The Jamaica Station, page 18
part #3 of Carlisle & Holbrooke Naval Adventures Series
‘How’s your patient, Mister Carlton?’ asked Holbrooke, after bowing to Chiara, who sat beside the cot, holding Carlisle’s hand.
‘He’ll do very well, I believe. The ball scored his chest, breaking three ribs and cracking the right clavicle.’ Holbrooke looked questioningly at him. ‘The collar-bone,’ he elaborated. ‘The ball exited through the shoulder missing the important vessels. Aye, he’ll do very well. I understand that we should be in Port Royal on Tuesday. Is that correct, Mister Holbrooke?’
‘It is. I must escort the Torenvalk on her way, then look into Cape François, but I won’t linger. We’ll weigh anchor in the morning watch on Saturday.’
‘Then I’ll tell you what I’ve already told Lady Chiara,’ he said, casting a glance at the captain’s wife. ‘I’ll keep the captain sedated as long as I dare, but if it comes to a fever I’ll have to stop the laudanum …’
‘Do you expect a fever?’ interrupted Holbrooke.
The surgeon made a half-rotating motion of his wrist. ‘Perhaps; it occurs as often as not in these cases. If a fever comes on, I expect it to start tomorrow and continue for two or three days. It’ll be over before we reach port. I’ve warned Lady Chiara that he may not be quite himself while the fever lasts, but he’s strong and not in any great danger.’
Holbrooke looked carefully at his captain’s face, pale and sweating slightly, but in this heat, they all sweltered all the time. ‘And his recovery, Mister Carlton, how long before he’s fit to go back to sea?’
The surgeon looked sideways at Chiara. She’d asked the same question, and he’d avoided answering. However, he understood that the management of the ship to some extent depended on the ability of the captain to command. ‘The wound is clean and open, it’ll heal in a few weeks. The ribs will knit back together in a month or so, but the clavicle will take longer. I wouldn’t like to see him back on the deck of a ship for three months,’ he said positively.
Chiara looked worried, but she brightened at the thought of having her husband ashore for three months. She knew that Admiral Cotes would want his frigate back to sea as soon as possible, and she now knew enough about the fabric of ships to know that with a day or two for essential repairs and breaming, Medina would be back at sea two weeks after they arrived at Port Royal.
‘Well, I’ll leave you now ma’am.’ Holbrooke bowed to Chiara who distractedly inclined her head in reply.
‘Is it convenient to visit the sickbay now Mister Carlton?’
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The sickbay was a far cry from the great cabin, but Carlton, his mate and the loblolly-boy had made Medina’s wounded comfortable. Of the fifteen with injuries that were sufficiently serious to be noticed, eight of them had been discharged to their messes with orders to report to the sick bay for dressing changes each day. There was a significant incentive to stay out of the sickbay: the rum ration was denied to those in the care of the surgeon, whereas in their messes no such restriction applied. Of the remainder, two were amputations, a foot and an arm, one had a suspected fractured skull, two had simple fractures, and the other two had deep wounds. Only the amputees had been given laudanum, and they were sleeping soundly; the remainder were talkative. If it had been the captain visiting, they’d have lain stiff in their cots, affecting a swooning weakness whether they felt that way or not. It would have seemed bad form in front of the captain to be anything other than near death. However, the first lieutenant was a whole degree lower in awful majesty. The people of Medina generally liked Holbrooke. They thought him very young to be a first lieutenant, but he put on no airs in front of them, and they recognised his competence.
‘We showed those butter-balls, sir. God, it was like a slaughter-house on that deck!’ said one young seaman sporting a splint to his ankle. Holbrooke looked at Carlton who made the same rotating gesture with his hand below the seaman’s eye-line. Carlton wasn’t convinced that he could save the foot, but at least an amputation would be below the knee; he’d know before they reached Port Royal.
‘I heard the bosun say that there’d be head money, and maybe prize money too,’ said an older seaman, winking at Holbrooke. ‘There’s a lady in Port Royal as will be mighty glad to see me with a pocketful of coins.’ That raised a laugh. Dobbs’ preferred entertainment while ashore was well-known in the ship, and after a month ashore with a few pounds to his name, he’d be pretty well known throughout the bordellos of Port Royal.
‘Just you concentrate on healing that wound,’ said Holbrooke, pointing to the bandage wrapped around his stomach. ‘The ladies of Port Royal will manage quite well without you.’
‘Now sir, you know that’s not true,’ he replied, ‘no lady can manage without me!’ and he favoured his first lieutenant with a lewd smirk.
‘I think I’ve seen enough, Mister Carlton; let me know how they do. In any case, I’ll have a report before the forenoon watch while we’re at sea,’ said Holbrooke loudly enough for all in the sick bay to hear. It did no harm for these men with honourable wounds to know that their first lieutenant was concerned with their welfare.
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Holbrooke walked back towards his cabin as the light was fading. He was dog-tired, but there was one further duty before he could surrender to a few hours of sleep. ‘Pass the word for the chaplain!’ he said to the sentry who still stood at the door to Carlisle’s apartments.
Chalmers came into Holbrooke’s tiny cabin, looking tired himself. He’d assisted Carlton in dressing wounds and amputating limbs, work that was emotionally and physically draining. But there was one essential service that Holbrooke must ask of him.
‘Take a seat, David, you look shattered,’ said Holbrooke. The chaplain sat gratefully in the only chair while Holbrooke perched upon his sea-chest. ‘Tomorrow we must bury our dead, and the Dutch pirates,’ he said flatly.
Chalmers raised his head and looked quizzically at the young lieutenant. ‘I’d assumed that you’d bury them at sea,’ he replied, ‘I thought that was the custom.’
‘Not if we can bury them decently on land; the men don’t like the thought of being slipped over the side. They accept it when there is no dry ground to hand, but they prefer a proper burial by a real parson.’
‘Very well. There are six of them, I understand.’
‘Yes. I’ve told the master-at-arms to take a party and dig six separate graves under that lone pine tree that you can see from the deck. They’ll be ready by noon, so we’ll take their mess-mates ashore in the cutter and lay them to rest at two bells in the afternoon. Chips is making the crosses, and he’ll carve their names and the date on each. Young Angelini is quite an artist, and I’ve asked him to sketch the scene and colour it in at his leisure. Who knows? someone may be interested to see where they’ve been put to rest.’
‘You think of everything George. Is there some way of marking the spot for future generations?’
‘Good idea. I’ll ask the armourer to inscribe something on a sheet of lead; I know he has some spare aprons for the nine-pounder touch-holes, which should be the right size. If he nails it firmly to that tree, it’ll be there for our grandchildren to discover. Would you think of some words and tell the armourer?’
‘I will, George, and if that’s all, I’ll leave you to get some rest and see you in the morning.’ The chaplain pulled aside the canvas screen that served as a door, but he paused before leaving. ‘What do you intend with the dead pirates?’
‘I was hoping you wouldn’t ask. You know that pirates aren’t usually given a Christian burial?’ Chalmers nodded cautiously. ‘And in any case, I just can’t spare the people to dig even a mass grave for that many bodies – there are over two hundred of them!’ Chalmers hadn’t moved a muscle, he was waiting to hear what the younger man intended and was ready to disagree. ‘Well, I’m minded to bury them at sea on Saturday morning as soon as we’re in deep water,’ Chalmers waited, ‘and as they aren’t yet convicted of piracy, and they’re from a Christian nation, I hope that you’ll agree to conduct a burial service, just one for all of them. We don’t know their names, so it’ll be short,’ he looked almost pleadingly at Chalmers. He knew very well that the chaplain could refuse, citing the long-held belief that pirates had by their actions put themselves beyond any hope of redemption.
‘Of course, George, that’s an excellent suggestion. If I sail in Torenvalk, perhaps you’ll send a boat for me after the burial is complete?’
Both knew that most men in their positions wouldn’t have given a thought to the dead pirates but would have heaved them over the side without any ceremony. However, neither man cared to be known for a tender heart, and no further words were spoken on the matter.
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The gap between Medina and Torenvalk slowly grew as the frigate hardened her tacks and sheets and turned southeast towards Cape François. Holbrooke waved one last time to Wishart, the proud commander of this, his most significant command yet. The Dutch ship was patched and mended so that at a distance she looked untouched, but a closer inspection would reveal the deep gouges in her deck, the bulwarks and railing that had been beaten down and the scars around her gun ports. However, her rigging and sails were sound, as well set-up as the bosun and his crew could achieve in a day of furious activity. It was a matter of vital interest to all on board that this ship should reach Port Royal because, regardless of Holbrooke’s caution, they were thoroughly convinced that she represented a substantial sum in prize money. Holbrooke had seen her safely past Great Inagua Island and from there it was just a matter of running through the Windward Passage, past the easternmost point of Jamaica, and home.
They’d buried the British dead under the lone pine tree overlooking the anchorage on West Caicos, and they’d slipped the dead pirates over the side with a brief service of committal. The people of Medina had done all that friendship and the customs of the sea dictated. Each of the Medinas had an inscribed wooden cross at his head, and there was a lead plaque nailed to the tree stating the bare facts of their burial with a passage of scripture. The tree looked as though it had stood there for centuries; presumably, it and the low point of land on which it stood were proof against hurricanes. Now they were looking forward to an uneventful passage home to Port Royal after a quick look at the French at Cape François.
Holbrooke had considered sailing directly for Port Royal and missing Cape François entirely. He knew that he was justified in doing that with a wounded captain and a valuable prize to protect. Two considerations had ruled out that course of action. First, he was confident that Carlisle would have ordered him to complete his mission, had he been able. Second, although his captain was in the grip of the fever that the surgeon had predicted, Carlton had stated most decisively that he’d do better at sea than he would in the hospital at Port Royal, even if Medina could reach there before the fever broke. Those considerations alone would have kept him firmly to the fulfilment of Admiral Cotes’ orders. However, there was a third consideration.
He, Holbrooke, was now de facto captain of this fine frigate, at least until he had to report to the admiral when he’d inevitably be superseded by a jobbing captain. For an ambitious officer – and Holbrooke had become that, after an inauspicious start to his career – this was the most golden of all opportunities to prove his fitness for command. So, it was with a clear conscious that Holbrooke waved farewell to Torenvalk with its cargo of apprehensive former pirates being guarded by the implacable Sergeant Wilson.
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‘How is the captain, ma’am,’ asked Holbrooke.
‘As you see him, George. The fever has him in its grip, and he’s raving. I suppose it’s a mercy that I can’t catch most of what he says,’ she gave George a wan smile. ‘Mister Carlton tells me that it’ll pass in forty-eight hours and that I’m not to worry,’ she passed a hand over her brow, she was perspiring herself, ‘but it’s dreadful to see my husband like this.’
‘Would a little more air help? I can get the sailmaker to rig a scoop through the gun port and force a breeze across the cabin.’
‘Oh, would you do so, George? I’m sure that he’d be less restless if he were cooler.’
Carlisle turned to give the orders and then paused. ‘When we clear for action tomorrow morning, I’ll give orders that the cabin shouldn’t be touched. We’ll only lose two guns on each side, and I have no intention of fighting anyone. Just a quick look and we’ll be on our way. I expect we’ll reach Port Royal on Monday evening, or Tuesday morning if the current in the Windward Passage turns against us.
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18: Cape François
Sunday, twenty-first of August 1757.
Medina, at Sea. Off Cape François, Saint Domingue.
Medina was two miles north of Cape François as the sun showed itself over the eastern horizon.
‘A superb piece of navigation,’ Holbrooke said to Hosking. It was clear that they’d be able to see the French fleet anchorage just as the light became sufficient to make out the number and type of the ships. He regretted the remark immediately. Hosking wasn’t the sort of man to accept compliments from a junior – a very junior – lieutenant, even if he was temporarily the captain of the ship.
Hosking sniffed disdainfully. ‘A simple piece of reckoning such as this should be the least that we aspire to, but they don’t teach the young gentlemen the skills of navigation like they used to,’ and he turned away with an assumed business to berate the quartermaster.
Holbrooke smiled. He could take that kind of behaviour from the master if he knew his trade, and Hosking certainly did.
It was surprising how the sea, so empty only a hundred miles north, was dotted with vessels, mostly small country ships trading along the north coast of Hispaniola or local fishermen, each one of them a potential fair prize. It was tempting, but Holbrooke knew that he must concentrate on his mission and then get back to Port Royal; and anyway, they were poor prizes, worth little after the admiral and the agents had taken their shares, and their loss wouldn’t be felt by the French war effort. He stared into the bay as the roadstead opened up past the cape, where he could see a few merchant ships at anchor. No, many merchant ships, but that wasn’t unusual as Cape François was the rendezvous for all the French trade from the western Caribbean waiting to be convoyed across the Atlantic to France. They’d be waiting for the worst of the hurricane season to pass. Then in about two months, they’d take the Caicos Passage that Medina had recently passed through and beat northwards until they should meet the westerlies and the North Atlantic current.
Although Cape François was the principal base for the French Navy in the Western Caribbean, it was still a wild, isolated place. The harbour, however, was excellent. It was a deep bay guarded by a long, submerged bank, and even the channels around the bank were dissected by further reefs. The town and naval base were located on the western shore of the bay, with means of entry and exit in all winds except for a northeaster, and here the locally produced winds – the land and sea breezes – displaced the trade wind.
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Medina moved across the bay, gradually opening a view right into the harbour. Holbrooke studied the anchored vessels; there must be about thirty large merchantmen, and now that the view was expanding he could see the men-of-war. There were two ships-of-the-line and three or four frigates. They’d need that number to see the convoy clear of the islands if Admiral Cotes was to send a squadron to prevent them leaving.
‘Deck ho! there’s a flag run up on the headland to starboard.’
That was the battery on the cape, kindly reminding Holbrooke of its presence. The enemy guns were two miles distant, and Holbrooke had no intention of coming any closer.
‘They’re firing, sir,’ called Whittle from the masthead. Sure enough, the position of the battery was marked by three puffs of smoke. The shot fell well short. ‘Twenty-four pounders, Mister Hosking? They can’t be any more than that.’
‘Eighteen, I believe, sir,’ replied the master. Holbrooke nodded, Hosking was probably correct. It wouldn’t need anything more substantial than eighteen pounders to dominate the passage between the cape and the submerged bank, it was merely three cables wide.
The town was now clearly visible, nestled in a plain between the encroaching green-clad hills. There were no more men-of-war visible. Those that he could see all had their masts and yards in place and looked ready for sea, but Holbrooke was sure that they wouldn’t venture out with such a valuable convoy before the threat of hurricanes was reduced.
There was a light breeze from the north, not yet a sea breeze – it was too early – but it would probably get stronger as the sun rose higher.
‘We’ve seen all we need to see, Mister Hosking. Put the ship about – I’d rather not get any closer to that battery – and take us home if you please.’
‘Aye, aye, sir,’ replied the master, privately in full agreement about the battery. It would have been easier to veer ship, but that would have taken them a cable closer to danger for no discernible advantage. ‘North of Tortuga?’
‘Yes, we’ll save hardly any time going through the Tortuga Passage, and I’d feel vulnerable that close to land. Twenty miles with hostile shores two miles on either side and the chance of being becalmed? No, we’ll go around, Master.’ Holbrooke looked wistfully, ‘but I shall regret missing the pirate’s lair on the south coast.’
‘There’s nothing to see. The fort’s overgrown, and the town and anchorage are abandoned. It was raised up and, in its wickedness, was cast down,’ said Hosking in his best old testament voice, looking pointedly at Eli. ‘Like Sodom and Gomorrah,’ he added, in case anyone had missed the reference.
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Medina turned her stern to Cape François and settled on a north-westerly course to round Tortuga. The wind had shifted into the north-northeast and was two points forward of the beam. If it didn’t back at all, they’d comfortably weather the island and then be able to turn into the Windward Passage, where the prevailing wind and current would sweep them back towards Jamaica. They should have the eastern point of Tortuga abeam at noon.
