Marty commanded the carronades himself and the rate of fire his men achieved would have made any Navy gunner proud. His Gunner was keeping the ships boys busy bringing up cartridge and the shot garlands were emptying at a satisfying rate.
The Tempest closed to twenty yards from the Spanish frigate and Marty ordered the grapnels fired. They soon had her enmeshed in their web and the hulls locked together. Marty with Samuel and Blaez at his back was the first man across and soon the Spaniards deck was a mass of fighting and dying men.
Once again Marty’s policy of regular weapons and close combat training payed off. His men were rapidly getting the upper hand and pushing the Spanish crew into a mass amidships.
Marty ran to the quarterdeck as soon as he saw a clear path and ran up the steps to confront whatever officers were left. His carronades had done their work and there was only a wounded Lieutenant left alive who Marty asked to surrender using a phrase he had asked Ryan Thompson to teach him.
The man handed him his sword, so Marty cut down the Spanish flag with it and bellowed for the men to stop fighting in English and Spanish. Gradually the fighting stopped. The Spanish, seeing their flag fall dropped their weapons and stood back.
Once he was sure that they had control he turned his attention to the Eagle. She was just turning away from the entrance to the harbour as the fortress guns opened up to cover the retreat of the sole remaining merchantman not in their hands.
He put Ryan in charge of the frigate, which was called El Torro, and left him with fifty hands. He ordered his small fleet to stand off from the harbour and sent Ryan in the pinnace under white flag with an offer to return the crews. He returned with the epithets of the Spanish port commander ringing in his ears about the incompetence of the frigate captain to get captured by so obviously an inferior ship, but he had agreed to let them ferry the crews over under the flag of truce.
Marty had asked him to note the names of any frigates in the harbour, hoping that one would be the El Formidiable, but she wasn’t there. The pinnace and the Eagles cutter were employed to ferry the men and by late afternoon they were under sail again.
They stopped at St John’s to relieve themselves of the merchantmen and Fletcher went to work with a will to sell the contents to agents who would sell them on to anyone willing to transport them to Britain. The hulls they left with a ship monger who would auction them off later.
They moved on to English Harbour, moored El Torro up with a harbour crew and sent a message to the admiral, with an English sloop that was leaving for Jamaica, that it was there and his if he wanted it to buy it in. He also visited Owen, the Commissioner, to find out the latest news from that area. He knew it would cost him, so he took a pouch of stolen Spanish Doubloons with him.
Owen wasn’t in. Samuel talked to the house slave and found out he was in the village in Falmouth harbour meeting someone at an Inn called The Mermaid. It was a couple of miles walk over the hill into Falmouth harbour and he figured that Samuel and Blaez could use some exercise, so they set off. When they got to the top of the hill Marty was regretting his decision as they weren’t used to walking and it was very hot.
He stopped to let them catch their breath and looked down into Falmouth Harbour. To his great surprise there was a Baltimore Clipper anchored up as close inshore as it could get. He pulled a small telescope from his pocket to have a closer look. He could see she had ten guns and there were a lot of crew on deck. Far more than an innocent trader would need.
He hurried down the hill, Samuel and Blaez in tow, and made his way to the harbour front where he was told The Mermaid was located. He stopped before they got there in the shade of a palm tree which, incidentally, partially concealed them from being seen from the terrace of the Inn.
He got out the telescope, carefully shielding it from reflecting the sun, and looked at the clipper again. She was called the Southern Star, ‘probably American then,’ he thought. He swung the telescope around to look at the Inn and soon spotted Owen sat at a table with another man who had his back to him.
Making a sudden decision he pocketed the telescope and walked forward towards the Inn. Owen was so intent on his conversation with the mystery man that he didn’t see Marty approach until he pulled out a chair at a table next to them and sat down.
A look of surprise changed to one of horror then was schooled to a neutral smile all in a second. His companion turned to look at Marty. He was swarthy, with greased back dark hair, a moustache that drooped down either side of his mouth, a sneer rather than a smile and one green and one brown eye.
A waiter came over and stood by the table.
“That blackie can’t sit at that table,” he told Marty with an outraged look.
“And why is that?” Marty asked in a quiet voice.
“Because we don’t allow slaves to sit at our tables. It offends our customers.”
“But Samuel isn’t a slave. He is a free man and a valued member of my crew.” Marty replied.
“Don’t matter if he is the archangel Gabriel himself, he can’t sit in this restaurant.” The waiter replied stubbornly.
Owen and his friend watched with interest to see how this would play out.
Marty sat back in his chair, put his feet up on the table and pulled back his jacket so the barman could see the butts of the two pistols he was carrying.
“Now how about you try and enforce that.” Marty said loud enough to get the attention of the other customers.
The waiter looked at the guns, then at Marty and last at the smiling Samuel. He stepped back and there was a yelp. He yelled in pain as Blaez sank his teeth into the leg that was attached to the foot that stood on his tail.
Marty burst out laughing and called Blaez to sit by him.
“Two glasses of wine and a bowl of water for my dog.” He called to the man who was limping away.
Owen said, “You like to live on the edge, Captain Stanwell.”
Marty was making a fuss of Blaez, whose dignity was restored by the sudden and violent administration of punishment for the unspeakable crime.
“What this?” Marty laughed. “Facing down a waiter is something my dog can do. Now, taking a convoy of Spanish ships, including a frigate and three merchants, is living on the edge.”
“Where did you do that?” asked the mystery man in a French accent that Martin didn’t recognise.
“Its customary where I come from to introduce yourself before asking questions,” Marty told him with a hard look.
“My apologies, Captain,” he replied with a slight bow, “Captain William de Faux of the Southern Star, out of New Orleans.”
Marty nodded in acknowledgment.
“Santo Domingo, just out of range of their shore guns. The frigate is anchored in English Harbour.” Marty told them watching a different waiter bring their drinks over and a bowl of water for Blaez.
“That must have annoyed the Spanish,” de Faux observed in what seemed to Marty in a rather tight voice.
“They weren’t that happy.” Marty laughed deliberately keeping his tone light and sipped his wine. “God! They call this wine?” he spluttered and put the glass down. It tasted like vinegar.
“You!” he shouted at the barman. “Show me the bottle this came from!”
The barman lifted a bottle from behind the bar and put it on the counter that was some twenty-five feet away. Marty pulled one of his pistols and snapped off a shot that shattered the bottle and sprayed the contents all over the unfortunate man. The pistol disappeared as fast as it was drawn.
“Bring me a drinkable bottle!” he shouted over the screams of a couple of women who hadn’t been that far away from the path of the bullet.
De Faux was openly laughing and Owen’s eyes were wide with horror.
“I can see you would have the balls to pull something like that,” De Faux laughed. “You said two ships?”
“Yes, my Jackass Frigate, The Tempest, and a Clipper we took from an American who attacked us thinking we were a merchantman.�
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“What is the name of the clipper?” de Faux asked with a slightly worried frown.
“The Eagle.” Marty replied and readied himself for a violent response while appearing totally relaxed.
The wine arrived and two fresh glasses.
“Jonathan Kelly’s ship. He is from Carolina,” de Faux stated with a frown.
“Was, he died in the attack,” Marty replied making a show of sniffing the bouquet of the wine and then tasting it.
“Friend of yours?”
“An acquaintance.”
“Did he have a partner?” Marty asked remembering what James had said about the skipper that had come visiting.
“He worked with another Carolinian, Eric Dyer, has an almost identical ship. You will have made an enemy of him!” De Faux said with a nasty grin.
“I have lots of those,” Marty responded and then looked thoughtful, “mostly dead.”
“Captain Stanwell is a privateer.” Owen chipped in as if he was trying to tell de Faux something.
“Yes, that’s what I already thought,” de Faux replied to Owen, “what are your plans?” He asked Marty.
Marty decided to roll the dice and see what came up.
“I heard there was a conclave coming up. Thought I might attend and listen to what kind of agreement a bunch of thieves can come up with.”
“It’s for established captains only,” De Faux replied his eyes narrowing and his lips going thin.
‘Hit a nerve!” thought Marty.
“Always room for a new boy,” Marty grinned insolently deliberately trying to provoke him, “I reckon I can show you lot a thing or two.”
“Well why don’t you come and show us,” de Faux said tightly obviously trying hard to not show his anger. “The conclave is in two weeks in Martinique. You are allowed to bring two men ashore with you and need to be at the Petit Coq by eight PM on the fourteenth of February.”
Marty decided to fire one last shot.
“Are the British still holding Diamond rock?” Marty asked. Diamond rock was just to the south of the tip of Martinique, effectively controlled the passage between Martinique and St. Lucia and was taken by Commodore Sir Samuel Hood in 1803. It was a thorn in the side of the French.
“Yes, but we operate out of Porte Royal in spite of them,” De Faux almost snarled.
Chapter 12: Martinique
Back on board the Tempest Marty called James, Ryan, Ackermann and Wolverton the Gunner to a meeting over dinner where he told them of the conclave.
“Who will you take with you?” James asked.
“I am expecting some kind of treachery,” Marty replied, “so I’m going to take Ackermann and Wolverton.”
The two worthies looked surprised and James and Ryan disappointed, so Marty explained.
“You two are the best close combat fighters on the crew. Ackermann you are the meanest and Wolverton you have strength and reach. James and Ryan, you will be our back up. I want you to get men ashore and set up to cover our escape route if it all goes to hell. There is at least one Skipper in that conclave who will want us dead,” he ran his gaze over all of them.
“I want both ships ready to sail and fight at a moment’s notice we might have to fight our way out.”
They set sail and as soon as they were out to sea the lookout reported a sail to their West. It stayed at the same distance from them as they sailed South.
“Your friend from Falmouth Harbour?” Ackermann asked.
“Probably,” Marty replied, “he wasn’t the happiest of people when I left.”
“Well he will need to drop in behind us if he is to make the entrance to Porte Royal and not get mixed up with the British at Diamond Rock.” Ackermann concluded.
“Maybe we should send him an invitation to join us,” Marty laughed.
Back in Jamaica, Caroline was busy. She had found a lovely house to rent and was dealing with a pile of correspondence that had arrived on the Navy Packet. There was good news all around, the estates were prospering under the new organisation of cooperative tenancies that Marty had introduced, yields were up from the land management programme, trade with India was thriving. Before she had left, she had made a large loan to a fellow landowner who was one of the two members of parliament for Cheshire, Thomas Cholmondeley, who was now in her pocket. He would be very useful at some point she was sure.
Her immediate domestic concern was getting together staff for the house in readiness for her children to arrive. She was contemplating emulating Marty and buying slaves to free them. The children would be on the Bethany when it returned to Jamaica and were due in around two months at the most. They had increased their fleet of fast ships by another two and now had five available. Four were currently trading with India and the Bethany, which Caroline had decided to leave in her heavily armed state with an increased crew, would be used in the Caribbean.
Tom walked into the room and sat down at one of the chairs by the open window. He smelt faintly of Citronella as they all did. He watched as Caroline opened a letter and frowned. He recognised the writing as Admiral Hood’s. He was learning to read better as it gave him something to do as he recuperated from the Yellow Jack.
“Hood will find us some extra men and a fighting First Mate for the Bethany,” she told him. She had written to Hood before they had freed Marty from the Spanish anticipating that Turner and his men would be leaving them once the job was done.
Tom snorted a laugh and commented, “They will be all ‘ex’ Navy men then.”
Caroline knew he was right. Hood didn’t do anything without some advantage for himself and the fact he was supporting her in making the Bethany a privateer meant he saw something in it for him or Naval Intelligence.
“They will be waiting for her as soon as she anchors in Falmouth,” she continued, “Mary will be there with the children as well. I wish we could get her back earlier.” She sighed.
“You can’t beat the wind and tide, but the Beth’ny is faster than a Packet and Tarrant will drive her hard to get back here as soon as he can. In any case Marty will probably be at the Conclave for a few days and who knows what he will stir up there,” Tom concluded.
“That is what I’m afraid of,” she murmured in reply.
At the admiralty, Admiral Hood was working his way through a long list of names, selecting enough hands to make up the Bethany’s crew to close to one hundred. They were all Navy men who were forced to leave the service during the peace and hadn’t been called back in for one reason or another. He concentrated on fighting men, gunners and boarders who knew how to win against the odds. His clerk was quietly driving the messengers crazy as he sent them to address after address rounding up men and dispatching them to Falmouth.
In the Caribbean Marty was blissfully unaware of this activity and sailed to Martinique to be there in time for the conclave.
They entered Porte Royal on the afternoon of the thirteenth of February and anchored up in the roads where they could get a clear run out of the harbour if they needed to. They had plenty of company. There were Spanish made hulls cheek by jowl with French and American. From the noise they were all relaxed and having a good time and boats were rowing to and from the docs with groups of men going ashore or coming back worse for wear from drink.
He decided to just wait and see what the reaction to their ships would be before risking a trip ashore. He didn’t have to wait long as an hour after they had dropped anchor the Southern Star came into port and deliberately anchored between them and the exit. On top of that they made it obvious they were not just anchoring but setting springs as well.
Marty and Ryan exchanged a look and went to speak with the others as James had just come aboard from the Eagle.
“Our advantage,” Marty was saying as they gathered on the main deck, “is that they don’t know what armament we are carrying on the Tempest. They probably assume that we have eighteen nines. Our twelves and carronades will be a nasty surprise for them.”
“Not to mention
the twenty-four-pound chasers,” Ryan chuckled.
“James, you upgraded the Eagle’s guns as well?” Marty asked.
“I wondered when you would get around to that,” James said. “We got hold of some nines to replace the six’s the yanks had onboard. Half of them are brass, the rest iron and are all serviceable. I don’t have bow chasers the Eagle just isn’t the right shape for them.”
Marty looked at Fletcher, “Did they find the timers when we were captured?”
“No. They were in the bottom of my sea chest under the smelliest socks I could find,” he grinned at him.
“Grenades?” Marty asked.
“None on the Tempest but around seventy-five on The Eagle. They didn’t have any in St John’s or Jamaica when we were shopping,” Fletcher answered.
“What do you want to use them for? If it’s to drop down hatches or into boats, I can make them,” Wolverton stated looking at Marty who confirmed that’s what he had in mind. “Fletcher. Can you get me a couple of crates of quart size, fat bellied earthenware jugs with wide necks and cork bungs and a fine mesh fishing net?”
Fletcher raised his eyebrows at that but looked at Marty who nodded. “Of course! Get me ashore with three men and I will be back in a couple of hours with them.” Fletcher stated glad of having something to do.
Marty nodded to Ryan who took Fletcher by the arm and guided him to the entry port while calling out a couple of names. Two hours later Wolverton and John Smith were ensconced in the magazine with a barrel of pistol balls, three dozen jars, a fishing net and a few yards of match.
They kept a double watch on all night and as the sun came up over the island in the morning, they saw that the sister ship to the Eagle had come into port with the dawn. She had moored just a little too close to the Eagle for comfort.
Wolverton showed Marty an example of the grenades he had made and explained that they contained a canvas bag containing a half pound of powder with a fuse that would burn for five seconds. Pistol balls were packed around the bag and the cork, with the fuse running through a hole in the middle of it, was tied in place. The whole thing was wrapped in a piece of fishing net to “give you something to grip on.”
The Tempest: The Dorset Boy Book 5 Page 9
