Barbarians on an Ancient Sea Page 2

  Beauty nodded and called for Harris to again prepare a heaving line and monkey’s fist. Another 6” hawser was brought on deck from the cable tier and precious minutes passed with all eyes on the straining line running out from the stern. Harris worked methodically, judging the distance to the drifting ship against the strength of his arm—aided by the force of wind that shrieked in the rigging.

  At last, he had his monkey’s fist ready and stood on the stern, balancing carefully against the roll and plunge of the ship, watching the drifting sloop to leeward edge closer before sliding down a wave and backing away. Beauty ordered the mainsail eased to spill wind and Fallon could see hands aboard the sloop waiting in the bows but would not for all the world break into Harris’ concentration. The man was stronger and better in this situation than Fallon would ever be.

  Now Rascal rose up, and up farther still as a giant mountain of a wave rolled under her. And now the monkey’s fist was in the air, lofted high into the wind, and it sailed—would it be short?—no! It was across, by God! The hands on the sloop quickly hauled on the line until the messenger’s end was aboard and the 6” hawser could be brought across and was secured to the capstan with the other hawser. Rascal’s hands then tied their end of the rope to a bollard on larboard, effectively splitting the strain with the other rope.

  Now Beauty let the schooner fall off and the mainsail was brought in and Rascal, snugged down as she was, began to sail, however clumsily and slowly, off to the northwest. From behind them they could hear the sloop’s crew cheer, and Rascal’s own crew joined in, for it was very likely no one aboard either ship would ever see the like of it again.

  THREE

  THE SHIPS FOUGHT EACH OTHER ALL NIGHT WITH THE FEINTS AND dodges of boxers, each jerk threatening to break a line or rip planking out of a ship. There was no sleeping in either ship as the motion was too rough and tumble and the imminent threat of disaster too present in each sailor’s mind.

  When at last the low gray light of dawn revealed itself the ships were miraculously still together and the wind—merciful God—was slackening. Fallon stood by the binnacle with Beauty and surveyed their tow, now very low in the water, a wreck of a ship, to be sure, for though her mast still stood her sails were in tatters. Barclay could only estimate their position; there certainly had been no stars last night, and it looked doubtful for a noon sight.

  On the stern of the sloop stood a big man, blonde hair and beard blowing about in the wind, waving his hat at Rascal and now—what?—executing a deep bow of appreciation. Fallon nudged Beauty, who nudged Aja, and they all smiled at the big man’s gratitude.

  Fallon could see the sloop was pumping water over the side, and likely had been all night, yet still she was low in the water. Something would need to be done soon or she would sink behind them, threatening to take Rascal with her. The sea had lain down considerably, as had the wind, and in another few hours conditions would be better still. Fallon began making plans to take off the sloop’s crew. It would be a delicate operation, though not as frightening as taking the tow last night.

  One hour passed. Then three. The wind was down to a strong breeze and the sea had stretched out her rollers. Beauty ordered the ship to heave-to and, as Rascal settled, the momentum of the sloop carried her part way up to Rascal’s larboard side. Hands on the sloop finished the job of getting their ship up to Rascal, using the capstan to winch the two ships closer. Fallon had coir fenders put over the side, as grappling hooks lashed the two boats together and the tow lines were cast off the sloop’s capstan to be brought back aboard Rascal. The sloop’s crew scrambled over the railings onto Rascal’s deck, carrying bits of clothing and personal items as best they could, amazed and exhausted. The last to come was the big man with the blonde beard.

  “Caleb Visser, captain,” he said solemnly. “Or should I call you Jesus? For you have saved this poor flock in our hour of need.”

  “Nicholas Fallon, sir, at your service,” replied Fallon with a slight smile. “Are all your men accounted for?”

  “Yes, they are all here, sir,” said Visser. “I think we had best cast off Liberty for she will be going to the bottom soon anyway.”

  In the event, the American sloop Liberty was cast adrift, sinking and forlorn, and as a reef was shaken out of Rascal’s fore and mainsail, the sloop was very soon out of sight. Beauty brought the schooner about and pointed her bows for Bermuda at last, putting the night and the miles behind her.

  Sometime later, when the hands had had their dinner and the wind had moderated even further, a quiet and exhausted Caleb Visser joined Fallon and Beauty in the great cabin aboard Rascal; well, great was perhaps an exaggeration, for Rascal was only a modest schooner. But Fallon’s quarters were certainly larger than Visser’s own cabin. Elinore had improved on the design immensely, adding damask cushions to the stern seats and insisting on a proper checkerboard floor of canvas. Fit for her captain, she’d said, and indeed Fallon loved her the more for caring about the floor under his feet.

  “It is only by chance and a storm that we meet like this, Captain Visser,” began Fallon, looking at the man closely as he settled in with his wine. He was about Fallon’s height but heavier, perhaps twenty-five years old or so, his hair and beard a bit shaggy and he had the air of a sad boy about him. He did his best to smile, but it was a struggle, and both Fallon and Beauty were immediately taken with sympathy for him, for the burden he carried at losing his ship was great.

  “Yes, it was my lucky day, or rather night,” replied Visser with quiet gratitude. “Without your intervention my crew and I would be dead by now. I am a fortunate man, indeed, and I apologize if I do not show it.”

  “Tell me, sir,” began Fallon earnestly, “where were you bound?”

  “That’s a story in itself, Captain Fallon,” Visser said with a weak smile. “I hope you have enough wine!” And then he paused, the facsimile of a smile leaving his face, as he seemed to grow contemplative.

  “Call me Caleb, both of you please,” he said to them, going immediately for the familiar, “for I’m but a fisherman on a mission of mercy. Visser is Dutch for fisherman, as you might know, and indeed my family has fished the waters of the Grand Banks for two generations for the Gadus, or cod which are so abundant off Newfoundland. Like many who fished those waters in all weathers for their whole lives, my father retreated at last to Boston and bought the cod instead of fished the cod, which was more profitable and easier. We had good years when our ships were protected by the Union Jack. But after the peace we lost that protection, and we lost the right to trade with Great Britain or her colonies, as well. My father pushed the boundaries in search of distant markets, and Southern Europe became our best by far. A quarter of all New England’s cod went to the Mediterranean, by God. Until… until the Barbary pirates demanded the U.S. pay tributes to the rulers of Morocco, Algiers, Tunis, and Tripoli just as Great Britain and France did. Without tributes, the Barbary states would send their corsairs out to attack American shipping.”

  “I’ve heard stories about America refusing to pay tribute,” said Beauty, the color rising on her neck. “How much did the pirates want?”

  “Their demands were outrageous,” said Visser. “It was millions of dollars a year. The U.S. had no money after the war, and was already deeply indebted to France, which is the source of the current enmity between our two countries. The government began paying the tributes, finally, but the payments are irregular and late and never enough. This angers the Barbary rulers, and no American ship that enters the Med can be sure of leaving.”

  Fallon watched Caleb closely and sensed that the American had arrived at the point in his story where good news tips to bad. All equanimity had left his face, replaced by a squinting worry that seemed to dull his blue eyes to gray. Fallon knew Beauty saw the same thing, for she reached for the bottle to pour them all more wine.

  “As you will know,” Caleb continued after a strong sip, “the Mediterranean is 4000 miles from Boston and it is normal for o
ur ships to wood and water in Bermuda, at Hamilton. My own father left Boston nine months ago on a Visser ship to the Mediterranean but did not return. My older brother Alwin and I grew anxious, of course, and then two months ago we received word that his ship had been captured by the dey of Algiers’ pirates, who demanded a ransom for his release. The amount was staggering: $10,000!”

  “What about your government?” asked Beauty. “They should skewer the bastards! Your father is American!”

  Caleb was momentarily taken aback by Beauty’s reaction. It was doubtful he’d ever heard a woman speak so forcefully, and she won his respect in an instant.

  “The government is in an argument between President Adams and those who want to pay for peace, and Thomas Jefferson and his followers who want war. While they argue in Washington, my father is a slave in Algeria. He is not a young man and…”

  Clearly, the emotion in Visser’s voice was real and desperate. Fallon wondered if his father was even alive at this point; after all, it had been almost a year since he was captured.

  “So you are on your way to Algeria to negotiate for your father, I collect?” said Fallon sympathetically, anticipating where the story was going.

  “Yes, exactly. I was, you mean,” Caleb said dejectedly. “Alwin and I have mortgaged everything we have and called upon every friend and raised $12,000—in gold, as the dey demanded. We left Boston with two ships—the other is the schooner Jocelyn with Alwin in command—to bring home as many prisoners as we could. Our two ships were separated during the recent gale; we were supposed to rendezvous with Jocelyn in Bermuda but I decided to steer clear of the island, fearing for the shoals there. We attempted to run with the storm, and then tried to heave-to, but my vessel worked hard in the storm and sprung a plank, then another. We were taking on water badly and pumping around the clock. The gale blew out our sails when my helmsman was washed overboard and the ship was caught aback. We drifted, more or less sinking and out of control for some time, with no idea of our position. By yesterday afternoon I thought we were doomed. When one of the crew saw your stern light I immediately set off a rocket in hopes you’d see us. Thank God you did. And may I say that was as fine an act of seamanship as I have ever witnessed.”

  “It was all Beauty, sir,” said Fallon to his blushing first mate. “But I fear your ransom is at the bottom by now. You did not think to bring it up when you came aboard?”

  “Actually, there was nothing to bring up,” said Caleb somberly, the worry dark on his face.

  “How so?” Fallon asked, all curiosity.

  “The gold is in Jocelyn,” said Caleb. “She was the bigger ship, and my older brother the better sailor, and we thought it would be safer in the event of bad weather or attack from pirates or privateers, for Jocelyn carries four guns each side, all 9-pounders. We were in sight of each other until the storm.”

  “I see,” said Fallon with a note of caution in his voice. “Let’s hope she came through the gale in good shape. That would have tested anyone, in any ship.”

  Beauty and Fallon both looked at each other, a brief glance of concern on their faces, which Caleb Visser hopefully did not see.

  “And where are you bound, sir?” asked Visser.

  “We are on our way home to Bermuda ourselves. You and your men will be our guests, and if this wind continues to move southeast I believe we will raise the island in two days.”

  “That is very generous of you, Nicholas,” answered Caleb, genuinely moved by Fallon’s kindness. “God willing I will find Alwin and Jocelyn riding at anchor at Hamilton wondering where in the deuce I’ve been.”

  FOUR

  A LIGHT, MISTY RAIN LINGERED AFTER THE GALE AND SEEMED TO engulf St. George Town, glistening the homes and alleys, the carts and branches and cobblestones. Elinore Somers had awakened early to walk the beach, as was her custom, and hurriedly threw on her cloak against the wet morning.

  The beach was her particular obsession and had been since she was a young girl dreaming daily of leaving Bermuda for—where? Anywhere, in truth. She’d envied boys, and Nicholas Fallon in particular, when they’d left to go to sea. She’d felt trapped; her mother was dead and she’d hated her father for nothing more than being her only parent.

  The leaden sky was heavy on the sea, and even the shore birds were absent this morning, the day apparently being too somber even for them. Elinore bent her head against the wind, occasionally stopping to search the horizon for any sign of a ship. The ferocity of the gale had frightened her, and she didn’t frighten easily. She knew rationally that Rascal would be coming from the south, yet fear was often irrational, especially when it was for someone you loved. Fallon was an excellent seaman, and Beauty was always concerned for the safety of the crew, but anything could happen at sea. And, as Fallon often said, much of it was bad.

  Elinore was tall and lithe, with blonde hair and pale blue eyes that missed nothing. Today those eyes searched the distant sky for small, white patches of canvas. She had fallen in love with Fallon years before, had “set her cap” for him as the islanders would say; well, she knew what she wanted in a man. She closed her eyes for a moment and thought ahead to the not-too-distant future when they would be married in a small chapel by the sea, just as Fallon had promised her when he’d proposed marriage.

  When she opened her eyes, she saw a small figure running towards her on the beach. In the distance, she thought it a foreshortened man, but it became a boy running at full tilt. It was Little Eddy, as he was known on the island, a clever boy always on the edge of mischief. Little Eddy was a beach forager, for Bermuda lay over 600 miles from the nearest land and all manner of items continually washed ashore. The coral surrounding the island, particularly the northern approaches, was a virtual graveyard for inattentive sailors. Their ships’ cargoes were regularly salvaged by Bermudians. Little Eddy was a born salvager.

  He had no father, and his mother had little time for him or, in truth, little affection. The boy’s dream, like Elinore’s dream had been, was to leave Bermuda and see the world. Perhaps, he reasoned, if he gathered and sold enough flotsam and ships’ debris he could fund passage on a ship. At least he had a plan, which Elinore had to admit was more than she’d ever had.

  “Miss Somers! Miss Somers!” said the breathless boy. “There’s been a shipwreck at North Rock! You can see wood planks on the coral and there’s clothes and things. It was that gale that did for her!”

  Elinore’s heart stopped for a beat, her mind going to Fallon’s clothes, what he wore to sea, fearing the sight of a shirt upon the rocks that she knew.

  “Little Eddy, please show me,” she said as she took him by the arm. “Show me where.”

  When at last they reached the water’s edge at North Rock the coral told its tale. Planks were indeed strewn about the shoreline and bits of ship were hung up in the coral heads: a chest, some pots and pans, clothing and empty tins, the remnants of a thing that lived and sailed. There were no bodies, for they would have been carried out to sea; hunting for survivors was out of the question.

  Little Eddy hopped along the coral tops, picking up what he could, and hopping back to shore before a wave overtook him. He had an armful of salvage and a grim expression on his face.

  “Here’s part of the name board,” he said to Elinore solemnly. He held up a piece of wooden plank with a single letter painted upon it.

  Elinore held her breath, then breathed out slowly, for the ship that went down on the coral at North Rock could not have been Rascal.

  Little Eddy held the letter “J” in his hands.

  FIVE

  IN JUST OVER TWO DAYS’ TIME, FOR THE WIND DROPPED OFF CONSIDERably, Barclay had Rascal at the entrance to Hamilton Harbor on the southwest of Bermuda. Barclay was stooped and gray but his age was indeterminate. He seemed to have been born just as he was, for no one on Bermuda could remember him looking any other way except stooped and gray. He was a taciturn man who appeared and disappeared silently and, after Fallon, was the best navigator aboard
Rascal. He had been particularly helpful in tutoring Aja in his study of the stars, and the two could be found talking on deck and looking at the heavens on many nights.

  The coral clogged entrance to Hamilton was complicated, but Barclay had been there before, and soon enough they were inside. Clapboard buildings dotted the shoreline of the harbor, some with docks that reached into the water like brown fingers. There were ships at anchor or carrying on their business, loading and unloading cargo, ships from many countries except France and Spain. Caleb Visser scanned the harbor with a telescope, then with his bare eyes, then with the telescope again before finally lowering it slowly.

  Jocelyn was nowhere to be seen.

  Fallon and Beauty watched him quietly, not knowing what to say or do. But it was Aja who approached him from behind, putting his hand on Visser’s shoulder in sympathy. Visser was grim, for he feared he had not only lost his ship but perhaps his brother and all their money and all hope of rescuing his father from a life of slavery. His shoulders sagged and his legs almost buckled under the weight of his failure.

  Aja leaned closer, well acquainted with loss and hopelessness from his time as a kidnapped slave himself. Though Ajani meant He who wins the struggle in his native homeland, he knew a bleak future when he saw one.

  “There is a proverb my father taught me, Caleb, sir,” he said softly. “The poorest man in this world is not the one without money. But the one who is without people. You have people, Caleb, sir.”

  Quietly, Beauty and Fallon came up to join Aja.

  “Yes, Caleb, you have friends around you,” said Fallon. “And you have us behind you. The day is not over, and your mission is not lost. You are behind in innings, sir, but you shall have the match!”

  And with that note of optimism they all put their hands on Caleb Visser’s shoulders and he hung his head and set his jaw, for he wanted very much to believe them.