Pirates and Prisoners Chapter 8 Boston at War

[Jeff Thomas]

“So, do I understand this note correctly? You want to trade some thirty-two-pound carronades for long-barreled weapons?”

“Yes, sir that is correct,” Phillips answered. ‘When I left the Caribbean the yard master there thought the heavier shells would batter the enemy to pieces in short order. A recent engagement has me thinking otherwise.”

“Yes.” The commander of the New York navy yard muttered noncommittally. “Is that still Robert Kerr? We served together on the old Pegasus, God that was a long time ago.”

“Yes.”

“So, what was wrong with the thirty-twos?”

“Nothing wrong, sir. I got in a bit of a scrap with one of these so-called privateers. I could not close the range and the thirty-twos could not shoot fast enough nor far enough to bring him to battle. For my work, I need weapons with longer range and faster reload time.” Phillips saw the look on the commodore’s face. “Yes, I know, the rate of fire is dependent on crew training. But the size of the shot does make a difference.”

“I think I can arrange some exchange. Most of my Captains want the heavier weight of shot,” the yard master noted, “but then you aren’t trying to beat a ship of the line to pieces.”

He looked up and smiled, “I’ll see what I can do. What else do you need?”

“Information. I was specifically ordered to find and engage a particular privateer captain. I am told his ship is easy to recognize from the sail plan. And he’s operating out of Boston and St. Eustatius.” Phillips shrugged. “That narrows it down to a few thousand ships.”

“I’m not sure I can help with that.”

“We have placed informants on some ships. Frankly, I don’t think they will be effective. By the time a report gets from Boston to English harbor its contents are months out of date.”

“If possible, I will expedite getting the information to you. In the meantime, I will go to work on improving your armament.”

“Thank you.”

*

A few hundred yards away, two other men also discussed privateers. Cyrus Bridgestone, the warden overseeing the prison hulks anchored in Wallabout Bay; and Matthew Richman an assistant crown solicitor ashore.

“If it was up to me, I’d shoot the lot of them.” Bridgestone banged his fist on the small table between them, rattling the beer mugs on it.

Richman took a deep breath. “It isn’t that simple. North’s act was intended to resolve the prisoner issue, but the issue is complicated…”

“Bah, just hang them as criminals.”

“Legally that would be murder. If we treat them as prisoners of war, we have acknowledged that the colonies are sovereign states. And if they are not prisoners of war they have rights, particularly Habeas Corpus. The courts would be swamped. And God knows what the colonists would do to our citizens. We cannot risk it. So, Lord
North’s law says, in effect, we can hold them forever.”

“I’m glad I have people like you to talk to the politicians. I have enough trouble with the prisoners.” Bridgestone grumbled. “Which brings me to why I’m here.”

“Yes.”

Bridgestone pushed a paper across the table. “This same colonial brat keeps sending letters pleading with me to negotiate the parole of his father.”

“Is this the one that thought he could give us a wet-behind-the-ears midshipman and a few seamen and get his father?”

“Yes, that one. Has a rather high opinion of himself and his family. I have no intention of turning his father loose to destroy more of our shipping.”

“You don’t trust the father to abide by the terms of his parole?” Richman asked,

“Of course not, I do not trust the man, no, the whole family; they are all pirates.”

“You know the family?” Richman asked, surprised.

“His daughter brings him food from time to time. She lives in Boston with her mother.” Bridgestone leered, “The daughter is a looker. She does not have much trouble getting past the guards. When she is visiting I have to detail a man to keep an eye on her. As I said, they are all pirates. I suspect that given a chance they will try to sneak him out somehow.”

“I agree with all that. You can tell them truthfully that you mentioned the matter with me, and I rejected it.”

“Yes, sir. I expected as much, I told the young woman I would take it up with you.” He smiled as he spoke, knowing that he could continue to charge her for carrying in her notes. And perhaps she could be encouraged to be more accepting of his advances. As he’d told Richman, she was a looker.

*

Abigail Allen was about to slam the cupboard doors shut in an act of frustration, then forced herself to calm down. Having a temper tantrum would not create flour to make bread to go with tonight’s meal. She wanted bread because her brother was bringing his lieutenant, Mr. Cunningham. Benjamin was bringing all three of his officers so they could discuss plans, but it was Cunningham that drew her attention. He had made a good impression on her and she wanted to make one on him. “A great idea,” she muttered under her breath. “All I need is food.”

She pushed aside a rug by the entry door, revealing a strong box sunk into the dirt below the floor. She took a few small coins and sealed up the hiding place. She wasn’t sure how much flour she could buy with the money, but she didn’t dare to take more.
After draping a heavy lambskin cloak and riding hood over her head and shoulders she stepped out into a snowstorm. The snow was wet and pushed by a biting wind coming off the water. Luckily the nearest bakery would have either flour or already baked bread.

But life was uncertain in Boston. Large numbers of men were gone, fighting the war.
Chaos ruled the waters off Boston, with the royal navy attempting to block all commerce; and patriot ships trying to run the blockade. No matter what happened at sea, most of Boston’s food ended up somewhere other than Boston.

As she drew close to the bakery, she noticed a commotion in the street. The crowd seemed to be mostly women, screaming in rage at the owner, who blocked his front door. One or two women picked up handfuls of cold, wet mud and threw them at the owner. One woman, having lost all sense of propriety, shrieked obscenities.
Abigail walked to the edge of the mob in the street. After a moment she turned to a woman next to her. “Is he out of bread?”

“He says he is trying to save enough so we all get a share. I think he’s just driving up the price.”

“Aren’t they all like that these days?”

“It seems so. I have a family to feed, these grifters don’t care.” She took a deep breath. “Perhaps I should bring my four-year-old over in the middle of the night crying because she has no food.”

Suddenly the large window closest to Abigail and the other woman shattered, spraying them with broken glass. Someone had switched from snow to rocks. The crowd surged forward, something in the door snapped under the pressure. The shop owner fell to the shop floor and struggled to avoid being trampled.

Abigail looked through the broken window and saw women grabbing whatever they could—tea, sugar, coffee. She saw two women fighting over a small ham. “Have we lost all pretense of being civilized people?”

“I hope not.”

Abigail felt her face turning red. “I didn’t know I said that aloud.”

“I was thinking the same thing.”
Abigail reached over the lip of the broken window frame and pulled out one, two, three loaves of bread. She handed two to her companion. “Here, feed your child.”

“I can’t take this; we should split one loaf.”

Abigail smiled and shook her head. “We will get along. My brother is home from warring with the Royal Navy. We have resources. You need that more than I do.”

The woman thanked Abigail as she turned to run away. Behind her, Abigail could hear curses, screams, and more glass breaking. She realized that she needed to get away now before matters became more desperate.

*

Supper that night was thin, but there was nothing that Abigail and her mother could do. Put simply, Boston had a severe food shortage. Benjamin’s mood was not improved by a letter he received that morning. He needed to speak to his officers and his family about its contents but decided to wait until after supper. He knew his mother disapproved of discussing business at the table. He did his best to hide his emotions.

“I’m sorry this isn’t a fancier meal,” Abigail said sadly. “I was caught in a food riot right here in our neighborhood.”

“Don’t fret over it, there’s nothing you can do,” Benjamin remarked. “There are hungry people everywhere. Tell me about this riot.”

Abigail related the scene down the street. “I shouldn’t have taken the bread; I intend to see the owner tomorrow to pay for it.”
Benjamin shook his head. “I don’t think that is necessary. From what I’ve heard of his prices he’s made more than enough money to pay for us to have bread with our supper.”

“I know. I just wish we could set a decent table.” Benjamin noticed a quick smile on her face as she looked toward Marcus. “I know you’re all about to go back to the war.”
Suddenly tears appeared in her eyes, “I wanted to give you a good meal before you left.”

All four men were at a loss for words, none of them quite what to do with Abigail. Mrs.
Allen saved them. “You men go back to your war; I need the money you bring back. I have my eye on some nice China. A good voyage and I’ll serve your next supper on it.”

“Thank you, mother. We appreciate it.”
Abigail dabbed a handkerchief into her eyes. “Sorry, I did not mean to upset our company.”

“It is all right, Abi.” Benjamin said quietly, “I have news that I did not want to share until our meal was over.”

Mrs. Allen gasped, “they aren’t going to release your father, are they?”

“Unfortunately, they will not. I received a note from the commander in New York this afternoon. He is most emphatic. Abigail, there was a second note from the prison overseer, he says you may continue to bring food and small items…”

“A bullet is a small item,” Abigail said coldly, “I’ll only need one to send that slobbering criminal to his reward.”

“Abi!” Mrs. Allen jumped into the conversation. She spoke quietly, with conviction.

“Let’s not talk like that. We need you to help keep Father alive. I have faith that my son and his brave crew will eventually free him.”

“Gentlemen,” Benjamin said with mock solemnity, “I believe we have received our orders.” After a second’s thought he added, “This is not the time for jokes, we must prepare a plan and get back to work. The only big question is where to go.”

“Beggin your pardon,” O’Reilly said, “that is your decision.”
Garibaldi nodded vigorously.

Cunningham announced, “Just tell us where to go, and we’ll go.”

Book one of The Privateer series is now for sale on Amazon:
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B09TDW84GD