A powerful ebb gripped the HMS Frigate Hurricane firmly, pushing her irresistibly down the Thames and toward the final turning buoy. Seamen manned lines and spread along the broad yards. The marine complement busied themselves doffing departure trappings and securing their arms for a lengthy sea voyage. Ship's officers stationed themselves along the quarterdeck observing traditional "all hands" when departing the homeport. The turning buoy loomed closer and Jonas Hawk judged it time to act.
He left his place on a gallant halyard, seized a short line with a small float attached, and moved purposefully toward the aft cabins. A year aboard had taught him the value of moving quickly and appearing bent on serious matters. As he expected, with eyes and minds concentrated on turning the ship and meeting a new course with all sails pulling, his movements remained unremarked.
Jonas crossed the well deck and made his way through the narrow corridor leading aft. Ship's officers' quarters opened along each side. The marine sentry was not yet posted as he would be during most of the sea voyage and the great cabin stood unguarded.
Without hesitation Hawk entered, closing the door and bolting it behind him. The captain's cabin was inviolate and, once within, no explanation or excuse could serve. The door bolt could protect him only until seamen swung over the ship's stern and stormed through the open ports, or until a marine detail battered the stout oak door into kindling. Yet, a moment's delay might make the difference and, with the door barred, Hawk could move without fear of sudden interruption.
He knelt before the captain's berth and reaching beneath felt the strong lines lashing the small chest securely in place. He drew his blunted seaman's knife and quickly severed the lashings. Overhead, feet thumped the decking and voices called. The turning buoy would be hard by and Hawk quickened his movements.
He dragged the heavy chest clear and balanced it on the thick ledge of an aft window. Below, the ship's wake streamed astern showing a good turn of speed as a strong land breeze added to the current's push.
He lashed the small line and buoy to one chest handle and waited with pounding heart for the exact moment. It came almost immediately as the wheel was spun over and the warship handily laid the buoy. Bosun's commands swung yards and squared sails for the run through the river's long mouth.
Poised and ready, Jonas Hawk felt the ship heel and saw the turning buoy rush into view only a few yards from the ship's side. He threw the heavy chest clear of the transom and watched it strike the wake and disappear. His small float was sucked beneath the dark Thames water, but it would not be deep and he could find it.
He listened for alarms. If someone had been looking aft, the splash of the chest could have been seen. Sounds remained normal and Hawk heaved a relieved sigh. Only he knew where the ship's money chest now rested and his escape was finally underway.
Jonas could go anytime now, but a few moments wait would ease his swim. The river threw a great bar of earth and sand as it made its turn and with the dropping tide much of the bank would be exposed. Once ashore he could make his way to higher ground and to safety further inland.
Jonas already felt satisfaction. In payment for his captivity he was exacting heavy compensation. The ship's pay chest held enough coins of the realm to provide for the Hurricane during a long sea voyage. How much gold and silver there would be, Jonas could not know, but there would be a small treasure of it. He doubted the pay chest's loss would deter other American imprisonments but Jonas thought it suitable repayment for his own involuntary service.
Hawk peered out, judging his proximity to the bar. He kicked the severed lashings out of sight and unlatched the cabin door. With night approaching, the chest might not be quickly missed. Against the tide the mighty warship could not be stopped or a boat launched to run him down. He would be ashore and lost in the dark long before pursuit could be mounted.
Hawk checked the security of his four gold pieces before clambering over the iron mass of a stern chaser. He breathed deeply, filling his lungs, and launched himself into the roiling wake.
Jonas dove head first as he had as a boy into the fast spring run-off of Sherman's Creek. His body made scarcely a ripple and he stayed down a long time. When he surfaced, the ship's massive stern was already growing distant and no figures raised muskets or alarm.
He swam toward the bar, figuring it for a quarter of a mile. After the swim ashore each step of his plan would be followed just as he had worked them out through a year of sea watches. There could be no turning back and to fail meant almost certain death. But these things too were part of his plan and Jonas wasted little time in reviewing them.
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Jonas touched on the sandy bar and fought the tug of the ebb until he could flounder ashore. With the tide still falling, only a narrow strip of bar rose above the dark waters. He sat on the wet earth, running it through his fingers, enjoying its feel after a full year afloat.
Dusk had thickened and ship's lanterns glowed across the water. Some were aboard the frigate where his mates would be pondering his absence. Until the money chest was missed there would be speculation that he had fallen overboard. Thereafter, the frigate would put in at the nearest port and a hue and cry would be raised. Rewards for his capture would be lavish, but he would be well away and he gave their chase no chance of success.
Jonas drew his blunt ended knife and severed the tarred pigtale of hair that marked him as a seaman. He dropped the telltale into the current and, without hesitation, tossed the knife after it. The blunted blade too could be damning evidence.
Hawk made his way ashore along the widening spit. He reached high ground and in full dark walked the hard road toward the dull glow of city lights. In Gravesend he would rid himself of his seaman's rags and move quickly to recover the chest of money. Another stop or two and he would be gone from English shores and safe from the Royal Navy's terminal vengeance.
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A gold piece purchased suitable used clothing with many small coins returned. He discarded the Navy's canvas trousers and woolen jerkin in a dim alley and heard the quick rustle of beggars' feet as the pitiful booty was claimed and divided.
A cutler opened to his knocking and he purchased a six inch blade, sharp on both edges, to replace his old knife. He slid the leather sheath into his right sea boot and the cutler obligingly sewed it in place with heavily waxed thread.
Content with his progress, Jonas found the waterfront and, since the night was mild, settled himself behind a low stone wall where, with one ready hand on his dagger and wrapped in a warm cloak, he slept soundly through the night.
Hawk breakfasted on bread and cheese in a mean inn, washing his food down with cheap beer. He could offer no complaints. The humble fare was immeasurably better than Navy rations.
A few pence rented a small skiff and a hand line tossed aboard implied a day of fishing. Hawk could smile at the thought. His fishing would be unusually rewarding.
He rowed slowly, letting the last of a morning ebb carry him to the turning buoy. He tied the skiff's painter to the buoy and dropped his line as though actively fishing.
Jonas waited until the tide lay slack before beginning its upstream rush. He dropped his clothing and, holding his fishing line in one hand, sank into the dark water.
Visibility was poor with the filth of London thickening the brackish river. Without success he swam about trying to glimpse either box or its marking float. He surfaced and clung to the skiff, regaining his wind. He dove again, searching further away, and dove again and again without success. The tide began to flow and he felt its pull across the channel bottom.
Jonas saw the bobbing float when his air was nearly gone and he struggled mightily to reach it. His hand grasped the rope below the buoy and he frantically knotted his fishing line to it. He surfaced like a blowing whale, half clearing the water and sucking air into straining lungs. He let the flood carry him to the skiff and clung to the gunnel waiting for a return of strength before clambering aboard.
Underwater, the chest weig
hed little and Jonas gathered his fishing line until he could grasp the stronger rope below the float. A powerful heave brought the money chest safely aboard and out of sight in the skiff bottom.
With the chest placed safely amidship, Jonas examined its heavy padlock. A man carrying a chest would not attract attention but the padlock smacked of crown property, as did the royal seal burned into the chest top. Both would have to go.
He released his painter and allowed the incoming tide to carry his boat back up the river. Using his knife, he began laboriously cutting the wood from around the chest's heavy hasp. The stout oak resisted but he was in no hurry. He rested often, watching the many coastal craft also working upriver on the favorable current. Although unlikely, the frigate could have hailed a passing boat which would now be carrying word of his desertion and apparent theft of the ship's strong box. He had considered that possibility and had no fear of it. Who would expect a recent deserter to be bobbing about in the Thames estuary?
The hard wood gave slowly but he cut steadily until the hasp loosened from the lid. Gold and silver coins lay stacked in neatly sewn canvas bags. Hawk judged his involuntary year in Royal Service more than richly rewarded.
He settled the bagged coins in the skiff bottom and completely cut away the deeply burned royal seal. To hide the clean wood he rubbed in dirt from the boat's bilge. Then he returned the coins to the chest. A few turns of fishing line secured the chest from accidental opening and Jonas consigned the iron padlock and hasp to the river bed.
The morning was still young so Jonas let the skiff drift its way up the river. The sun warmed his face and the money chest warmed his heart. He soaked comfortably in both, letting his thoughts roam while dreaming a little about all that now seemed possible.
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Chapter 11
In the Sign of the Sail, Michael Finday suffered in resigned boredom the oft-repeated meanderings of a pair of his regulars. Their talk was of ships long salvaged and occasions remarkable mainly in the minds of the tellers. The Sign of the Sail was a living but, to Finday's thinking, little more.
Touching forty, Finday showed little of the wear a seaman's life exacted. Though weather creased, his features had not thickened into the prunish mask common to most who served long before the mast. Finday's strong body had not twisted from poor diet nor were his fingers broken and gnarled from too long aloft. Finday had gotten out in time.
But he missed it. Finday hungered for the hiss of water against a swift hull. At times he thought he heard the crack of canvas catching a wind. The howl of a gale as it worked the eaves of his tavern surfaced memories of his ship, with a bone in her teeth, fighting for their lives amid great ocean comers whose tops blew away in the storm's fury.
If he had been a ship's officer, Michael Finday might have stayed on. An officer could save and put away for the old years. Before the mast, a man made too little. Played to the end, he, like the old salts he listened to, would have loitered worn and beaten-out in someone else's ordinary. Still, Finday's thoughts turned often to the sea. He supposed he should be thankful the old sailors shared their tales where he could hear them.
A heavily cloaked figure that moved with a seaman's roll entered and stood in the shadows allowing his eyes to adjust to the tavern's comfortable gloom. The day was warm, yet, until he had looked around, the stranger held his cloak against his face. Although his features were shadowed, Finday felt his eyes and then saw teeth flash in a smile that tugged at Finday's memory.
Finday refilled tankards. When he again turned, the cloaked man leaned close against the bar and his sea tanned face leaped like a son's in Michael Finday's memory.
For a lengthy moment astonishment and disbelief held Finday. Jonas Hawk had time to say, "Well, Bosun . . .?" Finday's hands clamped on Jonas' shoulders and shook him as though to prove him real. Then Jonas was held at arms' length, as if to make certain he would not escape.
"Jonas! Jonas Hawk! By all the gods!" Finday's obvious pleasure was balm, comforting to a man who had experienced few satisfactions since the Ruth Covert had gone down.
In Finday's quarters above the tavern Hawk did most of the talking. Jonas talked because his were the wild tales. Pirates, a sinking, escape from a desert island—they were adventures worthy of long telling.
Eventually, Hawk came to the treasure. In truth, there were three treasures. The first he had hidden beneath the crooked tree. Those bags alone could stir the imagination. Gaspar's hoard, buried in a privy, excited hungers and made Finday's eyes glisten. The Royal pay chest let the bosun howl with glee and those fewer coins, Hawk believed, could make gaining the other treasures practical.
Throughout their friendship, Finday had been the teacher, Jonas the student. Yet, during their talking, without particular awareness, Jonas became their leader. His were the plans in this venture and he controlled the essential purse strings. Finday had always been crew and he settled easily into the familiar role of assisting—a captain.
"So Jonas, you plan to go after this Gaspar's treasure?" At Hawk's nod, Finday continued, "And you'll include your old shipmate in the venture." It was not a question but an acceptance.
Jonas leaned closer and their shadows merged as he spoke his plans across Finday's rough board table. A candle stub lent its feeble glow to the crude map outlined on the planking.
"The quicker I'm gone from England, the safer I'll feel, Finday. While it doesn't seem likely that I could be caught, it'd be painful to be mistaken." Finday nodded understanding. To be taken would mean hanging.
"I've spent many a month working out how I'd like this to go. I'll detail it to you as we proceed but, in the main, this is my plan.
"I've enough English gold," Jonas tapped the chest at his elbow, "to purchase a vessel and stores to see us through.
"It could be that Gaspar's gone or a great hurricane could have swept the island clean and we will find nothing, which would mean we would have only our ship.
"Yet, Finday, we should have the right vessel for our venture. We cannot use some great-bellied old sea scow. She would be slow and draw too much water. Ours must be a craft, shallow and swift. She must be able to carry bow and stern guns and her crew should be only a dozen dependable and true seamen."
Finday's head nodded but his grunt was troubled for he knew of no such ship.
Jonas' hand closed over Finday's forearm, focusing the bosun's mind on Hawk's next words. "There are such ships Finday. Better, they are safely away from English soil."
Jonas' finger pointed to his map. "Here, Finday. Here, where they have built such raiders for a thousand years.
"We will start in Norway and work south, Bosun. Perhaps Ragnar's old dragon ship still lurks in a forgotten fjord waiting for us to refit her and sail for the Canaries, the West Indies, and finally the Floridas."
Finday grinned at Hawk's reference to the ancient Viking tales countlessly retold by seamen aboard everything that ever floated.
"If you'll come, Finday, we'll divide what we find. Half for me, a fourth for you as my mate and my friend. The last fourth divided fairly among our crew."
Finday did not have time to accept for Jonas hurried on. "The crew must be as sound as British oak, Finday. They can be as Irish as you, American, or Malay, but true they must be. Each should be a gunner, a hand, and a man of grit that will stick no matter how hard the times."
Finday again nodded, his mind weighing names, already culling and planning on only the best.
But Hawk had more. "If we succeed, Finday, we will have wealth to attempt great ventures. Choose men who can command. Choose men who might wish to sail our ships as a company.
"Can you imagine a dozen vessels working from a secure port where great warehouses lay protected by a tight harbor and many guns? We could scour the seas, Finday.
"Together, the right men, with enough gold, might make true all of their dreams. Will you come, Finday? Is it a challenge worth hauling your anchor for?"
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Chapter 12
Hawk's exclamation and pointed finger brought Finday's attention. As their course drew them abreast the sea-scoured vessel, they tried to see beyond the tattered rigging and fouled gear to study her lines and hull condition.
Finday guessed her length at sixty-five feet and she was pointed on both ends in the Norwegian manner. For a cargo vessel, her bow entry was fine and her beam narrow. Low freeboard and lapped planking showed her Viking heritage and Finday judged her burdened draught would be no more than four feet.
Hawk too studied the ship. There was no sign of life aboard and the fouled bottom and topside suggested her current berth to have been of long duration. Her masts and standing rigging were an ill planned tangle and a large deckhouse had been planted amidship. A monstrous rudder hung from her stern and apparently led to an old fashioned whip-staff. With her ungainly spread of canvas, Hawk could imagine the strains placed on the helmsman. Yet, her hull appeared fair and the scarred deck planking looked thick and solid. If the vessel could be bought, Hawk thought she might do.
Their landing took time and arrangement; lodging at a waterfront inn consumed the morning. Impatient to examine the ship, both Hawk and Finday hurried their accommodations and hustled themselves down the stone quays to the old galleon and the ship tied alongside.
They stood back for a time studying her condition and judging how she would respond under sail.
Finday grunted, "Her hull looks right, Jonas, but all above deck would have to go. Her sticks and rigging are all wrong and that deckhouse must have been cobbled from driftwood."
"True, Finday, but I like her shape and if she isn't rotted out, her hull appears swift and strong enough to handle heavy seas and our cannon."
"She's low freeboard, Hawk. If we weigh her down she'll be a wet ship. Let's get aboard and see how she's built. Could be her back's broke, though there's no sign of hogging that I can see."
Hawk's Feather (Perry County Frontier Series) Page 8
