The Privateersman (A Poor Man at the Gate Series Book 1) (4 page)

“Captain had to pledge them to get anything before
we could sail last time,” Smith explained.

Tom nodded, leaning on the railing, staring fixedly
out to sea, having no wish to show his face in port.

“We’ve signed on another twenty hands, a boatswain
and two prize-masters. And we’re properly stored for three months. If you want
off, Tom, you’re welcome – I never did like getting men from the crimps, it
ain’t right! If you stay, you’re a two-share man; all the other two shares are
topmen, but you’re to be leading hand of the boarding party, if you want it.
Nobody’s going to argue, to say you’re too young, not even they bloody Coles
got any objections, not once they seen you with them pistols. Do you want it?”

“There’s nothing waiting for me in Poole, Mr Smith.
I’ll stay.”

“Good. My name’s Jack, by the way.”

The share-out was not really enough for a proper
beano, a shore-run lasting a week, and there was a feeling among the crew that
they would be better employed chasing their newly turned luck, for it could
not, in the nature of things, last for ever and should not be treated with disrespect
while it did. There was no agreement, however, as to where they should go; the
owner, and captain in this case, would take the final decision, but if he
wanted his crew to follow him, then it had to be a decision they could easily
tolerate.

On the one side was the argument that the sea-lanes
from Bordeaux to Rochefort had showed profitable once, so it made sense to
return there; opposed to this was the school of thought which held that that
particular stable door would now be well and truly bolted – there would be at
least a sloop on patrol there, possibly a frigate, even two, depending on the
amount of noise the aggrieved merchant community had been able to make.

Blaine wanted to go back to the scene of his
success, but the gin was slowing his brain, leaving him unreceptive to new
ideas – he found it easier to repeat the past. Fast talking by Jack Smith
brought him to agree that they should head further south to hover off the mouth
of the Garonne for a few days before making for the coast of Spain to look in
at Santander and then at Vigo; after that, if they had not made their money,
they could think again.

The Royal Navy thwarted the first part of their
plan, having itself sent a squadron to blockade the Bordeaux stream and being
notoriously unwilling to allow shares to private men of war. The Star changed
tack on the instant of identifying the national ships, not wishing to have half
of her crew press ganged before being told to bugger off.

They approached Santander cautiously, knowing
nothing of the port other than that it served a part of Spain said to be richer
in iron and metal-wares than the rest. It was also, they discovered, home to
the Biscayan Fleet – they saw a dozen and more of two-deckers and a couple of
threes together with a swarm of frigates and lesser craft; there were
merchantmen in the approaches as well, but it would have been a very bold, not
to say a foolhardy, corsair who made a touch at one of them in such
circumstances. They wore ship and came away, slowly and looking as much as they
could like a slow, undermanned mercantile sheep who had innocently made a
landfall to establish her position and was now on her way home, thank you. They
pointedly did not turn telescopes on the frigate that might have been
patrolling and was now, coincidentally, they hoped, taking a
north-north-westerly course behind them.

An hour later the Star tacked, coming across the
wind to a south-westerly bearing; the frigate, which had been slowly closing on
them, did the same. The wind was strong, gusting, and they had been content to
potter along as a merchant hull would with two reefs in the topsails; Blaine
now gave the order for full sail and sent another hand to the wheel. The Star
heeled and the noise of the rigging climbed in pitch as she pushed up to very
nearly nine knots; the frigate responded with a positive cloud of sail, was
very soon nudging eleven.

“Four hours to random shot, Mr Smith and eight hours
of daylight, even if the cloud thickens somewhat.”

“With her crew she will tack quicker than us, sir.
The Star might just point up a might tighter than her, sir? If she has a good
point of sailing then it is into the wind.”

They set two more jibs and braced the yards as hard
round as they would go, bore up as near into the wind’s eye as they could force
her, found they could lay almost a point closer than the Spaniard. Then for the
rest of daylight they sailed the Star as hard as they could, all hands on deck,
concentration unbroken, anticipating every fluke in the wind, driving fast out
into the Atlantic, the Spaniard hauling up on them, but more and more to their
leeward, unable to close the range sufficiently to overwhelm them. The sun
dropped slowly in the west, the cloud cover thickening steadily, their rather
unreliable barometer dropping slowly, the wind strengthening fractionally.
Night fell, the half-moon obscured, black as pitch.

Blaine dithered, the capacity to take vital
decisions vitiated by two years of neat gin; if he held his present course, and
the wind held constant, then he would be at least three more miles to windward
of the frigate by dawn, still well in sight though unreachable, and with
another day to run, at least, before they could be safe. Could he trust the
wind? Nearly twenty years at sea said ‘never’. The alternative was to tack and
run almost before the wind, not the Star’s strongest point of sailing, to cross
the Spaniard’s stern unseen and disappear into the wide Atlantic. If they were
observed then dawn would find them under the Spaniard’s guns, a broadside of
twenty, eighteen pound long guns making a fight impossible.

A fluke in the wind, a little stronger and
longer-lasting than those before, made up his mind for him – if the wind was
veering then Star was lost. They had to tack.

It went against nature to bear up, to brace the
yards round, to cross the eye of the wind in absolute silence – shouting was
part of the seaman’s life, it was the way it was done, it was ridiculous to
whisper ‘helm’s alee!’, to sheet home without a bellowed order or insult. They
swore quietly to each other, then slightly louder at each other, but whispered
profanities were very unsatisfying as well. They froze in utter silence as they
picked out a lantern at a mile on the starboard bow and then slowly watched the
lights of the stern cabin slide by: not a man went below that night; they sat
or napped at the braces, watching the sails anxiously, listening for the first
hint of flapping canvas, trimming and resetting them to give every last
fraction of a knot and cut leeway to its least possible, and all without a word
said.

Unsaid as well, but known to all, was the
expectation that the Spanish navy would take no prisoners out of a privateer –
they were pirates in Spanish eyes.

As dawn broke they scanned the sea anxiously, taking
comfort in the legendary poor seamanship of the Spanish navy – their officers
were brave fighting men but rarely paid attention to seamanship, leaving that
to the menials who they treated with contempt and who consequently responded
with slack idleness. The Spanish ship would have continued on her original
course, or returned to port on losing sight of them, they were sure. It helped,
a little, telling each other all of this, but their eyes never ceased their
anxious watch.

Full light showed a grey, gathering sea, a storm
building to their west, but no sign of a sail, not even a hint of topsails to
their north. They had lost their pursuer, and it now remained to stay lost.

“Thirty days on this course, sir, and we are in the
Sugar Islands. Maybe only twenty-five days, if we can keep the sail packed on.
If we change course to a little bit west of north then we will find the south
of Ireland in, what, four days? No trade there, though.”

Blaine was exhausted, and thirsty – he had been on
deck for twenty-four hours unbroken, his metabolism was short of at least a
pint of gin, he could not think. He nodded his agreement, though to what he had
no idea, and stumbled down the companionway to his cabin and his bottle.

“Single reef topsails; strip to single jib. Course
West-sou’-west.”

Smith glanced around the deck, inviting comment,
received none.

“Sugar Islands, lads, the West Indies. There are
rich cargoes there, and a damn sight less in the way of patrolling frigates!”

They were too tired to argue.

Chapter Three

Beef, beer, biscuit and water were all running short
by the time they reached the Trinidad, a week of calms having extended their
voyage beyond Smith’s expectation; gin, however, seemed still to be in good supply
– they had hardly seen Blaine on deck since evading the frigate and on those
few occasions he had seemed unsteady on his feet, as if he were losing his sea
legs.

The month of near idleness had led to any number of
second thoughts among the crew, to doubts about the wisdom of penetrating the
Caribbean – they knew that Britain was losing the war, that the American rebels
and, more importantly, their French allies were winning on land and that the
French, Spanish and Dutch were in loose alliance at sea. For the first time in
a century the oceans were
not
an English domain; it would not last, that
was for sure, the navy would organise itself and restore the proper order of
things very soon, but, for the while, the enemy might be found anywhere. Of
course, that was why privateering was profitable at that moment – many more
French and Spanish merchantmen were at sea than would be the case if the navy
was snapping them up whenever they showed their noses outside of their
harbours; even so, the possibility of escorts and patrols had to be borne in
mind – they might be about to stir up a hornet’s nest. In the Mediterranean,
for example, the Spanish had to keep a very careful eye on the Barbary pirates
whilst watching what the Austrian Empire might be doing in the Italian states;
Atlantic waters gave the Spanish another set of problems, the English
particularly, the net effect being that they could not devote a great deal of
attention to the activities of one little privateer. In the Caribbean they
might have nothing better to do than protect their traders…

They closed the coast of a bright afternoon – dawn
would have been better but their precise position posed a slight problem –
Smith had no navigation at all and Captain Blaine had some difficulties taking
a sextant reading with his hands shaking so. It had been thought better to hold
well away from where the shore should have been in the hours of darkness.

They spotted eight separate sail of merchantmen
making for the port, all unconcerned and pottering quietly along, one man and a
dog on watch – evidently sure that no English ships would be about and that the
few small pirates remaining would be holding a safe distance from the naval
base.

Two brigs and a schooner were of a hundred tons or
more, would be profitable captures – Admiralty Court fees in England ate up the
value of smaller prizes to such an extent that they were more bother than they
were worth. Each surrendered to a single shot across the bows, surprised and
indignant to discover a corsair in their own back yard, but certainly not about
to argue with loaded guns pointing very directly at them. Star turned her head
northwards, towards Antigua, shepherding her chicks in front of her – rations
demanded a port sooner rather than later and the manpower for prize-crews was
not there.

“Five quid a share, at least, Tom, when we get them
to court. The lads will be better for a good piss-up in English Harbour,
cheaper there than in Poole.”

Tom nodded, not entirely sure why that should be the
case but unwilling to argue about anything so unimportant to him.

Dawn off Martinique brought them a bright, clear,
sunny morning, the mountains of the volcanic island fresh-washed and black to
their west, a large merchantman to their east, hove-to and waiting full
daylight to close the coast and signal for the pilot cutter. Blaine was called
immediately, staggered bleary-eyed on deck and peered about him in puzzlement
until Smith nudged him in the right direction.

“French West Indiaman,” Blaine announced. “Far too
big for us to handle, except we get lucky. Load all.”

Three minutes to cross the stern of the big ship,
four times their size, two-decked, her rails at least ten feet higher than
Star’s, taken unawares for expecting no trouble within sight almost of a great
naval base. First stirrings of surprise turned to panic as the three prizes
conformed to Star, seemingly a whole squadron of privateers, or, much worse,
pirates.

Star fired her broadside, high on the roll, skimming
across the poop and spreading a few splinters and a great deal of roaring. A
few screams arose from unlucky crewmen, drowned by the howling of shocked
passengers, rudely awakened by cannonballs about their ears. Initial panic
turned rapidly into whole-hearted chaos as Star thumped alongside and her boarders
scrambled awkwardly over the bulwarks, Tom leading them in a charge towards the
wheel where a sole, uniformed, officer was waving a sword. Just in time Tom saw
he was offering it, hilt first, in token of surrender.

“We do not fight! Do not kill us! There are
passengers.”

Tom took the sword, a heavy but well-balanced
working hanger, he noticed – that was not going back to its owner.

“Everybody on deck, quickly! By the mainmast, for
the crew, passengers here. Now!”

The French officer sprinted, shouting, slapping and
kicking at his men when they did not move fast enough, galloping below and
bursting cabin doors open, bellowing the sleepy into a run. He had all of the
passengers in a huddle at the stern, part-clothed or in nightshirts, within two
minutes, before the privateersmen could get at them in their cabins. There were
half a dozen of wives and daughters amongst them and the Frenchman knew of the
reputation, commonly well-earned, of corsairs.

Tom was concerned only to get the ship under way,
well out to sea before any investigation of their single broadside took place –
just possibly the French in the harbour might think there had been a thunder
clap in the mountains, a common enough event, and one they might ignore. He
ordered the French crew to make sail and they ran enthusiastically to their
duty, hoping that if they showed useful they might not have their throats cut
as an inconvenience to their captors; in the Caribbean the difference between
pirate and privateer was often very small indeed and they worked more
efficiently than at any time since leaving Bordeaux, to the mordant amusement
of their captain.

“They work harder for you than for me, young man,”
he observed. “Perhaps six pistols are a good idea!”

English Harbour had its own Admiralty Court and
prize-agents only too anxious to oblige. The three Spaniards, laden with the
produce of the Main, were welcome and sold easily, local merchants having a
market on the island for the foodstuffs and contacts in London who would
happily dispose of the cocoa and hides and mahogany that made up the bulk of
their cargoes. The eight hundred tonner from Europe was fallen on with delight,
the merchants bidding each other up, all having customers who had hardly seen
any goods from England in more than two years. Wines, brandy, silks and satins,
porcelain, made furniture, clocks and mirrors for the genteel; shovels, prongs,
axes and hoes, cast-iron cooking pots and thick earthenware for the plantations
– all went to auction and were snapped up at vastly inflated prices.

The first share-out was sufficient for a very
thorough celebration.

Tom had never been on the spree before, for lack of
friends at home, was not at all sure of the procedure; Luke, who evidently knew
all about enjoying himself, took him in hand, leading Tom and Dick and John
uphill from the waterfront, on the grounds that the drinking houses nearest the
quay were no better than rough shebeens.

“Pox-holes, mate – wash yer cock before you goes in
there, because it’ll be too bloody late afterwards!”

Dick and John laughed uproariously; Tom didn’t
understand.

They went inside a better looking hotel, cleaner and
brighter than the dockside haunts, and the barman, knowing they were from Star,
and rich, temporarily, made them welcome with something he called ‘rumbullion’,
a long drink based on rum but with lime juice and guava and sugar and water
added. The drink went down well and the four were joined at table by a group of
young ladies who seemed inclined, to Tom’s eyes, to be surprisingly friendly to
men they had not been introduced to; the girls were of various colours from a
deep cream to a rich brown, something wholly new to Tom, who had previously not
really been aware of the existence of black people, Dorset not being the most
cosmopolitan of counties. Whatever their colour, they were jolly girls,
laughing and joking and drinking with them and quite rapidly pairing off, one
apiece, the extra couple finding other company at another table.

Tom found himself talking in the friendliest fashion
to a tall, well-built young lady who said she very much enjoyed big men and
would like to see his muscles, inviting him along to an upstairs room for the
purpose. To his surprise, and eventual pleasure, she seemed to want to show him
her muscles as well, for she stripped all of her clothes off as soon as they
were alone together, and then helped him remove his before gripping him in an
unexpected manner. He soon discovered what he was supposed to do, however, and
decided that it was really quite a good idea. His young lady, Sally by name,
was touched and pleased to discover that she was his first, and threw herself
into the task of teaching him, if not all that he needed to know then at least
a very thorough introduction. Four days later she led him back to the Star,
penniless, very, very tired and with a headache and a singularly foolish grin
on his face, handed him over to Smith with instructions to make sure he got a
good sleep and the message that he should be sure to come back again after his
next cruise.

“He a good boy, that one, Mr Captain – you be sure
to look after he, now!”

Smith took Tom’s arm, not sure he could stand on his
own, and thanked her gravely before pointing Tom in the direction of his
hammock, which he slung for him, certain that he would be unable to manage the
task unaided.

Tom woke up eventually and sat quietly trying to
remember all that had happened in the last few days; he thought he might have
forgotten some of the finer details, but most of it was still clear. He checked
his drawstring purse thoughtfully, discovered it to be completely empty –
twenty pounds from this share-out and all that remained of the first, all gone.
His father had always said he was doing well if he cleared a pound a week from
the boat, so he had blown half a year’s money in four days; good days, mind
you, he wasn’t complaining, but too expensive – what was the point to risking
his neck for four days of fun and then having to go out and do the same again,
time after time, with no more than memories to show for it? They
were
pretty
good memories, no arguing with that, but it still made no sense to carry on
like that – he didn’t want to be buried with a smile on his face before he was
twenty. He thought that the rumbullion had been good stuff, he wouldn’t mind a
swig of that now, to clear his head and set him up for the day; then he
remembered Blaine and thought perhaps there were better ways of starting, and
ending, his days.

He walked out on deck, looked about him at the
stores being brought on board by labourers from the chandlers, decided there
was work to do; he made his way to the galley and begged fresh, shore-bought
bread from the cook, breakfasted on that and a couple of bananas bought from
the previous day’s market, and then went down to the powder magazine and
gunner’s shop, started to set them in some sort of order.

Opinion in English Harbour was that the Star was
undermanned for her work – she really needed at least another score of
boarders and prize-crew. Smith agreed, and was able to persuade Blaine to his
view, but being a privateer they thought they should have the agreement of the
hands before increasing their numbers and reducing the value of each share.
They spoke to the men in small groups rather than having a formal meeting,
found that a few had been in the Sugar Islands before and could suggest a
useful way of doing things.

“There be few enough of English seamen dockside
here,” John Murray said, “acos of there ain’t no berth for them on local
coastal boats if they deserts, them all being owned by local families what
crews ‘em theyselves, and no work on shore. So, either they goes onto a ship
for America, or the navy gets they, and the war being what it is, there ain’t
many ships for America now, and no bugger in his right mind deserts a
merchantman to be caught by the navy. What there is though, and in plenty, is
freemen, mostly ‘alf and ‘alf, like, what ‘ad a black lady for mum and a white
bloke for dad; they ain’t got no land nor no trade so there ain’t nothing for
them except get took by the navy, which is what ‘appens to most of they in the
end – they gets ‘ungry and volunteers or gets drunk and meets the press gang,
one or t’other. So it be easy enough, Captain, to find a couple of dozen young
men what would join us for five guineas cash in hand and a promise of ‘alf a
share, especially if you was to give ‘em Bible oath that you’d pay ‘em off in
Antigua in a twelvemonth at most, not dump ‘em on shore in England or New York
or some place.”

The word was circulated and Star was besieged –
there had to be a hundred at least of young men of various colours unable to
find anything other than occasional casual labour and not seeing five guineas
in cash from one year’s end to the next. Many of them brought their own
cutlasses along in token of their willingness to fight. All were ragged, none
seemed over-fed; they lined up quietly and hopefully, trying to catch an
officer’s eye, wanting to seem keen and enthusiastic, not daring to create a
stir and be labelled ‘troublemaker’.