The Black Ring

by William Westbrook

  Young David was stoic, as was his usual mien. All the other slaves marched with their heads down, but not Young David. This was not lost on the soldiers, who regarded him with respect and curiosity. Well, they thought, let’s see how proud he is in front of a firing squad.

  TWENTY-NINE

  WHEN AT LAST the sloops were ready for sea, the Holy One could resume his business. The time ashore had given him pause about his strategy, however, and whether it needed to change with the report of Spanish frigates sent to protect slavers from, well, him.

  He had searched his mind for opportunity, and he found it on land. The plantations on Caribbean islands often swept down to the harbors and bays, and the barracoons could easily be seen from the water. Hundreds if not thousands of slaves were asleep each night within reach, and no frigate could defend them.

  His plans were executed first on St. Kitts, where he took off 75 slaves; and then perfected on Martinique, where he took off almost one hundred. His sloops would enter the harbor at dusk, and his captains would lead their crews ashore to the barracoons. Any resistance from the planter or his overseer was easily dealt with, usually with knives. The slaves were led obediently to the ships’ boats, and the entire operation was completed before dawn. He sold these slaves at a market in Santo Domingo, though the prices were far less than what he could get in Cuba. But this was just the beginning, and when the holds were full and bulging with black gold it would be worth the long sail to Cuba, where the price for a sound slave was the best in the Caribbean.

  Really, this new strategy was brilliant, and the Holy One was surprised that he hadn’t thought of it before.

  He’d always been clever, even as a boy in Cadiz. But different, his parents had said. They’d tried to discipline him when he’d done different things, such as torturing animals or stealing from shops. So, he decided to simply leave. Well, not simply leave, for first he’d set fire to his room to erase any trace that he’d ever been there. Later, he learned the entire house had burned down, his parents within it. It hadn’t troubled him.

  He’d taken refuge at a monastery in the port city of Alicante, pretending to be interested in Jesus. The monks had allowed him to stay and worship with them, hoping to save a wayward soul. In fact, he stayed almost a year but, in his cell-like room at night, he created a vengeful image of God, merciless and all-powerful. It was a God he could pray to for guidance.

  He left Alicante with a robe and a cross, using them to secure free passage on a small trader bound for West Africa. He absorbed the lessons of sailing and ship handling easily. Once in Africa, he watched in fascination the endless procession of black Africans loaded onto slave ships, and he knew he’d found his calling. Later, he secured free passage on a slaver as a priest in return for ministering to the needs of the slaves and the crew and, two days out of Senegal, he’d murdered the captain and impressed his will upon the small crew by displaying the captain’s mutilated body on the bow of the ship. His career, such as it was, was launched.

  Cruelty builds a reputation faster than goodness, and stories of the Holy One’s sadistic behavior soon became legend and legion. Not only did he attack his victims, slave or merchant, with impunity but they were punished for resisting. In some cases, captains were tortured for hours and then set adrift in a ship’s boat, flayed and bleeding, to drift to their deaths under a relentless sun. To resist the Holy One was to resist the will of God, in his mind.

  His God did not forgive. Or forget.

  THIRTY

  FOR THE BEST part of the next week, Fallon visited with Beauty every day, and every day he saw her condition improve slightly, her spirits and strength grow incrementally. It was a tribute to the human body that he’d witnessed with injury and illness before: the body wanted to be well. Soon Fallon would need to leave to pick up Wharton in Matanzas, and he wanted to leave knowing Beauty was well on her way to a full recovery. Thanks to the Garóns, she seemed to be.

  Unbeknownst to Fallon, Lieutenant Brooks had approached Captain Kinis with an unusual request. Knowing Fallon was due to sail soon, and knowing he would leave without a second in command, Brooks had volunteered to sail with Rascal. He was a young man aboard a flagship usually confined to English Harbor and, as much as he tried to avoid saying it directly, he wanted more real sailing experience and, frankly, excitement. Kinis read between the lines as Brooks stammered out his request, and he remembered his own service as a first lieutenant. He could understand and did not take offense at such an unusual idea. In fact, he secretly wished for a little more adventure himself.

  Davies had very generously agreed with Brooks’s request when Kinis confided it. Fallon was very appreciative, even overwhelmed, having already taken a liking to Brooks. Nonetheless, the young man would have to dress down into ship’s slops so as not to advertise himself as a British officer.

  Soon enough, Brooks was aboard Rascal and was supervising her provisioning, with Aja in close attendance. Certainly, the ship could have anything it needed with Admiral Davies’ blessing.

  Lieutenant Jones was making progress from his injuries but was not yet able to take the full load of restoring Renegade to fighting trim. He was, however, ready for his interview with Davies as to the battle with Doncella Española, and the admiral had asked Fallon to be in attendance since he’d played so integral a role in the outcome. Fallon admired Jones and knew him to be an excellent officer whose account could be believed.

  It was early in the first dogwatch when the meeting convened aboard the flagship, with Kinis present as well. Although it was not a formal inquiry, it might lead to one, and Davies would want corroboration of what was said.

  Jones looked uncomfortable sitting at the table, either from his injuries, or the report he was to give, or both. Certainly, the battle with Doncella had been a disaster for the Royal Navy, a blot on Jones’s career, and already word of the battle’s outcome would be on the waterfronts and in the harbors throughout the Caribbean.

  “Tell us, Lieutenant Jones,” said Davies to open the meeting, “of the events leading up to and including the battle with Doncella. I realize you were injured during some part of the affair, but tell us what you can.”

  Jones swallowed hard and looked at each of the captains in the room, gathering his thoughts, for his story was not an easy one to tell.

  “On the morning of the twenty-first we came upon a Spanish frigate—Doncella Española—sailing northwest, and Sir Charles ordered Beat to quarters. As we were also sailing northwest but coming from the south, Doncella had the weather gauge.”

  “How was your supply of powder and shot, sir?” asked Davies, cutting to the chase.

  “Excellent,” replied Jones, but a downward glance confirmed what Davies suspected.

  “Specifically,” asked Davies, “had you practiced the men at the great guns with live ammunition since leaving Antigua the month before?”

  It was a direct question from an admiral, and Jones could only give a direct answer.

  “No, sir,” he said. And everyone in the room knew that Sir Charles, like too many British officers, hoarded powder and shot at the expense of practice at the great guns.

  “Go on, Jones,” said Davies, beginning to form a picture of Sir Charles’s command.

  “We engaged Doncella on starboard and the men bent to their guns with a will,” said Jones, intentionally defending the crew’s actions. “And—”

  Here Davies interrupted, knowing well that what wasn’t being said could be more important that what was. He was determined to get the full story, just as much as Jones was determined to avoid impugning his commanding officer, dead though he was.

  “Mr. Jones, was Renegade a disciplined ship?” asked Davies. “Was she in all respects ready for a fight?”

  This was the crux of it, the moment Jones had dreaded in the interview. As first lieutenant, it was Jones’s responsibility to see to it that the ship was indeed ready for battle. Ready, in fact, for anything. Fallon watched Davies carefully, for he had been
through a similar interview and knew that Davies would continue to probe for a deeper narrative until he felt he had not only the facts but also the underlying story behind them.

  “Let me make this easier for you, Mr. Jones,” said Davies. “Answer the following questions with a simple yes or no, please.”

  Jones nodded, and Fallon thought he could detect a sense of relief on the man’s face.

  “Did you attempt to persuade Sir Charles of the need for practice with live ammunition?”

  “Yes.”

  “And he did not agree?”

  “No.”

  “Did Sir Charles agree with your handling of the men?”

  “No.”

  “Did he think you were too soft?”

  “Hardly! I mean, no.”

  “Did Sir Charles countermand your efforts to discipline the crew then?”

  “Yes.” Jones was barely speaking above a whisper now, looking at the floor, equal parts humiliation and embarrassment. Davies had known other captains who tried to curry popularity with their crews by being lenient. It never worked.

  “So, you went into battle with Doncella with a poorly disciplined crew who had no practice with live ammunition. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And would you like to add anything further?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Describe the battle now, if you please,” said Davies.

  Fallon listened to Jones review the tactical situation again, knowing well the scream of shot and picturing the chaos and loss of life aboard Renegade with each incoming broadside—Doncella had fired two complete broadsides to every one of Renegade’s.

  “Did Sir Charles take active command of the ship, Mr. Jones?”

  “He … he tried to, sir. But I don’t think he …”

  “He what, Mr. Jones?”

  “He lacked experience, sir. He didn’t really understand how to fight the ship. He had his sword pointing to Doncella and was yelling Fire! Fire! before the guns were even reloaded.”

  “Good God, man!” exclaimed Davies. It was clear that Sir Charles had a very romantic and ultimately tragic notion of what a British captain should be: He was long on show and short on competence.

  “He was shot in the throat early on, sir,” continued Jones. “A Spanish sharpshooter was in the tops, I believe. As I tried to rally the men we lost our fore-topgallant mast, which somehow managed to find me as it fell to the deck, and I don’t remember anything afterwards. But I believe the second lieutenant, Ashby, took charge of Renegade just as Captain Fallon arrived on the scene to draw Doncella’s fire. The rest you probably know, sir. And may I say thank you, Captain Fallon. I am sure the ship would have been lost without you. I’m very sorry Beauty was so seriously wounded, but as I am in the ward next to her, I can confirm that she is mending well.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Jones,” said Davies. “And may I say your account is wholly believable and I pray will do you no lasting disservice. I will have to petition the Admiralty for a new captain, of course, but as you are the senior lieutenant on station, Renegade will be under your command until the new captain arrives. As soon as you are able, pray get her ready for sea as fast as ever you can.”

  Fair to say, Jones was caught flat-footed by Davies’ approbation of his conduct as first lieutenant under Sir Charles. He was being given a second chance to reclaim his reputation, for Davies could quite rightly have placed Brooks in command of Renegade and Jones knew it. He left Avenger’s great cabin in a daze, shaking Fallon’s hand at the gangway, who was himself descending to visit Beauty at the hospital. Rascal would leave for Cuba in a few days, and he had yet to tell her.

  IT WAS NEVER going to be easy. Though Beauty was feeling as well as could be expected after surgery, she was in no condition to go to sea, and she and Fallon both knew it. But she refused to accept that he would leave without her.

  “If you sail without me you’ll likely get lost,” she said as she sat up in bed, wincing at the pain but trying hard not to show it. “Someone else should go get Wharton.”

  “There really is no one else to go, Beauty,” said Fallon soothingly. “Besides, Davies wants me to inquire in Matanzas about a particular person who may have gone missing. I promised him I would. There’s more to the story, as you can probably guess.”

  Beauty shifted her pillows a bit. It obviously was a woman they were talking about.

  “Nico, I think the salt air would do me a world of good. And Colquist could look after me if there was any problem. Look, I’m getting stronger by the day—Garón has me walking up and down the halls so much I’m wearing a groove in the floor. Can’t this wait a few more days?”

  But, of course, it couldn’t. Brooks would do fine as Rascal’s first lieutenant, though Fallon had to admit it wouldn’t be the same. Brooks was no Beauty, as it were. But the ship and crew were ready and, in truth, so was Fallon. Getting to Matanzas a few days early should give him time to find Paloma if she was to be found.

  “So, tell me, Beauty,” said Fallon, hoping to change the subject, “how are you feeling? I know on the outside you look like you’re coming along, but a wound like you had, you know, you could have died. Maybe you ought to reconsider, well … your job.”

  “Sailing with you is dangerous, Nico,” Beauty said with a smile. “But listen to me. I know you’re trying to change the subject, but since you asked, I’ll tell you. I’ve had my dark moments, I admit. I’m human. I’m a woman. You might not know it but I have my own vanity. And I still have to go home and face someone else with a big scar across my chest. I’m not really worried about how she’ll react, but you leave one way and come back another and, well, I guess you’re never sure. Doctor Garón was pretty clear about what I faced. He told me you gave him permission to remove my breast if it would save my life. Thank you. By the way, I would have done the same for you. Cut off your breast, I mean.”

  Ah, Beauty.

  “But, let me ask you something, Nico,” said Beauty, turning serious. “Were you with me for the surgery?”

  “Yes, I was,” answered Fallon.

  Beauty took a moment, her face turning red from embarrassment as she pictured the scene, Fallon by the bed holding her hand while Garón and Colquist did their work, her body naked to the waist.

  “And what did you see?” she asked softly.

  “I saw a sailor with a chest wound,” Fallon answered immediately.

  “That was the right answer, Nico,” Beauty replied.

  THIRTY-ONE

  FALLON WAITED until Saturday to leave English Harbor, for every sailor knew it was bad luck to sail on Friday. He said good-bye to Beauty on Friday, though, both of them stoic and resigned that he had to leave without her. Beauty was making real progress and was out of bed as much as she was in it. Doctor Garón was due the credit for that.

  Admiral Davies came to the wharf to see Rascal away and to thank Fallon again for inquiring about Paloma Campos in Matanzas. He still had anxiety in his face, Fallon noted, and he hoped he could bring back good news that would put his friend’s mind at ease.

  It was more than thirteen hundred miles to Matanzas, and Barclay laid a course taking them above the islands of Porto Rico and Hispaniola before reaching the north shore of Cuba. Fallon’s mind lingered on Cuba for a moment, wondering whether Wharton’s mission had been successful.

  Fallon and Barclay kept a vigilant eye as they neared Porto Rico. The area between Santo Domingo and the Lesser Antilles was the deepest part of the Atlantic Ocean, a trench more than five miles deep, and old sailors recounted tales of giant waves seemingly coming out of nowhere to capsize ships and drown crews. The islands would shake, coconuts would fall to the ground, and huts would collapse. No one knew why, of course, but these were the stories sailors told.

  Rascal cruised through the area without incident, all sails set and drawing, the wind just on her starboard quarter. Brooks very wisely rigged preventers on the big booms to keep them out to larboard lest the ship should sli
p down a wave and accidentally attempt to wear. Fallon liked Brooks, who was a tall, genial officer given to humor and self-deprecation, a rarity in the Royal Navy. He knew his business well, and the men responded quickly to his every order. In all respects, he was an excellent first lieutenant. Fallon noticed that Aja observed him keenly.

  Even sharp-eyed lookouts failed to turn up anything on the horizon, and Rascal dipped and rolled past Porto Rico and on toward Santo Domingo. Louverture had begun his rebellious activities there, rallying the slaves against Spanish planters and developing the leadership qualities that would serve him so well when he turned his attention to Saint-Domingue to the west.

  Aja walked to the larboard railing, where Fallon and Brooks were standing, and followed their gaze out to Hispaniola. From sea, the country was lush and verdant, with forested hillsides sloping down to fields and meadows that seemed to run to the beaches. The bloodshed of thousands of slaves couldn’t be seen from the sea; indeed, it could barely be imagined from the land.

  “Aja, one day you will be able to tell your grandchildren that you met Toussaint Louverture, a famous man in history,” said Fallon. Aja looked at the shoreline deep in thought.

  “Do you think France will allow the rebellion to continue, sir?” asked Brooks, a dubious tone in his voice. “If France invades Saint-Domingue, the world may never remember Louverture, I’m afraid.”

  “There is an old saying we learned as children,” Aja said. “Until the lions tell their tale, the story of the hunt will always glorify the hunter.”

  “Well, let’s hope Louverture will live to tell his tale,” said Fallon. “France doesn’t need more glory, much as Bonaparte might want it.”

  Brooks left to supervise the changing of the watch, still getting used to a privateer’s casual ways versus those of the Royal Navy. The watch turned up, the lead was cast, and the ship sailed toward Saint-Domingue and into the early evening, making only fair speed, for running before the wind was not Rascal’s best point of sail. Cuba lay in the dark distance, and Fallon wondered what he might find of Paloma Campos. Davies’ feelings for her seemed deep, and it put him in mind of his own feelings for Elinore and how they always seemed magnified when he was at sea.