The Bermuda Privateer

by William Westbrook

  Elinore smiled at his answer. “I doubt that, Nico.”

  Fallon turned from the window to face her, beautiful by candlelight, her eyes widening just a bit. He suddenly felt pressure in his chest. Oh, he thought: I’ve been holding my breath.

  Ezra Somers entered the room just as Fallon inhaled rather deeply. Somers heartily shook his hand and congratulated him once again on a profitable voyage. He made to pour wine, and Elinore slipped away to the kitchen, offering a last look toward Fallon that said—something.

  What just happened? Fallon wondered as he watched her close the double doors behind her.

  Somers limped from gout, but he could still move quickly, at least toward wine. They settled with their glasses before the fire, for a late spring cold front was passing over the island, and for a long moment neither spoke. It was not awkward, just a quiet moment between men before business began.

  The fire blazed and crackled and spit sparks up the chimney. The wind brought the sound of the sea to the porches of every home; it had been so since Bermuda was first settled in 1609 when Sea Venture, a British ship sailing for Jamestown, had wrecked on Bermuda’s reef and inadvertently started a colony of survivors.

  “Nico, you’ve done damn well,” began Somers. “Considering your last prize and these, you’re on your way to becoming a wealthy young man. But you looked buggered coming off the ship; I watched you.”

  Fallon squirmed and stared harder into the fire.

  “My guess is that you feel rotten and responsible for the loss of some of your crew. So, hear me: Your crew chose to sail with you as much as you chose them. Each had his own reasons: Debt, running away from hell, running toward heaven, we don’t know. But it was their choice, and they knew the risks.”

  “Yes,” Fallon said softly.

  “So you made them heroes to their families and did your duty by them. Well done. Now, you’ve got to fight the damn French and pirates and privateers again. They’re all over the Caribbean. Hell, I’ve got a ship a week late calling at the Turks; I don’t know why. Repair your ship and recruit more crew and get to sea again. It’s the best medicine. And listen to me, I’ll pass out your share to the families, like you asked. Hell, I’ll give part of my share to Tom Pleasant’s family, too.”

  “I don’t know what to say, sir. I didn’t expect…” That was a lot of money.

  “I’m getting old, Nico, call it that.”

  Fallon stared at the fire. Between Elinore’s attention and Somers’s concern for him he suddenly felt caught out, almost embarrassed.

  “One more thing, Nico,” continued Somers, “and this is the reason I asked you here tonight. I’m getting on for this game, and Elinore has no use for it. The business is fine if we can keep our enemies out of our pockets, but I’m just too damn old for it. I want to offer you a partnership. We can work out the details later, but look, you’re the best damn captain I could find on the island. You’ve got a good head and heart and one day the war is going to be over and you’ll want a living. The world will still want salt, I think. Plus you’re the closest thing there is to somebody I’d want for a son. I want this company to live after I die. I can’t say Elinore is the one to carry it on, but you could be.”

  Fallon made to protest, but Somers waved it away.

  “Don’t answer now. I just needed to say it and give you something to think about. I’m not going to change my mind. The offer will still be here when you come home again.”

  Here Somers rose to stoke the fire; the logs glowed and sparks drifted up the chimney. The smell of roasted ducks came through the room, and suddenly Fallon was very hungry.

  “This next cruise will take you down to Grand Turk,” Somers said quietly as he sat back down to face Fallon. “I want you to learn the salt business, see how it works, and find out what’s happening to our ships. If we can protect our salt at sea, then we have to figure out how to keep it out of the hands of the Bahamian government. Do you know they’ve declared ownership of the Turks Islands, by God? Hell, we’re all English but they act like pirates, sitting in their offices in Nassau. They want to tax our damn salt!”

  Fallon knew a little of the story. Although the Turks Islands belonged to the British Empire, they were not actually a colony; rather, the islands were for the “common good” of British colonies. The Bahamas were to govern them, but the Bermudians had other designs, as usual, having been on the islands raking salt since the late 1600s. For Bermudians like Ezra Somers, paying a tax to the Bahamian government was out of the question.

  There was a light cough behind the closed doors and, when they opened, it was Elinore to announce dinner. Fallon wondered how long she had been behind those doors and how much she had heard, but perhaps he was imagining too much.

  One thing he wasn’t imagining. The look in Elinore’s eyes told him something had changed between them. Again he wondered, what just happened?

  NINE

  AFTER DINNER with Somers and Elinore, Fallon detoured away from the path home to walk down to the harbor. He wanted to clear his head from a surprisingly confusing evening. Between Elinore’s unspoken interest and Somers’s offer of a partnership, there was a lot to sort out. His walk took him naturally to Somers Wharf, where Sea Dog was snug at her lines, her repair work well underway but some time before completion. Fallon felt small and insignificant looking at his ship, a ship that had fought for him, killed for him, and brought him home safely from so far away.

  The moon was on the water now and the harbor was silvery and alive. It was here, barely a hundred years ago, that rough Puritan justice was carried out against women accused of witchcraft. As a test of guilt, a suspected witch was thrown into St. George’s Harbor. If she didn’t sink, she was pronounced guilty. Of course, if she sank she died anyway. There was really no win. Many of the accused women floated because of their skirts and petticoats. These unfortunate souls were pulled from the water and burned at the stake.

  Fallon shuddered, and looked away westward, toward Beauty’s house, and wondered briefly what the Puritans would have made of her independent spirit. God help the Puritans if they came for her, he decided. He smiled at the thought and then decided to cut off to see if she was home. He had not seen much of her since they’d returned, which he blamed on himself. It was a long walk to her house, but it would do him good to talk to her about Elinore and get a woman’s perspective.

  The moon was well up now, gibbous and half illuminated. It matched his mood. The evening was still and the walk was energizing as he made his way along the path that encircled St. George’s Harbor and then bore off to Suffering Lane.

  The path curved away from the water up through a few scattered cottages. He turned down an alleyway out of habit, remembering afternoons fetching Beauty for a sail and her running out the back door carrying her jacket and hat. Her parents were dead now, but she stayed in the house she grew up in. Though it was against British law for a woman to inherit a house, no one really wanted to argue the point with Beauty McFarland. He went to the back door as always, and he could see through the glass into the kitchen and, beyond, into the parlor. He raised his hand to knock, and then stopped. Beauty was inside, but she was not alone. She was sitting with another woman, holding her, stroking her hair, and kissing her hands. He could not see the woman’s face, nor did he want to. He had seen too much already.

  Quickly he turned away, ashamed of lurking in the dark and peeping. He stepped noiselessly off the porch, retraced his steps to the path, and turned for home. Maybe he had always suspected, but he had never known. It didn’t change anything, he told himself. And he was sure that was true.

  This was true, as well: Life ashore was complicated, uncertain, and confusing. A path you had walked a thousand times could still lead you to a surprising place.

  TEN

  HMS HARP, a small frigate of 32 guns and 130 feet, crept into the harbor late in the afternoon just as Fallon was finishing the day’s inspection of Sea Dog’s painting. It had been several weeks since
Fallon had sailed into the harbor with prizes. Tomorrow victualling would begin, with Beauty supervising the loading of powder and shot to get the ship’s trim right, and the water casks the last to be loaded. The ship would sail in two days.

  Harp rounded up and dropped anchor less than a cable’s length away, her captain’s gig immediately lowered and manned. Even without a telescope Fallon could see the gold epaulets of the captain’s full dress uniform in the gig’s stern. His gig’s crew were turned out in their best frocks. A little show coming to shore.

  Suddenly the gig veered, having seen Sea Dog’s transom, and at the command of “Oars” ceased rowing and glided to the schooner’s starboard side.

  “Ahoy, Sea Dog!” yelled the captain’s coxswain, standing up, cupping his hands like a trumpet. “Is the captain aboard?”

  “He is!” called Fallon. “Nicholas Fallon, at your service, sir. Your captain is very welcome to come aboard.”

  The contrast in captains could not have been more pronounced—Fallon in his working slops, the frigate’s captain puffed out in gold trim. A bewhiskered, red face came into view over the side railing, followed by a corpulent body, followed by a wheeze.

  “Captain Fallon, I am Hammersmith Bishop, captain of His Majesty’s frigate Harp, lately of Falmouth,” he said self-importantly. He pulled himself up to his full, still rather short height as he spoke. “Might we step below for a word, sir?” Getting right to business, but missing nothing of the work of the ship, eyes darting around the compass.

  Fallon led him into his small cabin, which is to say there was enough room for a cot and a table and not much else. The stern windows dominated the rear of the cabin, with a small bench seat and cushions below. Two wooden chairs would have to suffice for this meeting, however. After a few pleasantries and apologies over the accommodations, including the fact that the wine was not yet aboard, the business began.

  “Are you aware, sir, of the privateer-turned-pirate Jak Clayton?” Bishop asked. “Also called Wicked Jak within his trade. No? Then allow me to acquaint you, Captain. He is the devil. At one time, Clayton operated out of the Leeward Station in the Caribbean and always with a letter of marque as a credential. He did well for the Crown, mostly plundering the odd Frenchie or American. But last year, sir, he turned rogue and attacked an Indiaman out of Tobago carrying spice and cotton. He approached her under British colors and took her by boarding. There were supernumeraries aboard, some women. You can well imagine a pirate with no honor and those…temptations. He took every farthing in the ship—I believe there was some specie—all the jewelry and even pewter. Took off twenty prime seamen in the bargain…they volunteered. And then he sailed away back to his hole in the wall.”

  “Jesus, we’ve had no word!” Fallon said, astounded.

  “I’m afraid it gets worse. Much worse. You are aware, sir, of the Treaty of San Ildefonso? Spain has gone over to France—they are both enemies of Great Britain now. Had you heard?”

  Fallon nodded, remembering Viceux’s secret orders.

  “Last winter this bugger Wicked Jak took a Spanish frigate!” Bishop went on, flushing scarlet with anger. “Near Martinique. He approached under Spanish colors for a parley between countrymen and seized the captain and first lieutenant and slit their damn throats in front of the men. Cold-blooded bugger! You know Spaniards, the crew collapsed in fear and Clayton had the ship. By God, sir, I wish you had wine.”

  “I regret I cannot offer you any,” Fallon said. And he meant it, for it was a lot of story to tell without wine to wash down the bitterness. Also a lot to hear. A privateer turned pirate had history, of course; William Kidd and Thomas Tew came to mind, but that was in the 1600s. Fallon knew of no other in recent memory. He watched Bishop; clearly he was agitated. A pirate in command of a frigate would mean no ship was safe. Wicked Jak had the Royal Navy’s attention.

  “I am under orders to bring Clayton to justice or hang him,” Bishop said. “The Admiralty will not have Englishmen attacking British ships. It looks terrible in the Gazette.”

  Bishop shifted weight and tried to assume a posture of authority. It would seem very like him to worry about what the London Gazette printed, particularly about him. “Which brings me to you, Captain Fallon. I am under orders to secure what help I may need, and as I understand you know the Caribbean and have a fast ship, I must place you under my command. I will send written orders to you as yet today.”

  “No,” Fallon said emphatically.

  Bishop sat bolt upright, his face forming something like an offended scowl. What did you say? was bursting from his pores.

  “I am employed by the Somers Salt Company with a letter of marque, as you must know,” Fallon said coolly. “I am already employed, Captain. I sail in a few days for the Turks Islands to investigate the loss of a ship.”

  Hammersmith Bishop, friendly up until now, was not used to being disobeyed. “Sir, you are a subject of the Crown. My orders are clear—”

  “Then I will see your orders, Captain.”

  With that, the conversation moved to the next level of confrontation. Bishop was startled and livid, his face turning a deeper, more violent red, his eyes wide and exploding in anger. Fallon knew it was outrageous to ask to see Bishop’s orders, and no British captain would stoop to show them. But Fallon didn’t believe Bishop had specific orders to commandeer ships, private ships at that, to fight his battles.

  Fallon was Bermudian through and through, and his natural inclination to resist British pressure or dictates or orders was on full display. Bermudians were an island people, proud and opportunistic and independent, who had learned to look out for themselves first and the Crown second. They had a history of generally getting the better of the British, and during the American War for Independence many Bermudians temporarily set aside their loyalty to Great Britain and profitably supplied the Americans with guns and ammunition and ships—literally building America’s privateer fleet for them.

  Still, a frigate preying on Somers’s ships was no trifling matter. Fallon offered Bishop an olive branch. “Captain, perhaps if the opportunity presents itself we might work together to bring Clayton to heel. After all, if he sails in the Caribbean he threatens our business. And therefore he is my enemy, as well. But hear me: I will not risk my ship under a frigate’s guns. Especially against a pirate who faces hanging and will fight to the death to prevent it, giving no quarter.”

  Bishop took the olive branch, and Fallon saw his face relax. Here was a chance to salvage honor. Fallon watched the man shift his considerable weight, his breath sighing in and out.

  “Captain Fallon, a partnership is exactly what I intend,” Bishop said with relief. “Let us cruise together to the Caribbean and, if Jak Clayton is about, we will coordinate our efforts to bring him to heel. Your ship need not dare face Clayton’s fire. Independent action will not do, sir.”

  Here Bishop was stating the obvious and here, more or less, the meeting with the Royal Navy ended. Bishop was off to pay his respects to the Governor, his crew navigating the gig smartly through the harbor to the government dock. Fallon watched from Sea Dog’s bow as he considered Jak Clayton, a pirate with a frigate and God knew what else at his disposal. Bishop was right; a coordinated effort was the only way to defeat an enemy of superior size and weight of metal. But Sea Dog was made for open water where speed and windward ability offered advantage. Close fighting was for ships built with the stoutest timbers and framing to take the punishment of relentless broadsides. Fallon looked back toward Harp. She certainly looked well-found and smart. Time would tell how well she was handled. One other thing entered into it: Bishop did not seem like a fighting captain.

  The meeting with Bishop was troublesome, but it gradually left Fallon’s mind as he dealt with the myriad tasks necessary to get a ship ready for sea. The damn lists were endless; they were part of the minutiae that filled in the odd spaces of his day, like dust in the cracks of a wooden floor. Soon enough he was tired, and the last moments of the afternoon s
uddenly became the first of evening.

  As Fallon walked up Somers Wharf at twilight, a figure stepped around the corner of the loading shed. He knew instantly it was Elinore, and his instincts told him what she wanted.

  He walked toward her, his heart pumped like a luffing mainsail and, he thought, just as obviously visible.

  “Hello, Nico,” Elinore said confidently. She stepped up to him and smiled, a beautiful well here we are conspiratorial smile. A smile that said everything without saying a word.

  “Hello, Elinore,” he said. And then “you look beautiful” slipped out before he could stop it. Well, he meant it. Her blonde hair cascaded onto her shoulders and she wore a loose jacket over her dress, a sailor’s pea coat, really, unbuttoned, her hands in the pockets and just opening the coat now. An invitation. Very unladylike, very daring and provocative, and it set him on fire.

  They stood looking at each other for a few moments, Fallon wanting to be sure before taking the next step. Then Elinore took it for him, looping her arm through his and leading him up the dock and through the marsh to a place she had chosen, a place warm and dark and hidden in childhood memory.

  They giggled as they walked along the path to the small fishing shack with a candle in the window and a coal fire in the small stove. This had been her uncle’s retreat, and now it was hers. Elinore produced a padlock key from under a loose porch board. As the door swung open, within seconds they were inside, stumbling toward the bed, wrapped around each other and quite forgetting or not caring that the door was still open.

  ELEVEN

  BEAUTY TURNED from supervising two men splicing one of the braces and watched Fallon come down the wharf. They had decided to sail with the tide early the next morning and all stores and shot were aboard. In all respects, they were ready for sea. All respects except the captain looked love-struck and might be dragging his feet a bit.