Triangle Trade

by Geoff Woodland

  Crewmembers were standing around, drawn to the spot by the sight of the wounded and exhausted survivors. William barked, ‘Don’t stand there like stranded fish. All hands make sail. Make sail, God damn you!’

  ‘Aye, aye, Sir,’ responded Fuller. ‘Bosun, rig a cradle for Mr Austin to be swung aboard. Hoist the ship’s boat inboard and make ready to get under way! Lively now, lively!’

  Men ran to the capstan to bring the anchor hove short, while others gently swung the first mate onboard. Two of the crew then bore him to his cabin.

  William had spent time the previous day studying the harbour. He had taken a bearing of the fort that dominated the harbour and would use this to guide their escape. The fort would not fire on them at night in case the ship was Spanish. The fire had caused many vessels to move away from the quay for safety. One extra ship moving in the harbour would not be noticed. The chart indicated good depth of water.

  The Albatross slowly gathered speed and headed for the gap between the two forts at the mouth of the harbour.

  William focused his telescope on the fire. It appeared to be spreading as neighbouring buildings were now alight. The whole town was in an uproar. In the confusion he hoped to slip out to sea. He felt that the soldiers who manned the forts would be watching the fire, and perhaps men may have even been sent to help control the fire.

  The Albatross drew close to the eastern fort and William waited for the telltale flashes from the muzzles of the Spanish cannon.

  ‘Larboard a point.’ He wanted to get close under the guns of Morro Fort. If he sailed close enough to the shore, the fort’s gunners would be unable to depress the guns low enough to fire on him.

  The steady chant of the leadsman in the chains was the only sound from the British vessel.

  They slid past the fort and the feel of the ocean swell told William they were nearly through the heads. The slight breeze from the ocean brought the sweet smell of the sea, blowing away the stench of Spanish Cuba. They were through the heads and safe.

  ‘Make all sail,’ he shouted as his ship rose to the ocean swell.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Regrets

  At sea Havana to Boston

  ‘Mr Fuller, you have the watch. I am going below to see, Mr Austin.’

  ‘Aye, aye, Sir.’

  William found Sang and the young cadet, Dylan Howell, trying to make Austin as comfortable as possible.

  They had stripped him of his clothes and bandaged his wound, but the blood kept seeping through.

  ‘Have you placed a tourniquet above the wound?’

  ‘Yes, Sir,’ replied Howell, ‘but Sang is frightened that if we cut all the blood from the lower arm, Mr Austin’s arm will die.’

  ‘Let me see the wound.’ William gently peeled back the bandage and saw a bloody mess with flecks of white bone mixed with raw flesh. ‘The arm has been broken,’ he said more to himself than Sang and Howell.

  James Austin groaned when William replaced the bandage and laid his friend’s arm across his naked chest.

  ‘Pass the word for the bosun, Mr Howell.’

  William looked at the strained white face of his friend.

  ‘You sent for me, Sir?’ asked the bosun.

  ‘Bosun, I want a mess table scrubbed as clean as you can get it, hot water, sail-makers’ needles … the finest the sail-maker has … and four volunteers to help with Mr Austin. I intend to try and save his arm. The volunteers are to hold him down. Understand?’

  ‘Aye, Sir. A clean mess table, sail-makers’ fine needles, and four of the crew.’

  ‘As quickly as you can.’

  William turned back to his friend and lifted the bandage again. James groaned.

  ‘Sang, get some rum, and try and make Mr Austin drink as much as he can. I want him asleep when I move him. Mr Howell, find some sheets. Make sure they are clean, and cut them into strips for bandages. Also have a bucket handy.’

  Alone with his first mate, William knew he had to do something. The blow from the sword had nearly severed the arm. William wiped sweat from his forehead. Did he have the skill to save the arm, or should he remove it completely?

  He’d seen the surgeon on the Belleisle wash his instruments in hot water.

  William turned as Sang entered the cabin with a beaker of rum. ‘Get him to drink as much as possible.’

  William stepped over the conning and breathed deeply of the salty air. It tasted sweet and healthy, unlike the smell below.

  ‘Table scrubbed and all ready, Sir,’ said the bosun, knuckling his forehead.

  ‘Ask the carpenter for his smallest saw and the next one up and have them cleaned and placed in boiling water.’

  William climbed the small ladder to the poop deck. He checked the compass, the sails, and the wind.

  ‘Mr Fuller – in a while I want you to alter course and run before the wind. I want the Albatross to be as steady as possible while I try and fix Mr Austin’s wound.’

  ‘Aye, Sir, but running before the wind will carry us into the Atlantic, away from Boston.’

  ‘I am aware of that, Mister.’ As soon as William spoke, he regretted his tone. Fuller was only doing his job. William felt tense as he thought of what he was about do, and the consequences if he failed.

  ‘Bosun,’ shouted William. ‘Rig the scrubbed table in my cabin and bring your volunteers, and the tools I asked you to collect. Tell Cook I want boiling water at all times.’

  Sweat dripped from his face as William wiped the blood from around the wound. Even though James had drunk the best part of a pint of rum, he twitched and groaned as William probed his flesh to remove as many pieces of bone as he could find. William could see that the main bone had been broken. He did his best to bind the broken pieces together.

  ‘Hold him still,’ cried William, as he stitched the open wound together.

  At last it was finished. William bound the wound and placed two splints to hold the broken arm rigid.

  ‘Sang, give Mr Austin laudanum, it’ll calm him and help him sleep. Just a few drops, not too much.’

  On deck William stripped off his shirt and used it to wipe himself down. He stood on the weather side in an effort to cool down.

  ‘Mr Fuller, resume our course for Boston, and I want all sail on her. We must get Mr Austin to a doctor.’

  ‘Aye, aye, Sir.’

  The effect of laudanum, rum and shock caused James to sleep for nearly twenty hours. Sang and Howell split watches to sit with him. William stood watch and watch with the second mate, yet he didn’t feel tired. He was too concerned. On the hour, every hour, he had the tourniquet eased for five minutes to allow blood to flow to the arm. He had no idea if five minutes was too long or too short. All he was concerned about was that James did not bleed to death.

  Although James woke after his twenty-hour sleep, he was delirious with fever, and sweating all the time. Sang and Howell washed his face and body to keep him cool.

  It was five days after the operation when William, sitting in James’s cabin and dozing between sleep and wakefulness, became aware of a strange smell. He thought it was from the bilges.

  He suddenly stood, eyes heavy with fatigue. He leaned over James’ wound, sniffed, and then yelled for Sang. He had smelt the same thing on the Belleisle.

  ‘Captain?’

  ‘Find the bosun and tell him to scrub the table again. Have Cook boil water and send the carpenter to me – and be quick.’

  ‘Yes, Sor.’

  A few minutes later the bosun knocked on the cabin door.

  ‘I believe the first mate has gangrene. His arm will have to come off if we are to save his life. I have sent for the carpenter. I’ll need his saws after all, and I need Cook to heat a flat iron as hot as he can make it.’

  William unwrapped the bloody bandage and caught his breath as the smell of putrefaction assailed his nose. Low groans emanated from the two volunteers holding James’s upper body.

  ‘Breath through your mouth,’ gasped William, ‘tigh
ten the tourniquet until the blood stops. Keep the pressure on, and stand by his head. I need the space to cut.’

  William grasped a sharp knife and slowly slit the flesh above the damaged area. The knife scraped against bone. James groaned and bit down on the leather mouthpiece. A large dose of laudanum had put him to sleep, but he was not so deeply asleep that all pain was hidden.

  Placing the knife to one side William took up the cleaned saw and began to cut off James’ arm. Sweat streamed down William’s face. Suddenly a dull thud confirmed that the arm had hit the deck.

  ‘Sang, get this out of here and throw it over the side and tell Cook I am ready,’ snarled William, as he swallowed his gall in an effort not to be sick.

  Sang dragged the arm by the hand and pushed it into a bucket and quickly left the cabin.

  William cleaned the wound. The cook arrived with a large red-hot cleaver, gripped in layers of cloth. William could feel the radiated heat from the glowing blade as he pressed it on James’s open wound. The blade hissed as the flesh cauterised. James let out an animal like scream and fainted.

  ‘Release the tourniquet and let’s see if the wound leaks.’

  William held a lantern close to the wound and watched for seepage of blood. The raw end, now black after the heat of the knife, was holding.

  ‘Good. Mr Howell, bandages please.’

  James Austin lived for another eight days, before dying peacefully in his sleep. He never really regained consciousness. The eight days were a time of screams, as James faced his own demons. William did his best to make his friend comfortable. When the laudanum wore off, his friend tossed and turned with the pain from a phantom arm. The poison from the gangrene had won, but he was now in peace.

  The Albatross hove to for the funeral. William watched the sail-maker pass the last stitch through James’ nose. A final check that he was dead. His body was weighted with two round shot before sliding gently down the plank into the ocean upon which he had spent most of his life. The small splash was the last sound James made.

  ***

  Sixteen days had passed since leaving Havana. Each of the three rescued Negroes clung to the rigging by one hand and waved with the other to the men who waited to catch the mooring lines. William watched one of the shore-side labourers run towards Abraham’s office. Obviously he wanted to be first to carry the news that lost staff had arrived home.

  As the last lines were secured, he heard the cry of a coachman urging his horses to greater speed. Elijah was driving Abraham’s coach as fast as he could along the wharf. It came to a dusty halt near the small gangway. Abraham climbed out of the coach. A long line of Abraham’s employees was running towards the Albatross, all wanting to share in the joy of their missing friends’ return.

  In the excitement of the Albatross’s return and the safe rescue of the three Negroes, Abraham insisted that only a dance would suffice to crown such an achievement. It would be held at Mamre the following weekend and all the crew were invited to celebrate the safe return of the missing Negroes.

  ‘It will be a feast, William, a feast. You look strained, my boy, do you wish to tell me what ails you?’

  William told Abraham of the death of the fourth Negro, and the death of James Austin. When he finished he sat in silence and stared into space, seeing again the shattered body of his first mate.

  ‘The dance is to be in the grain barn, Captain,’ called Elijah over the noise of shouting servants carrying chairs from the house to a large barn. The place was noisy as carts of ice were dragged to the barn.

  ‘For the wine, I hope,’ said William.

  ‘I expect so, Captain,’ replied Elijah.

  Smoke from the kitchen chimney told William that the cooks were busy baking. A large pit had been dug and alongside stood cords of wood for cooking the meat. He smiled to himself at the anticipated luxury of unsalted roast meat. He entered the open door of the main house and quickly jumped aside as a large table propelled by four men came sliding across the floor.

  ‘William, how kind of you to come early,’ called his host from behind the accelerating table.

  ‘My pleasure, Abraham, the place is a hive of activity.’

  ‘I am happy you are here. Let’s remove ourselves to the library for some peace and quiet, and a drink.’

  The two men sat quietly for a few minutes while Abraham poured the cold wine. ‘A little luxury in the summer months, cold wine kept cool in our own ice house,’ said Abraham, handing a glass to William.

  ‘The ice business is going well in Jamaica,’ commented William. ‘They will soon come to rely on a regular supply.’ He sipped his wine.

  ‘I am glad it worked out well, especially after we all thought you had lost your mind. You appear older, William. Do you wish to talk about the voyage?’

  ‘Did I do right, Abraham, in my attempt to rescue your people? After all I am no longer in His Majesty’s Navy, and don’t have the right to risk the lives of my men. They are merchant seamen, not soldiers. Was the cost worth it?’

  ‘Each of the three blacks you brought back know you did the right thing. To them the cost was worth it.’

  ‘I am not looking forward to telling James’s family he died while saving blacks. Liverpool is still a slave town, and the death of a white man rescuing three blacks will not be accepted easily.’

  ‘James volunteered, didn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, but it doesn’t alter the fact that if I had loaded hides and dried beef and left Cuba as planned, he would still be alive.’

  ‘All the blacks who work for me consider you and your crew to be heroes. They are sad for your loss, as they are sad for the loss of one of their own, but I can assure you they are very grateful for your actions.’

  William fell silent and twirled the remains of the wine in his glass as he remembered James Austin. He found it hard to accept that he was right in rescuing the blacks, and found it difficult to reconcile James’s loss with their freedom. Had he rescued the blacks because they had lost their freedom, or because he wanted to impress Ruth?

  Abraham allowed his friend the silence. There was little he could do anyway. The clock could not be put back.

  The sounds involved in preparing for the dance began to lessen. The lack of loud voices brought William back from his depressing thoughts. He lifted his head and stared at Abraham.

  ‘Thank you, Abraham.’

  ‘What are friends for?’ said Abraham, as the door opened and Ruth entered.

  ‘We are ready, Father, and the fire for the meat is lit. The guests have started to arrive and the musicians are playing.’

  ‘Thank you, my dear. Sit a while with William while I greet some of the guests.’

  Ruth sat on a chaise-longue and studied William. ‘Talk to me, William, tell me what bothers you.’

  William sighed and started to talk. He did not go into too many details of the rescue and made light of their escape from the fire.

  Ruth watched his face. He was still sunburned from the voyage, yet he seemed a lot older than she remembered. James’s death had affected him more than he would admit.

  She was disappointed yet pleased that he would shield her from the full details of the incident. She wanted him to share his feelings, but knew instinctively that he would always protect her from the ugly side of life. He would stand up for her against the world, but she would not always know his thoughts. In a perverse way she knew she would always try to fathom his mind, yet she didn’t want him to be completely open. She wanted to peel away the layers like the layers of an onion.

  The dance was a great success and William could not remember ever feeling so happy. He danced most of the evening with Ruth and enjoyed the feel of her warm body in his arms as he breathed in her perfume. They talked and talked of their future and his plans for a shipping company to rival any in existence.

  His energy and enthusiasm carried her along. She felt aware of a small cloud in her sky of happiness. The building of this wondrous new life would be from Liverpool,
or the deck of a ship. How could she be happy with William away building his company?

  Abraham found a cargo of smoked fish in Newfoundland. As Newfoundland was within the control of the British Crown, William would not have a problem loading the cargo and topping off with timber. He had to return to Liverpool to meet his colleagues and clarify ownership of the Albatross. Whatever happened in Liverpool would decide his next course of action.

  Chapter Thirty

  Home at Last

  Liverpool

  December 1806

  To arrive home was always a great moment. Families of the crew would be waiting on the dock and William hoped his father would be amongst them. He had much to tell, about Ruth, the ice shipments. Perhaps he could try the same cargo to Liverpool – ice from Norway.

  ‘Reduce sail if you please, Captain,’ said the pilot as they approached the entrance to the basin leading to George’s Dock. The Albatross turned to larboard and brought the spire of the sailors’ church dead ahead. It towered over the turning basin.

  William scanned the buildings. The place hadn’t changed from nearly a year ago. The Albatross slipped quietly into the turning basin and moved slowly to starboard to enter George’s Dock, which was packed with vessels from all over the world. Some were berthed three and four deep along the quays.

  ‘They have arranged for you to be berthed alongside the quay and not alongside another vessel, Captain.’

  ‘Why do we deserve such special treatment?’

  ‘I understand the arrangement was between the sheriff’s office and Mr Johnston.’

  William felt cold at the mention of the sheriff’s office. Moored alongside the quay, with perhaps other vessels berthed alongside the Albatross, would leave little hope of escape, if the need arose.

  The families on the wharf shouted and cheered. Lines were passed ashore where willing hands pulled them to the bollards. Even the ship herself seemed to know that this was the time for rest. She gently touched the stone quay and the lines secured her alongside. She was once again home in Liverpool.

  William searched the shore but could not see his father. He could see Owen Johnston, hopping from one leg to the other, obviously eager to hear all about the voyage. The gangway was manhandled into place and the crowd surged forward.