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

  “What’s the news, Commander? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost,” said Catchpole.

  “Good news and bad, Mr. Catchpole. Good news and bad. It’s orders, We’re to join the convoy with Bellerophon.”

  Oh, My Good Lord. How could this happen? I have finally made progress at Independence Hall. Stillwater! Could he have seen to my departure so quickly? I thought we had decreased our differences. Maybe he set this in motion before last night. Maybe he thought my excuses too unbelievable. Maybe it has to do with my comment about the Navy Office – that might scare him if he is a spy, as Sir William suspects. Maybe this has nothing to do with him at all, and my orders are simply to serve the navy’s needs. Whatever the cause, I doubt it can be undone now. I must make arrangements to communicate with Marion, of all things.

  “Sway out my gig. I must send a note to Captain Cook requesting instructions.”

  “June 8, Gentlemen. That’s the date for the convoy’s departure. We are taking the merchants north; some are bound for ports in the United States and some will proceed to Britain. Superieure be a forward scout. I believe we will go no farther than Philadelphia before returning. Mr. Johnson and Mr. Framingham, our preparations fall largely on you two; estimate a month each way. Water, wood, and so on. You know what we need. I’ll bargain the rum. We have almost three weeks, so it should not be a problem. Carry on.”

  Three weeks was longer than Neville normally had in port, so he was determined to make the most of it. He spent as much time as he could with Marion. He did his best to explain his ‘understanding’ with her father without mentioning his money, although he suspected she distrusted his explanation. He felt less unwelcome at Independence Hall, and the two took advantage of the situation to enjoy lunch together there – and all that went with it - several times.

  The day before they were to leave, a shore boat appeared alongside with a passenger. Neville was summoned.

  “A passenger? Where are we expected to quarter a passenger? Who is it that can command a berth on my ship?”

  “It’s a Mr.… let’s see… Mr. Stearns.”

  “What? Let’s go up and see. I can’t believe what I’m hearing.”

  It was Stearns; one and the same. He had climbed up the side and was on deck by the time Neville arrived. “Explain yourself, Sir!” he demanded.

  Stearns passed him a letter in a hand that Neville by now recognized as that of Captain Cook of Bellerophon. It ordered Superieure to carry Stearns to Philadelphia.

  “It’s your cabin, Mr. Foyle. I’m sorry, but we have nothing else.”

  “I don’t mind, Sir,” said Foyle.

  Neville turned to retreat without saying anything to Stearns.

  “It wasn’t my idea, either, Commander Burton,” said Stearns. “Let’s try to make the best of it, shall we?”

  “No choice, I suppose,” answered Neville. He stomped away.

  11 - “Up the Coast”

  “Signal to sail, Sir,” reported Midshipman Foyle shortly after the break of day on June 8, 1804. “Billy Ruffian’s cable is straight up and down.”

  “Heave short, Mr. Johnson,” commanded Neville.

  “Haul away,” Johnson yelled forward, and the stamping of feet began, quietly at first. Turning the capstan only pulled the slack out of Superieure’s cable to drag her forward a few yards. With more noise, the strain increased.

  “Keep going, Mr. Johnson. Raise anchor. We’ll take advantage of our forward momentum to tip the anchor out. She should go easily enough in this quiet water. Prepare to raise the mains’l. We’ll be out before they’re done tramping in circles over there.”

  “Anchor’s up, Commander,” called Mr. Foyle from forward. Superieure continued to drift lazily forward without a sail up. The goings-on aboard Bellerophon could now be plainly heard: a hundred men and more were tramping around her capstan, carrying her stinking wet cable to the hatch and sending it below. She had topsails set and they were beginning to draw.

  “Raise the main. Let’s go see if the water is still blue out there, shall we?”

  “She’s a pretty sight, Jamaica, isn’t she?” Stearns asked the air around him as Neville passed. “I’m glad I’ll be back soon.” He turned and gave Neville a leering grin.

  The dung heap, thought Neville. He thinks I’ll never be back, so he can have Marion when next he steps ashore.

  Superieure moved purposefully out past Fort Charles on a light northeast breeze. The undulation of a long swell beneath her keel increased with distance from shore. The little ship seemed to be raising her spirits at the prospect of a long free run. Beyond the point, she began to lean to the pressure of a wind which blew undisturbed by the land.

  “Six knots,” cried the seaman who tripped the log.

  “A nice beginning,” said Neville to Catchpole. “I think that breeze will serve Billy Ruffian to come out well.”

  “It should.”

  With the ship on a steady course, her officers gathered at the binnacle for new orders. “Must we keep station, Sir?” Catchpole asked.

  “No, thank the Lord,” answered Neville. “We are a scout, as I had hoped. We stay out front and keep Billy’s signals in sight. We should pull in closer at night. Next stop: Philadelphia. Carry on, gentlemen. I am going below for breakfast.” And to write a letter.

  HMS Superieure June 8, 1804

  The Caribbean Sea Easte of Jamaica

  Dear Marion,

  I pray you take no offense that I address you in the familiar, for it is how I feel.

  We are under way now, with a good breeze and comfortable seas. I must assume you know that we have your Mr. Stearns aboard. I am most displeased with it, and I am sorry to put any word of complaint into my letter to you, but there is no one aboard to whom I can rant. He irks me terrible and makes implications that he will be happy to have me away from Jamaica.

  I am afraid I must wonder if his presence is something of your father’s doing. How else could he be got aboard a navy vessel – particularly mine – when there are so many merchants in the convoy? But why does he go, I wonder? If you can tell me this, please do so.

  Again, I am sorry to complain. I shall address mine to you at the Rum Company, as you suggested, to avoid any chance that any letter from me might “go astray” at Independence Hall. I plan to write at least once per week, and beseech you to do the same. Send your letters with any British sail going forth, to the British Navy Admiralty in London with “HMS Superieure” at the bottom and a note that our destination is Philadelphia, and then the Downs– or wherever you have last heard we might sail. If you are lucky to find a fast ship it might catch this dawdling convoy before we reach our first destination.

  I pray this finds you well and cheerful,

  Affectionately,

  Neville Burton

  The Windward Passage held to its reputation this time out. Wind from the northeast, where they had to go, blew a fresh breeze day after day, forcing the convoy to slow to the speed of the worst sailers among them. To and fro they tacked, and on the fifth day made almost no progress in their intended direction. Captain Cook of Bellerophon was apparently taking no chance on getting his convoy too close into the cul-de-sac of Haiti –which meant that they all stayed out in the most adverse winds available, but out of sight of land.

  “We’ve spent at least a full day’s time hove to, just waiting for them to catch us up, Commander,” complained Catchpole. “This bloody Wind’rd Passage will never end.”

  “Aye, but look to the good. Every indication is we’ll round Point Maisi and be over Spanish Cuba on the morrow, even if it be late.”

  The wind shifted, as is normal, when the convoy sailed past the northeastern rocks of Spanish Cuba at Point Maisi.

  “You can feel the stronger influence of the trades here, can’t you Mr. Framingham?”

  “Aye. With the wind behind us, even our sluggards are waking up and beginning to sail like proper ships. Pray this holds, and we’ll be seeing Florida in five days’ time.
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br />   Their prayers were not answered, and two days more brought a total calm. They became surrounded by bobbing ships.

  “Rig awnings before we all die of sunstroke, Mr. Johnson, if you please. Throw some splinter nettings in the water, as well, for any who might like to splash about.”

  “Aye, Sir. And I have a request from Mr. Dunne to take out a boat with some fishing gear. He says this is the place for ‘dolphin-fish’. He can’t help lickin’ his lips when he says it, either.”

  “Wish him luck, and remind any of them as doesn’t want any of this that it would be a good time for ‘make and mend’. We’ll all be wanting our tarpaulin hats in the Florida Current, if I remember the passage in June.”

  The wind was back the next day, and it held most of the way to the Carolinas.

  “Gunroom’s compliments, Sir. Will you join us for a dinner of magnificent fish? Mr. Dunne brought in four and has given us one. Cookie is making a fine stew for the hands with the rest. You can smell it from here.”

  “I am honored, gentlemen. I shall bring a few bottles of a fine Madeira I found in Kingston.”

  “My humblest thanks. I’ll not forget this. Dolphin-fish right on the Tropic of Cancer over Cuba,” Neville announced as they were patting their bellies after dinner. “Fetch me Cookie’s cup for a splash of this wine with our thanks. We must review our chart, Mr. Catchpole, to prepare our course in the Florida Straits the day after next.”

  Orion and Ursa Major began to rise higher in the night sky as they sailed north, but the humidity of the Caribbean continued to hang about them. In the morning they woke to huge towering piles of white cloud stretching up and up over the Great Current in front of them to the west.

  On June 18, Catchpole pricked the chart halfway between Andros Island of the Bahamas and Florida. The convoy altered course more to the north. A few wonderful days of sail followed as the wind shifted to southerly with the great stream. It remained surprisingly warm. On the 24th of June, however, the weather deteriorated. They had hauled their wind forward two days prior as they began the drive nor-nor-east for the cape at Hatteras, but now they relaxed the sheets and ran before a wind that was rising on the starboard quarter.

  Dark slabs of gray clouds replaced the puffy white cotton of morning. Flat, menacing things threatened rain – or worse - as the season approached the time of hurricanes. Thunder rolled ominously across the barren ocean, loudly enough to be heard above the wind that drove the ship into the pounding of waves on her bluff bows. Levin leapt between the ponderous clouds. The fresh breeze that had been with them for the last two days was even fresher now, puckering the heaving sea, strumming the rigging, and threatening a gale. In three days the gale, for gale it was, did come. The water gained a dark, leaden cast as it was denied sun. Foam crested the undulating wave tops. Superieure now slammed her way north under close-reefed topsails, sheets hard-stretched as she leaned away from the wind in her right ear. The great southern current, flowing at full strength out of the Florida Strait, carried the discomfort of humidity with it as Superieure sailed north watch after watch. Lookouts, admonished to keep a sharp watch for shipping, would see no land and few ships of the convoy, if this weather continued.

  The gale blew itself out in another three days, however, and as they climbed up the eastern seaboard of the United States, the wind remained well abaft the beam most days. The great clouds provided considerable shade from the baking sun in addition to occasional drenching rains.

  “Commander Burton, would you suffer a conversation with me today?” queried Stearns after a particularly long shower. The sun came out from behind the clouds, and was busy lifting a mist from the wet decks..

  “Why would that be, Mr. Stearns?”

  “Only because it is a long passage without much conversation. I notice you remain rather aloof from your people.”

  “And I am to feel sorry for you?” The two stared at each other for a moment.

  “No, certainly not,” replied Stearns, “and I will admit I haven’t tried very hard to be friendly. Whether we talk or not, I assure you that I have every intention of winning Miss Stillwater’s hand.”

  “As do I,” stated Neville, glaring back at him.

  “It’s fair enough that we understand each other. We can speak of other things. This is at least the sound of another intelligent voice.”

  “True enough. So how did you end up in Jamaica? You’re not from there, I understand. You have an accent that I am told is from the Carolinas of the United States.”

  Stearns leaned on the starboard rail and peered at a flock of small white birds floating on the sea. “I was in tobacco sales for my father to begin with,” he said. “We were trying to get the French market, and finally I got a chance to go over and give it a try. I was a pretty good salesman, I think, but I ran into a man there who ruined it for us. I’ll never forget him; Georges, his name was.”

  It couldn’t possibly be, could it? Neville wondered. He kept his gaze distant. “What was his last name? I know it never happens, but I have a French friend named Georges.”

  “Cadoudal. A scurrilous fellow if ever there was one; but in good with those who buy things for the navy. If he turns you out, you’re done. And he did – for no good reason. It took me some time to figure that out, but I couldn’t get anywhere with the Frogs after that.”

  Georges Cadoudal! Why would this dullard meet with Georges? This is not what he makes it out to be, I am certain. “So then what?” Maybe I was not interested before, but I am now. Don’t let him know it.

  Stearns continued his usual story about some connection between a crony of Chester’s in the US suggesting he might give the rum business a try. “I didn’t like the place at first. Just a lot of stuffy Brits, heat, bugs and muggy air. But then I started to realize it was not unlike North Carolina in the summer, and I got on well with Mr. Stillwater. A couple years ago now the Stillwater boy – Freddie – was killed by French privateers, so then Mr. Stillwater really needed me. And then I began - take no offense, this is just a statement of fact - began to take notice of what a beauty Miss Stillwater is, not to mention how smart she is. So, all things together, I think I’m in a place I don’t want to leave.”

  I notice there is no first name basis here… for my benefit, or they’ve just kept him at arm’s length?

  “What about you? Ever been to Jamaica before this?”

  Neville blew a long breath out through pursed lips. I don’t feel that I need to tell him anything. For all I know he’ll use it against me. Marion already knows about Maria. She’d better get the same story from him. I know he’ll tell her what I say for her to compare for any lies. “I would have married a girl there, but for a hurricane almost four years ago. I thought I would live here forever.” He saw Stearns perk up. “Don’t get ideas. Marion already knows, and so does Chester.” He couldn’t say ‘earthquake’. He had no idea if there had been one four years ago, but anyone would believe ‘hurricane’. Chester had confirmed that, as well.

  “You work fast. First names, then? What was the girl’s name?”

  “You’ll never get that. But it wasn’t a three-week romance. I was here – in Jamaica - two years. I was… connected to important people. This girl was not of low station. She was the equivalent of Marion - so much like Marion it would make your head spin. I am not…”

  Stop. Control yourself. Already too much emotion.

  “Despite my age,” he continued in a calmer voice, “I know Jamaica better than most. I know this Caribbean. I know her waters, her hurricanes and her history, and-” he turned to look into Stearns’ eyes, “I will not disappear. I have the means to return whenever I wish.” Let him stew on that! “Another day, Sir.”

  Neville returned to his favorite spot by the binnacle and turned to watch forward. Superieure was a fine ship. Seas approaching nine feet rolled up from behind, but they slid comfortably beneath her stern. The bow rose and fell with a smooth motion; the seas hissed along her sides. He noticed that Stearns stood a
t the rail for some time. Brooding?

  The lookout was not to call out whenever he saw a sail, or he would have gone hoarse. He was only to call out if one approached steadily or if he saw a signal from Bellerophon. Neville was finding it increasingly difficult to stay within signaling distance. Small white flecks of sail were seen following – on and off throughout the day, but no ship caught them. In the huge bight off South Carolina Neville decided he must spill wind and wait. Superieure would do the convoy no good if they couldn’t be seen, even though Neville considered the chance of encountering a French ship to be small.

  They were close enough to shore to observe small coastal traders and fishing boats, but at about two hundred miles offshore, no land was visible to the west, even on a clear day. Large numbers of sails were seen crossing their course, both before them and aft. In the vicinity of Charleston, and then Norfolk, the shipping was considerable. But they saw no French – at least none flying French colors. To the exasperation of the ship’s company, sail changes were continual from the Carolinas north.

  Burton stepped onto the deck in the morning off Nag’s Head to a sight that gave him pause. The doctor, Mr. Catchpole, Mr. Johnson and a small group of seamen were standing on the foredeck looking ahead as the ship ghosted forward before a light southwesterly breeze. He turned slowly to follow their gaze. Land was visible as a low purple line to larboard, lit by the midmorning sun. He judged it some two leagues distant. There was sunlight – the weaker sunlight of the northern latitudes; but while it buttered the freshly-stoned decks, it fluttered and darted and seemed not fully sunlight, but some enigma of shadow and light flying between the lines above. Looking forward, he viewed a vertical wall. The ship was moving toward it; or maybe it was moving toward them. Simoom, he thought in a sudden panic. But no, not here. That could not be. The wall appeared to be of similar consistency to a simoom, but neither angry nor brown; it was gray-white, as a thick cloud. Fog it was. A great towering monster of fog that now, as he took his first step aft, swallowed the ship whole. It was thicker than any he had seen, and now that it had swallowed the ship, it began sending tentacles into it. It gathered the men at the rail into a ball that obliterated them. It sent cold fingers into his jacket. Sails could not be seen above, although the breeze did not die. Mr. Catchpole’s disembodied voice called out calmly, “Shall we alter course two points starboard, Commander?”