CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

The Caribbean’s warm waters were left on the horizon like the small island of Tobago, replaced by the dark heavy seas of the Atlantic Ocean. Once at sea, Lord Skalla came down to Gabe’s cabin and informed him he needed to call on a man in Cape Town, South Africa. This had been the second part of his journey with Jepson, prior to learning about Admiral Buck’s accident.

“This is one of our agents?” Gabe asked.

Smiling, Lord Skalla replied, “He works in the office of the Dutch East India Company.”

That was a yes, or as close as Skalla would come to a yes, Gabe decided. Sending for the master and first lieutenant, Gabe informed them of their change of course.

Sail drill was alternated with gun drill and at any given hour the hands were rousted out for fire drill. This was done with the captain declaring one or more of the officers, warrant officers, or key petty officers dead. By doing this a man had to know not only his job, but also those above and below him in rank.

When a senior bosun’s mate said he didn’t know what orders needed to be given when his team leader was declared dead, Gabe responded, “As far as I know, a fire has no respect for rank or position. Therefore, you better know what actions to take in case of a fire. Otherwise, you may only have two choices: burn or drown.”

This brought a lot of chuckles and ribbing from the man’s mates. Two days later, Gabe played the same scenario and the bosun’s mate sailed through the drill.

“Put it to them where they can understand it and more often than not they’ll get it right,” Gabe explained to the surgeon as they observed the drill. “If they don’t, you change the man’s station. You never know when one man’s actions may be the difference in saving or losing a ship.”

Cornish stated he’d never seen Captain Brian become involved in any of the ship’s drills. “He actually only took part in punishment, as I recall,” Cornish admitted.

“See where it got him?” Dagan volunteered, hearing the surgeon’s comments.

***

Gabe stood at the quarterdeck rail and watched as the sun started to descend. Lieutenant Taylor and Thorn were closing with Trident. While no longer officially considered the flagship, the rest of the squadron continued as if nothing had changed. Part of this was due to Lord Skalla’s presence. Gabe was, however, still the senior captain.

The squadron was just to the west of Cape Verde. Taylor, in Thorn, had stopped an island coaster. He had no intention of trusting his news to signals. He closed with Trident and then had himself pulled across to the two decker. Thorn lay hove-to and rolled in the heavy waves of the Atlantic, waiting on her captain. Hooking on to the main chains, Taylor nimbly scaled the slippery battens and pulled himself through the entry port. Once in the captain’s cabin, Nesbit poured a glass for Gabe, Taylor, Lord Skalla, and Dagan.

“Taking a page out of Jenkins’ book,” Taylor said, pausing momentarily after taking a sip of wine and then eyeing the dark red liquid appreciatively. Obviously, his own stock didn’t measure up to that left by Admiral Buck. “I stopped a coaster and asked if they had any fresh vegetables or fruit.” Taylor continued. “No vegetables the master said, but they had plenty of bananas. In talking over a fair price the fellow said, ‘A large number of American ships had went past just a few days ago’. He remembered one particularly, as it had a fox with a torch in its mouth painted across the stern.”

“The Foxfire,” Lord Skalla threw out.

“Aye, my Lord, that was my thinking.”

“They were headed south,” Gabe said, as much a question as a statement.

“They were when the trader saw them. The trader said there were four ships, all about the same size except for the ship with the fox, which is probably a small frigate.”

“Or even a captured corvette,” Gabe thought aloud.

“Are they headed in the direction of St. Mary’s?” Lord Skalla asked.

“Aye, at least in that direction,” Gabe replied. “Does that change our orders in regards to Cape Town?”

Lord Skalla seemed to ponder the question a minute while he took another sip of his wine. “I think not, Captain. The short time we are in Cape Town will not make any difference, I’m thinking. The potential information received about the American privateers and the French could be well worth the short delay.”

Like I was thinking, Dagan thought to himself. Lord Skalla has a spy working for the Danes. Wonder what they’d think if they knew about the attack on the Fort at St. Croix.

“Foxfire,” Lord Skalla said, thinking aloud. “What a name for a ship. Is that not the luminescence you see on wood rotting in the forest?”

“Aye,” Gabe answered, “but Dagan told me it was called fairy fire in Scotland and Ireland.”

“Nonsense folklore,” Skalla said.

Gabe just shrugged. “The Indians in the colonies call it ‘Cold Fire’. Dagan got that from a family friend, Kawliga. There is also a tale of a fox carrying a torch or firewall in its mouth.”

“The Americans must have someone in their company with a sense for the dramatic, someone with a hand for painting,” said Hex, who spoke for the first time.

“What makes you think that?” Gabe asked.

“The Tomahawk had an Indian war ax painted on the stern. Now, we have a fox with a torch in his mouth. Have you seen such before?” Hex replied.

“Come to think of it, I haven’t,” Gabe admitted.

“Reckon what he’d come up with for a ship named Nymph?” Hex asked, a grin on his face.

“Damme, Jake, but you’re a sly one,” Lord Skalla exclaimed. “All tales,” he continued on.

“What about Thorn and Trident?” Gabe said.

“Point taken,” Skalla replied and helped himself to another glass.

After the laughter died down, Gabe saw Taylor over the side and watched as the ship sailed back to its station.

***

Gabe stared at the chart lying on his table. The air was warm inside his cabin. He’d had Hex open a stern window and now a slight breeze blew at the chart, requiring it to be anchored down. He had never sailed this deep into the Atlantic before and wanted to familiarize himself with the area.

Hayes had brought the charts down, and when asked if he’d ever sailed around the Cape of Good Hope he answered very frankly, “Aye, Captain, and it can be a nightmare. Not like the Horn, mind you, but I’d not like to get washed up on the rocks either.”

“Is this a good bay to anchor while Lord Skalla goes ashore?” Gabe asked, talking about Cape Town.

“Aye, Table Bay lies here,” the master said pointing to his chart. “Good anchorage between here and Moville Point. That’s actually before we get to the Cape. Once around the Cape of Good Hope and Cape Point there’s another good anchorage here on this side of the peninsula. It’s called False Bay and is actually much bigger than Table Bay. Small town there, not much more than a village last time I was here. It’s called Simon’s Town.”

The charts did little to ease Gabe’s tensions about either the east side of the peninsula or any other part of the Cape. What Gabe read was only words to some, but would cause a seaman to want plenty of sea room: a rocky peninsula, a sheer cliff rising eight hundred fifty feet above the ocean, hazardous winds and currents. No wonder the master called it a nightmare. It could prove to be a challenge, Gabe thought as he rolled up the chart, glad he had Hayes around for his experience and advice.

Overhead, the shrill call of the bosun’s pipe was followed by the soft thuds of bare feet as one watch replaced the other. It was eight p.m., the first watch. Gabe could never rationalize why the particular upcoming watch coming would be called the first watch. Why not call the middle watch, which started at midnight, the first watch? That’s when it went from one day to another. Oh, well. He always thought the admiral, who was in charge of naming each watch, was either in his cups or in bed with some wench, and when asked said the first thing that came to mind.

Once when he’d told Gil his theory, his brother had said, “I’d not deny either of those distinct possibilities but I’d not go spreading it around. I don’t see how it would do your naval career any good were it to be heard in the wrong circle.”

What he’d give to have those carefree days back. Ah…well.

Dagan rose from where he was sitting and said, “It would not be amiss for the captain to take a stroll on the quarterdeck and pause long enough to smoke a bowl of tobacco with his uncle.”

“By damn, you are right,” Gabe said with a smile. “Let me find a pipe.”

“No need,” Dagan replied, holding one of Gabe’s father’s pipes in his hand. Together, they walked on deck and past the quarterdeck watch.

On deck, Turner was enjoying the rise to acting lieutenant. While on watch he made it a point to examine everything he could: the standing riggings, a line that needed splicing, a spot that needed a touch up of paint. He listened to the groan of tackles, a squeak that might need grease. He was so intent on his inspections that when the sound of laughter was heard from aft he couldn’t figure what would cause such an outburst. Nor did he hear Mr. Mark, the midshipman of the watch, whisper, “Captain is on deck,” as he rushed pass.

“What’s going on here,” the acting lieutenant snapped as he came upon two men passing a bottle and smoking pipes. Too late he realized his mistake.

Still smiling from some joke or tale, the captain looked up and said, “Nothing to keep you from your duties, Mr. Turner.”