Fallon and Beauty were impressed, truth be told. Somers had a big business, indeed. As they toured the salt pans it occurred to Fallon that he was glad he had the job he did, for the sun was already growing warm, on its way to very warm, and the thought of working in the salinas all day made his mouth suddenly dry.
“Tell me about the rakers,” he said. “It must be brutal work.”
Nilson was nonchalant. “Oh, the temperatures get over 100 degrees in the summer, and the rakers sometimes get boils on their feet from being in the brine all day. And then one or two go blind because of the glare off the salt. Most men wouldn’t want to do it I daresay, which is why we have slaves to do it for us.”
Here Fallon swallowed hard, feeling the same sick feeling he always felt whenever the subject of slavery came up. He thought of Mr. Boy back in the ship; perhaps he’d been on his way to this very island to be sold into a life of boils and blindness raking salt. The thought made him shudder. And it made him angry. It also presented him with a conflict: Becoming a partner in the Somers Salt Company would make him a partner in slavery. He was not naïve; he knew slavery was part of many businesses, seen or unseen. It was a fact of life in much of the world, but to employ slaves would somehow make him complicit in their exploitation, and the thought deeply troubled him.
Nilson seemed to sense it was time to move the conversation along. “Now, what do we do with all this salt, eh?” he asked, again not waiting for an answer. “Our ships sail north to call at southern U.S. ports, like Charleston, where we unload our salt. Then they return to Bermuda and Grand Turk with grain, sugar, rum, lumber, cotton, and the supplies we need to live. Lovely, isn’t it?” Indeed, it was a tidy enterprise, Fallon thought, managed through the skill and ingenuity of John Nilson, your humble servant.
The tour over, Fallon and Beauty returned to the ship more enlightened about the salt business than they ever expected to be. Fallon still turned Somers’s offer of a partnership and the slavery issue over in his mind; well, it could wait for a later time to wrestle to the ground.
Beauty had given the hands permission to go ashore, in groups, and the men who were still aboard were at menial tasks. Mr. Boy stood watching Cully teach a group of young gentlemen the art of loading and ramming home. He seemed interested. He was already beginning to fill out his clothes and looked less hollow and worn. He wasn’t doing much in the ship yet, just watching. Beauty was right: He would go at his own pace.
Fallon motioned for Becker and Beauty to join him in his cabin. Nilson had asked about a plan: Well, what was it? To the north lay almost one thousand islands of the Bahamas, with shallow water and coral reefs well-known to locals, but not to him. Hiding places beyond counting. This was where most of the raids on shipping occurred. The Somers Salt Company sent their ships north toward the United States where the demand for salt was high. They were plundered by pirates who then sold the salt and ships to France via one of the French islands in the Caribbean, killing or abandoning the captured crew along the way. The pirates then scampered back to their Bahamian redoubt.
Well, you had to admire their head for business, Fallon thought.
As Becker talked about wind and tide and shallow water, Beauty studied the islands for likely places to hide pirates and captured ships. She noted small bays and coves, and she and Becker discussed entrances and exits, keeping in mind wind direction along the shipping route. They were familiarizing themselves with the challenge ahead, but the meeting ended where it began—without a plan. Fallon was strangely quiet throughout, for something nagged at him. A question was forming in his mind, what was it? Something Nilson had said, or something he saw? No, he had it. It was something he forgot to ask Hewes.
THE NEXT day Beauty was supervising the loading of water barrels while Pence was tut-tutting as vegetables and fruits came aboard. Apparently, Pence had found and purchased every leafy green edible thing on the island, plus root vegetables that would keep on a long voyage. A pair of goats also came aboard, along with chickens in small coops and even a heifer. It was going to be close below decks.
The harbor was busy with fishing craft coming in from the sea. There were lateen rigged boats, log canoes, and all manner of rowing skiffs moving about their business. HMS Harp lay anchored two cables from the town dock, having arrived the previous night, still looking smart. Fallon had seen Bishop being rowed to shore in his gig earlier, perhaps looking for an official to announce himself to. He would be disappointed when he learned there was none.
Fallon had been idly watching the work of the ship when his gaze shifted to the two Somers ships taking on salt. They were bulky cargo ships of 4 guns each, which had probably never been fired. The closest to shore was Desmond, obviously English built, with Captain Smithers in command. Farther off was Castille, with Captain Wallace in command. His ship was Spanish built, no doubt taken by a privateer at some point in its history before finding its way into the salt trade. Fallon had met the captains, both of whom seemed capable enough for their commands, though neither was practiced in small talk.
Lighters brought the salt out in forty-pound bags, which had been packed and stored ashore for months. In a week the two ships would be fully loaded with the stuff.
Fallon had himself rowed to shore and walked the now familiar path to the Somers office. “Good morning, Hewes,” announced Fallon as he stepped inside the office. “Is Mr. Nilson about?”
Hewes started at the interruption. “No,” he replied, not deigning to look up. “Mr. Nilson left for Salt Cay to check on some matter or other. He’ll be a half day, I’m guessing.”
Fallon pretended not to notice the sullen tone. “I understand, of course. Tell me, when will Desmond and Castille sail?” he asked.
“I’ve scheduled them to leave in ten days, sir,” said Hewes, imperially officious, in charge now in the office, still not looking up. “That should give them ample time to fit out and be loaded. American ports are clamoring for salt, and assuming—”
Fallon caught the inference: assuming they get there, Hewes meant. He turned to leave the office when an afterthought appeared to strike him. “Could they leave sooner? Say, three days if we could get the salt loaded?”
This time Hewes looked up, incredulous. “I have a schedule, Captain.” As in: You be the captain, I’ll be the scheduler of ships.
Fallon paused. “Very well. What route do they usually take?”
Hewes reacted with surprise. “The windward passage, of course,” he said, barely hiding exasperation. “It’s days longer to go to the leeward side of the Bahamas and up through the Straights past Spanish Florida.”
“Right you are,” replied Fallon, feigning embarrassment to have asked so obvious a question.
BY NOON Fallon had sent a note asking Bishop, Smithers, and Wallace to meet after dinner on Sea Dog. He should have invited them to dinner, but accommodations on the schooner were wanting. He had hoped Bishop would take the lead but when no invitation came from Harp, Fallon had issued his own. As the captains came aboard, he introduced them to Beauty and Becker and then directed them below to his cramped cabin. A screen had been removed to give them more room, but that was barely enough to make much difference. Fallon had at least laid in a good stock of wine for the occasion, and he dutifully filled their glasses during the small talk.
Bishop nodded to Fallon over the wine. “By God, sir, you have a fast ship,” he said with admiration. “Fairly blew by us easy as kiss my hand.” He chuckled to both of the other captains, who seemed neither surprised nor much interested. “A good ship in a good wind, Captain Bishop, sometimes she gets a bone in her teeth,” replied Fallon, accepting the compliment on behalf of the ship.
Smithers shifted his weight. The pleasantries of small talk over several glasses of wine were not for him. It went on like that for a few more minutes more until, finally, with a nod to Wallace, Smithers cut to the chase. “Captain Bishop, what are you going to do about the pirates, the bloody buggers?” he demanded.
Wall
ace blurted out: “We want your protection, Captain.” He glared at Bishop with squinty eyes, as if trying to read fine print.
Bishop’s face hardened momentarily, hearing it like an order. Then he recovered himself and smiled. “Our plan, exactly, Wallace. We’ll get you past the Bahamas safe as houses, mark my word.” Here he looked at Fallon for confirmation, clearly having no other thoughts of his own. Fallon was running through an idea in his mind, the hair on his arms beginning to stand up. It would be risky; if it should fail he would face humiliation or worse, and the captains had to buy it.
“Yes, I believe we can get you to Charleston safely,” he said softly, the cabin collectively exhaling, and Bishop looking relieved. “But not as you may think.”
SIXTEEN
FALLON FOUND Nilson and Hewes in the office the next day. It was an unusually warm morning, even for July, and both men were working in shirtsleeves. They looked up with surprise when he stepped across the threshold; surprise turned to annoyance when he closed the door and shut out the breeze.
“Gentlemen, good morning to you both,” Fallon began. “As we will be leaving soon I wanted to let you know our sailing plan.”
“Excellent, Captain,” said Nilson. “You’ll be escorting our ships, I presume?”
Here was the moment.
“We are sending the salt ships along the leeward passage and up through the Florida Straights,” Fallon said. He could see the instant dislike of the plan on their faces, but he continued. “It will take a bit longer, but it is the safer route, I believe. I will escort them in Sea Dog. Captain Bishop has his orders to deal with Clayton and will sail the windward passage hoping to discover his hiding place and ferret him out. I’ll join him after we’re past Spanish Florida and the ships are on their way to Charleston.”
“But that will throw the schedule off, Captain!” protested Hewes indignantly. “We’re already late, drastically late, due to Calypso’s loss. And surely with a British frigate as escort—”
“I think, Hewes, the captain has a very good plan,” interrupted Nilson. “Clayton has always attacked our ships on the windward passage. This is quite clever.”
“Why not send the ships on the windward passage under the protection of the frigate?” countered Hewes. “Clayton wouldn’t dare attack a frigate!”
“He attacked and took a Spanish frigate, sir,” countered Fallon. “Have no doubt of his abilities. And remember, he is probably not sailing alone.”
Silence hung in the air like a bad smell. Hewes absorbing the delay in schedule, no doubt running numbers in his head, not liking the change of route. Nilson looking at Fallon curiously. Finally, Nilson raised his hands in surrender. “Whatever you think best, Captain. I am sure you and Captain Bishop know your business. I suppose a small delay is nothing as long as the ships get there, eh, Hewes?” He paused to look at Fallon. “But Captain, these ships must get to Charleston.”
There was more than a plea in his voice. There was a threat.
BACK ABOARD Sea Dog, Fallon called Beauty into his cabin to describe the meeting with Nilson and Hewes and the trap he hoped he had set. Now it remained for Beauty to organize a party to go ashore and discreetly watch and wait for further developments. Beauty suggested Cully lead the group, and Fallon agreed. They were to leave immediately and report back at dawn the next day.
Then Fallon called for his gig and crew to row him to Harp. As he approached the side he reviewed the events of last night in his mind. Smithers and Wallace had initial objections to the leeward passage, it being less familiar, often shallow, and taking longer, but the promise of escorts persuaded them. In return, Fallon insisted they keep the plan to themselves.
ONCE FALLON was on board Harp, the first lieutenant—Ramsbottom was his name—showed him below to the captain’s cabin. Bishop had just refilled his wine glass, and as he brought it to his lips he gave Fallon a particularly ugly look. Clearly he was still perturbed at having had no part in the creation of Fallon’s plan.
“Captain Fallon. I assume you informed Mr. Nilson of your thinking and he agreed?” Bishop asked with something very like a sneer.
“Yes, I did earlier today,” replied Fallon, ignoring Bishop’s rude manner. “Except for one detail. I told him you were sailing the windward passage alone while I escorted the ships through the leeward passage. He and Hewes balked at first, but I told them you had your orders to capture or kill Clayton. Not avoid him.”
Bishop fairly spit out his wine. “You told them what? How dare you bandy with my orders!”
Fallon had anticipated an explosion, and he reacted coolly. “Captain Wallace told me that he’d personally rescued the crew of one of the last salt ships taken, and the men said it seemed like the pirates sailed out from behind an island at the exact moment they approached. Suppose, sir, that Clayton has an ally on Grand Turk, an accomplice, someone who reports to him when the ships are about to leave. It would only take a few days to sail up the Bahamas to deliver the news. A few coins would exchange hands and the business would be done.”
Bishop looked flustered. “Good God! Are you saying Clayton is lying in wait like a snake in the grass?” The conversation was clearly getting away from him.
“I wonder enough about it to be on guard. These ships are easy prey for him, not much fight in them, and profitable. For all we know he’s picking off our ships and selling our salt and ships to the United States!”
“But why lie about the windward route?” Bishop objected. “Why not just take the windward route?”
“In spite of what I said to Nilson, I doubt if even Wicked Jak Clayton would attack a prize with a British frigate and heavily armed schooner as escorts,” Fallon replied. “We might well see our salt ships safely to Charleston if we took that route, but we would be no closer to putting an end to this menace. Your orders are to find Clayton, and you’ve convinced me to help you execute them.”
Bishop’s eyebrows shot up. He had? Perhaps this young captain had listened to him, after all. Really? Well, that put a different odor on things, yes it did. Bishop’s bearings began to come back through an alcoholic haze. This was more like it; he felt back in charge, somehow.
“So, if my suspicions are correct,” Fallon continued, “word will get out to Clayton’s earpiece that two ships laden with salt and only lightly defended by a schooner will sail the leeward passage. He would have time to shift his position and be ready for us. And we shall be ready for him!”
Fallon paused, hope for the best, plan for the worst. “I will have men posted around the harbor tonight and tomorrow watching small craft leave. These locals know the waters like the back of their hands. It would be nothing to sail off at night, pretending to be fishing. So we shall see.”
Bishop’s mouth was a snarl. “Really, sir, you have taken very independent action, I must say. All this is so much speculation without any proof. I must protest, Captain Fallon. You presume too much. Too much by far!”
“Captain Bishop,” said Fallon, losing patience, “you asked that we sail together to stop Clayton. And we shall. If I am wrong about a conspiracy, we will have a comfortable passage through the Florida Straights and on to Charleston. That would be an excellent outcome, don’t you agree?”
Cold logic shot through the warm cabin air like a weather front. Bishop glared at Fallon with a mixture of astonishment and envy but was deeply, secretly relieved to have the burden of decisive action off his shoulders, and more relieved still to be sailing in company.
“Captain, this will not work without your support. I hope you know that,” Fallon said, coming with flattery, the coup de grâce.
“I will consider it, sir,” said Bishop, almost back to full color. “The plan may have some merit, I believe.”
And with that, the meeting was over.
THE SLIVER of moon rose over the island before midnight, casting faint shadows on the salt pans. It was cooler now, a steady breeze pushing small waves against the shore. A noiseless evening, and Cully sat quietly against a
palm tree, invisible in the darkness.
He had been careful to place his men thoughtfully around the harbor, near moored sailing craft or boats pulled up on the beach. They had idled there all afternoon, lazily passing time, and then melted into the shadows at dusk.
On his own initiative, Cully had visited the Somers office earlier in the day and talked to Nilson and Hewes, ostensibly looking for his captain, but actually getting the lay of the land and the full picture in his mind. Land was always so complicated to navigate for a sailorman. Normally, Cully was a jovial sort, white hair in a long pigtail, a grin across his broad face. Tonight, though, he was a different sort, serious and intent, and he carried a marlinspike for small comfort. He had no idea what to expect, but his orders were clear: observe but don’t interfere.
During the long night, the arc of moon was occasionally covered by cloud, at which point things got really dark. A brief shower, barely enough to soak his shirt, then brought clearing. Cully began to nod, then shook himself and pinched the skin on his hands to ward off sleep.
Suddenly he was fully awake, though. Silently, two men had stepped around the makeshift windmill used to pump water into the pans. They were talking quietly, one gesturing with his hands emphatically, the other listening. Cully figured they were perhaps one hundred feet away, still unrecognizable in the faint moonlight. They stopped at the water’s edge, a final few low words, then one went into the water and began wading out to a small fishing boat tugging at her mooring. The other, the emphatic one, lingered a moment and then turned behind a large salt mound and disappeared into the shrub on the far side of the pans.
Cully froze, not knowing what to do, sworn not to interfere, but knowing he had seen something important. The first man was raising sail already. Cully decided to follow the second.
He loped across the salt flat and entered the shrub, some of it quite tall, at the spot where the second man had entered. He was on a path, showing slightly lighter in color because of the sand, and he could follow it with no difficulty. It wound in a lazy S for one hundred yards and opened onto a clearing on the edge of the settlement. Obviously, it was the back door to the salt flats, no doubt used by overseers and Nilson to get to the beach.
The Bermuda Privateer Page 7
