The Stillwater Conspiracy (The Neville Burton 'Worlds Apart' Series Book 4) Page 8

“I thought I felt it at the very first when you addressed me in Spanish; then a bit more this year. Now I am sure of it. Somehow we know each other.”

  “I feel the same. You could almost be my sister, though she may be a bit more spiteful.”

  “That isn’t very flattering, you know.”

  “The whole thing doesn’t seem so romantic as I’d hoped.”

  She put her hand on his arm and looked him in the eye. “As I said before, though, Neville, don’t give up. Don’t let father cow you. He will if he can. It’s just his way.” Her touch was startling, even through the cloth of his jacket.

  The touch of St. Elmo’s fire, I hope, he thought.

  “I’m being terribly brazen,” she continued. “Don’t think me a tart for it, but I hope it can be.”

  “Can be what?”

  “Commander Burton, don’t be thick.” She blushed, and then continued in a hushed tone. “Romantic, Neville. I’ve never met a man before that had any such effect on me, and I have dealt with some of America’s smoothest.”

  Marion gave the slightest signal to the waiter who had been standing far enough away to allow a private conversation. While he was removing the little dishes she returned to a less intimate subject, “What did your father do?”

  Neville gave her his whole story of youth and family. It was something he had not done with anyone that he could remember, but it was so comfortable and easy with Marion. He blabbered on and they both allowed the previous conversation to sit lurking in the background.

  Lunch finished, they tossed their napkins on the table. “I’d like to show you something,” Marion said. They stood and walked together into the house as they had on the tour. “This is something I discovered about the house when I was a young girl – maybe thirteen,” she said. They turned a corner into a small windowless foyer that held a small side table with a tiny oil painting above it. “What do you think?”

  Neville leaned close to take a look at the painting. What could the subject of such interest be?

  He felt her body press his from behind. “It’s not the painting, silly. It’s the room.” He straightened up and turned around – into her arms. “It can’t be seen from any angle, save the entrance,” she whispered. He needed no more invitation to bend down and push his lips against hers. They held each other and kissed again, softly but urgently, and tears rolled from her eyes.

  “What could make you this way, Maria?” he asked.

  The reaction was instant ice. “What could indeed? Who is Maria? Father said you sailors have a girl in every port. Why did I think you different?”

  “Wait, wait, I’m sorry. Maria was…” she doesn’t want to know it all… “Maria is…” he hung his head. “…with your mother.” And now the tears fell from his eyes. I have not often wept of this, he thought.

  “Oh. Oh, I am sorry,” she said, now soft again. “Married? You didn’t say…”

  “No, but engaged. Three years ago now. Can we sit somewhere a minute?”

  “Yes, certainly. Over there.”

  They sat close, but formally; not touching, which was just as well because their lunch waiter came by just then.

  “Is everything all right, Miss?” he asked while giving Neville a stern look.

  “Yes, Carlos. Of course. I was just telling my caller about Mummie. He’s lost… a girl as well.”

  “Ah, I see. I’m sorry, both of you. May I bring you something?”

  “A tea would be nice. Yes, please.”

  “I would have told you soon enough, but it is still painful,” Neville said when Carlos had gone.

  “You are very much like her; beautiful and strong. Very strong. I would offer you promises and assurances of all sorts if we could but have more time. Could we? Can we see each other more?” A humorous thought suddenly hit him, and he asked, “May I have your permission to see more of you?”

  “Yes, you have my permission,” she said with a crooked little smile. “Much more, I hope.”

  “How do we send each other messages? I feel very awkward walking in to your office in front of your father – and that Mr. Stearns. It makes me feel that I must skulk around the back stair. And just walking up to this house is rather presumptuous for a simple navy man, is it not?”

  “I solved that problem as a young girl, as well,” she said. “It’s quite easy, really. Pass a note to Miss Fletcher at our butcher’s in Kingston on Harbour Street. The shop has a silly name – the ‘Pig’s Tale’. If there’s no order from us that day she will see it here one way or another, and I will be sure she has an answer for you the next morning. You may also address a letter there, if your heart dictates that you should write me.”

  “Wonderful. How positively devious.”

  “I agree that we don’t want father or my charming Mr. Stearns to see you often. They would certainly get the wrong idea,” she confirmed with another sly grin.

  “Speaking of the wrong idea, I think I should have another look at the tiny painting before I go, don’t you?”

  8 - “Desiree”

  HMS Superieure

  Port Royal Harbour

  January 19, 1804

  My Dear Miss Stillwater,

  I am writing to express my utmost appreciation for your hospitality during the luncheon at your home Wednesday last.

  I believe I forgot to tell you of our Orders to Sail ‘post haste’ the following day, but this is the way of things for a navy man, I am afraid. By the time you read this I expect I shall be an hundred miles Easte of Jamaica keeping a keen eye out for our French friends. As always, I shall endeavor to keep You and Yours safe from their encroaches.

  I also wish to express my sincere Desire to meet with you again. I will Notify you at the Earliest upon my Return (whether or not the Stillwater Rum Company has already reported Superieure’s arrival to you).

  Sincerely yours,

  Cmdr. Nev. Burton

  Neville arranged to have this letter carried to the Pig’s Tale butcher shop on Harbour Street by the first boy he saw loose on the waterfront before Superieure set sail the next day. We’ll see if her message system is working, Neville thought. And what a dunce I’ve been. It’s time to write another, but that can wait a few days.

  HMS Superieure

  At Sea, Easte of Jamaica

  January 22, 1804

  Sir W’m Mulholland,

  I am writing to report a finding of the simplest order, but I will leave it to you to determine its importance – if there be any at all.

  The spy-craft, if such you call it, is right in front of us. The Stillwater Rum Company don’t hide it. They boast of it. They don’t lose a customer because of it. They track every ship in and out. Merchants, single and convoys, naval and privateer, We are all customers. They know where we all are, and when. They probably know when we’re going to sail and even when we’re expected back. They can walk into Admiral Duckworth’s offices and ask, for all love, all in the name of trade – and for the gift of a bottle of rum or two to the clerk, no doubt.

  To top that, I am quite sure they trade with the enemy – merchants and privateers and pirates, at least – and might in similar fashion know the movements of them as well.

  On the personal side, I have good news and bad, and they are one and the same. While my soul still aches for the loss of Maria, there is a girl here so similar that I am compelled to seek her company. If that is not Enough bad and good news together, there is more. She is the daughter of Mr. Chester Stillwater, and she works for the Company, so if he is guilty as you suspect – although I see no proof of it yet – she might herself be implicated. In the meanwhile I am condemned to skulk around her snooping out her father. I must admit that my emotions push me close to confounded.

  I expect to post this with the first Advice Boat that comes my way in the hope of having some Answer from you not long after my return to Kingston in a few Monthes.

  Sincerely yours,

  Cmdr. Nev. Burton

  P.S. There is another man here - M
r. M. Stearns - whom Mr. Stillwater refers to as his “right-hand man”. There’s not much I can add to that, except that he is also an American.

  This letter he sealed in a proper navy canvas dispatch envelope with three red seals, and addressed it simply to “Sir William Mulholland, Navy Office, Whitehall”. I may very well be questioned by the Commodore over this, he thought, but I will pray he forgets it before we have the chance to meet. If it is in the official dispatch pouch even a Commodore would not dare delay it, and it will be gone from his sight.

  By the time Neville was finished writing his second letter the north shore of Jamaica had sunk to the west of them, leaving only a thin ribbon of low white cloud beneath a clear blue sky.

  “What is our position, Mr. Catchpole?”

  “Here, Sir,” reported the Second Sailing Master while he pricked the chart with the fine point of a divider, “Wind’s about a fresh breeze, and not fair for our destination, but we are full and bye, moving well this morning on a course four points south of east. The log just came in at five. Seas are maybe four feet, as you can feel.”

  “Any sail?”

  “Not of any country at all, Sir. We seem quite alone out here. Church is rigged, Sir.”

  “Tell the lookout to stay sharp. We will be nearer the remaining capital of the French on this island every day.”

  “Aye, Sir.”

  But they saw nothing that morning or the next day or the one after that, and Neville decided to tack north into a familiar bay – that of Bahia de Neiba on the south coast of Hispaniola and only eighty miles west of Santo Domingo.

  “We might find French shipping at anchor here, gentlemen, but we’ll have to be careful not to find an abundance of outsized protection by their navy. Coming up from the south and having the land to our larboard, we will have no way to enter with the sun behind us.

  “Mr. Catchpole, propose a course to take us in to the head of the bay with the setting sun to larboard as best we can, if you please. It must be as difficult as possible for any ships in there to identify us easily. I want to be able to turn and run quickly if need be, and before any one of them might raise an anchor to chase us. It will be best at dusk, as well. We might need the dark to evade them.

  “Mr. Framingham, hoist the French colors, please. We have a proper name for this deception.’

  “I count six ships anchored in the bay, Commander,” reported Foyle after spending some time at the masthead with his glass. “There’s two big ‘uns. First is a medium-sized East Indiaman, I must guess and second looks like she might be a frigate, but I can’t be sure from this distance. Three are merchants for sure: brigs. The last is a small lugger. Can’t tell much more about her, either, the way she’s swung dead-on to us.”

  “So out of the six there are three to look out for, eh?” mused Neville. “And we sure enough cannot sneak in from around a corner to cut one out. The bay’s too big for that. Ideas, Mr. Framingham?”

  “Not right off, Commander. I’ve never been asked such a question.”

  “Hmmm.”

  Neville continued to stand at the leeward gunwale staring at the anchorage as they approached, pondering any action he might take.

  “Mr. Framingham, Mr. Foyle, or Sergeant Denby, might any of you fancy leading a cutting-out party?. I’d prefer a volunteer, because it’s going to be risky, I think; but it could work and I shall myself go in one boat. I’ll not think worse of you if you don’t want to go on this one.

  Foyle, Johnson and Denby all stepped right forward, parroting, “I’ll go, Sir.”

  Framingham hesitated, as Neville expected, but he gave the man a minute to think on it. Finally he said, “I might, but I’d like to hear your plan first.”

  “Fair enough, gentlemen, I’ll have to choose, then, because we cannot all go. Someone has to sail this ship smartly away from here if my plan goes wrong. My plan is thus:

  “We are arriving pretty well at dusk, and should have the anchor down just as the sun goes. That’s important, because we don’t want them to see us very well. We can’t look like British navy, but we can look sort of privateer-ish – a few more men than a merchant for example. Firstly, Sergeant Denby, I need you to go right now and hustle all the red coats below. And you others, get at least half the men below. You mids ditch your hats and turn your coats inside out, if you haven’t something else. We’ll certainly use your marines in this business, Sgt. Denby, so have ‘em find something to wear that’s not red. Tarpaulin jackets would be better, so you can use the shock of seeing them to our advantage later. Not a one on deck now, though, if you please, including you. Get a cold meal in everyone right now, as well. When that’s all done come back for the rest of it. No more squeaky whistling than you’d hear on a merchant, Mr. Johnson.”

  Superieure slid slowly toward the anchorage as the sun drooped lower over the land to the west of them, finally leaving them in the shadow of the low hills ashore. Neville’s officers returned.

  “The ships at anchor are pretty well lined up there, with the Indiaman and the frigate at center. That schooner at the seaward end of the line is our target. We’ll slide ‘round behind her and come up along the same anchoring line and drop there – not too close. I can yell some greeting in French as we go past. The Indiaman won’t be able to see much of us at all, and the frigate behind her even less, I should think.

  “Then we will wait ‘till it’s just a bit darker. The moon is three quarters tonight, but it won’t be up until maybe four bells of the evening watch. That should give us at least two hours for this, and it shouldn’t take more than a half of one, if we do it smartly.

  “Then we’re going to load all the men we can fit in our three little boats over on the side away from our friends – so they can’t see what we’re up to, of course – and set off for that schooner when it’s dark as pitch. Our men in the boats clamber aboard quickly, take her by surprise, cut her cable, and we’re both away.

  “What’s our course out of here?” asked Catchpole. “east or south?

  “Good question. I say south down the peninsula, around Islas Beata and Alto Velo…”

  “In the dark?”

  “Moon will be well up before we get there, if not the sun, Mr. Catchpole, right? We’ll give it a good offing, anyway.”

  “Right, Commander.”

  “Then west along the southern shore of Hispaniola. We can do it, and so can the schooner, I’ll wager, but the frigate, if he chases, cannot fly so tight to this wind, and he must fall further and further offshore of us. We’ll run with no lights. The moon will do. Rendezvous at the Isle a Vache or go on to Port Royal, depending on what the wind allows us. Shall we do it?”

  “I’m in,” said Sgt. Denby.

  “Me, too,” said Foyle.

  Before Framingham could answer, Neville said, “That’s it then. Mr. Foyle will command the prize. We’ve only three boats, and you others are the ones I’d’ve chosen to sail Superieure home if we don’t come back. Look sharp and be ready to crack on hard if that happens.”

  Superieure followed a lazy path around the seaward end of the line of anchored ships, dropped enough sail to ghost slowly past the schooner. At close range she looked to be a well-armed merchant; possibly a pirate or privateer and carrying, it appeared, ten guns. She flew no colors and showed few men aboard.

  As they passed, Neville used his speaking trumpet to yell a greeting across in French. “Superieure. Good evening. All quiet here?”

  The answer was only two words, without a trumpet, “Unique, Aye.”

  “Fair enough. Mr. Johnson, ready at the anchor.”

  “Just here, Mr. Catchpole. Turn in.”

  “There’s only about fifteen minutes of light left, Mr. Johnson. It’s dark enough now to get the boats over the side. Sgt. Denby, fill them with the men. Remind them – no cocked muskets.”

  “What’s this, then, Commander?” asked Framingham. “See that boat there?”

  “Clever frigate captain; he’s made his own harbor patrol,
I think. Get the marines up here with their muskets. Have them stay below the gunwales and be ready to pop up. We’ll invite the harbor patrol into the spider’s web.”

  Twenty French sailors rowed the frigate’s launch straight toward Superieure. Neville stood at the main chains, high and visible, as they approached. He waved.

  “Good evening,” he yelled again as they neared. “Are you the harbor patrol? Ha, ha!”

  A lieutenant – or maybe only a midshipman by the sound of his young voice - called across, “We are, Sir, from the French People’s Frigate Desiree. Why are you here?”

  “Monsieur Downey,” Neville said to Johnson’s mate in French. “Take that painter there.” He expected that Downey had no idea what had been said, but it was obvious what the command would be.

  “Up!” Neville commanded at the moment Downey grabbed hold of the rope that was tossed over.

  The top rail of the gunwale was suddenly lined with twenty muskets. The sound of them all being cocked above their heads was enough emphasis to staunch any illusions of resistance on the part of the French.

  “Nobody move or make a signal or you will all suffer for it. Pass up your weapons; then all of you get out and come aboard!”

  “See them below, gentlemen. Then we need the marines back up here. Borrow a few hats. We have another boat now, but less time. The frigate Desiree will wonder where her patrol boat is very soon.”

  “They’re all stowed,” reported Sgt. Denby ten minutes later.

  “Excellent. Let’s get under way. Mr. Downey will take the jolly boat now. You take the frigate’s with all your marines in one boat.”

  There was a little shuffling and confusion due to the changes, but most of the seamen, prepared for the attack, had been sitting ready in the launch and jolly boat during the harbor patrol visit.

  “Shove off,” commanded Neville. All four boats began the row toward the dim lights which showed where the schooner floated.