Element of chance, p.32
Element of Chance, page 32
‘Let him go, I tell ye.’
The voice rang out and Pender turned to see that Toner had his sword raised. It was hard to tell if he was threatening the sailors or the line they held. Either way the men had no choice. Even their hesitation might cause trouble enough. They released the line and Lowden’s squirming body was dropped back into the water. Toner kept his sword raised to ensure that they paid out enough rope. With the ship now moving steadily through the water, there was no need for Toner to haul Lowden in. The undertow would accomplish that without assistance.
‘Shark!’
That single cry from the men still aloft made them take a grip on the line. Those nearest slid past Toner’s upraised arm to help. Everyone’s head was over the side, their gaze following the pointed finger of the topman. The ship’s wake seemed suddenly full of them, all but one seemingly intent on other things. A single dark blue fin sliced through the water at speed, heading for the writhing body of Lowden, still beneath the waves. His shipmates were hauling like mad, trying to take up the slack of the line that Toner had made them drop. Pender and Garmond saw Lowden emerge dripping from the sea, first his head, then his bloody chest. They also saw how close the fin was. Pender screamed at his shipmates, uselessly, for they were already doing their best. Lowden’s feet cleared the sea just as the shark, turning sideways, rose out of the water. Time seemed to stand still as the men aboard the ship gazed into those open jaws, those jagged teeth in uneven rows above the soft white flesh of the creature’s underbelly. It took Lowden just above the thigh, the soft squish of its teeth sinking into the flesh audible from the deck.
The men on the line felt the extra weight and increased their efforts. The shark, half its body hauled clear of the water by the effect, started to tear at Lowden, swinging in a frenzy. The combination pulled him apart. A great gush of blood followed the shark as it suddenly dropped back into the sea, half of the victim’s body in its jaws. The sudden loss of weight brought the remainder of the stricken sailor shooting up past their eyes. His mouth was open and he was screaming. Blood ran down the trails of viscera straggling from the great wound that lay open where his hips had been. Then the scream died as the loss of so much took away the power to remain conscious. Toner had stepped back in horror at the sight, and it was left to another to haul on the rope he’d dropped and pull the half of Lowden that remained inboard, there to be laid gently on to the deck. He gave a few spasmodic jerks, his eyes opened in a wild stare that cursed his captain. Then with a final shudder, he died, right at Toner’s feet.
‘I’ll kill him for this,’ growled Pender. ‘So help me God, with my own hand.’
‘Take it easy, mate,’ said Garmond, taking hold of him in a firm grip. ‘There’s a time and there’s a place. But this ain’t it.’
Pender twisted his way out of the grip and made for the companion-way. He knew that if he stayed on deck nothing would restrain him, not even the prospect of a rope for the murder of the captain. As he blinked on entering the gloomy interior of the ship, he could feel the stinging of the tears in his eyes. Stumbling, he made his way down to his mess table. The stench of the butt full of rotten meat seemed to fill the air, adding to the feeling of nausea. The image of the remains of Lowden filled his mind and he fought back the heaving in his stomach. He stood up and leant against the side of the ship. Then his eyes caught sight of the greasy trail that led from the butt to the open scuttle. Slowly, transfixed, he walked its path, until his nostrils picked up the odour of the open sea. He forced himself to go back to the butt and look in. It was now half full. Yet it had been near the rim when he threw away the remains of his dinner.
That was why the sharks had come. Someone, below decks, had slopped the contents of that putrid butt out into the sea, attracting those great fish to feed. And when they’d come they’d found an even more attractive prospect, one that writhed and bled in the water. That took Pender’s mind back to Lowden’s fall. He was a noted topman amongst a very competent crew. And he was a Bucephalas. Anyone could slip and fall. That was the nature of the work they performed. But if Pender had been asked to bet his pay warrant on anyone, he would have plumped for Lowden to keep his feet. Then there was that gash on his forehead. Perhaps he hadn’t fallen, after all. Perhaps he’d been knocked off his perch, while down below someone had fed that rancid brew into the sea to make sure that when he did so, he would not survive. Pender swung round and rushed back up to the deck. The men were gathered round the remains, listening as Toner instructed them to sew him in canvas.
‘Let that be a lesson to all,’ he cried. He was glancing around the cold faces that surrounded him, again displaying, in his look and manner, a trace of that uncertainty he’d shown the day Garmond and the others dropped the contraband. ‘He was lucky not to land on the deck, which would have made his end quicker. But death comes to us aw, and rest assured he shall be afforded a decent burial.’
Pender had moved up to stand beside Garmond. The other man looked at him, taking in the white face and the cold glare. ‘I’m with you now, Garmond. It’s time to stop rolling shot, and start breaking heads.’
‘I’m glad it’s come, an’ I won’t say different. But it saddens me that it’s taken this to bring it about.’
Pender wouldn’t look at him. His eyes were fixed on Toner. ‘Never fear, Garmond. The man who did this will pay, and pray to be thrown to the sharks himself, instead of bearing the fate I have in mind for him.’
CHAPTER THIRTY
BUCEPHALAS passed the looming bulk of St Kitts at first light, staying well clear of the island. Harry was on the quarterdeck, telescope in hand, scanning the horizon all around. All he saw for his trouble were small fishing boats rocking on the swell, with the shellfish catchers closer inshore. The illegals would weigh anchor at night, so as to be out of sight by daybreak. He lifted his glass to take in the bulk of Brimstone Hill, which rose eight hundred feet above the surface of the sea. The battlements of the Fort of St George were still ruined, having been destroyed by the French during the last conflict. Then he swung his glass northwards to take in St Eustatius. The little Dutch possession looked tiny from here, more of an outcrop than a proper island. But Harry knew what level of trade would pass through the port in wartime, a trade that would earn a blind eye from the British navy even if the Dutch, in support of their new masters, did declare war.
The island had no garrison and the harbour was purely commercial. The illegals were only taken when they’d cleared the port, which could be seen clearly from the top of Brimstone Hill. Thus St Eustatius represented a known entity which posed no military threat to Britain’s position in the Caribbean. To subdue it would not stop the trade, merely move it to another, less observable location. The island had only suffered in the American War because of Admiral Rodney’s naked greed, a greed which, as Harry explained to the others, had distracted the man from his primary duty and had cost the king his American colonies. The Dutch colonists had angered the admiral by saluting the new flag of the Continental Confederation. This was construed as open support for the rebellious American colonists fighting King George. Rodney descended without warning and sacked the town, then delayed here for a month, flying a Dutch flag above the harbour, so that incoming ships would be unaware of the danger. Meanwhile the comte de Grasse, shadowed by the inferior forces of Admiral Grave, had sailed into Chesapeake Bay and blockaded the British army. Rodney made a fortune out of the sack of St Eustatius. That was small comfort to General Cornwallis at Saratoga, forced to surrender by the blockading French fleet. Or to his sovereign, King George, who lost all hope of retaining his American colonies hard on the heels of that defeat.
‘Well I, for one, thank the good Lord for that,’ said Matthew Caufield. ‘My pa told me all about it, Captain Ludlow. And given how much Rodney made, with a bit of the corsair in him to boot, he could never decide whether to curse the man or praise him.’
‘Harry has no such difficulty,’ said James with a wicked grin. ‘He will bore you rigid, given half a chance, telling you that if Admiral Hood had been in command, he would have met de Grasse with the whole fleet, and you’d still be a British subject.’
‘I shall say no more on the subject,’ Harry replied, smiling.
He was well aware of his tendency to thump the table when discussing Rodney. He couldn’t help himself. The man’s actions still made him angry even after all these years. Worse still was the fact that he’d got away with such blatant chicanery, being recalled to action and leading the combined fleets against the French at the Saintes. Following that brilliant victory, his position as Britain’s premier mariner was unassailable.
He headed for the shrouds again with his telescope. Soon he was up in the crosstrees, telescope trained on the approaching island. Rodney notwithstanding, it was wise to be cautious when entering a Caribbean harbour. The West Indies operated like a seesaw when it came to who possessed what. The British would take a French island only to find the enemy had attacked one of theirs. Or an expedition would suddenly arrive from Europe intent on capturing a particularly important source of sugar or trade. It had something to do with territory and everything to do with wealth. Good harbours, like St Lucia and Antigua, were prized for themselves. But often it was the greed of the sugar lobby that directed the varying military moves. The expression ‘as rich as a creole,’ originally French, had crept into usage in England. The eastern fortunes of the ‘nabobs,’ like Warren Hastings and Clive, paled beside the total amount of money to be earned in the lush Caribbean. Some of the greatest fortunes in England had been earned out here, based on the burgeoning desire in an expansionist England for coffee, cocoa, and tea, products sweetened by sugar. Easy to make a profit when your labour was black and not in receipt of a wage.
The ever present trade wind suddenly made the Bucephalas heel over as she cleared the lee of St Kitts. The sails cracked sharply as she took the breeze and Harry heard the orders given to get aloft and shorten sail. Tucking the telescope in his breeches he slid down a backstay to the deck, then went below to join his brother and Caufield for a late breakfast.
‘It’s not a very inspiring place, Harry,’ said James as they entered the roadstead. ‘I preferred the other islands.’
‘It’s a damn sight more inspiring than the last time I was here. Rodney’s men burnt every building on the shoreline before they left.’
‘Pilot boat approaching, Captain,’ said Dreaver.
‘Then we’d best break out a bottle of our finest claret, lest we get stung for another exorbitant mooring fee.’
‘For God’s sake let’s get some food inside us,’ said James, ‘before we risk a drink.’
Conlon O’Dwyer stood on the steps of his warehouse watching as the newcomer moored in the roadstead. He was a prosperous-looking man, with a round, cheerful face and bright blue eyes. His skin had a high colour that indicated a love of the bottle, which was exaggerated by his near-white hair. The ship was unfamiliar and that itself made it an object of curiosity. But more to ponder was its lines. It was not a vessel designed to carry much in the way of cargo, and the rows of gunports told of a level of armament superior to that borne by a proper merchant ship. So, a warship, with seven ports a side, about a hundred feet in length, displacing perhaps three hundred tons. But not a national one, since the ship flew no flag at the mainmast to identify the country of origin. His was not the only eye on the Bucephalas. In a world full of danger it paid to be alert. Every ship’s captain in the harbour, and every other factor, had taken note of her as she came in, just as Harry knew they would. If he sought to engage in privateering, then these would be the very ships, as a Letter of Marque, that he would be entitled to prey on. In other circumstances, to preserve his anonymity, he would never have come near the place. But that quality of mystery had to be sacrificed to a more important consideration.
The pilot spoke English in the Dutch manner, slowly and with too much emphasis on each word. Not that his conversation interfered much with his drinking. But, like pilots all over the world, he was a garrulous soul, and a great source of local information. For instance he not only informed them of the fact that ships went missing, with the minimum encouragement he went on to name them, one by one, unaware that Matthew Caufield was behind him, writing them down. And the Hollander had no doubt, at all, where the blame lay.
‘The trade is close to ruin, man. That Victor Hugues fellow is taking ship after ship. No one dares sail in daylight, yet still we hear that our cargoes are intercepted. He’s worse than the Englanders, damn him.’
James picked up the third bottle and emptied it into the pilot’s tankard. Then he shook it with a deliberate air, meant to convey a message that there was no more to follow. The Dutchman took the hint, calmly drained his drink, and stood up, making his way out of the cabin in such a steady fashion that anyone would wonder if he was an abstainer. Harry went out to see him over the side, then returned to the cabin, where James and Caufield waited.
‘Time to go ashore, I think, and see if Mr O’Dwyer will oblige us with some of the same kind of information.’
‘Hail fellow well met is the easiest way to describe him,’ said Matthew, as they were rowed ashore. ‘Conlon O’Dwyer’s welcome in every tavern, for he’s an amusing man, if a mite loud in his jocularity for my taste. And he’s loud in the way he condemns King George, with many a toast raised to a free Ireland.’
‘That’s probably how he gets his information,’ said Harry. ‘There’s nothing like rum to loosen the tongue.’
That remark was made with a knowing look towards his brother, who responded with a slight grimace.
‘Getting it is one thing, Captain Ludlow. Retaining it is quite another. He is a trencherman of the first rank, who both eats and drinks to excess. He can barely get to his feet after a drinking bout. Were it not for his faithful servant, a Cormorante negro called Joseph, he’d spend most nights in the gutter.’
‘This negro,’ said James. ‘Is he of the sort that the Codrington family tried to breed?’
‘The very same,’ Caufield replied. ‘I’m surprised that you have knowledge of them.’
‘A most amazing phenomenon. They are mentioned in a tract I picked up in the Canaries. Do you know of them, Harry?’
‘I’m ashamed to admit I do not,’ he replied, as the barge crew boated oars and glided alongside the harbour wall.
James’s attention had moved to other things, judging by the worried look on his face. ‘That ladder looks a mite slippery.’
He was right. The wooden frame that ran up the harbour wall, exposed because of the low tide, was barnacle encrusted and covered in slime. Harry had two sailors follow his brother up, to make sure he didn’t end up in the debris-filled water that washed against the jetty. He climbed it with practised ease, as did Matthew Caufield. The three men stood on the top of the harbour wall, rubbing the marks of slime from their coats, aware that every eye that could observe them was firmly fixed on their persons. Harry gave Dreaver some money, told him to keep the boat crew both sober and chaste. He also warned them to guard their tongues, then indicated to Matthew to lead the way, and with an exaggerated air of ease, engaged his brother in loud conversation.
‘You were about to tell me about these negroes, James.’
James was aware that his brother’s interest was minimal. But he entered into the game with a reply that was louder than necessary.
‘Cormorantes are African, brother, but of a height and build superior to most of their fellows. They are also intractable and extremely fractious, according to my correspondent. So much so that they make poor slaves. They refuse to work manually and only consent to undertake other duties with marked reluctance.’
‘Look, James. Close to you can still see the scars of Rodney’s raid.’ James followed Harry’s pointed finger, towards the black marks that showed where the flames had licked at the outside walls of the factories. Indeed there were still gaps in the line of warehouses where some of the buildings had collapsed. Harry scowled, before returning to the subject. ‘Why did Codrington bother with them?’
‘He felt that they were misunderstood. That educated and properly trained they would make excellent overseers. They have, it seems, scant regard for their fellow Africans. It was a reasonable notion. Indeed, even though he failed, Codrington came to admire them greatly, claiming that every man would do well to treat them as a friend, since they had one positive trait to add to their less worthy ones, and that was loyalty.’
Caufield had dropped back slightly, close enough to join in the conversation. ‘O’Dwyer bought three of them at auction some years back. He uses two of them to sail to Antigua and back, those are the ones I followed, while Joseph acts as his personal servant. I even followed them ashore and saw them hand their package to Dillon.’
‘You’ve observed this Joseph at close quarters, it seems?’
‘Hard not to, Captain Ludlow. He’s near six and a half feet tall and built like a brick chimney-breast. They say that he has the gift of second sight, as well.’
‘What about his language?’
Matthew laughed. ‘He has better English than me. The Codringtons raised them to speak like men of parts.’
‘And can Joseph write?’ Caufield snapped his head round quickly, to observe Harry’s smile. ‘With such a servant O’Dwyer need not worry about his drinking. And it’s a habit in these parts, a bad one, to act as if negroes do not exist, even men six and half feet tall.’
They were on the main thoroughfare now, hemmed in by the crowds that lined the route. Every building, tall and Dutch gabled, was for business, each having stalls in front manned by vendors loud in their proclamations of fair play and bargain prices. Such assurances were delivered in every language used in the Caribbean, the same as the bargains being struck in every tavern. As they passed each warehouse the smell advertised its function. The air was full of the odour of spices one second and coffee the next. Tobacco would then predominate only to be overborne by the sickly sweet smell of molasses. The Portuguese Jews, in their long robes and decorated hats, traded in gold, silver, and jewellery, or in luxuries like silk, lace, and fine wines, which eased the life of all these wealthy planters, and their wives, far from their native land. There were bookshops and bakers, filling their nostrils with the familiar smell of fresh bread and ship’s biscuit. Costermongers sat behind heaps of vegetables and fruit, while to the rear stacked casks of lime juice stood ready for purchase. Butchers had open warehouses, with sides of beef, pork, and lamb hanging in dark caverns, with barely observable negroes, squatting in the gloom, employed to keep the flies at bay. They passed the abattoir, and held their noses against the reek of rotting flesh that emanated from the insect-filled interior.
