A Sloop of War by Philip K Allan
Copyright © 2018 Philip K Allan
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews.
ISBN-13: 978-1-946409-42-3(Paperback)
ISBN :13: 978-1-946409-43-0(e-book)
BISAC Subject Headings:
FIC014000FICTION / Historical
FIC032000FICTION / War & Military
FIC047000FICTION / Sea Stories
Editing: Terri Carter
Cover Illustration by Christine Horner
Address all correspondence to:
Penmore Press LLC
920 N Javelina Pl
Tucson, AZ 85748
Table of Contents
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1 Arrival
Chapter 2 Barbados
Chapter 3 The Sloop of War
Chapter 4 Micoud
Chapter 5 Punishment
Chapter 6 Chase
Chapter 7 Bridgetown
Chapter 8 Ball
Chapter 9 Convoy
Chapter 10 Vieux Port
Chapter 11 Digging
Chapter 12 Siege
Chapter 13 Truce
Chapter 14 San Philipe
Chapter 15 Battle
Chapter 16 Departure
Author’s Note
About The Author
Advertisements
Dedication
To my Jenny Wren
Acknowledgements
All authors need the help and support of those around them to make their vision a reality and I am no exception. The books of the Alexander Clay series start with a passion for the naval battles and campaigns of the Napoleonic Wars. Mine was first awakened by the works of C S Forester that I read as a boy and more recently those of Patrick O’Brian. That interest was boosted when I studied the 18th century navy under Pat Crimmin as part of my history degree at London University.
Many years later, when I first started on my way as a novelist, I received the unconditional support and cheerful encouragement of my darling wife and two wonderful daughters. I strive to make sure that my work is accessible for those without a knowledge of the period, or an interest in the sea, and the crucible of my family is where I first test my prose. This proved particularly valuable for A Sloop of War, with its need to portray a land siege. One chapter underwent three rewrites, until my sternest editor, my wife Jan, was satisfied. I would also like to thank my dear friend Peter Northen for his advice and support.
One of the most unexpected pleasures of my new career path is to find that I have been drawn into a community of fellow authors, who offer generous support and encouragement to each other. When I needed help and advice the most, I received it from David Donachie, Bernard Cornwell, Marc Liebman and in particular Alaric Bond, creator of the Fighting Sail series of books.
Finally my thanks go to the team at Penmore Press, Michael, Terri, Christine and Midori, who worked so hard to turn the world I have created into the book you hold in your hand.
Chapter 1
Arrival
It was a perfect night to escape. Heavy rain beat down on the thatch and poured off the eaves in a liquid curtain. The air was thick with the hiss of falling water and the growl of thunder. No overseer would bother to patrol in such weather, and when his absence was noticed in the morning, the bloodhounds would have a scant trail to follow.
Inside the hut the other slaves were too tired to be disturbed by the rumble of the storm as it settled over the island. Bodies lay on the earth floor all around him. Some flinched in sleep from the occasional drop of water that penetrated the thatch, but most lay inert where exhaustion had overwhelmed them. He crept over to the wall and slipped his fingers under the bottom of a panel. After weeks of careful work, it was now only held in place by a smear of mud around its edges, and with a gentle tug it came away in his hands. The sound of rain was suddenly loud, and a cool rush of wind swept through the opening and into the hut. He looked around as a few of the bodies closest to him turned over, but none awoke. He slipped out into the compound, replaced the panel and stood upright. Once he was satisfied that no one had noticed him go, he eased his hands into the thatch, probing for the old machete he had concealed there. His fingers felt the cold touch of the metal, moved along the blade in search of the broken handle and pulled the knife free. He closed his fist around it and looked out into the night.
A flash of lightning seared across the sky. For a moment it caught a net of silver droplets hanging motionless as they bounced up from the packed dirt of the compound. In that splinter of light he saw the place on the outer wall he had chosen for his escape and the image remained with him as he stepped out into the dark. By the time his groping hands reached the far side of the compound he was utterly soaked by the rain.
He could feel that the surface of the wooden wall was now slick and treacherous but he was a powerfully built man and a confident climber. He thrust the point of the machete deep into the barrier with both hands and then used this as a foothold to scramble up. He pulled himself to the top of the wall and rested astride it for a moment. The ground outside was invisible in the dark, but he had chosen the spot with care. He knew it was flat, and free from any obstacles that might turn an ankle. He lowered himself down the outside of the wall until he dangled with his arms fully extended. Then he released his grip and dropped to the ground.
The slave paused for a moment, listening in the dark. Through the sound of the falling rain he heard the deeper gurgle of the stream that flowed past the slave quarters and down through the cane fields. He planned to use the water to wash away any scent trail that might survive the rain. He slipped down the muddy bank and stumbled along the choked water course, sliding over unseen rocks and fallen branches in the dark. The lightning helped his progress, and in the long intervals of black between each flash he tried not to think about the numerous snakes he knew to frequent the damp banks of the stream.
His original plan for the escape had been simple, if desperate. A universe away, across the ocean, he had been a skilled fisherman on a brown estuary near the sea. He knew how to handle a dugout canoe, and he knew that all streams lead in time to the sea. It would be strange if once he reached the coast, he could not steal a small boat to escape in.
But now he had another, better plan. After an overheard conversation between the plantation owner and one of the overseers he had changed his mind. He would leave the stream before it reached the water and make his way across country towards a village called Melverton. There he would search for Spring Hill Plantation, for he now knew that once he arrived there, all would be well.
*****
Next morning the tropical storm seemed a distant memory. The pouring rain and crash of thunder had been replaced by sunshine and a cool breeze. It sent small waves drifting across the indigo waters of Carlisle Bay to slap against the sides of the ships that lined the quaysides of Bridgetown, Barbados. The same sea breeze that had raised the little waves then pressed on inland, swaying the fronds of the palm trees and sending a scatter of points of sunlight dancing across the table top where George Robertson sat alone in the garden of Milton’s coffee house, reading the latest newspaper from London.
It was not for want of possible companions that he sat alone. As was usual at this time of day, Milton’s was thronged with the great and good of the Barbadian business community. Plantation owners from across the island, big florid men with calico waistcoats stretched over their ample bellies mixed with sharp featured sugar merchants and slave traders, their eyes aglitter at the prospect of the next deal. All of the places at the tab
les that surrounded his were taken and the busy chatter from their occupants filled the garden with noise. Mr Robertson did not sit alone under his palm tree because he was unsociable. He sat alone because, as usual, none of this fellow Barbadians was prepared to sit with him.
‘Excuse me, sir,’ said a cultured voice beside him. ‘I am aware that we have not been introduced, but would it inconvenience you if I was to sit at your table?’ Mr Robertson looked up in surprise. Standing over him was a well-groomed, sandy-haired young man in his mid-twenties dressed in the simple blue uniform of a naval surgeon. The man indicated the absence of alternative seating to be had in the garden with a sweep of his hand, before extending the same hand towards Mr Robertson.
‘My name is Linfield, sir, Mr Jacob Linfield. I am the surgeon on the sloop of war Rush.’
‘Pleased to make your acquaintance,’ said Robertson in his gentle Scottish burr. ‘Do you truly wish to sit here? Why if that is the case, pray take a seat by all means, Mr Linfield.’ Robertson folded his paper and placed it on the table so as to be able to grip the young surgeon’s hand. ‘I am George Robertson and I reside here in Barbados.’
Robertson waved across one of the coffee house waiters to take Mr Linfield’s order, and then returned his attention to his unexpected companion, who was now chattering away.
‘I must say I had rather despaired of finding anywhere to sit,’ said Linfield ‘and then by chance I saw you seated here with no one else. A very happy coincidence for me, for I am quite fatigued with my morning’s labours. I have been with an acquaintance of my father’s, Mr Bradshaw, who was kind enough to show me around Bridgetown. I was surprised to find the settlement to be quite so extensive.’
‘Bradshaw, you say?’ asked Robertson, staring at the young man from beneath his bushy eyebrows. ‘Do you mean ‘Temperance’ Bradshaw, the abolitionist?’
‘Why I suppose so, although I have never heard him named as you have done,’ said Linfield. ‘He is certainly a committed Christian and I know he is not a drinker.’
‘Upon my word, do you presume to make game of me, sir?’ said Robertson, with sudden anger. ‘Did you come to sit at this table in order to mock me in my isolation? If so you will find you have chosen to beard the wrong man! Or did that dog Campbell, or perhaps Haynes put you up to this?’
‘Sir!’ cried the surgeon as he recoiled from the table. ‘I had no notion of offending you, and I am quite amazed by your uncivil reaction. I am no acquaintance of either this Mr Campbell or Mr Haynes you speak of. Indeed, until a few minutes ago the name of Robertson was one with which I was wholly unfamiliar. If I have provoked you in some way I am sorry for it, but it was certainly not my intention.’
Robertson glared at the surgeon for a few moments longer, but he could detect nothing but innocence in his frank blue eyes. After a few moments he extended his hand across the table in apology, and the men shook hands again for the second time in as many minutes.
‘Your pardon, sir,’ he said. ‘I am not used to company here at Milton’s of late, and the unexpectedness of your society, together with your naming of a leading abolitionist provoked some suspicion on my part that was not warranted by your behaviour.’
‘I accepted your apology, sir,’ said Linfield, his voice clipped. An awkward pause descended over the table. Linfield looked out at the waters of the bay, convinced that he had sat down at the table of a madman. He wished that his coffee was a little less hot so he might depart all the sooner. Robertson regarded the young man for a moment before he decided to speak again.
‘Mr Linfield, would you permit me to offer you the comfort of an explanation of my behaviour? I would not want you to leave here thinking me to be quite out of my senses.’
‘I assure you that will not be necessary, Mr Robertson,’ said the surgeon, still looking out to sea. Robertson leant across and touched the naval officer’s sleeve, forcing him to look around at him.
‘I understand that I may have surprised you somewhat by the strength of my reaction, but it is on account of the manner in which some of my fellow Barbadians’ have treated me of late. I was quite certain that they had put you up to provoke me, in which view I now realise I was wrong,’ he said. ‘Please do me the courtesy of at least hearing my explanation.’
‘Oh, very well, if you must, sir,’ relented Linfield.
‘Do you read books, Mr Linfield?’ asked Robertson.
‘Naturally,’ replied the surgeon. ‘One can hardly follow my calling with any hope of success without diligent study.’
‘Indeed,’ agreed the Scot. ‘For my part I am an enthusiastic reader. We are somewhat cut off here on Barbados, and books are at a premium. The island has no press, so we are reliant for our literature on books from abroad, chiefly from home, but also some from Boston or Philadelphia. So you will appreciate that when some six months ago a book arrived from Edinburgh together with a letter from a cousin of mine that recommended the brilliance of the writer’s ideas, I was delighted. The book in question was by a Scottish philosopher named Adam Smith. Its title was An Inquiry into the Nature and Causes of the Wealth of Nations. Are you familiar with the work?’
‘I have heard of it, sir,’ replied Linfield, intrigued in spite of himself as to where this conversation was going. ‘I cannot claim to have read it though.’
‘Well, you are a more fortunate man than I,’ said Robertson. ‘For all my troubles began with the reading of that book. It is the principal reason why none of the gentlemen that surround us here will give me the time of day.
‘I am a sugar planter,’ continued Robertson. ‘My father came from Dundee to Barbados and built up the plantation from virgin forest. My brother and I worked alongside him, though we were only boys, and when my father and brother succumbed to the yellow jack, I carried on alone. I flatter myself that I now own one of the best run plantations on the island, one that is a substantial enterprise by our standards. Much of my success I attribute to a combination of hard work, and my willingness to innovate. Unlike many of my neighbours who cling like limpets to the old ways, I flatter myself that I am open to notions of progress. So you will understand, sir, that it was with keen interest that I settled down in my favourite chair on the porch of my plantation house to see what observations my fellow countryman had to offer upon the wealth of nations.’ Robertson sipped at his coffee for a moment, as if recalling that day in his mind.
‘I must confess, Mr Smith’s book does not make for the easiest of reading,’ he continued. ‘I found it to be hard fare, but I persisted, through all the tales of pin factories and his constant ranting upon the virtues of free trade. And as I read, Mr Linfield, the tiny bud of an idea left those dry pages and took root in my mind. I read on with increasing enthusiasm and as I did so, the notion grew and blossomed until by the time that I reached the book’s end, I knew with certainty what course I would follow.’
‘What had you resolved to do?’ asked Linfield, his coffee now forgotten in its cup.
‘I have over two hundred field slaves who work my land,’ explained Robertson. ‘Every one of those I have had to buy, and prime slaves do not come cheap. Having bought them I have to feed them, clothe them, house them, for every day of the brief ten years they might live before a combination of ill usage and hard work will cause them to perish. When that happens, why I have to buy yet more slaves to replace them, and so the cycle goes on. I also have to employ a large number of overseers, to keep those slaves productive in my cane fields. And what do I get in return? I get two hundred slaves who perform the bare minimum of work they can whilst, I am quite certain, they live for the day when they can escape from their compound and slaughter both me and my two daughters in our beds. You have doubtless heard reports of the ongoing slave rebellion the French struggle with in St Dominique? Mercifully that horror has not been visited on us here in Barbados, but I fear it is but a matter of time.’
‘Sir, before you proceed further, it is only fair that I make my position clear,’ said Linfield. ‘As b
oth a Christian, and a medical man, I am a committed opponent of slavery in all its forms. I hold the risk that you and your family are exposed to flows principally from your unwillingness to accept that those poor slaves are fellow humans in the eyes of our Creator.’
‘I see,’ replied Robertson. ‘You will find that many of my fellow plantation owners are also Christians, and find little difficulty squaring their faith with the institution of slavery, but I will not battle with you over that. However, I do believe you may find my account of even greater interest than before. Shall I continue?’
‘Pray do, sir. I am at your disposal,’ said the surgeon.
‘The idea I formed was this,’ continued the planter. ‘What if I was to grant all my two hundred slaves their freedom, and then re-employ them as agricultural labourers? I would naturally have to pay them wages, but that would be no great amount, for what alternative employment is open to them here in Barbados? Sugar is what we produce, throughout the island. Consider the costs of enslavement I would no longer have to carry, with the added benefit that my daughters and I would be able to rest easy in our beds.’
‘Far be it for me to discourage any course that might lead to the emancipation of any slaves,’ said Linfield. ‘But will not the cost of wages, even if modest, be in excess of any potential savings?’
‘I see you are an educated man,’ smiled the planter. ‘You believe you have put your finger on the principal flaw in my plan?’
‘Yes, sir, that is right,’ said the surgeon.
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