It was growing late in the afternoon so Fallon and Alvaron decided it was best to make camp for the evening. The men were rattled by the giant lizard’s attack, but in truth it could have been much worse.
The next day the wounded man was hoisted onto the back of a mule whose load of provisions was distributed to several of the men to carry. Once again, the sailors began hacking their way through the forest, now with extra vigilance. Aja ranged ahead, alert for anything that moved.
Fallon walked deep in thought. It took little enough to imagine slaves making their way along this trail, facing the dangers the freedmen described, mothers holding babies, children dragged along, the men cutting and hacking their way toward—what? A dream place where they could be free, raise their families, work for wages, and maybe own land; all the unknowns waited for them at the end of the trail. Fallon thought of them stepping out from the Florida forest into the sunshine, blinking at their new home, holding their fears and hopes in their chests.
Each day they made progress, and each night the men collapsed, exhausted. One night, after most of the men were asleep, Alvaron and Fallon talked quietly about all the minor and major events that led them to the X upon the ocean where they met. Fallon mentioned the intelligence Davies had received that the Spanish treasure was meant for France, and Alvaron stiffened.
“Captain Fallon, are you sure of this intelligence?” Alvaron asked, disbelieving that the treasure he had almost given his life for, and in fact had given his leg for, was meant for France. It seemed inconceivable that Spain would pay so much to be safe from French predations; a treaty was one thing, but to pay France a treasure, especially when Spain’s own people were poor and starving in every town after years of war, was just…he was speechless.
“Yes, señor,” said Fallon. “I believe the intelligence is correct. The French need money to press the war in Europe. Our mission was to prevent your treasure from getting to them. I thought you knew.”
“No, nothing!” said Alvaron. “None of the Spanish capitánes were told the treasure was meant for France when we received orders for Portobelo. It is a disgrace.”
Alvaron was clearly distressed and became quiet. He had envisioned finding a Spanish ship in Savannah aboard which he and his men could sail to Spain, for at the end of the day he was not a coward, and the honorable thing was to go home. Better to face disgrace than live silently with it. Now he felt not only disgraced but betrayed by his own country.
Fallon moved away silently to leave Alvaron to his troubled thoughts. For his part, Fallon had no scheme in mind once they reached Savannah. Instinct told him to go slow and scout the situation carefully. Perhaps they would be lucky and find a British ship, but perhaps not. Then the situation would dictate a plan.
Throughout their journey they had seen clear evidence of the hurricane in the stripped and overturned trees. Apparently the storm had come ashore with a vengeance, and Fallon wondered how far it had penetrated before it eventually weakened or went back to sea. But the forest was dramatically thinned, and the men could finally walk among the pines without using their machetes, only low ferns brushing their legs.
Then one day there were fewer trees still. Aja ran forward, sensing an opportunity to see farther ahead, and was quickly out of sight. As the men sat in a clearing eating their meager lunch, he came running back breathlessly.
Savannah.
FIFTY-SEVEN
AS THE wine goblet was about to touch his lips, word came to the sergeant at St. Augustine that three rafts full of people had entered the harbor. Not again!
It was true. And as he led his ragged line of soldiers to the beach once again he found rafts full of men—and two women—drifting to the shore. He ordered his men to form a semicircle, muskets raised.
Sea Dog’s crew noticed the soldiers ashore, of course, but they could not take their eyes off the two ships on top of each other on the beach, especially as one was Harp. This was something none had ever seen before; indeed, a sight so incomprehensible as to be a mirage. But it was real enough. The rafts drifted toward the beach, each of the crewmen staring silently at the destroyed ships and the soldiers waiting patiently high on the sand. Beauty stared, as well, but she forced her attention to the sergeant, now walking down the beach toward the water, a mixture of bewilderment and curiosity on his face. His life was getting stranger and stranger.
Soon enough all the rafts touched and the crew disembarked. The sergeant stepped forward on the sand with one of the soldiers who spoke uneven English. At the sergeant’s direction the soldier asked, “Who are you and where do you come from, please?”
Beauty looked at him a moment, then shifted her gaze to Harp, which even then seemed to be pushing deeper into the other ship as each small wave lifted her stern. “What happened here to those ships?” she asked.
The sergeant blinked at her in the strong sunshine, frustration in his expression. Then he conferred with the interpreter, who said, “Those ships are not your concern. You are our prisoners. Get your men onto the beach now, please.”
Beauty fought to keep her anxiety down but it wasn’t easy. To have found Harp was a miracle after all they’d endured, but seeing the catastrophe of the shipwreck—to hear the ships grinding away on the beach—filled her with dread that Fallon had been lost. “Where are the British sailors?” she asked anxiously.
Again the sergeant hesitated, aware that he was getting nowhere with this woman, even though armed soldiers pointed their rifles at her. But of course he couldn’t answer her questions, especially the last question, for he had no idea where the British sailors were. Or where the Spanish sailors were, for that matter.
The sergeant had had enough, though, and needed to get back in charge of the situation. He ordered his men to cock their rifles. This got the sailors’ attention, and Beauty’s, and she immediately motioned for the ragtag raft crews to move up farther onto the beach. The interpreter barked orders to form a line, which the sailors reluctantly did. With a last look over their shoulders toward Harp, they marched in the direction of Fort Mose along the same path Fallon’s crew had taken.
This déjà vu was not lost on the soldiers, and certainly not on the sergeant, who walked at the head of the column shaking his head. After some time, they reached the fort and the prisoners looked over their new quarters. It was immediately clear there had been other, more recent prisoners, for there was a fire pit, food scraps, and articles of discarded clothing scattered about—ship’s slops. Beauty’s hopes rose as the crew tried to settle in, and she turned on the sergeant.
“Sir, who was here before us?” she demanded, looking at the sergeant and then to the interpreter with a look that refused to be denied an answer.
The sergeant relented, if only partially, and instructed the interpreter to reveal that yes, the crew of Harp and Río had been quartered here, but they were gone. Where they were now the sergeant would not say. The sergeant stationed ten guards around the fort and left for the village to get food and water for the prisoners. He considered sending west for an officer of higher rank, but he couldn’t keep doing that forever. He was beginning to look like a fool.
Beauty settled the men, encouraging them to be patient and to be ready, for the very fact that Fallon was not there almost made her smile.
AT THAT very moment Fallon’s face was filled with curiosity as he and Alvaron peered from the woods at the strangeness of flooded fields of rice, a practice recently introduced to America as a potential cash crop. It was an odd sight, out of their experience, and they considered how to navigate the fields to get to the harbor, which they presumed would reveal itself on the other side. Colston was clear on the point that Savannah lay on the Savannah River, almost twenty miles from the ocean, but that made it no less of a port city for much trading in the southern part of the country took place there. The river was easily navigable with a deep-water entrance from the ocean and only a few scattered islands to negotiate. All this they considered as they rested just within the wood
s, at the spot where desperate slaves departed the known for the unknown, likely not looking back.
Fallon and Alvaron conferred, and it was decided that Fallon would find a way across the rice fields and attempt to scout the harbor, taking note of shipping and attempting to gain what information he could. The food and water supply was still adequate for a few days longer, if need be, and too many fresh faces in the town might arouse unwanted attention, neutral port or not.
Off he went, a traveler on foot, not unusual in any way except his clothing was tattered. Soon enough he found a dividing dam between rice fields and crossed into the outskirts of the town, taking his time and missing nothing.
The town of Savannah was laid out in a grid fashion, seemingly very orderly and organized. Many of the homes were lavish, large, and ornate. And the commercial buildings were several stories high. But apparently the city had been ravaged by fire recently, for it looked to Fallon as if half the city had been reduced to charred rubble. Though he could see rebuilding in progress, it might be years before Savannah would be whole again.
He walked on past shops and homes, passing buggies with footmen, deliverymen, and ordinary townspeople going about their business. He had no trouble finding the waterfront and was soon greeted by the sight of dismasted, damaged, and partially wrecked and submerged ships. The hurricane had done its work on Savannah’s harbor. The sound of mauls and belay this or avast there rang out as spars were shaped or sent up on several vessels. Around less-fortunate ships, men pulled at their beards and scratched their heads and conferred in deep tones, what to do, what to do?
A freshly coppered ship whose cargo had apparently been lumber lay over on its side in the middle of the harbor. Odd boards floated around it and bumped up against pilings and bulkheads, having somehow resisted the pull of the tides toward the sea. Or perhaps the sinking ship was simply giving up her cargo little by little; her lumber might be the only thing keeping her afloat.
Several smaller vessels had run up on the shore here and there, as well, and there were small boats going back and forth near Hutchinson Island in the middle of the harbor. There a large cargo ship was hard aground, her masts missing and her rigging hanging over the side.
Up ahead, in the middle of the long wharf, Fallon noticed a small French trader, wormy and ill-used and made worse by the storm. On the dock beside her an old capitaine, a white-haired Frenchman, sat leaning against a piling and barking orders to the crew doing the work. Bales of deer hides were stacked haphazardly near the ship, apparently part of the cargo, for deer hides were a major export out of Savannah for Europe.
“Capitaine,” Fallon greeted the old Frenchman, “I see the hurricane was very bad for you, no?”
“Sacré bleu!” the Frenchman spit out. “It was the worst thing I have ever seen.” So preoccupied was he with supervising the work aboard his ship, Étoile, that he didn’t look at Fallon, perhaps afraid his men would malinger if he took his eyes off them.
“Where are you bound, Capitaine?” Fallon asked, trying to get a conversation going that might be helpful later.
“I sail between Savannah and Northern European ports, monsieur,” the Frenchman answered, still looking at his crew. “I have not stepped foot on French soil in two years.”
Fallon lingered a while watching the work but gradually drifted away lest he be questioned in return, although the French capitaine had no real interest in anything except his ship.
Fallon could see no British ships in the harbor, which was hugely disappointing, but they may have moved on upriver or even been sunk. Bits and pieces of wood, tree trunks, and crates continually floated out with the tide. Fallon took his time as he strolled along the waterfront, past innumerable bars and chandleries undergoing their own repairs. Several times he was eyed curiously, and once he was asked if he wanted work. Well, from his appearance it certainly looked like he could use some money.
Up ahead, at the end of the wharf, near what appeared to be the port office or customs, was a large schooner—Élan, of 18 guns—obviously American built but flying a tattered French flag. She was quite dashing, with a pronounced bow and raked masts. The Americans had used these fast schooners successfully in their War of Independence against Great Britain, heavily arming them to take on enemy brigs and, in at least one instance, a British frigate. After the war, England had bought several of the type from American yards, as had France, for they were formidable weapons of a design not yet built in their own countries. From the lack of uniformed crew, Fallon concluded Élan was most likely a privateer, perhaps taken in battle. The big schooner’s new sails were being fitted, as the old suit must have been blown out by the storm, and crews seemed to be busy all over the ship; her new rigging was being blackened, new railings painted, and a new binnacle fitted as well.
As Fallon nonchalantly drew closer he could hear the schooner’s crew jabbering in French; well, mostly French, though at least some were perhaps Portuguese and one, a big fellow with a bushy black beard, was cursing like an American. The crew was large, as befitted a privateer that would need to man prizes, and thus Fallon tried to put any thought of taking the ship out of his head.
Fallon looked at the schooner longingly, for though she was bigger than Sea Dog she reminded him of his old command. He wondered, yet again, what had become of the ship and Beauty and all the rest of his old crew. Beauty was an excellent sailor, and if anyone could bring the ship to safety it was her, but the hurricane was beyond the pale of anything either of them had ever experienced at sea. Still, he had not begun grieving for Beauty; in fact, he had never considered she could be dead. Just…missing.
Satisfied that he had all the information Savannah was going to give him for the moment, Fallon cut through town and found his way back over the dams to the edge of the woods again.
The British and Spanish crews gathered around to hear his report, which did not do much to cheer the men, there being no Spanish or British ships in port that Fallon could see. The men could imagine no way home, at least anytime soon. And they could tell by listening to Fallon that he had formed no other plan else he would have revealed it.
Alvaron had been listening intently to Fallon as well and had caught the spirit of disappointment the men felt. As it was late by this time, the crews ate their small rations and wandered off to find a soft bed of leaves for the night. Alvaron motioned to Fallon to join him a little ways off to talk. They sat alone at the edge of the woods, their backs against a massive, mottled sycamore tree, staring at the emerging night sky.
“What are you thinking, señor?” asked Alvaron. “No, let me guess. You are wondering how we will bring over one hundred men into town, find them work, a place to stay, and keep them together somehow under command. Correct?”
Fallon smiled ruefully. “How did you know?” he wondered aloud.
“Because I have been worrying about these things as well,” said Alvaron. “It is a neutral port, of course, so we can just walk into town. We are shipwrecked sailors who need help, no? But then what? I do not like splitting my men up, letting them fend for themselves wherever they find work, or if they find work.”
“What can we do?” Fallon asked. He knew that Alvaron, like himself, had been reared in the discipline of command and felt responsible for his men. They both knew that, should their crews be absorbed into the town, their command would disappear. And with it, their ability to protect their men. But here was reality: When the food and water were gone, they would all have no choice but to go into Savannah and find work; it would not do to be caught stealing.
“Perhaps, Captain Fallon,” said Alvaron, “it would be better if we split our crews at this point. I believe it would be easier to consider options.”
“Yes,” replied Fallon, “perhaps you are right. But first, would you consider coming into town with me tomorrow morning? I would like you to see Savannah, señor, and perhaps you can see another opportunity I could not. I believe if we transfer you to a mule he will be more sure-footed than a hors
e and should have no difficulty with the rice dams.”
“Gladly, sir. I have always wanted to see Savannah from atop a mule with a British captain as a guide. What could be more natural, no?”
FIFTY-EIGHT
THE NEXT morning, they set off, Fallon carrying Alvaron’s crutches and the mule carrying Alvaron, who had dressed in ship’s slops for the trip. It was a bright morning, with a light breeze from the southwest, and the surface of the rice fields rippled in tiny wavelets. The sky was perfectly, brilliantly blue.
They made it into town with the help of the sure-footed beast, and Fallon tied him off to a post at the end of a street that led to the wharf. The town was not really awake yet, but there was some work beginning along the waterfront and, by the time Fallon and Alvaron made their way to the western end, most of the crews were starting their day in earnest. Alvaron moved fairly well on his crutches, stopping only occasionally to rest, his leg healed for the most part. He saw much of what Fallon had reported, the aftermath of the storm written on every building and street. Once at the waterfront he saw clearly that docks were in need of repair, of course, along with ships. No doubt the chandleries had all but exhausted their supplies of nails and cordage and tar and other items necessary to float men on the sea.
“The hurricane reached far inland, sir,” Fallon said. “I wonder how far north it…”
But Alvaron was not listening. His expression was immobile, his eyes focused across the harbor toward Hutchinson Island. Fallon followed his gaze, but there was nothing to see that he hadn’t seen before—the boats going to and fro, the big ship aground and listing, the rigging still over the side.
“Captain Fallon,” Alvaron said quietly. “I must tell you something and trust you not to act on it. May I have your word?”
The Bermuda Privateer Page 23
