The Privateer II Pirates and Prisoners Chapter 7

[Jeff Thomas]

Chapter 7 On the Run

Caitlin made her way through the crowds around the docks. She had the latest information to include in her next letter to Captain Allen. It had been six weeks since Venus sailed from St. Eustatius. She had received no word from Captain Allen, which did not surprise her, mail was not anybody’s idea of valuable cargo. At first, her role of collecting and sending information excited her. But she quickly found that most of what she saw was uninteresting. Ships came and went from English Harbor, mostly carrying rum, tobacco, sugar, and sometimes slaves.

She had seen nothing that she considered newsworthy, but she continued writing letters with Henry and Tabitha's help. They would write another tonight. It was a frustrating process, made more difficult by Tabitha’s well-intentioned but possibly futile effort to teach Caitlin to read and write. But she was making progress. When she arrived at their shop, she was surprised to find the door locked and the lamps unlit. She rapped on the window, lightly at first, then a little harder. There was no response inside the house.

She stepped away from the door and walked to a narrow side alley that would take her to the stairs that led to the living area above the shop. Perhaps they had decided to close early. She climbed the stairs and knocked at the flimsy door. Someone peeked around the curtain. The lock rattled, and Tabitha opened the door.

Caitlin took one look at Tabitha’s face and gasped. “What is the matter?”

Tabitha took several deep breaths, obviously trying to control her emotions. Her eyes were bloodshot, and tears still streaked down her face. “They arrested Henry at English Harbor this morning. They accused him of spying and smuggling. The constable told him he will hang.” With that, she wailed and began crying again.

Caitlin thought furiously for only seconds before reaching conclusions about what to do. “We must leave now. Get a few things that you will need for a night or two. We will go to my place.”

“I don’t want to go; this is Henry’s home…”

“You can’t stay here. They will send men to go through it, possibly tonight. The Dutch authorities won’t let them search legally, so they’ll come in at night, like burglars. We may be able to come back after a day or two.”

“Won’t they come after you?”

Caitlin shook her head. “I think they may know that someone exists who is sending information to the patriot navy. I hope they don’t have my name; we will chance it.
There is nothing else we can do. If they have Henry, they have the location of this store.”

A few minutes later, the two women slipped out the back door. They each carried a bag containing what they could carry of Tabitha’s meager belongings. A quarter-hour later, they arrived at Caitlin’s room. The room was small, and there was little in it; a bed, a settee, and three drawers under the bed. It would do for a night or two. They ate a small meal of bread, cheese, and a cup of rum. Tabitha, worn out by the day’s events fell asleep on the settee.

Caitlin considered this a good thing as she could use the evening to plan an escape. She was sure that no one had followed them, but she wanted to get out as quickly as possible. She did not believe the English could talk the Dutch into detaining her and Tabitha, but she would not take chances. She thought for a time and realized that Tabitha was a key element in any escape plan.

She would prefer to go on her own but recognized that she could not. A woman traveling alone either aroused suspicion or became the object of unwanted advances. She wanted neither of those things. Tabitha could plausibly be passed off as a servant, and Caitlin’s supply of money could enable playing the part of a grieving widow for some time. It would work, but they needed to get off St. Eustatius first. Too many people knew them here. She lay awake, thinking of possibilities long into the night.

*

“It is like watching the ocean’s heartbeat,” Thomas Phillips thought as he watched the giant swells sweeping across the water. The sky was clear, but a stiff wind blew thin clouds overhead. Somewhere far off the coast of North America, a storm sent walls of water in motion. Phillips guessed the ship was moving up and down about thirty feet each time a wave passed under the hull.

But his current problem was beating through the waves about a mile ahead of Siren. The two ships had spotted each other around noon when the sun burned off the light morning fog. The other vessel spent the morning stalking Siren, trying to get into a favorable position for fighting. That was no small task, as the wind kept shifting.

The stranger had been flying Dutch colors when spotted, which meant nothing, as Siren had displayed a Spanish flag. Phillips decided he would never know what spooked his opponent. The ship suddenly ran the colonial flag up the mast and opened fire. Siren returned fire at once. After a sharp, short fight, they ended up in their current relative positions. The big swells and shifting wind made maneuvering in an organized way impossible.

Siren and the other ship fired several times to negligible effect. Siren’s thirty-two-pounders had short barrels that reduced their effective range. Commodore Kerr had thought that the big shot would make quick work of a smaller vessel. “Nice theory,” Phillips said under his breath, “but only if you hit what you’re shooting at.” Right now, he would cheerfully exchange the thirty-two-pound carronades for an equal number of long guns firing a lighter shot.

The sound of a gun firing startled Phillips out of his reverie. For a second, smoke obscured the view forward from the Quarterdeck. Just as the cloud dispersed a second gun thundered. The gunner, having decided to try to slow down the enemy ship pushed two of the big thirty-two-pound guns into the bow chaser positions.

Phillips brought up his telescope to watch the fall of the shot. He saw nothing. A hit would have sent a shower of splinters into the air. A miss would raise a splash. He saw neither. “Goodewell, did you see anything.”

“No, but I didn’t expect to. These waves could swallow a thirty-two-pound shot like it wasn’t there.”

Forward, a gun thundered again. This time Phillips saw the round disappear into a wave not three hundred yards away. As much as the gunners tried to time the ship’s roll to fire on the level, it was never a sure thing. This time the gun had fired too late, sending the shot into the water. It was only a matter of luck that he saw it amidst all the wind and waves.

“Cease fire. We can’t possibly aim with any degree of accuracy in this storm.” Phillips looked up at the sky. The clouds raced by faster than even a few minutes earlier. “I think we best prepare for heavy weather.”

As the crew started to stow objects and batten down hatches, he made a mental note:
“When we get to New York, I need to arrange to bring aboard some artillery that better suits our needs.”

*

Benjamin sat at what used to be his father’s desk. It was a strange feeling, for all his life that desk had been forbidden territory. Moses spent an hour or two every night after dinner working through his father’s business. He used the time to match cargo to ships, plot an itinerary for the vessel, check the needed crews, and arrange to hire men if needed. Moses had spent his days supervising work on the docks. He had never fully trusted anyone else to do it. But that paperwork was easy compared to the financial records.

For as long as Benjamin could remember his father kept two sets of books. He kept neat and detailed financial records, recording all costs associated with every voyage and every penny of income. He was meticulous about those records, made sure they were received by the appropriate government officials, and that all questions received satisfactory answers.

Then there were the books recording what he actually did. Moses Allen regarded cheating on his taxes as a civic duty. Benjamin discovered his father’s ledgers told an interesting story. Moses claimed to have no opinion regarding the fight with the mother country. Indeed, it appeared to Benjamin that his father had been equally comfortable cheating whichever government he was dealing with.

When open war broke out, all that ended. The Royal Navy blockaded Boston shutting down most of the Allen family busy. They also commandeered at least two of the family’s ships. Benjamin smiled. That had led to his first accomplishment as a privateer: getting his father’s ships back.

Now, he had to get his father back. Working through a Spanish business contact, he’d sent a letter to General Howe seeking the release of his father in exchange for the prisoners he’d had rescued from the raft. That first approach was rejected out of hand. Benjamin had expected as much. His second letter raised the stakes somewhat. He had offered to “reimburse the Royal government for paying Mr. Allen’s expenses while in custody.” He did not doubt that most of the money would not make it to the government.
But he didn’t care if the authorities regarded that as recovered expenses or an outright bribe. He wanted his father back.

A memory, something he had not thought of for years suddenly surfaced of his own volition. He and Moses were sailing a two-masted brig to Boston. It was a beautiful day, the sky bright blue and full of seagulls seeking food in the vessel’s wake. It had been a short trip – two or three days – to pick up a load of spars in Maine, or Northern Massachusetts as some called it.

Benjamin was twelve and enjoying the adventure. Six bells into the afternoon watch his father turned to him and said “I’m going below for a minute. You have the ship.”

“Sir?” Benjamin blurted, “What do you mean.”

His father smiled at him. “I mean you’re in command for a minute while I go below.” Moses grinned at him. “Someday you will be an officer in the Allen fleet. It’s time for your training to begin. Try not to sink the ship.” With that, he turned and went below.

Benjamin stood near the helmsman wondering what, if anything, he should do. He took a step closer and saw that the ship was steady on course. He concluded there was nothing he needed to do, although he felt he should do something. He felt silly standing and doing nothing.

He was saved by an errant fust of wind. The fore mainsail flapped, spilling air. Benjamin leaned over the rail, “Bo’sun, trim the mains’l if you please.”

“Sir.” The man touched a knuckle to his forehead. Benjamin was beside himself with joy, the man had saluted him! A moment later, his father returned. “I see we’re still afloat; good job.”

A knock at the door brought Benjamin back to the present. That had been the best afternoon of his life. “Who is it?” Benjamin called.

“I have a message for Mr. Allen.” Benjamin’s heart leaped. Perhaps this was the letter from the Army saying they had released Moses. He strode quickly to the door and opened it. “Mr. Allen? This is for you.”

He thanked the man and walked back to Moses’ office. He took a deep breath, broke the wax seal, and read the short note.

“Mr. Allen, be advised that His Majesty does not negotiate with pirates. Your father is a criminal and will be treated as such. Do not trouble us again with this matter.”

It was signed by some minor functionary that Benjamin – and probably the rest of the world -- had never heard of. He sighed. He had to reach someone with more authority.
He wondered who among his father’s associates he could call on to help. He looked around the office; somewhere in the piles of paper, he would find the name and address of the person who could get results.

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