The Stillwater Conspiracy (The Neville Burton 'Worlds Apart' Series Book 4) Read online

  The

  Stillwater

  Conspiracy

  * * * * * *

  ­

  Georges Carrack

  Neville Burton ‘Worlds Apart’ Series

  Volume 4

  © Copyright Carrack Books 2013

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner.

  Story by Georges Carrack

  Cover design by Joshua Courtright

  E-Book ISBN: 978-0-9906492-4-3

  Carrack, Georges, 1947-

  The Stillwater Conspiracy: fiction/historical

  Visit our website at www.CarrackBooks.com

  This is a work of fiction. It is historical fiction, however, so most ship names, captains, places and time references that appear in this work may be found in historical documents, or are set closely within the time of their occurrence. The protagonist and his family, friends and most close associates are fictitious. The names of all characters, historical or otherwise, are surrounded by a purely fictitious story. Any resemblance to businesses or companies is also fictional and entirely coincidental.

  v1.0

  A story for

  Tasia

  * * * * * *

  The author wishes to recognize the efforts of and thank people who were extremely helpful in accomplishing the publication of this book:

  My wife, Carolyn, for her continuous patience and ideas,

  Joshua Courtright for cover design

  The group of willing “Beta Readers” who provided guidance on the story line,

  All those authors of this genre who have gone before, providing the inspiration and a basic understanding of life on a British warship in the Napoleonic era, and

  The internet and its contributors, without which/whom the original research necessary to complete such a tale would have been enough to stall my effort.

  The Neville Burton ‘Worlds Apart’ Series

  Volume 1: The Glorious First of June

  Volume 2: The Experiment at Jamaica

  Volume 3: (title to be determined)

  Volume 4: The Stillwater Conspiracy

  The Stillwater Conspiracy

  Volume 4 of the Neville Burton ‘Worlds Apart’ Series

  Note to Reader: A Glossary and information about British money and the Navy watch system are included at the back of this book.

  1 - “Blockade”

  [ Early December, 1803 ] “The Peace of Amien may have ended when France tore up their treaty with us back in May, but the French see no Peace here in Haiti,” announced British Commodore Bayntun. “We hear they are engaged in a very brutal war against the blacks and mulattos whom Napoleon wishes to return to slavery. Thousands on both sides have died of atrocity and disease.

  “I am not so patient as some others,” he continued, “who would wait out here on blockade of Cap Francoise Harbor for month upon month for those ships to come out. Hear my plan…”

  “Are we hove short, Mr. Johnson?” Commander Neville Burton asked his young boatswain just moments after the sun dropped below the horizon.

  “Quite soon, Sir.” Those three short words somehow carried an edge of excitement.

  “Set storm sails in place of the mizzen- and fore-courses, if you please, gentlemen. Low and small; I wish to be the least visible we can be.

  “Anchor up when Mr. Catchpole gives you the word, then, Mr. Johnson, quiet as you can.”

  “We’ll go in on the east, Mr. Catchpole, circle westward ‘round-about like, and come back out up the western shoreline.”

  “Chart says there are rocks to the east, Sir.”

  “There are, and I remember exactly where. If I can see anything at all in the dark we’ll be all right.”

  “You remember … ?”

  “Why is it so hard to believe that I’ve been into the Cap Francois harbor before?

  “It’s just that Haiti’s French, Sir, and …”

  “Shut it, Mr. Catchpole. I’ve studied the chart again, anyway. Just do as I direct.”

  The men tramping ‘round in a circle at the anchor cable capstan a few minutes later had bare feet, so there was no noise from them, but the clunking of the machine’s muffled mauls irked Neville. It was more because he could feel them in his feet rather than hear them. The sound should not be of concern, though, he told himself, because the ships of their French enemy were quite a long way off. The night was near perfect for the escapade. The moon was not up yet. A light breeze was blowing straight out of the east.

  Small sails and a light breeze, together, propel a sailing ship very slowly; possibly slowly enough to be caught by rowing boats, which is why Neville made sure that Johnson had their sixteen sweeps at the ready. Superieure slid backwards for a minute when her anchor tore loose of the bottom and the breeze pushed her bow off. As soon as the flutter of the jib forward was silenced by tightening its sheet, Superieure began to move. Small wavelets began to gossip along her sides.

  “Three knots, S-sir,” reported Midshipman Foyle, a gangly, stuttering lad of about thirteen years.

  “We must be quiet, Mr. Foyle,” said Neville, “but it is not necessary to whisper…

  “Mr. Johnson and Mr. Catchpole, get your best ten lookouts at the foc’s’l rails with Sergeant Denby’s marines and keep sharp watch for anything in our path and any likely little ships we might cut out – now or later. Pass word to everyone aboard to keep still as mice or the whole ship will be without grog for a week. If anybody sees something, pass word back quiet-like, so’s we don’t wake up all the Frogs and we don’t hit anything. You can also pass word that if this goes well we’ll splice the main brace at dinner tomorrow. Sergeant Denby – no cocked muskets. Get on now.”

  “Here, Mr. Catchpole, cut in here. Two more points to starboard.”

  “Did you feel that, Sir?”

  “I did. Wind just dropped a knot or two, just like that.”

  Superieure’s momentum allowed her to continue ghosting forward fast enough that they could hear the gurgle of water behind her rudder.

  “Dropped again, Commander.”

  “I felt it. Did we not see stars just there to the east when we turned in?”

  Catchpole said nothing for a few minutes, and then agreed, “Yes, I think we did. It’s clouds, Sir, I’m sure; they’re coming on.. And the wind is now gone to naught.”

  What’s my move now, Neville wondered. Lurking about the harbor in a light breeze is one thing, but if we’re stuck in here with no wind… install the sweeps?

  “The stars are all covered up to the vertical now, Sir. We’ll not be able to see a damned thing in another fifteen minutes, and I think I feel a breeze out of the south. What’re your orders?”

  Great drops of rain began to fall. Not many – just a drop here and there – but very large and wet.

  “Starboard some, Mr. Catchpole, while we still have steerage. Let’s get what little puffs there are on the beam, cross the harbor, see what we can see, and get out.”

  There was a quick fluttering of sails. “What’s this, then?” queried Foyle. The ship heeled slightly but suddenly in response to a strong puff.

  “South wind for sure, Commander, rising fast. 180-degree swing and a bit of rain. Squall coming in, or I’m not English. What now?” asked Catchpole.

  “This night’s gone wrong for us,” Neville said. “No white horses yet, but they’ll be along soon.
Keep on for the French fleet. We might learn something yet.”

  Five minutes in a small harbor beam-on to a rising wind in the dark, even under little storm sails, makes for a heart-racing experience. Someone up front yelled, despite all the warnings, and it was a good thing he did: “Ahoy, aft! 74, Sir, dead ahead and coming fast!”

  “Starboard, Mr. Catchpole. Put the helm over hard.” Superieure turned sharply and the booms crashed across the ship to larboard. The sails snapped taught to the now-following wind and she accelerated quickly. Neville heard no sounds of men being injured or knocked overboard. I’ll hope for the best and we’ll count heads later.

  The raindrop frequency increased. Superieure now had a fresh breeze dead astern and was gaining speed as the sails were eased farther out.

  “Six knots,” reported Foyle.

  Superieure missed an anchored French 74 by a scant ten feet. Someone else forward yelled, “She’s raising anchor and her tops’l’s are dropping.” At this distance they heard the rumble of running feet and the piping, drumming and yelling of setting sail and clearing for action.

  “By God, Mr. Catchpole, they’re coming out in the squall. Course three points east of north. Get us out of here ...

  “Mr. Johnson,” he yelled. “Clear for action! All hands! Let those sails out.” So much for quiet.

  A gun fired behind them… a swivel gun, perhaps.

  “I heard the gun, but no sound of shot passing us. Anything, Mr. Catchpole?”

  “Nossir. Maybe just their signal gun. I can’t believe they could see to shoot at us.”

  “Pass word for Sergeant Denby and his best gun crew to come back here and man the chaser. I doubt they can catch us, but if they even get close I’d like to give ‘em a potshot or two. It’s a good job we have our storm sails on. We’ll stand up nicely in this wind and be out to warn the squadron in no time.”

  Boatswain’s Mate Gerald Johnson appeared a few minutes later when the clearing was done and the gun crews were standing ready. He was a great mountain of a man, quite the opposite of Catchpole. The first thing one noticed were his bulging forearms – possibly as large as Catchpole’s thighs. His head carried a boyish face of clear complexion and blonde hair, but apparently going prematurely gray. It was kept neat with a string of small stuff to hold a pony-tail in back. He had bright, clear gray eyes and a quick-witted look about him. Possibly of Swedish descent, he was young; twenty or so. He stood with a straight posture to six foot and two inches. Neville remembered him from HMS Vanguard, of course, but there he had always been a minor player. He would have to thank Dagleishe for this ‘volunteer’. Under this boatswain the ship had immediately gained the organization it was previously been lacking.

  “Johnson, get enough of a gun crew up for’rd there to fire the signal gun. Take a half dozen men with two good eyes apiece with you. We don’t want to hit our own. Wadding and no ball, to be sure.”

  The rain was falling in earnest now. “Aye, Sir,” Johnson yelled from ten feet away.

  “What do you think, Mr. Catchpole – about half an hour out to our blockade?”

  “About, Sir. Wind is a near gale now, I’d judge, but I’d wager it won’t blow for long. It’s just a squall.”

  “All right, then, turn the timer glass.”

  The wind did not abate in that next half hour, and the waves grew to a long swell from the northeast across a three-foot chop from behind them.

  “Ship!” Some marine of the foredeck yelled. “Over there.”

  “Come on, man, what does ‘over there’ mean?”

  “To the right! The right.”

  “Bloody marines! I’m surprised they can learn to buckle their belts. There she be! Three points on Starboard bow! Four now.”

  “Loose sheets, Mr. Catchpole; get us under her lee.

  “Mr. Johnson, fire a signal gun.

  Neville heard a diminutive ‘bang’ forward and hoped that the noise of it was loud enough to be heard by the blockade ship. “Ahoy, there!” he shouted as loudly as he could manage through his trumpet at the ship towering over them. Through the now-driving rain he thought he saw a man at the rail. “What ship?” he yelled.

  “Theseus. Who goes?”

  “His Britannic Majesty’s schooner Superieure, Jamaica station. Commander Burton.”

  “Heave to under our lee.”

  “’Vast that. They’re coming out! They’re right behind us! At least one 74. Signal the squadron, man! Signal ‘Enemy’.”

  Neville hung the trumpet back on its mainmast becket and turned to Catchpole. “Steer to starboard as soon as we pass behind Theseus,” he said. “She is number three in line behind the Billy and Vanguard. They must be ahead of her there. We’ll be sure they get the message.”

  Once out from under the lee of the large frigate Theseus, Superieure surged forward, off in search of the two British 74’s.

  “T-two red lanterns rising on Theseus, Commander,” Foyle reported.

  “She must think the others can see her, at least,” said Catchpole.

  Neville looked back. The ship and the two lanterns disappeared momentarily in the rain, reappearing much more clearly as the rain decreased. Looking forward, he could see Bellerophon [well-known amongst the British Navy as the ‘Billy Ruffian’] ahead, now silhouetted by the stars behind her.

  “Mr. Catchpole, the squall is passing, as you suggested. The French won’t get far…

  “Mr. Johnson, fire the signal gun for the Billy.”

  Superieure’s signal gun fired at the same instant the Bellerophon’s topsails dropped.

  “They’ve seen Theseus’ signal, Commander.” Bellerophon’s big signal gun fired and she began turning back toward Theseus. Superieure slipped quickly along her windward side with Neville shouting as he went, “They’re coming out!”

  “They needed the south wind to come out,” said Neville to Mr. Framingham, his second midshipman. “The only south wind would come in a squall, so they were obviously ready and waiting for the opportunity.”

  “Aye, Sir, and now we but have to catch them,” said Framingham.

  Superieure began another loop back into the mouth of the harbor to see how many ships had taken the chance to leave. “I’m sorry I didn’t confide, Mr. Catchpole,” Neville volunteered in a very un-captain-like moment. “I see I could have saved you considerable concern. I had no intention of engaging them – only to see how many there were.”

  An unrated ship the size of Superieure was not allotted a fully-warranted Sailing Master, so Second Sailing Master Martin Catchpole was Neville’s assigned man. He was slender as a rail, with a rough complexion left over from smallpox or a bad case of acne as a youth. He might have stood close to Neville’s height but for his stooping posture. He never seemed to pay much attention to his hair from what Neville could see, and his upper teeth stuck out at an unusual angle. Neville barely managed to stifle a laugh when he first saw the man, because with his oversized round ears, the appearance of a rodent was overpowering. He had so far proven to be proficient with his navigation and ship-handling, however. Catchpole was obviously agitated by the thought of running back in amongst the enemy. He was gulping and twitching strangely.

  “We saw only the three – that frigate Guerrière and the two 74’s, one of whom took a shot at us. All three slipped out pretty clean in the dark and rain.”

  “Shot was close,” said Catchpole, after another round of gulping.

  “Have you seen anything, Mr. Framingham?”

  “No Sir, and I took a walk forward a few minutes ago to tell the marine watch there to pass word back on anything at all they might see other than sea serpents or mermaids.”

  “In the absence of any orders from the Commodore, we shall choose a likely direction for the enemy to sail and give chase. I say north from here for half an hour, then west into the Windward Passage.”

  Catchpole began gulping again, but after a moment said, “Chase? Chase a 74 and a frigate with a schooner?”

  “Yes, cha
se, gentlemen. I am not saying we shall engage, but we may be the only ship that can see them by morning. We can signal if that’s the case.”

  “Aye, Sir, north for now; night’s not so bad, is it?”

  “Prepare to come about,” Neville said.

  “Sand’s run out, Sir.”

  “Helm over, Mr. Catchpole. Let’s go find the Frogs.”

  The Windward Passage’s usual north-east wind prevailed through the night. When morning dawned purple Neville sent a lookout up the mast and waited impatiently for a call from above. He’d gotten a few hours’ sleep. Catchpole was still below and Foyle was on duty.

  “Sail, Ho!”

  “Where away, lookout?” yelled Neville. “Can you tell who it is?”

  “A point off starboard bow. Looks like English tops’ls.”

  Brilliant. We’ve followed our own out here. In hopes of finding the enemy, I fell off more than most would, because I can come upwind faster than the others, but it’s for naught?

  “Call me after I have some breakfast, Mr. Foyle. I’m going below.”

  Neville was eating his collops when he heard the lookout’s call through his open hatch, “Deck, there, another sail! French 74 tops’ls, I think; four points off Starboard bow. The English has a signal up now. ‘Enemy’, sure.”

  Neville ate his last bites of egg and toast and took his coffee on deck.

  “We have English t-topsails there,” Foyle pointed to starboard. “You can see them from the d-deck here now. I’d guess she’s the Tartar. She signals ‘enemy’.

  “Let us go see, Mr. Foyle. We’ll head up between Tartar and the French. Three points to starboard…

  “Ahh, Mr. Johnson. Perfect timing. Let’s haul our wind, shall we? Helm down a bit.”

  The wind continued to hold steady. Neville’s clear, bright-blue eyes swept the expanse of open water before them and the details aboard his ship. “North by west, Mr. Catchpole,” he said.

  Superieure leaned to the different angle of wind. Under the morning’s partly cloudy skies, she began shouldering waves aside on Neville’s estimated intercept course for French sails. He had every intention of getting in harm’s way.