by Scott Cook
To Honor We Call You
Scott Jarvis Private Investigator - Book Nine
Scott W. Cook
To Honor We Call You
Copyright © 2020 by Scott W. Cook
All rights reserved.
Book formatting and cover designed by Ardent Artist Books
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Contents
Foreword
Prologue
1. November, 2020
2. October 10th, 1797
Chapter 3
4. October 11th, 1797
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
7. October 13th, 1797
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
10. October 15th, 1797
Chapter 11
12. From the Files of the World’s Greatest Detective
13. From the Files of the World’s Greatest Detective
Chapter 14
15. October 16th, 1797
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
18. From the Exciting Adventures of La Dectiva Caliente
Chapter 19
20. October 17th, 1797
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
23. From the Exciting Chronicles of the World’s Awesomest and Humblest Investigator
24. October 17th, 1797
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
28. October 17th, 1797
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
32. October 18th, 1797
33. From the Exciting Adventures of One Clever and Sexy Chica
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
39. October 18th, 1797
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Epilogue 1
Epilogue 2
Author’s Notes
Foreword
If you’re a follower of the Scott Jarvis series, then you’ll already know that like my fictitious doppelgänger… who in his world is in fact the author of these tales rather than myself… I am something of an amateur historian. Certain periods of history in particular appeal to me – Rome, The Age of Sail and World War 2. That you’ve already seen if you’ve read Sins of the Fatherland.
Like that tale, this one features an embedded historical plot line. This time, it’s placed during the French Revolution and begins the personal saga of a character who joins the ranks of famous British sea officers, both real and imagined, to fight against the French and the soon to be realized tyranny of Napoleon Bonaparte himself.
Inspired by the American Revolution, the French people rose up against King Louis XVI in 1789. Although it would take another four years before the monarchy was truly abolished. On July 14, 1789, the Bastille prison was stormed, then later on the palace at Versailles. The King and his wife, Marie Antoinette were spirited off to Paris but finally taken when the palace of the Tuileries was stormed in 1792.
During this time, notorious figures such as Robespierre, Marat and Talleyrand seized power and began what’s come to be known as simply “The Terror.” Thousands of French citizens were executed at the Place de la Révolution under the blade of what was colloquially known as la mechanique… the guillotine. That included the original revolutionaries and of course, King Louis XVI in January of 1793 and later that year, his widow Marie Antoinette. Any citoyen that was even rumored to speak out against the revolution and the concept of equality for all was taken to the scaffold.
Ironically, it wasn’t until General Bonaparte seized power that the years of slaughter were put to a stop. However, it was the execution of King Louis in early 1793 that sparked off a series of wars that would last for 22 years, with only a brief respite in 1802. During this time, some of the most famous military actions in history were performed, especially between the British Royal Navy and France. Notables such as Nelson, Cochrane and Saint Vincent as well as the Duke of Wellington, battled Bonaparte and the results are some of the most fascinating and engaging events in human history.
This period has inspired many authors… including this one… to write exciting tales that, while partly fictitious, struggle to compete with the reality of those events. Patrick O’Brian, C.S. Forester and even current authors like Dewey Lambdin bring this crucial and interesting period to life through larger than life characters. The exploits of Jack Aubrey and his doctor friend Stephen Maturin, of Horatio Hornblower and Alan Lewery draw us in and bring history to life in a very real way.
I hope that my foray into this time period engages you just as much. The historical portion of this book takes place at a time when the United States was engaged in an unofficial conflict with France over issues of trade and commerce raiding. My protagonist, however, is something of a departure. While brave, bold, ferocious in battle and intelligent like the afore mentioned heroes… mine is an oddity of the time because she’s a woman. A strong, driven woman who’s family history has bred her to a life at sea and, I humbly hope, to take her place in the pantheon of Napoleonic era heroes. Perhaps she’ll even prove so strong that she breaks away from young Jarvis and steps out on her own… we’ll see what you think!
In this tale, it’s presented that the historical portions are being read to us by Lisa. This is only a suggested mechanism to combine the two stories, but don’t take it too literally. The prologue you’re about to read, for example, comes before either Scott or Lisa even know of its existence. I hope that historical fiction lovers will enjoy the tale as well as the modern detective plot line. I also hope that crime / action / thriller readers will also enjoy the historical portions. They’re very different in style, the earlier era being written somewhat in the O’Brian style – that is, as if from the perspective of contemporary English people. No matter what, though, I think you’ll find all of this a lot of fun and a great way to kill any hours of boredom that dare step into your path…
“Come, cheer up my lads, ‘tis to glory we steer! To add something more to this wonderful year! To Honor We Call you not press you like slaves… for who are so free as the sons of the waves!”
from Heart of Oak
Prologue
October 10, 1797
The Whitby Castle was, it must be admitted, not a particularly admirable vessel. She was neither swift nor weatherly. She was not large, and what armament she could boast, if one could call it boasting, would do little to dissuade even a lightly armed privateer or belligerent national vessel intent on snapping up an easy prize. Unhappily for the lone merchantman, such vessels were to be found in plenty in the regions in which she now found herself.
Whitby Castle was a brig of somewhat less than three-hundred tons and just over eighty feet on the range of her main deck. She was bluff bowed and broad in the beam, however. These traits were desirable in moderate weather or better, keeping her stable and dry. However, in anything more than a single-reefed tops’l blow, her broad merchant’s hull and shallow draft caused her to sag to leeward in a most frustrating and even disreputable manner.
The dirty weather in which she now found herself was considerably more than a single reefed tops’l blow. She carried only a close-reefed tops’l on her main along with the spanker, only
the double-reefed course on her foremast and little more than a nose wipe for a heads’l. Even with this conservative sail plan, she was making heavy work of the cresting seas and howling wind that insisted on shoving her toward the west. Although it couldn’t yet be seen, a dangerous lee shore lurked there just under the storm-shrouded horizon.
Her master, a middle-aged man with thirty years at sea to guide him, was doing all that common sense and good seamanship would allow. Yet he feared it wouldn’t be enough. The dilemma he now faced was one that confronted the commander of any sailing vessel that was challenged by heavy weather as well as a dogged pursuer. The desire to spread more canvas and attain a greater speed balanced against the factors of wind and water that contrived to batter his vessel into matchwood. In heavy weather, more sail did not necessarily mean more speed. There would eventually be reached a point of diminishing returns, where the thrust gained by the extra canvas was countered by the energy lost to lowered because the wind created as much or more lateral motion as forward thrust.
Even with the scraps of canvas his brig now flew, John Woodbine knew that under current conditions, he’d already reached that balancing point if not surpassed it. The steep gray waves, some of which towered as high as the tip of the bowsprit, were already cresting over the fo’c’s’le, sending rivers of foam surging along the deck and streaming through the lee scuppers. Below the deck, her fabric was working cruelly, causing her seams to part with metronomic regularity. What few hands he could spare, for he only had a merchantman’s small crew to begin with, were already at the chain pumps, sending just enough water over the side to keep pace with that which insisted on coming aboard with every sickening plunge.
As if this challenge wasn’t enough to occupy the harrowed, and in some cases, nauseated crew, the ghostly and taunting form of their pursuer could be seen just off the port quarter not four miles distant. Although barely visible through the heavy rain that drove in upon them, it was painfully obvious that the other vessel was both faster and more weatherly than the plodding Whitby Castle. Far more so, indeed. Woodbine had plenty of proof of it, as the cursed schooner had been clawing up to them hand over fist for the better part of four hundred sea miles.
Whitby Castle had been making her way from Bermuda to the American port of Charleston, South Carolina after a fairly pleasant passage from Plymouth. They were making nearly seven knots with the wind in the south east and right over the quarter, the point of sail the brig liked best. It was just before the end of the second dog watch… Woodbine, being a former master in the Royal navy liked to run his vessel man o’war fashion… when the lookout in the mizzen top reported a strange sail to windward. The sun had just set, and by the time the other vessel, clearly making much greater speed, hove up close enough to be identified as a trim and beautiful Baltimore Clipper, it was nearly full dark.
These American built ships were quite possibly the most advanced and best sailing vessels ever built. Although not designed as heavy combat vessels, their sailing qualities couldn’t be matched. Fore and aft rigged with a sharp bow and narrow entry paired with a prodigious forward spar these ships could spread an incredible amount of canvas and reach speeds nearly equal to that of the wind… almost beyond the point of all reason. They were everything Woodbine’s brig was not… swift, weatherly, maneuverable to a remarkable degree and stiff.
Properly handled, for instance, the very vessel that now pursued the harried brig could make two miles to her one in such weather. Thankfully, however, it became obvious from the beginning of this long stern chase that while the American built schooner was indeed a remarkable sailor… her captain was not. It was the only thing that had thus far saved Whitby Castle from being taken.
At first the schooner had been flying American colors and thus was assumed an ally or at least a non-belligerent. However, this ruse was quickly revealed for what it truly was when the Stars and Stripes were hauled down and replaced by the new French tricolor. Why the master of the clipper had done this Woodbine couldn’t say, yet he was grateful for what was surely a novice’s blunder.
It had nearly been dark then. And while the plodding brig was most certainly not a fine sailor… her captain was. Using all the tricks and skills at his command, Woodbine had doused his vessel’s lights and managed to escape downwind in the dark. Trying to beat up would have had no effect, for like all square-rigged vessel’s, Whitby Castle couldn’t point very high up into the wind. Where most square riggers were lucky to get as close as six points, about sixty-eight degrees off the wind, the brig’s master deemed himself fortunate if she could maintain six points. However, as her best point of sail was with the wind off her quarter, Woodbine had altered course to the northwest, running large before the wind into the darkness.
It had worked for a time. By daybreak, Woodbine found a clear sea and hauled his wind to bear up to Charleston, now less than a day’s sail at a modest pace. Once again, however, by sunset, it became clear that they weren’t out of the woods yet. The clipper’s tops’ll had been spotted in the east and once again was narrowing the distance between the two ships with alarming rapidity. As night drew on, Woodbine had tried the same tactic, only in reverse. With the wind having backed more easterly, he put his ship on a course just a little east of south this time. His hope was to sail in that general direction well into the middle watch then turn about and head straight into Charleston right before the wind. Hopefully allowing the swift Frog privateer, that was all she could possibly be, to shoot past them in the night.
However, Mother Nature had intervened and not in any way that Woodbine found pleasing. A large set of squalls had come down from the north, backing the wind so far around that it was dead foul for the South Carolina coast, which now lay directly in the wind’s eye. Further, in what at first seemed like a brilliant piece of seamanship, but which Woodbine now felt was dumb luck, the Baltimore clipper had appeared to windward at the beginning of the forenoon watch and had dogged them ever since.
Woodbine had contrived to keep his ship out of the Frenchman’s clutches for the next two days. However, this was done only by running south, southwest down into the coastal waters of Spanish Florida. Now, at last, it appeared that his limited supply of good fortune had run out. He had a dogged enemy bearing down on him with the advantage of the weather gauge and an iron-bound coast drawing ever closer. A coast notorious for its reefs and untold numbers of wrecked ships beneath its near shore waters.
“Carpenter reports two foot six in the well and rising slowly,” David Kent said as he stepped up to where Woodbine was stationed along the weather rail just abaft the wheel. The brig’s first mate touched the brim of his sou’wester and peered out over the steep frothing sea.
“Gaining how badly, David?” Woodbine inquired.
“Not alarmingly so,” Kent reported. “We’re in no danger at the moment… Not from that quarter, in any event.”
Woodbine grinned at that. He was glad that his second in command could jest at a time like this. He chuckled and clapped his glass to his eye and studied his adversary, “She’s making seven or eight knots.”
Kent chuffed, “I suppose we can thank providence that man is no seaman. Even in these heavy seas, that schooner should be making twice our speed easily.”
Whitby Castle’s master grunted, “Speaking of which, David, let’s have a cast of the log. And I’m not so proud as to close my mind to a suggestion, eh? Should anything occur to you that hasn’t to me…”
Kent was a much younger man than his captain. Barely twenty-five, he hadn’t served in the Royal navy. He’d been aboard watercraft of some type his entire life, however. From small fishing trawlers to a variety of merchant vessels throughout the war and before. He’d even seen action when an Indiaman he’d been serving in successfully beat off a night attack from a French sloop of war. Woodbine respected the young man’s experience and his judgement.
“Jenkins there!” Kent balled forward to a gangling youth who was huddled against the main pin rail
ludicrously attempting to shelter from the driving rain while trying to maintain the illusion that he was attending to his duty. “Fetch Willis and take a cast of the log, ya’ hear me now?”
Jenkins, nominally the brig’s second mate, was in actuality a mate in training. A favored son of their carpenter’s sister who’d been signed on the ship with some notion of learning a trade. Although an intelligent and likable young man, he was taking more than the usual amount of time to learn his craft.
The lad called forward to one of the few ship’s boys that the small brig could boast and the two came aft to the binnacle where Jenkins himself retrieved the log reel and Willis, a little boy who looked even smaller in his oversized oil skin cloak and large brimmed rain hat, grabbed the thirty second glass.
Normally, as on a naval vessel, a midshipman would cast the log and tend the log line, with a ship’s boy to hold the reel. The ship’s sailing master or one of the quartermasters assigned to the wheel would handle the glass. However, in such a heavy sea, it was probable that the little boy would be unable to hang on to the reel or might even be snatched overboard in his zeal to keep hold of it.
