Pirates and Prisoners Chap 10 Brothers at War

[Jeff Thomas]

Benjamin looked down at the freezing waters of Boston harbor, watching and enjoying the activity of preparing Venus for sea. Behind him, men freed the lines tying the ship to the dock. Forward, other teams began setting sails. The outgoing tide tugged the vessel toward the harbor mouth. The dying light of the setting sunbathed the sails in red and gold. “What a beautiful sight,” he thought, “I live for this.” As the sunlight winked out, a star appeared high in the west. “Venus,” he muttered to his ship, “a good omen.”

The memories sparked an internal pain as he thought of his father. Going to sea from Boston reminded him of happier days, his father entrusting him with running a ship for a few minutes.

Even now, his father guided his hand. Benjamin planned to slip out of the harbor under cover of
darkness using a channel his father used to evade tax agents. Few knew of it, an Allen family secret. Nothing to do about that; he needed to focus on the task at hand.

As the ship started to move, he looked around, a final check on progress. Cunningham and Garibaldi aided the men casting off, and O’Reilly coached the helmsman as the ship eased into the current. “At least my officers are not throwing me over the side this time.” Venus’ crew had fallen into the habit of starting every voyage by throwing the captain over the side. This trip, he had given strict orders not to do so; Boston Harbor was simply too cold.

Across the narrow strip of water, a coastal schooner, undoubtedly a blockade runner, also prepared for sea. His opposite number waved and raised a speaking trumpet to his mouth.

“Good luck and Godspeed.”

Benjamin waved. “And you as well.”

At that moment, he felt movement behind him. Before he could turn and look, someone poured a barrel of ice-cold water over his head. He yelled in shock at the sensation. He rubbed water out of his eyes to see Garibaldi and Cunningham holding the empty wooden container. “What are you doing? I gave strict orders….”

“Beggin’ your pardon, Captain, you told us not to throw you in the harbor,” O’Reilly grinned. “We didn’t” Garibaldi and Cunningham were laughing, as were most of the men working on deck.

“Fine, you got me.” Benjamin sputtered, “I’m going below to change into something not soaking wet.” He brushed at his coat, trying to scrape off some water. “Mr. Cunningham, will you join me.”

“Yes, sir.”

As soon as the two men entered Benjamin’s cabin, he turned on Cunningham, his face contorted by anger. “What was that? You mock me in front of my crew? I should…” Benjamin sputtered to stop, unable to think up a suitable punishment.

For his part, Cunningham swallowed a quick reply; he could see Benjamin was sincerely mad at him. He came to attention. “Sir, I did for the crew.”

“How is that?”

“We have talked before; sailors are a superstitious lot. Many, maybe most of the crew, have been on our earlier voyages. They know we dunk you whenever we head out. Surely you want to get them off to a good start? After yesterday’s party, I thought that was your plan. Sir.”
Benjamin’s angry look at Cunningham suddenly gave way. “Oh hell, you are right. Let’s make a good start. Distribute an additional grog ration to all hands, and tell them to hold it until I’m on deck.”

Moments later, back on deck, Benjamin took a cup from Garibaldi and it aloft. “To grand and profitable voyage for us all. To success.”

“To success,” The assembled men shouted and drained their cups.

*

“I hope whoever sent us here knows what he’s doing?”

“I know,” Gus said to Michael, “I have a bad feeling about this.”

The two men were laying bricks to make a low chimney for the stove in the small hut they would share with two other lieutenants. Those two men were busy digging a hole where the hut would stand when completed.

“I hear that redcoat raid hit our supplies hard,” said Jeremy Fleming, one of the two digging,
“what they couldn’t carry, they burned.”

“Surely General Washington has more supplies.” Snapped Stephen Sanders, the fourth man in the group. “He can’t drop us out here without food, shelter, blankets, whatever.”
Gus stood up and stretched his back. “I don’t know. Yesterday I saw a new group march in. Some men dressed in threadbare blankets wrapped around them. Others had no shoes.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“I saw it with my own eyes. They left trails of blood behind them.”

All four looked up from their work. “We better build well,” Gus noted.

“We will need to stay warm.”

“We should dig this hole as deep as we can,” Stephen noted. “Every little bit helps. Below ground level is sheltered from the wind means the walls can be shorter.”

Michael picked up a brick and placed it on the mortar he’d just laid on the chimney. “Are we to have wood to burn in this thing?”

“We will find it somewhere.”

A bugle sounded, calling the men to the chow line. This was only a temporary drill. Each hut would form a “mess” when the camp was complete, four junior officers or eight enlisted men.

Every morning each mess would send a man to the kitchens to get their day’s rations. Which the men would cook themselves. The senior officers would, of course, eat meals prepared by their personal cooks.

As they walked to the kitchen tent, Michael stepped closer to Gus.

“What slop do you suppose they’ll give us tonight.”

Before Gus could say a word, Stephen jumped into the conversation. “Just enough to make sure we starve slowly instead of quickly.”

As senior officer in the group, Gus knew he had to say something. “I don’t appreciate your attitude. We are here to serve our country; I can’t allow that kind of talk in my presence.”

“Sorry, sir,” Stephen said, looking at his feet as they walked. “I just can’t help griping sometimes.”

“Well, help it sometimes. The men will hear you and lose the will to fight.

We can’t have that. That’s an order.”

“Yes, sir.”

They approached a lengthy line of men lined up in front of the kitchen tent. Gus felt his stomach cramp up just at the sight of the meal. “Not firecake again,” one of the men with him said.

“Looks like it.” Michael said, “Maybe the cooks put some sawdust in it so that it will taste like something.”

Gus decided this wasn’t the time to lecture about griping. “Firecake” was universally hated by the soldiers. It was a simple thick patty made of flour and water, fried on the stove or, more often, a flat rock by the campfire. It had no taste; some men argued that when cooked next to a campfire, it attracted ash, which gave it some flavor.

Gus stayed out of the discussion. He was worried about the future; the signs all looked terrible.
*

As he had planned, Venus arrived at the little used channel before dawn and shortly before the morning high tide. Just before dawn, a ship’s boy woke Benjamin and told him, “Mister
Cunningham requests you see him on the quarterdeck.”

Benjamin frowned. “Did he use the word ‘request?’”

“Yes, Sir.”

Benjamin pondered that piece of information. “I will be up in a minute.”

He quickly jumped into his clothes and hurried to the quarter deck. He found Cunningham standing at the stern, looking intently over the rail.

“We have company. I can’t tell you why, but something tells me something is wrong.”

Benjamin leaned over the rail and looked astern. In the dim light of dawn, he could see another vessel following their course through the channel. Details were hard to see, complicated by the angle. Benjamin looked straight at the bow, which didn’t reveal much behind it.

“Can’t see anything.”

“He will change tacks in a minute or two. When he’s more broadside to us, you can see better.”

Benjamin shrugged. “So, he followed us out. I don’t see….”

“Captain,” Cunningham said, “I called you when I saw him run his guns out.”

“Oh.” Benjamin looked back at the other vessel. “I thought he might have followed us to
discover our course out of the harbor. Or maybe he already knew.”

“So why prepare for battle?” Benjamin thought about the possibilities, none of which he liked.
Before he could say or do anything, a call came down from the crow’s nest. In the growing light, he could see that ship clearing the channel was the schooner whose captain had waved at him.

“Sail ho.”

“Whereaway?” Benjamin called back.

“Fine on the port bow. Sloop of war, flying Royal Colors. Looks like a sloop of war. Can’t see much else.”

A glance at the sky confirmed what Ben already knew. The cloudy sky made vision difficult but possible. “I don’t like this. Beat to quarters.”

Cunningham waved at the drummers. Venus prepared for action.

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[jemhouston]

Starting off with a bang