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

  “It’s Captain now,” said Neville.

  “I see. Have a seat. I didn’t hear that Superieure had come in.”

  “She hasn’t yet. I came in on the Blancife.”

  “Your new ship?”

  “No, but I have a good friend aboard. I am to take command of the La Désirée.”

  “I see. How can I help you?”

  “I would very much like to find your daughter. We have corresponded, and her last is of tenth January. In it she says she is to leave Washington ‘soon’. If she is not here, I am concerned for her. Your clerk has told me she is still abroad.”

  Chester smiled. “She is, yes. You shouldn’t worry.”

  “May I ask where?”

  “You may ask,” Said Chester. “Europe,” he volunteered. “Why would I help a violent person like you find her. My employee, Mr. Stearns, returned from Washington some months ago, ill with a wound you inflicted on him.”

  “At his provocation. He apparently thought navy officers can’t defend themselves.”

  “He says you challenged him.”

  “I am surprised at such a breach of honor. That was his point, after all, wasn’t it – honor? It was his challenge. With your pistols, I might add. Why was that? Was this contrived?”

  Chester deflected. “You can ask him yourself.”

  “Where is he, then?”

  “Also abroad.” Chester smiled again, “He didn’t die of his wound.”

  “Same place as Marion?”

  “You would like to know that, wouldn’t you?” His smile broadened into a grin. “You needn’t write her,” he added, “Certainly not here. If you need rum for La Désirée, please call on us. Is there anything else I can help you with today?” he asked in his smoothest sales voice.

  “No, it appears not. Good day.” Neville rose and exited the building.

  Deep in thought, he walked more slowly down Water Lane than he had come up. Reviewing what he knew, he came to the conclusion that the tone of Marion’s letters was not such that he should expect her to stop writing. There must be another letter ‘in the wind’ somewhere. But where? He comforted himself with the knowledge that if she addressed it to the Admiralty, as she had done the last letter, it would find him at Jamaica. But how long would that take? Between now and then, he could only write letters and stack them up. Would it be faster to send one to the Washington rooming house and expect them to forward it?

  The harbor came into view as he turned the corner onto King Street and proceeded toward the strand. A small ship, not yet anchored, was moving slowly to the left. It was familiar to him, yet not one that he had often viewed from a distance. He questioned whether his mind was playing tricks on him. Did that ship merely look very similar to Superieure or was it actually the Superieure? From this distance there was no way to read her name. Superieure had recently lost her main topmast. This ship had a topmast. But that could probably have been jury-rigged, if not completely repaired, in a very short time. The foremast, then; it had been shot in half. This ship had… a very short foremast with no sail above her course.

  Neville began to run. This ship was Superieure. He trotted down King Street to the strand, and then along the waterfront, keeping Superieure in view until he found a shore boat to give him a ride out.

  The little boat hoisted her single tattered sail and was able to use the same wind that Superieure was using to follow her to her mooring location. The first hail was not heard above the noise of dropping anchor, but the second was answered with, “Who goes?”

  “Superieure!” Neville himself hollered back.

  “We looked for three days, Captain,” said Catchpole. “We checked every island within a few hours’ sail,” added Foyle, “but since we were locked below when they put you off we had no idea where to look.”

  “I can’t believe you’ve beat us in,” said Johnson. “How on earth…”

  “I’ll get to that, all of you. The bigger mystery is how you got away so soon. I thought I would never see any of you again.”

  The chorus began again: “There was no mystery to it, Captain,” said Foyle.

  “They just couldn’t handle us,” spoke up Framingham.

  “After they had taken…” began Johnson.

  “All right, gentlemen. Enough! One person. Who acted as commander?”

  “I did,” said Foyle humbly, almost ashamedly.

  “It should have been me, I know,” said Framingham, “but I’m not quite ready for command. I will be soon, but not yet, and Mr. Foyle has taken two prizes in with great success, so we elected him.”

  “Elected? This isn’t a pirate ship!”

  “But I’m no navigator, Captain. It couldn’t be me,” said Johnson.

  “And I’m not a commissioned officer,” said Catchpole.

  “Neither is Mr. Foyle, and he’s but… but…”

  “Fifteen now, Sir, I am.” Despite the situation, Neville smiled with the realization that the boys arms and legs were sticking at least two inches farther out of his uniform than when they had first met.

  “And not commissioned, either, I remind you all. Never mind, never mind. Mr. Foyle, the account if you please, and I expect a report of it writ fair on my desk by the morning.”

  “Aye, Sir. The gist of it is this: We were locked below when they put you off and they got the water, remember? After that we sailed for some time. We could hear arguing above. Then the way came off her, you know? No more sound of the water along the hull and all, and a couple boats came and went. Then it went quiet-like, and we heard nothing for a while.

  “By the time we decided they had just left us and bashed our way out, we could only see their royals at the horizon. They would have liked to have had our ship, I’m sure, but wouldn’t trade us for it. Their corvette is bigger than Superieure, with more guns, and faster – you saw that. The only way to take Superieure would have been to drown us all, and I don’t think they had the stomach for that, or to put us all ashore somewhere. I think they were afraid of us, though, and rightly so. We had more men aboard than they had. Putting us ashore would have required letting us all loose, at least for a bit.

  “So they held us all on the foredeck with big guns on us and the rubbish of the battle all around so we couldn’t move easy, and then they took everything they thought was valuable out of the hold. Rum went first, of course. Then most of the food, our long guns and the swivels, half our cordage and spare sail canvas, most of the gunpowder that Mr. Johnson didn’t have hid under the bread-room deck, your silver service…”

  “I just bought that…”

  “Sorry, Sir. And the spare spars. I heard them laughing about leaving us ‘two sticks to get home with’.

  “Then we looked for you, like we said, for three days. The only sail we saw was an English frigate, I think – maybe like that one over there,” Catchpole said, pointing to the Blancife.

  “Ho, ho,” laughed Neville, “You found me, then. I was aboard that ship. My friend since we were two years of age strolled ashore like we were in Hyde Park and picked us up. They took on a bit of water and we came on ahead of you. I thank you heartily, all of you. I’m starving now. Is there something for dinner?”

  “Not much until we get some from shore,” grumbled Johnson.

  “Whatever it is, I’m sure it’s better than two days of coconuts,” said Neville.

  In the morning, armed with Mr. Foyle and his report, Captain Burton returned to the command center of Jamaica Station. Neville warned Foyle that he could be confronted by an Admiral so that he might not appear the fool when questioned. But he wasn’t. They were instructed to wait while his report was taken in. “Get comfortable,” said the clerk, “It may be three or four hours, and I’ve seen worse.”

  Several captains, one of them marine, came and went. A marine lieutenant was summoned after about two hours of waiting. He was in with the admiral for a few minutes, and then came out and walked over to where they waited.

  “Captain Burton?” he inquired.


  “Aye,” said Neville. He stood up and stretched his back.

  “The Admiral has asked me to pass you a message if you were still here.”

  “Still here? Why would we not be?”

  “He said, Sir, and I don’t understand the words, but I deliver them exactly as I remember he said them, are: ‘I do not know why he should be out there at all, as this report makes the matter of a court-martial moot and naught but a waste of my time. He should be aboard La Désirée making preparations to sail on the morning tide’. That was it, Sir.”

  “Thank you, lieutenant.”

  Music to my heart, that is, thought Neville when the noise of a proper ship’s greeting began to emanate from the frigate La Désirée. Drums and boatswain’s pipes sounded. Mr. Foyle had asked for the honor of transporting him to his new command, and had yelled back ‘La Désirée’ in response to the ship’s hail when his ‘gig’ from Superieure neared her hull. He could see side-boys and marines assembling to greet him as a captain deserved, and a good number of seamen hanging over the rails or in the rigging to get a look at their new commander.

  At 36 guns, she was larger than either his first ship, the 32-gun Castor, or his beloved 28-gun Experiment, but still she sat low in the water and required only a few steps to reach the sally port. In the modern navy she was a fifth-rate. He stepped across the brow as sedately as he could manage, rather than hopping in like a five-year-old as he felt like doing. He saluted aft.

  A lieutenant greeted him by touching his hat, and Neville returned the courtesy. “I’m First Lieutenant Towers, Sir. Welcome aboard.”

  “Captain Burton,” said Neville. “I am pleased to meet you.” He leaned forward and shook Towers’ hand. “Please assemble the men.”

  Never much for speeches, Neville strode to the appropriate spot at the forward quarterdeck rail and waited for the usual shuffling, mumbling and coughing to die down before beginning the ritual of reading himself in. His experienced eyes prowled the decks and men while he spoke. When he finished reading he indicated to Towers that he had nothing more to say.

  “Dismissed,” roared Towers. Compared to his stature, his voice was huge. He was a man of average height, about five feet and eight inches, but without the burly chest that one would normally associate with such a roar. He was rather more on the slender side, with a narrow face, short nose and sad-looking eyes. He stood ramrod straight, though, giving him an authoritative appearance that was enhanced by a swarthy complexion.

  “Lead me to my cabin, if you please, Lt. Towers.”

  Once inside, Neville glanced about the place, and then turned to Towers and asked, “I fear we are in a hurry. Are there orders here?”

  “Aye, Sir. Top desk drawer.”

  “Cap’n’s Sea chest, Sir,” said a voice at the door.

  Neville whirled around to see Hajee Ayoub standing there with it. “Hajee, did you just come with the chest, without orders to do so?”

  “Aye, Sir. Well, no. Mr. Framingham sent me along.”

  “Did the Captain’s coxswain remain with the ship, Lt. Towers?”

  “No, Sir. He went with Captain Whitby.”

  “Then get to work, Mr. Ayoub.

  “Wait here a minute, Lt. Towers.”

  Neville fished the customary order packet from the desk, broke the seal, and read the letter within.

  “We are indeed in a rush, Lt. Towers. I am sorry not to have been here earlier, but here I am now, and we are to sail on the morning tide with a squadron under Vanguard. Are we ready?”

  “Can be. Does it say how long we are to be out?”

  “Not specifically, but I’d say it implies less than a month.”

  “Then we can, Sir. At worst we might have short rations for a few days. We must complete the water today, too.”

  “See to it. Thank you. Who are the other lieutenants?”

  “Only one, Sir. Lt. Coughlan. We’re short one.”

  “Midshipmen?”

  “Just three.”

  “But you make do? Sail and fight?”

  “We do, Captain.”

  “Pass word that we sail in the morning, then. I need some time to write a few notes, and then I’d like to meet the gunroom. Have a boat ready to take a message to the frigate Blancife shortly, if you please.”

  “Aye, Sir.”

  By the time La Désirée approached her anchoring location in Port Royal Harbor a month later Neville had learned a great deal about his new ship and her company.

  “Lt. Towers, as soon as we drop anchor, please have a boat out. Do you remember that I sent a note over to the Blanciffe before we left, and that I visited Vanguard when we sat becalmed off Santo Domingo?”

  “Aye, Captain, I do.”

  “The note was to my friend Lt. Watson asking him to carry a request up to headquarters. I wrote the request for him as well, so he needed only carry it. A captain being reassigned is normally allowed to take a man with him to his new ship. In this instance I am not counting Mr. Ayoub, as I did not actually request him, and I suspect the navy doesn’t care much where he goes. So I requested a particularly capable midshipman – a Mr. Foyle. I will go personally to collect him if the request is approved, or to the Blanciffe to inquire upon it if Superieure is out.”

  “Aye, Sir.”

  “The visit to Vanguard was particularly fruitful for us. There is a very sharp junior lieutenant aboard with whom I had occasion to serve as the prize captain of a frigate some year or so ago. He was particularly keen on joining a frigate, as I remembered his interest. I went across to inquire if his interest remained. As it turns out, it does. Having seen so many frigates in the harbor, he thought it possibly his most likely opportunity for a transfer to a frigate to be granted. His request had progressed only so far as his captain, and so when I appeared, ‘hat in hand’, as it were, the deed was done. Captain Evans would not release him, however, until the end of this cruise and approval of the transaction by Admiral Duckworth.”

  Towers’ countenance seemed to lift. “Captain Burton,” he began, “I told you that we are able to sail and fight this ship with the officers we have, but there is no question we would be much better off with a full complement – for watch-standing if naught else. I was going to suggest that we appeal to the Commodore.”

  “There will be no need of that now, I hope. Ah, look. We are in luck for the first part. Superieure is there. I am going off to visit her and pay my respects to her company. I expect to return with Midshipman Foyle…

  “Take command, Lt. Towers,” he said clearly before stepping down into the boat. La Désirée had found her spot and dropped her best bower. She was still swinging slowly, seeking her line with the afternoon’s light breeze.

  Superieure’s company had watched La Désirée arrive and were prepared to receive their previous captain in style. He was properly piped up the side, found Mr. Foyle ready to go, walked ‘round the ship giving his regards to any man who stepped forward, shook hands with Johnson, Framingham, Catchpole, Trimbley, Denby and the new commander, one Lt. Fromow and retreated to his boat all in a short half hour.

  “How do you find Lt. Fromow, Mr. Foyle?” asked Neville on the row back to La Désirée.

  “He’ll do well, Sir, I’m sure. You have set us all to rights. This last cruise went very well, indeed.”

  “Excellent. You will like this new ship. There’s room to stand below decks, for one thing. I’ll be leaving you to get acquainted for the next couple days. I expect you and Lt. Towers will get along handsomely.”

  “And whence do you go, if I might be so bold as to ask, Sir?”

  “Errands, I suppose you would say.” He left it at that.

  Neville’s first stop ashore the next morning was at headquarters. Vanguard had arrived a few hours before La Désirée the previous day, so Neville assumed that Captain Evans had reported immediately to inquire of orders for the squadron. When he did so he would have dropped off his packet – which would include Lt. Miller’s request.

&
nbsp; Just on a hunch, and to allow time for Admiral Duckworth to review Vanguard’s packet, Neville’s first undertaking ashore was to stroll up Harbour Street to the butcher shop. He received the usual grouchy squint from Miss Fletcher of the Pig’s Tale when the little bell at the door jangled. She gave him a big grin when she realized who it was calling, but could only offer, “I’ve nothing from her, Love. Not a thing since the two of them left some five months ago. Your friend Joseph’s not pleased, either.”

  “No, I suppose not. Where is he, do you know?”

  “No, cap’n. I ain’t seen him in some time … a month, maybe.”

  “Thank you, Miss Fletcher. Good day.” The little bell rang him back out into the hot spring sunshine.

  As much as he longed to read a letter from Marion, he decided to wait on the post until the next day in hope there might be an answer to the request for Miller. For the remainder of this day he would attend to something he had been thinking about for most of the month gone by. His mission to investigate Chester Stillwater was no longer just a vague assignment from Sir William. Chester had made it personal by his loan of dueling pistols to Stearns and then his refusal to assist Neville in locating his daughter. Neville understood it, but it was still personal now.

  He located the dumpy little room he had used before as a personal headquarters for his sleuthing about town. He had carried the nondescript canvas bag with his waterfront civilian clothes with him, and he now set to changing from a captain to an out-of-work tar. A little dirt from the street would complete his disguise, and he would resume asking questions at the local bars. He had new questions to ask now – about muskets.

  He returned first to the Boar’s Head on Harbor Street where he had had some success before, but it was deserted. He tried the Fox and Squirrel and the Gun Locker, but found little activity at either one of those. Finally he found a crowd at the Figurehead. Possibly he had just begun too early in the day, and now it was the supper hour which created the traffic.