A Journal of The Experiment at Jamaica (The Neville Burton 'Worlds Apart' Series Book 2)

by Georges Carrack

  Three incredibly uncomfortable long days later the galley fires were re-lit. The storm had mellowed. The wind lessened and veered east, then coming off France and Spain. The waves were down by half, as well. The jib had done its duty. The foremast had been strengthened with hoops and extra stays. After a close inspection by the carpenter, Captain Neville ordered the fore topsail reset, and the ship plowed forward with relative ease.

  The entire ship’s company licked its wounds. Lt. Neville Burton began the new day as the Officer of the Watch, pacing the quarterdeck as the sun rose. The cloud cover was still so heavy that the sun’s light did not come until an hour after a normal dawn. There was still no bright spot where it hid – only a general glow to the east that bathed their watery world in an eerie green light. Neither was there a break in the uniformly gray clouds from one horizon to the other.

  Eight bells of the morning watch rang out, and the boatswain and his mates piped all hands to breakfast. The ship was awaking normally for the first time in a week, with men cat-calling their mates and seeking corners about the deck to squat for their meal. Neville found these sounds comforting, as this had so far been a sickly ship. He had seen six bodies go over the side since leaving Plymouth, not counting his foretopman or the two steersmen lost in the great wave that set the cabins awash. He had also been told that a similar number had gone before Plymouth.

  The officers had not taken a meal together for most of a week. Those who did appear at the same time rarely had more than a grunt for each other while they wolfed down any cold bit of food the cook could provide. Even in these circumstances, Neville thought it odd that he was the only one who ever appeared in a proper uniform. He would have been chastised severely by any other captain he had served with if he had done otherwise. It seemed more than odd, actually. Each of the officers wore something different. They were certainly suggestive of proper uniforms, but devoid of either standard insignia or authorized design. Most surprisingly, even the captain of a ship carrying dignitaries did not wear the uniform of the day. During the few days before the storm, when the officers first met in a proper mess, he had almost asked about it, but bit off the thought when the first lieutenant had complimented Wylle on his appearance: “That is indeed a stunning uniform, Lieutenant Wylle,” he had said. “Where did you have it done? London?”

  Wylle’s proud response was equally surprising: “Thank you, Sir. No, Sir, not London. It is my own design and was sewn properly here in Plymouth by our family’s tailors just a month gone by. They are quite used to naval uniform needs.” A navy uniform of his own design?

  “I shall certainly look in on them when I return,” said Lt. Gaston, mumbling in addition, “Whenever that might be.”

  Neville’s time came again to report for Officer of the Watch. He excused himself and went up to his station on the quarterdeck, but thoughts continued: the marines’ uniforms were not standard either. Although red, they were not what Neville was used to. Was Swan bound for some special situation in the Americas? These things all seemed scant clues. Since he had not seen orders he would remain quietly in the dark for now, lest he be thought to have ignored reading his orders, or until one of his peers gave away their purpose. Give something away they must, he thought, as he had seen too many strange things aboard already; as if this were not a fully naval undertaking. A diplomatic mission might make sense. They did have two governors aboard. Would not a diplomatic mission carry the latest in navigational equipment, though?

  First Lieutenant Gaston soon came on deck to supervise running out the great guns. This was only the second time since Neville came aboard that this had been done. True, the weather had been bad, but it was another sign to him that they might not be thoroughly navy. She could be a hired vessel, then? That was his best guess so far, and it might explain the uniforms and the older equipment aboard.

  A call of, “Sail, Ho!” broke Neville’s train of thought. It also interrupted Gaston’s plans for gun drill and brought an immediate quiet below.

  “Where away, Smythe?” hollered Neville up at him. He was amused to note that this man’s name was the same as one of his best lookouts on the Castor.

  “Due West, Sir,” came the reply.

  He turned to one of the boys at the mainmast. “Norbert, isn’t it? Give Captain my compliments and advise him we have an unknown sail to the west.”

  “Aye, aye,” he said, already scampering down the steps.

  “What have we, Lieutenant Barton?” asked the captain as he stepped up from below. Neville could not read the man yet, but he had the feeling that his captain may have been relieved to escape some entanglement below – with a guest, perhaps, or the ever-pestering purser. He swept his arms wide and took a deep breath of salt air, blowing it out slowly and raking his hair with his fingers.

  “Don’t know yet, Sir. Smythe up there has a long glass, though. It should not be long before we know something. And with all respect, Sir, it’s Burton.”

  “Burton, then,” Captain Neville replied, looking more closely. “The one who was carried aboard in Plymouth – whose given name is the same as my family’s?”

  “Aye, Sir.”

  “One of ours, I’d wager,” he said, returning to the business at hand – “Haven’t seen a blessed one in a week. Commodore Wright’s Mary is our largest, you know, with forty-two guns.”

  Neville’s heart skipped at the mention of his sweetheart’s name back home in Bury-St. Edmunds, reminding him that he had not had a chance to write in more than a fortnight.

  “I’m going back down,” announced the captain. “Call me up when you know who it is. We might speak her, depending.”

  “Aye, Sir.”

  Breakfast was finished when Smythe’s replacement hollered from above, “Deck, there...

  “French!” he continued when they looked skyward.

  “How know ye?” Gaston bellowed up.

  “Pennant wot ‘as a gold fleur de lis at the mizzen truck,” he responded, “and some blue, red and white bits for colors.”

  “Shall I go look, Sir?” Neville asked Gaston. “I’m rather good at signals.”

  Lt. Gaston gave him a good long stare, finishing with, “As you wish. Go thee up.” Turning to the closest midshipman, he added, “Strike our colours. Hoist the Dutch.”

  A reasonable action, Neville thought. We are at war with France. This ship looks Dutch, and Holland is France’s ally. They should come close without concern. But Gaston had used the word ‘thee.’ Who says ‘thee’ anymore? He’s an American Quaker, maybe? he wondered, trying to remember something he had read of them.

  He swung into the larboard sheets and climbed rapidly.

  “Good morning, seaman,” he said to the lookout at the end of his climb. “The glass, if you please.”

  “Cert’ny, Sir. It’s Wickham, Sir. Have you got it?” he asked, passing it over.

  “I have it, yes, Mr. Wickham. Thank you.”

  After studying the small vessel for several minutes, he decided that Wickham was correct, though it was not a pennant Neville had seen before. The ship appeared to be a lightly armed merchant, slightly larger than Swan. If they could lure her close, they should be able to take her without much fight.

  Neville swung out and slid down the larboard backstay to the quarterdeck. Once on deck he reported to Gaston, “I would confirm her as French, but I’ve never seen that particular pennant before. We have Finisterre a point on the larboard bow, so I would wager she’s come out of some French port and she must herself weather the cape. We converge, I believe.”

  “Excellent, and we have the weather gage,” mused Gaston.

  Captain Neville, who had come up to have a look for himself when he heard the shouting, said, “Naught for it now but to wait. Pipe the hands to supper, Mr. Cox. It’s a bit early, but if we lose the light, we may miss her. The light will leave us early with this overcast, and it will go very dark indeed.”

  The two ships closed to about a league.

  “She gives
every impression that she intends to place herself under our lee for protection,” said Gaston.

  “Loosen the sails a bit in order to remain as close to the Frenchman as possible,” ordered Captain Neville. “Assuming the wind holds its current direction, we shall fall down upon them as soon as the men are fed.” Swan sailed well downwind.

  Supper and rum finished, Gaston queried, “Beat to quarters, Sir?”

  “Quarters, aye; but no damned beating. Pass word,” ordered the captain. “Quietly, Lieutenant. No drums and whistles and barbarous howling. We shall not allow him the noise of it. A great rushing about is not needed. Do not open the ports and keep the marines below for now. I expect they are watching us with a glass. We’ll be close enough in half an hour to put a shot across her bow.”

  Shortly following Swan’s slight course change it became obvious that the merchant ship had a concern. A signal of some sort broke out at her masthead.

  “I don’t know that one, either, Sir,” said Neville, “but it’s not ours, verily. If I might suggest?”

  “Yes, Lieutenant Burton, you may. We’ve nothing to lose. We should have him soon anyway.”

  “We should hoist a plain white flag – the colour of the French royalty. She should either turn and run or let fly her sheets to speak us. If she lets fly, we’ll have her immediately and save the powder. If she runs, it will not take much longer. Either way we will know her intentions.”

  “Jolly good idea, Burton. I would agree you have some knowledge of signals. Have it done.”

  For the next few minutes, while the flag went up and the commotion of clearing decks rattled quietly about their ears, the French ship made no response. Lieutenant Wylle, who had been watching the Dutch with his glass, spoke up, “I see four on the poop, Sir. It looks to be a conference.”

  Swan continued to close, creeping slowly to within two cables. As if she were a fox who has suddenly smelled the hounds, the merchantman began raising two staysails and turning away from Swan.

  “There she goes. Open ports. Run out starboard,” ordered Captain Neville. First Lieutenant Gaston bellowed the order forward. Neville jumped down to the main deck to command his guns.

  “Wylle, there,” yelled Gaston, “Jump forward and fire the chaser. We don’t need accuracy, just the noise to get their attention. Use an odd stone ball.”

  A minute later, the ‘pop’ of a small cannon was heard from the foredeck, and a puff of white smoke carried forward toward their prey. They were at this point almost to the latitude of Spain, and the warmer offshore wind helped to encourage a small crowd, including the dignitaries and a few of their staff, to gather in the beakhead to watch the show. Conversation was lively between them, probably as much from the excitement of being out on deck as from the chase. The splash of the ball was seen a half cable ahead of the French, causing a rousing cheer from the crowd that rippled through the entire ship’s crew, but the lumbering Frenchman did not strike, and a third staysail rose to join the other two.

  Even with darkness coming on and her chance of escape increasing, the Frenchman was convinced to throw her sheets to the wind and begin dropping sails by two more increasingly accurate cannon balls. The name Liberté could be read on her transom, but she was no longer free.

  “I told you she could not outrun us, Lieutenant Gaston,” gloated the captain. “She’s too big and fat. We now have only the problem to exchange men with this sea running. You’d best do it very quickly before the light is gone. Send Burton. He seems capable. I’ll keep you here,” he added very quietly, “to help me deal with our guests.”

  Lieutenant Burton, three marines, the sailing master’s mate, the boatswain’s mate, and ten able seamen had scrambled over Liberté’s bulwarks the moment Swan’s cutter touched her side. As the last of the light went, Liberté’s master and one of his two mates, boatswain and gunner were sent down into the cutter to be rowed back across to Swan. It had gone dark; the beginning of another very black night.

  “Done this before, Sir?” asked Mr. Gore, Sailing Master’s Mate, of Neville.

  “Not on a merchantman, no; but smaller navy vessels, yes. Have the gunner get running lights on her. I don’t wish a collision with Swan. Set topsails with a reef, if you please. Steer west by southwest. We are too close to Finisterre for my comfort. Find their master’s mate and send him down to the master’s cabin, where I’m going now.”

  “’ow do I find ‘im, Sir? I don’t speak French.”

  Neville looked ‘round for the first man he saw with something of an officer’s air, and beckoned him come over. In fluent French, he asked, “Monsieur, who is the master’s mate, sil vous plait?” to which question the eyes of both Gore and the Frenchman surely went round with surprise – if they could have been seen in the darkness – for there was a pause in the conversation.

  “Moi,” replied the man with surprising meekness. “M. Cadeaux.”

  “Come below with me, then, M. Cadeaux. I need some information. Pass word ‘round your crew to carry on as usual, if you please. There will be no one hurt.”

  It had occurred to Neville that this might be a place to ask a question he had dared not ask aboard the Swan; a question so outlandish as to have them think him a fool. He found what he was looking for in the master’s cabin. The same instrument with which Swan’s midshipmen had been taking their sightings lay in the center of the master’s desk.

  “This. What is it?” he asked the mate, picking up the device.

  “We call it the English quadrant. Why would you ask? Surely you use this?”

  “Ye-es,” he stammered. “Show me the books you use with it.”

  “Here. This almanac, and this chart, of course, but I think the master will have his rutter with him. He would not let it go.”

  “Rutter?” Neville mumbled. Again, on this ship, something from a time gone by. Only a coastal vessel would carry a rutter – a book with personal notes on coastal landmarks and distances between capes and so forth - for local navigation within sight of shore. “This almanac?” queried Neville as he picked it up, his heart beginning to pound hard as he read the title ‘Nautical Almanac for 1690 to 1695’. “Show me today’s date in these tables,” he demanded, opening it on the desk for M. Cadeaux.

  Cadeaux looked down, turned a couple pages, and tapped his finger on a table, “Here. March 28, 1690.” Looking up quizzically, he asked, “Why do you ask? Have you lost the date in the storm? It was very bad, yes?”

  “Yes, it was,” agreed Neville, sinking into the chair, his head swimming with the confirmation of his fears. It’s not some joke, then, he was thinking. But how could it be an ‘undred years earlier?? I was in 1797 last ….. month?! What of my mother, my sister, and Mary? Am I still in the navy?

  To M. Cadeaux, he said, “You will teach me to use this tomorrow. Please go now...”

  During the following sail to Barbados, the Mate had done as asked, until Neville was better with the instrument than Cadeaux. Understanding came quickly as Neville recognized the device for what it was – a simple predecessor to the sextant. There was more to learn during the voyage of the Liberté than navigation. The weaponry was not greatly different, except that the great guns all used the old slow-match system. There were no match-locks fitted. The same was true of their muskets. Even though he had never seen them, they appeared new.

  He discovered himself politically ignorant of the times, as well. In another conversation with Liberté’s Master’s Mate, M. Cadeaux said, “Your new protestant King William of Orange has declared war upon us only this April past. There may not be much suffering in England, but I am afraid it will go poorly with us at home. Your old King James, in his union with Louis XIV, will take my countrymen to fight the Spanish in the lowlands…”

  “Spanish in the Netherlands?” Neville had mused aloud, “and what of King George?”

  “George?” Cadeaux had wondered. “There is no George. It is William and Mary of Holland who have dethroned King James. How can you be an English off
icer and so ignorant of your own government?”

  Neville had changed the subject. “Why then do you sail to the Caribbean? I found papers in your captain’s cabin that say you are on passage thither as well.”

  “Why? It is where the riches are, is it not? Gold from the Spanish Main; indigo from the isthmus; sugar, molasses, rum and cotton from your Jamaica and Nevis and the other Caribees.”

  “What of the colonies to the north, then? The Carolinas and New York and Massachusetts?”

  “I have heard of these places, sure, but the few English settlements north of Spanish Florida offer no significant trade. They barely survive. Some tobacco from Virginia and furs from farther north, but no great riches, forsooth! I have sailed to the Americas five times and know well of what I speak. Your education, I must say, is lacking, verily!”

  Despite being a low island, they did not miss their landfall. An English quadrant is sufficient to allow them to accurately attain the latitude of their destination and simply run it down. The trade winds carried them to Barbados in another ten days, and so on eleventh May they passed south of Needham’s Point and made sail to round up into the bay before Bridgetown. By that time, Neville had reaffirmed his command of the French language and acclimated himself to the year 1690.

  Entering the harbor into strong currents and winds proved difficult for both Liberté and Swan, they both being sluggardly sailers and hampered by sickly crews. Anticipation and frustration grew in the tropical heat as they spent tack upon tack to work their way in. Their progress was undoubtedly being watched closely by the Mary and several others of the original convoy that had arrived before them and who now sat sleepily at anchor.