This is a work of Fiction. All characters and stories are fictional although based in historical settings. If you see your name appear in the story it is a coincidence.
Copyright© 2019 Christopher C Tubbs
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, except brief extracts for the purpose of review, without the permission of the copyright owner
Credits
Thanks to: Jackson from Creative Soul Editing & Coaching Services who edits my books and puts up with my idiosyncratic style, and to Dawn Spears the brilliant artist who created the cover artwork. My wife who is so supportive and believes in me. Last my dogs Blaez and Zeeva and cat Vaskr who watch me act out the fight scenes and must wonder what the hell has gotten into their boss.
THANK YOU FOR READING!
I hope you enjoy reading this book as much as I enjoyed writing it. Reviews are so helpful to authors. I really appreciate all reviews, both positive and negative. If you want to leave one, you can do so on Amazon, through the website or Twitter.
About the Author
Christopher C Tubbs is a descendent of a long line of Dorset clay miners and has chased his family tree back to the 16th century in the Isle of Purbeck. He left school at sixteen to train as an Avionics Craftsman, has been a public speaker at conferences for most of his career in the Aerospace and Automotive industries and was one of the founders of a successful games company back in the 1990’s. Now in his sixties, he finally got around to writing the story he had been dreaming about for years. Thanks to Inspiration from the great sea authors like Alexander Kent, Dewey Lambdin, Patrick O’Brian and Dudley Pope he was finally able to put digit to keyboard. He lives in the Netherlands with his wife, two Dutch Shepherds and a Norwegian Forest cat.
You can visit him on his website
www.thedorsetboy.com
The Dorset Boy Facebook page.
Or tweet him @ChristopherCTu3
Contents
Chapter 1: Unhappy landings
Chapter 2: Aruba Aruba
Chapter 3: Making our name.
Chapter 4: Jamaica
Chapter 5: The Eagle Stoops
Chapter 6: A Scouting Mission
Chapter 7: Crisis
Chapter 8: Bad News Travels Fast.
Chapter 9: Lost and Found
Chapter 10: Welcome home.
Chapter 11: The Hunt Resumes.
Chapter 12: Martinique
Chapter 13: Diamond Rock
Chapter 14: Hunter or Hunted?
Chapter 15: Trinidad
Chapter 16: Full Circle
Chapter 17: A hanging Offence
Chapter 18: Bonaire
Chapter 19: A Diplomatic Solution
Chapter 20: Back to the Navy
Chapter 21: Treasure Hunt
Chapter 22: Keeping Hold of The Spoils
Epilogue
Authors Note
An excerpt from Book 6
Chapter 1: Unhappy landings
The Tempest dropped anchor in English Harbour, and Marty looked around in surprise. It was just a Navy base and it stank! The lagoon was as filthy as a cesspit with the accumulated sewage from a couple of thousand people and the debris from careened warship hulls. There was no current and very little tide, so the filth just stayed there. Shelby is the only one who will enjoy stopping here, he thought as he saw the physician at the rail taking notes.
Marty and his new ship, The Tempest, was tasked to investigate, infiltrate, and disrupt the pirate activity that had recently surged in the Caribbean. The Tempest was a former Navy Jackass Frigate, which was, to all intents and purposes, a Sloop of War with a raised quarterdeck. They had fitted her with bigger guns and carronades, including two twenty-four-pound chasers, a natty set of red sails, and a crew of one hundred and fifty men for the trip over to the Caribbean. His main concern now was to boost that to around two hundred.
He left his wife, Lady Caroline Candor, behind in England with their two children. He brought his dog, Blaez, with him. Blaez sat beside him on the quarterdeck sniffing the air, not quite sure if he liked the smell or not.
Where were all the people and a town? I should have done more research, he thought with a mental grimace, I’m not going to find more crew here.
He consulted with Tom and James and decided to talk to the yard commissioner, who was one of their designated contacts for passing reports through and was appointed by the Navy board. Admiral Hood told them the Honourable Francis Chapman was the current incumbent, and he wrote to him asking for his assistance.
Marty had the boys take him over in the gig, Tom joked that he could have walked because the water was so thick with shit, and he made his way up the hill to Clarence House- the home of the Commissioner. He knocked on the door, and a black house slave answered it. Marty asked to see the commissioner and was shown into a waiting room. At least it’s cooler in here, he thought as he sat and waited.
After an hour, during which he wasn’t even offered refreshments, he was ushered into an office. It was functional. However, he noticed the cut glass decanter set and glasses on the sideboard were very good quality but too flashy for good taste. There was a picture of King George that was standard but the gilt frame, too loud. It all spoke of money and no taste.
He was brought to attention by a cough and turned to see a man in an outdated, ornate powdered wig standing behind the desk, which was also over ostentatious in its carving.
“Mr. Chapman, I am pleased to meet you,” he said as he stepped forward, holding out his hand. “Martin Stanwell at your service.”
The man didn’t take the offered hand but replied as he sat down.
“Mr. Chapman succumbed to fever some two months ago. I am Seymour Owen. I am acting commissioner until the Navy board either makes me permanent or designates another to the post,” he said with a hint of bitterness in his voice.
Marty took an instant dislike to the man, which was unusual as he normally waited to form an opinion before judging. However, his offhand manner and rudeness rankled with Marty’s sense of correctness.
“Mr. Chapman was in contact with Admiral Lord Hood, I believe, concerning my, aah, business here. Did he mention anything about it to you?” Marty enquired, caution making him reticent.
Owen made a show of shuffling some papers.
“Why would Lord Hood be sending messages here about you?” he asked.
Alarm bells were going off in Marty’s head, so he procrastinated.
“I am sponsored by the old fellow. He got me my letter of marque and helped fund my expedition.”
“Letter of marque you say? Then you are a privateer?” Owen replied, suddenly looking sly.
“Why yes,” Marty replied. “Mr. Chapman was to help me send my reports back to Admiral Hood so he could keep abreast of our progress.”
“Please sit, Mr. Stanwell. We have some business to discuss.”
Marty got back to his ship two hours later feeling like he needed a wash. He called Tom, Paul, and James into his cabin.
“We have a problem. Our contact has inconveniently succumbed to fever and has left this mortal coil. His replacement is an opportunistic, slimy, corrupt individual that had the balls to tell me outright that if I wanted his help, it would cost me,” he told them.
“Can he be trusted?” asked James.
“I don’t think so,” Marty replied, “He was hinting he could let me know which convoys would be escorted and which not. I would lay odds he is selling that information to whoever will pay for it.”
“Mark him down for removal, then,
once we have found out where the French and Americans are holed up,” Paul stated with anticipation, which caused a laugh.
“Our immediate problem is manpower,” Marty stated, “he can wait for later. Now, any suggestions on where to go next?”
“There be a village in Falmouth Harbour which be right next to here, but it would be better to go up to St, John’s on the Northwest corner of the island. That’s where the sugar is shipped from,” Tom suggested. He did duty in the Caribbean when he was on the Falcon.
“That’s the best place on this island,” Paul agreed. “We may have more luck at Aruba, though. There is a tradition of piracy down in those islands, and many a hand finds his way down there to avoid being pressed by the Navy.”
Marty looked at the chart and measured off the distance with his fingers.
“Six hundred and fifty miles or there about. Let’s try St. John’s first.”
St. John’s bay was guarded by Fort James on a point that stuck out to the north. They sailed past it and anchored in the deep-water harbour. Bum boats carrying the usual selection of food, drink, whores, and exotic animals immediately swarmed out from the shore and started towards them.
Marty told the crew they could all have a couple days shore leave, by watch, and while they were in the town, to look for likely recruits. He told them he would pay a bounty for each one signed as an incentive. He organized it so that James accompanied the first watch and he and Tom, the second.
He saw the first watch away and returned to his cabin. Blaez was there waiting for him, and after he sat in his comfortable armchair, climbed on his lap for a cuddle. Marty wondered how seventy pounds of fur-covered killer could be such a big softy and gently stroked his ears that were as soft as velvet. That set him thinking about Caroline and the children, and he looked at Caroline’s portrait that was mounted above his sideboard. Then, he looked at the ones of his children and a lump came into his throat. He missed them terribly and hated the idea of not seeing them grow up.
Blaez got too hot on his lap, climbed down, and went to his bed, allowing Marty to go to his desk and pick up the extended letters he was writing to Caroline, his mother, Kate Turner, and the de Marchets family. Writing made him feel a little better, but the ache was still there. He decided not to send the letters through English Harbour as he simply didn’t trust Seymour Owen.
As he wrote to Caroline, a prescient shudder ran through him, and he took the portraits, the watch Caroline had given him, and anything else that could identify him as anything other than Martin Stanwell and stored it in a strong box hidden in the head behind a tightly fitting panel. If you didn’t know it was there, you would never see it, so cunningly was it constructed.
The first watch managed to find another eight crew between them, and they were brought onboard worse for drink. Shelby checked them over and declared that apart from the fact they were all going to be suffering hangovers in the morning, they were fit.
Marty and Tom were walking through the town when they came across a slave market. The auction was in full flow and there was a line of ten almost naked men on the raised stage. The barker was telling the potential bidders that they were fresh off the ship, fit, healthy, and strong; and he invited prospective buyers to come and inspect the goods. Marty was outraged and went to move forward, his hand on his sword, but Tom gripped his upper arm firmly and restrained him.
“That isn’t the way,” he said softly with his mouth close to Marty’s ear. “You will be disarmed and flung in gaol in a minute,” he continued, nodding towards a group of armed guards who were watching the crowd intently.
Marty wasn’t to be put off.
“If I can’t rescue them, I will buy them!” he snarled.
They pushed their way through the crowd towards the front, attracting a few dirty looks and the odd curse. The barker was in full cry now, calling the potential buyers to pay attention as the auction was about to start.
The bidding started for individual slaves. It started at twenty pounds for the first one and moved up to forty pounds, where it stalled. These were raw slaves and would be worth double that, and more, when they were fully trained.
“Four hundred and fifty pounds for all ten,” Marty called out and raised his hand. You could hear a pin drop as the crowd went silent and turned to look at who had made the bid. The barker moved across the stage to stand in front of him and looked him over, assessing his worth.
“You have the cash?”
Marty nodded and pulled out a fat pouch.
Tom looked at him and raised his eyebrows. Where had that come from? Marty never carried that much money on him normally.
“Any other bids?” the barker asked. No one was interested.
“Come on around to the back; we can finish the business there,” he said and led them back behind the stage.
Marty counted out the guineas and handed them over to the man, who wrote out a bill of sale and as he handed it over said,
“We can brand them here and now if you want.”
With remarkable restraint, Marty declined politely and told him they would see to that later.
They found their purchases lined up, chained together by their neck collars, and hobbled hand and foot. Marty and Tom led them away and down to the docks. Tom whistled shrilly and waved his hat at the Tempest. Within a minute, a boat pulled out from behind it and headed to the dock. As soon as it arrived, Marty had the hobbles and the chains between the collars removed and the men loaded. He and Tom jumped in behind them and the oarsmen gave way.
As soon as they were far enough out from the dock to not be overheard, he asked,
“Do any of you speak English?”
One man nodded.
“What is your name?”
The man said a word that had several clicks in it.
Marty laughed and said,
“We can’t pronounce that; do you want an English name?”
“Yes, please, boss,” he replied sullenly.
“We will call you Samuel. That sounds something like what you said. Do you like that?”
“Oh yes, boss,” again with a flat voice.
“You don’t need to call me boss. I’m the Skipper or Captain. Tell them,” Marty said, nodding at the rest of the men, “that as soon as you are on my ship, you will be freed, and they will all be given English names if we can’t pronounce theirs.”
Samuel looked at him in amazement then spoke to the others in that clicking, whistling language.
Ten smiling faces looked back at him. Marty heard Tom mutter grumpily,
“More waifs and strays to teach English and sailing to.”
Onboard, the ship’s smith (one of the marines who was handy with a hammer) struck off their collars, and Shelby gave them a thorough examination. They were then invited to wash under a deck pump and dress in a selection of clothes that Fletcher laid out. Marty had papers made up giving them their freedom and attached his seal to them. He had Samuel explain what the papers meant and that they should keep them for ever to prove they were free men.
For ease, seven of the remaining nine were called after the apostles; Matthew, Mark, Luke, John, Peter, Paul, and Simon. The other two had names that were pronounceable by the crew, Adisa and Chipo. They had all been betrayed by the chief of their tribe, who decided he would rather have the money than a few extra warriors and were sold to an Arab slaver. They had managed to stay together after they were sold first to another Arab then a British slaver. They thought they would be split up after the auction and were overjoyed to still be together.
The rest of the second watch came back aboard at the allotted time with another nine recruits. Unfortunately, Shelby rejected two as being damaged beyond repair, so St. John’s had given them another twenty-five hands.
Tom and Marty sat in his cabin having a wet when Tom finally asked the question that was burning in him.
“Where did that money come from that you bought the slaves with? Because I was here when you got ready and I know you di
dn’t have that much on you when we left.”
“Delivered by the lord to rescue our poor enslaved brethren,” Marty quipped in the tone used by priests when they were giving a sermon. He relented and admitted. “I took it out of the shoulder bag of one of the genuine buyers. He made the mistake of leaving the flap undone and it seemed just for money intended to buy slaves be used to free them.”
“You stole it,” Tom said with a hint of disapproval.
“I prefer to think I diverted it to a good cause,” Marty replied with a slightly hurt tone. He didn’t have a shred of guilt over what he had done but did care what Tom thought. Tom gave him a long steady look that spoke volumes then decided he had made his point.
“The boys are already teaching them their version of English. They are all bright lads and willing to learn.”
“Just get them hauling and fighting for us to start with. The rest can come later,” Marty said, relieved the subject was changed.
“We will sail for Aruba tomorrow. I heard that many of the runners from the Navy end up down there and it should be a good place to recruit.”
A fiddle and a drum started up and were joined by someone with a penny whistle up on deck, and the two men got up to see what was going on. When they came out, they saw that one of the new men was scraping away, quite tunefully, on a fiddle, and one of the Africans was beating a drum to the rhythm of the tune. The penny whistle was being played by Shelby!
Several of the men started to sing:
Now, if you tie it up for me, rewarded you shall be
Then, if I tie it up for you, come under yonder tree
Whilst tying up her garter, such a wonderful sight did I see
My hand did slip right up to her hip
Sing: Fal-the-ral-looral-i-day
Now since you've had your way to-day, pray tell, to me your name
The Tempest: The Dorset Boy Book 5 Page 1
