The Stillwater Conspiracy (The Neville Burton 'Worlds Apart' Series Book 4)

by Georges Carrack

  “That little ‘un there taken?” he asked the barmaid, indicating a small round table in the center of the room.

  “Nope,” she said, “Only one chair, ain’t there?”

  “I’ll sit there then, and take a pint.”

  After only a few minutes it became apparent that he was not going to learn anything from simply listening. The conversation around him was about women in Tahiti, some unpopular petit officer aboard one of the frigates in the harbor, and much more mundane nonsense. It would be necessary for him to ask a few questions.

  “You, there,” Neville said to one of the seamen. “You been here long?”

  The three at the next table looked at him blankly.

  “A while. Who are you, and why do you want to know?” asked the closest of them.

  Neville ignored the ‘who are you’ part of the question. “I need to find something.”

  “Good for you, matey. We all got needs, ain’t we?”

  “Guns,” said Neville in a low voice. “Muskets for twenty men.”

  “Twenty?” queried the next one over. “Where’s this army going?”

  “Nowhere without the muskets. You know somebody, then?”

  “Not us. Maybe that lot over there,” he said, pointing to a group of four very rough-looking men.

  “Aw-right. Thankee,” said Neville, and went back to his beer to contemplate how he might approach.

  He gave the distant men a few glances. He finished his beer. The three beside him had remained quiet after speaking with him, and they soon left. As he was paying the barmaid the four also rose to leave. Now or never. Neville stood and headed for the door.

  Outside, darkness was falling. He had squandered the day – perhaps.

  He hesitated by the door until the four came out. “Excuse me, kind sirs…” he said to the group.

  “We don’t give handouts,” one said.

  “Not looking fer no handout, guv,” Neville said. “I got business.”

  The four stared at him. They were imposing; threatening. All stood an inch or two taller than Neville. All had collarless dirty white shirts with a single silver button in the center front. They stood close, and he smelled rum and something like lemons. The tallest one had lost his leg below the knee, and it had been replaced with a stout three inch diameter pole.

  “What kinda business?” the speaker asked.

  “Muskets. Can you get me twenty?”

  They passed glances between themselves and at their surroundings.

  “Who wants ‘em?”

  “Friend ‘o mine.”

  “Where will they go?”

  “You care?”

  The speaker stared at him again while sucking at his cheeks.

  “How’d you find us?”

  “Somebody in the bar.”

  They looked at each other again, and one of the others said, “It’s Billy. He’s got a big mouth.”

  “Might could find out,” said the speaker.

  “Can you do that and meet me somewhere later?”

  “I could, yea. Where do you know, since I’d guess you’re new here and all?”

  “There’s an alley behind the Boar’s Head. That do?” suggested Neville.

  “I know it, yea. It’ll do. Ten.” The four walked off into the gathering darkness.

  Neville returned to the Gun Locker. He thought he remembered a meat pasty on their board, and it was neither the Boar’s Head nor the Figurehead where he might be recognized as the inquisitive one. He could return to anonymity for a while.

  At 9:30 he left the Gun Locker and walked to the Boar’s Head to take a better look at the alley before his rendezvous. It was deserted, with trash barrels in the center by the bar’s door. There was a stump by the door as well, likely used as a seat by some cook when he got a few minutes off. He was pleased to see the alley was open at both ends, but there was no light except a slice of moonlight that shone between the bar and the next building.

  He sat on the stump and waited, not entirely sure what he expected to happen. After fifteen or twenty minutes he heard the sound of rough boots on the cobbles and the low rumble of men’s speech.

  He heard, “In here, he said.” He sat still on the stump. From there he could see five men. One was shorter, and Neville thought he saw the glint of silver hair as the shorter man passed through the moonlight. He pulled his tarred hat lower over his forehead. It couldn’t be Chester, could it? Even if he was involved in illegal gun sales he would never come out himself, would he? That would be foolhardy, at best.

  “Go look, then,” a voice said. Neville thought it sounded like Chester.

  The four advanced. “Oi. That you as wanted a musket?”

  Neville attempted to disguise his voice by lowering his tone, “Aye. Can you get ‘em?”

  “Twenty, you say?”

  “Aye.”

  “We can. Not cheap, but the best. Harper Rifles, and new; not old muskets.”

  “When?”

  “Where’s the money.”

  “Ain’t got it with me.”

  “Go get it.”

  “I’m not stupid. I’ll send a boy in later with enough for one. You send one out w’ ‘im. If it’s good we have a deal at three guineas each, yea?”

  “Go on, then. We’ll wait. Better not be long.”

  Neville stood from the stump and turned away from the fifth man. “You’ll see a boy soon,” he said.

  The fifth man called down the alley, “How you going to carry twenty, sailor?” Neville’s blood ran cold. It sounded very much like Chester. The man added, “Do I know you?”

  “Dunno. ‘oo are you?” he growled.

  A moment passed, and the man made some sort of a signal to the big four. Even in the dark, Neville could see knives coming out. He ran for the other end of the alley.

  Five steps to go. Four, Three. A pistol fired behind him. He felt the whiz of the bullet pass close and pluck at his left sleeve. He turned the corner and leaped across the street in front of a late hack on its way home. Startling the horse created enough distraction for him to escape down an alley opposite and roll under the bottom shelf of a discarded heavy wooden work bench. He controlled his breathing. Two men ran by. They soon walked back, grumbling to each other. “Could’ve had his whole sack of gold if Cap’n hadn’t shot off his bloody gun…”

  He waited for quite some time… an hour, maybe, before rolling back out from under and cautiously finding his way back to his temporary lair. He stuck to shadows. His shoulder began to ache. When he put his right hand to it, it came back bloody.

  In the morning he packed his canvas bag. The left shoulder was just a scratch, though he knew he should ask the ship’s surgeon to look to it when he got back. He put his uniform on and walked back to the Gun Locker for some breakfast, and then to the clerk of the post at Jamaica Station Headquarters. The clerk quickly found the sack for La Désirée. It was not as full as Neville had hoped. He noticed a rough bench along one side of the room, and decided he should look to the official letters before leaving. If his answer on Miller was not there he would want to inquire directly. He sat down and opened the satchel. The clerk gave him a disapproving look, but he persevered.

  The top letter of two from the navy was the hoped-for scribbling from Admiral Duckworth approving Miller’s transfer. He returned it to the sack. The other was a very unexpected order from the Admiral reassigning La Désirée to Admiral Nelson’s fleet. Neville had heard a rumor about Nelson being in the Caribbean but had discarded it as nonsense. He had also noticed a larger number of navy vessels in the harbor, but had not yet taken the time to investigate who they were, or why they were there. He had certainly been obsessed with his own missions. He slipped that letter back into its envelope as well.

  He took another minute to rummage through the sack looking for any letter in a very pretty flowing hand, but he found nothing from Marion.

  14 - “The Crumpled Letter”

  Since he had been gone from his ship for a day
and a half already, Neville thought it prudent to remain aboard long enough to disseminate the new orders and become comfortable with preparations for the long passage back to Gibraltar, which was planned to begin in about three weeks.

  “Lt. Towers, Mr. Worth; Please come below.”

  The three descended to Neville’s cabin. He had yet to become comfortable with the splendor of his new accommodations. The cabin was similar to Experiment’s, but considerably more modern and larger, since this was a 36 rather than a 28-gun vessel. Furthermore, it was French-built, having more elaborate carving of the cabin’s wooden appointments than English vessels.

  “This was in the satchel when I picked it up ashore, gentlemen.” He saw no reason they couldn’t read it for themselves. While they were doing so, he asked, “What have you heard of this? Anything at all? Are some of these ships here from Admiral Nelson’s fleet?”

  Lt. Towers finished reading the short message. He looked up to Neville and passed the page to Worth. “Just rumor, but it’s probably true. Some of our men know others on those ships, and they know they sail with Nelson – or at least they did.”

  “Send this note across to Blanciffe and this one to Vanguard. Have your coxswain wait on a reply from each. The first requests that Blanciffe’s first lieutenant, whom I know well, be allowed to visit me for dinner and a conversation on the Nelson situation. The second requests that our new Lieutenant Miller come across. I have invited the captains, as well, if they are interested. Vanguard, at least, should have more information than we do.”

  “Mr. Towers, how do you find my Mr. Foyle?”

  “Exceptional from what I’ve seen so far. He’s second to Midshipman Hicks, though, by a year.”

  “Hicks should be about ready to sit for lieutenant, then?”

  “I’m not sure on that,” said Towers, “He’s not the heaviest maul in the locker, as I thought you noticed on our last cruise. You might want to question him well before you put him forward - just my opinion, Sir.”

  “I assume we have charts for the route from here to England, Mr. Worth?”

  “We do, aye.”

  “Thank you, then, gentlemen. Now that you know what we have to do, you may get to it. Pass word for Boatswain Wynde and Pusser Clinker. Have them bring me their lists, if you would, please.”

  “It’s a fine bottle of claret, isn’t it Lt. Watson?” asked Wilson.

  “It is for sure.”

  “Hajee found three in Whitby’s locker,” said Neville. “I have no doubt he meant to take them, but they should certainly not go to waste.”

  Lieutenants Watson, Wilson, Towers and Coughlin were sitting at dinner with Captain Burton. The captains of Blanciffe and Vanguard were either too busy or had decided they would never see La Désirée again and therefore had no need to meet this junior Captain Burton. They had politely begged off.

  “Captain Evans has had the news from Admiral Duckworth himself,” announced Wilson, “Admiral Villeneuve escaped the blockade at Toulon in April when a storm blew Nelson’s fleet off station. Nelson first searched for Villeneuve in the Eastern Mediterranean. When he sailed to the Caribbean through the Strait of Gibraltar, Nelson gave chase, but now he can’t find the Frogs at all. We suspect Villeneuve joined with some Spanish ships, and it is possible they have gone to some Spanish port here, rather than a French one. The word is that Nelson will search through this month, but if he doesn’t find anything he will return to Gibraltar. He has asked for every ship he can get.”

  “That explains our orders, then,” said Neville, “Admiral Duckworth must consider us his least valuable; maybe it’s just me.” It’s wonderful as far as I am concerned, he thought. I have no chance of finding Marion here.

  “These ships in here are in for supplies, then?”

  “We assume so. They don’t tell us much,” said Wilson.

  “We part ways here in the Western Approaches,” announced Neville to his officers at dinner in the gunroom. “Nelson is taking the fleet directly back to Gibraltar, but the Admiralty has ordered three of us to Chatham for minor refits. Before you ask questions, let me say that these orders are based on changes that the Admiralty has in mind and reports by Captain Whitby. He had far longer with this ship than I have had, so I will not argue at all.”

  “How long is this refit expected to take, Captain?” asked Marine Lt. Carlyle.

  “Only two weeks, I am told, but that may mean four or five, if we are forced to wait before they begin, and then they take longer than scheduled.”

  “I would wager both will happen, if I know the navy…And then what?”

  “And then we will rejoin Admiral Nelson, wherever he is at the time. You should all expect two weeks ashore, at least.”

  “Neville, what are you doing here at Whitehall? It seems you only just left,” exclaimed Sir William Mulholland.

  “It may seem that way to you, Sir, but it has been ten months, and I have been twice across the Atlantic.”

  “Sit, Captain, and tell me of your exploits. Captain! I can scarce believe it. I congratulate you to my utmost.”

  “Thank you Sir.” The heavy wooden chair made a screeching sound as Neville dragged it around to face his mentor. “I have news of Mr. Stillwater. I did not bother to write it because I would have expected to carry the letter all the way myself.”

  “First things first, Neville. How do you come to have been sent home from Jamaica, where you so badly wanted to go and I assisted you to accomplish?”

  “Do not despair, Sir William. All is well with it.” Neville told the story of the privateer corvette, the marooning, the appearance of Daniel Watson, the reappearance of Superieure, his assignment to command the La Désirée as planned and without censure, and finally the appearance of Nelson’s fleet.

  “That last I have heard… but he returned?”

  “Aye, Sir, still in chase of Villeneuve, and I am transferred to his command. All went to Gibraltar except three of us who were sent in to Chatham Dock Works for minor refits. We must rejoin him after repairs, which I estimate to be around the end of August…

  “Would you like to hear of the Stillwaters, then?”

  “Of course. I thought it was your desire to be within the orbit of young Miss Stillwater.”

  “It is, certainly, but she is not in Jamaica. Her father would only tell me that she went ‘to Europe’, and so I did not mind at all to be ordered home. Do you know where she is now?” he asked.

  “Now? No,” Mulholland could honestly answer such a specific question, “Why do you think I would?”

  “I am always surprised at what you know. Why would I not ask?”

  “Ha, ha. I see. Tell me what you have found out.”

  “I do not have much more than I had before, other than stronger suspicions of Chester.” He related the stories of their meeting and of his sleuthing episode. “The four men in the alley did speak the words ‘Harper Rifles’, and the fifth man who fired a pistol at me sounded like Chester. For all I could see it might have been the man himself. He also questioned if he knew me, even though my face was blacked and I had a tarred hat on. Stearns told me that the pair of dueling pistols he carried to Philadelphia were Chester’s. If he is partial to his dueling pistols, he might have taken one with him that night. Stearns was home in between.”

  “But you never saw the pistol in Jamaica?”

  “No, Sir, I did not.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “Did you find anything on Stearns?”

  “No. He has a curiously empty dossier.”

  “Did you find anything else?” Neville asked.

  “Mr. Stillwater gives a most convincing appearance of being simply a rich rum-merchant, with most of his trade being legal, but he certainly engages in questionable activities. There is very little that is new, except a few more letters from him destined for France, and what you have told me. We have many reports of offshore meetings with French privateers, and there is your report of his ship delivering something to an un-named French ship
. We now think it more likely that it was Harper’s Ferry Rifles, and not rum. Was there any more from your questioning the locals?”

  “No. After that last, and my orders to join Admiral Nelson, I decided to discontinue asking. It seems to me that the danger of skulking about town alone asking questions is increased if the questions are about arms rather than rum. I was hoping you might find out something about Mr. Stearns, because I am not sure how much of his tripe to believe.

  “We haven’t learned anything, even with what you reported,” he said. We still believe Mr. Stillwater to be an agent for France, even if Mr. Stearns…”

  “We?”

  “There are tidbits from other places, but so far they don’t amount to much fact.”

  “And Marion. Do you think she’s involved?”

  Neville noticed a curious twitch of Mulholland’s face. He said “Not of more than carrying her father’s messages, or being the sales person. If she goes to France, they are trading with the enemy, but technically she is American and therefore not the enemy of France. The Rum Company would be, however. Furthermore, Miss Stillwater may know nothing of any letter’s contents. I should think such a pretty girl would be very successful selling to the men of France.”

  “I thought you said you’d never seen her,” said Neville.

  Another twitch. “One hears things, Neville. Apparently her beauty is much the subject of rumor.”

  Mulholland returned to the discussion of Chester. “I have tried to determine Mr. Stillwater’s motive. I really don’t know, but I think it could be some American sentiment. The Americans are friendly to France, despite his being an American living in British Jamaica. His company sells rum to everyone, thereby giving them access to a significant amount of information concerning troop and ship movements. Could it be that he is simply helping to ‘pay France back” for their help in the American Revolutionary War?”

  “Could it be that your motive is correct, but it’s not just him alone; that it’s some American group that directs what he must do?”