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“What is that infernal noise,” Cunningham mumbled as he struggled to open his eyes. His head hurt and something inside his head was making a banging racket. He opened his eyes.
The wood deck was inches away, stretching away from his face where it lay on the floor. He moved and groaned, stiff muscles protesting.
Suddenly he recognized the sound. The ship’s bell was ringing continuously.
“Oh God,” he shouted, “the ship is on fire.”
He started to leap to his feet, but his body refused to obey its commands. He half fell into the flimsy bulkhead that marked his cabin. Stumbling to gain balance, he ran toward the companionway to the weather deck. He made it up to the deck, and looked around.
Crewmen were running toward the quarterdeck, where Captain Allen was ringing the bell. Cunningham climbed up the ladder to the quarterdeck, with Garibaldi right behind him. O’Reilly was already on the deck, bent over the railing facing the weather deck, head buried in his hands.
Cunningham stood next to Allen, swaying slightly. It was undignified for a ship’s officer, but he could not stop. The clanging bell was agony in his head.
“Begging your pardon, Captain Allen, sir,” O’Reilly said, “but I will give you my share of the next prize money if you’ll please stop doing that.”
Mercifully, Allen stopped beating the bell. It looked like most of the crew was present.
“Men,” Allen called out in a strong clear voice, “we have a lot of work to do. We are going to transfer guns over from Trumpeter. I have arranged to take four each of the nine and twelve pound guns. We will need to cut some gun ports in the lower deck to accommodate them. After that we need to finish all repairs and make ready for sea as soon as possible.”
A muffled voice spoke through O’Reilly’s hands.
“Beggin’ your pardon, Cap’n Allen, if this mission, whatever it is, involves some one getting killed; I volunteer.”
Allen threw his head back and laughed.
“Look at the bright side, I didn’t drink much last night, and I woke up this morning feeling as good as I’m going to feel all day.”
“I always knew,” a voice called up from the deck, “that officers couldn’t hold their liquor.”
Most of the men laughed, a few bleary-eyed fellows looked like the officers were not the only ones with that problem.
“Tell me,” Garibaldi said thickly to Cunningham, “why we thought that taking him out to drink was a good idea?”
Cunningham rubbed his eyes.
“Well, we seem to have our Captain back.”
“I need to wake up.” Garibaldi announced and suddenly vaulted over the rail and into the water. More laughter from the crew, followed by another splash as O’Reilly went over the rail.
“Oh hell,” Cunningham said to no one as he jumped.
“MAN, ER MEN OVERBOARD!” Allen yelled.
Minutes later the three officers were back aboard the ship. Before he even headed for his cabin to change his clothes, Garibaldi gave orders to a few men to get the tools they would need to cut gun ports.
Throughout the day, the men worked feverishly on the ship. Under Garibaldi’s watchful eye, men cut gun ports along the side of the berth deck, and carefully reinforced the hull around them.
Others patched sails, cut loose and replaced broken rigging. At O’Reilly’s suggestion, Allen decided not to sway the cannon over until the next day. It was not a feat any of them wished to try until everyone had a clear head.
“Captain, all those guns are going to take up our cargo space,” Cunningham said late in the day, “why are we doing all this.”
Allen gave him a friendly nod.
“Go get Mr. Garibaldi and Mr. O’Reilly and meet me in my cabin. I’ll tell you about it.”
###
The skirling of the pipes brought Allen’s head up. He was still in the grip of the melancholy that had seized him off the coast of France, but the pipes could always get his attention. He was faintly amused when one of the serving women dragged Cunningham out to join the “dancing.” O’Reilly had turned his chair around and was tossing down glasses of rum while talking to another of the women.
Idly, Allen wondered if she had all her teeth. He hoped the men were having a good time, he had told the tavern keeper that he would pay for his officer’s drinks. The man seemed relieved; Allen rather imagined that he lost some money from time to time.
A stranger approached the table and leaned down.
“Are you related to Josephus Allen?” he managed to shout into Allen’s ear.
Allen jumped at his father’s name.
“Yes indeed,” he shouted back, “he is my father.”
“I have a message for you.”
Allen looked around and spotted a small table, unoccupied, toward the back of the room, away from the noise.
“Let’s move over there and talk.”
They settled in at their new table. It was marginally quieter.
“My name is Cornelius,” the man said.
“What do you know of my father?”
Allen was not sure if he trusted this man, or that he believed his name was “Cornelius.” Perhaps it was another Royal trap.
“And how can I know that what you tell me is true?”
Cornelius chuckled.
“Your father said you might not believe me. He told me to tell you that you have a scar on left foot, something about an incident with your younger brother when you were children.”
Allen laughed.
“We were throwing knives between each others feet and Gus missed. Not many know of it. So what message do you have for me?”
“Your father was hoping you would trail him here,” Cornelius said.
Allen tried not to let his emotion show on his face. It was purely an accident that both he and his father were in the Indies.
“Go on.”
“Josephus is in prison on St. Kitts. They forced him to join the convoy coming here and then imprisoned him as soon as they arrived.”
Cornelius took a drink of his beer before continuing.
“He hopes that you could free him.”
“I’m not exactly in a position to attack St. Kitts.”
“He knows that. We have good reason to believe that he will be returned to the Colonies. His crew has been impressed into Royal service; a small convoy will be leaving St. Kitts for New York in a week or two. Some prisoners, men like your father, will be sent with it.”
Cornelius took another sip of his beer.
“That is not the convoy’s main mission.”
“Which is?”
“Carrying a portion of the back pay for the sailors in Admiral Howe’s fleet.”
###
The three men looked earnestly at Allen.
“How much money are we talking about?”
“I don’t know Mr. Cunningham; it was at that moment that you decided get us all in a fight.”
Cunningham looked up sharply, but Allen was smiling.
“Did we win?” O’Reilly asked.
“Well I managed to get you out alive.”
“That counts as a win in my book,” Cunningham said.
“Your book doesn’t count in my book,” Allen said.
Cunningham laughed; it was good to see Captain Allen cheerful, even if he turned somber a second later.
“And neither does the money,” Allen added.
“You want to go get your father.”
“Of course.”
“The men,” Garibaldi interjected, “like you. Like you a lot. But they are here to make money.”
“Even if there is only a months pay on that ship,” O’Reilly said, “divided among the men of this ship it will be a fortune.”
“That is what I was thinking,” Allen said, “but I meant it when I said the money is not important. The crew can have my share.”
“You mean if we take the ship,” Cunningham remarked.
“No,” Allen said forcefully, “I mean when we take the ship. Actually the convoy, if that is what it takes to free my father.”
“Well now we know why you want all those guns,” Garibaldi said.
“Can the ship take that many?” Allen asked, “I suppose I should have sought your council first.”
“I would have said something if she could not. We will need to be watchful of some of the gun ports in rough weather, but she will sail; and sail well.”
Garibaldi got a thoughtful look on his face.
“I need to watch how it goes tomorrow as we load them. Weight will have to distributed carefully and I’ll want you to take her out for some trials before we actually go after something.”
“Can we be ready in three days?” Allen asked, looking around at the others.
For a moment, there was silence as each of the officers thought about their area of responsibility.
A chorus of “yeses” followed.
“Well let us get to it.”
###
“Beggin’ your pardon, Cap’n, may I suggest we give the crew a break?”
Allen looked up and down the deck; the debris of rebuilding the ship covered the deck, heavy timbers, sawn off planks, pieces of rope. Most obviously, tired men were slumped over wherever they happened to find themselves.
It was the beginning of the noon watch, and so far, they had only transferred three of the eight cannon they planned to add to Venus’ battery.
“We’re never going to get done at this rate,” he muttered.
“Captain, let’s talk,” Cunningham said as he and Garibaldi walked up, “we have an idea.”
“All right.”
The four men made there way to the quarterdeck.
“What is your idea?”
“We should send Garibaldi over to St. Kitts to find out more information. We might be able to learn something about the make up of the convoy, and better yet; when it is leaving.”
“There is no point,” Garibaldi added, “in working the men like dogs if we have no hope of getting to sea in time. On the other hand if we have a few extra days, we can be better prepared.”
“It is a good idea, but I don’t see how we can send a colonial over to the largest British base in the area to inquire what their plans are.”
Garibaldi spoke rapidly in his native language.
“What?”
“I said ‘who is a colonial? I’m Venetian.”
“How difficult will it be to get there?”
“It will be easy. Dutch fishing and trading boats go back and forth all the time. I could find one to take me over this afternoon and be back tomorrow or the next day.”
Allen looked nonplussed.
“This place is insane.”
Cunningham laughed.
“Did you just figure that out by yourself? There are English merchants here selling ammunition to the Continental Army.”
“You’re kidding?”
“I am not.”
“I’ve heard,” O’Reilly added, “that some of the British troops in the area want to burn the place to the ground.”
“Well,” Allen concluded, “as long as it is here we should make use of the place. Can the work on the ship proceed with out you?”
“Yes, I’ve left drawings with a few men who know enough to supervise the work. And I don’t intend to be gone long.”
“Good. Make the arrangements and go.”
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