Chapter Seven

The two-masted sloop entering the bay was clearly meant to be a small but versatile warship.

Built larger than a usual sloop, her deck railings on either side bristled with a row of swivel guns, while nine cannon gun ports marked each of her sides. She was even fortified from behind with two chase guns locked onto her stern.

Lots of artillery for a privateer unless.... William's eyes scanned her sails, noting that she was square rigged with a collection of many smallish sails. His heart pounded.

This one's expecting cannon fire....

His own sea journey on both a Navy sloop as well as a merchant ship had taught him the basics – a square rigged ship made the best use of wind power, but the vast pieces of canvas for the larger sails also proved to be easy targets for an aggressor's cannon shots. Not only could smaller sails be managed by a reduced number of crew, but a shot from a cannonball would likely disable only one or two of the smaller sails at a time. On the other hand, a hole in a larger sail would incapacitate the entire outsized area and would therefore have a greater crippling effect on a ship's' sailing ability. This one had converted her massive mainsails to a set of multiple smaller sails for a reason ....

As if reading his thoughts, Brigs commented, "She's carryin' a lot o' bits of canvas now, ain't she?" He nodded in answer to his own observation. "Still, with that much cloth strung up, she's feelin' there might be a need fer a fast sail, ain't she? Course she is!"

"A fast sail? Coming or going?"

"Maybe both."

The experienced old carpenter's reply confirmed William's fear. She's expecting conflict alright.

His vision followed the ship's lines up through the clutch of sail canvas. A wash of alarm slipped over his shoulders.

Their flag. A Red Duster.

The Red Ensign – the background completely red as its name suggested, with a cross of red, white, and blue stitched in the upper left hand corner – undulated high above on the mizzen mast and identified this floating war machine as a member of the British Navy.

It was a very similar version of the one that William had once been press-ganged for and had been forced to sail upon. He tightened his grip on the flintlock musket he now leveled at the incoming jolly boats laden with sailors, and silently thanked the one legged Brigs who stood beside him.

Two years earlier Brigs had lost his left foot, crushed by a two thousand pound cannon. That had effectively ended the old carpenter's usefulness to an organized sailing crew. But here, on this island, Brigs's diligence and keen curiosity had ensured that William and all who lived and worked at this sugar plantation would have an added element of safety. It would not take the groans out of their nearly empty bellies, but Brigs's new-found interest and skill in making quality gunpowder from the island's bat guano and sulfurous mud pots, ensured that they would never run short of ammunition in time of need should one ever arise.

And that time was now.

William sighted down the length of the barrel and held it steady.

I'll fight to the last breath before I let these buggers take any of us as their crew.

The first of two jolly boats to secure anchor slid to a halt on the sandy shore. A tall figure wearing a blue waist jacket and the coifed wig of a commissioned officer stood at the first boat's bow. William's brain whirred with possible scenarios.

Not likely a press gang then.

Those in command would not dirty their hands with the job of press-ganging boys and men to add to their crew, preferring instead, to send out the lessor ranked crew to do such aggressive kidnapping.

Why then, are they here?

"Who is in command here?" A deep, clipped voice boomed out from the shadow cast upon the standing man's face by the beak of his tricorn hat. The lines already deeply etched in the man's face confirmed that he was no stranger to the cross scowl he now displayed.

Ignoring the man's inquiry, William retorted, "State your business."

The stranger was close enough that William could clearly make out a line of gold buttons on the front of his jacket. Heavy gold thread trim glistened around the jacket's cuffs, capped the shoulders and outlined its pointed lapels.

That's quite a display. William noted the man's rigid posture and icy stare. He's confident. And arrogant. If I were a betting man I'd say he's the ship's captain.

As if to confirm William's thought, the stranger spoke. "You may address me as Captain Holbrook, of His Majesty's Royal Navy, here on official business. And you are?"

"William Taylor. What sort of business might you be having with us?"

Captain Holbrook stepped from the lead boat and marched towards them on the packed wet sand. Brigs shifted his weight, producing a brief moment of contact between himself and William, as the older man sought to gain better balance by leaning into the thick wooden peg he wore strapped to the end of his stump leg.

"Perhaps it is not so much business with you now as much as business with what was," Captain Holbrook replied. His eyes scanned the barely visible plantation house which was set back in the foliage beyond the beach, before returning his gaze to settle on William's face. "And," he continued, his lips spreading into a thin smirk, "what business might still happen between us."

"Perhaps ya'd best plainly state yer needs," Brigs interjected. "Can ya not see that I'm an old feller? Course ya can, an' this here big gun – the Man-Eater, we call her – is feelin' heavy. I may just have to discharge 'er afore too long."

The captain swung his piercing stare from William to Brigs.

"If you were to shoot me, my men would kill you instantly. They would cut you down before you could take two steps in your escape."

"Well," Brigs said thoughtfully, "if we was better acquainted, ya'd surely know that so far I've proven quite troublesome to kill, wouldn'cha?" His eyebrows arched and his voice, rather than fear-filled, was ripe with angry mischief. "Course ya would! But even so, a round of musket shot or two would prolly be opportunity fer a quicker death than I've faced before, an' quite possibly less painful." A grin slid over his face and his stare locked onto the captain's face. "An' anyhow, you'd still be just as dead, wouldn'cha? Course ya would! An' me finger's on her trigger, so with just a wee squeeze, I could make that happen. So state yer business in plain language an' be on yer way."

The captain squinted back at his ship anchored in the bay, as if to confirm that it was still there. "Are you familiar with a ship that was said to have been in this bay about a year and a half ago? She was named the Calleberry. She was a slaver, I believe."

William struggled to keep his gaze steady, his face impassionate but his thoughts reeled with the shock of hearing that name.

The Calleberry.

The slave ship had most certainly been in the bay at that time. And more significantly, she'd never been back. Not after she'd slipped away in the night, piloted by Samuel Smith, William's best friend. And very likely, the ship had borne away Cassie, the beautiful mulatto woman whom Tess considered to be family, a sister in every way except blood.

Smith and Cassie had left without any warning, without any explanation, and Cassie's sudden departure had nearly torn Tess apart. William had worried that Tess would slip into a dark hysteria, as Cassie had once done. The difference in the young women's losses was that Tess had lost Cassie – her closest friend and adopted sister – while Cassie had lost her new-born child.

Or so Cassie had believed.

If only she'd stuck around one day longer she'd have found out that Nathanial hadn't drowned in that rogue wave. The baby been rescued and eventually returned to the plantation.

But not returned in time for Cassie to know.

"Mr. Taylor! I am awaiting your answer," Captain Holbrook snapped, bringing William out of that dark memory.

"There are many ships that have come and gone in this bay," William replied evenly. "Why do you specifically ask after that one? We have no part in the slave business."

The captain's eyes narrowed and he leaned forward as if about to divulge a secret. The volume of his voice belied that, however. He spoke so all could hear.

"The Calleberry is no longer a slaver. We have reports that she is, in fact, being used to attack other slavers and to free their cargo. Whether one supports the slave trade or not, the slaves that make up such cargo, are bought-and-paid-for merchandise in the eyes of the Crown, and to attack such ships is therefore, also in the eyes of the Crown, an act of piracy.

"The Calleberry and her crew have been pronounced to be pirates as such, and a handsome bounty has been placed upon their heads."

William's heart hammered in his chest at this news, but what the captain had to say next left him stunned.