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

  “I think we should, aye.

  “Mr. Johnson, call all hands.”

  The usual whistling of pipes and slapping of calloused feet on wooden decks began as it should, but it was followed by much confusion and surprised calls when the men ran up the companion were stopped by the sight. It was perhaps more likely the lack of sight, however, that made them trip and fall. Those who did were trampled by more who followed them up. By now these men could do their duty on the darkest of nights, but this was somehow worse. Not even a lantern could tell them fore from aft, and they had to resort to the blind man’s game of feeling their way. Now the men were visible to Neville again, but ethereal; a group appeared with no legs – only their upper bodies. Like the ‘Last Supper’, he thought – with no table. What has happened to us? He moved farther aft.

  “Commander, is that you there?” called out Foyle. It brought him back to reality.

  “Aye. Have Mr. Johnson call the off watch down.”

  “Mr. Catchpole says these fogs can last for days,” mumbled Framingham from behind, causing him to start. Men appeared and disappeared now, with or without actually moving, for the next hour. They all became more familiar with their ghostly surroundings, and the day resumed a relatively normal pace. No navigation sights were taken, of course, because nothing could ever be seen above the crosstrees. The sun was never its familiar round self – only a whiter blotch above them gave away its existence. That endless day morphed into an endless night as the ship’s wake indicated forward motion, and on the second day of this they were all becoming more anxious about their location. A light rain – more like a heavy falling mist – began to dampen what cheerful spirits remained, and they heard thunder roll across the water with no hint of the direction of its source.

  By three bells in the afternoon watch patches of flickering fog could be seen to precede the thunder.

  “By God, what now?” murmured Foyle aloud. “Do we sail with Odysseus?” Which remark was answered by a bolt of lightning that split the fog from on high to the water on their larboard side. The water would have been heard to sizzle had the immediately-following clap of thunder not been so intense as to cause one man to fall to his knees holding his ears. Another clap of thunder to starboard and another forward filled the air. No man spoke, and for several minutes few could hear anything beyond the roar in their ears.

  Superieure moved steadily north by northeast through the lightning, or the lightening moved steadily on to the south. Whichever was the case, it took the rain with it as well as the light, and another miserable night followed. Morning did finally come, for this time fingers of light filtered and flickered through the haze. Barely enough to be called sunlight, it was welcome, for it seemed to all that it kept the foggy fingers out of their jackets. The men gathered in little groups about the deck following breakfast and spoke quietly.

  Seeing the man at the rail, Neville asked, “Mr. Stearns, how are you at navigation?”

  “It’s my disgrace,” he replied without so much as turning to face Neville. “I’m no help to you.”

  “Come with me below,” Neville then requested of Catchpole and Foyle. “We must see to the charts again.

  “Mr. Framingham, get the men aloft and be prepared for any sudden change. If this cursed fog remains we risk the shoals that we all know are ahead.”

  With somber looks and pursed lips, Foyle and Catchpole followed their captain down the companion, leaving Framingham the watch as Johnson’s pipes and the tramp of feet began again.

  Neville heard a sound as he descended the steps, setting him on edge: a rolling whoosh ending in a thump. Burton recognized this sound but could not place it. There! Again the sound, exactly the same. And a smudge in the fog, darker gray than the rest, appeared slightly astern and to the east.

  “There are almost an ‘undred ships out here with us, though I thought us well away from them when last we could see,” he said when below. “If the convoy have taken a smarter course farther offshore they may not be in the danger we face here.”

  A voice shrieked from somewhere above; possibly the fore crosstrees, that could be plainly heard below. “Surf to larboard!” came the voice at its loudest, in unison with the mainmast lookout. “Hard to Starboard!”

  Neville, Catchpole and Foyle ran up the stairs. The sound again. How could I be so stupid? Neville asked himself. Surf! I haven’t heard it in months!

  Neville noticed a lighter patch where the dark smudge had been - a fleecy enigma – to the southeast. But he looked to larboard where the surf had been reported. From deck he could see nothing. In the next second, so fast as to cut short even his thoughts, the entire forward half of the ship was instantly swaddled in sunlight, and the low sand dunes of Carolina’s barrier islands showed their long low mustache of white water, not three cables off the larboard bow. The lookout was still pointing and waving and yelling. Then Framingham and the after deck emerged from the wall of fog as if a theater curtain had been pulled open.

  Neville joined Mr. Johnson in his chorus, “All hands! Hard to Starboard!

  “Get a man on the lead line.” Why haven’t we been sounding all along? Why wasn’t I thinking?

  The creaking and groaning of cordage, yards, and booms came even before the tramping boots of marines heading aft had subsided, and the ship leaned slightly to larboard as her turn began.

  “Ship! Starboard beam!” Again the united shrieks of the lookouts.

  My smudge! thought Neville.

  Every eye flicked forward to see the bulk of a bulbous dark ship that had also just appeared from the fog and was now attempting the same maneuver Superieure had just made. But the undermanned ship was slower to turn, first presenting her full larboard side to Superieure’s bow, not half a cable distant. The instant stillness aboard Superieure permitted them a moment to hear the pandemonium aboard their ghostly visitor.

  “By the mark, five!” yelled the man in the chains.

  My God! We’re almost inside the surf line.

  “Beat to quarters, Mr. Johnson. Run out!” The order and following drums and whistling shocked Mr. Catchpole out of his sudden stupor.

  “Captain, she’s an American Merchant. No doubt of it. Small two-masted brig.”

  “Belay that order,” yelled Neville. “’Vast running out.”

  Moments later the other ship’s larboard quarter loomed only yards ahead. They would see her stern momentarily. The collision was going to happen. The only question was how bad it would be. He could see the lookouts above clinging hard to the masts.

  “Lady of Marion - Connecticut,” observed Catchpole. “Marion is a city there,” he announced to no one. They all looked forward. Each followed the same mental exercise in sailing. They could not fall off far to larboard or the shoals would have them. Neither could Lady of Marion. A collision was favorable to the surf, although the surf might have them both anyway if the shoals extended very far to sea. If they hauled their wind in an attempt to miss the Lady’s starboard, they might hit her stern even harder.

  “Let all fly! Mr. Catchpole,” commanded Neville, “Keep the helm up. Maybe our way will come off fast enough to lessen the damage.”

  Time moved very slowly as they approached the Lady’s stern. Every man watched as sails filled sporadically on Lady of Marion ahead, doing what she could to escape. They might miss her starboard aft quarter, yes? No!

  A day later the two ships floated quietly beside each other on the low undulating sea. With the wind now gone entirely, the ships themselves were quiet, with no rush of water along their painted hulls. Any sail still abroad hung damply in the hot sun, emitting wispy vapors that appeared anxious to join their kin in the fogbank still looming to the southeast. The two rode the low southern swell, still within earshot of the visible breakers on the beaches, but there was no quiet for the crews aboard. Sweating in the muggy air while repairing the damage of the collision, their efforts broke the silence. Lady of Marion’s mizzen no longer tilted to starboard and her stern rail ha
d at least some lumber tied across the hole made by Superieure’s bowsprit. Superieure’s bowsprit was straight again, but Chips had not given his permission yet to bend any jibs or fore-staysails.

  Since American ships were neutral in the conflict between England and France and neither of these vessels posed any threat to each other save the sort of incident just behind them, an air of camaraderie seemed to have descended upon both. Catcalls across the water between the companies sparked a sort of contest to see who would be repaired first, and Midshipman Foyle had been dispatched with an invitation for the merchant’s master to visit for dinner; special watches were assigned to be sure fog did not overtake them while he was away.

  A short and pudgy red-faced man greeted Foyle as Superieure’s jolly-boat arrived at Lady’s sally-port, “Have ye been sent to apologize?” he huffed sternly down at Foyle before the jolly boat was tied alongside.

  “Nossir. To invite. Permission to come aboard, Sir?”

  “Aye,” from another swarthy man to his right. All eyes were on them.

  Stepping over the brow, Foyle reached into his jacket and retrieved Burton’s letter. Handing it to the Master, he said, “I am ordered to wait for the favor of a reply, Sir.”

  “Wait there, then, Midshipman,” said the man, and walked aft.

  Two hours later, Master James Beeton of Lady of Marion, with his First Mate Jonas Bryars, were at dinner in the Superieure’s gunroom. Neville’s cabin could not accommodate.

  “Just an accident, Commander Burton; I’d agree. Things happen at sea.”

  “Aye, Master Beeton. We were fortunate the fog cleared when it did, or our bones would be on the beach now.”

  “True enough. And the damage isn’t so bad. Shall we toast your King, Commander?” Beeton’s face was now pink from wine rather than red from anger.

  “Where bound?” Neville asked, to which Beeton replied in a tone somewhere between guardedly and proudly, “To England, by way of Newfoundland, with a cargo of America’s finest tobacco.”

  “We’ve just got you early, then, I assume. If you’re to join a British convoy, then we’re part of your escort. We’ll do our best not to hit you again. What can you tell us of the rest of our run up to Philadelphia?”

  “Mr. Stearns, we meet again,” said Neville when he found the man hanging on the larboard rail watching the shore as Superieure followed the Lady of Marion into Delaware Bay. At least seventeen ships of the convoy were directly behind, with Bellerophon within signal distance.

  “So we do. Why do you lower yourself to speak with me today?”

  “We’re almost there. You’ll be shot of me soon. Have we missed anything?”

  “Anything we really care to discuss? I doubt it. Whence do you sail from here?”

  “On to England. Don’t know when yet. A week? A month? There are no hurricanes to worry about in the North Atlantic.”

  “You enjoy that cold, damp place, then. After I finish my business here, I’ll be returning to the warmth of Jamaica.”

  “Not much warmer than here this time of year.”

  “That’s not the warmth I was referring to.”

  “I think you overestimate the warmth of your reception, Sir.”

  Stearns’ response was not hot and passionate. It was cold – calculating? “That’s it,” he snarled, turning only partly toward Neville, but his face went red and his voice colder, “You’ve made implications all this way north that she’ll not have me. You say she is low enough to take up with a navy man – a British navy man, at that. You insult me, and you insult her. I insist on satisfaction for these offenses to the lady’s honor, Sir.” Stearns drew himself up to his full height and faced Neville. “I demand you face me in a duel.”

  “A duel?” Neville almost stammered. “A duel? We aren’t permitted to duel. It is a comedy of the past.”

  “It is a custom not yet dead,” said Stearns. “Cowards may not duel, either. If you were a man you would stand for your honor – if you have any.”

  Neville went from astounded to angry in seconds. He felt his color rise. “It cannot be aboard ship, or I would find myself in irons.”

  “So much the better.”

  “It will be ashore. If you pursue this aboard, you will find yourself in irons. It’s still my ship.”

  “So be it. Weapons? I have a fine set of dueling pistols with me.”

  “You carried dueling pistols? You expect me to believe now that this wasn’t contrived? You are a miscreant, Sir. Swords. I’ll enjoy seeing you bleed.”

  “As I will you. I was actually hoping you would be old-fashioned. I am an excellent swordsman, as you will see.”

  “Don’t count your chickens,” said Neville. He walked off.

  HMS Superieure swung at her anchor where she had been directed by the Philadelphia harbor patrol. It was four days after the challenge by Stearns. Neville had been summoned to Bellerophon with the rest of the navy captains and informed that they would sail in a week – excepting some unforeseen problem with the assembling of the convoy to England.

  “There is time, gentlemen, to conclude this sad affair. We four will go to the beach this afternoon and take horse to some nearby copse where we will not be disturbed. Mr. Foyle here will stand by me, and, Doctor, I understand that you will second Mr. Stearns. Neither of the two of you are to join in this, so your only crime, if anything comes of it, will be simple association. Your job is simply to witness that we have concluded our disagreement to a final satisfaction.

  “Doctor, I want you to know that I will hold nothing against you for this, as I assume you do not wish me particular ill, but have merely been asked by Mr. Stearns because he has few friends aboard. Frankly, it might be a stroke of luck that we will have a doctor with us. Please bring your kit.

  “As to the reason for this foray ashore, we will say that our intention is to purchase certain personal supplies and to put Mr. Stearns ashore. We will put the coxswain and his men to the task of moving his dunnage to the indicated hotel while we are away. They may smell a skunk in the woodpile, but we will keep our business to ourselves, agreed?”

  The other three nodded to him.

  “Mr. Foyle, have the launch ready at the conclusion of dinner and Mr. Stearns’ dunnage at the sally port.”

  Horses for hire were easily found in the city, and by three bells of the afternoon watch the four were walking their mounts south out of town. In another half hour they had found a small clearing off the lightly-traveled road to Wilmington.

  “This will do,” said Stearns.

  “Yes, I think so,” agreed Neville, “if our seconds will be good enough to clear some of this brush and move that log out of our way.”

  The four dismounted, tied their horses and removed their jackets.

  “We will not be terribly formal, gentlemen,” Doctor Trimbley announced when he and Foyle were done. “We have all read the ‘twenty-six commandments of dueling’ as Mr. Stearns has kindly provided from his pistol case. I proclaim this clearing to be your ‘Field of Honor’. Honor will be served when the first blood is drawn, no matter how slight or serious, and the winner is the one who drew it. Are you ready, Mr. Stearns?”

  “Yes,” said Stearns. “I look forward to your humiliation, Commander.”

  “Are you ready, Commander Burton?”

  “Aye.”

  “No words?”

  “None.”

  “Draw your swords and begin.”

  The two swords slid quietly out of their leather guides.

  “You jest, Commander. You cannot hope to beat me left-handed.”

  Neville pointed his sword at Stearns’ nose. “It’s the hand I was dealt, as they say. En garde!”

  Stearns assumed a strange stance, with his left hand behind his back. And in the same moment took a swing at Neville’s outstretched sword.

  Neville moved his sword aside and let the other blade slice the air. “I hadn’t assumed we were at a stage play, Sir,” he said.

  “Even now, you
mock me,” retorted Stearns, taking a slash and lunge at Neville.

  Neville had never fought with swords as an art form. It had always been survival, and he assumed the same held true now. He slapped Stearns’ blade aside with the flat of his and lunged forward, stabbing Stearns through the soft part of the right shoulder. Stearns yelled “aaaay!” dropped his sword, and clapped his left hand onto his injured shoulder. Red oozed between his fingers. Just that quickly it was done.

  “I do not mock. I have fought hand to hand in many battles. Every time has been for my life.

  “See to him, Doctor.”

  “Sit there on that log, Mr. Stearns,” said Dr. Trimbley. “I have brought the right kit for the work at hand: bandages, needle and thread, and a bottle of Stillwater rum. Take a drink and then I’ll pour some over the needle.” Trimbley began his work.

  “It wasn’t entirely my idea, “said Stearns. “Mr. Stillwater put me up to it.”

  “He got you onto my ship?”

  “Yes, but he didn’t have to force me. I will do what I can to push you away from his daughter. And those are his pistols. I hoped you would choose them. I am a better shot than I am a swordsman.”

  “I would hope so.”

  “I’ve never fought a battle with a sword – only fencing. Your left hand didn’t help me.”

  “That explains it.”

  “He would prefer me for his daughter, you know. He’d rather not have her ‘in the navy’.”