Dewey Lambdin - THE GUN KETCH
"Captain Lewrie has a point, sir," Ballard interjected. "He's not a stupid man, for all his lack of public-school letters. Look at how far he rose, and what native intelligence it required."
"Aye, he could have been as dense as his mate Doyle, once he'd gotten a purse full of 'chink,' sir," Lewrie countered. "Risen, then fallen in a fortnight. But he didn't, sir."
"Revenge," Ballard commented slyly, his sober countenance, and his slightly sad-but-observant eyes crinkling with secret mirth.
"Oh, rot!" Rodgers snorted with disdain.
"Vengeful amusement," Lewrie added, sharing a smile with his first officer.
"Against who, pray tell?" Rodgers demanded.
"Why, against just about anyone and everyone, I'd expect, sir," Ballard intoned with a quirky cock of one brow. "Society at-large, which's ever sneered at him."
"Rot, I tell you," Rodgers reiterated. " 'Tis of no matter why. What does matter is gatherin' evidence. Among all this cargo, there must be some sign it came off foreign ships, that it wasn't ever his."
"How do you come by that, sir? Why foreign ships?" Alan asked.
"Even he'd not be so foolish as to loot a British ship," Commander Rodgers chuckled. "They'd be missed! But foreign ships, which compete with British merchantmen, and undercut every New Providence merchant, well, they're fair game, as long as they aren't carryin' a Bay Street shopkeeper's cargo! Those fellows'd turn a blind eye an' like as not stand the pirates a round o' drinks, if it's piracy keeps dieir prices high. Cuts down on Finney's competition, and lines his purse at the same time, too! We have no way of knowin' how many foreign-flagged ships set out, or when, whether they were comin' to the Bahamas, or just passin' by. How long would it be before some Boston ship's-husband sends a letter to inquire about a missin' ship? And, with just the one overworked American consul, it might take years to answer, if answered at all, an' the bulk of 'em put down as 'lost at sea, cause unknown,' with their home port so far off."Bristol, Plymouth and Liverpool are just as far off, sir," Ballard stuck in, unable to stop himself.
"There's papers to look through," Rodgers said, disgruntled at having his logic questioned. "There's that pirate schooner to search from keel to truck. You strike me as a slyboots, Lieutenant Ballard. Why not turn your hand to delvin' me some answers, then? And listin' what we seized. I'll salvage Guineaman. I'll be too busy." "Aye, aye, sir," Ballard intoned.
"We'll get to the bottom of it, sir," Lewrie promised, vowing to help Ballard in any way he could. Besides, he thought, there was more than one person in the Bahamas who could relish revenge. And, when it came to vengeful amusements, even he would be the first to admit to being buck-of-the-first-head at it!
Chapter 10
"God Almighty," Lieutenant Ballard sighed wearily, as he and Lewrie pored over the lists they'd made. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands and peered about the dimly lit dining coach of Lewrie's cabins to see if the coffeepot was still, simmering atop a lamp-base warmer on the sideboard. "Cony, is there any of that left?"
"Aye, Mister Ballard, sir. Polish yer brass with it by now, ya could, though, sir. I could roust cook out an' fetch fresh."
"Trot that lot out, Cony," Ballard yawned. "The blacker the better. May it be strong enough to melt a pewter spoon, then it may also dissolve the dam in my poor wits."
"Don't see as how we're getting anywhere," Lewrie carped, deep in a brown study. He had looked forward to harpooning John Finney in a court of law, even though paper-work drudgery was never his strong suit. Had the records they'd seized, the inventories of booty they'd recorded shown any promise, he might still have felt enthusiastic to continue delving. But so far, they could find nothing truly damning, and Alan envied Commander Rodgers, who was being all nautical and tar-handed at salving Guineaman.
"We shall, sir," Arthur Ballard assured him.
"It's all circumstantial, Arthur," Alan muttered. "Half of the goods are bulk cargoes. Rice, flour, dried beans and such in sacks or barrels. We know it comes from the Americas, but that's all. No sign or markings of seller, shipper or buyer! Same for the iron tools and farm implements, cloth and all. It could be his, legally."
"Yet none marked as consigned or bought by John Finney, sir," Ballard pointed out hopefully. "There's fancy goods from Spain, France and Portugal, with the producers' names for proof. There's sign they cleared foreign customs, there's sign export duties were paid."
"But no marks of who bought it or shipped it," Lewrie protested. "Could be construed as looted goods from a dago merchant. Or could be Finney's, after all."
"Aye, sir, but no proof positive of his ownership. Ergo, 'tis not his, and prima facie evidence it could be booty."
"I take no joy in mat argument," Alan complained. "He could claim ownership, and produce all the sham records he wished. Or, he could say he purchased the fancy goods in Havana or Santo Domingo or a dozen other ports, from others, and brought 'em here."
"And been skinned by the original importers, sir?" Ballard said with a grin. "No one on a court would ever believe that tale, not if they were any sort of merchant or shopkeeper! No one would pay that dearly. No profit in it."
"What we need is some sign that part of the trove ashore belongs to other Bay Street merchants."
"We'll never get that, sir," Ballard sighed. "If they imported wares in foreign bottoms, they violate our Navigation Acts. Naturally, they would not wish their cargoes marked for a customs official to see."
"Finney could say the same."
"The other merchants do not possess a fleet of trading ships to do their carrying, sir."
"And if all goods in one of his ships are his, then who's to gainsay him when he claims they needed no markings?" Alan countered.
"Granted," Ballard shrugged as Cony set a pewter mug before him. "Then, there're the odds and ends the pirates left behind, sir. No written records of their gatherings, though."
"With three out of five sailors in the Fleet illiterate, 'tis only tobe expected," Lewrie frowned. "Uhm… Arthur, excuse me… but, you're really going to drink that?"
"Sir…" Ballard whispered back with a tiny grin. "Alan, do you allow me to be prodigal with your personal stores, I shall take it with four sugars. And all evident avidity!"
"Yoosh!" Alan commented with a sour-mouthed shudder. "Ditto that opinion," Ballard said once he'd tasted it and set it aside. "There're weapons, watches, navigational instruments, clocks and such that bear the inscriptions of unknown men. And some unknown vessels, sir. Far too valuable, the most of it, for common seamen."
"But we didn't capture a single pirate, they all escaped us," Lewrie sighed. "And to track down the goods' original owners, to find the ships mentioned… even if we had captured a few, they could say they bought them half a world away as used. Got 'em as gifts! How does one track down 'Cock Robin' off the good ship Barnacle outa New York? All that's left of her is anonymous bosun's stores, nails and a pocket watch, if she was pirated. Probably sunk, and seaman 'Cock Robin' murdered and gone down with her! Now were we to find goodies from old Barnacle aboard the pirate schooner, and ashore, and aboard Guineaman, we have your prima facie case to lay."
Lewrie leaned back in his chair and gazed through half-shut eyelids at the overhead beams as Ballard could be heard shuffling his stacks of papers over again, between sips of his vile coffee.
"That might not do it, even then," Lewrie muttered. "Say someone aboard Guineaman, one of the mates, had a packet of used goods in his sea chest. The pirates could have rifled the chest when they took Guineaman … if they ever did… and it could have ended up ashore or in a pirate's sea-bag when they went shares of their spoils, so…"
"There is a fine box of Manton pistols, with an inscription on the case as belonging to a Captain Henry Beard, sir, that were found aboard the schooner, in her master's cabins," Ballard informed him. "The inscription tells us Beard was master of the Matilda. Then, we have several hundred pounds of chain and ankle bands and wrist locks ashore. The sort of restraints used to arrange slaves into coffies, sir. Rusty, abandoned for some time I'd say. But they bear Liverpool markings, with the name Matilda scratched into them on the bands. There was something…" He urgently riffled through his papers.
"A Liverpool ship?" Lewrie asked, tipping his chair forward to take more interest. "Damme, a British vessel?"
"Ah!" Ballard said. "An especially fine spyglass with a brass plaque bearing the name Nathaniel Marriyat. Presented to him by his family upon becoming first mate of… the Matilda! And, damme!"
It was rare for Ballard to swear.
"That was found aboard Guineaman, in the ready-use rack by the compass binnacle and the traverse board, sir!" Ballard almost shouted with joy. "Three items from the same vessel, linking together. This Matilda must, from this scant evidence, be a Liverpool slaver. Rusty as the chains and fetters are, she must have been taken at least one year ago. The pistols, and the chains, that proves the pirates were here at Walker's Cay before this incident. The spyglass proves that Guineaman had met them before yesterday. Wait! Wait, I…! Yes!" Ballard giggled, losing all his soberness as he sorted more papers. "Boxed set of navigational instruments. Brass ruler, dividers, compass… and a sextant! Guineaman's second mate had them! But they were engraved originally as the missing Captain Beard's, sir! When we questioned Guineaman's crew, he claimed he'd bought 'em in Liverpool, a year or more past!"
"Matilda," Lewrie pondered. "Matilda. Now where have I heard that name? Seems I have… damme, I'm sure I have."
"A Liverpool 'black-birder' could sell a cargo of slaves here in the Bahamas, sir. Do the Middle Passage, Dahomey to Nassau, with the demand for slaves increasing here, now that…"
"Wait, Arthur! Ssshh!" Alan demanded, raising a hand. "Let me think."
It was recent; he was certain of that much. Since arriving in the Bahamas? He tried to remember ships which might have lain nearby Alacrity at anchor. Portsmouth-no. On the voyage out? Again, no. Slavers stank to high heaven. They crammed three or four hundred men and women into hard wooden racks, forced them to lie back-to-belly as tight as cordwood and fettered for months. Fed them in those racks, half the time, if the weather was bad. Puking sick, incontinent from rotten hog-swill victuals, they fouled their own sleeping spaces and had to lie in excrement like beasts. One remembered slavers close by!
Slavers were fast ships, frigate-built, or like a "razeed" 3rd Rate, cut down to two decks from three. Were they slow, the rates of mortality cut their profits to nothing. The faster the ship, the more slaves arrived alive for sale, though twenty-five percent attrition was the norm for even the most considerate and "gentle" captains.
