CHAPTER FOURTEEN………….THE SLAVES
CHAPTER FIFTEEN……...…..…THE SPANISH
CHAPTER SIXTEEN………….….THE COUNTERFIETERS
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN………..THE ADMIRALS
Go to Chapter Seventeen
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THE SLAVES
SPRING, 1779
The tropical sun warmed Michael as he stood at the wheel of the PASSAIC FALCON. Below him, on the main deck, the crew was busy with the myriad tasks necessary to keep her ship shape while above him, sailors were climbing the rigging to set the sails to make the most of the wind. Since the first days of her southward voyage, he had taken the helm and cruised with her till she was no longer a stranger. The PASSAIC FALCON handled smoothly under his hand and the crew responded sharply to his commands, keeping her trim, clipping along with the wind and crashing though the swells barring her way. The PASSAIC FALCON was a first rate Frigate. Her decks were solid and the three masts held canvas by the acre. At the stern, a second deck rose above the main. Called the After Castle, it is the traditional station of the Captain and houses the ship's navigation compass and wheel. Directly below, down a companionway, is the chart room and the Captain’s cabin, quarters which he shares with Stella and Andrea.
For the first time since they left Chestnut Neck, Stella stood at his side, the seasickness that bedeviled her from the day of their departure had finally passed. Even though she was a seaman's daughter, she had never been beyond the Great Bay and the trial of her first ocean voyage had left her pale and thin. Today, she clung to Michael's shoulder and looked down to the main deck where Andrea was playing quietly with two little girls about her own age. Michael's officers and crew were men he had known at Chestnut Neck. Senior among them was Count Rhordon who had signed on as Navigator and Master Gunner but acted more as a counselor to the Captain. The first mate was a crusty sailor named Terrance McDougal. He had spent ten years as a Royal Marine and had the strength of personality to run the ship by the sheer volume of his voice. Martin Shea, sporting the scar he had earned smuggling with Michael, acted as second mate and Eric Smyth, his childhood friend from Barbadoes Neck, was third.
Michael’s countenance was sedate and his appearance calm as he stood at the wheel. The crew, to a man, knew of his reputation as a warrior and leader, none would think of ruffling his calm demeanor for fear of seeing first hand his legendary violence. His word was law. His whim was command. His orders were obeyed without question.
Like many merchantmen and privateers of the day, nearly half the crew were married and brought their wives and children with them. The living conditions among the crew were centered around the families. The quarters were simple and dividing curtains were respected as a request for privacy. The single men lived in the forward holds. Their lives, although a little more rowdy than the married members, were marked by a respect for the women and an avuncular attitude toward the children. Each of the crewmen were acquaintances who had come forward at the crewing session or had brought references from other Captains who sailed from Chestnut Neck. All were fully aware of Michael’s reputation and considered him to be good luck.
Aboard the Privateers, the families worked side by side with the single crewmen. The women conducted themselves as sailors and shared the shipboard tasks. They climbed the rigging, swabbed the decks and under the tutelage of Count Rhordon, learned how to fire the cannons. Clothing was almost uniform, both men and women wore a baggy loose fitting pantaloon. The ladies, however, wore a heavier shirt than the men.
The younger children had virtual free roam of the ship. For the first days they had stayed close to their mothers but as shipboard life took on a rhythm as ingrained as those on land, they tended to wander farther, exploring every nook and cranny of the vessel. The older children took on tasks of their own, fetching and carrying, swabbing and cleaning, they carried their weight as true crew members and in a gun fight, they were expected to carry powder, shot and water to the gunners.
Count Rhordon resumed the job he loved best; teaching the Artilleryman’s trade to the inexperienced crew. Every day he worked the men and women through the loading and firing drills. He commanded their attention by force of personality and the certain knowledge that the lessons he taught were the ones that would make the difference between successful or being sunk in their first encounter. The equipment he had to work with was quite satisfactory. Before leaving the Great Bay, the FALCON's decks had been altered to accommodate additional cannon and now held twenty-eight guns. Twenty-two guns were mounted on the main deck, eleven each, facing port and starboard. These guns, called Sakers, measured nine feet in length and hurled a load of shot weighing anywhere from six to eight pounds. At both the bow and stern, two huge Culverin chase guns gave her long range attack and defense power. Each of these giants measured 12 feet and fired a load of shot that could weigh up to twenty-four pounds. These cannons were as big as the Garrison guns Michael had manned at Fort Washington and every time he stood next to them he remembered the crews that had fought with absolute determination through the siege. Around the rail, a series of small guns mounted on swivels had been installed. These were actually small cannons used to support a boarding party in close quarters combat and were known as “Swivel guns.” They were aimed like a rifle and fired a deadly load of shot into a defending crew.
The crew had come prepared for battle. Each of the hands owned their own weapons, usually a pistol and a sword or cutlass and a few assorted rifles. Beyond that, the ship, itself, was a warehouse of weaponry. Belaying pins, pikes, cargo hooks and hardwood handles of varying lengths were readily at hand. In the ship's store, there was an additional twenty rifles and in the magazine, a substantial supply of powder and shot.
The morale of the crew was high, they were looking forward to taking their first prize on the high seas and Michael was pleased they didn’t have to wait long. Their first opportunity presented itself as they approached the Bahamas. At early evening, the lookout spotted a ship's light on the horizon and called his alert. As they closed in on her, the lookout reported she was a merchant Brigantine plying the wind south.
Through the night, the crew of the PASSAIC FALCON conducted their tasks by the light of the stars and the moon, keeping their running lights off and raising as much sail cloth as they could. They tacked eastward until dawn, circling to the north and then paralleled their prey till sunrise. With the rising sun behind them, they turned west and headed straight in on their target.
The Brigantine had two masts and a flat deck. The rising sun played on her bowsprit and the name, FAITH. A tremor of anguish shot through Michael’s spirit as he remembered the gentle touch of his lost love. He had not thought of her for many weeks now and the awakened memory hurt. He turned his concentration back to the task at hand, steadied the wheel and closed in. She was flying the British Union Jack and probably carrying refugees from New York and Philadelphia to the British controlled islands of the Caribbean. He turned the helm over to his third mate. Eric stepped up confidently and took the wheel.
Michael limped to the rail and looked down onto the main deck. Count Rhordon was standing by his gunners waiting for the order to open fire. McDougal and Shea were huddled with their boarding parties, crouched down at the rail, each anxiously handling their cutlass and pistols, waiting with grappling hooks and lines to tie up to their prey and storm over the side.
Stella stood at the bow rail loading the swivel gun. She was shaking visibly and having a hard time pouring the primer powder into the touchhole. She stopped her task, took a deep breath and began again. A faint cry of alarm carried across the rolling waves as the FALCON closed to near point blank range. The ship’s bell rang, calling the crew to quarters. The merchantman turned to run and veered out of the wind. Her sails luffed and fell limp. Michael looked to Eric and shook his head. The pilot had committed a fatal error. He looked down to the main deck where Rhordon stood and nodded.
Chase gun number one fired. The ball splashed into the water at the bow of the target. Port side deck gun number 6 fired, placing it’s shot into the water astern of the target. Count Rhordon stood between the port guns 2 and 3 staring intently at his target, his hand dropped and both guns roared, placing their shots directly amidships. The shots punched neat holes in the hull, just below the water line and the Brig struck her colors without firing back.
The PASSAIC FALCON pulled along side of her and the boarding parties stormed over the rail, gathering the passengers and crew at gunpoint. The ship's Captain stood before Michael in his nightshirt shaking and presented his plea, “ Sir, we have offered no resistance. We have done nothing. Take this vessel, if you must, but let my crew and passengers flee with our lives."
Michael pondered the plea for a moment, then nodded his head and gave the order that they be set into the long boats with food, water, compass and a chart and be allowed to make for land unmolested. As the Captain went over the side to join his crew and passengers, Michael spoke with him in hushed tones. “I wish you no evil. Your journey to land should take you little more than a day. You have four days worth of provisions.”
The Captain of the FAITH trembled as he spoke. “I thank you for your mercy, Captain Fields but I shall report this act of piracy to the Admiralty.” Michael turned his back on the Captain and stood silently at the rail watching as the boats pulled away. Behind him, the ship's carpenter, Vanderbeec, begged the Captains pardon and reported on the extent of the damage amid ships. “Captain, our shots left two neat holes just at the water line. She is not taking on a lot of water. We can patch them in an hour. Permanent repairs will take two days. Other than that, she is still seaworthy and stable.” Michael designated a skeleton crew, commanded by Eric, to stay aboard, conduct an inventory of the cargo and keep her under way. Captain Fields saluted Captain Smythe as he took the helm of the FAITH and a cheer broke out from the skeleton crew. The crew knew it was the courage and daring of their Captain that had allowed them to take their first prize without a single casualty
-*-
The air was oppressively humid and the mid-day sun beat down on the decks making the planks too hot to walk on without shoes. The ships navigated delicately through the shallows of the Bahamas and gently slid into a sheltered cove with a view of the channel approaching Andros Island. Michael liked the location and ordered his crews to set up their base of operations here. Just as they had at Chestnut Neck, a lookout was established in a stand of trees to signal the approach of targets or British war ships. Several times the ship's crews stood by the guns as convoys with armed escorts came through the channel but they were in no rush and waited patiently for that unlucky solitary sailor.
The Bahamas had become a stronghold of Tory refugees from New York and Philadelphia who had been driven from their homes by General Washington’s army. Almost daily, convoys of ships passed through the narrow channels bringing the displaced settlers and their possessions to New Providence Island. As they watched and waited, the cove became an idyllic hideaway. Within days, thatch huts sprouted out of the sandy forest to house the families and single crewmen. The gently lapping surf was no where near as violent nor as cold as the Atlantic the privateers had known at Chestnut Neck and so the parents felt no fear of allowing the children to roam free over the island beach. The jungle provided a rich variety of fruits and vegetables and even some small game. Fresh water, however, was not to be found and presented a serious problem as the ship's stores began to run low.
Every day, search parties went into the forest to explore the island and search for fresh water and food. On the fourth day of their residence, Martin's party returned leading a column of Indians, carrying gourds of water, bundles of fresh fruit and livestock. The Indians were received cordially by the Privateers but the language barrier kept them from any discourse except for the universal language of barter. In exchange for a bolt of red cloth and two knives, the Indians told them the location of a fresh water spring and returned every day after that to trade with the Americans for more cloth, rum and metal tools.
Meanwhile, shipboard duty was rotated among the entire crew. The primary duty was to watch for a target and keep the palm leaf camouflage fresh. The repair party working on the FAITH had replaced the timbers and planks shattered by the FALCON'S shots and took her out on a shakedown cruise. She held watertight and with their work completed, the anticipation among the crews rose that they might take two prizes at once.
-*-
The lazy morning was drifting into afternoon. The day’s purchase of supplies had been stowed. The task of selecting piglets to be slaughtered for the evening roast had just begun when, the lookout called from his perch at the edge of the jungle, "Ship ahoy."
Michael and Stella looked up from their shady nook under the coconut trees at the edge of the beach and lazily strolled toward the FALCON. At the water's edge, half a dozen young children playing in the gently rolling surf stopped their games and looked to their parents. Eric and Carol roused themselves from their noontime nap, rolled off their shaded hammock and walked hand in hand to the water's edge to collect their children.
Michael met Rhordon on the camouflaged after deck of the FALCON, he was peering through his telescope examining the ship passing in the channel, "Do you believe the luck of it,” he said! “A fat merchantman, riding low in the water! She's fully loaded and here we are, rested and ready. If we hurry, we can ride the outgoing tide and catch her before dark." Rhordon's appraisal of the target set the crew to a quick pace and they began scurrying about the beachside haven gathering up their necessities for the coming chase and fight.
Behind the screen of cut palm leaves, the crew stood by their stations until the vessel passed. Michael appraised her and agreed she was a worthy prize. Upon his order, the anchors were weighed, the screen dropped and with the tide pulling them out of their lair, the PASSAIC FALCON and the newly outfitted FAITH sprang to the chase.
-*-
The merchantman was just out of cannon range. Michael called for more sail and ordered the Union Jack to be raised. The crew scoured over the decks cleaning away the tell tale evidence of the casual, style of a privateer and transformed the decks to the standards of His Majesties Royal Navy. Mrs. McDougal was the last of the woman to slip off the FALCON’S deck but before ducking under cover, she looked around with a practiced eye and made a final inspection. She called to the young man stationed at the mizzen to put away his pipe. Ten years as the wife of a Royal Marine, she knew military order. Her practiced eye scanned the deck, she called for a gunner to correct the line of his uniform and then closed the hatchway behind her.
The Brigantine tacked across the wind and then back down, deliberately allowing the FALCON and FAITH to catch up with her. "They think we're English," Rhordon reported to the crew. “They’re going to let us catch up." A low murmur of approval carried across the deck as the crew attended to their duties in the best military manner they could contrive.
Michael stood by the rail, resplendent in the uniform of a royal Navy Captain, hands clasped behind his back while a young man at the wheel followed his orders and brought her ever closer. The plan to approach their prey by deception was working and when they were in hailing distance, he delivered his command with the ease of an experienced leader and in the English accent he had practiced on the beach at Andros Island. Across the decks men scrambled to their posts, he nodded with approval as the FALCON responded to his command and approached on the starboard.
The FALCON and FAITH pulled along side their target, guns loaded and primed, Michael called over to the Captain, "Heave to and prepare for boarding." The Captain was visibly shaken and puzzled. He called back, "Sir, we have a cargo destined for Charleston, our duties are paid."
Michael called again, "Heave to and prepare for boarding."
"Captain, we have already been inspected."
Michael drew his sword and pointed to the forward Culverin gun. The young sailor manning it touched the smoldering linstock to the primer and fired a shot crossed the ship's bow. The load of shot splashed directly in the merchantman's path, an unmistakable message and prelude to the capability of further force as the flaps covering the gun ports opened.
Rhordon stood out of sight at the foot of the Aftercastle and reported, "All guns are chocked, we can ride the swell and demast her with the first broadside."
Michael nodded, "Fire, when ready."
The roar of the eleven guns was deafening and the recoil sent the FALCON sliding down the swell, shaking her from stem to stern. Smoke hid their target for a moment, allowing the FAITH to bring her guns to bare, ready to place the next broadside into her midsection, just at the waterline. Eric held his fire, waiting to see what her Captain would do.
The wind swept the smoke from their vision and as it cleared, the FALCON's crew set up a cheer. The merchantman's main mast was tilting over and dropping to the water. The jib was torn to ribbons by chain shot and flapping uselessly in the wind. From above, a sharp crack of splintering timber signaled the fall of the top section of mizzen. The wrecked sails and masts fell into the sea dragging hundreds of feet of rope with them and creating a drag that slowed the ship nearly to a halt.
The FALCON came quickly alongside. Grappling hooks arched over the distance between them and strong arms secured the lines. Windlass screws cranked the lines taught and pulled her alongside. The boarding party was over the rails and onto her deck, moving into the knot of sailors before they could take to arms. Taken off guard, the crew fell back to a defensive posture, unsure of how to react to Royal Marines storming across their deck. Two pistol shots came from the Aftercastle, the Captain had realized the boarders were not Royal Marines but Pirates and was driving his crew to fight back. Rifle shots rang out from the FALCON's rigging as the crew surged forward to engage the Privateers and two of her crewmen fell to the deck screaming with wounds to their upper chest, their life blood spilling out onto the deck boards.
The defending crew hardly slowed, they were a mean looking lot and moved into the fight like soldiers who had been bloodied in battle before. A savage cry arose from them as they moved forward. They had regained their wits and were moving to repel the boarders.
Michael recognized Martin, dressed as a Marine Officer, leading the first wave of the boarding party over the rail and into the fray. His stomach twisted tight as he saw Stella, also dressed as a Marine, crossing cutlasses with a tough looking seaman. Her first stroke was a slash down across his naked midsection opening his chest to the bone and spilling his intestines onto the deck. She lost interest in him as he fell trying to hold himself together and pounced like a cat on another sailor leaving a deep gouge in his scalp. Michael primed the swivel gun and fired it into a knot of sailors organizing to counterattack. The shot went short and gouged splinters out of the deck, none of the sailors were seriously injured. The ship’s officers formed a line and drove their sailors forward. Michael's hands were slippery with sweat as he reloaded the swivel gun. On the opposite deck Stella drew a pistol from her belt and fired. The bullet smashed into the Captain’s wrist, shattering it and passing through to strike the third mate standing behind him. The bullet struck his chest with a thud he could hear on the FALCON. Behind him a small voice cried, “Captain. Captain.” It was Eric’s daughter, Catherine, crawling across the deck dragging two rifles behind her. Michael took one, checked the load and priming, cocked the hammer back and aimed. His shot went true and a sailor dropped to the deck dead. He took the other rifle and fired again, picking off a particularly aggressive officer. While the child was reloading, Michael touched off another swivel gun in support of the rifle fire from his rigging and aimed the charge into a knot of sailors closing in on Stella. The defenders shrank back from the withering fire, tripping over each, slipping on the blood slick deck as blue uniformed Marines forced them, at bayonet point, to yield. One by one, then in a hail of metal, sabers dropped and rattled to the deck and the surly looking crew grudgingly raised their hands in surrender, then, unexpectedly, began pleading for mercy. A few of the prisoners dropped to their knees in supplication. Martin directed his "Marines" to corral the crew on the main deck and keep them under close guard. Stella called out loudly and directed the boarding party to begin a search of the ship and inventory their prize.
The crew spread over the deck in small parties, entering each companionway and opening the hold. Michael crossed the gap between the two ships and was introduced to the shaken and pale ship's officers. As he spoke with them, a young sailor ran to his side and interrupted the conversation. "Captain Fields, I think you should see this for yourself." The Captain blustered again, "We've done nothing illegal, you have no right to stop us."
Michael turned a suspicious eye on him as he stood boldly forward cradling his hand wrapped in a bloody cloth and said again," We have done nothing wrong!" Michael stared at the man, knowing there was more here than a simple cargo. He walked to the open hold in his stiff leg gait. The sailors stepped aside.
Crewman Allan Roberts was sitting on the edge of the hatchway, his legs dangling over the hold, his face flushed, his left hand covering his mouth and nose, choking on the foul air from below. "Captain," he gasped, as Michael bent and wrinkled his nose at the stench rising from the hold, "She’s a slaver."
Slaves were considered valuable booty that could be sold to merchant vessels or planters. The sugar plantations of the Caribbean used slaves at a horrendous rate. And for this, one disease-ridden island produced more profit for England than the whole of the thirteen American Colonies. A shipload such as this could easily be sold off where they were going. But the prospect of selling slaves soured Michael's stomach.
"Rhordon,” Michael called, “how do you feel about the slave trade?"
"Es ist nicht gut. Mein Capitan, Ish detest it," he said with a glare at the captured crew.
"There's a profit to be turned at any sugar plantation in the Caribbean, no questions asked," Michael countered.
"But how long do we want to carry them?" returned Rhordon.
Michael looked into the hold. A wave of stench welled up to him, he backed away gagging, then steeled himself to look down into the hold again. In the square of sunlight piercing the gloom, he could see half a dozen men laying prone, shackled to each other hand, foot and neck. Their eyes now adjusting to the brilliant light were pleading for salvation or at the least mercy. He remembered the way Alex Hamilton had described the plight of slaves on his home island of Nevis and the anger in his voice as he told Michael about the cruelty of the slave trade. His reverie was broken by Rhordon asking him, “What shall we do with the crew?”
“McDougal!” he snapped.
“Yes sir!”
“Prepare a boat. We’ll cast them off.”
“Food, water and navigation equipment, sir?”
Michael stared at the officers being herded towards a small aft skiff. The Captain stared back at Michael with anger and arrogance. They stood by the rail, huddled together, waiting their sentence and fate. Michael began to shuffle towards the group, moving quickly despite his hobbled gait, till he came nose to nose with the captain. “You disgust me,” he whispered directly to the Captain.
“You have no right, sir. You have no right to judge me. You have no right to interfere with my business. I do as the King bids me. I am an officer in His Majesty’s…”
“Be damned with your king,” Michael roared! The crew was shocked into silence. Every eye turned to him. No one had ever heard him speak louder than was necessary to be heard above the din of routine sailing.
“I have no right! I? You are despicable!” Too late the slaver Captain saw he had provoked outrage. His jaw snapped shut with a pop as he realized his mistake. Fear for his life centered itself on him.
“I curse you!” Michael reached out and grabbed his coat with both hands and ripped it open. Gold buttons flew off and rolled across the deck. He pulled the cutlass from the Captain’s scabbard and tossed it overboard.
“Slaver!” He yelled. The word cut into the witnesses. Michael tore the epaulets off his shoulders and dashed them to the deck. The crew watched in disbelief as their normally subdued Captain heaped insults on the representative of His Majesty’s Service. The slaver Captain quivered. Two sharp cracks rang out like pistol shots as Michael slapped both cheeks, leaving harsh red finger marks. A knife flashed out of the folds of Michael’s shirt so quickly that none could say exactly where it had come from. It was at this point that the slaver Captain lost control of himself and wet his trousers. Michael’s left hand ensnarled a hank of the slavers hair, pulling back hard and exposing his neck. His wide Indian blade with a razor sharp edge rested uncomfortably against the slaver’s jugular. Michael pulled the Captain close to him so that only those standing closest could hear. His words were soft, yet dripping with malice and anger.
“If you ever return to these waters. If I ever lay eyes on your miserable face, you will die slowly and painfully. I will flay your skin by the inch and let my swine pull it from your body and devour it!” The slaver began to sob, tears rolling down his cheeks. “I will gut you and roast your entrails over a fire while they are still connected to your stinking belly!” Michael drew his blade slowly across the Captain’s neck. Driblets of blood raced down from the incision and stained his white collar. Michael pulled him closer and whispered, “You will beg me to kill you.” He pushed the slaver away and he stumbled backwards into the arms of his mates, sobbing uncontrollably.
“McDougal, Give them nothing! Now get this offal off my ship.”
“Yes sir!” He responded, then called to his shipmates, “Hop to it mates.” The spell was broken, the crew scattered, relieved to be able to look away.”
“Rhordon. Take command of the FALCON. Leave me with five good men. I’ll pilot our prize home myself.”
“Very well,” returned the Count.
“Boson, pipe return to base. We can talk about what to do with this cargo back at the cove but for now get some food and water down to those people and see what can be done about airing out the hold."
-*-
At the hidden inlet, Michael ordered the slaves unchained. As he expected there was a grumble from a few of his crew. He addressed it quickly, sternly and straight forward, "We will not ply the slave trade!"
Tentatively, black men came out of the hold, singly, then in pairs. Their language was totally unknown and indecipherable. They came on deck timidly, unsure of what was happening but somehow understanding that these were rescuers rather than oppressors. Their eyes betrayed the fear that had been impressed upon them by the brutality of their captivity. Slowly, the first explorers tested the limits of their freedom and when they met no resistance, fled off the ship and into the jungle. They were followed by a flood of wretched humanity that swelled out of the hold, fleeing their captivity. Michael couldn't believe how many people had been packed into the hold. They had been stacked like cordwood! The unshackled blacks congregated on the beach gathering into knots displaying the social order of family units. Husbands and wives, reunited, broke down and cried while holding each other and their children. Michael turned his head, unable to watch.
While the hold was being emptied of living and dead, Michael ransacked the Captain’s quarters. There were several small treasures in a sea chest, which he claimed for himself, along with a packet of letters addressed to the King of England. The first he tore open was from Governor John Maxwell of New Providence. He read it, folded the paper and stuffed it inside his shirt. He would read it again that evening to the crew at their meeting.
-*-
Rhordon approached the clearing and heard the sounds of Michael and Stella arguing. "How could you go over the rail like that and throw yourself into a fight?"
"It was my decision,” she yelled back. “I came on this voyage for the same reason as you! I want loot, I want profit and I want vengeance!"
“You will have none of those if you throw yourself into a squad of Royal Marines," Michael shot back at her, then softened his voice. "Stella, you mean too much to me to see you gutted like a fish," His eyes closed in pain as the memory of Faith’s broken body crossed is mind and drained the strength from his limbs.
Rhordon announced himself by clearing his throat before entering the clearing. "Captain,” he said. “The crew is gathered and waiting. Those darkies you set free are hovering just outside our firelight. We could easily round them up and have none of the quarrel that is coming."
Michael knew he had angered some of the crew and now that they had time to form their arguments, they might even be dangerous. But he was counting on the fact that even though slavery was a way of life and paid a high premium to those who trafficked in it, most of his crew were New England stock who felt the same as he. "We will give up some loot,” he said, “but I think we will truly profit." He turned back to Stella and took her hand, then turned to Rhorden, "I'll be with the crew momentarily."
-*-
The crew was loudly debating the issue of the slaves and their lost profits when Michael stepped out of the forest shadows and onto the sandy beach. He walked directly to the blazing fire, flanked by Rhordon and Stella, and stood between Eric and Martin. All were carrying braces of pistols under their cloaks, just in case the meeting turned ugly. Michael addressed the crew simply, "I'll not participate in slavery." He drew his sword and raised it over his head, "We fight for freedom. Not just for us but for all men." The simplicity of the statement caught the mutinous crew off balance. They mumbled and then grumbled louder, "We want our Profits!"
He spun around on his good leg and called to the gathering, "We have our profit; the ship we have taken! Our fleet is now three undermanned ships. There is loot to be had as we move further into the Caribbean and when it is taken, I will pay each his share and let any who will not sail with me go their own way." His challenge stood in the air. It lay upon the crew. They knew there was much more to be had deeper in the Caribbean. The outlying Bahamas were impoverished by the standards they expected to encounter.
A voice rose, faltered and then fell silent. A hush covered the crew as a knot of black men walked into the circle. They were naked except for a few scraps of loincloth and carried branches of palm, clusters of bananas and two squawking parrots. Fearlessly, with dignity, they approached Michael and in the unmistakable gesture of extended hands, they offered more than meager gifts. They offered their loyalty!
Michael accepted the offered gifts, then directed his eyes to the loudest of the dissenters, "We need hands to man our ships. Here, we have willing volunteers. Different from us, but much the same. We are all fleeing slavery and fighting for freedom. Will you accept them or shall we part company?"
Fewer than before raised their voices, their complaints drowned in the obvious humanity of the black men who offered their hands to Michael. A voice from the crowd mumbled, "Accept," another echoed the call, followed by a general murmuring, "Accept them." The issue was closed.
Michael returned the sword to his scabbard, "Now, to the issue of plunder. Some of you have spoken of setting sail for New Providence. The prize we took today brought us more than another ship and a reason for the war we fight. It has brought us information. I have here, a letter from the Governor of New Providence to King George. Let me read it to you.”
The crew fell silent and pressed closer.
"It is dated April 5, 1779. Only a week ago and Signed, Governor John Maxwell, New Providence, Bahamas."
"The Governor writes to the King asking for troops and naval forces. He describes a small British force on New Providence garrisoned at Fort Montagu. There has been a heavy influx of refugees from the colonies, loyalists, fleeing with their goods and slaves. They are moving to the outer islands and setting up new colonies and plantations."
He paused and looked around at the crew. "French and American prisoners who had been held in Nassau have been transferred. There was no where to keep them." A groan emanated from the crowd, they had expected to free those prisoners and add them to their depleted crews. “The garrison is in poor health, most are ill with fevers and the heat is a particular problem." Someone hooted and the crew laughed. Michael read on.
"Emissaries sent to General Henry Clinton in New York were refused. He cannot spare any supplies or troops to defend the islands from the roving navies of Spain, France and the Privateers from the American Colonies." He paused and let the words sink in. “The Governor goes on to describe the plight of the residents of the Bahamas. He tells us that Small Pox is epidemic in New Providence." A groan and a grumble went over the gathered crew. "Small Pox," he said again and paused for effect, then said, "I suggest we choose another target and leave these waters."
He folded the letter and placed it into a pocket. A cool ocean breeze blew over the gathered crew and their anger cooled with it as they broke into groups to begin debate on their options.
The embers of the fire were waning when the elected representatives came forward with their verdict. "Allow any of the slaves who wish to join the crew to sail with us. Those who do not, will be left here. We choose to bypass New Providence and sail directly for Jamaica."
Michael nodded his head and let a small grin of satisfaction cross his lips, then raised his voice once again and called out that the days prize, the slaver, be rechristened; ARGUMENT and that she be manned mainly by the freed slaves.
Over the next weeks, ARGUMENT was modified from a slaver to a man-o-war and during this process, a leader rose among the Africans. A man they called Kanu Baka. When the Privateers had taken the slaver, he was so ill he had to be carried off the ship but good food, sunlight, fresh water and his freedom brought back his health and returned him to leadership.
A language of sign quickly grew between the freed slaves and the Privateers. Words of direction and naming grew and under the direction of Kanu Baka, the Africans worked with demonic efforts to reconfigure the slaver. Once the idea of demolishing their prison had been transmitted, they worked furiously to cut away the fetid holds they had inhabited and remade her into a warship. The slaver was armed with twelve eight-pound guns. The decks where the human cargo was held were little more than three feet high and had to be torn out one after another till the support members were exposed and only two levels remained. The main hold was returned to it’s original cavernous dimensions to accommodate a bulk cargo of material goods rather than humans. Under Count Rhordon's direction two of the Brig’s guns were placed aboard the FAITH and two Saker guns from the FALCON were transferred to ARGUMENT's main deck and placed as chase guns at her bow and stern. The remaining guns on ARGUMENT were repositioned to make her more combative and her new crew set about learning the Artilleryman’s trade.
The Africans quickly took to sailing. They may have been a seafaring clan or simply determined to learn the skill. Their first cruise proved to Michael that they were as he had believed and he knew he had made the right decision. Kanu Baka handled the helm with a confidence of an experienced seaman and his orders to the crew were given with the authority of a New Bedford born sailor.
Finally, their preparations were complete. The families of the Jersey Privateers felt some small sorrow as they weighed anchor and left their hidden cove behind. Michael led his tiny fleet to the deep channel, let out their sails and raced with the wind on the course that would take them through the Florida Straits and then west through the Windward Passage and on to Jamaica. His confidence was high, his crews had proven themselves in battle. He was looking forward to larger game.
-*-
JAMAICA
Martin's scouting party landed a few miles from the plantation Manor House and worked their way over the densely jungled mountains to the edge of the sugar cane fields. Along the way, they mapped the terrain and noted their landmarks, then waited and watched from the edge of the jungle for two full days. From their observation post they recording the routine of the plantation and evaluated the harbor defenses and the walls surrounding the Manor House, slave quarters, mill and warehouse.
When they returned to the FALCON, the scouts were in a state of near exhaustion. The foray had taken a full day longer than expected and their supplies, particularly water, had run out. But the information they brought back was precise and complete. Their mission was a success.
A planning session was convened in the FALCON's map room and the Captains debated their options for another day. They listened as the scouts described the routine of the plantation and poured over the maps and drawings of the defensive positions they had made. Slowly a plan grew out of the recognition that the main defenses were directed at repelling an assault from the sea. The fortress was weakest at the landward side and if the defenders could be drawn away, a surprise attack from the rear would stand an excellent chance of breaching the walls. The plan was a daring but workable. The crews would accept it.
Rhordon reviewed the plan to the crews, "We will putz ein infanteric. Ach. A company of Infantry ashore, mainly Africaners from the ARGUMENT, und march overland zu den plantation. They will hide in the jungle outside the defensive perimeter and wait. FAITH und der FALCON will sail into the bay mit the rising sun behind, take the two merchantmen at anchor and begin a bombardment on the defenses. While the defensive guns are concentrating on the ships, ARGUMENT, with all her guns relocated to one side, will approach the dock under full sail, and bring her guns to bare on the magazine. The increased firing will be the signal for the infantry to assault the defenses from the rear.
There was little debate about the plan, the crews understood the value of the plantation and the loot it would hold. The plan was as good as any could construct and the Captains gave their assent. Back on their ships, each Captain held another meeting to instruct their crews on the part they would play in the coming fight.
-*-
In the pre-dawn cool, the cane fields came alive with the sound of slaves being herded to work and as the sun broke over the horizon, the first sounds of gunfire erupted. It was only a few minutes later that a rider galloped through the fields calling for the slaves to be returned to their quarters and locked down. Martin watched with growing anticipation as the British overseers herded the slaves out of the fields and back behind the walls to their cells.
-*-
Michael piloted the FALCON out of the rising sun and along side the first of the anchored merchantmen. The boarding party went quickly over the rail and stormed the ship. There was only a skeleton crew on board and they had no chance of defending themselves or manning the guns. Simultaneously, Eric maneuvered FAITH along side the second ship and dispatched his boarding party. They reported success, without a fight. The fleet had doubled in size without a shot being fired or a single casualty taken.
The first broadsides from FAITH and the FALCON tore chunks of stone from the walls and destroyed the largest of the plantation’s garrison guns. Michael signaled the gunners to change to air bursting high explosive shells for the next two salvos. The bombs exploded over the fort and showered the defenders with hot steel as they scrambled to man their guns.
As return fire from the fortifications came to life, Michael ordered his gunners to lay down a barrage on the seaward defenses. Concentrating on the guns as they came into action, Rhordon's students slaughtered the gunners with grapeshot and chain. Their return fire was slow and ineffective at first but as the gunners gathered themselves they began to lay down a brutal barrage of fire directly on the deck of the FALCON.
FAITH and the FALCON sailed across the harbor and then back in a figure 8 pattern, bringing all their guns into action. First from the port, then the bow, then to starboard, then from the stern. The gun crews worked furiously to reload and then stood by anxiously as the gun commanders held their fire till precisely the exact second, aiming to place their shot effectively into the defenses.
-*-
With the slaves locked in their cells, the overseers moved to their positions on the defensive ramparts. Cannons were rolled up to the perimeter of the walls, their muzzles poked out over the parapets dominating the quiet sugar cane field. There was no sign of an attack. The defenders stayed on the alert manning the cannons protecting the land entrance to their plantation while anxiously looking to the seawall where a furious fire fight was under way. Fearlessly, the defenders defied the shot and shell exploding around them, pushing fallen comrades away from silent guns, reloading and firing back at the ships.
-*-
Martin's force waited patiently. They had eaten well and drank the last of the water they carried. They were fully recovered from the grueling overland march and ready to go into action. Empty gunpowder kegs lay in a heap in the middle of their encampment. Deep in the jungle, the men had cut down a coconut tree, split it in half, hollowed it out and filled it with gunpowder. The bomb was ready when the guns began pounding each other.
One by one the defenders at the landward defenses were sent off the wall till only half the original force remained. Kanu Baka smiled at Martin as a cannon rolled back from the wall. A murmur of approval spread from man to man, as it’s wheels ground along the parapets and it moved to the seaward wall to join in the fight. There was a blind spot at the wall! Now was the time to make their move.
At Martin's signal, Joshua Courtland and two men from Chestnut Neck moved to the bomb and hefted it. The weight staggered them. Kanu Baka and three of his countrymen added their strength and followed Martin as fast as they could to the gates of the walled plantation. Riflemen, hidden at the edge of the cane fields, took careful aim and drew a bead on the ramparts, ready to fire on any sentry that called an alarm.
The men sat on the log with their backs against the gate, panting and glancing anxiously up to the rampart over head. They looked from one to the other, no one had seen them yet. Luck was still with them and the defenders were drawing more of their force to the seaward wall. Martin clapped Courtland on the shoulder and jerked his thumb back to the field. Kanu Baka waved his comrades back to the jungle and one by one they slipped away, still unseen. Kanu Baka made signs to Eric clearly transmitting, he would be the one to stay and light the fuse.
-*-
DECK OF THE ARGUMENT
Rhorden called his orders to the skeleton crew piloting the ARGUMENT as they rode the morning breeze into the harbor. She was coming in under full sail with every gun at the ready. The forward chase guns fired. Both shots tore into the brittle stone of the fort and ripped razor sharp chunks out of it. The shell crater collapsed part of the wall and an eight-pound gun fell forward down the face of the wall and discharged as it hit the water sending a load of chain shot across the beach.
He kept her on course, heading straight under the guns, so close they could not be depressed enough to hit her. Cannonballs flew overhead, tearing through the sail but doing little other damage. ARGUMENT sailed straight up to the plantation dock before Rhordon gave the order to turn. On the walls he could see the defenders desperately working to turn their guns on him but they had waited too long. ARGUMENT was now so close his gun crews were exchanging rifle fire with the defenders on the fort wall. He spun the wheel and banked across the wind, the rudder at full starboard. The pilings of the dock scraped along the hull, the port side deck guns came to bare and fired. The wall exploded into rubble and dust, throwing the defensive guns into the air and splattering their crews into a spray of red. The warehouse at the end of the dock was deliberately spared.
ARGUMENT tacked across the wind, leaving the fortress behind her, the aft chase guns roaring in a regular rhythm. More fire from FAITH and the FALCON rained down on the defenders as they organized and targeted a withering fire on ARGUMENT. Rhordon's gun crews called out their status, each gun was reloaded and standing by except the after chase guns which were under orders to fire at will as they left the harbor defenses in their wake. The magazine was an invisible target hidden by a low hill and set back from the main structures. Rhordon bent over the compass, watching the azimuth change, holding on to the rail with his one arm. He looked up to the gunners, all eyes were on him, "Ready!" The guns were elevated to maximum. "Ready," he called again.
"Fire!”
The guns roared as one, hurling high explosive charges at their unseen target. The crews reloaded as fast as they were able and stood by as linstock touched primer and the guns fired again. Over the horizon, the reports of their fire echoed against the distant hills and mixed with the sound of exploding shells. Smoke laced up to the sky and then a secondary explosion confirmed they had hit their target.
-*-
Covered with sweat and dust, nearly invisible, Kanu Baka huddled alone next to the gate. The increased intensity of the battle was his unmistakable signal, he held his breath a few more seconds till the artillery duel reached a new peak, then he struck flint to steel, a spark jumped to the fuse. It caught. The gunpowder sparked and began burning furiously. He lay the fuse neatly over the log so it would not smother and sprinted back to the cane field. Sentries on the wall saw him and called out. Rifle fire from the fields cut them down before they could draw a bead on Kanu Baka as he raced away from the wall.
The blast lifted the gates and their supporting portals out of the ground and threw them spinning into the overseer’s living quarters. Women and children huddling inside were showered with broken stone and boards from the shattered gate.
The privateers rushed forward into the cloud of dust and falling masonry firing their rifles up at the wall as they ran and swinging cutlass at any figure they met, driving into the stunned defenders, disrupting the order of their resupply and support activities.
Cries of panic and fear rose from the compound. The defenders on the seaward walls turned at the sound of their magazine exploding only to see a second blast demolish the rear gate. Armed slaves were pouring into their fortress, driving the guards before them! The gunners tried desperately to turn their cannon on the armed slaves but turning them from the attacking fleet allowed the ship board guns to target the walls more accurately.
The Africans were sprinting over the open courtyard, clubbing, slashing and stabbing anyone who stood in the way of their dash for the fortress walls. Rifle fire from the walls and buildings was sporadic and ineffective. Knots of defenders were over run by the fast moving infantry. Hand to hand fighting devolved quickly as the outnumbered English were overwhelmed trying to turn back their worst nightmare, a slave uprising.
Kanu Baka and his troop smashed into the defenders. Blades slashed and pistol shots at close range ripped into the gun crews. The Africans screamed blood chilling war cries as they threw themselves onto the gunners, physically picking them up and throwing them over the parapets, driving them across the walls. They forced the gunners to abandon one cannon after another, till they fell back, huddling against the barricades, cornered, under the angry eyes of heavily armed slaves and a few Americans.
The plantation defense guns fell silent and the wails of the overthrown masters of the house grew. Martin raised the American flag over the ramparts and the cheer from the fleet carried across the water on a morning breeze. He waved his hat over his head, the signal to the fleet that the compound had been taken.
-*-
The wounded Privateers were tended and liberally plied with wine and rum. The dead were buried in accordance with the ceremony dictated by their smugglers heritage. But their casualties were amazingly few, Rhordon's plan was an overwhelming success.
Michael stepped onto the dock, elated by the quick victory and was directed to the compound where Martin was standing with Kanu Baka barring the freed slaves from slaughtering the English prisoners. Kanu Baka yelled at his countrymen, pushed them back as they attempted to assault the prisoners and finally picked on one who seemed to be the leader and delivered a punch that rendered the man unconscious. After that the slaves backed away from the prisoners.
For the next hours, Michael and Stella toured the scene of the battle and were appalled by what they found. The riches of the Manor House belied the horrors that were vented upon the slaves who produced the wealth of the island. There were hundreds of slaves living in a squalor as bad as the slave ship that had been the ARGUMENT. Their thin bodies were barely strong enough to work the land, much less rebel. But they had tried just that only a few days before.
The slave rebellion had been put down with unimaginable cruelty. The bodies of those killed in the uprising still hung, festering in the cells with the living. The newly freed slaves led the privateers to a compound where the ill-fated leaders of the rebellion were found, still alive, straddling slow fires, their legs being slowly burned off! Michael turned his head from the scene and ordered Stella away. Whatever they could do to minister to these poor, brave souls would only make their dying easier. There was nothing they could do to save them.
-*-
The crew reveled in the loot of the Manor House. Silver and gold coins, ornaments, jewelry and fine clothing were in every room. The warehouse was brimming with raw sugar and molasses and catches of rum. Stocks of muskets were uncovered and the pantry, stocked with rich food was broken open.
By nightfall, the plantation was under the control of the Privateers and the owners were the ones in chains. Nearly one hundred English men, women and their children had been taken prisoner. Most were locked securely in the cells that had been occupied only that morning by their slaves. The plantation owners, the managers and their families stood in rags, shackled together, waiting anxiously in the great hall to hear their fate. The children wailed, the women, more accustomed to silks than chains, whimpered and cried, tears ran freely as they shuddered at what had befallen them. The men, cowed and defeated, stood in stunned silence as the privateers looted their home.
The kitchen was emptied and every morsel of food was placed out for the newly freed slaves. Cattle were slaughtered and the Africans built open fires over which to roast them and feed their half-starved cousins and their Privateer saviors. The realization of their freedom was tempered by the deprivations they had endured, still, the meal grew to a celebration and after eating ravenously, they began dancing around a bonfire in the middle of the compound.
The leaders of the New Jersey Privateers congregated in the manor house and sat around the master's banquet table celebrating their victory by drinking his wine, eating his food and discussing loudly how to dispose of their captives. The liquor flowed freely and was deliberately splashed on the floor before the captured owners.
While the men toasted their victory and scorned their captives, Stella led the women on a wild race through the living quarters ransacking closets and appropriating the finery that had once been the mark of social elegance. They returned from their first circuit carrying silk shirts to their men and insisting they dress for dinner before returning to further ransack the closets. Every dress in the manor house was passed around till someone fit into it. Some of the women like Stella, for the first time in their lives wore a dress and giggled uncontrollably as they painted their faces and prepared to present themselves to their men.
Outside on the manor house porch, Kanu Baka sat and listened as the leaders of the slaves and his lieutenants brought him their advice. There was a kinship between his crew and the slaves they had just freed. Beyond the suffering slavery had inflicted upon them, their language was similar enough for them to understand each other.
-*-
Michael leaned back in the chair and bit off a piece of roast beef. The sweetness of victory flowed over him. The fine clothes he and Stella now wore were just a small symbolic part of the spoils. The problem now was what to do with their prisoners. The cells would hold them for a few days but the privateers were not jailers. He took a swallow of wine and mulled the problem over in his mind. Beside him, Stella was laughing and kidding with Mrs. McDougal. They didn't seem to have a care in the world.
"What do we do with the prisoners?" The call was raucous and drunk.
"Sell them as slaves," someone responded and the crew laughed. The prisoners shrank back as Michael rose and strode over to where the Plantation's Master stood. They stood eye to eye. The man's arrogance glared back, challenging Michael to question his authority over the beasts and birds and humans under his patronage. He reminded Michael of Master Schuyler's dominion over the lives of the miners of Barbados Neck.
He turned to his crews, "The prisoners shall have no food or water tonight. In the morning, drive them into the jungle and don’t spare the lash. Drive them as they have driven these slaves. There isn't another plantation for fifty miles. Let them live with the animals in the forest while we enjoy their luxury."
The gathering murmured its approval. Michael's decision had spared them the unpleasant prospect of executing the prisoners.
As the spirits of the celebration rose again, Kanu Baka entered the hall and spat at the prisoners as he strode past. A young boy, who had absorbed enough English to act as his translator, walked behind him and imitated what he saw. His saliva dribbled onto the foot of a fat woman who squealed in disgust and buried her head on the chest of an equally corpulent man huddling next to her. Michael rose, extended his hand to the African and invited him to sit. The looks of disgust on the faces of the prisoners were deeply satisfying.
The African leader pealed a banana and bit off a piece then threw the half-eaten fruit to the floor, just out of the prisoner’s reach. He paused and then began speaking haltingly. Bits of English words were mixed with his own tongue. The tone of the speech had an imploring sound. Michael sat back as the speed of the words quickened until they came so fast he could understand nothing. Kanu Baka stopped. The young boy began to speak, the signs and words slowly began to make sense, the blacks wanted to take one of the ships and return to their homes in Africa.
Michael slowly drifted to his feet as whispers buzzed around the table and across the room. The New Jersey Privateer's rose to their feet, with an imploring "No!" If they returned to Africa the slavers would be back! They might be taken again! They might be attacked on the high seas! A thousand evils might befall them if they left. Freedom was theirs only if they joined the Privateers!
His words were to no avail, Kanu Baka had made up his mind. His request was more than reasonable, he asked only that their share of the loot to be paid in the smallest of the ships they had captured. A few rifles, powder and shot, food and animals. They had earned that much.
-*-
Two days later, Michael shook Kanu Baka's hand, then embraced him. The larger of the merchantmen captured in the cove was packed to capacity, her holds full of humans seeking freedom. Not a cry or whimper could be heard, only farewells and calls to parting comrades as the newly christened UHURU slipped her mooring and began it's journey east, returning a stolen treasure home.
-*-
THE SPANISH
ST. EUSTATIUS
Leeward Islands of the Caribbean
The fleet cruised into the harbor of Tumble Down Dick and dropped anchor among ships baring the flags of every nation allied against England. From the deck of the FALCON, Michael could see huge warehouses on the docks, bursting with the loot of the British Empire in the Caribbean. Barrels of tobacco and rum were stacked on the docks; there wasn't enough room to store them in the warehouses.
Stella's hand touched his, "It reminds me of Chestnut Neck," she said, “and every hold in the fleet is filled to capacity with trade goods and treasure.” BOOTY! The sound echoed in Michael's head. The Jersey Privateers had been through the hell of soldiering, they had been tested in combat, tempered with victory and emerged with only a few casualties. The wealth they carried away from Jamaica was a king’s ransom and the crews were anxious to take their share and spend it. Every member of the crew had made a mental calculation of the value of the booty they had plundered and the value of their share. They longed for the opportunity to live madly and insanely for a few years or to become established in land. Plantation owners, even slave holders themselves.
On the first day in port, the Captain of each ship conducted a thorough inventory of their ship’s hold and brought the tally to Michael's cabin. The Captains sat around the chart table and witnessed as Michael set the greatest portion aside in the name of the VENGEANCE CORPORATION, the underwriters of their voyage. That portion of the booty was transferred to the remaining Schooner captured in Jamaica. Before the week was out, a Prize Master would be selected and detailed to sail her home to Chestnut Neck.
The remaining booty belonged to the crews and each member was to be given their share in accordance with the contract they had agreed to at the beginning of the venture. First the gold and silver coins and bars were weighed out and distributed, then the jewelry was evaluated and auctioned to the crew as evenly as possible. Then came the trade goods.
As the reckoning proceeded the crews settled their debts to each other by exchanging shares and bartering debt among themselves. As darkness settled over the calm sea, the entire store of food was spread out on the deck of the PASSAIC FALCON. Spoilage was thrown overboard and the best prepared as a feast. Barrels of rum were broken open and mixed with fruit juice. Musical instruments appeared as if from nowhere and filled the air with merry tunes that carried across the bay lifting their high spirits even higher. The ironsmith’s forge was lifted by half a dozen strong men and brought to the middle of the deck. Firewood was stoked to a merry blaze and the men and women began dancing around it, Indian style, then as couples. Eric swooped up the children and carried them on his shoulders as he danced. The McDougals floated about the deck in each other’s arms, dancing as if they were lord and lady of the party till the first warm winds of morning blew across the small bay.
With the rising sun, The privateers found they didn't have to take their goods to the market, it came to them. Buyers from the pirate's market came out to them in long boats, calling to the ship's officers, trying to buy the entire ship's cargo, sight unseen, for gold. But the old hands from New Jersey waved off the bidders and waited patiently for their Captain to come on deck.
It was mid-morning before Michael climbed out the companionway carrying Andrea on his shoulder. As he stepped onto the deck, he shaded his eyes from the brilliant sunlight, Count Rhordon was standing at the wheel and stepped forward to address him. On the main deck below him the crew was gathered, all eyes looking up to the afterdeck.
"Mein Captain,” he said, “der crew has voted und elected to pool our shares.” A small grin creased Michael’s staid countenance, the request was not unexpected. The crew knew he would have more leverage with the traders. “Ve haft also agreed to appoint you, if you will agree, Capitan, to be the sole agent for the sale of the trade goods in exchange for gold."
Stella followed him onto the deck as a murmur of approval flowed from the crew. She had heard the Count’s words and gently took Andrea from his shoulder. His reputation as a shrewd merchant had traveled with him and he graciously accepted their trust.
For the next three days Michael scoured the market place sending wagons to the docks to pick up goods under his signature and leaving behind merchandise that awed the crews. The merchants in the market had never encountered anyone with bartering skills like they found in Captain Fields. His smile and easy way seemed to open warehouse doors where he found goods long forgotten yet sought by the Captains of his own fleet. He sent emissaries to every ship anchored in the harbor and had them compile lists of the items they needed and desired and what they had to trade. With an uncanny precision his mind tabulated the location of goods he had seen and matched them to the orders he had taken. His long boats ferried about the harbor, delivering goods in trade and returning to his fleet overloaded with new trade goods. His crews sorted and stowed the cargoes until new letters signed by Michael traded their latest acquisition for still different goods and then finally sold them for gold. By the time the trading ended there was little cargo left aboard the Jersey fleet and in exchange, Michael's cabin was brimming with chests of gold, silver, precious stones, pearls and works of art.
The final reckoning was held on the main deck of the FALCON in an atmosphere of baited expectation. Michael began the reckoning by presented to the crew with bills of sale for the merchandise entrusted to him. He documented each sale, repurchase and sale again of goods and finally summed up the wealth he had accumulated. From the total, he deducted his own share, then a commission for his efforts. No crewman protested, the sum they calculated was far more than what they had been dealt three days ago. One by one the crewmembers were called to stand before him to receive their share. The weight of each share was so great that strong men staggered under the burden of gold and silver coins and women resorted to carrying their shares in buckets yoked across their shoulders.
As the last coins were distributed the crews returned to their ships to secure their treasure and count it over and over again. Celebrations broke out on each of the ships and rum flowed again as it had before till song broke out and cheers in the name of Captain Fields echoed across the harbor.
-*-
Michael limped easily along the main street of Tumble Down Dick, placing his weight onto his walking stick and shifting over the stiff left knee, throwing the leg forward and then putting his weight on it. The sun and heat seemed to take the pain out of the knee and he walked more easily each day, relying less and less on the stick.
Stella and he strolled through the crowded streets of the market followed by half a dozen couples from his fleet. Together, they combed the market, sampling the foods, comparing merchandise, evaluating what the market in New Jersey, London or Barcelona might pay. They gave the appearance of courtly elegance, rather than the battle hardened Privateers they were.
In a Ladies shop, Stella giggled as she examined the undergarments proper fashion expected her to wear. They were beautifully tailored, revealing and extremely flattering. She bought several and handed the bundle to one of the crewmen who suffered the jeers of his mates with a smile and a rattle of silver coins.
Their buying spree attracted the attention of the local merchants to the extent that when they approached a stall, the prices rose. They were becoming too well recognized as moneyed and needed to let the market settle down again before continuing. To Michael, this was second nature, like following a well-worn path leading home. Turning their attention to a convenient tavern the party took over a shady table and ordered pitchers of sweet white wine laced liberally with lemons and oranges.
Pitcher after pitcher was drained and the group laughed and toasted their victories. They toasted George Washington and Alexander Hamilton, then Captain Hanlon and the Chestnut Neck Militia until they inexorably came to their commander, Captain Fields and finally, they drank deeply to fallen comrades. At sundown, they returned to the street and singing a song wobbled arm in arm back to the fleet.
-*-
Rhordon sat at the chart table idly gazing at the setting sun as Michael and the Captains went over the assignments of men to ships.
"Rhordon, I want you on board the PASSAIC FALCON as my Master Gunner. We carry the firepower of our fleet and I want you where you will do the most good. You shall have the helm when I am gone and sail her on my behalf when I establish myself aboard a larger ship."
The one armed man nodded his approval and responded, "Aye, Captain."
"Eric will remain on the FAITH. Martin, you will command ARGUMENT. Mr. McDougal, you will have the schooner FREEDOM, we took last week. Lastly, we need to chose a Prize Master to take the schooner we picked up in Jamaica back to Chestnut Neck." The Captains nodded their approval and acceptance.
Eric looked to Michael and spoke, "Captain, we are getting short handed. We need to recruit more hands. Sailors of like mind to us. Not cut throats or brigands.”
Michael nodded his approval. “Begin recruiting but remember, we sail under the flag of the United States of America with letters of Marque. We must maintain the honor and dignity of our country, even in battle." He paused, “No,” his voice seemed to fade, then returned, as he looked each Captain in the eye, “Especially in battle.”
-*-
SPRING 1781
LEEWARD ISLANDS
NEAR ST. EUSTATIUS
A fleet of four vessels off the port bow suddenly changed course and headed directly for Michael's fleet. All guns came to the ready, as Michael ordered his fleet to change course and prepare to engage them. Count Rhordon stood between the forward chase guns calculating the distance and ordering mixes of shells. The two opponents were almost exactly matched. Leadership and cunning would carry the fast approaching fight. On the aftercastle, Michael steadied himself, trained the telescope on the approaching sails and breathed a sigh of relief.
"Rhordon,” he called, “they're Americans. Stand by the guns. Mr. Vanderbeec, run up the Stars and Stripes."
As the distance closed, Michael hailed to the Flagship, NASSAU, and began introducing himself to her Captain. Suddenly, his stomach went cold and he stopped his greeting in mid sentence as a sailor was brought on deck, bound hand and foot, and thrown, screaming, into a frenzy of sharks. His heart chilled as NASSAU’s crew applauded and jeered the man’s gruesome death. Stella came to his side and gripped his arm. “Michael!” Her voice was near frenzy. “Her wake is a river of blood!” He tore his eyes away from the grizzly scene and looked back to the Captain. He started to call out again but stopped, choking on his words as another man was thrown to the sharks.
Stella ran to the wheel and turned her back on the scene. The gurgling in her throat betrayed her disgust. She barely whispered, "Michael, you have to stop them." He called across the gap. "This is Captain Fields. Who is your Captain?”
A horse voice bellowed across the water. “I’m the Captain, young Mr. Fields. Captain Joshua Raven.” Stella gasped. “Captain Raven,” she repeated and looked to Michael.
His face was stony. His eyes narrowed to hooded slits. “What in the name of all that is holy are you doing, Captain?"
"Have no worry,” Captain Raven called back flippantly. Laughter from the crew followed his remark. “They're British prisoners we're disposing of."
Michael could hardly contain himself. He limped back from the rail, slid down the companionway to the main deck and peered over the rail as the telltale fin of a shark slid under the FALCON. He scrambled back up to the aftercastle and took the wheel. He piloted closer till the two ships paralleled each other, only a few yards separating their gun ports. He walked to the stern as the FALCON slowed and cut across NASSAU's wake. From there he could see the size of the gathered frenzy and the river of blood tinting the water behind her.
He called to his new second mate, "Mr.Vanderbeec, take the wheel and bring us parallel to NASSAU. Hold your position at fifty feet. Rhordon, keep your guns ready for my signal."
The distance decreased as the FALCON moved in. The crew watched in horror as two more men were cast over the side. Michael called back, "Captain Raven, this is inhuman, I demand you end this murder!"
"Mind your tongue, Captain Fields, this is my fleet and I'll not conscience your interference."
Michael stepped back from the rail, his eyes were glazed, his voice barely audible, "Rhorden, their gun crews have stood down. They’re not expecting a fight. Keep our gunners casual but prepared to fire."
"Captain,” responded Rhordon, “they're our allies. Der being Americans!"
Michael returned him a cold stare. Stella turned back from the rail, her face pale. For all the horror she had seen in the past years, the desperate cries of men being thrown to the sharks appalled her. A hush fell over the crew as Michael called again to Captain Raven. "Captain, I order you to cease this barbarity." A prisoner being brought to the rail shrieked, "Help me, sir. In the name of God, don't let them do this."
Strong hands picked him up and threw him over the side. He hit the water and was caught by a shark. The body never sank below the surface but was torn apart in the air by half a dozen sharks leaping out to be the first to rip the flesh and bone asunder. New blood tinted the water as the torn torso sank and a second wave of sharks entered the fray. The sailor's leg rose to the surface flopping lazily in the mouth of a leering monster that chomped it once and slid under the red tinted water.
A ten-foot shark came to the surface with a ragged piece of meat and cloth hanging from its mouth. It's dark, dead eyes looked up at Michael as it chewed the flesh and swallowed.
Michael's voice rose to a hysterical pitch, his hands gripped the rail as he called across the gap. "Sir, you will cease this butchery immediately."
Captain Raven called back, "Be gone if you have no stomach for killing, Captain Fields. We have work to do."
Michael turned to Rhorden and ordered, “Open Fire.” The first volley of the starboard guns ripped across NASSAU’s deck ripping planking from her and shattering the main mast. Michael spun the wheel and turned the FALCON hard to port bringing his forward chase guns to bear on a second ship. Their fire raked the decks with chain, stunning the ship’s crew caught unprepared for attack. He held the wheel hard to port bringing his aft chase guns to bare on NASSAU. They volleyed and ripped through her wheelhouse.
FAITH, ARGUMENT and FREEDOM picked up the battle. Simultaneously their guns roared at the nearest ships and they moved into grappling range. Michael spun the wheel back to starboard and wove the FALCON along side a schooner named LAURA, his starboard guns stared straight into the sailors, "Strike your colors,” he called, “or face my wrath." The aft chase guns roared at NASSAU again and sailors on both ships ran to the mast and hauled down their flags.
Long boats ferried the Captain and the First Mate from each of the captured ships to the PASSAIC FALCON. Each was greeted on deck and flanked by armed guards who escorted them to where Captain Fields waited to conduct court. The fleet drifted on the open water under minimum sail, armed boarding parties from Michael's fleet took command of their prizes. The captured crews migrated to the rails overlooking the FALCON, straining their eyes and ears to catch the proceedings that would predict their own fate.
Captain Raven was a bearded and grizzled sailor who stood nearly as tall as Michael. His features were hidden by a growth of wild whiskers that reminded Michael of the stories of Blackbeard, the Pirate. His eyes darted back and forth madly seeking something, flicking from sky to sea and back to Michael. He stood between two young sailors, his hands twitching at his side, "You don't remember me do ya' Laddie?"
“Memories are one thing,” growled Michael. “Present crimes are another. Plead your case Captain Raven."
"We met before, on Barbados Neck. I'm your Uncle Joshua!"
Michael stepped up and looked him in the eyes. "Plead your case, Captain Raven."
The wind was taken out of his sails, he started and stopped, then drew himself up and began, "The prisoners we are executing were the crew of the prison ship, FALMOUTH. When we took her, there were only 70 prisoners in the hold. Those survivors told us there had been nearly 1500 American sailors held on her. Almost the whole number had been fed to the sharks. What we are doing is retribution. An eye for an eye, laddie. And then you come along with your self righteous Sunday school manners and stop justice."
"I'll have none of this," roared Michael. “Visiting evil upon evil does not make it right!"
"It was justice!" Joshua's eyes broiled with blood lust. “I am the law on the sea and I'll not put up with some
young upstart telling me what I can and cannot do!"
He thrashed violently and threw the man on his left to the deck. He kicked to the right and caught the young sailor in the midriff, dropping him to the planking like a sack of potatoes. Joshua dove for the cutlass his guard had dropped, snatched it up and rolled over, away from the sailors grabbing for him and sprang back up to his feet and thrust for Michael's heart.
The blade touched Michael's skin opening a thin cut on his chest as he side stepped the lunge, drew his Indian knife and thrust it. The blade entered Joshua’s open mouth and lodged in the top of his skull. The force of the blow lifted Captain Raven off his feet and the tip of the blade poked through his matted hair. A stream of blood squirted on the Captains standing behind him and a solemn hush fell over the prisoners as Michael retracted his blade with a quick snap. Captain Raven’s body remained standing, head upturned to the sky, his eyes glazed, then slowly withered and collapsed onto the deck, still clutching the cutlass.
Sweat stood out on their brows as Michael turned to the Captains. Fear showed on their faces as he stepped forward and looked each man in the eye. "Mr. Connel,” he called. “Take command of this vessel. Reshuffle the crews and watch for trouble makers."
He stepped forward and saluted, "Aye, Captain."
Michael turned back to the Captains, "I am Captain of this fleet. Any who will not sail with me and follow my orders will be left ashore when next we sight land. Those who choose to stay and sail under my authority, know you well. I carry warrants of Marque and Reprisal from the Continental Congress of the United States of America. I will not tolerate murder. We are privateers who sail in search of booty. We do not steal from each other. If you choose to join me, serve me well, or join Captain Raven."
The ultimatum was short and direct and one by one the Captains stepped forward to swear their allegiance to Captain Fields. He accepted each with his word as his bond and assumed command of the fleet.
-*-
Michael gathered his Captains on the aftercastle of the FALCON to plot their new course. Captain Harris of WARRIOR, a heavily armed schooner escorting NASSAU, rose to speak. “Captain Fields, our fleet was sailing to Pensacola to join the Spanish under Admiral Galvez. He has blockaded the city and has held it under siege for nearly two months now. But he needs more guns to press the encirclement and force the British to surrender."
Michael looked around the table and polled his Captains. They all agreed, they should continue on to Pensacola.
-*-
The FALCON and NASSAU formed the powerful core of a fleet of eight vessels carrying a considerable amount of firepower but Michael knew a navy needed more than guns. At the Spanish port of Havana, they spent a large portion of the booty carried by the fleet in the market and loaded their ships to capacity with fresh water, fruits, vegetables, live stock and gunpowder. Michael's merchant instinct and soldiers experience told him a fleet on blockade for two months must be short on supplies, so with his holds full, he put to sea and laid his course for the Spanish Main. On board each ship there was a growing level of apprehension. The privateers were anxious for a fight but understood the danger inherent in a full-fledged firefight with an entrenched enemy.
-*-
May 1, 1781
Off the coast of Florida
The fleet approached Pensacola in the dark guided by the sight and sound of the battle. From beyond the horizon the flash of cannon fire lit the predawn sky like lightening and the rumble of the artillery duel rolled across the sea like thunder. Spanish picket ships showing all their lights sailed out to challenge them as they approached the battle zone. The Corvettes circled preparing for battle but when they recognized the Stars and Stripes, their crews broke into cheers. Michael hailed the commander but after a brief and unsuccessful attempt at communication, decided to follow a cutter headed toward the battle.
In Pensacola harbor, a Spanish fleet of thirteen Battleships, seven Frigates and thirteen large transports under the command of Admiral Galvez carried on a continuous bombardment of the British fortifications. Completing the encirclement on land was a force of 10,000 troops holding the British from fleeing and blocking all attempts at resupply.
Michael and Count Rhordon ferried to Admiral Galvez flagship and were escorted to his quarters where they found him engrossed in a progress review of the siege. It was not going well. The siege had begun with an ill omen. On the first day, his own flagship had run aground under the British guns and had to be abandoned. Since then, the British held stubbornly to every inch of ground and were successfully resisting his attempts to collapse the perimeter.
After being introduced and offering their services, Michael revealed the supplies he brought with him. The Admiral was grateful for his forethought and eagerly received the material. As Michael had surmised, his troops were in short supply of the staples he brought. Payment was offered in the form of vouchers for gold, to be paid after the successful conclusion of the siege. Michael accepted them warily along with orders for his fleet to take up a position in the blockade.
-*-
The PASSAIC FALCON led its line across the mouth of the harbor, guns blazing, to their designated firing position. NASSAU followed to the seaward with the two brigs, ARGUMENT and FAITH, close behind, the schooners LAURA and WARRIOR followed with their escorting cutters CASTOR and PULOX. The squadron dropped anchor within range of the fort and began a firefight with the forward battery. The splashes from their anchors had barely subsided when the British guns began seeking their range. Firing long then short, left then right, trying to fix the azimuth, trajectory and powder mix to put their shots on target. Slowly, the British zeroed in on their target.
On board, the crews worked feverishly to relocate their starboard guns to the port side to maximize their fire power and silence the emplaced guns. As the day progressed, Michael could not help remark on how fate had reversed itself and now instead of being the defender on the Hudson River cliffs, he was the one attacking a fortified position.
The duel lasted the rest of the day and into the night. Hour after hour, the guns roared and iron balls crashed into the decks tearing holes in the hulls while shot exploded overhead showering steel splinters on the gunners, shredding the furled sails and severing lines and ropes.
The young children stayed below decks during the bombardment while the older ones helped prepare munitions, drinking water and food and moved them to the gun decks. Stella oversaw the quartermaster's duties, directing the smooth movement of powder and shot out of the magazine and up to the guns. She and the other wives took their turns on the guns, ramming the wet sponge down the barrel, packing in the bags of powder and shot, then touching off the charge. From the aftercastle, Michael surveyed the target through his telescope and called new azimuth and elevations to Rhordon, who moved among the gun crews directing their efforts and honing their accuracy.
The sound of the guns and the shuddering of the ships left little time for sleep and none for idleness. Every hand had a duty that needed to be done if they were to survive. Exhausted gunners slept at their posts while their replacements kept up the fire. The children scurried about the gun ports rolling kegs of powder to the gunners, defying the shells bursting around them.
By the end of the third day, orders arrived to move NASSAU landward and direct her guns on a stubborn emplacement that refused to withdraw. Michael passed the order by flag signal to Captain Connel and watched apprehensively as the canvas dropped and the anchor was hoisted. The on shore breeze filled her sails and she moved closer to the fort. Suddenly her forward movement came to a lurching stop. The forward mast snapped as the bow rose up from the water exposing her waterline. She was grounded!
The crew of the NASSAU valiantly continued to fire but they were well within range of the fort batteries and without the ability to maneuver they were doomed. Within minutes, the British guns had her range and began pounding her. The main mast broke and fell, fires broke out in the holds and a dull explosion blew out the port side. Captain Connel screamed at his men to continue firing as the wounded were brought up on deck. His first officer made his way to the aftercastle where Connel stood. As he began to speak, his arm was taken off at the elbow by a cannon ball. The severed limb sprayed blood across the deck and painted Captain Connel’s tunic crimson. The officer cried out in shock and sank to the deck gripping the hemorrhaging limb. His skin was pallid as he reported, “Sir, fires below are out of control. There are not enough crewmen left standing to fight them!” Connel acknowledged the wounded officer as he tied off the bleeding limb with a length of rigging. Shells from the British guns were exploding with devastating effect among his crew. He called out with all his strength, "Abandon ship" as the explosions in her hold ripped her open and ignited fires that could not be quenched. Long boats from the PASSAIC FALCON’s fleet put into the water and raced to her rescue through a hail of bursting bombs. CASTOR and PULLOX wove their way to NASSAU, plumbing the depths to avoid the rocks and plucked crewmen out of the water, while all the time returning fire.
The British emplacement redirected their fire to concentrate on CASTOR and PULLOX and began a killing bombardment. Signal flags on the PASSAIC FALCON unfurled, their message was an order for his ships to weigh anchor and move closer to the NASSAU, where Captain Connel and a handful of the crew continued to man the forward chase guns, and lend support while her crew was evacuated. Smoke was billowing out of the holds. Fires were burning out of control, tongues of flame flared up and licked the sails setting them afire, yet Captain Connel and the crews manning the big guns continued the fight hurling high explosive shells into the air to burst over the stubborn battery. The cutters, CASTOR and PULLOX, were under intense fire from the fort. Cannonballs screamed through the air around them, miraculously missing their target, as they dropped anchored barrels on the rocks and shallows to mark the channel for the larger war ships.
Captain Connel and his gunners were finally forced to give up their positions and jump overboard as the fires over took the chase guns, ignited the powder and blew the bow open. Within minutes they were picked up by WARRIOR. Captain Harris saluted them as he directed the rescued crewmen and women to take their places on the Cutters to complement his depleted crews. Nearly every survivor was bloodied. Captain Connel was bleeding from half a dozen small wounds but miraculously none were serious.
Michael held his breath, the fires in NASSAU's hold were burning with unchecked fury and the magazine would explode any minute. Eric piloted FAITH past her, defying the gunfire from the fort, her guns blazing, concentrating on the target emplacement. CASTOR and PULLOX followed him in and nestled into the zone beneath the maximum depression of the garrison guns. From the safety of the shadow of the fortress walls, they opened fire with mortars. The squat guns mounted on their decks fired shells almost straight up and dropped down behind the defenses to explode among the defending gun crews.
Martin Shea, aboard ARGUMENT, saw the initiative had been gained and moved his ship in to give further cover and saw guns on the parapets being moved to positions that would threaten the Cutters. His shipboard guns opened fire with devastating effectiveness and tore a crater into the wall that prevented further reinforcement of the forward battery. WARRIOR and LAURA brought their guns to bear at nearly point blank range on the target emplacement, forcing her gunners to lay low and interrupting their firing pattern.
Not a sailor blinked or slowed their pace when NASSAU exploded. Furiously, they worked their routines, firing and reloading, laying an overwhelming blanket of fire on the emplacement. The concentrated pattern of bombs and shells they laid down finally silenced the guns and drew the noose around the British position a little tighter.
-*-
The price of their small victory was high. Messages from his fleet told Michael that nearly a quarter of NASSAU’s crew had been lost and another third were wounded. Fortunately, only a few of the children aboard had been injured and none seriously but two of the women were missing and believed dead. Casualties on the remaining ships were running about ten per cent and his crews were exhausted. The moaning of the wounded on the PASSAIC FALCON tortured Michael as he searched the decks for Stella. He found her sitting on the deck next to the number three gun, a linstock in her hand and Andrea nestled in the crook of her arm, asleep. Her face was covered with the grime of battle but she was uninjured and undaunted. Michael sat next to her and stoked Andrea's hair. Stella woke and leaned against Michael. She whispered, "The children are safe, I just checked on them."
Michael took her hand and whispered in her ear, "It's not over yet."
The quiet of the afternoon was eerie. The guns had stopped. The PASSAIC FALCON was not shuddering. A breeze blew in from the sea, fresh and sweet. Michael stood and surveyed his fleet. The ships were torn and patched. His crews were exhausted, wounded and dead. For a moment, the price his friends had paid welled over him and he contemplated withdrawing from the siege.
-*-
MAY 7, 1781
Michael and Rhordon stood over the chart table examining the details of the British fortifications. Rhordon hadn't slept in two days. He had been ferrying back and forth among the remaining ships of the Jersey fleet and the Spanish flagship and had spent last night painstakingly copying the Spanish map of the British fort. In the breaking dawn, he explained intricacies of the defenses to Michael.
"Der target not shown ist der magazine. We don't know ver it ist but we can deduce it ist in one of these two locations und heavily shield." Rhordon's remark roused Michael from his reverie. The thought of the peaceful cove they had found before taking their first prize seemed so long ago. He moved closer to the map as the one armed man pointed to the two locations he suspected. "Der first site is within our range.”
Michael mused, “If it is the magazine and we begin a concentrated bombardment on the area we could slow down their resupply and maybe even get lucky."
Rhordon was nodding his head in ascent. "Ve need to divert only a few guns from each ship to this new target und ve can put a substantial amount of fire power on to it."
Michael agreed. "It might be the wrong target but if we don't do something, we may spend the next three months on this damn siege."
-*-
MAY 9, 1781
A huge explosion ripped through the central revetments of the British fort and a fireball, bigger than the explosion that had broken the back of DRAGON, rose to the sky. Stella ran out on deck, awakened from a restless sleep, nearly panicked to see the harbor painted with a glowing amber hue and the crew cheering. She stepped up behind Rhordon, his head was lowered and she could hear him offering a prayer of thanksgiving. She touched his arm and he turned to her. His face was drawn and his eyes rimmed with red. His accent seemed thicker than she remembered, “Der magazine has been struck, Frau Fields. Es ist only a matter of time now fur der British sue for surrender.” The fireball rose into the night sky and faded, it’s blood red pale dimmed and returned to the dark of the moonless night. Michael was exhausted but joined in with the crew and led them in a wild cheer before calling them away from the rail and back to the guns.
"Continue firing, he called to Rhordon, but you may slow down the pace for the remainder of the night. Every third crewman may stand down."
The sun rose and played a golden light on the broken walls of the fortifications and the sound of artillery fire died down to be replaced by the mournful wailing of a bagpipe. Stella watched through her telescope as the Union Jack of the British Empire was lowered and replaced by the white flag of truce.
-*-
Admiral Galvez was good to his word. Payment for the supplies Michael's fleet brought was made promptly and a share of the military supplies captured in the fortress was given to his fleet as spoils. Little was said in the way of farewell as Michael received his payment and departed the Admiral's presence. Victorious, war wearied, bloodied and exhausted, the Jersey fleet set sail, with holds full of military supplies, leaving the still smoking rubble of Pensacola in their wake.
-*-
ST. EUSTATIUS
JUNE 1, 1781
The fleet returned to Tumble Down Dick and dropped anchor. For nearly a week the crews joined with their French allies in the revelry of a victory celebration. The taste of success and survival was sweet on their tongues and weight of gold in their pockets helped them forget the loss of comrades and friends. As more privateers returned from the siege to tell the tale, the status of Captain Field's and the courage of his crews rose to near heroic proportions among the denizens of St. Eustatius.
The “Skull and Bones” tavern seemed nearly empty. The Captains of the Jersey Privateers had taken it for their own and barred the doors to anyone but their own close circle. Behind it's substantial doors, ensconced in luxurious chairs, drinking wine from the vineyards of Europe, they met to discuss their future. The first topic of the meeting was the arrival of the hurricane season and the need to find a safe haven to weather out the storms. The second topic arose from Martin.
"Let’s get out of the war!" The voice had almost been a whisper but it carried over the gathering and stopped the flow of conversation. The prospect needed to be examined. Martin's head nodded nervously, he held Mary’s hand as he spoke.
"I can’t do this again, Michael. I have no belly for seeing my wife and children blown to pieces! I lost friends on the NASSAU. Friends I should have spoken more kindly to. Friends whose company I shall miss and whose ghosts will haunt me till I die! I cannot bare the thought of walking the decks of ARGUMENT, ankle deep in my kinsman's blood. Their souls would cry out for vengeance and I have none to give!" He was on the verge of tears, the siege of Pensacola had left his spirit broken and wounded. Mary held his hand as he tried to speak but no more words came forth.
"No more vengeance. No more killing." Eric repeated the words as if in a dream.
"Das ist ristige,” said Rhordon. “Considering that Ish… I am wealthy beyond my wildest dreams!"
Mrs. McDougal spoke in her husband’s behalf. "We both have seen bayonet killing and slaughtering. But this cannon business is too much for me. I can run a man through with a cutlass as well as any but to render a dozen men asunder at the touch of a linstock, that troubles me." The old Sergeant nodded drunkenly and buried his head deep in his wife's bosom.
The idea sat uneasily with Michael yet it struck a cord. His country was not yet free but hadn't he and his family and friends fought valiantly. Hadn't they suffered enough? He excused himself from the tavern and stepped out to the brilliant sun. Stella followed him and sat next to him under a stand coconut of trees.
In the after noon heat, Michael leaned against a tree and lit his pipe. The tobacco didn’t taste as sweet as the Kanicanic he remembered. The harbor lay at his feet, shimmering in the heat wave. Seven ships and seven crews. Stella touched his shoulder, "What is your decision, Captain?"
Her voice was soft, not mocking but soothing. He shifted on his stiff leg and took her hand. "There is a loyalty, a duty, I must complete before looking to my own. I'm troubled by my desire to abandon it.” He paused, words and feelings struggling to be heard. “I'm so tired of fighting."
He gazed off to the sea, "I can't make a decision now. Let's take a walk in the market." He called to Andrea, who was playing with several other children and took her hand as she ran to his side. Hand in hand the three strolled through the market as the merchant's called out for them to see the best of their wares. The merchant's sense subdued the soldier as they walked and Michael felt himself slipping back into the life he loved.
On a shady back street, not far from the harbor, they found a Cartographer. Ever since he was a child, Michael found the mapmaker's shop to be a place of excitement and knowledge. He paused for a second and thought of the day he bought his first telescope. A trace of his mother and father swept over him. His sister, so long ago...gone. He shook their specters aside and peered into the window, past the display, into the depths of the shop. It promised to hold treasures and mysteries.
The shop was situated at a crossroads and when viewed from the top of the small rise, its lure attracted only an interested passerby. The setting sun flashed off polished copper and glass. He leaned his weight on to the walking stick and reached out to touch Stella's arm. She looked to him and followed his gaze.
Stella took her daughter's hand and led her toward the shop as Michael stepped up to the door. The ideas she had heard at the tavern were taking root in her mind and she mulled over the motives that had originally caused her to undertake the voyage. Although, vengeance was at first foremost in her heart, it had dwindled as she fell deeper in love with Michael and felt the new life within her move.
Michael entered the shop, the charts of far away places exerted an inexorable attraction on him. He turned to Stella and Andrea, signaling them to follow him and disappeared into the gloom.
Inside, astrolabes, sextants and compasses, telescopes, globes and charts surrounded him. Scanning the displays of navigation tools, books and tables, they chatted about the comparative merits of their own ship's equipment to that being offered. Stella lifted a heavily engraved brass telescope from its cradle and peered out the window to the harbor. She rested the instrument on the windowsill and picked out the PASSAIC FALCON sleepily bobbing on the bay, her anchor firmly resisting the outgoing tide. The device was good enough for her to clearly see young Peter Vandervoort on the main deck of ARGUMENT pacing back and forth as if he were the Master.
She caught Michael's eye and nodded, "I like this one."
The shopkeeper stepped forward and introduced himself, "Bon Jour, Mon Capitan. Je suis Marceau." Andrea stepped forward and engaged the man with the charm and precociousness of a five year old. “Je suis Andrea Fields et mo mare un papa.” With a flourish and a bow Marceau offered the greetings of the day to her and then to Michael and Stella. He addressed Stella first and complimented her on the choice of a high quality instrument. His deeply accented English was a task to be understood but Stella worked her way through his speech and ascertained he was asking if there were anything else he might show them.
Michael commented on the poor quality of the maps he had brought from Chestnut Neck and inquired if there were more accurate charts available. Marceau stepped aside from an obscure doorway and with a flourish of arms said, "But of course" and gestured his customers to the next room, "Entre, Se vouz plea".
The back of his shop was a honeycomb of octagonal compartments holding rolled parchment charts. The couple turned first to the left. The bins before them were marked with the names of islands and ports they knew throughout the Caribbean. To the right, were maps the Americas, then England, Europe, Africa and the Far East. There were maps of the South Seas and the frozen north.
Michael and Stella examined them with practiced and critical eyes. "They're very good," she said under her breath as they poured over a map of Pensacola harbor. Michael exhaled heavily, If they only known the detail this chart showed on the day of the battle. They looked at the date in the legend, it was nearly six months before the battle. Michael breathed his words, "If Admiral Galvez had possessed a map of this quality before his assault, he surely would not have run his flagship aground the first day." Stella breathed deeply, "And we would not have lost NASSAU. With these, the battle might have...."
Michael scanned the bins and selected a number of charts depicting places they had been. Again, the detail was superior. The rocks and shallows they had experienced on their transit of the Virgin Islands were clearly shown. The plantations of Jamaica...
Marceau reached to the highest honeycomb and brought down a scroll short enough to be completely hidden in the compartment. Stella's eyes grew wide with amazement, the margin notes warned of British patrols, noted the date of incident, their strength and direction. Michael rolled it into a map of the Welch Cornwall Coast and asked the price.
"You are Captain Fields, mai oui?"
He directed his gaze between the Frenchman's eyes concentrating on the bridge of the nose and made no reply.
"Oui. I can see it is. Your name has come to me with high regard. You are an honest man, so I understand. A man of courage and principal, fighting for the cause of American Freedom." He paused and studied Michael then turned with a smile to Stella and Andrea. "The charts in your hand are a gift, a token of my esteem and the respect of those who have known you. I hope there will be use for them.”
Michael nodded his head and chuckled. "Thank you, sir,” he acknowledged, “and now, I suppose there is something of even greater value you would like to show me?"
"But of course! There are more where that, rather primitive sketch came from. Charts that may be of great value to you and your cause."
Michael produced a stack of gold coins from his pocket and ran them through his fingers. The coins rang as he shuffled them, making a musical chime and displaying his ability to pay.
"I would be most interested in detailed charts," he said.
Marceau produced a book of charts showing the Windward and Leaward Islands trade lanes, tides, depths and information about towns and supplies from Puerto Rico to South America. Michael flipped through the nearly fifty pages, unrolled the two he held and closed them into the book. He placed half his gold on the table and smiled.
Over the next hour, Marceau and Michael decided the final price for a series of sky charts, timepieces, the telescope Stella admired and navigation equipment for the fleet. But the Frenchman was not finished surprising them and just when Michael thought there was nothing left to purchase the man smiled and said, "There is yet something else you may be interested in. Let me be so presumptuous as to assume that you will be shipping goods to your American states?" Michael nodded. "You understand that profits are much higher in England and can be even higher with these." The man held up a sheet of paper embossed with a series of wax seals. "Tax Stamps,” he said. “As good as any produced by his Majesties Tax Collectors. With these you can send your goods into any English port in the world, even London, itself, duty free!"
A thin smile crossed Michael's face as the man outlined the basic premise of the British Stamp and Tax Acts. “The King has been taxing the empire to pay for his war against France. Every item that enters or leaves a colony pays a tax. Nothing moves anywhere around the globe without these wax approvals of the English Crown. Would it behoove you to have a supply of these or might you perhaps care to control their production, yourself?” Michael could barely control his mirth. The idea of counterfeiting tax and duty stamps was being presented as a business opportunity. His smuggler’s instinct awoke. A new way of life. An old way revisited. His hand felt Stella touch his and squeeze.
"If you are interested,” Marceau pointed to a map on the wall, “then you should go here.” His bony finger pointed to the coast of South America and then traced the track of the Windward Islands northward. He stopped halfway across the chain and drew his face close up to the chart. "On an island with two tall mountains, steep mountains, Les Pitons. Spikes. In the town at their base, my cousin also owns a cartographer's shop. He will provide you with all the stamps and seals you will need.
-*-
The payment in gold for the supplies they had brought to Admiral Galvez was disbursed at a reckoning, considerably more somber than their last. At its conclusion, Michael appointed Martin to be the new captain of WARRIOR and designated her to return to Chestnut Neck carrying profits for the VENGEANCE CORPORATION and military supplies for General Washington's army. Martin and Mary fell into each other's arms at the news and thanked Michael for his understanding.
Arthur Connel, who had distinguished himself aboard the NASSAU, was given Martin’s assignment as the Captain of the ARGUMENT and with the assignments completed, the crews were freed to enjoy their extended shore leave. Late that night, with only a skeleton watch guarding the ships, the mapmaker made a surreptitious delivery of navigation instruments and charts in exchange for bags of silver and gold coins. The skeleton crew, keeping watch on the moored fleet paid sharp interest. They knew their Captain had paid an exceptional price for books and tools and these new tools most likely held their future.
The Mapmaker’s long boat pulled silently away from the PASSAIC FALCON leaving Michael and Stella, standing on the aftercastle waving as he faded into the shadows of the night. The deck officer saluted Michael and reported. “All the cargo has been received and stowed in your cabin, Captain.” Satisfied, Michael told the man to return to his duty and they retired to their stateroom.
Under the light of an oil lamp, they sat on the Captain's bed flipping through the books and examining the day's purchase. Stella nuzzled her lips into the hollow of Michael's neck and kissed him while Andrea slept peacefully on her bunk at the far side of the cabin. Michael pulled himself away from the acquisitions and turned his attention to her. In the dim light her eyes sparkled and he kissed her deeply. “A new venture,” he whispered. “No more fighting. We can return to the ways we know. These charts are extraordinary. They show the movements of British patrols at the passageways from the Atlantic to the Caribbean. This information gives us the routes by which our fleet can cross the straits undetected!” They poured over the charts, examining each, posting some on the bulkheads, discarding others and plotting their next voyage.
"Saint Lucia," Stella rolled the word off her tongue, "Fresh water, jungle, a deep harbor and that crazy Frenchman's cousin." She giggled as Andrea staggered sleepily from her bed and joined them as the parrots given to them by Kanu Baka flapped their wings fitfully. "Maybe even a place away from the war,” she said.
Michael tasseled her hair and said, “Maybe we can forget this madness and raise our family there in peace." Stella agreed and wrapped her arms around him and pulled him down on the bed. She stroked his face, and lay back on the pillows, looking deeply into his eyes. “I'm pregnant,” she said.
Forgetting the charts as a new reality crashed into his life, he touched her hair, bent over her and gently touched his lips to hers. His eyes welled with tears as he caressed her shoulders, then hugged her deeply. Andrea pushed her way between them and was swept up into their circle.
"As soon as we can gather the crews,” he said, “we sail for Saint Lucy."
-*-
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
THE COUNTERFEITERS
SUMMER, 1781
Michael's fleet cautiously approached the town at the foot of the spikes. "Les Pitons" the Frenchman had called them. They were an unmistakable landmark, rising nearly straight up out of the clear sea, stark and steep. Behind them, mountains covered with lush green jungle grew raggedly upward toward the sky, dwarfing the spikes. Further inland, veiled in mist, smoke curled up to the heavens from the cone of an unsettled volcano.
Streams of fresh water, fed by rains carried on the trade winds, rolled off the cliffs on the Atlantic side and plunged to the sea in a mist that painted the daylight with rainbows. Birds circled the ships at anchor, diving to steal scraps of food discarded over the sides before the shimmering clouds of brilliantly colored fish devoured them. At the jungle's edge, birds of breath taking color flew from branch to branch while tiny hummingbirds hovered in mid air, like glimmering bees, lancing flowers of brilliant red and yellow to gather their treasure. Green and red parrots and the omnipresent sea gulls alighted on the spars of the main mast tempting the sailors to catch them and flying off at the last minute.
The town of Soufriere lay on a narrow coastal plane at the foot of the larger spike, nestled in a gentle cove with a fresh water stream running down from the jungle covered mountains. Rows of stone houses clustered around the stream, their number thinned as he steeply rising land became thick jungle and quickly transformed into impassable foothills lying before a gently rumbling volcano. The piers were a bustling hive of activity. French navy ships sat at anchor, while dozens of long boats and small sailboats ferried between them and the dock transferring men and supplies. A squadron of Spanish ships escorting a Battleship from Admiral Galvez fleet rode deep in the water as they finished taking on supplies and prepared to weigh anchor. A Dutch ship was unloading a cargo and building a prodigious pile of kegs on the wharf while an American privateer sat seemingly idle near a point of land that screened her from the sea.
Stella stood on the foredeck next to Michael as the PASSAIC FALCON, flying the French flag under her Stars and Stripes, stood outside the harbor. He steadied the telescope and watched as FAITH entered and dropped anchor amid the bustle of warships and armed merchantmen. They didn't have to wait long before a long boat pulled away from the dock and came along side her, it's lone passenger wearing the blue uniform of a French Official. A short time later the signal flags on FAITH’s main mast proclaimed greetings and welcome from the French Administrator. The PASSAIC FALCON and her escorts moved into berth and were in turn greeted by the French Harbormaster, a cordial fellow, who invited them to stay as long as their business required.
The ever-present threat of war lay heavily on the town. At every corner French soldiers in full battle dress were on constant alert. At nightfall, French ships of the line arrived at the harbor, dropped anchor, took on supplies and were gone with the sunrise, returning to their patrols and a continual running battle with the English fleet. The island was strategically important to both the French and English. It was one of the few islands with a plentiful supply of fresh water and a deep harbor. But most importantly, its location on the trade winds made it a natural landfall for Atlantic travelers and a prize for the powers seeking to control the treasures of the West Indies. Since the mid 1500's the European powers had battled incessantly for possession of St. Lucia trading it back and forth on a regular basis with the changing fortunes of war.
Michael sent scouts to reconnoiter the market and report back to him on the location of stalls displaying desirable wares and the going prices. When they returned, their intelligence included the location of the mapmaker's shop and he fixed it in his mind. In the market, Michael and Stella found goods and wares of every description. Fresh fruits and vegetables, slaves, guns, rum, the loot of the English Empire in the Caribbean were for sale at prices no self-respecting smuggler or merchant could ignore. Briefly he thought of his trading expeditions on the Passaic River as he mulled over the interesting products in the merchant's stalls without ever hearing the word; tax.
Andrea scrambled from vendor to vendor her eyes wide with excitement as her parents explored their way through the rowdy market. After the long days at sea, they were anxious to delve into the buying and selling, bartering and haggling. Without difficulty Michael negotiated a market for the fleet's goods and purchased supplies of rifles, powder and shot to be sent back to General Washington and trade goods to take with them when they left.
Casually, he wandered the market till he found the true object of his search. The building was made of stone and mortar and cut into the side of the mountain. Across the dusty street from it's door stood a symbol the shop's relative importance, a guard post, manned by two uniformed French soldiers. The men were not the usual sleepy troopers, these men were alert and watchful as they warily examined and controlled the traffic approaching the shop.
The instructions Marceau had given him were quite specific and Michael palmed the identifying coin he had been given and stepped up to the guard's desk. He leaned on the tabletop, placing both hands, palm down and asked for Maartin, the Mapmaker. Standing up straight, the silver coin glistened in the sun and was deftly swept under a leaf of paper by the sweaty but clean shaven soldier, who acknowledged him and pointed to the doorway Michael knew to be the address he sought.
The entryway was low and he had to bend to pass into the gloom within. Michael paused for a moment, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the light, it was difficult to see inside but he stepped boldly in, his hand resting easily on his knife. Stella paused at the door, a pistol hidden in the fold of her skirt. Inside, a woman greeted Michael and he asked for Maartin. She responded in French and motioned him deeper into the shop.
Michael drifted by the door and invited Stella to enter. She stepped in behind him and waited for her eyes to adjust while pretending to examine the sparse goods displayed in the shop. As her eyes adjusted, she determined the charts and instruments displayed were of inferior quality. Michael dismissed buying anything and was about to leave when a voice from the shadows called to him, " Captain Fields, what you seek is not in this shop."
Michael turned, "So I see,” he responded. “Where should I search for the quality goods?"
"You have vessels at anchor,” Mon Capitan. “Let me prove my value to you.”
Michael sized the man up. He was shorter than he with a stock of white hair and a round belly that belied a life of ease.
Michael was troubled. He hadn't introduced himself! What was the man proposing?
"How do you know my name?”
"My cousin, Marceau, told me you were coming. He arrived only yesterday and has departed already. He spoke highly of you. He seems to think you are a man of substance, courage and integrity. Qualities in short supply these days. He also told me, you are a merchant to be taken seriously."
Michael nodded his head, acknowledging the compliment and asked, "Can you provide tax and inspection stamps?"
“The Frenchman nodded his head, "Mai ouis. I can provide you with stamps to satisfy any revenue inspector in the British Empire. I have inspection stamps, seals and duty vouchers which can be posted on your cargoes. May I suggest they be sold at a British port, shall we say Barbados, or Jamaica? No, England, herself! Yes, that may just be an adequate and proper test."
"An admirable suggestion and smelling of a trap,” he said. “Admiral Hood would love to get his hands on me, Letters of Marque or none."
"Captain Fields, if I were an assassin, you would already be dead. Let us dispense with such absurdity. May I propose a sort of hostage to you. I wish to depart this island. Over the years I have accumulated a considerable amount of personal property which I want to transport to France. I think we can negotiate a reasonable transport price."
Michael quoted a deliberately unreasonable price for transporting the man's property to the Mediterranean port of Marseilles. The man smiled, "Would you accept in trade the presses, casts and molds to counterfeit revenue stamps as reasonable payment for your service?"
A small smile creased the corner of Michael’s mouth and he responded, "That might be arranged but, of course, I would like to inspect the trade goods."
"As you wish, meet me here at dawn, tomorrow, and be prepared for a hike up the volcano."
At the rising of the sun, Michael, accompanied by Stella, Eric and Carol met Maartin at the tavern alongside the Soufriere River. The old Frenchman had a tall black man named Albert with him. He was not a slave but a friend, who led the way along a thin track into the jungle and up the mountain. The hike up the volcano was exhausting. The heat of the day, the depth of the jungle and the steep incline slowed their progress to a crawl. In places, the jungle overgrew the narrow path completely and Albert had to hack a path through with a short sword. The smells emanating from cracks in the mountain threatened to overwhelm the climbers. Stella choked on the fumes, "It smells like rotten eggs," she moaned.
Maartin responded, “It is sulfur burning in the heart of the volcano. Not far from here are natural hot mineral baths where our soldiers rest and reinvigorate themselves.”
At mid morning, Maartin told them they were approaching the cave where the counterfeiter’s shop was located. Suddenly, two soldiers, wearing the blue uniforms of the French Navy and carrying muskets with fixed bayonets, intercepted the party. Maartin called to them in French and exchanged a few words. The sentries carefully scrutinized them, responded cordially and escorted them the last deceptive yards to the counterfeiter's lair.
Two more soldiers, stationed further up the trail, greeted the old man and offered him a hand up the last few steps. They seemed to be old friends as they chatted then stood aside as Maartin led the column into the cool darkness of a cave.
The entrance was wide enough for two people walking abreast and high enough for the soldiers to enter without removing the bayonets from the rifles they carried slung over their shoulders. A small fresh water stream trickled out of the corner of the raw stone mouth of the cave and ran over the sheer cliff to the jungle floor a hundred meters below.
Deep inside the cave, the tunnel opened into a large chamber where the French had built a forge to melt the metals needed to make the casts of tax stamps. Lanterns hung from the rough stone walls at regular intervals and spread a dull yellow light around the chamber. In the center, smoke from the forge fire curled up to the roof, slipped into cracks and vented out farther up the mountain where it mixed with the ever present belching from the mountain.
To the left of the cavern entry, tables and racks of materials used in the manufacture of the wax, colored ribbons and official seals lined the wall. Along the right, artisans monitored the mixture of varnish, dye and bees wax, in production, adding ingredients till the mixture took on the proper color and consistency. Michael moved from table to vat, examining the supplies and process. He marveled at the simplicity of the operation and the quality of the finished product. He had seen enough tax tamps in is life to evaluate them as more than satisfactory.
When he finished inspecting the materials, Maartin guided them into a narrow side shaft leading sharply up to daylight. The tunnel opened on to a ledge overlooking a jungle river valley a hundred meters below. The ledge was sheer and final, there was no fence around the precipice except for a dinner table at the edge set for five. Maartin motioned them to sit, pulling out a chair for Stella, then Carol. The flourish of old fashioned chivalry and manners brought color to the cheeks of the women. He then gestured for the men to sit. The view over the valley was spectacular and a gentle breeze scented with jungle flowers carried up to them.
A waiter dressed in formal attire, emerged from the cave carrying a tray of wine, cheese, fruits and bread which he placed it on the table and returned inside the mountain. A few seconds later, he returned, this time carrying a tray of cold beef. Michael drank deeply on the wine; it was icy cold and sweet. Stella sat beside him, speechless as she stared out over the valley, looking to the misty distance where the neighboring island of Martinique floating on the azure blue of the Caribbean. Eric and Carol sat holding each other's hands numbed to speechlessness by the beauty of the view. Maartin cut a piece of cheese and placed it on a slice of fruit with a rich aroma and ate it. He was used to the view and enjoyed his traditional European brunch in comfort and ease while his guests struggled with the immensity of the landscape before them.
The conversation over the meal slowly turned from the panorama to the pertinent processes of manufacturing stamps and then to the actual cost of taking over the counterfeit trade. The price they agreed upon was the safe transport of the counterfeiters, their property and possessions to France.
Michael rose and shook the man's hand. "Have your representatives on my ship, FAITH, two days from now. I have a cargo for your inspector to stamp and seal in her hold. We will give your stamps a real test."
-*-
The next days were spent outfitting FAITH to carry a cargo, sealed with counterfeit tax stamps, to the British port of Jamaica. Eric versed his crew to be on their best behavior and carry off the impersonation of British merchants sailing from Honduras.
-*-
Michael and his Captains sat at a table in a tavern named JOLIE ROGET. The name in French meant Red Flag, the signal ordering that no prisoners were to be taken. It was the origin of the term JOLLY ROGER, the name taken by pirates and given to their skull and bones flag. The French tavern owner had welcomed them warmly and shown them how to prepare a drink that quickly became their favorite. Michael followed the recipe and sliced a green lime in quarters and placed one into a tankard. Next, he added a heaping spoonful of brown sugar and ground the sugar into the lime, squeezing out the juice and desolving the sugar. Finally, he added a generous portion of dark rum and swirled the mixture in the mug, sniffed it and took a swallow. The fire of the rum was extinguished by the sweetness of the sugar and lime. He began preparing another before he had even finished the first. Rhordon was leaning back in his chair idly watching the last slivers of FAITH’S sail disappear over the horizon when he saw a pair of French naval officers he recognized walking along the wharf and invited them to join in a drink. Vanderbeec raised his drink and saluted the officers as they sat and commented on the beauty of the island. “We should set up our base of operations here. It’s much nicer than St Eustatius.”
Michael grimaced as he bit into the lime rind at the bottom of his glass. “Yes, it is nice but rather unstable. Captain,” he addressed the senior French Officer, “how long have the French controlled St. Lucy?”
The officer drained the last of his drink, savoring the sugar at the bottom of the tankard and responded. “We took it back from the British last year. Prior to that they held it for about two years.” He twirled his hand lazily in the air, “We trade it back and forth every few years.”
Michael mulled over the information. “I would prefer to be somewhere out of the way. Someplace unobtrusive. Hidden. Well fortified, yet comfortable.”
“Well, Capitan Fields, the old fortification on the island of Guadeloupe may be what you seek.” Michael perked up. “Tell me more.”
“The island is actually two islands and shaped like a butterfly.” He dipped his finger into his tankard and drew the shape on the table. “The fort is located here.” He pointed to where the wings came together. There is a shallow strait separating the islands and at the south end our fort sits on a small hill overlooking the town of Pointe-a-Pitre. The structure is run down, we have not quartered troops there for a decade or more. But the harbor is good and offers protection from the hurricane winds. I am sure the governor would be pleased to have so valiant an ally as a resident and Admiral Vaudreuil may very well write a letter of introduction for you.”
As the sun set into the Caribbean and the meal was finished, Michael and his Captains parted company with the French officers, wished them well and reiterated his interest in the abandoned fort on Guadeloupe. They promised to bring the subject to the attention of Admiral Vaudreuil and send word of his answer.
-*-
FAITH returned to St. Lucia only a day behind the schedule Captain Smyth had established at the outset of his voyage. She was loaded with a cargo of rum, gold jewelry and items of beauty bartered with the plantation owners of Jamaica. Eric ferried to the PASSAIC FALCON and reported to Michael that the stamps were totally successful and their trade goods had brought excellent prices. "We weren't questioned at all. But I must tell you that when the tax collector came on deck, I was shivering like a pony in winter. All the way down to the hold, I held my hand on my pistol. But when he looked over the seals, scratched them, tested them with acid and pronounced them official, I could have screamed with joy. Michael, we can get out of the war! We can go back to being merchants. We can serve our country, and ourselves, without fighting!”
Michael rose from his chair and thanked his old friend. “We will meet at the JOLIE ROGET tonight. The captains will be most interested to hear your story.”
-*-
The following week, FAITH's hold was filled with the Counterfeiter's property and dispatched to France with the counterfeiters, their families and partners and a hold full of the goods they had accumulated selling their bogus seals. Captain Smyth would spend the summer in France with his family and return at the end of the hurricane season. He and Michael planned to rendezvous at their new base of operations on the French island of Guadeloupe.
-*-
In the hills above the town of Pointe-A-Petre, Michael established a base for his technicians and their counterfeiting operation. Guadeloupe was an amiable place to settle. The harbor was protected from the hurricanes and deep enough to accommodate the PASSAIC FALCON. The hillsides were volcanic stone and riddled with the same type of caves the French had used to hide their counterfeiting operation on St. Lucia.
Michael ordered the fort overlooking the harbor to be remodeled as a home for his family. Nestled in the lee of the cliffs overlooking the rocky shoals known as “Les Saintes,” the main building was cut into the stone over a warren of interconnecting caves that kept the inner rooms of the household cool and comfortable, even in the depths of summer. A dozen captured cannon were hauled up the hill and placed on the walls overlooking and protecting the harbor.
The money he had accumulated over the years was spent liberally to secure the laborers needed in the construction of his new home. The Indian and French workers he retained were marvelous craftsmen who cut further into the hillside to create a huge hall and fashioned vaulting arches to frame the room. Outside, the parapets were widened and extended in to meet the living quarters and form an expansive veranda. Gardens of tropical flowers, taken from the surrounding jungle, were planted in free flowing beds that reminded Michael of the Lenapi gardens in Jersey. When the home was completed, it looked and felt much like the fortress they had assaulted on Jamaica but without a back gate. Their home was nestled against the mountainous jungle of this exotic paradise and exuded a gentle air that made it a home.
As the construction progressed, Stella found it increasingly comfortable to spend her time directing the placement of memorabilia and decorative art about her new home. Her pregnancy was growing well and Michael lavished his attention and affection on her, totally thrilled with the prospect of fathering the child they had both longed for. The new baby was to be a seal on their marriage and with the birth fast becoming a reality they nestled comfortably into a new phase of their love.
As the birth approached, Stella and Andrea sailed less and spent more of their time at home preparing for the event. At first, Michael felt alone at the helm. He missed the companionship of his family but the welcome he received on returning from the sea, filled the void and rewarded the empty time. When the PASSAIC FALCON sailed into harbor, he would look through his telescope up to the side of the mountain to his new home, and make out the figures of Stella and Andrea on the veranda looking back to him through her telescope and waving.
From the new base, Michael’s fleet plied the Caribbean trade lanes bringing supplies to the allied fleets that were engaging the British at every opportunity. Their efforts supported the damage being wrought upon the economy of England by the combined fleets of the European powers and graciously kept him away from the fighting. His ships frequented the privateer's lairs where their tax stamps were highly desired and word spread quickly through the Privateer community, "Captain Fields has counterfeit tax stamps." This product developed into the most profitable corner stone of his trade route dealing in supplies and intelligence. Wherever his ships sailed, they always carried a stock of counterfeit stamps and whenever they met an American Privateer, they cheerfully provided their favorite service in exchange for booty to be traded, bartered or sold in the smuggler's market. Michael’s ear in the market place also brought word to him that was valuable to friends and allies. He found there was a market for the information he accumulated. Valuable tidbits of stories, rumors, and hard data gleaned from a thousand sources could be traded to the French or Spanish for gold. But even more importantly, for consideration. The trade in papers and information became the new object of his interest. Often he compared his new life to what he had done on Barbados Neck. The product was different, but the same rules applied. A valuable commodity needed to be protected. And the more valuable the commodity, the greater the need for protection. And the profits he made were huge, while the inventory was only himself and his closest confidant, Stella. The combination was perfect for an old smuggler like Michael.
-*-
The big fleets departed the Caribbean with the arrival of the first Hurricane of the season. The English, typically, sailed north for the American waters leaving garrisons at their strategic ports on Barbados and Jamaica. The French left smaller garrisons spread along the line of the Windward Islands of Guadeloupe, Martinique and St. Lucia and St. Martine in the Leeward Islands. For the next four months the Caribbean belonged to those foolhardy, or brave enough to risk navigating under the threat of the summer storms. The hurricane season of 1781 was particularly cruel. Across the Caribbean vicious and unpredictable tropical storms lashed the islands in a series of gales that showed no preference or mercy to the ships under sail or at anchor.
-*-
The PASSAIC FALCON with two escorting schooners, CASTOR and PULLOX, were returning from a successful trading venture at St Eustatius. Headed to Guadeloupe by the Atlantic route, they were leisurely cruising their way back to their home base on a course far enough east of the island archipelago to avoid British patrols. Michael sniffed the air and cast a wary eye to the east. The horizon had turned a lead gray color and the barometer was dropping. The wind was increasing at an alarming rate and Michael smelled trouble. Fully loaded with military supplies to be sold to the French and Spanish fleets anchored off Guadeloupe, the PASSAIC FALCON and her escorts rode deep in the water and slow in the wind.
Vanderbeec held the wheel with both hands and struggled to keep her on course. Above him the timbers creaked and moaned with the strain. Sailors in the rigging fought to keep their footing and the canvas from tearing. The swells were growing larger and coming across the PASSAIC FALCON rather than from behind causing her to roll deeply. Michael made his way across the deck to the wheel carefully checking his grip on the lifeline as he moved. A wave crashed over the main deck and shook the PASSAIC FALCON as he reached out and grasped the wheel. His First Mate greeted him. “Captain, the winds are hard from the south-south east. We’ve got a gale on our hands.” Together they held the wheel and fought the wind and waves trying to keep the PASSAIC FALCON on course.
“Captain, she’s sluggish. If we hold this course we’ll be swamped!” Vanderbeec’s voice was pleading with fear as The PASSAIC FALCON rode high on a swell and then slid down into a well between waves that towered over her Mainsail. From the east, the wall of dark gray clouds was closing fast bringing rougher seas, rain, lightening and higher wind. There was no doubt about it, a hurricane was closing on them! Aft of the PASSAIC FALCON, CASTOR and PULLOX were battling the ocean and barely holding their own. Michael called to the Boson, “Run up signals. Stay close and batten down the hatches. Mr. Vanderbeec, secure yourself to the wheel. I don’t want you washed over board.”
“Aye, Captain,” he called and struggled into a leather harness secured to the deck by a length of rope. As Michael was going down the companionway to the chartroom, Rhordon was coming up. “Captain,” he called. “Ich never seen ein, aber des looks like eine hurricane zue meir. Ve need zu find a safe harbor.”
Michael called back through the wind, “I know. The nearest hurricane hole is home. But we are being driven off our course. If we try to ride this one out we will have to plan on at least three days extra on our trip.” He called to Stella. “Do we have enough water to hold out that long?”
Her voice was frightened. “We have less than a days ration. We sold all we could spare to that French Battleship. If we end up three days out into the Caribbean without water, it will be a death sentence to us all!”
Michael had already digested what Stella restated. They couldn’t ride it out! Their intended approach to Guadeloupe was rapidly becoming impossible as they were blown further and further off course. “We are not going to be able to make it by the east approach. Estimating wind at thirty-five knots and rising fast, we will be driven onto the rocks near Castle Point. If we try to ride it west we are liable to be swept, deep into the Caribbean, if not overwhelmed and sunk. Our only chance is to head for the north bay, drop anchor and prey God we can ride it out there. The storm surge should be high enough to float us over the shallows.”
Rhordon’s mouth hung open. “Captain, der nord bay is scattered mit klein…” he paused and corrected himself, “small islands und reefs!”
“I know,” Michael shouted back through the howling wind. “But with the wind coming from the east-southeast and shifting to the east. We should be in the lee as soon as we enter the bay.”
On the deck, Vanderbeec fought to control the wheel as the skies grew darker. Rhordon shook the water from his hair and beard and returned to the crew quarters to relay the Captain’s orders. Michael turned to the chart spread out on the table and took a compass reading as the largest wave yet swept over the aftercastle and poured down into the relative calm of the chart room. Andrea knelt under the chart table clutching to one of the anchored legs for support. Stella stood above her intently studying the map laid out before her, gripping the table for support as the ship rolled and pitched. “Father!” Andrea’s scream cut into him as the torrent of water swirled around her and she lost her grip. He caught her and lifted her up into his right arm while holding tightly to a safety rail with his left. He held her tight as she whimpered into his ear and her terror reinforced his fear. “There are nearly one hundred good men and women in three ships and my wife and daughter are among them,” he prayed. “Please God, guide us through this maelstrom.” Stella called out to him, “We are holding on a 180 course. Coming into Guadeloupe from due north.”
He gripped the table in a desperate effort to steady himself. He closed his eyes and preyed, then screamed to the gale, “Demon storm! You are not going to drive me onto those rocks! You can’t have me or my family!” His words were swept away by the screaming wind and the rolling ship. “Rhordon,” he called below. “Have the crew trim down the top sails. Put out a spinnaker. We’re going to ride this storm home.”
Stella called out, “We should be coming up on the island pretty soon.” Michael pulled on a canvas coat and hat, grabbed a second set for Vanderbeec and started back up the companionway to the deck.
“Andrea,” he called. “Stand here at the hatch. Watch me. I’ll signal when I see land.”
He tied a line around his waste and made his way through a cold rain that stung his exposed hands and face like icy knives. The ship pitched as it rode to the top of a swell and sailed down the back end only to be picked up again and dropped with heart sickening suddenness. With a sure grip on the bulkhead, he contemplated his next move toward the wheel. Then halted as a dull black haze on the gray horizon grew quick enough to be recognized as the ragged coral coast of the north tip of Guadeloupe. He called back into the companionway to Andrea. She acknowledged his hand signals and slid down the companionway, leaving the hatch open behind her and calling to her mother, “Land Ho. Off the port!”
Michael started along the lifeline to the wheel. On his third step, foaming water washed over the gunals and took his feet out from under him. He held desperately to the safety line, his heart pounding, feeling the ship change direction. He yelled into the wind, ”She’s slipping starboard!” He pulled himself to his feet and fought his way along the lifeline to Vanderbeec. The sinews of his neck were bulging and his teeth clenched as he fought the wheel, trying with all his strength to hold her on course. Michael took a grip on the wheel and used it to steady himself in the face of the storm. Together they pulled her hard to port, tacking across the wind, buying time with every mile they covered.
The wind was slipping further east and the PASSAIC FALCON pitched violently as a wave crashed over the gunwale and tore the First Mate from the wheel. The lifeline snapped taught and whipped his feet out from under him. His body flew up as the deck dropped out from under him then rose to meet him with a sickening thud. Michael felt the wheel become heavier as he tried to navigate her across the face of a huge wave without being swamped. He secured the wheel and gripped the lifeline to Vanderbeec and pulled the pilot’s limp body to the wheel, screaming his name. “Vanderbeec! Vanderbeec!” He checked the man’s signs. They were strong and regular. Vanderbeec groaned and opened his eyes. “I’m tolerable, Captain. No broken bones, I think. I’m ready to get back to the wheel.” Michael helped him to his feet and together they went back to the task of bringing the PASSAIC FALCON back on course.
In the Chartroom, Stella checked her compass again and called to Andrea. “Hard to starboard.” She repeated back to her mother in her bravest voice, “Hard to starboard” and struggled up the companionway as water washed down against her. Gripping the hatch she called out to her father but he didn’t respond. He stood at the wheel with Vanderbeec, wind whipping the rain and spray at their backs. “Hard to starboard,” she called again but he didn’t turn and acknowledge. Her words were being carried away by the wind. Michael turned his face over his shoulder and into the slashing rain. He held his hand up to shield his eyes. Andrea was in the companionway yelling to him. He strained to hear her. His eyes braved the wind and spray. She was signaling “Hard to starboard!” He turned back to the task and yelled to Vanderbeec, “Hard to starboard!” They fought the wheel over and Michael turned and found Andrea still clinging to the hatchway as water boiled around her. He signaled for her to return below deck.
Back in the chartroom, she found her mother watching the compass intently and muttering as it continued on its foul course. She cursed into the storm and abandoned her station. She pushed her way up the companionway past Andrea. She could feel the PASSAIC FALCON slipped further to the port. A wall of water washed down on to her as she fought her way up and chilled her to the bone.
Michael and Vanderbeec were fighting to stay on their feet. The First Mate was stunned and numb but refused to give up. Michael looked into the howling wind, off the port beam a ragged coastline loomed out of the gray within rifleshot. The wind was directly following, coming from behind, they were riding the waves at maximum speed. The water rose up behind them and the PASSAIC FALCON slid across the swell faster than it was breaking over her stern. The coastline receded and he called to Vanderbeec. “Fifteen degrees starboard.” A gray blur in the distance became a little clearer.
Stella called out from the hatchway, “The wind is changing again. Now from the North-northwest.”
Michael waved back to her and she closed the port and slipped back down to the chartroom. Slowly the PASSAIC FALCON turned as they fought the wheel over and the gray cliffs and white foam on the port receded. Vanderbeec shook himself and groaned under the strain as another wave crashed over the deck threatening to rip them from their post and snatch away control of their ship. Sea foam bubbled around their waists as they held tightly onto the wheel, steadily guiding her.
Michael heard Andrea scream at the top of her lungs. He turned to see her pointing up into the rigging. Michael turned, following her finger and saw above him, a sailor working to trim the top sails, desperately clinging to a swinging rope ladder and making his way down to the safety of the deck. The PASSAIC FALCON pitched wildly to the port and then back to starboard as a wave passed under them. The sailor was a recent recruit, Michael tried to remember his name but couldn’t. As the next swell rose under her the sailor lost his grip and at the height of the arc was thrown off the ladder. He spun away into the darkening clouds, tumbling hand over foot toward the pounding surf. Whatever cry he made was swept away by the wind. Stella swept Andrea up into her arms and pulled her back down into the chartroom. She was frantic, screaming and clawing, begging to be allowed to help her father. Stella carried her back down to the Chartroom, holding onto the regularly spaced handholds along the wall, while Andrea clung to her neck and cried in fear.
Behind the PASSAIC FALCON, CASTOR and PULLOX crashed through the seas, their decks awash and rigging broken, clinging to the PASSAIC FALCON’s stern like ducklings to their mother. Their Captains had surrendered their faith to their leader and were following blindly, preying his experience and knowledge would save their ships and their lives.
Stella pushed Andrea to the relative safety under the Chart table. She steadied the compass, balancing as the ship rolled, trying to keep it steady enough to get an accurate reading. Stella bundled the instrument to herself and returned to the map. She scanned it, marked their course and screamed over the roar of the surf, “The wind has changed again. It’s driving us directly into the north bay!”
Andrea looked out from her place as Stella climbed up the stairs and opened the hatch. She gripped the rail and screamed, “We are in the North Bay. Watch for Rocks ahead!”
Michael acknowledged and turned his attention to the horizon and went to the forward lookout. The sailor at the post waved frantically as Michael joined him and a gray mass became darker and rose up out of the bay before them. Michael marked it and followed his lifeline back to the Afterdeck companionway. A wave of cold water helped him slide down the ladder and carried him across the deck to the chart table. He grunted as the wind was knocked out of him and grabbed hold of the fixture. He pulled himself up and ran his finger across the map. “It’s Fajou Island ahead,” he panted. “Off the port beam. We’re coming in too fast and the island isn’t protecting us. A Sea Anchor will slow us but not enough. We have only one chance. We have to shoot through the strait!”
Signal flags on the PASSAIC FALCON directed the escorts to, “Set Sea Anchors and Follow directly.” CASTOR was off to the starboard as the PASSAIC FALCON slid past the ragged volcanic rock coast. Her crew strained to trim her to starboard but try as they did, she piled up onto the rocks of Fajou Island. PULLOX pulled directly astern of the PASSAIC FALCON and trailed her into the strait. Michael and Vanderbeec held the wheel as the wind shifted further to the north. The two ships were being carried on a high speed ride down the face of a huge following wave. The sea anchor broke loose and suddenly the PASSAIC FALCON responded to his commands as if they were sailing a calm sea. He could feel control return as she answered the helm elegantly. He guided her into the storm swollen channel, past outcroppings of high ground and trees. Houses on higher land slid by as they were swept through the normally unpassable narrows. The intensity of the downpour increased. Huge lightening bolts leapt from the water to the sky. Thunder shook the PASSAIC FALCON as blue tinted lightening creased the sky above her. The wind was following them and he clung to it, planting his feet firmly on the deck and gripping the wheel tightly while balancing it against the storm. Vanderbeec grimaced under the strain. The PASSAIC FALCON was riding the leading edge of the surge as it carried them through the swamp dividing the island. The next wave threatened to break over them as they rode up its face. The PASSAIC FALCON perched on the crest for a long moment before sliding down behind as it passed. The wind was slipping further to the north threatening to drive them into the hillside and then suddenly it died.
The sun broke through from behind a swirling wall of rain and a calm enveloped the PASSAIC FALCON in a warm halo. The wave they were riding subsided and ran down the channel, depositing them into the deep water of the south bay. The waves following them through the channel also died down and the surge settled back to the sea. Stella and Andrea came out onto the Aftercastle and greeted the sun breaking through the clouds around them. Up on the hill they could see their home. The crew came on deck, tenuously checking to see that the storm had passed, then broke into a cheer celebrating their good fortune in surviving the storm.
Behind them, up in the swampy channel, the waters had run out and PULLOX had bogged down in the swamp. They could hear the cheers of the crew turn to cries of distress as the water level dropped and she settled into the mud, then slowly lay over on her port side.
Rhordon came out on deck. “Wer in der calm,” he murmured. Stella swung Andrea up into her arms and danced. Michael frowned and sniffed at the air. Storm clouds surrounded them. Lightening flashed in the distance. “The storm will be back soon,” he called. “We have to hurry. Boson, call for the crew to set the anchors. Run up flags to PULLOX. Abandon ship.”
It was less than an hour till the storm returned as quickly as it had subsided. The winds, now from the south, driving huge waves across the bay and up onto the shore, pushing them the anchored ships up against the coast, threatening to drive them back into the swamp. The anchor chains strained as ever larger waves grew out of the bay and crashed into the PASSAIC FALCON. The sky grew darker than before and again the lightening closed in on them. Thunder followed closer to the flash until a wall of gray wind and rain smashed into the ship with the full force of the storm. Lightening struck the upper spar on the main mast splintering it and setting the wood on fire. The rain extinguished the flames and the wind swept the charred wood away. The waves increased in intensity and washed over PASSAIC FALCON for hours on end. The crew huddled below decks, some singing hymns to their maker, others riding out the storm in their own personnel hell. Clinging to bunks built into the bulkheads, the crew of men, women and children felt every wave that washed over them and crashed into the island. The fury of the storm turned the shore white with salty foam as the swells crashed in from the sea relentlessly pounding the PASSAIC FALCON and pushing the PULLOX further back up into the swamp.
Michael and Vanderbeec stayed on the deck, watching the horizon, and the castle on the heights above them bob madly in the wind. They prayed the anchors would hold and PULLOX might survive the onslaught of wind and waves. Up in the channel, she lay on her side on the slope above the raging water. Each wave brought the surge higher and soon began pounded the PULLOX till she lifted out of the mud and washed sideways, along the face of the mountainside. Her Mainmast snapped and ripped out of her deck. Her keel rose into the air as the swell dragged her across the volcanic rock ripping boards from her hull and exposing her holds to the pounding seas.
In the relative safety of the bay, the PASSAIC FALCON strained against her anchors as waves broke over her decks and threw her wildly up and down as she faced into the wind. The crewmen worked the pumps with a strength born of shear terror, pumping out the holds before they flooded and dragged her down. Hour after hour the maelstrom howled outside the hatches as the crew huddled below decks, praying to their creator, begging for salvation. Their prayers were finally answered when the black skies turned to gray then parted to allow the sun to paint a scarlet pale above the eves of their home.
-*-
In the growing dusk, Michael dispatched rescuers to search for survivors. The following day a runner returned to report that all but three had survived. When the water began to rise, her Captain had ordered everyone to abandon ship and climb up the hillside. They had spent a terrifying night in a shallow cave with some local farmers but were in good spirits. PULLOX had been dragged to her death. Broken spars and decking littered the channel. The following day, another messenger reported back that they had searched the North Bay and found only the remains of a single crewman from CASTOR attesting to the demise she had met. In the harbor below the fort, the LAURA had broken her moorings and been swept away. There was no one aboard and everyone breathed a sigh of relief she had been unmanned. A few weeks later she was found by ARGUMENT, rammed up onto a wicked length of coral near “Drakes Passage.” Her keel had been torn open when she was hit the reef and the relentless ocean had pounded her relentlessly, breaking open her holds and spilling the booty into the sea.
Finally in the last days of November a blessed calm returned to the Caribbean. The trade winds blew calm and true, the currents carried faithfully, and the British fleet returned just a few days after FAITH returned from her mission to France.
Michael was waiting on the wharf as the longboat brought him ashore. Eric and Carol were ecstatic and bubbling over with enthusiasm. Stella joined them at the JOILLE ROGET and they celebrated. Eric was beside himself with pride. He had piloted a ship across the Atlantic to the Straits of Hercules and into the Mediterranean Sea. “We sailed the inland sea for two months trading and watching. The British Navy was everywhere. But by playing “Tory” and presenting all the needed papers, we were able to fool them! We were boarded and searched three times and every time, the seals on the hold hatches ended their search. Our product is proven. The tax stamps worked!”
Eric drank deeply from a mug of fruit juice laced with rum and continued. “But there are also ill tidings. We have heard of a fleet sailing to join Admiral Hood. They say Admiral Rodney will take command of the combined fleets.” Michael nodded as Andrea pressed forward.
“Tell me about Gibraltar again,” she asked. Michael offered her an open coconut and whispered, “Captain Eric and I are talking. You may listen but not talk.” She knew the rules and nodded ascent.
Eric continued, “The French have also assembled a fleet and sent it to aid in the siege of Yorktown, in the Virginia State. One of my maps shows a town by that name off the Chesapeake Bay.” They say Lord Cornwallis is trapped and may surrender.”
Michael’s eyes seemed to widen. “I have several maps of the Virginia Coast. You and Carol must join us tonight and study the maps afterwards we can toast your success.”
-*-
The cool breezes from the north brought an occasional chill to the evening air and with that came the English and French fleets. Though none of the Captains would say it out loud, they all knew that the storm had taken something from Captain Fields and his wife’s growing pregnancy had made him cautious. The return of Eric Smyth reinforced his self-imposed shore leave but although the Captain didn’t want to go to sea any longer, his fleet continued their voyages. In the early months of 1782, the American Privateers took more ships than they had taken in the prior two years. As the traffic in the shipping lanes increased, the number of ships Michael’s fleet preyed upon also rose. Unwary supply ships, caught away from the fleet vanished. Schooners on lone patrol were overwhelmed and sunk and with every new ship that was taken, a few sailors deserted their English masters for the freedom promised by the Privateers.
But their success held its own consequences and one of them was that the number of crewmen who had originally sailed from Chestnut Neck had dwindled down to a small cadre. Each of the original crew had percolated up through the fleet till they were tried and trusted officers on each ship in his fleet. Among them, competition was fierce in the race to determine which officer would be chosen to sail a treasure ship back to Chestnut Neck and out of the war with a fortune. Of the few of the original crew left; Count Rhordon was Michael’s closest confidant. Now that Eric had returned from his voyage, his oldest friend was back standing by his side. Edward Vanderbeec, who had begun the voyage as the ship’s Carpenter aboard the PASSAIC FALCON, was now in command of the ARGUMENT. Terrence McDougal was now Captain of a schooner named FREEDOM. The circle was pulling tight in on its self.
There was a division between the Chestnut Neck volunteers and the sailors they had recruited in places like “Tumble-down-Dick.” The volunteers were officers in Michael’s fleet and the recruits were their crews. As the weeks wore on and their Captain remained walled up in his castle on the hill; his duties ignored, they took command and began running the fleet in his name.
Rhordon raised a stein of beer and saluted the castle. “They have earned a few weeks together. Be glad. Your Captain is still human.” The men in the JOLLIE ROGET raised their cups to the single light they knew was coming from the Field’s bedroom. Terrence McDougal raised his flagon a little higher. He knew what was going on in the castle. Leaner, his wife was tending Mrs. Fields pregnancy and she knew everything. Since she had assumed the duties and responsibilities of Ships Doctor aboard the PASSAIC FALCON, it was only natural she would be mid-wife to the women of the fleet and also to those in the town of Pointe-a-Pietre. It was her assurances, transmitted through her husband, and from him to the Captains, crews and wives of the fleet, that Captain fields was tending to his wife and anticipating the birth of his first child.
With that reassurance, they knew all was well and convened a debate on what their path should be until Captain Fields returned to duty. As they discussed the matter, one after another the men recounted how their Captain had always honored the birth of their children. It was his habit to allow the new father extra leave from duty so that he could assist Mrs. McDougal in the birth and they owed him no less.
As the New Year approached, Michael prepared another ship, heavily laden ship with booty, to return profits to the VENGANCE CORPORATION and weapons to General Washington’s Continental Army. One more time Michael was called to assign a trusted follower from the ever dwindling number of Chestnut Neck privateers who had sailed with him, to insure the return to their home port. He chose and then returned to reveling in the simple pleasure of watching as his wife grow heavier with their child. He chuckled as Stella’s normally quick pace slowed to a careful and deliberate shuffle. Her slender figure was swollen to bursting with the baby waiting to be born and her emotions were swinging wildly from joy to agony. Andrea looked on in disbelief at the emotional swings her mother’s pregnancy evoked and marveled at the way her father worked her through them and back to sanity.
Together the family did their everyday marketing, comparing prices, searching for treasures and for a full day, scoured the town for a particular cheese that Stella wanted. Needed! Demanded! As they walked Andrea slipped away from them only to return in a daze and with a blush on her cheeks. Stella gave her a knowing look and later that evening they sat quietly and talked. Stella smiled as Andrea read the letter a young French Lieutenant in Admiral Vandravoul’s fleet had pressed into her hand. She blushed as she recounted how they had planned to meet and he had kissed her hand with a flourish and pressed the letter into her hand as she made her excuse to leave him. The letter described a formula for a “love potion.” Most of it was utter nonsense, but there was a kernel of wisdom in and as she read it through a second time, Stella deducted that it was a recipe and started to giggle. She had baked many a pie in her day and she knew that with all the sugar the receipt called for it was nothing more than a sweet. But she had never heard of “cacao nuts” and the longer she thought about the recipe, something about it triggered a physical desire, and like the search she had conducted for the cheese that had caught her fancy, she began combing the market for cacao nuts.
It took another week and a thousand complaints before Michael was able to locate a source for them. When he presented a small bag of them to Stella she squealed with joy and that afternoon she and Andrea began mixing up the concoction she called; chocolate. For the remainder of the day, they took turns grinding the cacao nuts to a fine paste and adding sugar till the mixture became a light brown paste with an aroma that made their mouths water. They sampled it along the process, Their fingers idly swept wisps of the concoction from the edge of the bowl and their eyes lit as the potion approached completion and became more entrancing as the flavor changed from bitter to deliciously sweet. Michael shook his head and left the ladies to their task as they murmured and made sounds that sounded like ‘MMMMMMM”
When they finally proclaimed the product finished Stella and Andrea set it aside for a day before tasting it again. When they did, they ate half the batch in a few minutes and sent the house servants off to invite their lady friends to share the remainder. The following day, Andrea and half the women in Pointe-a-Pietre had belly aches but Stella was feeling wonderful and only a few short days later, as their supply of chocolate was dwindling and they were contemplating making a larger batch, she sat up with a start. The book she had been reading dropped to the floor as the first twinge of labor pain stuck her. She groaned and staggered to her feet, clutching Andrea’s arm, holding her swollen abdomen and smiling weakly as her husband came to her side. She brushed her hand across both their faces and said, "My time has come."
Michael’s voice echoed down the stone corridors and halls of his castle, “Mrs. McDougal.”
-*-
The afternoon progressed well and Stella’s labor pains came more frequently. Andrea coached her mother through the exercises Mrs. McDougal had prescribed and directed Captain Eric to kept her fast panicking father plied with rum and lime. Only a short while later, as the sun was splashed the evening sky red and gold, a new child’s voice lilted gently across the battlements and Andrea invited her father into the room to meet her new brother. Mrs. McDougal stood at the door and whispered. “You have a beautiful new son, Captain Fields. Stella needs to sleep now so, only a minute. Andrea, come with me. You have had a busy day and it is time to leave your parents alone.” As Andrea rose and walked toward her she continued, “Captain. Only a minute, Sir. And when you are done, Terrance and I would both like to share a pint with you.”
Michael agreed and gave Andrea a hug as she passed him and went with Mrs. McDougal. He slipped gently, onto the bed and pulled the blanket back from the tiny form cuddled in Stella’s arms. She blinked her eyes awake. Her red hair, knotted at the top of her head, and cooed gently to the tiny bundle at her breast. Michael touched her face and bent over to kiss her gently. She pulled back the blanket to reveal her child. "Christopher," she said weakly, “meet your Father.”
Michael had stroked her face only a few times before she fell asleep again, then he picked up his son, held him in his arms, letting the moon light shine upon him and began a slow dance. The words of the Aquacknunck “Prayer for New Children” came to him and he chanted. Andrea opened the door and peeked in. She had never heard such strange words but knew instinctively that they were from the Indian influence in her father’s life. She entered to join in his dance and he picked her up and spun her in the air with one arm while cradling his new son in the other. When Andrea giggled too loud he hissed, “Don’t wake your mother.”
The dance ended and Michael placed his son into the bassinet at the foot of their bed and settled Andrea down to sleep. She would tend while he went to the crews that were singing and celebrating in the JOILLE ROGET. Andrea kissed her new brother on the cheek and hugged her father good night, then lay down on the mat at the foot of the window promising to keep watch over her mother and brother. But her eyes closed quickly and as she fell into an exhausted sleep. Michael left and an Indian woman slipped into the room and sat down at the window next to Andrea, taking her place watching over the exhausted women and a newborn infant.
-*-
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
THE ADMIRALS
HMS. FORMIDABLE
ADMIRAL RODNEY'S FLAGSHIP
NOVEMBER, 1781
The coast of the Virginia colony was clear of military shipping. Admiral Rodney stepped back from the rail, handed his telescope to an aide and returned to his stateroom. There were no patrol boats defending a fleet and no sign of battle over the horizon where the city of Yorktown lay. Admiral Rodney pondered the silence. Only a few weeks ago, Lord Cornwallis had sent dispatches describing a vexing situation in which he was being besieged. The assault he described was serious but not fatal. The city was surrounded on the landward side by a rebel army and on the seaward side, a French fleet under Admiral DeGrasse was blockading his resupply and retreat. The fleet Admiral Rodney commanded was equal to the task of relieving the siege but it appeared they had arrived too late. Anger and frustration clawed at his throat. He had come spoiling for a fight but the French fleet was nowhere to be found.
A cutter carrying two men pulled along side his flagship, HMS FORMIDABLE, transferred them over and cast off to return to picket duty. They climbed the rope ladder quickly, like experienced sailors and though wearing civilian cloths, when they stepped on deck, they were greeted by a uniformed officer, who saluted and escorted them directly to the Admiral’s stateroom.
The war conference in progress stopped as the spies entered. A round of congratulations was dealt them by the senior officers of the fleet, who then directed their undivided attention to the young officers bringing information from rebel held Yorktown, in the crown colony of Virginia. The spies stood at attention and reported on the situation they had found. “Sir, “the first man spoke to the room, “I bring word that Lord Cornwallis was forced to surrender his army.” Silence hung over the room. Admiral Rodney gritted his teeth. “Continue, Lieutenant.” The entire army, their equipment and weapons were taken by the rebel army commanded by General Washington. They have been promised good treatment. Lord Cornwallis and his staff have already been furloughed and sent back to England.” The officers looked around nervously, avoiding the Admiral’s gaze. The second spy cleared his throat and spoke directly to Admiral Rodney. “Admiral, the French fleet commanded by Admiral DeGrasse completed and held the encirclement by sea. They repulsed a relief effort under Admiral Hood that guaranteed the defeat. Shortly after the surrender, The French fleet weighed anchor and set sail for the West Indies. The information we collected indicates they will join Admiral Vandrivul and campaign against Admiral Hood's fleet in the Caribbean.
Admiral Rodney paced his cabin mulling the situation. No one spoke a word as he gazed out the porthole toward the American coast. Finally he turned back to his officers and issued his order. "Gentlemen, it seems we have missed the party here in the Colonies. Let us proceed to the Caribbean and have one there!"
-*-
February 12, 1782
A heavily armed schooner, flying the Union Jack, came around the point of St. Eustatius, just at the effective limit of the PASSAIC FALCON’s guns. Michael spun the wheel and veered away from his intended course, buying time to determine whether she was a lone patrol or the outrider of a British task force. The schooner changed course to intercept and took up pursuit. Rhordon ordered his crews to the guns and opened fire as she entered their maximum range. The shots fell short but close enough to warn the gunboat to beware. Bursts of smoke and fire blossomed from the distant deck as she returned fire. The incoming shells sounded like angry hornets as they shrieked above the canvas overshooting their target. Rhordon stood up straight, shock on his face. The next salvo of explosive shells burst above their mast sending hot steel ripping through the rigging, tearing the mainsail to ribbons and severing the ratlines on the upper spars. He screamed to his gunners to return fire and then to Michael, “Gahen im oder gahen aus! Der gunners are the best I have ever seen!”
Michael spun the wheel and the PASSAIC FALCON fell into the wind and headed directly at the schooner, presenting his big chase guns. Rhordon called for chain shot in the next barrage and fired into the schooner’s sails, damaging them as badly as their own. Both ships slowed. Michael rode the wind down onto the schooner, speed and the superior number of guns aboard the PASSAIC FALCON were his advantage. The chase guns aligned on the target and fired a load of chain shot at the schooner’s deck. The ten-foot lengths ripped the sailor on the bow to pieces and rattled across the deck breaking the bones of several men unfortunate enough to be in the way.
The schooner broke across the wind and brought her port side guns to bare on the PASSAIC FALCON and barraged her. Grapeshot raked the deck, tearing sailors apart as they manned the guns and showered their surviving mates with a hail of wood splinters and bloody gore. A splinter of oak, torn from the deck, caught Michael in the right forearm. The impact took the saber from his hand and spun him around. He slumped to the deck, holding the wheel with his body, cradling the injured limb. Blood trickled from his wrist where the jagged piece of wood jutted out of his flesh. He pulled it out with his free hand and dropped the six-inch long sliver to the deck. Blood welled up in the puncture wound and spurt across his face. He wrapped the wound in a strip of cloth torn from his shirt and pulled it closed. Satisfied he had stanched the flow of blood, he retrieved his saber and pulled himself to his feet.
The flash and a bang of a bomb exploding over his head flung him to the deck again. An involuntary scream of agony leapt out of him as a sliver of steel pierced his left eye and a brilliant flash of light erupted in his mind. He rose to his knees, clutching at the piece of metal protruding from his eye and whimpered as he touched it. Blindly, he gripped the fragment and pulled it out. The world seemed tinted red as he staggered to his feet only to be thrown to the deck again by an explosion from amidships.
Rhordon moved to the forward chase guns as the PASSAIC FALCON relentlessly closed in on her adversary. The starboard chase gun fired a load of bar shot at the schooner’s mast and severed it. The timber crashed to the deck and tumbled over into the sea. The port chase gun fired, its ball crashed into the schooner at the water line and tore the rudder loose.
“She’s dead in the water,” called Vanderbeec. “Bring her around, Captain. Sail into her bow, she has only one gun there.” Rhordon turned and saw Michael fighting the wheel over, blood running down his face and his right hand wrapped in a bloody rag. He turned back to his gunners, six were no more than lumps of bloody pulp splashed across the deck. Vanderbeec’s voice boomed, “Boarding party. Prepare to board.”
The schooners bow chase gun fired as the PASSAIC FALCON bore down on her. The shell tore through the sailcloth and passed harmlessly overhead. A ragged salvo of smoke and fire erupted from riflemen aboard the PASSAIC FALCON as the range between the two ships closed. Smoke poured from the schooner’s hold and her crew prepared to repel the boarders.
Michael staggered from the wheel, Vanderbeec, bleeding from half a dozen wounds, took the helm and piloted her in to conclude the confrontation. Michael looked over the carnage on his main deck. “Our crews have been torn to pieces,” he said. “We have barely enough hands left to man the guns. Stand off, Mister Vanderbeec and call for them to strike their colors.”
“Aye Captain,” he responded and called out to the Captain of the schooner, “Commander, you have fought well, now strike your colors or be sent to the bottom.” Without further word, a white flag was run up her mast and her guns fell silent.
The boarding party found the schooner’s crew was barely able to stand. They were starved and exhausted, half were ill with scurvy and dysentery. Michael ordered them brought aboard the PASSAIC FALCON to be fed and have their wounds tended, then went in search of the Captain. Painfully, he climbed down the Jacob’s ladder and crossed the gap to the schooner’s deck. Each step was an effort of will but he made the crossing without falling.
A young sailor directed him to where the Captain lay dying. Both his legs had been torn off in the fight. Michael eased himself down onto the deck beside the officer and spoke gently to the dying man. He congratulated him on his valor and that of his crew and assured him they would be well treated. The young officer trembled and cried as the light faded from his eyes, then released his last breath and lay still. Michael pulled himself to his feet and saluted the dead man. Outsized, outgunned, and ill, he had nearly taken the PASSAIC FALCON.
Count Rhordon was at the guns, examining them and becoming more agitated. He called to Michael. “Sie hapt erledigt es! They have done it! Sie hapt made der same technologic leap as your Pennsylvania gunsmidts made mit der long rifles. Commen gahen, ansehen dis. Come see this.” He was so excited he was slipping back in and out of his native German.
The schooner was slowly listing to the port and taking on more water than could be pumped out. It was clear they couldn’t save her and salvage operations had begun. At the number four gun port, Rhordon and two of his gunners had pulled the cannon back and were preparing to hoist it aboard the PASSAIC FALCON. Michael made his way slowly across the deck to where they were working, his head wrapped in a white bandage covering his left eye. A spot of blood seeping through made him look like a visage from hell.
Rhordon gestured for him to inspect the guns but when he bent over to look down the barrel, the weight of blood rushing into his head caused him to groan and he had to stand upright. The wounded eye throbbed and his vision in the good eye blurred with pain. He probed inside the muzzle with his fingers, examining the surface of the barrel. It was deeply cut with a spiraling groove. “It’s rifled,” he muttered.
As the schooner slipped under the waves, the last of her guns were transferred onto the PASSAIC FALCON and mounted, five on each side, to supplement her armament. The displaced guns were placed into storage to be sold or traded at the Privateer market. But not at St. Eustatius. The prisoners told them that Admiral Rodney had captured the island and turned it into his base of operations in the Caribbean. And while his fleet was busy searching for the French, Admiral Rodney was entertaining himself by inventorying the spoils his fleet had captured.
-*-
Pointe-a-Petre
Guadeloupe
Michael walked stiffly off the PASSAIC FALCON's gangway and onto the wharf under the guns of his home, his left arm was wrapped and slung, his head swathed in a bandage that covered the injured eye. He staggered into Stella's arms as the wounded and dead were carried off the dock. Tears ran down her face as she sat him down and examined his wounds. Slowly, she pealed back the bandage from his head and cringed as the last lap exposed the damage. The eye had been destroyed. There was nothing left except a bloody socket. She rewrapped it and examined his arm. The puncture was deep and nasty looking but there was no sign of infection. The part of her mind that had become battle hardened and coldly judgmental quickly evaluated the damage. It would not have to be amputated. The other part of her, the wife and lover, railed and silently moaned. This was her Michael that had been cut to pieces and it seemed as if each wound inflicted it’s own pain on her.
The wounded crewmen were carried up to the fortress where their wounds were cleaned again and dressed. An old black man, a shaman from the Carib tribe, mixed potions of herbs and administered them as teas, salves and aromatic inhalants to help heal the wounds and keep the dreaded infections at bay.
Michael's recovery was speeded by the attention Stella and Andrea gave him. In the morning, afternoon and evening they changed his bandages, washed the wounds with twice boiled water and applied the salves the old man provided. They kept constant vigil, watching for signs of infection and coaxing him to eat balanced meals of meat and fruits and kept the amount of rum he drank to a minimum. By month's end, Stella's ministry had kept him sane through the pain and loss and his wounds were well on their way to healing.
-*-
Count Rhordon met with Michael every noon at the JOLIE ROGET to exchange information and chart their ventures. Count Rhordon’s review of the data he had compiled about the new British guns was always of interest. Every Captain in Michael’s fleet was aware of the book of calculations, the record of the tests they were conducting that Rhordon was compiling. They knew the Master Gunner was personally directing the crews as they weighed out and packaged the gunpowder cartridges. They trusted his meticulous oversight of the firings to accurately record the range and trajectories of each shot.
By mid March, he was able to report to Michael that his crews had developed an acceptable level of accuracy. He turned this attention to the gathered Captains. "Verstehn se,” he boasted, “Der guns are rifled and like your Pennsylvania long rifles ze shootz further und straighter! A navy mit such cannon vood be invincible. From beyond the range of smooth bore guns dey can bombard a target. Just like Drake did to the Spanish Armada!"
“Spanish Armada?” Vanderbeec looked up from his meal, a look of surprise and disbelief on his face. “Admiral Galvez has been destroyed?”
“Nein. Nein. Mine frieund. In 1588, your British Admiral Drake defeated his enemy, the Spanish Armada, by standing off and bombarding them from beyond their effective range.” Michael piped in, “Of course a hurricane helped him a little.” The Count blushed and nodded, “Ja. Dis is true.”
Michael rose and faced the officer of his crews. His health seemed to be returning but still he had a pallid complexion and seemed a little less than steady on his feet. He was keeping his hair longer these days and tied in a knot at the back of his head. A swath of gray had developed at the left of his forehead and accented his otherwise deep brown hair. “There is more news,” he announced. “Admiral Vandrivul has been joined by Admiral DeGrasse, with a fleet of warships.” There were nods and smiles around the table. “Admiral DeGrasse also brings news that Lord Cornwallace has surrendered his army to General Washington.”
Gasps and whispered thanks broke into a cheer. Michael nodded and waited till their jubilation subsided. He knew they were grateful the war in their homeland was over. Now he had to tell them that the victory in Virginia needed to be followed up by a major offensive to push the British out of the Caribbean. “Everything I hear in the marketplace tells me there is a big fight coming. Our Privateer brothers, who have been operating in small, independent squadrons, are gathering. The combined French fleets are receiving additional supplies from the Dutch. A detachment from Admiral Galvez’ fleet is cruising the trade winds just spoiling for a fight. The fleets are well supplied and morale is high. They are just looking for the opportunity to engage Admiral Hood and sweep his fleet from the Caribbean.”
He shifted his feet, placing his weight on his walking stick to relieve his aching leg. The patch over his eye was partially hidden by the lock of gray hair that fell over it. He paused and surveyed his followers. Every one of them was a volunteer following him till they decided to sign off. His arm ached where his last injury was slowly healing so he pushed his hand into a pocket to support it. “What Count Rhordon has told us casts a new light on the French plan. The value of this book of calculations has increased dramatically! We possess a critical piece of intelligence, information that needs to be brought to Admiral Vandrivul’s attention.” The captains nodded their agreement. “Gentlemen, the information we have gathered from the prisoners our ships have taken over the past few weeks also brings us grim tidings.” The Captains grumbled, they all knew what had happened. “Admiral Rodney has joined Admiral Hood and taken St. Lucy. The combined fleets lay at anchor at the north end of the island, resupplying, resting and waiting for an opportunity to challenge the French. It is from one of Admiral Rodney’s outriders that we took the new guns. We have to assume that his entire fleet is armed with them.”
Silence fell over the privateers. Eric spoke up. “Michael, if we agreed that the ultimate goal is to push the British out of the West Indies, then the information we possess is critical. Without knowledge of the new English guns, the French will be sailing blindly into a trap.” Michael nodded gently. “In the morning, I sail with the tide, fully armed, to intercept the French fleet and warn them of the danger. I welcome any who wish to join me.”
Vanderbeec cried out and rose to his feet. “Captain, you have done your part! Your wounds are not yet healed! All we have to do is pass the information to the first French ship we meet. We’re counterfeiters now, not soldiers. We are out of the war. But if we go searching for the French fleet we will be back in the blood and thunder of battle!” Vanderbeec trembled as he sat down. His outburst had placed the subject on the table for discussion. No one doubted his courage, he bore the marks of combat on his body as badges of honor but he had brought up a subject that needed to be discussed. Michael ordered another bottle of dark rum, a bowl of brown sugar and a dish of limes then settled down to making drinks as the Captains debated their options and duties. Late into the afternoon their shouts could be heard outside the JOLIE ROGET. Sailors and wives sat by waiting in the cool evening till the meeting ended waiting till the Captains were ready to meet with their crews and make a recommendation on their course of action. Their consensus was best expressed by Captain McDougal who said; “If Captain Fields is going, then I’m going.” The crews were ready to follow him without question and all hands reported to their ships. It took a day to bring food and water, powder and shot aboard and make all ships ready to put to sea. While the ships were being provisioned, Michael and Stella met in the Captain’s stateroom. “Stella,” he whispered into her ear as he held her with an intensity. “Don’t worry. Don’t worry. We will find the French, deliver our message and be back before the first shot is fired.”
“You make it sound so easy,” she whispered. “What if you don’t find them? What if the British find you first?” He buried his face in her hair and breathed deeply. The smell of jungle flowers was still on her. “We know roughly where both fleets are maneuvering,” he whispered. “We should be able to locate the French fleet in a day or two and we will be back home before you even miss me.”
Stella pulled away and looked him in his one good eye. “I’ll miss you before you leave.”
“I know,” he whispered. “This war is almost over. General Washington has driven the British from the States and now Admiral Vandrivul is gathering the fleets to push them out of the Caribbean.”
“I know you are right. But if something happens to you.” She bit her lip. “Just look at yourself. You have given so much.” Her voice was edging toward tears. “I want to kill them all, drive them straight to hell, but if you don’t come back it won’t be worth it. I need you to come back to me. Andrea needs you and most of all Christopher needs you.”
As the moon rose over the hills, Michael finished his readiness inspection and settled back to wait for the tide to turn. As he stood on the main deck of the PASSAIC FALCON, he looked up to his castle. A single light burned in the window he knew to be his bedroom. Vanderbeec stood at the wheel and called to him, “Captain, we have the tide.”
“Very well, Mister Vanderbeec. Weigh Anchor.”
Windless screws turned and raised the anchors in the pre-dawn gloom. The strains of a sailor’s song drifted on the cool morning breeze as the fleet drifted out of their harbor and lowered canvas to catch the wind. Michael checked his charts and directed Vanderbeec to take the easterly course around the rocky islands called “The Saints” and then due east to rendezvous with the French he knew to be cruising leeward of Guadeloupe. The ships were provisioned, fully armed and prepared for combat. The crews steeled themselves for the most important voyage of the war and as the wind filled their sails, Michael turned and looked back to his home on the hill. He couldn’t see them but he knew Stella, Andrea and Christopher were on the veranda watching and waving as the PASSAIC FALCON and her escorts sailed away. Michael was not the only one to leave his family behind. The Captains had agreed that there was a high probability of a severe engagement and they did not wish to place their wives and children in harms way.
-*-
APRIL 12, 1782
DAWN
The island of Guadeloupe was still in sight when a lookout called from the top of the PASSAIC FALCON’s main mast. The French Fleet was at full sail and entering the channel near the rocky islands the French called, Les Saintes. There were more than thirty battle ships in a straight-line formation with dozens of smaller support vessels scurrying around them. At the center of the formation was the largest ship Michael had ever seen. He raised his telescope to his good eye and read the name, VILLE DE PARIS, the flagship of Admiral DeGrasse.
He ordered signal flags run up the FALCON's main mast directing the Privateers to head for the French Flagship and take up positions alongside her while Michael delivered his messages. Vanderbeec spun the wheel hard to port and steered in through the French outriders, flying the Stars and Stripes and signaling they had business with the Admiral. In the growing light, Michael boarded a long boat and ferried across to her.
A French officer he had met on several occasions greeted him as he came aboard the VILLE DE PARIS. “Captain Fields. To what do we owe the pleasure of your presence?” Michael saluted and responded. “I have important information for Admiral Vandrivul.”
“Mon Capitan, Admiral DeGrasse has taken command of the fleet. Admiral Vandrivul is now in conference with him. Come with me. I will take you to the Admiral’s stateroom.”
The stateroom was in the Aftercastle, two levels above the main deck. The French Officer knocked gently on the door and entered, motioning Michael to follow. Inside, a meeting of staff officers was in progress. The light of the rising sun pierced the stained glass of the Admiral’s stateroom and painted it with bright bursts of red and blue. Michael’s introduction was translated into French by the officer. Admiral Vandrivul stepped forward and welcomed Michael with an embrace and then introduced him to Admiral DeGrasse. Admiral DeGrasse nodded and returned to his charts. Michael delivered his message and waited while his escort translated it to French. The gathered officers paid scant attention to the young interpreter. They had no questions for him. Michael shifted his weight to his good leg, even though his words were being filtered through an interpreter, the message he brought should have been more important than the reaction he elicited. The Admiral seemed to be dismissing his warning! Michael blurted out, “The news I bring is important!” Admiral DeGrasse looked up from his charts as the American Captain raised his voice even louder and became highly animated. The Admiral spoke directly to the interpreter who turned to Michael and began to translate. DeGrasse looked directly at Michael as the interpreter spoke. “The Admiral wishes you to be silent and listen. He has great respect for you, Captain Fields. Your reputation for courage, as a leader of men and your skill as a warrior have preceded you. The Admiral deeply appreciates that you have chosen to join him. Your ships are welcome.” The Admiral’s words continued and their intensity rose. The room was silent, all attention was focused on him. The interpreter continued. “I have heard of these rifled cannon, yet I have seen none. Our battle plan has developed over months. We have carefully maneuvered our fleet to this place at this time, to meet the British and smash them. I cannot, I will not scrap this plan on the rumor that their fleet has been outfitted with new weaponry. The British are nearby. The time is now and nothing can change that!”
Michael was about to challenge the Admiral’s statement but before his outcry could be translated, another messenger knocked at the door of the stateroom and delivered a slip of paper. An officer at the Admiral’s side unfolded it, read it quickly and handed it Admiral DeGrasse. The Admiral spoke to his officers and the interpreter whispered in Michael’s ear, "The message is; “Sails on the horizon."
Michael tried to get Admiral DeGrasse’s attention again but he brushed him aside and bent over his map, gesturing and speaking quickly. The interpreter motioned Michael to the door. “There is nothing more you can do here, Monsieur. Return to your fleet and prepared your crews for battle.”
Michael was conducted brusquely out of the stateroom and as he stepped out onto the Maindeck, he looked to the south. Sails were visible on the horizon. He counted three and several smaller ones flanking them. Activity on the deck was heightening. The crews were manning their battle stations. Powder and shot were being stacked for immediate use. He drew a deep breath and looked above. The VILLE DE PARIS was a huge ship, four decks above the water and carrying a total of 110 guns. He stepped to the rail and prepared to descend to his longboat. A Marine Captain stepped forward and addressed him in English. “You will keep your ships on station. If you break and run, we will fire on you without a second thought.” The interpreter stood behind him and nodded to Michael. “God go with you, Captain Fields.”
Returning to the main deck of the PASSAIC FALCON, he barked orders to Rhordon to signal, “Battle Stations” then to his helmsman. “Bring us into line with the French warships. Keep a large ship between the main body of the British fleet and ourselves.”
Rhordon came to his side. “Zey did not listen, mein Capitan?”
“No,” he growled. “The fools are headed into an ambush. And the longer we remain silent the less chance they have. Mister Vanderbeec, hold your course. Count Rhordon are your guns ready?”
Rhordon saluted, “Aye, Captain. Ready.” Michael hustled up to the Aftercastle with Rhordon trailing him. Michael turned to him as they stepped onto the Afterdeck and asked, “Tell me my friend, what do you think?”
“Der Admiral hast ein point. Der British may not have the rifled guns yet.”
“But even if only a few warships have them, that could change the complexion of the coming battle.”
“Ja,” he began and paused. “Even if a few of Battleships habt der new guns, der result will be dramatic und change the balance.”
Silence hung between them.
-*-
09:30 AM
The gun crews stood at their stations anxiously looking west to the passing British fleet and up to the Aftercastle where their Captain stood watching through his telescope and calling numbers to the Master Gunner. “They are just out of our range,” Michael called. Rhordon joined him on the Aftercastle and began calling out the names of the British war ships as they passed; "HMS FORMIDABLE, Admiral Rodney’s flagship. HMS BARFLEUR, Admiral Hood's flagship.” The gun crews stood mesmerized at their stations as Rhordon’s voice carried across the Maindeck. “HMS BEDFORD, Admiral Affleck’s flagship. HMS LONDON, Admiral Graves flagship." The parade passed before them. Out of range, heading due north while the French fleet continued it's due south heading.
“Mister Vanderbeec, close the range to the British lines. Bring us within range of the gunboat starboard of FORMIDABLE. Hold at the limit of our range.”
“Aye, sir,” he called back.
“Count Rhordon, you may fire when ready.”
The crews knew the range where they would become effective and stood stiffly, anxiously, at their guns. Waiting the order to begin the battle.
Rhordon barked to his gun crews, “Come to the ready. Fire in order. On my command!”
The sails creaked as the PASSAIC FALCON gave up the cover of the VILLE DE PARIS and charged to the forward edge of the fleet, then plunged madly into the killing zone between them. Count Rhordon called out. Starboard. Chase Gun.” He paused. Looking over the bow, waiting for the exact second to fire. He turned and called, “Fire!”
Linstock touched primer and the gun struck out and delivered its charge with practiced precision. The gun boat burst into flame.” Rhordon turned to the Afterdeck and saluted his captain while the gun crews reloaded. Heart beats passed. Michael called to his pilot, “Mister Vanderbeec, hold us at this range. The starboard crews worked their tasks sending round after round into the passing procession yet not a shot was returned. His crews worked furiously, meticulously performing each step in the drill. Sweat broke out on their backs. The sea breeze did little to cool them. The tropic sun rose steadily up and beat down on the fleets. Michael ordered Rhordon to rest his crews more frequently, the day was going to be hot. The crew of starboard number one gun came to the back of the gun and the commander touched his linstock to the primer, the gun roared and the crew snapped to their duty and began the reloading drill again, just as gun number two fired. Then three, then four. Of the ten guns they had captured, Michael had kept eight on the PASSAIC FALCON and placed two on FAITH. He kept his big Calverin guns as chase guns and mounted the rifled guns on the main deck, four on the port and four on the starboard. Eric had chosen to mount the rifled guns on FAITH as forward chase guns. Michael heard guns firing behind him and turned to see the FAITH following in his wake, bringing their forward guns to bare on the same targets Count Rhordon was striking.
The long line of ships continued past the guns, number one fired! Number two fired! Number three fired! Number four fired! They were striking at the limit of their range. Michael watched as Rhordon paced madly back and forth behind the guns. Ordering each shot. He knew the one armed man was exacting some retribution and laughing inside his stern exterior because he was rubbing the skill of his gunners in the British Admiral’s face. He was proving, vaunting, that his work was far superior to what the British Admiralty had produced! Michael grinned, “Admiral Rodney must be throwing a fit right now,” he thought. “But Rhordon’s guns are doing little more than irritating him. Our gunners just cannot put enough shots into any one ship to sink or even cripple it. All we can do is a little damage to a lot of ships before they weary of our harassing and turn their guns on us. And when that happens, we had better be ready to run.”
Admiral DeGrasse slapped his compass down onto the map and turned to the stained glass doors of his stateroom. “What fool is pounding away at the ocean? I’ll have his commission,” he snarled and strode to the doors, opened them and stepped out onto the afterdeck. A young lieutenant was peering through a telescope and came to attention as his commander came on deck. Admiral DeGrasse eyes swept the majesty of the vast fleets preparing for combat. Before him and to the aft of his flagship, ships of his line stretched to the horizon and to his starboard, the British fleet, flying all their colors, passing, silently with the rising sun playing fully on them and in their eyes. He cursed the missed opportunity, they were out of range. Off to the port of his wake, two ships flying the American flag were weaving parallel to his fleet and firing their guns. The admiral sighed with disgust, the British were far beyond the range of her guns. “Is this bravado? Or are they so stupid they don’t know the range of their own guns?” His comment evoked a gentile laugh from the first Officer. As he was about to return to his stateroom, he noted a flash of fire on one of the battleships. He took the Lieutenant’s telescope and looked to the British line. There were explosions on the deck of a frigate astern of BARFLUER. He turned back to the American Privateer. Could she be striking out at their adversary with such uncanny luck? Admiral DeGrasse looked at the privateer and then to a burning gunboat. “Ahh” he spat. “Impossible. No navel gunner could shoot that well!” He watched the guns fire again and this time allowed a subconscious faculty to track the projectile leaving the American’s gun and traveling in a flat arc as a dull blur of gray and an occasional trail of smoke across the sky. He saw the shot strike! The British fleet was still outside the range of the guns on the VILLE DE PARIS! “How could this Yankee Privateer be striking so boldly at the British.” Admiral DeGrasse paused, “Unless he has a secret weapon.” Even without a telescope he could see more fires blossoming on the deck of the British frigate. She was in danger of sinking! The Admiral stepped back into the chart room and looked over his staff. “Captain Village, tell me again, what warning did the American bring?”
“Mon Admiral, the American claims that the British have a new cannon with great range and accuracy.”
The Admiral muttered, “Muerte.”
The British line had passed without firing a shot. Admiral DeGrasse stood on his afterdeck watching. The last of the British ships was passing the last of his column and the first of their line was well into its turned maneuver. They were returning. Led by FORMIDABLE and baring full sail, the British were riding a following wind and closing fast. Forward of the VILLE DE PARIS, his lead ship had already completed its turn and was now leading the way back to the British fleet. He nodded with satisfaction and returned to his chart.
Sweat was on Michael’s brow as he watched the unfolding battle. Aft of the PASSAIC FALCON, he could see that the British fleet had turned and was catching up to the trailing ship of the French fleet. There were two battleships between them and another forward preparing to come about to meet the British line. He judged they were holding course just at the range of their guns. “I know what they are doing,” he called to the wind. “Can not that pompous French Admiral see it also!” He gripped the rail and turned to Vanderbeec. “The British fleet is following with the wind from behind, ready to snap at the French like a Delaware raiding party!” He tried not to look frantic but a demon he had not felt since he had been trapped in Schuyler’s mine crept into his brain. “The British were taunting them! They are holding their fire, allowing the French to walk into their trap before they spring it.” The last ship of the British line passed beyond them. Michael ordered the gun crews to stand down and brought the FALCON back into the French line.
To the rear of the line, gunfire erupted. The British ships were paralleling the French, closing from behind. The point ship opened fire on the French when FORMIDABLE displayed the signal to open fire and blasted a devastating load of steel death into an unsuspecting French frigate, pummeling her from far beyond the range of her guns. Snapping at the heals of the French fleet, the British warships worked their way up the column bringing killingly accurate gun fire onto the French from beyond their reach. Michael looked to the front of the line and saw the French battleships before him turning in a single file back to the south and into the prevailing wind. Vanderbeec’s eyes were wild with fear. He was gripping the wheel so tight his knuckles were showing white. He kept glancing behind him as if he were watching the devil following him. He pleaded to Michael, “Sir, if we come about hard aport we can run across the wind and away from this.” His voice fell almost to a prayer. “Please, sir.”
“Mr. Vanderbeec, Hold your course, stay with the fleet. I’ll tell you when to take her out of the line.”
He straightened himself. Put his eyes forward and responded with a voice that had heard salvation. “Aye, sir.”
The sky behind them was lit with smoke and the white hot fire of exploding bombs. Geysers and foaming water stirred the warm Caribbean. The British fleet was sweeping up the line at full sail, bombarding the French in force. Michael called to Rhordon, “We are getting out of here.” He looked through his telescope and scanned the battle approaching from his stern. A cloud of white gunpowder smoke veiled the depth of the conflagration as it closed in on them.
“Captain,” Vanderbeec called, “Flags on the VILLE DE PARIS are ordering us to come about and follow the line.”
Michael gripped the rail. “Hold your course” he called. “When it comes our turn to come about we will take her out to sea.” Michael thought of Faith waiting for him in the church knave. “Take us away from this madness,” he thought.
1:30 PM
Paralleling the French and firing while still out of range the British showered shot and shell on the French while their guns blazed ineffectively. The shells from the rifled guns crashed into the French warships dealing wound after fatal wound. The battle was rapidly becoming a one sided game. Suddenly, the wind changed and added catastrophe to ill fortune. Against the wind, without notice, the French sails luffed and their movement slowed. Suddenly, they were an even easier target for the British guns!
FORMIDABLE turned hard to starboard holding in the wind. Signal flags ran up her yardarms. Her escort turned and the frigates followed. His ship was on a collision course with the VILLE DE PARIS. Admiral DeGrasse gasped at the audacity. “Change course,” he ordered. “I will not be rammed.” The pilots spun wheels so large it took two men on each of three to alter the course of the mighty battleship. Slowly she turned desperately trying not to be rammed. The British frigates following FORMIDABLE were still beyond the range of the French guns and their forward chase guns were brutally pounding the line and causing the French to falter. FORMIDABLE nearly missed a French supply boat trying to screen the flagship and left it foundering in her wake. A following frigate struck her amid ship and plowed through her hull splintering it. Sailors were tossed overboard, crushed, caught up in the wakes and swept away.
On board the VILLE DE PARIS, the gunners reloaded and prepared to fire as the British entered their gun’s range. But FORMIDABLE was already inside the aft “blind arc” an area between the starboard guns and the after-chase guns where she could not come to bare on a target. Charging into the ‘blind spot’, Admiral Rodney, had little to fear from swivel guns and muskets. FORMIDABLE cut through the line, her gunners fired in perfect order, placing high explosive charges into the French ships on either side of her as she passed at point blank range. From her decks, musket fire raked the deck of the French battleship, killing gunners by the score and half the officers in the Chart Room.
Michael had the wheel as Vanderbeec ran below deck to fetch a chart. He looked forward, away from the battle, and to port to the French battleship shadowing him. It was coming time to make ready to come about. Her Captain stood at the rail of the battleship intently watching the PASSAIC FALCON. Aft of him, the British flagship, FORMIDABLE and her fleet had divided the French. Half of their fleet was now sailing away from the battle and half were piling up into killing broadsides, unable to halt their forward motion. Michael looked to the VILLE DE PARIS, her flags still showed the code to "Fire and Continue forward." Squadrons led by FORMIDABLE and BARFLUER were circling around her firing steadily into her flanks. Smaller ships and transports were being gunned down mercilessly by British frigates. Michael scanned the decks of the VILLE DE PARIS through his telescope, chaos was reigning on her decks. The French fleet was rapidly falling into disarray. Their orderly movement had been disrupted.
Michael looked forward and again to the battleship on his port. The huge French ship was well into the maneuver and the Captain was still intently watching the PASSAIC FALCON. Vanderbeec handed the chart to Michael and took the helm. “Watch the wind,” Michael called, “and take us away from here on my order.” He turned to Rhordon, “Master Gunner. Prepare to fire on the Frenchman should he fire on us.”
“Aye.” He called back and set his crews to their new target.
Aft of the PASSAIC FALCON the battle line shifted as the French fleet tried vainly to reclaim the wind but their effort was too late and deteriorated as the British guns bombarded them. The fleet had fallen into total disarray. The superiority of the British guns had made itself felt and with the advantage of the wind they were disbursing Admiral DeGrasse’ fleet!
-*-
Admiral DeGrasse could not believe the report; his ship would not answer the helm. There was no wind in her sails and she was surrounded without means of escape. Explosions rumbled from deep within her holds. Sailors were being slaughtered wholesale by the British gunfire. Blood ran down the companionways in streams, showering the crewmen on the lower levels with the gore of their shipmates. DeGrasse lowered his head. “The situation is impossible,” he whimpered and called for the white flag to be run up.
The PASSAIC FALCON was on her way out to sea when the gunners on the French battleship opened fire on her. Their shots were wide and suddenly there was a squadron of British gunboats led by two frigates upon her and occupying her full attention. Michael called for more sail. His fleet had not yet slipped away. He ordered all the sail the yardarms could hold and follow the wind on a downwind run to St Lucy. Though armed with rifled guns, the British squadron taking up the pursuit had them heavily outgunned. Rhordon’s gunners engaged FORMIDABLE's escorts, scoring hits on three vessels that were confirmed by the eruption of smoke and flame. His lessons in engaging the enemy at the extreme limit of their range was proving effective but it could not swing the tide of the battle. Michael watched as geysers of water sprouted among his fleet and to his starboard, explosions ripped through the huge French Battleship. The British noose was drawn. The devastation they had rained down on the French before they could even begin the engagement had decided the battle before the first French cannon ball touched a British ship.
-*-
Stella stood on the veranda of her mountainside home peering through her telescope, watching the battle. The sound of the cannon fire was like distant thunder rolling across the sea. Visitors had begun arriving early in the morning, shortly after the first echoes of gunfire were heard. The noon sun was hot. She stood in the shade of spreading tree with huge pink flowers shivering in the heat. Her home was nearly filled with friends, mothers, daughters and sisters of the men who had journeyed with her from Chestnut Neck. Their loved ones were now engulfed in the conflagration on the horizon. The spectacle of the battle at their doorstep had them riveted in place. Andrea cradled her baby brother in her arms and stood beside her mother, dumbfounded, watching silently as the drama unfolded. Stella touched her child's shoulders and whispered a silent prayer for the safety of her husband and the crews. Around them, a carnival atmosphere prevailed in anticipation of a French victory and the excitement of watching the fight from safety, thrilled the spectators. Eleanor McDougal came to her side and took her hand. Carol came and stood to her right. They each knew the vicious nature of a sea battle. They had experienced it. They understood it. They feared its primal brutality and remained somber.
As the sun began its westward sojourn, panic began to sweep over the guests. Something was wrong! Men, peering through telescopes were gesturing excitedly and yelling. “The French fleet is foundering,” she heard them say! Their cries of dismay grew as the British surrounded the VILLE DE PARIS and her escorts. To the north Admiral Vandrivul had turned off and to the south Admiral Bougainville was fleeing the battlefield! The spectators began slipping away in two’s and three’s. Stella’s shoulders slumped and tears ran down her face as the quiet exodus turned to panic. She looked again through the telescope and found the PASSAIC FALCON as she maneuvering through the knotted battlefield and cried out to Andrea.
-*-
High explosive shells burst in the air around the PASSAIC FALCON as she wove back and forth, changing her angle to bring guns to bear on the ships trying to block her flight. Rhordon's gunners fired with deadly effectiveness destroying two cutters and opening a hole in the line. Michael signaled to his fleet, "Follow me," and broke free toward the open sea.
The bulk of a British Cruiser was moving parallel to the FALCON on the starboard; a single broadside would tear them to fragments. On the port, a Frigate was trying to close the encirclement. Michael called to Rhordon, "We turn into the Frigate, sweep the decks with chain and grape. If we can keep their heads down we may be able to slip past and use her to shield us from the Cruiser’s fire."
The squadron turned together and wove their way, in formation, to the leading edge of the closing line of British vessels, running directly for the frigate. Cannon fire erupted from her and splashed harmlessly amid the loose formation. Rhordon's gunners returned chain shot squarely onto her deck. The lengths of metal swept across them, shattering bones and tearing flesh, causing havoc among the deck crews, slowing their rate of fire and finally silencing them for a few precious minutes.
Michael spun the wheel hard as they passed the frigate and placed her between themselves and the Cruiser. Rhordon's aft chase guns continued to rake the Frigate’s deck with devastating volleys of chain and grape shot, keeping the crew's heads down as the PASSAIC FALCON made a desperate run toward the safety of the Atlantic.
The Cruiser held her fire, as Michael knew they would. They were unwilling to place shots into a member of their own fleet. The fleeing American squadron passed the British Frigate at a range close enough to trade rifle fire with her crew while the gun crews worked furiously to load, fire and reload again. Rhordon ordered his gunners to rotate from chain shot, to grape shot, to high explosives and back to chain again.
The Frigate came about slowly; she had been hit squarely and was having trouble joining the pursuit. Eric battled the helm as FAITH drifted deeper into the sea; the drag of the flooded holds was slowing her escape. She concentrated her fire on the frigate as she passed placing cannonballs into her midsection just below the water line. The Cruiser's guns roared to life as the PASSAIC FALCON cleared the cover of the Frigate. Explosions of white water and red flame engulfed the FAITH and she sank deeper into the water. Rhordon fired on the Frigate closing on FAITH and returned death to them. Fires broke out amidships and she gave up the pursuit to fight them. Michael legs felt like putty and he gripped the wheel to steady himself. FAITH was rolling over, her mast lying flat against the sea. His breath came out in a grunt. “Hold this course to the open sea, Mister Vanderbeec. We are not out of trouble yet.”
Behind them, two Corvettes and three Cutters broke away from the fleet and joined the Cruiser in pursuit of the PASSAIC FALCON, and two French Brigs fleeing the death and destruction of their navy. Rhordon moved to the aft chase guns, checking the crews, exhorting them to fire faster. The sounds of the receding battle were dying down. Except for a few shots, it was over, the French fleet had been broken.
Rhordon ordered two of the deck guns to be turned to fire aft. The crews worked feverishly in the blazing afternoon sun to insert chocks under them to give the additional trajectory needed to fire over the after deck. He planned for the guns to be fired like mortars, at maximum trajectory, and add the firepower needed to turn the tide against the pursuing warships.
Rhordon examined the restraints and shook his head, should a gun break loose when they fired, it could cause more damage than a direct hit by their adversary. But that was the least of his worries. He touched off the first shot. Michael and Vanderbeec, standing at the wheel were belted with a blast of hot air and sparks. The blast nearly deafened them and the smoke choked them. But when it cleared, the crew sounded a cheer. The restraints held and the shots were on target. They leapt to their posts and their next volley sent two shells ripping into one of the corvettes crippling her and a direct hit from the chase guns on a cutter caused her to abandon the pursuit. Undaunted, the Cruiser and a Corvette continued the chase, cutting the distance to their prey, firing with deadly accuracy as they closed for the kill.
The French Brigs broke to the east, pursued by two Cutters mercilessly pouring shells on to their decks from beyond the range of their guns. ARGUMENT fell farther behind, her sail cloth tattered. Her crew fighting furiously till her main mast fractured and broke under its load of canvas and wind. Unable to maneuver, her guns fell silent and Captain McDougal ran up the white flag to take the place of the Stars and Stripes. Michael watched with grim determination, fear churning in his belly as a single cutter broke away from the formation to take her.
The blast of a high explosive shell brought him back to the reality of his own plight. A Cruiser, under full sail and unscathed, brought her guns to bare on the FALCON and opened fire. Iron shot tore through the PASSAIC FALCON’s flanks and pounded through the bulkheads killing her crewmen in the lower decks. Rhordon returned fire and dealt a blow of death to the Cruiser's crew that caused her Captain to haul off to a safer distance and continue the battle from long range.
Throughout the afternoon and into the evening, the British Cruiser and her corvette worked to bring themselves onto the PASSAIC FALCON's flanks and when they had her between them, closed in for the kill. The first shots fell forward and short, the next a little closer and then burst around her, spraying her decks with hot fragments of metal. Sailcloth caught fire and had to be cut down before it spread. The gun crews fired back, worked furiously, firing at will in a desperate effort to keep the Cruiser at bay. Men screamed as their bodies were torn apart by flaming metal. Blood soaked the decks making their footing precarious but they never faltered.
A shell hit amid ships between the number six and seven guns where Rhordon was directing his gunners. The blast sent a tremor through the PASSAIC FALCON and lifted the number seven gun off its carriage and hurled it across the deck. When the smoke cleared, only a mass of blood and entrails remained of the men manning the number seven gun. The sight of his slaughtered crew sickened Michael then horrified him as he saw that the flying gun had struck Rhordon squarely and smashed through his chest. His body was broken and mangled and thrown to the deck to spill what little life it had left into the sea.
Michael staggered back to the wheel, he threw his head back and screamed to the sky. Vanderbeec held steady as his Captain slumped limply to the rail and stood silently staring at the spot where Rhordon had been directing his crews. He lowered his head in loss and grief and whispered, "Farewell, my friend."
The gunners paused momentarily to note the passage of their teacher, then a shell burst overhead. A spray of hot steel lashed across Michael’s back like the stroke of a whip and he screamed to the crew, "Man your guns and keep firing!” Joshua Birmingham, his arm mangled and his head bleeding, picked up the linstock and touched it to the primer. A sailor from number nine gun saluted and moved over to help his mate reload and gun number six roared back to life.
Michael maneuvered the PASSAIC FALCON, trying to stay in the wind but the fast little corvette kept closing inside the range of his guns and firing, then falling back out of range. Their first pass was wide and short of their target. The PASSAIC FALCON's gunners held their fire, sized up their adversary, and evaluated his tactics. With the cruiser out of range, they turned on the corvette, waited for the top of a swell and fired. Their shots were on target, a smoky blast ripped wood from her deck and caused her to turn. A secondary explosion caused her to break off the attack and fall back beyond the range of the PASSAIC FALCON's guns. The Cruiser warily came to her aid and evacuated her crew before she slipped beneath the waves.
The tactic worked. By boldly attacking and placing their shots on target frequently enough to wound their pursuer, they kept her weary and at arms length. But even at long distance, the superior firepower of the Cruiser would eventually take its toll and overwhelm the PASSAIC FALCON.
Michael checked the chart again. He knew these waters. A fast current coming in from the Atlantic was ahead. He scanned the horizon looking for his landmark. To the starboard he saw it and called to Vanderbeec, “Steer east into the night.” The PASSAIC FALCON fainted to the darkness and the Cruiser altered her course in pursuit. The PASSAIC FALCON fired a parting shot, dropped their topsails, and allowed the fast moving current to take them west as the sun dropped below the horizon. Silently they sailed, listening to the sea, unable to see their foe. Navigating away from their enemy by sound. The stars illuminated the surface of the water with a silvery glow. Sounds carried across the waves. As one, the crewmen strained their ears, filtering out the sound of the waves, sifting through the noise listening intently. At first it was like a rushing noise. Slowly it took on form. The sound of men came to their ears. Orders being given! Feet trampling on deck boards. They held their breaths as it drifted behind them, then faded into the night. Michael peered into the darkness. A star on the horizon winked out. He turned the wheel slightly, guiding the PASSAIC FALCON into the current, then blended into the shadow of an unnamed island and eluded the Cruiser. With contact broken, Michael wove a course north to a friendly cove on Antigua where they could rest and repair. The PASSAIC FALCON slowed as she moved through the sea. She was taking on water and slowly drifting deeper as the cries of the wounded echoed through the night.
Vanderbeec brought a mug of tea and a slice of raisin bread to the wheel and relieved Michael. He gratefully accepted the food, walked to the forward rail and bent over it resting his weight on his elbows. His body ached from numerous wounds, but he only felt a numbing despair as he scanned the deck and calculated the damage and destruction to his ship and the toll the battle had taken on his crew. The last of the fires had been extinguished and the crew lay scattered on the decks. They needed a safe haven where they could tend their wounds, repair the battle damage and bury their dead.
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The cove was neatly hidden and had been a friend to them many times in the past and again, it offered sanctuary. A gentle breeze guided the PASSAIC FALCON onto a low tide sand bar and the crew got to work disguising the ship with cut coconut branches. Nestled into their hideaway, the crew looked itself over and shuddered collectively. Nearly half the crew was dead, not a single man had been spared a wound. Michael, himself, was bleeding from a dozen wounds where splinters of steel and wood had embedded themselves into his flesh. His cloths were soaked with a sheen of blood. His own and that of his friends. The decks of the PASSAIC FALCON were torn and caked with the drying blood and the bowels of her crew. The growing stench would soon call forth hoards of flying insects to feast.
By dawn, the decks had been washed clean with buckets of seawater and swept clear of the severed limbs and entrails. The identifiable parts of crewmen were collected into sea chests to be buried in the tradition of sailors. Michael reserved the task of gathering the barely recognizable remains of Rhordon's body to himself. He trembled visibly as he pulled the torso together and placed it in his sea chest along with the shredded arms and legs of his longtime friend and mentor. Tears ran down his face as he dragged the chest across the deck and placed it next to the dozen more containing the remains of other friends. When the task was complete, the exhausted and decimated crew fell asleep.
The setting sun and shifting tide woke the crew and the crippled PASSAIC FALCON pulled up her anchor once more and let out sailcloth. The canvass gathered the wind and she slowly slid out of her hideaway to the open sea. At the deepest part of the channel, one by one, the sea chests containing the bodies of fallen friends and comrades, weighted with stones, were dropped overboard. On the main deck Michael read from his bible: "...We commit these souls to the sea..."
The PASSAIC FALCON was taking water heavily as her crew coaxed her back into the cove. During the fight, cannon balls had pierced her below the water line making it an effort of Herculean proportion to keep her afloat and bring her back to the lair. The crew set her anchors and waited patiently for the tide to run gently out and settle her on the sandy beach, where she might gently list over and drain the water from her bilge and holds. Numb sailors, egged on by Michael's promise of returning home, worked without a word to make her seaworthy again. For two days they hid and worked to repair the damage before striking out for Guadeloupe.
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The PASSAIC FALCON returned to a nearly deserted home port. Panic had reigned throughout Point-a-Petre after the defeat of the French fleet. For two days, the British fleet had remained on station, savoring their victory, gathering their prizes and looting the town. When they finally sailed away they left the town and Michael’s home a smoking rubble. The harbor was nearly empty when she dropped anchor. A merchantman and a French Brig were her only companions. All hands prayed they would be only the first of many ships to straggle home.
Michael led his crew off the PASSAIC FALCON and into the hands of stone faced families awaiting them. Some embraced warmly, others turned away in grief and returned to the rubble of their lives. Stella cried freely when she met Michael and hugging him fiercely as she related the story of how she and the children had hidden in the hills over looking their home while the British soldiers looted it. He held his children tightly and cried.
The devastation of his home and the loss of so many of his friends pushed Michael into a depression. He hardly felt Stella cutting his flesh to remove the pieces of wood and steel buried deep in his skin and muscle. He hardly noticed the old shaman and the sweet smelling yellow salve he gave her to balm his wounds. It wasn't till she was tearfully chiding him for not keeping his head down that he finally told her Rhordon was dead. She held him as he looked off into the distance, unable to concentrate on where he was and mumbled, “Eric is dead. Terence is dead.”
The infections and fever grew in Michael again and took him close to death’s doorstep. For days on end, Stella forced him to drink foul smelling medicines and applied thick salves to his wounds. She coaxed him to eat and cooled his fever with compresses soaked in cold spring water. Eventually it broke. But regaining his health could not ward off the pain and grief at the loss of his friends. He spent hours sitting in the sun, drinking a mix of fruit juices and rum, reopening the wounds in his soul and picking at them till he cried.
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FEBRUARY, 1783
The messenger rode hard up the hill to Michael's house. It was just short of a year since the disastrous battle off his doorstep. Michael’s health had returned but he was not the same as he had been before. He was not quite, he tired easily and found it difficult to pick up his son. The horse reared at the gate and the rider called out to Michael. He couldn’t quite understand what the man was yelling. "The war is over.” The words seemed to have no meaning. Michael listened. “They signed a peace treaty in Paris!”
“A peace treaty?” Michael rose and limped to the parapet as the rider dismounted and came running to their door. Stella came out of the shade of the garden. Breathless, she had heard the messenger calling but couldn't form the idea. "I don't know how to receive the news. After all these years of fighting..."
Michael felt her excitement infect him. “Peace, at last!” A flood of emotions overtook them as they shouted and cried. Wept and laughed. The messenger scrambled up to the veranda and delivered a copy of a New York newspaper, The Post.
He sat down and read the front page of the newspaper. It carried the headline;
TREATY OF PARIS
January 20, 1783.
“Peace treaty calls for hostilities by sea and land to cease.”
Michael's eye traveled over the paper and caught on the banner bearing the name of the editor, Alexander Hamilton, and grinned.
The news spread quickly through the town and a procession of celebrating people were already on the road following the rider to Michael's door. Michael ordered a keg of ale opened and passed mugs and bowls around to the sailors and Officers that came to his home extending their congratulations to Captain Fields.
The news of the end of the war brought a flood of memories of friends and lovers killed in the fight against Britain. At last, the tyranny of King George would no longer be directed at him. The idea sank slowly into his mind and with it, the enormity of the price the New Jersey militias and privateers had paid for their victory. He slipped back into his chair and lowered his head in silent thanksgiving. Stella's hand touched the back of his neck and he looked up. There were tears running down his cheek.
MARCH 15, 1783
The crew met in the JOLIE ROGET. Michael stood before them and explained that his commission and Letters of Marque and Reprisal had expired with the truce. He warned them, “If any of my ships sail against a British plantation or shipping of any kind, they will be branded Pirates and subject to being hung.”
Somberly, they weighed Michael's warning and agreed there was no further need for hostilities. Their options were then, to stay in the islands or return home. To a man, the decision was to return home. Return to Smuggler's Wood and reestablish their lives as they had been before the war had changed them. To see what changes the war had brought and what their new future would be. Michael's final order under the charter issued to him by the Continental Congress was to Weigh Anchor and set sail for Chestnut Neck.
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