by Jason Vail
There were dark humps on the beach, the hulls of fishing boats pulled up above the tide. As we rode out onto the sand, a man’s figure detached from one of the humps. “Captain,” said the fellow, one of Wasp’s boatswain’s mates, “is that you?”
“It is,” I said. “Get hopping and put that boat in the water. We’re in a bit of a hurry to get away.”
The boatswain kicked at unseen figures, men who had fallen asleep by the ship’s pinnacle. As they climbed to their feet and applied themselves to the gunwales of the pinnacle, Tarleton said, “Captain? Captain of what?”
I noticed then that he had a pistol out and there were guns in the hands of all his companions. I drew my own and Crockett and Willie filled their hands as well. The sailors gaped at this, but at snapped orders from the boatswain’s mate, hurried to push the heavy pinnacle across the sand.
I said, “Of that ship, sir.”
“That ship?” he fumed. “That ship?”
“Checkmate, I think is the term you’re searching for,” I said.
“I have only to call out to rouse the town.”
“Call away.” The pinnacle was getting close to the water. I said to Austin, “Be so kind as to get in the boat.”
“P-” he sputtered almost saying my name but holding back at the last moment.
“No objections, sir. Get in the boat. I mean no aspersion on your courage. But I think you know my purpose.”
Austin nodded. He slipped off his horse and ran to apply his shoulder to the pinnacle. Within moments the boat was afloat and Austin and the crew were clambering aboard, the pinnacle rocking in the gentle surf.
Tarleton regarded Austin with rage building in his face. Even though it was dark, the night illuminated only by starlight, with the yellow pinpoints of candles in the windows of the buildings above the beach, I could see him nearly exploding with fury. Yet what could he do? Fire on us, and we would return it. The risk of getting hit was not one any of them seemed willing to take for just a piece of paper. It had no true value in pounds and shillings. Only in abused pride.
But Tarleton had not ridden so long and so hard to turn away. Pride is without price, after all. Suddenly, he spurred his horse around us and charged at the pinnacle. Crockett and I both fired on him as he passed, splashing into the water by the boat, as the pistols of his companions fired off as well. A ball hit Crockett in the shoulder and he fell. Another ball hit my horse in the neck. It reared and threw me. I landed hard on my back, knocked breathless.
Willie, ducking low over his horse, avoided the shot aimed at him. He wheeled his horse and intercepted Tarleton just as he fired into the huddle of men in the pinnacle.
I expected Willie to shoot him down, but no shot came. Instead, he grasped Tarleton by the collar and pulled him from his horse. The older man landed in the surf with a splash and went under. He came up a moment later, spouting water and curses more becoming of a drill sergeant than a nobleman, and another pistol. But its immersion had rendered its powder useless.
“Put your pieces down, or I drill him,” Willie said in his command voice, which cracked with authority.
I have seen hard men twice Willie’s size quail at that voice, and at this moment its effect did not fail us. The footmen, even that impulsive swell, lowered their guns. I scrambled across the sand to Crockett and helped him to his feet. We drew our second pistols just in case the footmen tried something.
“You hurt?” I inquired.
“Yes, dammit,” Crockett said. “I don’t mind getting shot so much as having it dug out. Especially since you’re our only excuse for a surgeon now.”
“I’m not that bad.”
“Last I noticed, all your patients died.”
“Only the sick ones.”
“That inspires so much confidence.”
“Don’t get sick then.”
“Thanks for the advice.”
Meanwhile, Willie grasped Tarleton’s collar and pushed him above the surf. Tarleton tried to shake off the hand, but he was not strong enough.
“Hold still,” Willie said.
“Let go of me, you stupid nigger,” Tarleton growled.
“I am a nigger to you, aren’t I,” Willie said softly. “Funny you should notice. You knew another nigger once, long ago in Carolina. Name of Sarah. Remember her?”
“I have no need to remember the names of slaves or servants.”
“I suppose not,” Willie said. “Your misfortune you didn’t know her better.”
With that, Willie slapped Tarleton hard once, twice. The force of the blows knocked the older man on his behind. The surprise on his face was almost worth the long ride and the danger.
“You bastard!” Tarleton snarled.
“Careful,” Willie said. “My gun’s still loaded. As I am a nigger, I might just shoot for the fun of it.” He glanced at me and Crockett. “Get in the boat. What are you waiting for?”
“I was enjoying the conversation,” I said, as Crockett and I passed him and waded out to the pinnacle.
When we were aboard, Willie backed away from Tarleton, who had not dared climb to his feet. Willie reached the boat and we pulled him in. The young swell ran to Tarleton and tried to help the older man up, but he shook off the assistance.
The swell fired at us, but we were so far away by then, the men pulling hard, that I never had any idea how close he came.
“Is it safe?” I asked Austin.
He extracted the manifesto just far enough from his inner coat pocket that I could see its corner. “Not even damp.”
“What was that about?” I asked Willie, gesturing toward shore.
“None of your business.”
Chapter 26
The English Channel
December 28, 1820
“Mister Halevy!” I bellowed as I reached the quarterdeck. “Call out the first watch and get us underway! Without delay!”
Halevy looked aghast at Crockett, who was swaying now with his wound.
“What happened?” Halevy asked.
“Mister Austin has succeeded in infuriating one of England’s leading citizens,” I said. “And we must be away immediately.”
“I infuriated him!” Austin expostulated. “Robbery wasn’t my idea.”
“Nor mine,” I said. “But it was robbery nonetheless, and so we must put England behind us as quickly as possible.”
“I want history to know I had nothing to do with it,” Austin muttered.
“I doubt history will be so discriminating. Not that history is likely to care. Besides, you have saved a great deal of money. You should at least be satisfied with that.”
“But sacrificed my honor in the bargain.”
“I remember hearing something once about lives, fortunes and sacred honor,” Crockett said weakly. “Ours are not so dear that we can’t spend them. Mine aren’t.” He added, “Tarleton was an enemy anyway. What forbearance and honor did he ever show us? I only wish I could have shot him. Like Andy says, the best enemy is a dead one.” He glanced at Willie. “You had the chance. Why didn’t you?”
“He’s not my enemy,” Willie said.
Crockett chuckled but cut off in a spasm of pain. “You sure handled him like one.”
“Enough flapping jaws,” I cut in. “Stephen, Willie, get David to the great cabin. I like the light better there. Just make sure he doesn’t bleed on my deck. Mister Halevy! Where is the watch!”
Halevy, who had gawked at our exchange, turned away and shouted, “First watch on deck! Stand by to make sail and weigh anchor!”
As the mates echoed Halevy’s order and feet thundered below, Halevy asked, “What course, Captain?”
I felt the breeze on my face, a frigid northern caress that smelled of snow and ice, and smoke from the town. My mind turned to the problems of what sail to set and how to trim them, and what obstacles lay ahead between us and the open sea. “Southwest by south to start, I think. An hour or two should get us clear of the Isle of Wight. Then west by southwest. Set easy sa
il. Let’s not rush in the dark. Keep a sharp eye out for either coast. There’s a lot of it around here. I’ve got to go below and tend to Mister Crockett. He doesn’t trust anyone to cut out his bullets but me.”
The steward’s mates were bringing in extra candles when I reached the great cabin. Austin and Willie were helping Crockett out of his coat and shirt. They should have cut it off, but apparently he objected to the waste of a good coat. “It can always be mended,” he said.
Another steward’s mate brought in the surgeon’s kit from the infirmary and put it on the table, while yet another brought tepid water and soap and a stack of clean linen for bandages. They stood back and crossed their arms.
It was cold in the cabin. Crockett shivered and goose bumps erupted on his naked arms and shoulders. I washed my hands in the tepid water.
“All right,” I said in my best physician’s manner, realizing that the audience did not intend to leave. “Let’s have a look at you.”
The ball had entered the left shoulder muscle and traveled some distance in, but it had gone along under the skin and come to rest at the scapula. It was visible as a bump, like an abscess. I probed the bump with a fingertip. It felt like a large dried pea.
Crockett cursed. “Don’t I at least get whiskey for this?”
“Indeed, we can’t operate on a man when he’s sober. Mister Austin, we should have a keg.”
Austin nodded. We put a blanket on Crockett while the keg was fetched and tapped. Strangely, there were enough cups not only for Crockett but also for the mates, who looked sheepish when they saw me eying them. But I nodded and they filled their cups.
“There will be no criticizing my technique,” I said. “Understand?”
The mates nodded furiously, careful not to spill a drop.
Crockett put down his empty cup. It had been filled to the brim. Where he’d made the contents go in such quick time, I don’t know. He always gave the impression of a very sober man, but he could put away whiskey when he needed to. It was a talent that probably stood him in good stead later, since I understand that it is often the custom to get potential voters drunk at the polls on election day on free spirits. Vote buying is so much better than promises.
“Another, Mister Crockett?” one of the mates asked as fine as any English footman.
“I think I will.”
The mate poured. Crockett tossed it back without a gasp or a grimace, as if it was water.
“You may proceed, Doctor,” he said.
The usual way of extracting a bullet is to take special tweezers and work down the hole until you’ve got a grip on it, then just pull it out. This is very painful, however. I thought that an alternate method might work here.
Instead of the tweezers, I took up the scalpel. Crockett’s eyes narrowed. The mates’ eyes widened and they made noises that sounded like consternation.
“No talking!” I said to them.
“Weren’t about to do no talking, sir,” one of the mates said. “Just clearing our throats.”
“Have another drink, but if you say another word, any of you, I’ll send you to the main top crew.” The silence was immediate. No one wanted to be in the main top or on the yards on a wintry night.
I poised over Crockett’s shoulder. He closed his eyes.
“This won’t hurt much,” I said.
He opened one eye. “Liar.”
“Like pulling a splinter,” I said.
“Get on with it. I have to piss.”
I lay the scalpel on the bump. The edge cut across the bump like slicing a cake. A dribble of bright blood ran down Crockett’s shoulder. He flinched.
“Quit that,” I said. “No surgeon can work on a patient who squirms.”
“It was a shrug, not a squirm.”
I separated the edges of the cut. The ball lay there just like that dried pea. I plucked it out and dropped it on the table. Crockett put a hand over it to prevent it from rolling away. Then I pulled out the patch of fabric from Crockett’s coat and shirt, sodden with blood, that had been driven into the wound ahead of the ball. I pressed a linen pad on the wound, and held it there to staunch the bleeding, which was not as bad as I had expected.
“There,” I said. “Wasn’t that easy?”
“I’d like another drink.”
“I could use one as well. So could you, Mister Austin. You’re looking a bit gray. That is not fitting in your moment of triumph.”
Chapter 27
The Atlantic
January 1821
As Wasp cleared Lizard Point, then Penzance, and left England behind, a winter storm fell upon us. We beat against strong southwest winds, which pushed her into the Bay of Biscay so deeply that by the time the storm abated, we were within sight of the mouth of the Girone — not a good place to be, for due south and for quite some distance westward lay the Spanish coast, and some of the traffic we saw in the distance was bound for Santander, Gijon and Corunna. If by chance they identified us from the descriptions that I suspected were circulating, we could expect further pursuit by the Spanish navy, which had a base at Corunna. And we still had to get by Cadiz.
Out into the deep blue water we sailed, far out of sight of land, halfway to the latitude of the Azores; then Wasp turned south, a north wind of twenty knots on her stern, driving her over gentle seas. The weather grew noticeably warmer and fewer of the crew bothered the cook by crowding around the galley stove in an effort to stay warm.
Two weeks after we left Brighton, Madeira showed above the horizon. I would have liked to call there, but we were in a hurry, heading as straight as a seaman could go with contrary winds and seas for the Gulf of Mexico, the notion of calling at New York having been put aside in our haste to reach Texas. “You can sell that whiskey at twice the price in Galvestown,” Crockett had argued, and for once Austin could not muster a reply.
Madeira fell behind and a few days later, Tenerife beckoned, but it had to wait for another voyage as well. The winds backed toward the northeast.
Meanwhile, Crockett mended quickly and by the time we had passed Madeir, he was back at cutlass and rifle practice with the Rangers, although he did not exercise his left arm yet. I had the rest of the crew drilling relentlessly as well. The break from gunnery and small arms in London had made them slow and soft, to my reckoning. Even though I had no plans to fight anyone, I wanted to be ready just in case. Besides, it gave the men something to do, and they liked this kind of training far more than they liked tending the ship. It kept them preoccupied and busy.
Three weeks and more than two-thousand nautical miles into the voyage, I shot the sun and determined that we had reached the latitude of the Tropic of Cancer.
I packed the sextant away in its case. Willie, who had taken the latitude at the same time, did the same with his instrument. He filled his pipe and blew smoke into the wind.
“It’s time, don’t you think?” he said.
“I believe it is,” I replied. “Mister Hammond!”
“Sir!” Hammond called with uncharacteristic courtesy.
“Bring us three points to starboard! Mister Halevy, prepare to trim sail to the new course!”
Wasp turned smartly. The yardmen set the main course, and mast crews brought the yards around to take the best advantage of a quartering breeze with commendable dispatch.
Wasp’s bow now pointed due west. Far away lay Cuba, the doorway to the Gulf, and home — for the Texans, at least. For myself, I had my home under my feet. And for a short time, with no storms or Spanish vessels to worry about, I was as happy as I have ever been.
That morning I was drinking coffee on the quarterdeck: “Drink slow,” cook said as he poured the cup. “We’re almost out.” An alarming thought. I had considered everything from water to food to shot and power, but not to having sufficient coffee. A day without coffee was almost as bad as a day without rum.
We had come south by four degrees of latitude so as to pass through the strait of Hispaniola. Although it would be full of Spanish ves
sels, it was the safer and quicker passage than trying to negotiate through the shoals and little islands of the Bahamas.
It was warm enough then that a working man could go without his jacket, although a pretend gentleman such as myself could not afford the indignity. So I was sweating under my felt hat and thick wool, a familiar sensation, as we had spent so much time in the tropics.
The wind was steady from the northwest, as it had been during our entire passage across the Atlantic, sweet sailing over clear deep blue water. We had not spotted a sail the entire way. It was as if we were the only ship in the world. Wasp’s creaking and groaning under the full press of canvas that we had set was pretty music. I think she was as happy as I was.
The crew finished breakfast, and since it was a Wednesday, the mates had the men cleaning, scrubbing the decks an immaculate white, and repairing. One of the forecastle crew stood up from his holystone, and spoke to the officer of the forecastle. There was a brief argument, then the forecastle captain shrugged and waved at me. The man worked his way along the gangway, where some of the men were stuffing rolled up hammocks into their housings at the rail.
“Captain,” the man said in good French, “may I have a word?”
“Martin, isn’t it?” I tried to remember all the men’s names, but I have no head for names and often forget them. I recognized him as one of the forty men we had recruited at Port-au-Prince in the summer. He had been a house slave before the rebellion, and after the peace had never gone back. It had something to do with crimes committed on his plantation, a rape and murder, or so I heard. If he had a bent for criminality, I had not seen it yet. He was an intelligent fellow who learned fast and had made a good, obedient sailor. He would have been a handsome man had it not been for a spread of scars on the left side of his face, as though an explosion had caught that half, leaving it deeply pitted.
“Yes, Captain.”
“What can I do for you, Martin?”
“Mister Harper says that we will be approaching Dominique soon.”
