“Yes, of course, Capitán,” Fallon wondering what on earth had brought his friend up short.
“Look there,” Alvaron motioned with his head. “That ship is Spanish.”
“Excellent, my friend!” said Fallon enthusiastically. “I did not look closely before.” A ship without masts could hardly fly a flag, and Fallon had not paid enough attention to her lines. Alvaron kept his eyes on the ship, taking in every detail, watching the men rowing around in boats.
“I know that ship,” Alvaron said, “because she was carrying treasure in our fleet. She’s the Nuevo Año, sitting across the harbor with part of France’s tribute in her hold.” Alvaron fairly spat the word tribute from his mouth.
“Good God! Are you sure, sir?” Fallon blurted out. “Well, of course you are, by God. How…I mean, she made it all the way here and up the river! It’s…it’s…do you think the treasure is still in her?”
“I assume so, señor,” said Alvaron. “I doubt anyone in Savannah knows what is sitting there. They are all too busy attending to their own problems from the storm. But look, see how the men row guard around the ship? They don’t want to take chances.”
They kept their voices low, and Fallon tried not to stare but it was difficult. What a feat of seamanship to get that ship into the river in the first place, and then to navigate up the river in a hurricane! It defied imagination, but there she sat, treasure and all.
“We must get across the harbor, Captain,” implored Alvaron. “I must get closer and see for myself. Can you arrange it?”
Fallon quickly found a boat with oars and, as he could see no one to ask, helped Alvaron in and shoved off. They made it easily across the harbor, Fallon feeling muscles he hadn’t used in some time, until finally a hail from one of the guard boats brought the boat to a slow drift.
Alvaron returned the hail in Spanish, identifying himself, and the guard momentarily froze in surprise before a huge smile of relief painted his face. Fallon resumed rowing around the stern, which they could now clearly see, reading Nuevo Año as they passed—New Year. Fallon brought the boat to the starboard side as curious seamen in their red caps—barrettinas—gathered at the railings. With a curt order from Alvaron, the seamen lowered a bosun’s chair by hand over the side for him. Fallon clapped onto the mainchains and climbed up and over the channel, his feet hitting the deck just as Alvaron was pulled up the side. He was helped over the railing, stood upright on his crutches, and was greeted by someone in a slightly tattered officer’s uniform.
Fallon heard the officer introduce himself as Teniente Garin. “I served under Capitán Tornell until he was killed by a falling block,” Garin explained, “then I assumed command. Many of the crew were dead from the fighting, and we had much to repair quickly. The storm was…well, you know of the storm, of course, sir.”
Here Fallon looked hard at the deck, not in shame but in helplessness. War demanded that men die, of course, all soldiers and sailors knew this. But it was not easy to hear Garin’s account of death and destruction for which Fallon felt at least partly responsible.
But Alvaron was completely absorbed by Garin’s story. “How did you get the ship so far up the river, Teniente?” he asked. “It is astonishing to find you here.”
“The current drove us very far north while we tried to get the ship under control,” said Garin evenly. “We were pushed away from the British but our sails were blown out, and we had to cut the rigging away to steer. We saw the river’s entrance and by the Grace made it inside. The wind pushed us up the river, and when we reached the town we beached the ship on this island. Unfortunately, we lost our masts.”
Garin had related the events without emotion and, it seemed to Fallon, without taking credit for a truly heroic effort. But it was not Fallon’s place to comment or praise. He waited to see how Alvaron would respond.
Alvaron responded by heartily shaking Garin’s hand and congratulating him on an exceptional feat of seamanship. “Amazing, Teniente Garin, wonderfully amazing,” Alvaron said, and his beaming face told Garin he meant it. “What seamanship!”
Garin exhaled in relief, happy that this one-legged capitán had been pleased with his actions. No doubt he was also relieved that he was no longer the ranking officer aboard, for he admitted he had done nothing since his ship had run aground because he couldn’t think of anything that would not risk disclosing their cargo. So, he’d posted guards and prayed for divine intervention. Madre de Dios! it had come in the form of a new capitán!
Well, it was a pretty pickle. The best chance to float the ship was to lighten it, but to lighten it would put a fortune in gold and silver on the shore. How that could stay a secret for long was a good question. Fallon could see the problem working on Alvaron, for clearly he was back in command.
Alvaron introduced Fallon without explanation, and Garin bowed with good manners, revealing nothing of his feelings at meeting an enemy captain on his deck. Alvaron did not say which enemy captain he was, thank God, as in: one of the British who attacked the treasure fleet. They then took a slow turn around the deck, a sight Fallon was familiar with, and ended up in Capitán Tornell’s cabin to sit comfortably with a glass of wine and discuss the situation.
Alvaron asked to see Tornell’s locker and withdrew the dress uniform, holding it up to his chest. It was a decent fit, if a little full, and he asked Tornell’s steward for help putting it on. Garin sent for the carpenter to cut off the useless pant leg and pin it up, and when that was done—by the second glass—Alvaron slipped on the embroidered jacket and he was El Capitán.
“I may need this to impress the dockyard,” Alvaron said with a smile. He certainly knew how authority worked around the world. “I will also ask the carpenter to make me a wooden leg. Perhaps Señor Crael will help fit it.”
Fallon nodded, of course. He was quite struck by the change in demeanor in Alvaron now that he was on a ship again, even a ship hard aground.
“Now, gentlemen,” Alvaron continued, “here is how I see it. We have a fortune in treasure and specie aboard, there is a willing dockyard just across the way from which I know we can buy what we need, we have thirty more men to help unload the ship and form a human wall around the treasure, if need be, to keep it from prying eyes on shore, and we will float this ship again.”
“Correction, Capitán Alvaron,” Fallon said quickly. “We have over one hundred more men. Count us with you and the unloading will go three times as fast.”
Fallon had offered before even thinking about it, as Alvaron’s friend now, not his enemy. They were long past being enemies, and Fallon had no interest in the treasure aboard Nuevo Año anymore. Even if it eventually reached France it would do her little good as Fallon was convinced most of the flota had been sunk or destroyed. Besides, helping Alvaron would give his men a mission and postpone having to be split up in Savannah, at least for a few days.
Alvaron smiled and nodded to Garin—see? he seemed to say. “Captain Fallon, once again I am very grateful to you. Will you be so good as to get our men to a secluded place on shore to be picked up, for I fear the dock will provide too broad an audience, no? You may borrow my mule to go back—ha ha ha—I would be very grateful. We will use the ship’s boats to ferry the men to the ship this evening after dark. Tonight we will all be aboard and tomorrow we begin. I would welcome any input, sir. For I know your mind is turning.”
And Fallon’s mind was turning, very fast, but it would not land anywhere.
FIFTY-NINE
REAR ADMIRAL Davies was taking no chances, and he sent Avenger’s pinnace in to sound the channel into St. Augustine and to be sure of any ships inside. The pinnace returned with a report that the channel was awkward but navigable by Avenger with care, and there was massive wreckage on shore.
“Captain Kinis,” Davies ordered, trying to keep his voice under control and appear calm, “please have all Avenger’s guns run out.” He was apprehensive about what the wreckage meant and what resistance he would find. He intended an intimida
ting show of force demonstrating the long arm of the British Royal Navy reaching into a Spanish port.
Avenger sailed in thus, ready for a fight, and anchored fore and aft with a spring line turning her starboard guns seaward toward the channel. Her larboard guns were turned on St. Augustine. That done, Davies left Kinis in charge and took Cortez as a translator with him in the gig to shore, dreading what he would find in the wreckage.
As the crew rowed closer to the beach, the two wrecked ships and three rafts were plainly visible, and Davies fought to keep down his apprehension. Much could have happened here, he told himself, so expect anything.
What he did not expect was the Spanish sergeant, who by this time would not have been surprised to see the second coming of Christ, arrive on foot leading a small column of soldiers who stopped, then pointed all rifles toward the gig as it reached the shore. The sergeant demanded the British immediately surrender in the name of His Majesty Charles IV, King of Spain. Davies could not be sure of the words but understood the intent well enough.
Cortez translated, yet Davies did not move in the boat, except to smile. “Tell the sergeant, Cortez, that if he doesn’t put down those silly rifles and welcome us to his beautiful beach in a civil manner his Britannic Majesty will be offended. We come as friends, but unless he welcomes us as such I will order the great guns to annihilate the village while he stands there.”
Cortez translated, earnestly. And all pretense at a show of bravado on the beach dissolved. The rifles came down, and Davies and Cortez stepped ashore to a deflated sergeant. It was quickly apparent after some back and forth that, yes, the crew of the rafts were prisoners at the fort where the other crew of the British ship had been prisoners before they disappeared into thin air—Madre de Dios!—and maybe took the crew of the Spanish ship into thin air with them for they cannot be found, señores!
Davies smiled to himself: That damned Fallon! Then he demanded to be led to the fort, whistling to himself as he walked, for this was turning out to be a wonderful day.
While the gig’s crew waited at the beach, the sergeant led Davies and Cortez along the same path he had recently followed with all the British and Spanish crewmembers. They wound around the village of St. Augustine and moved north, through scrub and pines, until they at last reached Fort Mose.
The reunion at Fort Mose was jubilation itself. Great back-slapping and handshaking and elation enough for a victory in Parliament. Beauty even hugged Davies, which was made more awkward by Beauty’s peg sinking in the soft sand and very nearly toppling her over, taking the Rear Admiral with her. To Davies she looked worn and quite a bit thinner, her ship’s slops hanging rather loosely off her frame. But there was no mistaking the joy in her eyes.
The sergeant and his men stood in the background, perplexed by this latest turn of events, to say the least. It was all a mystery, the whole of it, and the sergeant reasoned some things were just beyond the abilities of a simple man to understand.
In very little time Beauty and her crew were back at the beach, back near the wrecked ships settling deeper into the sand, and to the rafts that had brought them so far. After a last look, the gig took Beauty, Davies, and the first load of prisoners out to Avenger to general acclaim by the ship’s crew, for the rescue of shipwrecked sailors was seen as the highest form of good luck for the ship, not just the survivors.
Kinis wasted no time getting other boats to shore to bring the rest of the prisoners out to the ship. That done, he ordered the spring line taken in and sent men to the capstan to hoist the anchor, being very anxious to get away from an enemy harbor, even one undefended. In fact, he kept his guns run out until they cleared the channel and were at sea.
Davies ordered Kinis to continue up the coast to look for Fallon, for his instincts told him a seaman would go to the sea, not inland. Meanwhile, Davies and Beauty went below to the great cabin, for he wanted her full accounting of events since he’d lost track of Sea Dog in the storm.
What a story! Davies’ mouth came open at every turn of events, and his estimation of this remarkable woman soared. Where were captains like this in the Royal Navy? She talked until she was talked out, covering every detail and commending the men at every turn, and then retired to the cabin Kinis had given up for her.
Avenger hove-to for the night off the entrance to Río de San Juan, a large river near the border of Spanish Florida and Georgia. They would explore this river tomorrow, and then if necessary continue up the coast to investigate several small islands: Talbot Island, Amelia Island, and Jekyll Island. No one was discouraged; in fact, with Beauty aboard Davies felt like luck was on his side.
SIXTY
THE SALT packet Castille with Captain Wallace in command anchored at the far end of Nassau harbor in the early morning after heaving-to off Exuma the night before to await good light to navigate the shallow waters. Even from the deck Elinore could see the markets were already beginning to fill with people and the waterfront was coming alive.
Wallace had told her that fifty years ago Nassau had been called the Republic of Pirates—a stronghold for pirates and privateers with their own laws and customs—with Edward Teach, or Blackbeard as he was famously called, as its magistrate. The Governor of Bermuda had estimated there were more than one thousand pirates in Nassau then, vastly outnumbering the permanent inhabitants by 10-1. Though those days had passed, the vestiges of that time remained, and no other town in the Bahamas was so populated by scoundrels.
Castille was anchored between Nassau, on the northern end of the island of New Providence, and Hog Island, a smallish island that buffered Nassau from the sea. Hog Island had once sheltered the likes of Anne Bonny and Calico Jack and other lesser and greater pirates. The Republic came to an end when Great Britain sent Governor Woodes Rogers to Nassau, armed with three warships and a motto: Expulsis Piratis—Restituta Commercia, or Pirates Expelled—Commerce Restored.
The pirates were expelled, slowly. The Bahamas were a British colony and generally followed British laws and customs, having received and settled many Loyalists during the American War for Independence. But old customs die hard, and privateering and pirates were quietly tolerated, if not exactly encouraged, for they were a boon to the local economy, particularly the personal economies of local officials who looked the other way.
Elinore stood watching the shipping in Nassau Harbor. There was quite a bit of activity about, with boats of all sizes and types, small coastal traders to larger ships from several nations, at least those countries not currently at war with Great Britain. She and Somers were next to Wallace at the starboard railing, and the Captain had his telescope to his eye, sweeping the scene. Elinore saw him suddenly stiffen.
Wallace was staring at Renegade through his telescope. The ship was anchored at the far end of Hog Island, some half mile away. She appeared to have been battered about by the hurricane and was undergoing general repairs, riding below her waterline—no doubt the pumps were at work—having new yards sent up and, as he watched, a new crow’s nest was just being fitted.
“That’s the blackguard pirate that did for Captain Fallon in Caicos Straights,” he said through clenched teeth.
“What do you say, Wallace?” asked Somers incredulously. “That’s Wicked Jak Clayton?”
“The same,” replied Wallace. “Looks like he’s in for repairs after the storm. The bastard should have sunk.”
Somers and Elinore were momentarily speechless. There across the water was the source of all their troubles, of death and intrigue and loss, close enough to hit with a cannon. It was incredible, watching the ship at work as if nothing in the world could be more normal. In reality it was an odious and evil thing getting ready for sea again.
“What can we do, Wallace?” asked Somers, growing agitated. “We can’t let that son of a bitch just sit there!”
“We can’t attack a frigate, sir,” responded Wallace coolly. “Perhaps we can follow her when she leaves, but if she turns to attack us we’re finished. I don’t know what el
se to tell you.”
Somers paced the deck in small circles, growing more upset by the minute. Elinore saw that her father desperately wanted to take action, but she didn’t know what they were in a position to do. They were on a virtually unarmed ship in a strange harbor, though a harbor under nominal British authority. Surely Clayton was known to Bahamian officials and even the governor himself for what he was.
The color had risen in Elinore’s cheeks, a sure sign that usually precipitated anger, at the least. At the most it was every man for himself and hide the bullets.
“Let’s go, Elinore!” Somers suddenly announced. “By God, we’ll see the governor!”
Somers called for Wallace’s gig to row them to shore. It was an idea born of desperation to do something, and even if it produced nothing substantive it would at least make them feel better. They tied off at the town dock easily enough and began the long walk to Government House, Somers’s gout held at bay, no doubt by his anger. Most of the homes were opening their shutters and delicious scents were drifting out to the streets, reminding Somers that, in their haste to come to shore, they had quite forgotten breakfast. Small children stood in doorways rubbing their eyes, putting sleep away. Women carrying baskets full of fruit on their heads swayed past in bright dresses and clucked to each other as they passed.
At Government House a servant swept the steps and the giant doors were open to reveal a cool stone entryway inside, a clerk at the ready dressed in white from head to toe. No, the governor was not in, well not exactly in, there is no current governor but an acting…
Somers wasn’t having it. He took Elinore by the hand and brushed past the clerk like he was white mist and marched down the hall to the large wooden doors at the end, bursting through them without knocking and startling the governor’s secretary and an aide into spitting up their coffee through their noses.
“Where is the Governor of the Bahamas this morning?” Somers asked in a voice that would not be denied an answer. “We’ve come from Bermuda to see him!”
The Bermuda Privateer Page 24
