EIGHT

THE NEXT MORNING CULLY LED FIVE CREW MATES TO THE DOORSTEP of St. George’s only farrier, a gruff farrier at that, named Wilton. He lived on the outskirts of the village in a hut of sorts surrounded by paddocks and several small sheds, one of which was where he worked trimming and shoeing horses’ hooves. Out behind this shed was a midden, a refuse pile of bent nails and bits of metal that he was only too happy to sell. It was here that the crew went to work filling the canvas bags they’d brought.

Meanwhile, Aja led another five crewmen to the midden behind the White Horse where Fallon’s father dumped the daily refuse of the pub, the food scraps and empty wine bottles and beef bones. The smell was extraordinary, and the men worked to gather bottles as quickly as possible, alternating between holding their noses and stuffing their bags. It was the first of many trips they would make to many pubs.

The meeting in Somers’ office began before lunch and included Ezra Somers, Fallon, Cully, and Jeremiah Pence, captain of the salt packet Lucille, who was visibly agitated from having been at anchor too long, waiting on instructions to leave. The partner’s desk dominated the center of the office, and was broad enough for Fallon to sit opposite Ezra Somers. In truth, Somers’ side was messy with papers and Fallon’s side was clean, for Fallon was rarely there.

“Captain Pence,” began Somers, formally addressing the corpulent captain. “Your next cruise will take you south to Grand Turk, as usual, and thence to Boston. But we have an increasing problem getting our ships through from the Caribbean up the U.S. coast. French privateers and pirates are thick as thieves. I am not telling you something you don’t know, of course, but what’s wanting is a strategy to protect our ships no matter where they sail. And I believe Captain Fallon has something interesting in that regard.”

“My strategy, Captain Fallon,” snorted Pence, interrupting, “is to drive the buggers off! My men are more than capable of fighting back, I can assure you.”

“I’m sure that is true,” said Somers soothingly, “but you and I both know, Jeremiah, that even a brave packet is no match for a ruthless privateer bent on taking a prize. Or, worse, several privateers working together.”

Pence’s face fell a bit at that, for there was truth in what Somers said and he knew it. Pence had even been captured once by pirates off Curacao and sent to shore in a small boat, where kindly villagers kept him and his small crew nourished until he could be found and rescued. The pirates had been in a single sloop.

“I know you are eager to be away to the south, Jeremiah, but I wanted to wait until we had a chance to hear Captain Fallon’s thoughts,” said Somers tactfully.

There was silence in the office then, Fallon letting Pence work through his indignation to get to a place where he was ready to listen to reason. He could impose his plan on the man, but it was better to have him welcome it.

“Cully here has hit on an ingenious idea,” said Fallon after the pause. “His notion takes into account the intent of the privateers to board quickly, with as little damage to the ships as possible.”

It was on Fallon’s side of the desk that Cully now placed a wine bottle filled with nails and a small packet of gunpowder, to which was attached a short length of fuse that protruded out of the top of the bottle, held in by a bit of cloth.

“This is a grenado, gentlemen,” said Fallon. “It is a variation of those used by the notorious Captain Thompson when he fought off pirate hunters sent by the Governor of Jamaica over 50 years ago to capture his ship. Thompson used powder flasks, stinkpots, and all manner of grenados.”

“You can’t fire a bottle, sir!” exclaimed Pence, for he had apparently never heard of such a thing.

“No, you are very right, sir,” said a patient Fallon. “I propose that, since you can’t outfight the privateers at long range, you let them come close, by letting your sheets fly or heaving-to, appearing to give up. Then when they have grappled on and are preparing to board, your men light the grenados and drop them overboard onto the privateer’s deck. We bomb the bastards, as Cully here would say.”

Cully grinned broadly at the acknowledgement and nodded his head, Somers leaned back in his chair with his eyes alight, and Pence reacted as if he’d been bombed himself, with the stages of shock, consideration and, finally, acceptance playing out on his face.

“That is brilliant, Cully!” exclaimed Somers. “The nails and glass should work wonders on those buggers. It’ll be the surprise of their lives, indeed it will!”

“We have made up 100 grenados for your ship, Captain Pence,” said Fallon. “It really is the only way to beat off the privateers if your guns fail to keep them off your sides, don’t you think? I will be leaving as soon as I can gather up my crew. If you can’t wait until then to leave I suggest you take the grenados on board immediately and sail. I will catch up as quickly as I can or join you in Grand Turk.”

In the event, a very skeptical Pence ordered the grenados to come aboard late that afternoon, for he planned to sail immediately. Fallon asked Aja to get word to the crew that they would be leaving in two days’ time; it would take that long to locate them all. Beauty would need to get stores aboard quickly and, even if Lucille arrived in Grand Turk ahead of Rascal, it meant less time waiting around until her salt was loaded.

Then events would unfold as they would from there, for Fallon was a strong believer in the guiding hand of fate.

The afternoon sun warmed the air as Visser and Little Eddy walked the beach towards North Rock. Visser carried some dried flowers that Little Eddy had somehow found, or scrounged, or stolen for the occasion, for Visser had planned a small service for his lost brother.

As they approached the cluster of coral where Little Eddy had found part of Jocelyn’s name board the gulls swooped overhead, calling out with their high-pitched screams, their eyes fixed on the sea looking for food. Little Eddy led Visser out onto the coral heads as far as they could go, right to the water’s edge. The waves were inconsequential today and the tide was on its way out as they both stared at the water.

“I’m very sorry, Caleb sir,” said Little Eddy. “I wish I had never found that ‘J’.”

“No, no, Little Eddy,” said Visser sadly. “I would rather know the truth than tell myself a lie that Alwin might still be alive. You didn’t do anything wrong. But tell me, do you come here often to look for wreckage?”

“Well, not wrecks so much but things wash up on shore, particularly after a storm and the waves get high. Mostly it’s something to do.”

“Why aren’t you in school?” asked Visser. “Does your mother know what you’re up to?”

“Right here’s where I always come,” said Little Eddy, ignoring Visser’s question. “I sometimes bring bread to feed the gulls, which is why they’re making such a racket.”

Visser looked closely at Little Eddy and saw a momentary sadness about him to match his own. The boy’s hair was dark and unkempt, a hairless face with freckles and gray eyes.

“My dad is out there somewhere,” the boy said. “He left when I was born, or near abouts. Mom said he sailed away and never came back. Thinks he’s probably dead, you know. But you can’t say for sure. Maybe he’ll come back.”

Visser’s heart went out to the boy, for though he’d come to North Rock to bid his brother farewell he knew, in a way, that this was where Little Eddy came to find his father, on the rocks or on the sea. Thoughts of his own father inevitably intruded on the moment and he, too, wondered if he would ever be found.

Clouds obscured the sun as boy and man stood at the edge of the sea. The warm air was gone, replaced by a gray coldness that seemed to confirm their sense of loss. Visser held the flowers aloft a moment and then tossed them into the sea. The gulls swept down, pecked at the dried colors and then, deciding there was nothing to eat, lifted off the water to soar away.