The Jamaica Station, page 5
part #3 of Carlisle & Holbrooke Naval Adventures Series
It was strange to think of Chiara in those terms, but a lot had happened since she arrived unexpectedly at English Harbour in February. Captain Carlisle had immediately found lodgings in St. John’s for Chiara and the faintly mysterious chief of household, known to Carlisle’s followers only by the nickname that they had given him – Black Rod – the same title that was enjoyed by the usher for the House of Lords. It was a fitting testament to this enigmatic man’s formidable dignity and bearing. Chiara’s cousin, Enrico, had been taken into Medina’s gunroom as a midshipman. His status, as a mass-attending Catholic in a service that still required an anti-papal oath from its commission officers, wasn’t at all clear. Almost by definition, midshipmen aspired to a commission – the French equivalent was even called an aspirant – but apparently, that didn’t hold true for Enrico. Yet, he’d been absorbed without comment into the cosmopolitan band that formed the non-commissioned, un-warranted petty officers who could claim gentlemanly status. He walked the quarterdeck, he ran out on the upper yards in stormy weather, ate the substantial if unimaginative food that fuelled His Britannic Majesty’s navy, and he appeared content. In fact, his life was infinitely more exciting than it had been as an ensign in His Sicilian Majesty’s army. King Charles Emanuel had at last found a way of avoiding the annihilation of his territorial possessions that lay uncomfortably on the eastern border of France. To the dismay of his army and navy, he’d declared his country to be neutral in this great war that was engulfing all of Europe and had reserved his seat on the diplomatic fence, from where it seemed that nothing would move him.
The romance between Carlisle and Lady Chiara had blossomed rapidly in the heated atmosphere of Antigua. When Medina was ordered to join the Jamaica Squadron at the urgent request of Rear Admiral Townshend, they agreed to be married immediately so that Chiara could take passage in Medina for the short run across the Caribbean to Port Royal. It was a quiet occasion in the brick-built Anglican church of St. John; no member of the Angelini family had been married with so little ceremony for generations. Chalmers had officiated, and Admiral Frankland had stood witness, while Enrico, as the only member of Chiara’s family present, had given away the bride. This remote outpost of empire, with its informal atmosphere, had found no difficulty in marrying a Protestant post-captain from Virginia to a titled Catholic from Sardinia with a scant few days’ notice. The church register hardly acknowledged any irregularity, merely mentioning in a non-judgmental tone that the bride appeared to be a Roman Catholic. The small steeple and the twin bronze guardians of St. John the Divine and St. John the Baptist – loot from a captured French prize – looked on without interest, comment or censure.
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The difficulties that the three men were experiencing in finding their captain’s house were a direct result of the pace of activity on the Jamaica Station in these last few months before the real hurricane season. A bare few days after their first arrival in Port Royal, Medina was sent out to patrol the waters to the east of the island. Chiara had been left waving from the quay-side, with Black Rod standing a few paces behind. It was then that the presence of the Angelini family’s chief-of household started to make sense. Viscountess Angelini had foreseen the difficulties that could be faced by her niece and had insisted on her being accompanied, at least until her marital and residential status was resolved. Black Rod found the house in Kingston, a short boat trip across the bay from Port Royal. He negotiated the lease, engaged the cook and the maid and arranged Chiara’s move from her temporary quarters in the admiral’s residence. Carlisle knew nothing of this, his entire attention at that time being taken up with surviving the early and thankfully moderate hurricane that had ripped in from the east, and was the cause of their present, unscheduled holiday in each other’s company.
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‘Edward, what can have become of George and David and Mister Hosking?’ asked Chiara. She was sitting beside her husband watching the same bustle and hurry of the convoy’s preparations that was impeding their guests, albeit from the somewhat higher ground with a grand view of the harbour. By craning their necks, they could see Port Royal in the far distance and could just identify Medina’s stern, pitched over at an improbable angle. Immediately across the harbour and much closer than Medina, they could see the Nuestra Señora del Rosario, beached to prevent its sinking, but still mastless and looking more fit for the breaker’s yard than the high seas. They were sitting very close to each other. In true naval fashion, they had been permitted little time to get used to being married before the needs of the service had pulled them apart, and the simple act of holding hands as a married couple was still a delicious novelty. ‘If they aren’t here soon I’ll have no opportunity to speak to George before the Spanish gentleman arrives, and you know, I’ll be obliged to speak Spanish to him. It will be most inconvenient.’
Before Carlisle could reply, there was a sharp rap at the door and a few moments later a flustered Holbrooke, a tranquil Chalmers and Hosking, wearing the same imperturbable expression that he wore on all occasions, were shown in by Black Rod. Their demeanours reflected their different relationships with their captain. While Holbrooke relied entirely on Carlisle’s goodwill for his present place and his future promotion, the chaplain was, as always, unconcerned with his own fate, while the older sailing master was secure in his warranted position. The Navy Board could always find a place for an experienced master mariner like himself regardless of the opinion of a junior post-captain.
‘George, how wonderful to see you,’ cried Chiara, riding straight over the greeting that was forming on her husband’s lips while holding out her hands to the younger man and gazing in delight at his face. From the side, apparently forgotten, Chalmers watched the play of emotions on the faces of the two sea-officers. Happiness and mild embarrassment for Holbrooke but a brief flash of what looked like jealousy and annoyance, swiftly replaced by a mask of welcome on the part of Carlisle. No man cared to see his new bride so frankly happy to see a colleague.
Chiara had known George Holbrooke as long as she’d known her husband. They’d met in the Angelini villa overlooking Nice when Carlisle’s previous frigate, Fury, had visited in the fevered months before the war had started. For that matter, she’d known David Chalmers just as long; she’d even become used to calling him David, when in private, and Reverend John Chalmers when in company. He’d once given her an explanation for his chosen name. The characters of all the new testament Johns were, he felt, too close to that of a typical clergyman for comfort, and he favoured the straightforward robustness of the old testament King David as a counterpoint. Not that he thought his own character was in any way heroic. Nevertheless, he preferred that his real Christian name should be used in formal situations. During the short passage across the sparkling Caribbean Sea in the close confines of a frigate, they had all become very easy in each other’s company; Mrs Carlisle, George and David.
‘Your Ladyship,’ said Holbrooke, ‘it’s a great pleasure to meet you again.’ They had long ago mutually agreed that Holbrooke was allowed one use of the title Your Ladyship on first meeting to satisfy his sense of propriety, but from there it must be Mrs Carlisle.
Chiara was nothing if not well-bred, and with an acknowledgement to Holbrooke, she turned and greeted the chaplain and the sailing master, with equal ceremony if perhaps with less real warmth. She could speak to any number of people at once and hold their attention as though she were talking to one alone. ‘Do you have satisfactory quarters?’ she asked. ‘I am so sorry that we can’t offer you rooms here, but you see that houses in Kington are not very large,’ she said sweeping her hand around the room. In truth, they had a perfectly adequate house, the largest that was available at the time that it was needed. While not precisely wealthy, Carlisle had made some money from prizes and would receive a great deal more when the courts had finished deliberating. Of course, the funds had to pass through the lawyers and the prize agent – not without a due proportion sticking to their hands along the way – before it reached his bank, and that took time. But his credit was excellent, and all of Jamaica knew the earning potential of a frigate captain in time of war. He could certainly afford the rent on any house in Kingston.
At that moment Black Rod entered the room to announce the arrival of tea, brought by the newly-acquired maid, a middle-aged indentured servant with a foreign accent. She had the look of one who had spent some time out of doors – her face was browned by the sun, and her skin lacked the delicacy that most women cultivated. She’d only been engaged the previous day. However, she seemed to know her way around a tea-tray, and Chiara served it as though she’d done so all her life, while in reality, it was a novelty to her, just one more oddity of these strange English people. Chalmers was the most talkative, Hosking being naturally reticent and Holbrooke as always having an attack of shyness in his captain’s wife’s company.
‘Are you enjoying the delights of Kingston, Mrs Carlisle?’ asked Chalmers, when they had each safely taken delivery of a delicate porcelain teacup and saucer. The finger-joints of sea officers weren’t designed for this purpose, so Holbrooke and Hosking had to grip the whole handle between thumb and forefinger. Chalmers secretly wondered how long the joint between the cup and handle could withstand that kind of pressure. He withdrew his chair a foot or so, to remove himself from the splash zone. ‘I expect you may find it a little lacking in sophistication when compared with Nice or Livorno.’
‘It is a little rustic, I agree, but I’ve had no time to myself, no time at all.’ Chiara looked sideways at her husband, looked away and then turned her whole face back to him. ‘May I tell them, Edward? Oh, may I?’
The three guests exchanged mystified glances, while their captain pondered for no more than two seconds. In truth, there was little to consider. The balance of moral authority between him and his aristocratic, headstrong wife wasn’t of the quality that would allow him to deny any request for very long.
‘Yes, my dear,’ he said with a smile. ‘It’ll be all over Kingston, Spanish Town and Port Royal in a few days so those most concerned may certainly know first.’
‘We are to take His Excellency the governor to St. Augustine!’ exclaimed Chiara. She looked for a suitable reaction from the three men, but to them, it wasn’t particularly noteworthy; a trip of about a month’s duration through peaceful waters, and in any case, they couldn’t start until Medina was seaworthy again. Chiara began to look disappointed at their reactions.
‘I don’t believe our guests have yet grasped the significance of the word we that you used, Chiara. They’ve made some assumptions that you may enjoy correcting,’ said Carlisle, smiling.
‘Of course!’ cried Chiara, clapping her hands in delight. She attempted to explain, her command of English almost defeating her in her haste. ‘This is – oh, what’s the word? – something of a diplomatic mission, and with a Spanish countess travelling all that way in a British man-of-war, the admiral has determined that there should be a suitable companion. He’s asked Edward if I may sail with you,’ she said, ‘to St. Augustine!’
The reaction was all that she could have hoped. They had been suitably amazed when Admiral Frankland had allowed Carlisle to convey his new wife from English Harbour to Port Royal, but that was little more than a shuttle across the Caribbean, six days of fair weather and little chance of meeting an enemy man-of-war. The admiral’s decision was probably influenced by the guilt that he may have felt in the separation that the newly married couple would otherwise have to endure. However, this was something on a much grander scale. The voyage to St. Augustine would take them through the Yucatan Channel, around the northwestern tip of Cuba and northwards between the Bahamas and the mainland, following the Florida Stream. It was the same passage that the merchant convoy would take, avoiding the hard beat through the Windward Passage and, of the highest importance, bypassing the French naval base at Cape François on the northwest coast of Saint Domingue. In part, it followed the route that the Spanish treasure ships had taken for the last two hundred years, giving it an air of romance. Medina would presumably have to spend a few days at St. Augustine, the seat of the governor of Florida, then come back by the same way. The whole voyage would take a month, probably. It was almost unheard of for a commander-in-chief to allow a captain to take his wife on such a long voyage in wartime.
‘Well, I congratulate you, ma’am. We’ll have some fine sailing, but it’ll be a long passage back to the Yucatan against the current.’ Hosking was always the practical navigator, and he basked in the glory of having the features of this voyage at his fingertips without any prior knowledge of the plan and without the need to consult the pilots or charts.
‘Ah, there I have you Mister Hosking,’ exclaimed Carlisle in triumph. ‘You’re still guilty of making assumptions.’ He observed his officers’ faces. ‘We’ll return through the Windward Passage.’
Hosking looked less than pleased. This new route home exposed them to the French squadron based at Cape François. ‘Very well, sir,’ he replied, not wishing to relinquish the role of navigational oracle quite so quickly. ‘Then it’ll be a long leg north-northeast into the Atlantic until we can take a single tack outside the Bahamas, through Crooked Island Passage and then run through the Windward Passage and back to Jamaica. A few days faster than the Yucatan Channel, perhaps, but there are disadvantages …,’ he didn’t complete the sentence. It wasn’t his place to reveal the dangers to his captain’s wife.
Carlisle acknowledged the skill of his sailing master but didn’t always appreciate his condescending manner in navigational matters, nor his tendency to offer his opinion on operational issues.
‘But there is one further detail, gentlemen,’ Carlisle said, ‘and I must insist on your discretion in this. I’m ordered to Cape François on the way home, to see what the French are doing.’ He let that sink in for a moment. He could see that both Hosking and Holbrooke understood that what was previously thought of as a sort of yachting holiday had, at its end, a solid naval purpose. Of course, Admiral Townshend would take every opportunity to gain intelligence on the enemy, and after all, that was one of a frigate’s main purposes. ‘What will be our route in that case?’ he asked Hosking, offering him the opportunity to shine.
‘Well, sir, the Crooked Island Passage will see us too far west and to leeward of Cape François. We must beat further into the Atlantic and pass between the Inagua Islands and the Caicos Islands, the Caicos Passage, it’s called. It’s more difficult navigation, and I’ve never been that way, but it’s perfectly normal for anyone sailing towards Saint Domingue. It’ll place us north of Cape François, and we’ll have the trade wind abaft the beam for the run in.’ He looked thoughtful. ‘It’ll put a day or two on the passage, sir, so long as we don’t get tangled up with the French.’
Chiara clapped her hands and smiled broadly. ‘Bravo, Mister Hosking. I’ve been studying for the past half day, attempting to work out how we get to St. Augustine, and home again. And here I find you know the way without even a glimpse of a map.’
Hosking winced at hearing a sea-chart being referred to as a map, but he bowed graciously. Chalmers noticed that, with a few carefully-chosen words, Chiara had defused any hint of censure that the sailing master may have inferred from Carlisle’s gentle teasing. Chalmers was a peacemaker himself, an inveterate healer of psychological wounds, and he recognised a kindred spirit. Perhaps the captain’s wife would be an asset on this voyage. He noticed the door to the salon closing and caught a glimpse of Black Rod’s coat sleeve as he held the door for the serving girl to leave the room with the tea tray.
‘There is one thing that I don’t understand,’ said Holbrooke. ‘Why do we not take His Excellency to Havana? Surely that would be the fastest way to return him to his countrymen, and we’ll pass right by it.’
‘He doesn’t care to go to Havana,’ replied Carlisle, who was unsure of his ground, ‘he fears the delay that it’ll cause. St. Augustine is his destination and unless we can find a Spanish ship willing to take him, then St. Augustine it is.’
Chiara held her hands wide in a very un-ladylike pose. ‘I had no idea that you sailors had so much fun!’ she said and laughed delightedly. Her pleasure was infectious, and soon all the men in the room joined her, even Hosking risked his dignity with a strange sort of barking sound which could politely be mistaken for laughter.
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5: His Excellency
Wednesday, twenty-second of June 1757.
Kingston, Jamaica.
With stately measure, Black Rod’s deep voice intoned the name of the visitor. ‘His Excellency Don Alonso Fernández de Heredia, governor of Florida.’
Don Alonso strode into the room that was fast becoming crowded with Captain Carlisle, Lady Chiara, Holbrooke, Hosking and Chalmers. He was a tall, handsome man in his late thirties with a neatly trimmed black beard in the best Spanish fashion. His face was browned by the tropical sun and his eyes swept across the room and its inhabitants from under level, sparse eyebrows. His pupils were jet-black, a blackness that was accentuated by the startling white of the surrounding sclera. Don Alonso was dressed in a suit of burgundy velvet shot through with silver threads, not unlike the outfit that he wore when he was rescued, but that suit had been rendered irreparable by the hurricane. This suit, however, was immaculate. He wore a silver-hilted small-sword and swept a large feathered hat from his head as he bowed on being introduced.
