For several moments Creighton was too dazed by this revelation to speak. He could almost have resigned himself to six months or even a year in Charles Town. But Florida?
It could hardly even be called a colony. England had won it from Spain only ten or fifteen years before. But perhaps won was not the proper term. That implied the transfer of something valuable, whereas, from everything Creighton had heard or read in school, Florida was one large sweltering swamp, filled with alligators, mosquitoes, dire diseases, wild Indians, and sand bogs that swallowed a man without a trace.
Creighton shook his head and gave a strained laugh. “No, no. I didn’t bargain on Florida when I came here.”
“Life is seldom what one bargained for. Besides, it seems to me that you have little choice in the matter. You can hardly stay behind in Charles Town. You know no one here. You have no means of supporting yourself.”
“I could return to England,” Creighton suggested.
“If you had the price of passage. But I doubt that you do. In fact, I doubt that you had the money to pay for your trip here. I suspect that Sir Edward Lyndon provided your passage, as a favor to my sister.”
“What makes you think that?” Creighton said, doing his best to sound indignant.
The colonel’s narrow eyes regarded him reprovingly over the rim of his teacup. “Whatever else my sister may have said about me, I’m fairly certain she did not characterize me as a fool.”
“No.”
“Then do not behave as though I were one!” He set his cup down so forcefully that Creighton flinched. “In any case, it doesn’t matter how or why you came. Now that you are here, I am responsible for you. That means you will go where I go, and you will do as I say.”
As much as he hated to admit it, his uncle was right. Creighton was smart enough to find a way out of going to Florida; all he’d have to do was hide out somewhere when the ship was due to sail. But he was also smart enough to know that he couldn’t hope to manage here on his own. He’d never had to fend for himself before, and he certainly wasn’t about to start now, in an unfamiliar land.
He could still try to make himself so unbearable that his uncle would beg him to go home. But the more he saw of the man, the more unlikely that plan seemed. Gower was clearly a far tougher nut than Creighton’s mother had been. Instead of being driven to distraction, as his mother had put it, the colonel might be driven to something more drastic, such as discipline—and Creighton had seen an example of his brand of discipline.
He tried to console himself with the thought that perhaps, like Carolina, Florida would not be as abysmal as he imagined. That hope was dashed when his uncle’s clerk revealed, with obvious relish, the reason why a new lieutenant governor was wanted: The conditions of life in the colony had driven the old one mad, and he’d put a bullet through his brain.
After two days of desperate pondering, Creighton came up with a new plan: He would meekly accompany his uncle to Florida. But when the Amity set sail for Barbados and the return trip to England, he would be aboard her, concealed belowdecks somewhere.
The following day they boarded the ship for the voyage to Pensacola, the capital city—if it could be called that—of West Florida. Captain Pierce greeted Creighton like an old friend and installed him and his uncle in a cabin that was far more spacious and neat than the one Creighton had shared with Hervey Hale.
Though Creighton cringed at the prospect of being in such close quarters with his uncle, he reminded himself that it would be for only a short while—no more than a week, according to Captain Pierce. To Creighton’s relief, Gower spent much of his time in the company of the captain—swapping war stories, no doubt. Despite a sizable window, the cabin was stifling, and Creighton took to wandering about the ship for hours on end, getting in the way of sailors who were scouring the decks with holystones or pulling at the haul-yards, and stumbling over others who were mending sail or picking oakum.
When Creighton was younger, his father had often taken him on board Sir Robert’s merchant vessels. Though Creighton had no real fondness for his grandfather, he would gladly have accompanied his father anywhere. It was a mystery to him how Harry Brown could have grown up to be so easygoing and good-humored when he had been raised by such a bossy, crotchety old man. Sir Robert seemed to disapprove most of the very things that most appealed to Creighton. One of these things was to scramble up the standing rigging to the crow’s nest, sixty feet above the deck, where he launched gobbets of spittle deck-ward while Sir Robert ordered him, in vain, to come down.
Now, bored with the sameness of shipboard life and hoping for a glimpse of land, Creighton heaved himself up onto the shrouds that supported the mainmast and began to climb the ladderlike ratlines. “Here, you daft lad!” called a sailor with an unruly mass of sun-bleached blond hair. “Get down from there before you break your fool neck!” Creighton heeded him no more than he had ever heeded his grandfather.
“Let him kill himself, then,” he heard another sailor say. “’Twill be no great loss.” Creighton considered sending a wad of spit onto the man’s shaved head, but concluded that it would not be the gentlemanly thing to do.
Though the captain had said they were rounding the cape of Florida, Creighton could sight no land in any direction. But there was a breath of wind that gave him temporary relief from the subtropical heat. Steamy days like this were unknown in Bristol, even at the height of summer. Creighton removed his coat, spread his arms, and let the sluggish breeze ruffle his linen shirt.
According to sailing superstition, to whistle while a ship was under way was to invite a gale. Creighton closed his eyes and began to whistle softly, wishing that the wind would rise into a gale strong enough to sweep him from the crow’s nest and carry him home.
When he opened his eyes again, an irregular dark spot on the horizon lay directly in his line of vision. Shading his face from the sun with one hand and grasping a shroud with the other, he stared at the spot until his eyes watered. He had always prided himself on his keen eyesight; it would be a feather in his cap if he was the first person aboard to catch sight of landfall. But he wasn’t certain that it was land. As the distance between them diminished, he was able to make out a hull and three masts. Cupping a hand over his mouth, he called toward the deck below, “Ahoy! A sail!”
The towheaded gob who had chastised him for climbing called back, “Where?”
“Off the larboard bow!”
Half a dozen men rushed to the larboard rail. Creighton descended the ratlines in time to hear one of them say, “She’s rigged fore-and-aft, not square.”
The boatswain joined them at the rail. “Looks like a snow.”
Creighton knew most types of vessels, but this was one he hadn’t heard of. “What’s a snow?”
“It’s these little white flakes that fall out o’ the sky,” said the blond-haired man.
The boatswain grinned and shook his head. “Never mind him. A snow is similar to a schooner, but faster and more maneuverable. You don’t see them often back home, but they’re a favorite here in the Colonies—particularly among privateers.” He turned to the blond man. “Has anyone alerted the captain?”
“Aye. He’s having a look at it through his spyglass, I’ll wager.”
“Do you think it’s a privateer?” Creighton asked breathlessly.
The boatswain shrugged. “No way to tell, at this range.”
Creighton hurried aft to the quarterdeck. Captain Pierce was surveying the vessel through the lens of a collapsible brass telescope. Colonel Gower stood next to him, his long nose seemingly searching the breeze for a scent from the strange ship. “Can you make out her colors?” the colonel asked.
“She’s flying the Union Jack,” the captain said. “For what that’s worth. So was the Revenge—right up until the moment she rammed into my ship.”
“If it is a privateer,” said Creighton, “can we outrun her?”
“I’m afraid not. They’re running with the wind; we’re against it. By the time we could come about, they’d be on top of us. Chances are she’s only a trader, headed for the Indies. I wish I could get a look at the figurehead; that might tell me something. But the jib is obscuring it. There’s no name on the bow, either.” He handed the telescope to Colonel Gower.
Lieutenant Hale approached, nodded to Creighton, and saluted the captain. “Orders, sir?”
“Arm your men and station yourselves behind the larboard gunwales, but stay out of sight. No firing unless I order it. Tell the gunners to load the cannon and stand by, but not to open the gun ports. If she is a merchant ship, we don’t want her crew to think that we’re attacking them.”
“Aye, sir.” The lieutenant scurried back down the steps to the main deck.
“Any sign that they’re preparing for hostilities, Colonel?” Captain Pierce asked.
“None. And none of their gun ports are open.”
Creighton’s gaze was drawn to the top of the snow’s mainmast. “They’re lowering the flag and hoisting another—No, wait. It’s still the British colors, but wrong side up.”
“A signal of distress,” the captain said. “Again, for what it’s worth.”
Creighton glanced at him in surprise. “Surely even a privateer would not be so treacherous as to fly a fake distress signal?”
Colonel Gower gave an unpleasant laugh. “You’re assuming that we’re dealing with honorable men. Expecting honor from an American is like expecting milk from a snake.”
The snow was so near now that Creighton could discern individual figures lining the rail, waving to them—figures with long hair and dresses. “There are women aboard!”
Captain Pierce took the telescope and trained it on the ship. “You’re right.” He called to the first mate, “Shiver the sails!” and to the sailing master at the helm, “Hard alee!” The snow slackened her canvas as well, and the two vessels continued to coast until they were abreast of each other. One of the women aboard the snow was leaning out over the rail, calling something to them, but the wind swept her words away. A moment later it also swept away her long tresses.
“The devil take me!” cried the captain. “They’ve tricked us!” He strode to the rail that overlooked the main deck. “It’s a ruse, gentlemen! Prepare to—” His command was cut off by an ear-numbing roar, like a peal of thunder, but ten times louder. In the same instant there came a sickening splintering sound, and suddenly the air was filled with flying bits of wood and metal.
Creighton fell to his knees, his arms covering his head, while objects rained down around him. Something struck him in the small of the back, driving him facedown on the deck. There followed a moment of silence so profound that he feared his eardrums had been burst by the blast. Then, to his bewilderment, he heard voices cheering and clamoring. Groaning, Creighton rose to his knees, throwing off whatever object had struck him, and stared at the snow.
Its entire crew were lined up along the rail, shouting and waving weapons above their heads in triumph. At the base of the gunwales where a moment before there had appeared to be a row of closed gun ports, there was now a series of gaping holes, fringed with flapping streamers of canvas. It took a second or two for the truth to sink into Creighton’s dazed mind: The ports had not been closed at all, only covered over with squares of sailcloth, painted to resemble wood. The shot from the snow’s cannon had ripped effortlessly through them and then through the Amity’s hull and rigging.
As the cheers from the other ship died down, Creighton became aware of other voices, crying for help or moaning in pain. He looked out over the main deck. It was the scene of the most incredible chaos and carnage. Broken spars, ragged chunks of sailcloth, and rigging torn asunder were strewn everywhere. Tangled in the debris were bodies, some writhing in agony, some struggling to rise, others as still as death.
What remained of Lieutenant Hale’s Marines were crouched behind what remained of the gunwales, loading and firing their muskets methodically, mechanically, like marionettes with no will of their own. A handful of other crewmen, most of them bleeding from superficial wounds, were wrestling the Amity’s cannon into position for an answering volley.
Still on his knees, Creighton turned to survey the quarterdeck and saw for the first time the crumpled form beside him. Captain Pierce lay sprawled on his back, his eyes wide open, as though in astonishment. A long, jagged shard of oak from the shattered mainmast protruded from the base of his neck.
A hand seized Creighton’s arm. He jerked free and spun about, expecting to see a pirate with a raised cutlass towering over him. Colonel Gower snatched Creighton’s coat sleeve again. “Come with me!”
“What about the captain?”
“He’s done for! Come!”
“They need our help here!” Creighton protested.
“This is more important.” The colonel ushered him into their cabin, slammed the door, and bolted it. Then he produced a key from his waistcoat pocket and bent over his war chest. “Do you know how to strike a fire?”
“A fire?”
“Yes, yes.” His uncle dug the tinderbox from the chest and held it out.
Creighton shook his head. “I never had to. At home, the servants always—”
“You’re even more useless than I thought!” the colonel growled. He snatched his leather diplomatic pouch from the chest and thrust it into Creighton’s hands. “You can at least empty that out, I hope.”
“Of course. But where—”
“On the floor!” The ship gave a nauseating lurch, pitching them both off balance. “They’re pulling us in with grappling hooks. Be quick now! They’ll be boarding us soon.”
Creighton unbuckled the pouch and upended it, dumping out its contents, a sheaf of official papers. “What are you going to do?”
“Burn them, of course. We can’t let them fall into enemy hands.” The colonel crouched down and began striking the flint against the steel cover of the box. Sparks rained down on the linen scrapings inside the box. “Now listen to me,” he went on, his words punctuated by the click of flint against steel. “Whatever happens, you’re not to let anyone know you’re my nephew.”
“Why not?”
“If you do, they’ll try to obtain a ransom for you. From this moment, you are my bound boy, nothing more. Understood?”
“But won’t they—”
His uncle glared at him. “No questions, boy! Just do as I say!” The flint clashed fiercely against the tinderbox. At the same moment something heavy pounded against the door of the cabin and a harsh voice shouted, “Open at once!”
The tinder had begun to smolder. When Colonel Gower laid it on the pile of papers and blew gently on it, it burst into flame. As the blaze grew, the colonel fed the papers to it, one by one, ignoring the insistent pounding at the door.
Before the documents were quite consumed by the flames, the bolt gave way. The door flew open, crashing against the wall, and the largest man Creighton had ever seen burst inside—or rather ducked inside, since he was nearly a foot taller than the doorframe. Creighton had heard it said that everything in America was on a larger scale than in England, but he had never expected Yankeys to be a race of giants.
A second man entered the room then, and he was of normal size, or even a bit less. But his swarthy complexion and hawklike features, and the wild look in his eyes, made him nearly as intimidating as the giant. Each of the men bore a cutlass in one hand and a boarding pistol equipped with a bayonet in the other.
At their entrance, Colonel Gower had sprung to his feet and drawn his saber. The short American leveled his pistol at the colonel’s chest. “It doesn’t matter to me, sir, whether I shoot you or not,” he said. “But I daresay it will matter to you.”