Sworn for Mackinaw Read online

  The driver stopped two steps in from the threshold, allowing his eyes to adjust to the thick smoke and dim glow of the blackened lamp glass. He was as big as any man there and better dressed. His air of authority and mystery was intimidating and made him the object of high interest. Indeed, only his comparative height when upon the coach seat and alongside his team masked his powerful build. This man knew his way in a crowd. He wanted all inside to know it and he stopped just inside the doorway so that all could see him and assess for themselves.

  Closest to the driver was a fiddler, screeching out a reel. The driver took three strides, shot him a glance and the music halted instantly. He took two more strides, looked the landlord in the eye and half whispered, “Fleet?” The landlord’s nervous eyes searched furtively, first to see who might be looking, then to confirm who was not. Those nervous eyes motioned upstairs.

  The driver waved to the fiddler with his coach whip to begin again and held the rim of his top hat as he bolted up the rickety stairs. At the head of the stairs was a balcony. Along one side were hovels more than rooms, partitioned haphazardly and cordoned off with blankets and makeshift doorways. Dice and coins scattered as the driver strode through in the midst of an ongoing game, to the dismay of those few who were at the moment up on their luck.

  He drew back the curtain of the first room with his coiled whip. The smell of urine and waste from a dented chamber pot and spilled spirits from a broken bottle nearly distracted him from instantly dismissing an old man and an even older woman as none of his business.

  He took two strides more, flung open a door and stared through the sting of thick smoke. A blue coat on a makeshift chair, brass buttons glinting in the dim glow of a wall lamp, confirmed his search was over. He was thankful for the coat. If not for that uniform of a Royal Navy Lieutenant, even without an appointment, he would not have recognized his prey. He strode in toward two people in a bed, took his coiled whip and placed it over the head and around the neck of the figure on top, his body and activity hidden under a blanket, either too drunk or too distracted to as yet appreciate the intrusion.

  As the driver yanked up on the leather coiled whip, he heard a choke, a gurgle and an accompanying feminine shriek. The blanket was thrashed about and the driver threatened, “Get dressed this moment.” For a split second, until his voice was recognized, there was resistance. But the pistol was lying on the coat and the driver’s strong grip reminded in an instant that resistance was futile. With clothing thrown on and a sole pleasantry, delivered sarcastically, “Good to see you, Master James,” the driver kicked his unwilling companion out of the hovel, sending him crashing into the balcony rail. He followed and giving just one strong shove directed the man down the stairs and out the door before the Landlord could protest. The driver tossed him a guinea over the bar as he pushed his charge into the alley.

  “Thomas, damn you, there is no need…,” the man sputtered as the last shove sent him against the coach door. The driver pulled him away just enough to depress the latch, open the carriage door, then heaved his charge inside, half on the floor, legs straddling outside unceremoniously. The driver was back upon his seat on the instant, reins in one hand, fingers of his other now curled around the whip handle, ready to ride.

  Two knocks came from within on the coach top, and a directive: “Thomas, now, quick as thought!”

  The driver replied, “Yes sir, Admiral.”

  Lieutenant James Fleet summoned what little dignity was possible in his position on the floor of the coach and in a voice not even attempting to disguise his hatred, frustration and humiliation, offered to the man sitting above him, “So, father, what brings you to Plymouth?”

  Sir Edgar Fleet, Knight of the Bath, Admiral of the Blue, looked down in disgust, though with unflappable composure and dignity his son had never mastered, and replied, “Years of your misdeeds. Still, I thought it best to catch up. Your step-mother sends her greetings.”

  James knew his father offered that last comment deliberately and tried to control his rage. He sat up, attempted to straighten and take the opposite bench, fitted in fine dark green velvet. The coach gathered speed suddenly, took a sharp turn, the whip cracking at a gang of too near hoodlums, and the motion sent James sprawling again. Damn that man, thought James. Thomas had been humiliating him since he was a boy, and although just a driver, his father perversely allowed, if not enjoyed, his insults.

  “Really, James, it has been more than a year since we have visited, and the money of mine you squander in rat traps is a scandal. Meager pay or no, it is time to live on your means and high time that we talk.”

  James thought of the dozens of other times his father had said the same. Years of idle threats, his career now a joke since his recall back to England, it was apparent his father would rather pay for his whoring and cover his gambling debts than have him skulk about the manor house. Both of them were well aware of the other’s priorities.

  The Courts Martial had convened in April, 1806, now just five years ago, in regard to the loss of His Majesty’s General Schooner Hope. The court convened in London at the Admiral’s behest, far from witnesses on the North American station. Heavily influenced and amid rumors of bribery the Court returned James his sword, hilt facing him. Lieutenant James Fleet was largely discredited, however, and was given little responsibility, held no chance for a command and since the acquittal was assigned amid the shipyards of Portsmouth. The work was dull and he all too soon learned how to augment his pay in any number of illegal ways. James became the confidant of crooked chandlerers, victuallers, suppliers of arms and powder and cordage and rum. The bribes were small, but so was the cost of his whores. Soon, he took to living among the shanties in the alleys and near slums surrounding the docks, going months at a time without leaving those few blocks that constituted an entirely distinct community from the town as a whole.

  His father was no longer at sea, but rather now served at Whitehall in London, keeping himself close to his second bride, having divorced James’ mother some years before. The Admiral traveled regularly between the family estate in Cornwall and manor house in London, taking him through Plymouth and Falmouth. Rarely did he stop to see James, nearly all of those occasions when he did a deep disappointment. James was surprised this night that the Admiral had determined to seek him out yet again. Christmas of ’09 and ’10 had not even warranted an invitation home, which was agreeable to all involved.

  Miles passed as they traveled through the night. The jostling and jolting of the coach and the noise of the hooves and wheels fortunately made conversation inconvenient. Finally as the coach continued to head far to the west, James asked the Admiral, “Where are we bound? I have duties to attend in the morning.”

  Some seconds passed and the Admiral determined the coach was now traveling quickly enough, and the country open enough, with no stops approaching, to reveal partial truths. Escape, even a rash attempt, was highly unlikely and well beyond his son’s limited capacity for risk.

  “Firstly, you need not attend your ‘regular’ duties on the morrow. Secondly, from what I have come to learn, all of England would be better served if you withheld your efforts on its behalf.” The veiled reference to his son’s corrupt dealings struck home and James, though yet defiant and resentful, betrayed, at least momentarily, that essential look of shame that only a father could detect.

  The Admiral looked out the window over fields now illuminated by a half moon from a partly cloudy sky, the rain having stopped and the clouds now breaking. The peaceful and comforting pastoral scene of rolling hills and meadows was in contrast to the ill feelings, tense relations and chess game of wits just beginning within the coach. He continued, “You will, I am sure, appreciate the significance of this fact: at this moment, aboard one his Majesty’s ships in Plymouth harbour, there is held under guard none other than Peter Dunn.”

  The Admiral’s revelation had the desired effect. James glanced first at the coach latch then out the window. His eyes grew wide and
finally, a split second later, met his father’s.

  “I thought it best that you be as far from Plymouth as is possible for me to effect when he tells his tale. Though we agree on little, I suspect we are of one mind on that point.”

  James, as the Admiral knew, attempted to bluff. “Everyone knows of the Dunns of Mevagissey, the rumors of smuggling; what of it? Would any of them talk? I suspect not. They never have. Indeed the entire town has remained silent for years, despite the Crown placing, what was it, 200 pounds on the head of, let me recall, which of them was it, Peter’s uncle, Captain James Dunn?”

  The close proximity of the Fleet estate and Manor house, just west of Truro, not quite to Falmouth, afforded entirely three generations of Fleets to know very well the Dunn family, their businesses, their fortunes, the rumors, and observe first hand the numerous attempts of the revenuers to uncover solid evidence of illicit trade. The Dunns were the most influential family of Mevagissey, a quaint seaside village with a small protected harbor enclosed by a man made break wall which created the most crowded conditions for vessels along the Cornish coast. Mevagissey harbor was famous for small, sleek and fast craft of all sorts, all built, fished, sold and sometimes captured, sunk or otherwise lost to smuggling. James knew several Dunns personally, as did the Admiral. Captain James Dunn, family Patriarch, was to Mevagissey, shipbuilding, fishing and the merchant trade what the Admiral was to Falmouth and the Royal Naval tradition: both famous, both controversial, both struggling to retain fortune and honor despite a younger generation less understanding of reputation and loyalty.

  It was time to play the next card. This one, the Admiral admitted to himself, would be fun. James was too easy. He had always been. “Peter Dunn was not caught. He came forward. He offered sworn testimony and is not charged.” James was shocked. Indeed, so too was the Admiral when he heard of the development just the morning before in Whitehall, the news traveling quickly by the new semaphore.

  Suddenly, James realized the implications of Peter Dunn telling the Royal Navy what he knew. His flesh crawled, his skin went cold and he began to sweat. While the moonlight hid well these reactions from the Admiral, his voice cracked just a bit when he asked, again, “Where are we bound?”

  The Admiral half smiled, looked out at the moonlit scene and reflected on his hopes, years ago as a younger man, for a righteous son in which he would take pride. “Let us focus for a moment on the cause for our journey, rather than its destination.”

  The Admiral slipped his hand inside his coat, removed a flask. He took from a satchel on the seat some cheese and a knife. He cut a slice, ate from the knife with the skill of much practice and washed it down with brandy. While he had not eaten recently, the gestures were intended more to unnerve his son with his calm and comfort than to satisfy any deep hunger or need for refreshment. He was also curious how long James’ pride would last before asking for a share. A perverse game, perhaps, just one of thousands played out over the time spent with his son.

  “When Peter talks,” the Admiral began, stressing the first word mightily, “many people will hang. People we both know, some for many years. The Crown will have no choice, given the losses in the Revenue Service over so many years and with the threat of invasion now long since passed. Thanks to Nelson, the old bold trade is but a shadow of its former dash and mischievous respectability. These night men on our coast are no longer thought to bring inexpensive necessities, but rather to get rich from avoiding taxes others must pay in their stead. The burden after years of war is high enough and the people resent their free income. Oh, my, but times have changed. People who helped them, who Peter has promised to name, will, indeed, hang.”

  James remained silent. The Admiral had to credit his nerve, though knew not that James was at that moment on the verge of becoming physically ill. He continued. “In any case, Peter has, shall I say, as a gesture of good faith so to heighten his standing and prove his worth, offered the Revenue service, together with the local guard and militia, the precise locations of landings just east of Penzance in Mount Bay. This very evening…,” and pulling his pocket watch from his waistcoat, confirmed with some chalance, “…just about now, in fact, they are all falling into our hands.”

  As usual, the Admiral’s timing was near perfect. The coach was quickly approaching Mevagissey and slowed as damp dirt roads turned to stone. The hour was very late and the clatter was deafening, sure to wake those living along the road. The masts of numerous vessels could be seen to the south, with the moon backlighting the harbor break wall. As the coach slowed to a walk, James succumbed. He opened the coach door and vomited in the street, barely keeping his balance with the swinging door. From the driver’s seat, Thomas glanced down and smiled despite the fact that he would have to clean the step in the morning. He then thought, happily, perhaps it would rain again before this night’s ride was over.

  “Of course, James, we are here not because of your petty corruption and filthy bribes,” the Admiral began with a rolling broadside as his son still clung to the opened coach door. “We are here for your treason!” He let the words sink in. James disgraced himself again. “You have provided the Dunns the names of revenue cutters, their locations, their compliments and arms and some have been ambushed, injured, some killed or at a minimum avoided so to permit tonnes of contraband entry.” The unusual display of fury was rare for the consummate actor. “And for what? A percentage? How large a percentage, James, was worth your life and our reputation? Where has this fortune gone? I am sure of course you would not sell too cheap. I ask because with you dead I am sure you would want your family, such as it is, to reap the benefit; am I wrong?” he concluded sarcastically. The coach was picking up speed yet again and the coach door jounced closed. James’ head was reeling, his blood pressure had dropped and he was near to fainting. The Admiral mercifully laid him down, forcibly, on the opposite settee and James did not resist.

  After some time, James pleaded again, “Where are we bound?” There was now fear in his voice. He truly suspected his father was traveling to Penzance to deliver him over to authorities, although if he had been thinking clearly, the Admiral could have easily have done that in Plymouth, hours ago.

  The Admiral replied, “We are heading toward Falmouth, are we not, site of your happy home?” While the geography was accurate, the summation was not.

  * * *

  Some miles further westward, near Land’s End, just east of Penzance, the fog was setting in nicely. The ship Venus ghosted in closer to the coast, its headsails struck, topsail halyard eased and men ready at the peak halyard. Whispers worked well enough in the fog. Another few lengths, near enough to rocks and hidden by cliffs and promontories, the lookout in the shrouds spotted the lantern ashore and the sighting was spread back to the helmsmen near silently. Expecting the news, he put down the helm, the crew at the fife rail clewed up the square topsail, dipped the gaff and Venus began to luff up to starboard.

  A signal from the helmsman sent the muffled anchor to the near bottom, slowly, quietly and at short scope. Their visit would be brief and the sea near calm. The light southerly breeze, combined with the fog, made for perfect conditions. The men on the foredeck let out more scope as the wind took the stern ever closer to the rugged shore and cliffs. The boatmen would appreciate the shorter haul from the narrow and irregular beach. When the rudder was judged to be in close enough, and with the main still set, though the peak lowered well beyond horizontal, Venus was secure and her crew turned to the tasks at hand.

  Several small boats and tenders drew alongside in just moments. One of the ship’s crew, all in dark clothing, greens, browns and blues, gathered the painters of each. The rest of the crew were already hauling items up from the hold: small barrels, called ankers, of about 80 gallons, together with crates and bales filled with bottled wine and spirits, tobacco, textiles and other goods from abroad, loaded at Guernsey earlier that day upon which no duty or customs had been paid. The barrels were left on deck, the other goods transport
ed by muffled oars and silent men to the beach where still others quickly unloaded the small boats and readied the way back up the cliffs, dividing them between carts, horses and mules. Thus far, few if any words had been needed. The organization was crisp and efficient; the routine had evolved to almost mundane.

  It was the third trip to Venus for one of the small boats when a new face asked to see her Master. They drew back to the helm and the landsman, in brown waist coat, top hat and red striped pants, obviously a figure of authority among those whom Venus had met on the beach advised the Master, “We have not the time this evening to take the ankers. Sink them for the ‘morrow.”

  The Master, understanding the meaning but not the reason, objected, “The conditions are perfect. Let us be done with it.”

  “Its not the weather. One of our own has gone missing, after a family rowe and drunk at that. We do not know but that he might be in the hands of the Navy. ‘Best scatter, as quick as ever. We ‘ill help with the ropes and stones.”

  The men in the small boat were already loading stones onto the deck, around which were tied short pendants. The Master directed the bosun to rig the ankers with a long line and barrel hitch around each. Beginning at the larboard stern, progressing forward and continuing from the starboard bow, continuing aft, each barrel was hung outboard with a gasket to the rail. A line connected the sides under the bowsprit and the landsmen tied a stone between each barrel, with each pendant already made fast to the stones. Soon the cutter’s rail was surrounded with barrels, ankers filled with what would soon be gold.

  Slowly at first but with increasing pace and confidence, each gasket was cast off from the rail and the ankers, of which there were 20 on each side, were sunk by the weight of the stones. The barrels would lie just off the bottom to be dredged up later by nightmen in small boats with grappling hooks when more certain of their success and safety. The revenue cutters were aware of such tricks, however, and sometimes dredged for contraband themselves, whenever a tip seemed credible.