by Diane Carey
“You? You are hiding behind that fraudulent letter of marque in your pocket.”
“It’s not in my pocket. It’s in my cabin and it’s signed by President James Madison and Secretary of War James Monroe. Your identity, please?”
“William Anderson, shipmaster.” He nodded toward a man with a severely bleeding ear wound who was sitting beside him. “Our bosun, Mr. Pomroy.”
“Where are your first and second lieutenants?”
“Both are wounded by your musket volley. Being tended by our surgeon.”
“Name of this ship?”
“This is the Hopewell.”
“Out of …”
“Surinam.”
“Bound for?”
“London.”
“Burden?”
“Three hundred forty-six tons.”
“Cargo?”
“Cotton, sugar, coffee, molasses …”
“Cocoa,” Pomroy supplied, almost whispering.
“Cocoa.”
Boyle pulled a kerchief from his back pocket, folded it, and pressed it to Pomroy’s bleeding ear. The man took it and nodded silent thanks.
“How many aboard?” Boyle asked.
“Twenty-five, including officers,” Anderson responded. At this, a British seaman who had been standing by leaned to his captain and murmured privately. Anderson nodded. “Twenty-four. Our carpenter has just died.”
Boyle paused. He thought about offering condolences and requesting that the sentiments be conveyed to the man’s family and friends, but he held back rather than imply that he or his crew might be guilty of anything. The fight had been fair. The Hopewell’s choice to resist might serve all sides better as a warning to surrender sooner.
He motioned to Hooper, who came up behind him.
“This is John Hooper, prize master,” he said to Anderson. “He and a prize crew will board your vessel, which will be taken to Baltimore, where condemnation proceedings will be instituted for the value of the ship and cargo. Your crew will be imprisoned aboard my schooner, with the prisoners from our previous exchanges. They will be treated decently and their wounds attended. However, I shall allow you and the worst-wounded of your men to remain aboard the Hopewell, thereby to be returned to land sooner and be treated of your injuries.”
“Most considerate,” Anderson responded without emotion. “In return, I shall give you the latest news of your nation.” He then ordered one of his men to go to his cabin and retrieve a newspaper. “When did you set sail, captain?”
“July 12.”
“From Baltimore?”
“That’s right.”
“Then you might know that your General Hull invaded Canada at Sandwich on that day.”
Unsure about how much to divulge, Boyle simply nodded.
“This newspaper is recent, as of only a week.” Anderson received the paper from his crewman, then handed it to Boyle. “The Niles Register. Baltimore.”
Boyle looked at the paper with surprise that he couldn’t hide. “How did you acquire a Baltimore newspaper?”
“Exchanged from another vessel just yesterday. There is much interest in Baltimore these days, what with the Federalist riots and all.”
Inwardly raging to read the paper, Boyle instead folded it and handed it to one of his Marines, who thankfully had the sense to tuck it in his coat rather than look at it.
“Your wounded who remain here will be considered prisoners, but will be allowed common comforts to mitigate their suffering. I expect to have their words of honor that they will not rise against my prize crew, who are honest men engaging in legal control of this vessel. I will therefore refrain from imprisoning you and them below, and, if they’re able, allow them to assist in splicing and re-reaving adequate to sail the ship. Is there anything else I can do for you, Captain?”
“What could I want from you?” Anderson asked bluntly.
“Medical supplies?”
“Thank you. No.”
The other captain’s cold resentment toward Boyle and disappointment in himself moved Boyle’s humanity an inch. Unnecessarily, he explained, “We are no longer enemies, Captain. That part is over. This is the time for civility. You sailed skillfully and defended your ship with vigor. I shall note so in my log and report it to the Hopewell’s owners. Thank you for the newspaper.”
Boyle returned to his dory boat, leaving Hooper and the Marines aboard to hold the Hopewell secure until the prize crew could join them, but he was sure to get the newspaper from the marine before leaving. He quaked to read it, managing instead to hold it calmly in his hands as he was rowed back to the Comet. News … news of Hull’s victories in Canada, news of marvelous successes in the western territories of Michigan, Lake Erie …
As the dory drew up to the Comet’s side and Boyle climbed back aboard as easily as if the ship were simply sucking him in, a disturbing volley of angry words and the sounds of a scuffle caused him unhappy distraction. On the foredeck, Cascadden was at Ring’s throat with both hands, his teeth gritted and lips peeled back like a badger. Ring was spitting obscenities and laughing as he endured being strangled, and he responded by twisting the Marine captain’s ears.
“Not this again!” Boyle headed for the quarrel, boiling that this unshipmatelike behavior was being seen and clearly heard by the crew of the Hopewell, as the sound skated over the water. Without a pause he barreled into Cascadden’s bulk and drove an elbow into the man’s ribs and a fist into his head and slammed him to the deck. Cascadden skidded on his rump and glared up at Boyle.
“What happened?” Boyle demanded.
“Ring called him a pudnigger,” Dieter said.
“Spudfucker!” Ring snarled. “I’ll say it again!”
Boyle spun on him and roared, “Do and I’ll knock your head off!”
So rare was this vicious side of his temper, so seldom seen and yet constantly perceived, that the whole company fell to cryptic silence and feared to catch his attention. His voice carried from bow to stern and below, carrying the authority and the anger of a prudent captain pushed too far.
He turned again on Cascadden, who was just getting to his feet. “You fired on the prize after their colors were struck!”
“I … I … thought the flag had been shot away!” the Irishman sputtered. “I didn’t think they’d struck!”
“You’re a captain! You’re supposed to know!” He tipped forward and sniffed at a distinct odor on Cascadden’s breath—something not even allowed on board. “Whiskey? Are you drunk?”
The Marine officer sputtered, but made no sense.
Boyle snapped, “Dieter, put him in irons.”
Cascadden gasped, “What?”
But they dragged him away before more could go wrong.
Eminence Grise
FELL’S POINT
BALTIMORE, MARYLAND
OCTOBER 12
“CAPTAIN! CAPTAIN BOYLE!”
The friendly call took a bit of effort to elevate over the noises of one of Fell’s Point’s famous shipyards. Sounds of industry were everywhere, wall to wall, earth to sky. Carpenters’ mallets clacked, backbeat by their own echoes, discordant with the clangs of ironwork, the rasps of saws, the barks of foremen overseeing large crews of workmen among dozens of rope-workers and chandlers rushing about with armloads of ordnance. Horses and mules clumped by, drawing freight wagons large and small, the largest carrying four-ton loads of lumber, wreckage, iron parts, bolts of rope in varied diameters, folded sails ready-made for each order, and looming above them at every turn was a dry-docked ship’s hull, some without masts, others already rigged but landed for repairs. Among them were cranes for setting the masts into the hulls, and dozens of beasts of burden, mostly mules, but here and there a draft horse or an ox with its horns sawn off.
The draft horses were the most fun to watch, he had learned. They loved to work and often stamped the ground or shook their livery impatiently while their wagons were loaded, and some of them had to be tied to docking bitts or they would s
trike off on their own. He recalled the same teams of giants hauling loaded sleds last winter and mused briefly on the industrious all-year-around partnership between men and beasts, keeping each other alive and constantly moving forward, and how the ships of the sea wouldn’t be possible without the beasts of the land.
Along the dock floated a small fleet of ships—some new and being rigged for the first time, others damaged and awaiting attention. One of these latter vessels was an unpretentious schooner with a yellow hull, shaggy and beaten up, still in the water at the dockside, without any advertisement of her heralded adventures over the past many weeks. She was the stuff of newspaper stories and midnight dreams for those on land who awaited any dribble of information about the war at sea, and indeed there were some people hovering about the dock who were clearly not shipwrights, but who had come to see the famous little ship. The schooner’s deck was a mess of loose blocks and gasket-coiled lines, metal parts and tools, rags, scraps of discarded rope, and smelly buckets of pitch. Her sails were unfurled and draped about the deck like laundry, seeming much bigger than when they were set into the sky. Her crew, crowded around the deck or on floating rafts around the hull, were painting, splicing, stitching, sanding, reaming, hammering, packing deck plank seams with oil-soaked raw cotton or unraveled rope fibers—the French Jew was exhausted just watching them. He had an idea of what they were doing, but not the skilled part of how they were doing it. He had been here every day for two weeks, waiting, watching, and learning. They toiled with a deliberate urgency, for much of this work would have to tolerate the coming winter months at sea. The whole operation had a distinct industrial smell that he would forever associate with ships.
On the deck of the schooner, Tom Boyle heard his name finally and looked over toward the source, then recognized the not-quite-familiar round face, dusky complexion, the bowler hat, and the beard.
“Oh—hello, Mr. Yemmick, is it? Yelbrick?”
“Yambrick. How joyous to see you again! I’m so pleased you’re safe and hale after your long adventure. You recall Sophie, my niece …”
“Miss,” Boyle said, nodding to the funny-faced woman beside the Frenchman.
She made a clunky curtsy but, as previously instructed, said nothing. The Frenchman thought for a moment that others would find it too odd, too quirkish, that she never spoke, and toyed with the idea of giving her some cursory lines to say, but had no confidence that she would say them correctly and not get carried away. Silence was better.
Thomas Boyle made a polite bow in return and thankfully didn’t try to engage her in conversation. He wiped his hands with a rag and climbed up onto the dock, then stepped through a gauntlet of barrels, wooden hoops, and fenders, and excused himself passing through the folded legs of a team of three boys who were passing oiled fibers of old unraveled rope through used sailcloth as if hooking a rug.
The captain reached out to shake the Frenchman’s hand, then quickly withdrew, for his hands were nearly black with the filth of shipboard work. He wiped them on his trousers. “Sorry. Got oakum and pitch all over my fingers.”
The Frenchman seized the captain’s hand anyway. “Now I can say I helped you on a ship and I’ll smell just right.”
The two men laughed, and mousy Pdut chimed in with her ridiculous chortle. She thought it was safe to laugh, but botched it.
Minutes later, the three were stationed around a small round table at one of the port’s popular cafés, on the cobblestoned Thames Street, not far from where the Frenchman and Pdut rented a suite. Flanking the street were bright orange-gold trees waving their autumn jewelry in the pleasant sunshine. Warm mugs of Irish coffee steamed from the table, mingling with the eternal aromas of commerce—sweat, horses, grease …
“Do you have business here at the shipyard?” Captain Boyle asked.
The French Jew drew in a long poetic breath. “If it were true! Growing up in the countryside, locked between hedgerows and gardens, I imagined the grandeur of seafaring, of travel and adventure. Sadly I missed that opportunity and went into business with my father as a real property agent. All I know is land. But for one expedition over the Atlantic to bring me to this nation, I have never realized that wish. Of course, no one would look at me and see a prince of adventure such as yourself anyway. I’m clearly not constructed for it.”
“And yet,” Boyle said, “this is not a chance reunion.”
“You’re quick,” the other man said, smiling. “I was told you might be in Fell’s Point today.”
“By whom?”
“By the owners of the Comet.”
“I’m one of the owners now,” Boyle declared. “But you already know that, don’t you, Mr. Yambrick?”
“Samuel, please.” The Frenchman blushed a bit and chuckled. “I would say all this is your own fault, Captain. Your expert advice on my nephew’s model ship inspired me. I have hardly been able to think of anything else! I read about you in the newspapers. You’re famous now! An intrepid privateer, the cunning intriguer cruising the open ocean, sultan of the seas prowling for enemy victims to vanquish, riches to seize—”
“Sounds piratical, sir. We’re not pirates.”
“No, no! Patriots, to be sure. You would never take a ship in time of peace—I know that. Everyone knows. You’re soldiers. You’re a navy.”
“With different tactics. We don’t confront enemy cruisers. There’s no point to it. We aim for the merchant fleet. For privateers, there’s no dishonor in running.”
“Please accept my apology.”
“Not necessary, but accepted.” Boyle paused and savored a sip of the Irish coffee, then gave his shoulders a stretch.
“Do you live near here?” the French Jew asked.
“Albemarle Street.”
“Oh? Pdut … Sophie had some alterations done by a lady who lives on that street. Dress alterations. Ladies’ things. Petticoats, I believe they’re called.”
“Mrs. Pickersgill?”
“Why, yes! So you know her.”
“She lives across the street. Everyone knows her. Certainly every captain. She makes ensigns and signal flags. We would be crippled without flags. Mute. Where would we be without people who know how to sew?”
“A most pleasant woman. She seemed like the sort who will always make her own happiness.”
“And the happiness of any man who might have the sense to court her.”
“How true. Not me, of course—I’m too old.”
“Don’t misunderstand,” the captain repealed, as if he thought he had said too much. “I’ve never seen her flirt, though she’s certainly young enough to make a fine wife and new mother. I don’t think she’s interested, but I wouldn’t speak out of turn.”
“Has she always made flags?”
“She comes from a flag-making family, back at least a couple of generations.”
“She showed me some pennants and household ensigns. Dazzling, some of them. The embroidery, I mean. I believe the dress tailoring was done by one of the darkie girls in her house.”
“Mary’s skills are far above ordinary tailoring,” Boyle said, “but she trains girls to sew. She’s interested in making women self-sufficient. Those two Negro girls live there. One’s an apprentice and one is a bonded servant. A cook, I think. I’ve always respected Mary’s treating them just as she treats her own daughter.”
“Quite a household.”
“She hosts many parties and brunches. Without her, I think Fell’s Point would be nothing but a den of pubs and brothels. Pardon me … miss.” The captain blushed and shifted, looking at the silent woman at his side. “Too much time among sailors.”
“Not at all,” the Frenchman said with a smile. “For what you are doing for this nation, you deserve to speak your mind in any fashion that inspires you. Oh, look … cows.”
They paused to watch a herd of cattle tread by on their way to the butcher, kept moving by three boys and a girl with shepherd’s crooks.
“Steers, probably,” Boyle mentioned.
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“When will you be, shall we say, striking out to the briny main again?”
“No specific date. Repairs, provisions, new crewmen … weather …”
“Oh, of course you’ll want to keep that information undisclosed. I retract my ill-considered question.” The Frenchman fell silent for a few calculated seconds, then spoke again, infusing great sympathy into his voice. “But you have an uphill battle. There have been many wins for you privateers, yes, and the Frigate Constitution made a legendary victory against that ship with the French name—”
“Guerriere.”
“Yes, that story will become naval lore for the future. But I’ve heard the British Navy is still supreme on the seas. And we’ve lost many land engagements, sad to say. We simply have had no effect on Great Britain. But you know that.”
Boyle shifted his feet, as if a secret had been revealed.
The Frenchman let the moment move his way. “I’ve also heard the enemy is having notable success in recapturing your prizes even after you take them. Not just yours, I mean all the privateers’ prizes. Then they make prisoners of our best sailors. You must feel sometimes that you’re wasting your time and effort—”
“We’re not doing this for profits alone,” Boyle declared.
“We have a war to win. This is a war at sea. And a war for the sea.”
“Certainly, yes.”
With practiced self-control, the captain retracted his temper. “It’s discouraging when prizes are recaptured,” he admitted. “If for nothing else than the British get to use that ship against us again. Part of our mission is to deprive them of useful vessels.”
The Frenchman lowered his voice. “Have you ever thought of ways to do more damage to the enemy?”
“Why? Do you have a suggestion?”
“I?” The Frenchman tried to appear shocked. “Oh, I could never be so clever. I’m asking … curious … if you were the president or an admiral what would you do to have more effect? Or even better, have you ever thought about what you yourself, with your ship, could do to cause Britain deeper pain?”
Boyle rubbed a muscle in his neck, gazed into his Irish coffee, then looked out the window at the passing pedestrians and the endless parade of wagons lumbering over the cobblestones.
