caskie and his Continental arms manufacturers plus Drummond and Dumas, and there was the mysterious foreign woman who persuaded the abolitionists into fire-raising. Stuck in the middle was Beaumont. Why the devil did these people choose Dundee to fight their sordid little war?

  Watters turned ideas over in his head until the thunder of feet informed him that things were happening on deck. Putting his ear to the door, he tried to listen but could not distinguish anything other than confused noise.

  The door crashed open. 'You! Out!' A Confederate by his accent, the man was tall and lanky, with bad teeth and ears that could have formed handles, but his eyes were level and his grip firm as he pulled Watters to his feet. 'There's someone to see you.'

  'What?' Watters had no need to pretend confusion as the Confederate dragged him back to the upper deck. A large number of men were gathered around the mainmast, far too many to be only the crew of Pluton. Some glanced at Watters, others were talking amongst themselves, one was whistling, which immediately marked him as a non-seaman in Watters's eyes, but most were staring at the ship that lay close alongside.

  Painted light grey, the newcomer was long and lean. Her prow was cleaver sharp, with a ram at water-level, her profile sleek, from her twin, low cut masts to the two funnels whose emissions smeared the sky, and she was easily three times the length of the brig in which Watters stood.

  'Do you like her?' Dumas puffed on a cheroot, his eyes busy. 'That's your nemesis, boy. That's Alexander MacGillivray; remember the name because she is about to change history.'

  Aching from bruised ribs and limbs, Watters glared through his one good eye. A swelling bruise closed the other. 'Is she? How? By racing the Federal Navy?' He decided to taunt Dumas. 'Mr Holderby knows all about her, even the twin screws. So she's to lead the new Confederate battle fleet, is she? What with? She's no guns!'

  Despite his words, Watters privately admitted that Rogers' Yard had done a fine job, as they always did. Alexander MacGillivray looked every inch the predator, except for her lack of firepower.

  'Not yet,' Dumas said. 'But we'll add those once we complete her fitting out in another port.' The gentlemanly drawl cracked as he leaned closer. 'Your damned British government wants us to win but won't break the neutrality laws. Don't you all understand that together we could whip the Yankees from here to Christmas and back?' Dumas's voice rose an octave. 'With your industrial might, your Royal Navy, and our soldiers, this war would be over in months. You're all afraid of the Yankees in case they take Canada!'

  Watters thought of the battered men who had worn the faded
scarlet in campaigns from Quebec to the Crimea and Salamanca to Serangipatam. He thought of the stubborn squares at Waterloo and the incredible advance at Minden, the smoke and mist at Inkerman, and the ragged handful who died at Gandamack. 'Afraid?' His laughter mocked Dumas. 'Man, you know little about us and understand less. Afraid!' He laughed again, deliberately taunting the Confederate.

  When Dumas hit him, casually, as an abstract gesture that had little meaning, Watters spat blood onto the deck. Isabella Navarino would hate her ship being sullied in that manner. Good. He spat again, making sure some of the blood spattered on Dumas's immaculate boots. 'You're a hero with a hundred men at your back, Dumas. I wonder what you'd be like one to one.'

  When Dumas stalked away, Drummond touched his shoulder holster. Was that a threat? Probably.

  Smoke poured from the twin funnels as Alexander MacGillivray steered closer and then came to a skilful halt. Crewmen lined the decks of both vessels, with Pluton rocking in Alexander MacGillivray's wash. When Isabella Navarino snapped a quick order, a boat pushed out to return with two men from the steamship. With Pluton's low freeboard, the men scrambled aboard handily, and the taller of the two looked Watters full in the face.

  'What the devil is he doing here?' With his knee-length black coat half open and a top hat balanced on his head, William Caskie looked out of place on Pluton, although he stood rock solid despite the lively motion of the brig.

  'We picked him up a couple of days ago,' Dumas said. 'He was in a small boat.'

  Watters had never seen such a mixture of expressions cross a man's face in such a short space of time. First, there was rage, then doubt, then a hint of relief, followed by fear that was replaced with renewed anger that warned Watters of the blow to come. He ducked beneath it, leaving William Caskie floundering on deck, but Dumas grabbed him until Caskie recovered for a second swipe.

  'I have brought you a fine ship,' Caskie said at last.

  'And him?' Dumas indicated Watters.