CAPTURED IN THE CARIBBEAN
Copyright © 2015 by Sara Whitford
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means including photocopying, recording, or information storage and retrieval without permission in writing from the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
First Edition.
Copy edited by Marcus Trower.
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For Isaac
Chapter One
June 1766—somewhere off the coast of the Bahamas
“BETTER REPENT NOW, BOYS, AND get your souls in order,” said Captain Carl Phillips, laughing as he observed his sorry-looking crew. “If you think it’s hot now, just imagine what Hell will be like.”
Adam Fletcher wanted to chuckle. In fact, the dark-haired eighteen-year-old tried, but the best he could do in the stifling heat on board the deck of the Carolina Gypsy was to mop the sweat off of his face and from around the back of his neck with his handkerchief and let out a little “Heh!” as he looked over at his friend Martin, who was equally miserable.
“Damned doldrums,” said Charlie Phillips, the ship’s mate and younger brother of the captain as he leaned back against the rail and looked up at the mast, as though if he watched the sails long enough they would begin to move.
For two days the sixty-ton Bermuda sloop had been stalled somewhere east of Nassau in windless seas.
The blond-haired, ruddy-complected Captain Phillips was an experienced sailor who had spent plenty of time sitting under a scorching sun in still ocean waters, as had his younger brother, Charlie, who at age twenty-four was about eight years his junior.
The Phillipses were from a long seafaring tradition. In fact, their father and all of their uncles had been sailors and sailmakers. And as was the case with all of the men employed by Rogers’s Shipping Company, the Phillipses had a personal connection to Emmanuel Rogers. In their case, their grandfather and one of their uncles had sailed with Emmanuel during his pirating days.
There were only seven men aboard the Gypsy for this trip: Captain Carl Phillips; Mate Charlie Phillips; three regular seamen—Fred Canady, Ed Willis, and Ricky Jones; a cooper, Martin Smith; and the cooper’s apprentice, Adam. Their final destination was Havana, but first they had to make a stop in Nassau before continuing to sail south and then west towards Havana.
Captain Phillips didn’t seem fazed by the stifling heat of the windless seas, but Charlie, who had an anxious disposition, never had gotten used to it. For Adam and Martin, however, it was their first time passing through anything like it.
“Hey, Cap’n,” said Adam. “What’s the longest stretch you’ve spent without moving like this?”
Captain Phillips pressed his lips together pensively, then grinned and said, “About a week, I reckon.”
Charlie, who was the spitting image of his older brother, only thinner, studied him for a minute, then said, “When? I don’t remember us ever bein stuck out like this for a week.”
Carl laughed. “Maybe you haven’t but I have, when you was a little thing.”
Charlie rolled his eyes to express his doubt.
Martin made no effort to hide his skepticism. “When was it, then, that you were stuck like this for a week?”
“One of the first times I went out on the Gypsy—’bout twelve years ago. Abner Blake was the captain then. And I didn’t say we was stuck for a week. I said it was about a week. We took her to Bermuda, and we went through one stretch where we were stuck in irons in seas that looked like a lake.”
“Were you scared?” asked Adam.
The captain nodded his head low and said, “What do you think?” He laughed. “Damn right I was scared! I thought we was all gonna get cooked under the hot sun. ’Twas even worse than the sun we’re under now, bein it was the middle of August then rather than the start of June.”
Martin pulled off the cloth he’d tied around his head to keep his sandy curls off of his face and used it to wipe his brow. “What about you, Adam? You scared now?”
Adam rolled his eyes at his friend and gave a dismissive “Tsk!” He said, “Well, it’s hot. I’m sweating like a pig, and I won’t say that I haven’t considered the possibility we might die out here, but no, I’m not scared. Mostly just impatient. How ’bout you? You scared?”
Martin wrinkled his brow and chuckled. “No.” He swallowed hard and said, “Of course not.”
“I’m just ready to get to Havana . . . Get this cargo unloaded and have a few hours of shore leave so I can take care of my business.”
“Good Lord, boy!” came an unmistakable twangy voice. Adam knew who it was, but he still turned around to see that it was indeed Fred Canady. The straw-haired thirtysomething-year-old was coming up the ladder from below deck after disappearing for about twenty minutes to go to the head. “I reckon we’ll all be glad to get to Havana, so we can stop hearin you go on and on about your business,” Canady said.
“Right. Because your endless stories about all those friendly women who you find in every port are so much more interesting to listen to. To listen to things the way you tell ’em, it’s a wonder you aren’t dead from some kind of pox,” Adam remarked, laughing.
Canady tipped his head and slyly cocked his eyebrow. “Guess I’m just lucky,” he said.
“Or full of bilge,” said Martin. “Have you looked in a mirror lately?” he asked. “I’ve seen oysters that are better lookin! I reckon any woman goin home with you would expect payment in advance.”
The others all howled with laughter.
“It’s my dazzlin personality they love,” quipped Canady, unembarrassed. “We can’t all be as handsome as you, Smith.”
Cocky as ever, Martin stroked his chiseled, stubbly face and flashed his blue eyes. “No, I don’t reckon you can.”
The banter was all in good fun. Fred Canady was without question a rough-looking man. He was one of those people whose face looked angry all the time, in spite of the fact that he was a joker at heart. Martin Smith, on the other hand, was known throughout Carteret County as an unabashed Casanova. In fact, he’d once even tried to work his charms on Adam Fletcher’s thirty-five-year-old mother, but much to Adam’s relief she had the good sense to be unmoved by Martin’s advances.
It was a wonder the two had become such good friends, but at twenty-six, Martin was the youngest cooper at Rogers’s Shipping Company, and in the year since Adam had been bound apprentice to Emmanuel Rogers, Martin had become like a big brother to him.
The previous spring, when Adam had first learned he and Martin would be traveling to Havana on board Emmanuel’s sloop as the ship’s coopers, he could barely contain his excitement. His mother, Mary, on the other hand, fell apart when she learned he’d be making the trip. After all, she’d just gotten over nearly losing him at the hands of a nefarious plot by another local merchant. In an effort to calm Mary’s nerves, Emmanuel promised her he would wait and send Adam the following spring—after his eighteenth birthday—rather than having him go on the autumn trip, and Martin assured her that he, along with the whole crew of the Gypsy, would look after Adam and make sure to bring him back in one piece. Everyone knew she was not at all happy about the situation, but she acknowledged that it was a small comfort knowing everyone would be looking out for him, and said she’d hold Martin and Emmanuel personally responsible if anything happen
ed to her son on the voyage. Her threat had no teeth, as there was nothing she could’ve done if something did happen to Adam, but they all thought so highly of Mary that no one wanted to disappoint her.
THE SUN WAS ABOUT TO set when tall and lanky Ed Willis, a blond-haired twentysomething, announced, “Look! The topsail!” He pointed up the mast as a gentle breeze was causing the uppermost sail on the vessel to begin to flap. Just as the men all looked up to see it, the jib and mainsail began to puff up and fill with wind. The men, who for the most part were hardly religious, cheered and were nevertheless thanking God for getting them moving again.
Within hours, though, their joy turned to new fear as they moved from fair winds into a violent storm. The men were being pelted with fast and heavy rain that came down in sheets, so much that they could barely see. Their foul weather coats—at least they might be called that—were made of canvas that had been waterproofed with a coat of tar, but they could do little to help keep them dry in the current conditions.
“Are we in a hurricane, Cap’n?” Adam yelled over the noisy torrent.
“Not this one, Mr. Fletcher,” he shouted back. “I reckon it’s just a squall. Makes no difference, though! We have to push through it either way.”
Adam nodded. “Yes, sir.”
None of the men slept that night, as they all had their positions on deck tending the sails and the lines.
Chapter Two
AFTER ABOUT TEN DAYS SPENT either in irons in the windless seas east of Nassau or doing their best to push through a summer squall, they finally limped into port at Havana’s harbor. A pilot boat came out to meet their vessel and then guided them to the dock at the warehouse where they would be delivering their cargo. It was on the edge of the main harbor, so they could see much of what was happening there.
Adam was energetic and eager to moor the vessel and get the cargo off-loaded. He knew that as soon as they did, they could find out what more would need to be done before they’d get their shore leave. Considering they were on such a tight schedule, being afforded free time after moving cargo was a luxury the crew didn’t typically get. However, since Mr. Gomez, the merchant to whom they were delivering the goods, was another of Emmanuel’s old friends, he usually offered to entertain Emmanuel’s men while they were in port. The old merchant was traveling this time, but nevertheless the offer was always open to allow the Gypsy to dock there a day or two so that the men would have a chance to get a meal in town and to perform any necessary maintenance or repairs on the vessel.
This time it might even take longer than a day, as the headstay had frayed after that storm east of Nassau. It might take a couple of days to repair.
While Adam had made a few short jaunts to ports in closer proximity to Beaufort, he had never seen anything like the harbor in Havana. There were ships of every size and design from all over the world. Some were fitted out for trade, others looked as if they were ready for war. Many were either receiving or sending out lighters—smaller, flat-bottomed boats that were more able to navigate the waters between the large vessels and the docks.
The busy wharf was packed with people—some were no doubt sailors moving to and from their vessels, while others were locals who appeared to be either doing business in the wharf or just observing the wares being brought into their port.
As they moved into their position outside the warehouse, Adam began to see what was attracting a large contingent of the crowd on the docks about fifty yards farther down the harbor. It was something he had never seen before in North Carolina, but he knew immediately what it was. The schooner, which looked to be over a hundred feet long, was a slaver. There were already about two dozen Africans clustered on the docks down there, and they were being inspected by several men. Probably about a hundred more could be seen lined up on the deck of the ship, while still others were being brought between the schooner and the dock on a lighter.
Neither Adam nor Martin had even laid eyes on a slave ship before, so they couldn’t help but rest against the rail and stare. North Carolina did not have ports that were particularly suitable for the kinds of vessels that carried human cargo. There were slaves back home, to be sure—usually brought into the colony from Virginia or South Carolina—but in a little town like Beaufort, there were no big plantations to speak of, and the slaves that did live and work there seemed to be very different than the Negros Adam saw coming off of that ship. For one thing these poor souls were stark naked and chained together, either in pairs (if they were women or children) or in groups of five or six (if they were men). Adam had only ever seen slaves wearing English-style clothing, and all of the ones he knew personally also spoke English. He could tell by the frightened expressions on the faces of these shackled Africans, however, that they were entirely incapable of understanding what the men who were examining them were saying. The inspectors appeared to be looking over each one the way he’d seen farmers do with livestock back home—to make sure they were fit and healthy before finalizing their purchase. As some of the slaves passed through their inspections, they were taken by men who were standing nearby with papers in hand, presumably bills of sale.
As a column of women and children were led onto the docks, Adam averted his eyes. He had never seen a naked woman before—at least not since he’d been old enough to understand what they were. He wondered if the females were as embarrassed to be naked before all of these men as he felt seeing their dark-brown, womanly frames paraded down onto the docks to be inspected.
Adam and Martin exchanged melancholy glances.
Charlie must have noticed them and said, “You two have never seen one of those before, huh?”
“No,” said Adam.
Martin shook his head.
“It’s a real busy industry,” said Charlie. “Folks got to get their help from somewhere, I reckon.”
Adam wrinkled his brow but said nothing. He could tell from the way Charlie had said what he did that he was not at all impressed with the business. Adam was reminded of a conversation he once had with Emmanuel about his days pirating with Blackbeard—and how seeing the actual conditions on the slave ship La Concorde left him detesting the industry. While Adam had not had the same up-close experience that Emmanuel had, it was enough for him to see what his master had found so revolting.
Adam probably worked harder than anyone else unloading the Gypsy that day. Somewhere in this busy town, he thought, I might finally find the man who can tell me something about my father. The sooner we can get this job done, the sooner I can go looking for him. He was annoyed to see one of his shipmates, Ricky Jones, milling around on the docks talking to some local men while everyone else was busy lifting barrels of turpentine, rosin, and other commodities up onto the deck to be off-loaded.
“Who’s he talking to and why?” Adam asked Captain Phillips. “He ought to be up here working with the rest of us!”
The captain looked down from the bow onto the docks, and when he saw it was Jones, he rolled his eyes and yelled at the idler. “Hey! Jones! Hurry up and get your ass back on deck and get to work! You can do that later!”
“Be right there, Cap’n!” Jones called out. He exchanged a few more words with the mustachioed Spaniard on the docks and then sprinted up the ramp to rejoin his shipmates on board.
“What were you doin down there?” asked Martin.
“Findin us a place to have a drink tonight, mate,” Jones responded. If it weren’t for his Yorkshire accent, the dark-haired, brown-eyed young sailor could’ve easily passed for Adam’s brother. As long as anyone in Emmanuel Rogers’s company had known him, he’d made it a point of seeking out the favorite local taverns wherever the Gypsy made port. While he was perfectly content to drink alone, he was always looking for opportunities to imbibe socially.
“I’m sure there are plenty of taverns around. You felt like you needed to ask a local?” asked Adam.
“Unfortunately, the last time we were in Havana,” said Jones, “some of our good shi
pmates had a few too many at our previous waterin place . . . and there was this big fight and there were arrests. The whole thing was an ugly affair, so I had to find us someplace new.”
As he got back to work helping his shipmates, Martin asked him, “Well, did you find one?”
Jones nodded. “Course I did.” He helped Adam lift a cask of turpentine up onto the ramp from the deck of the ship and then roll it down to the docks. “And you’ll be happy to learn it’ll be a free round at that.”
“How did you manage that?” Martin called down the ramp from behind him as he and Charlie followed the same procedure.
“Actually, we can thank young Mr. Fletcher here,” said Jones.
As they got down to the dock and rolled the barrel to the holding area, Adam gave him a confused look and said, “What?”
“It’s the truth! That chap I was talkin to said he had been watchin us since we arrived. He asked who you were—said that you looked like you were workin so hard. He asked if you always worked like this.”
Adam laughed. “What’d you tell him?” he asked, out of breath.
“I told him ‘Of course not!’” said Jones as they proceeded back up the ramp to get another barrel. “Told him you’re the laziest one in the lot, but that you’re tryin to win a wager.”
“Oh, thank you!” said Adam facetiously.
“Anytime, mate,” said Jones with a chuckle.
They boarded the ship again and went over to the area where the men were pulling up cargo from the ship’s hold to the deck, and they selected another barrel and repeated the process.
“I’m just joking, mate. I told him you’re in a hurry to have your shore leave.”
Adam nodded. “Well, that’s true. I am that.”
OFF-LOADING THE CARGO FROM the Gypsy took a lot longer than Adam expected. Then again he really didn’t have much of a basis for comparison. All of his experience with moving goods from off a vessel was either at Emmanuel’s warehouse, where the loading area was part of the building’s structure, or Emmanuel’s second dock at Laney Martin’s estate, and that one was used only rarely—when Emmanuel received merchandise from the French or Spanish West Indies, and these were usually much smaller shipments. The docks for this warehouse were much longer and extended much farther out in the water, so they had a greater distance to go to deliver the goods.
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