A Sacrifice of Pawns, page 16
As the gun crew clustered around the ugly black cannon, one man thrust a bag of powder into the muzzle and rammed it to the base before adding a wad to keep the powder in place. As Dolphin rose to a wayward wave, a man rolled the nine-pound iron ball down the barrel, with another adding a second wad to hold the ball steady. Accuracy depended on the gunner’s skill in estimating the wind and waves that shifted two moving ships on a heaving sea.
With the cannon loaded, a gunner primed the touch hole with gunpowder, and the gun crew shoved the weapon forward until the barrel pointed towards the privateer, now clearly seen rising and falling to the dance of the sea.
“Fire,” Maxwell said softly.
The gun captain waited until Dolphin rose to near the apex of a wave, then applied his slow match to the touch-hole. The powder flashed, and a second later, the gun roared and emitted a cloud of white smoke. The ball flew from the muzzle towards the privateer.
MacKim fancied he saw the ball like a black streak in the sky, and then came a splash a cables’ length to larboard of Douce Vengeance.
“Close!” Maxwell said. “Keep firing, boys!”
MacKim knew how hard it was to be accurate on land when the shot did not fit snugly into the cannon’s barrel. It would be much harder at sea when both vessels were moving to the swell of the waves.
As daylight faded, Maxwell kept Dolphin on the track of Douce Vengeance, with the bow chaser firing at regular intervals and the familiar smell of powder smoke drifting across the deck.
“Hit her, sir!” the gun captain yelled as there was a momentary shudder from the privateer. “I swear I saw splinters rise from her counter!”
MacKim smiled at the fancy, yet hoped the gun captain was right. Roberval’s cabin lay right aft, and he had a vision of a nine-pound cannonball crashing right into the cabin, destroying Roberval’s floating home. “Keep up the good work!” he shouted.
Ten minutes later, Douce Vengeance replied, with two bright flashes from her stern, indicating two cannon. The shots fell well short, raising columns of water a hundred yards in front of Dolphin and to starboard.
Dolphin’s gun crew jeered and whistled, then redoubled their efforts to fire before the swift tropical night ended the contest.
“Fire again,” Maxwell ordered. “As if we think she will maintain the same course for a quarter of an hour, and then make sail for Grenada.”
“She might not head there.” Kennedy had been a silent watcher of the duel.
“She’s little choice,” Maxwell said. “She didn’t have time to refit and bring in water at Saint Lucie before we captured the island, and her men will be weary after Martinico. We also hit her at least twice, and she’ll wish to repair the damage.”
“There are plenty unoccupied islands in the Caribbean.” Kennedy played devil’s advocate.
“Privateer seamen need rum, women, and debauchery,” Maxwell said, and added, “I sailed in a Bristol privateer before I joined the Navy. I know what type of men they are. Douse all lights and set a course for Grenada.”
“Aye, aye, sir!” Crabb said.
MacKim watched the privateer sail into the night and wondered if he were destined to chase and fight forever.
I still have not written Claudette!
15
The frigate approached from the south, with the Union flag claiming British identity. Aware that unscrupulous seamen could raise any flag that suited them, Maxwell kept Dolphin’s distance and ordered the hands to the guns.
“Does anybody recognise that vessel?” Maxwell asked.
“Yes, sir,” Lieutenant Holmes said, focussing his telescope. “She’s Narcissus, sir. One of ours, sir.”
“Very well,” Maxwell said. “Order the men at the guns to stand down.”
“She’s summoning you on board, sir.”
MacKim watched as Maxwell’s gig crossed to the frigate, and Maxwell climbed onto her deck. The crew of Dolphin waited in the heat, with the green island of Grenada to larboard and the sails of other ships gradually drawing closer.
After fifteen minutes, the gig returned, with Maxwell looking strained. “Captain Swanton is in charge here,” Maxwell said. “They saw Douce Vengeance last night, but she evaded them and headed north.”
Kennedy groaned. “That gives her the entire Caribbean to escape in,” he said. “Have the French any other islands here?”
“The Spanish have a few,” Maxwell said quietly. “We’re now officially at war with Spain.”
The crew heard the news with mixed emotions. Although Dolphin was a happy ship, most of the hands still wished to return home. They had hoped the war would end soon, but the entry of Spain could prolong hostilities for years.
“Having a new ally might even encourage the French to retake Martinico,” Kennedy said.
As a flurry of flags rose on the frigate, Maxwell sent Crabb to read what was said.
“It’s a summons for all captains to report to the flagship, sir,” the midshipman reported.
“What the devil is it now?” Maxwell asked. “And where’s the flagship?”
“Over there, sir.” The midshipman pointed to Vanguard as she eased towards them.
“Get my gig ready,” Maxwell said, and vanished into his cabin. He re-emerged five minutes later, dressed in his best and, MacKim suspected, his only other uniform, with pinchbeck buttons and shoe buckles, and a cheap sword at his waist.
“Damned flag officers.” Maxwell tried to adjust the uniform to the best advantage. “I wish they’d leave me alone.” He turned to Holmes. “Try to get fresh water when I’m gone, Holmes, and as many vegetables as you can scrounge.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” Holmes hurried away, calling for the longboat’s crew.
The Rangers waited on Dolphin as Maxwell’s gig rowed away. MacKim looked to the north, aware that every minute gave Roberval more time to escape, and slipped below.
“Where are you going, sergeant?” Kennedy asked.
“I’m going to write a letter, sir.”
Kennedy smiled. “Give Claudette my regards, MacKim.”
Finding space on a crowded ship was not easy, but MacKim squeezed into the galley stores, placed a sheet of paper on top of a barrel, dipped his quill into the ink, and pondered.
What can I say? What do I want to say?
“Claudette,” he wrote, then added a “Dear” in front, swore, nibbled the vane of the quill, cursed again, and wrote on.
“Dear Claudette,
I should have written earlier. We are off Grenada, on a sloop called Dolphin. We took part in the taking of Martinico, and I don’t know where we are going next. I hope you and Hugo are both well.
When we come back to the Colonies, or when the war ends, I will come to Quebec.
I think of you a lot.
Hugh.”
MacKim knew it was a poor letter. He read it, waved it in the air to dry the ink, folded it over, and sealed it with a blob of wax from the cook.
“Good luck, Ranger,” the cook said. “I hope she’s worth it.”
“She is,” MacKim said, and dashed up to the deck. He was fortunate that Lieutenant Holmes was arguing with a boat from the flagship over fresh provisions while some of the crew were purchasing parrots and cocoanuts.
“Can you take this to the flagship?” MacKim asked the boatman, suddenly desperate to contact Claudette. “Give it to the postmaster.”
“One shilling!” the boatman demanded.
“A shilling?” MacKim repeated in dismay, for he carried no money.
“A shilling? You rogue!” Lieutenant Holmes shouted. “Sixpence is twice the price! Be off with you, or I’ll have you flogged!”
“Sixpence,” the boatman amended, and stuffed the letter in the waist of his ragged trousers.
“Here.” Kennedy tossed over the silver coin. “And think yourself lucky, you thieving scoundrel!”
MacKim watched as the loading was complete, and the boatman rowed away. He wondered when the letter would arrive and what Claudette would think of it.
“It’s done now, MacKim,” Kennedy said. “Don’t think about it again. Let events take their course.”
“Yes, sir,” MacKim said.
I should have been more affectionate.
The sun crept higher, baking the crew of Dolphin and bubbling the pitch caulking between the deck planks. When Maxwell eventually returned, he looked serious.
“Gather the hands,” he said, and stood on the quarterdeck, which gave him a slight height advantage when he spoke.
“You’ll have heard by now that we’re at war with Spain,” he said, and waited for the murmurs to rise and fade away. “Two days ago, Commodore Swanton captured Grenada from the French. As I heard it, the governor refused to surrender, but the inhabitants capitulated rather than undergoing the rigours of a siege and assault.”
The crew murmured again, commenting on the news.
“As Grenada is now ours, we also control the Grenadines, the chain of small islands around us.” Maxwell indicated the surrounding seas. “That means the French ships, and particularly their privateers, have fewer bases from which to attack our shipping.”
The hands listened, grateful to have a commander who explained the ongoing situation to them. “Less cheerfully, and as we have long suspected, a French fleet has escaped from Brest and is loose in the Caribbean. Commodore Swanton will leave two ships of the line and a garrison in Grenada, and we will all return to Martinico and Admiral Rodney. Our search for Douce Vengeance will halt for now. A French fleet is a greater menace than a single privateer.”
“So the pirate escapes again,” Kennedy said as they stood at the rail watching Swanton’s fleet bowl northward to Martinico. “Roberval has a charmed life.”
“His options are shrinking, though,” MacKim pointed out. “I can’t think of any French bases left in the Caribbean. He’ll have to find a Spanish port.”
“The French still hold half of Hispaniola,” Kennedy said. “But a penny to a gold sovereign that Roberval will sail to Havana.”
Admiral Rodney was on high alert, posting a necklace of frigates to windward of the Caribbean islands, watching for the expected French fleet, and hopeful of snapping up any Spanish prizes that came their way. In the meantime, Courbon-Blenac, in command of the French squadron, was too wary to fall into the British trap. Unsure of the current situation in Martinico, he sailed to the windward coast of the island, anchored offshore near La Trinité, and sent an officer in a small boat to gather intelligence.
“How many French ships?” Kennedy asked when Maxwell gave the information.
“Thirteen vessels, including eight ships of the line,” Maxwell said. “One of our frigates saw them heading south from La Trinité and reported to Admiral Rodney, but then the wind dropped and our ships were becalmed. That left Douglas with his three line-of-battle ships isolated at the south of the island. Douglas prepared to fight, of course, hoping to inflict sufficient damage on the French to slow them until Rodney arrived.”
“I’ve heard that Douglas is a fighting seaman,” Kennedy said.
Maxwell smiled. “If he weren’t, he wouldn’t last in the Navy. When a northerly wind returned, Rodney sailed with six battleships. Swanton and Hervey also headed south from different directions. We hoped their pincer movement would trap Courbon-Blenac, but he slipped away. Rodney believes that the French pretended to head south, doubled back, and steered north for Cap Francois in Saint Dominique, French Hispaniola.”
“We’ll be taking Hispaniola next, then,” MacKim said. “France’s last Caribbean stronghold.”
“Maybe; the island of Hispaniola is split between France and Spain,” Maxwell reminded. “I’ll wager Courbon-Blenac has a pre-arranged rendezvous with a Spanish fleet there to descend on some British island.”
“Jamaica?” Kennedy asked.
“That’s what I’d do if I were him. I’d leave Rodney chasing his tail in the Windward Islands and scoop up Jamaica.”
“How many ships do the Spanish have?”
Maxwell pulled a face. “I heard they had fourteen line of battleships in theHavana, and a few others scattered across the Caribbean and the Spanish Main. If they combine with the French, Rodney will have a tough time defeating them.”
MacKim pictured a French-Spanish victory in the Caribbean, with sunk British ships and the French landing troops on the recently captured islands. He thought of Private Chisholm’s analogy of war as chess, with armies and fleets like the pieces and the entire globe as the board.
“What are we doing now, sir?” MacKim asked.
“Dolphin is returning to St Peter’s in Martinico,” Maxwell answered for Kennedy. “We’re taking on food and water, and we’ll get further orders there.”
“Are my Rangers remaining on board, captain?” Kennedy asked.
“I’ve had no orders to the contrary, captain,” Maxwell replied. “Maybe you’ll all be Marine Rangers before this campaign is over.”
By that time, MacKim was used to life afloat. He found the variety interesting, with the constantly changing scenery and fresh breezes as Dolphin cruised the islands. All the same, he missed the exercise of marching with his Rangers. Most of the time on Dolphin, he was merely a passenger, a witness to events.
“Orders, gentlemen!” Maxwell came back on board from St Pierre.
“Where are we headed now, sir?”
“Jamaica, once we have watered.” Maxwell grinned. “We’ll sail via St Christopher’s.”
MacKim watched the surf break on the Palisadoes, the long sand spit that protected Kingston’s harbour.
“I thought all black people in the West Indies were slaves.” MacKim sipped at the neck of the rum bottle, wiped his lips, and passed the bottle back.
“Not all. We have free black men here as well, like me.” Mike, the Jamaican sailor, lifted his face to the sun. “You haven’t been in the Caribbean long, have you?”
“Less than a year,” MacKim admitted. “I had never heard of Jamaica until a few months ago.”
Mike shook his head. "How greedy your king is to gulp at much of the world." He sipped at his rum. "Yet, he doesn't teach his subjects about their brother countries." He shook his head again.
MacKim could not argue. He accepted the bottle again. “Educate me, Mike. Tell me about your island.”
Mike gave a slow smile, happy to accept the role of teacher. “Jamaica was one of the earliest British colonies. The Englishmen, Admiral William Penn and General Robert Venables, captured the island from the Spanish in 1655, fifty-two years before Great Britain even existed.”
Mike was justifiably proud of his knowledge as he sat at the water’s edge.
MacKim listened. Exposed to education at an early age, he eagerly devoured all knowledge. He thought of Benjamin and the other slaves toiling on Martinico. “Why are so many Jamaican’s slaves?”.
“Before the Spanish left, they freed their slaves,” Mike said. “As the Spanish sailed to Cuba, the freed slaves headed inland. They had no desire to swap one slave master for another.”
MacKim nodded, sipped at his rum, and looked around him. Despite the prevalence of disease in all these islands, he could not deny that Jamaica was beautiful.
“These freed slaves formed settlements in the interior of Jamaica,” the old man continued, “and people called them Maroons.”
“I’ve heard a lot about Jamaican buccaneers, but only a little about the Maroons.”
The old man chuckled. “The buccaneers were down at Port Royal until the earthquake struck. You have to watch the Caribbean. Between earthquakes and hurricanes, nature is important.”
“Are you a Maroon?” MacKim asked. “You’re black and free.”
“I’m a freedman,” the man said. “I was born a slave, but I helped save my master’s child in a fire, and he freed me by an act of the Jamaican Assembly. The Maroons are born free. Many slaves escape here and join the Maroons in the mountains, while others try to rebel.”
“I’d rebel, too,” MacKim said.
The old man’s eyes sparkled. “You could have joined Tacky, then. He led a rebellion in 1760. Or maybe you could desert from military slavery.”
MacKim nodded. “Maybe. Tell me about the Maroons.”
Mike passed the rum again. “The Maroons are good fighters. They fought the British to a standstill in the 1730s, and in 1740, gained their land and rights as free men, as long as they help recapture escaped slaves. It was a Maroon, Lieutenant Davy, who killed Tacky and ended the slave rebellion. Even now, there is another rebellion, with Apongo fighting for the slaves and Cudjoe’s Maroons fighting alongside the British.” He smiled again. “There is never peace beyond the Line!”
“I thought all the black people would stick together,” MacKim said.
The man laughed. “Why? Do all the white people stick together? We are as individual as you are, and as disunited. Even now, there are Maroons hunting down runaway slaves and runaways creating other free communities.”
“Sergeant!” Parnell shouted. “You’re needed on board!”
Mike smiled as MacKim stood up. “I am freer than you, Sergeant MacKim. You’re a slave to your uniform and a servant of the king.” He gestured to the sea. “That is my only master.”
Dolphin did not remain long in Jamaica. With the ever-present threat of a French fleet worrying the authorities, the admiral sent her on various short cruises to search for alleged sightings of the enemy.
All the time, the Rangers remained on board.
“I think everybody’s forgotten about us,” Danskin said, leaning against the mainmast. “Maybe we’ll see out the remainder of the war on this ship.”
“I hope so.” Oxford lay at his side.
“Are you two comfortable?” MacKim asked kindly.
“Yes, sergeant,” Danskin said.
MacKim smiled. “Good! Danskin, take your boots off and help Oxford clean out the heads. It's time you made yourself useful.”
“Why us, sergeant?” Oxford asked.
