The Norfolk Dispatches

[steward_serenitatis]

From the Secretary to the First Lord of the Admiralty
The Twenty-Fifyth of September of the Year 1720

Captain Latham,

You are dyrected to take shyp and repaire to the port of Bartica on the Guyana station of the West Indies, there to assume command of His Majesty's Ship Norfolk, 22. Her previous master having passed frome this worlde while on patrol east of Bridgetown, he leaves behind a most well esteemed vessele spoken of highly by other captains on that station. Following youre arrival in Bartica you shall set sail immediately for the port of Les Hattes, theyre to sail and make war upon the King's enemies and lawbreakers.

I further dyrect you to consulte as appropriate with local government officyals and others in the regione, to supporte our presence through this war. I have the honor to remain,

Sir Peter Fraykes
Secretary to the First Lord of the Admiralty

[steward_serenitatis]

England, October 1720

It was another cold day in Southampton, with the wind scudding across the piers and driving snow under the eaves of the buildings. The channel city was socked in, definitely not for the first time, held firmly in the teeth of another winter storm. And this one was a bitter one indeed, coming on strong with gale-force winds, freezing rain that alternated with snow and froze the ground so much so that horses had trouble making traction on it, and with bitter winds that chased the longshoremen and dockworkers behind cover and shelter, wherever found.

The winds assailed the ships offshore, beating on their low freeboards and screaming through the rigging, pinning them to their moorings and leaving the roadsteads ablaze with the twinkling masthead lights of countless ships. In the Channel it had already wrecked more than a dozen ships, although it would be weeks before news reached the city of their loss. The lucky or fortunate had been able to pile in tight against the wharves and docks of the waterfront, turning them into a wall of masts, frozen rigging, and ice-caked ships that lurched and groaned through the storm's fury.

Standing at the window of a mansion fortunate enough to command a view of the waterfront and the harbor, the captain watched as a witness. He at least was more fortunate than those poor souls trapped outside on the streets or in the ships offshore. From here he could see even the lights of Winston's Bellerophon, 64, and Hall's Aphrodite, 38. Both were old friends who had moved on to newer and superior commands, while he had remained in England and tided to old cutters and ships fit for the scrapyards. Two of them, the Minerva of six guns and the Intrepid of twelve, had never once left the docks in seventeen years.

Gradually he became aware that something was being read aloud in the sitting parlor where he stood. For six days it had been like this, feted upon by friends while he internally fumed at his inability to take passage. Somewhere out in the roads was the East Indiamen Arrow, which was to convey him to Guyana, but each day at the docks when he had ventured forth there had been no news of her and nobody willing to take him out to find her.

"- His Majesty does therefore proclaim that a tax is to be levied for the maintenance of our Navy in these dangerous times, to defend the nation against the French menace at home and in the colonies overseas. The Admiralty plans to advance the post-list have been advanced as reports of conflict near Port Royal continue to reach its offices -"

"Oh how dreadful," one of the listeners in the sitting parlor exclaimed at hearing this news. An elderly woman of sixty-one years, as wife of the head of the household it was her duty and role to express her judgment and opinions for the sake of their guests, especially those of higher stature, or so had long since been agreed upon by those who knew her best. She turned the uniformed officer standing by the window. "Now captain, I simply must insist that you do take good care of yourself in the West Indies. I have heard the most dreadful things. Yellow fever, pirates, scurvy, cannibals and heathen savages not blessed by God's will. Why just the other day Mrs. Bainbridge -"

"Don't be silly Eleanor," her equally-elderly husband interjected, jowls quivering beneath his thin glasses and thinning hair. A highly prosperous merchant from Bristol, Sir Nigel and his wife had been friends to the captain and his parents for a substantial period of time. Since long before the captain had entered the King's Navy. "Captain Latham is a King's officer. Why without men of his caliber and station Port Royal would now be flying French colors and they would be off the coast of Guyana. Brigands and thieves," he muttered under his breath, regarding his half-empty glass. The businessman's feelings on the matter of the recent French breach of the peace and decision to return to war with England was well-known in the household and to his friends.

The captain turned away from the conversation and looked back out at the harbor, seeing the lights continuing to twinkle amidst the roaring winds outside. A manservant was struggling to close the front gate in the stiff winds, looking painfully unshielded against the biting chill and unequal to the task. Light spilled out into the area in front of the mansion as a door below opened, revealing two more servants who hurriedly crossed to help their fellow. How much longer would this infernal storm last?

[steward_serenitatis]

Bartica, November 1720
The Story of "Fighting Mad" Latham

The anchor-chain rumbling around the windlass could be heard as far aft as the cramped captain's day-cabin. It was a hoarse and thundering sound that ground its way through the ship's timbers, reverberating off the window panes in the captain's cabin and as far forward as the fo'c'sle and her keelson. Accompanying it came a stamp of feet and the screeching sound of a fiddle in badly-played hands, something that raised hairs on the quarterdeck every time it took place. Much a piece of tradition as it was, more than one officer wanted to boot Billings over the side of the ship ... or at least send his fiddle that way instead. How did the man go about knowing he couldn't carry a tune? It defied contemplation.

Down below an old man was speaking to a group of fascinated monkey-boys and a couple of midshipmen. Jeffreys was one of the old hands from the captain's previous command, a corvette named Elizabeth. And he bore the tellings of it, with scars and cuts and scrapes over half his body. And he was proud of it too. Damned proud.

"Oh, 'aye I was 'board t' Elizabeth when we saw 'em. Six gre't big whoppin' ships," he said gesturing with his arms held wide, "and a dozen gunbo'ts. And it set us all 'fraid with fear 'nd a temptation to flee most fierce. But 't cap'n, he ordered us in 'ehind t' fleet, laid us broadside to broadside w'th a pair o' gunbo'ts an' a corvette. Aye, the splinters flew most fierce me boys, most fierce indeed. Me mate Bickey, 'e 'twas struck down by a monster fr'm t' larboard rail, and 'is gun it 'twas stripped clean off 't carriage like a child's toy."

He made a violent motion of ripping something off, causing his audience to recoil in fright. There were more than a few wide eyes as big as the china saucers in the captain's cabin.

"And what did the captain do?" one of the midshipmen asked, a bit more bolder than the rest.

"'T cap'n? We 'ad 'oles in the stem, 't bow, 'an more'n half 't guns gon', but 'e ordered us t' board. Led 't boarding 'arties himself. Side 't side w'th a gunbo't, an' when it 'twas done he turned 't guns on 't other, stripped her clean fr'm stem t' stern. Came back t' port w'th four prizes that day, three of 'em gun'bots. 'Twas Rear Admiral Ravenor himself, he started 't name o' "Fightin' Mad" Latham," Jeffreys added with a chuckle.

"Side to side with a gunboat, and he boarded?"

It started as a rumble first, then it suddenly broke into a crescendo of thunderous drumming, a steady tone and beat that gripped the ship from stem to stern. Man and boy alike broke from the gathering, hurtling to their action stations as the ship came alive. Gun crews cast loose the fastenings from the long sevens and eights, the captains for the pair of stubby six-pounders in the bow barking at their crews as they came together a little later than the rest. Even before the last fastening was cast loose powder was being carried on deck by the monkey-boys, threading their way through the calamity with unerring skill and precision.

Aft by the wheel the lieutenant was handing over his telescope to the captain, who had appeared on deck so suddenly that his coat was missing. His servant hurried up to present it, then vanished, leaving it in the hands of one of the more junior midshipmen. The captain was peering up at the signal station on the mountain overlooking the harbor, at a string of flags whipping in the stiff wind. Enemy bearing NNE. As he watched a second string of flags appeared, jerking its way up to fly beside the first. "Mr. Hall, signals 130, 142, and -"

"It spells 'galleon,' sir," came back the hurried reply, the signalman standing by the aft shot locker spelling it out in his mind as he too looked at the station. Across the quarterdeck eyes turned on the captain. A galleon of thirty-two was a mean target, a hard-fought vessel that would be easily capable of dismasting and reducing the Norfolk to a drifting wreck of sails, mangled masts, and shot-away guns. The first lieutenant was the one that broke the silence. "Your orders sir?"

The answer he received was at first a wolf-like grin, like an animal who had spotted a potential meal. "Have the gunner pass up the bronze shot."

"Aye aye sir." As the lieutenant hurried his way down the ladder to the maindeck and then headed forward, he could have sworn he heard Jeffreys laughing at him as he passed the man's gun, one of the larboard sevens of the first division. "Why sir, don't 'y know? Ye be standin' w'th Cap'n 'Fightin' Mad' Latham!"

[steward_serenitatis]

Turtling Bay, November 1720
"Rosewood"

Lieutenant Pierson, navigator of His Majesty's Ship Rosewood, stood at the top of the cliff by the signal light and looked out to sea. Behind him stood old Jeffreys and a new midshipman for the ship, the two waiting while the senior officer surveyed the sea in the fading daylight with his great spyglass. Below him and farther out into the harbor, there was activity as the newly-arrived convoy of great fat merchantmen turned into the wind, letting go anchors with great roars of anchor-chain and a harsh bellowing of voices. Sails were let go, flapping in the wind as clumsy hands grasped at the canvas, beginning to pull it in in a manner that reflected poorly on merchantmen and non-military personnel in a most disgraceful manner.

But Pierson was not looking at the merchantmen. A mast or two occasionally crossed his view, but for the most part he was looking beyond them, towards the distant horizon. Finally he lowered his glass and collapsed it, then turned away from the sea. "Nothing." Jeffreys spit on the ground but said nothing by way of reply. The officer readjusted his tricorn and looked away, collapsing his spyglass. "Six days overdue."

"Could they have been detained?"

He thought over the midshipman's words. Lieutenant Commander Latham had a reputation as a fighting man, known on the station for a boarding action against a gunboat when commanding a corvette of six guns, later for taking a van Hoorn snow of twenty-two against a galleon throwing more than twice her poundage. A dangerous man and reportedly an effective one. It was what had led Captain Winston of the Bellerophon to send him along with letters bearing the highest compliments, all the way from the Channel fleet. "I would not be surprised."

The inn proved blessfully sheltered and quiet at this evening hour, unlike the more lively atmosphere of several days past. Perhaps the marines standing watch up on the second floor had something to do with the restrained and subdued atmosphere. It was still possible to see the damage that fourteen angry seamen and ten marines had caused. A corner of a table patched up after being stove in. Chairs missing. The countertop at the bar was scratched with deep grooves from where a marine's belt buckle had scored the surface as he was slid from end-to-end. A painting was crooked on one wall. Pierson began to ascend the stairs to the second floor. "Good night."

"Good evening sir," the midshipman called up from the floor below. The senior officer vanished down the hallway to his room, out of sight, leaving Jeffreys to bury himself in a mug of rum and the junior officer to stand by the door. It was too quiet here, too simple for his tastes. He was a Port Royal man, used to the city life and its atmosphere. Traveling across the Caribbean to backwater outposts was quite one thing: inhabiting them for anything longer than a few days was quite another. And Turtling Bay was decidedly low on the refinements that occupied places like Havana, St. John's, Bluefields even. The simple atmosphere of the bar drove him back outside.

Presently he found himself back at the signal fire by the Union Jack, waving stiffly in the breeze. The lookout there gave him a curt nod before turning back to the fire, warming his hands in the cold night's air. For once the humidity had been chased out to sea, the heat with it. The air was more England than Caribbean, clear and cold with thick clouds blotting out the moon and then parting to reveal all in pure light. The midshipman settled himself against the side of the small shack, his back to the wood and his rear on a bench. And prayed for something that would enliven the atmosphere in Turtling Bay.

Someone shook him a moment later, a persistent and heavy shake that threatened to upset him from his seat. He stifled a groan, blinking open his eyes to find it was quite dark. Lanterns had been lit and hung on the eaves of the inn, casting new shadows in the dead of the night. "Ship's coming in," a voice said. The lookout had evidently been relieved, his replacement having the onerous chore of waking the lieutenant for strange arrivals. And vessels arriving in the dead of the night was unusual indeed. Most ships waited outside the sandbar at the harbor entrance, for it was not a well-marked entrance to the port.

The midshipman fumbled for his glass and shuffled to his feet, looking out across the harbor. Sure enough the twinkling of lights could be seen as a vessel rounded the bar, tacking in the wind as she beat her way into Turtling Bay. He peered at the ship in the darkness, seeing nothing that set her apart from countless other men-of-war and merchant ships roaming the Caribbean. Just as he started to wonder as to her nationality a green flare erupted from the eleven-gun battery on the far side of the harbor, denoting her as a friendly vessel. The flare blazed skywards, casting everything in a sickly shade of green. Sentries on ships at anchor universally sought out the newcomer, clapping glasses to the ships or calling for their captains.

The lookout cocked an ear to the wind, turning to Hall. "D'you 'ere that?" After a moment it could be heard. He fumbled again for his glass, looking more sharply as the song began to take shape. Then he spun to the lookout.

"Find Lieutenant Pierson, at the inn. Go! NOW!" The man vanished in a hurrying sound of footsteps and boots slamming on the ground as he nearly sprinted along the clifftop. A hoarse shouting of a tune carried clear across the bay as the wind dropped for a moment.

Oh me, oh my, I heard my old wife cry
Oh me, oh my, I think I'm gonna die!
Oh me, oh my, I heard me old wife say,
I wish I'd never taken this excursion around the bay!

On the quarterdeck of the new arrival, shadows paced in the darkness. One of them stopped to look up at the Union Jack at the masthead, then turned to look at the West Indies Squadron colors snapping stiffly in the darkness at the stern. He cast a weather eye out over the ship's wake, at the gun battery that had rendered honors to the arriving ship. More forward the crew was bellowing out a shanty as the capstan groaned, slack with the anchor chain being taken up as it was readied to be let go. Athenas were a rare breed, with a high freeboard and a mix of twelves and eights to show for their place as pursuit vessels and fast frigates. The lieutenant commander grinned to himself, then crossed to the larboard side and surveyed the port with his glass.

"Three points to starboard if you please, Mr. Grace."

"Three points sir," the man on the helm replied, his tense voice belying his nervousness. Entering harbors in the dead of the night was not a recommended practice in the Admiralty's eyes. Nevertheless the wheel spokes swung in the darkness. A few hands on the topdeck glanced up at the captain standing at the larboard rail, shaking their heads and exchanging knowing looks.

Atop the cliff and quite some time later, Pierson saw a gun flash in the night, the thud of a salute followed quickly by two more flashes and similar thuds as the customary salutes were rendered. There was a hoarse roar as the anchor chain let go, sails shivering in the darkness as the ship promptly and efficiently came up into the wind, settling on her heels as she was taken aback. A boat was already being lowered on the starboard side, settling into the water as the lieutenant turned to his midshipman. "I believe the Rosewood has arrived."

"What makes you say that sir?"

He gestured to the three ships following her in around the bar, two flags flapping from each one's signal halyards. In the darkness their colors could not be distinguished. "Only a frigate of His Majesty's Navy captained by a madman would enter port in the middle of the night, with three prizes in tow. Good God, Latham hasn't had her for a week and he's already racking up the prizes." He sighed. "Well, let's go meet the boat."

[steward_serenitatis]

Jamaica Station, December 1720
The Ship

"Aye, let's get 'er," the captain barked to the first mate from the quarterdeck. Men thumped each other on the back and grinned from bow-to-stern, by the stubby nine-pounders and aft at the ship's wheel. Midships a group of men broke out horns with powder for the muskets, as a two-pounder was hoisted aloft into the air, on its way to the maintop. With a grin and a nod over his shoulder, the captain gave permission to the man at the halyards to hoist the flag into the air. And as it caught the air it billowed and stretched out to leeward, a black canvas splashed with white and red colors. A pirate flag for a pirate vessel.

Farther to leeward the cutter with its twelve guns and a bark with its twenty reverberated with cries and shouts of joy. Similar colors to the Minerva's began to ascend as muzzles of cannons creaked out of gunports. Shot and powder were being passed up from the midships powder magazine of the heaviest frigate as the captain of the Minerva turned back to their prey, staring at the aft of the ship far ahead of them. She'd led them on quite a merry chase, for a day and a half now only her sternlights and sails taunting them onwards. The pirate captain was internally furious and swore again he'd extract revenge on her captain for his leading them on. Other men might have congratulated the quarry on his skills, but this pirate captain swore that blood on his cutlass would be the only 'congratulations.'

"She'll be a good on' sair," said the mate at the captain's side. "She's 'eavily loaded. Look at 'ow she's low in the water."

"Aye." The nagging feeling of something wrong was back again. Since this chase had started he'd had the feeling that something was wrong with this quarry, this prey. He brushed it aside again. Even if it turned out to be a naval vessel he was confident in his abilities to storm her and make her a prize. A naval ship … now that was a prize worth contemplating, and he grinned with satisfaction at the thought of it.

The chase ran on under gathering clouds. Through mid-day and all night long they closed in on the ship. The men were tired, impatient, eager to get into action against this vessel. Someone aboard the cutter was silenced with thumps when they muttered how the ship was a Dutchman. Never to be caught, never in range. Always there to taunt them. When lightning flashed across the sky and rainwater began to stream from the heavens above the men were chilled, slick to the bone. Water curled and foamed over the rail of the cutter as she pressed onwards, leading the chase as the frigate fell astern. Soon only the topsails were visible under the flashes and cracks of brilliant light across the sky.

The mysterious ship ahead of them was growing closer, far closer. Standing in the bow of the cutter the pirate lieutenant eyed her through his glass, ignoring the water that crashed against the bow and engulfed him in spray. It was a quarter past four in the morning when he saw something ascending on her signal halyards, although with the water spray on his glass he couldn't make out what it was. He took it away for a moment to wipe it against his shirt, smearing the moisture on the soaked fabric. It did the trick however, for when he clapped it back to his eye he saw it.

Something tugged the bundle, for that's what it was, and a flag flapped open. Caught in the howling winds it streamed to port and was caught by the lightning.

A cannon boomed, its shot howling over the cutter and splashing harmlessly astern. The second whipped so close to the small ship that the lieutenant heard its howling through the air and felt it on his face through the wind and waves. In the flash of light from the guns he saw Royal Navy colors and saw men prowling her stern, no doubt looking back at him. The shots had been wild and harmless, fired in a flash of panic to scare him off. More sails were unfurling now at the ship's sides, heavy studding-sails that never had before been unveiled in a storm, to carry her onwards under a dangerous press of canvas. It was dangerous, unprecedented, never heard of before.

The frigate, the quarry, heeled to her starboard side as she buried her shoulder in the wavetops. She slammed harder into the seas, casting spray out into the growing mountains that rolled as far as the eye could see. For a moment it looked as if she might broach to in the ocean but in an expert display of seamanship she recovered smartly as hands raced to her leeward rail. And she vanished.

"What the -" the lieutenant muttered. The ship had vanished before his sight. Her lights had been extinguished to the last. Not even the white of her canvas was visible, nor were her flags in sight. With the quarry buried by the ocean and turned no doubt to so much wreckage he turned to fighting for his ship's survival, for it was in jeopardy.

For three days and nights they fought to save the gallant cutter, buried under wavetops and her decks awash, her hold flooded and the mast sprung and dangerously loose. She shipped water from bow to stern, and not even the mighty Minerva, which had hove to briefly and came into sight for an instant, could help her smaller cousin. The storm was endless and its fury complete, and when it finally broke several days later it was an exhausted ship's crew that wiped their brows and thought their survival complete.

For a moment.

The clouds were still thick overhead and a light rain falling, obscuring visibility for miles, when the lookout screamed to the deck. "Ship on the port beam! Looks like a man-of-war!"

His cry brought the pirate lieutenant on deck in a flash, where he bounded up onto the ratlines and scurried his way up to the small maintop. Through his glass he stared in the direction the man was pointing to. Their quarry had become the hunter, for it was her. Her topsails set, a bow wave curling smartly under a figurehead of a woman with a spear. Cannons were emerging from the gunports on either side as she emerged from the mist of the rain. Royal Navy colors at the masthead, and marines in red coats visible on her decks. There was no sign of damage to the ship, as if she had glided over the wavetops and vanished like a phantom. Only this was no phantom … this was real.

On the quarterdeck of the man-of-war, a lieutenant doffed his hat to the ship's master. "She's turning to flee sir. The pirate frigate's just coming into sight in the mist now."

"Excellent. Carry on Mr. Palafox," the lieutenant commander told his subordinate. As the man walked away, the ship's master began murmuring something under his breath. "And the men looked up in wonder, and the hounds ran back to hide. For the fox had changed to the devil himself, where he stood on the other side. And the men, the hounds, the horses went flying back to town. And hard on their heels come a little black fox, laughing as he ran."

"Sir?"

Lieutenant Commander Latham gave a hint of a smile on his face as he turned to the man, ignoring the rain that was whisked by the wind into his face. "An old rhyme, lieutenant. One that I have held in the highest of regards since it was told to me. Tell me, you lived in Bainbridge for a time, yes?" The two moved to the windward rail, deep in conversation, as the frigate sliced on through the wavetops. Far ahead of her the cutter was a hive of activity as men screamed at other men, as lines hummed and blocks whirred in a buzz of activity. The battered ship fought herself and the sea to escape, but her doom was sealed.

And the ship seemed to laugh in glee, with brilliant glee and utter disregard for lives of the men far ahead of her.

[steward_serenitatis]

Jamaica Station, March 1718
"The Devil's Ship"

- Turtling Bay, Jamaica Station -

The hammer fell again on the piece of oak, driving the wedge further into the stout Yucatan timber. For a moment the man wielding it rested, then he lofted it again as he drew it up to shoulder height and let it fall. The timber under his foot jumped from the impact and there was a sickening snap of splitting wood. He again paused to examine his handiwork, as did the master craftsman looking on. The craftsman tipped the contents of his pipe out onto the sawdust-covered floor, nodding. "Aye, that's good timber. She'll be a proper ship, Providence willing."

He looked out the window, stout heavy timbers made from Yucatan oak and Irish Point fir that lay scattered all over the yards. Most were in some stage of being carved, hammered, or chiseled into various odd-looking pieces like the beam being hoisted into the air by a crane powered by a team of horses. The heavy Clydesdale's stomped on the hard-packed dirt, snorting and tossing their heads in the warm Caribbean air as a whip snapped near them. The driver mustered them and promptly had the piece lifting upwards again.

In the center of the confusion that reigned over the yards were an assembly of frames and timbers that had been taking shape for the past four months. Another man-of-war for the King's Navy, a fifth-rate of forty guns, the craftsman had seen her design plans in the owner's shop not two weeks ago. The ship had an impressive sailplan and equally stout design, and would no doubt serve well. Assuming it ever left the yards.

For six men were dead and another nineteen had been injured since construction had started. The majority had been killed or injured when a series of faulty braces - braces that the master carpenter had swore were of stout design and fortitude - had let go and caused a collapse of massive proportions. It had left the ship standing there with six frames leaning against each other, and three more in pieces. And that had not been the first incident: there had been others since then. Falling blocks, snapped lines, a horse that had gone wild and had to be shot. Parts and supplies mysteriously waylaid, only to reappear days later where they were supposed to have been.

Not a fortnight ago five men had up and walked away from the ship after a falling beam had nearly crushed another worker. They'd said the ship was cursed, that it was the Devil's doing and it would never leave the shipyard. No amount of cajoling, of offers of better pay and more dubloons, had been enough to cause the workers to return. They were still elsewhere out in the town. A priest had been promptly summonsed to spread the word of God for a day at the shipyard, but as soon as he had left the accidents had -

The craftsman was jolted out of his reverie by a blood-curdling scream, one that made hairs stand on end. Dropping his pipe he raced for the door, in time to see a whipping line snap its way across the yard. He ducked, in time for the line to thump into the door to his side and gouge splinters from the wood, dropping a shower of them across his back. Looking up he saw the horses stampeding their way down the yard's length as more people boiled out of the shipyard owner's office. More hands were racing to the ship, where the beam that moments ago was being hoisted into the air had fallen abruptly, pinning a man beneath its heavy weight.

"I tell you, lieutenant, the ship is cursed. I've lost so much business it's no longer profitable for me to continue construction here," the owner explained to the king's officer at his side as he gestured to the ship. Their discussion of a new contract, to provide yet another frigate after the three on order, to the King's Navy had been interrupted by the shouts of confusion, alarm, and warning that had erupted in the yard. The officer was clearly unimpressed and unswayed by the argument.

"The Bellerophon will be finished on time and as per the contract you have with His Majesty's government," he snapped to the owner, placing his tricorn back on his head. "The Admiralty needs more ships in service on the Caribbean station and there are only a handful of yards capable of building them. Yours included. Finish the ship, Mr. Prideswell." He mounted a horse that had been led up and galloped off in a cloud of dust and dirt. The owner watched the man go, then turned back to the ship and the new accident, running a hand through his thinning hair as he sighed.

"A doctor! Someone fetch a doctor!" Rang the cry.

[steward_serenitatis]

Jamaica Station, February 1720
"The First Horseman"

Come sit closer to the fire
The night is cold and the wind blows higher
Warm you bones while I tell my tale
it‘ll make you cold, it’ll make you pale .....

- Wylde Nept, "Four Oaks Lane"

- Turtling Bay, Jamaica Station -

The ship was continuing to take shape when her first commander arrived in a shouting of people and din of a carriage clattering over the cobblestones. On the streets people dodged out of its path as the stampede came through, lest they be crushed to death beneath the heavy wheels. A pair of marines preceded it on horseback, and another two followed on their mounts. The assembly swept through past buildings, crowded markets and side streets, underneath laundry lines that stretched from one building to another.

Inside the carriage the captain shook again, teeth shivering in the warm Caribbean air. It caused the Admiral's Secretary to instinctively recoil from the coughing and sick man as he wished - not for the first time - that it had not been his miserable fortune to accompany such an individual. While Captain Edward Corell's reputation as a King's Officer of good standing preceded him, the man that the secretary saw now was a far cry from the robust and vigilant individual that had been described to him.

Tall, thin, almost lanky in build, Captain Edward Corell looked frail and positively ill. Deathly white, paler than the clouds in the heavens above, he looked ill-at-ease under the heavy longcoat. Corell's shoulders wracked in convulsions as he fought to withhold the never-ending series of miserable coughs. Sometimes his nose bled, an absolutely disgusting sight to the secretary whose misfortune it had been to have the man start bleeding in the waiting-room at the Admiral's office.

The two occupants in the carriage sat silent, a silence punctuated only by the captain's continuous coughing, as it whipped around a corner and under the gate marking the entrance to the shipyard. Their escorts charged ahead amongst much clattering of hooves, shouts, and bellowing of noise as workers scrambled out of the way, desperately and hurriedly moving out of the way of the men in uniforms, swords banging on their saddles in the hot Caribbean air. Yet finally the carriage clattered to a halt outside the offices for the shipyard and the door swung open. Allowing the secretary and Captain Corell to dismount.

Corell looked at the ship rising from the slipways first, before looking at anything else. She was by now planked as far up as the waterline and the frames for her gunports had taken shape long ago, revealing her to be a Gallant fifth-rate of forty guns. Inside the loft on the far side of the yard part at least a part of her sails could be seen hanging out of the second story in pieces, and even as he watched it jerked and retracted a bit into the building. The sailmakers were hard at work assembling the mainsail.

After looking at the ship where it sat on its cradles for a moment he nodded, ignoring the shouts of alarm from across the shipyard. Whether the nod was intended for the shipyard owner or to himself would never be known. Later the carpenter who'd done recent work on the roof office would swear to a court-of-inquiry that the tiles were of stout design, and had been securely fastened to the beams beneath them. An assistant would also swear the same, as would the shipyard owner himself, who had hired the carpenter before to do work on his house.

The official conclusion of the court-of-inquiry would rule that Captain Edward Corell, a King's Officer in his forty-first year, had been the victim of neglect and shoddy construction practices. But the fact nevertheless remained that he was the fifteenth victim of the curse of the Bellerophon, killed by falling roof tiles striking him on the head.

[steward_serenitatis]

Jamaica Station, April 1720
"The Second King's Officer"

... Silas Smith, he lived on high
Did men wrong and women worse
He never prayed, he only cursed.
Silas Smith he lived for greed
Money filled his every need ...

- Turtling Bay, Jamaica Station -

The next captain of the Bellerophon found out about his ascendancy to command of a heavy frigate more by accident than by the Admiralty's design and intentions. In truth he would have been the last person in the port to know, a product of neglect of relations and alienating subordinates and seniors alike. Even the lowliest sailor knew of his ill-fortune within a fortnight and yet he remained blissfully unaware. Until one night.

It was the habit of Post-Captain Thomas Morrison to play a game of cards every night before retiring for the evening. One evening by chance he found himself sitting opposite a lieutenant from the Admiralty office in Port Royal. All in attendance had had too much to drink, and the game that had begun with so much chivalry had degenerated into a morass of slapping cards, laughter, and curses. The mood alternated between anger, frustration, and entertainment, veering with random turns and twists as the emotions around the table carried it.

For Morrison was a drunk, a horrible excuse for a King's Officer who had been on the station too long and had been through too much. At one time his career had been promising, and he had been considered a rising star in some social circles in Port Royal, always returning to port with prizes in tow, sacking and pillaging French shipping. Once he had even stood into an engagement with a 74, and had been in the process of beating the other ship soundly when reinforcements had arrived. But an equally long time ago he had been tempted by the glass and it had gotten the better of him. Were it not for family connections in England, he would have been discharged long ago instead of making the post-captain's list.

Unfortunately for the Admiralty he remained on the list, despite efforts to remove him.

"So have you heard about that new ship they're building?" a leftenant colonel sitting at the table said through his fading laughter, the joke about a 'lesser of two weevils' having gotten the better of him. He wiped away a tear from his eye as there was much shaking of heads. "They say it's cursed. A captain and fourteen laborers dead even before it's left the ways."

There was a pause, and then someone laughed. It was Morrison over in the corner, pouring himself a drink. And his laughter triggered another round of spasmodic fits and merriment. Being the worst of the group for wear, the post-captain almost couldn't stand upright and fell to his knees, catching his great-coat on a corner of a chair and ripping it. The tearing sound triggered still more laughter as hands pointed at the great wretched mess on the floor in the corner, doubled over in laughter. That the coat would have to be replaced never crossed Morrison's mind. In truth his finances could ill afford a single new uniform, the price of having been in gambling debt for quite some time.

Finally the game adjourned for the night, and the various players involved stumbled away from the table. The magistrate retired upstairs to his wife and the cold bed, the colonel to the splendid and well-furnished two-story house just down the street. Morrison, being too poor to even afford a coach-ride back to the tavern on the waterfront, had to make do with walking from the top of the hill overlooking the port. It took nearly two hours to reach his destination, and should have been three for a man in his condition.

The lights of the inn came into sight two hours later as the horse he'd commandeered galloped through the streets, foaming at the mouth and hooves clanging with great effect on the cobblestones. Morrison looked back, not seeing the phantom that had appeared in the dead of the night and had given chase to him. But he knew it was close, with its flowing black robe, an armored helmet, and the spear in one hand. There hadn't been a soul in sight and his early cries for the watch had gone unanswered. His mount continued to thunder through the night with all hell loose behind it.

He was so close to the structure, almost about to jump off the horse and flee inside, when he felt the cold hand on his shoulder.

The shriek was so deafening that inside the inn, the source of so much merriment even at two o'clock in the morn, it caused heads to turn to the windows. It cut like a sharp rapier through conversation, halting the music, even causing the bartender to drop a full mug of the house's stoutest ale. Silence reigned and was king. Nobody moved, except the few that crossed themselves against whatever unearthly force was outside.

It was a Mr. Edward Tullabee of Spanish Town, first mate of the schooner Arrow, who worked up the courage to venture outside with a lantern in hand, five strong men behind him with swords and pistols drawn. They found the horse outside heaving at the mouth, foam dropping in great clots onto the pavement where it splattered on the cobblestones. Its flanks bellowed with exertion as a result of its hasty ride through the streets, and its head was in motion, looking around itself with eyes wide in terror. As Tullabee raised his lantern it shone on the red blood on its back. Someone cursed, and another crossed himself. They slowly spread out to examine the area.

"Hey! Over here!" someone shouted a few minutes later. A pair of uniforms ran by heading for the voice, two marines on foot patrol who had been attracted by the commotion. One was toting a heavy musket with two hands, moving at a dead run behind his companion. They joined the five brave men from the tavern around the body.

Post-Captain Thomas Morrison had been dragged from the horse nearly twenty feet and left to rest sprawled on the cobblestones, head at an unnatural angle and eyes wide open in ... what? Shock? Fear? His sword was nearby, as if he'd attempted to draw it and had failed. His back had been clawed open, the white of bone slick with crimson blood. "Lord have mercy," someone coughed before heaving their dinner out upon the pavement. One of the marines turned to his companion. "That's him!"

"Who?"

"Morrison. Captain of the Bellerophon." All seven men drew back in a mixture of horror and fear. For the Devil's Ship was fast acquiring a reputation as a murderous witch.

[steward_serenitatis]

A Note from the Author .....

Eight hundred hits and counting, to just eight posts. And a link on the front page of the website, although I don't know if it's a permanent thing or not. I started these dispatches as writings to fill the time, never intending them to get beyond three or four.

But for those of you who've apparently read them, whether it be just one entry or the entire thing from start-to-present, thank you.

Jamaica Station, February 1721
Part One: "A Thumping Great Big Tree"

- Island of Jamaica, Due E of Port Royal -

A brilliant sun shone down in full brilliance, beating on the river and the jungle without mercy. Remarkably the air was still and the heat oppressive, a contrast to the normally cooling ocean breezes that swept up through the trees and to the small farms and homesteads that lay somewhere beyond the thick jungle curtain. Even now, standing in the great-cabin of the frigate laying in the middle of the river, the post-captain could feel the heat radiating through the thick window panes and scorching the insides of the vessel.

He ignored it the heat, but did pause to flick a bead of sweat off the bridge of his nose where it threatened to roll into his eyes. "As I was saying, Mr. Saxby, how goes the search for a new mast?" The foremast of the Bellerophon had rotted somewhat cruelly while the ship had lain idle at dock, and not a hand aboard was prepared to vouch for its integrity in a good breeze. Least alone the ship's carpenter, who had made his concerns and interests known to the post-captain almost as soon as he had come aboard a fortnight before in Port Royal.

The ship's first lieutenant swept a hand across the map spread out across the rear admiral's desk, over blank areas of the map and small dots that represented the outlying towns and settlements around the once-great port city. It had been reduced to little more than a shattered wreck, the submerged ruins visible from the admiral's boat as it had swept from the city out to the waiting ship when he had last had good reason to go ashore. "The carpenter and his men are ashore and looking for the mast sir, but the last we heard from them was a messenger three days ago saying they were heading upriver to find better wood. We haven't heard anything since."

With a frown on his face the rear admiral eyed the marine captain also in the room, albeit without his great red coat and splendor customarily associated with the marines. The heat had felled two soldiers already and made clear that the heavy wool fabric was not suited for these climates. "I don't like them being out of touch for that long. Where could they have headed for?"

Captain Strong looked from the map to the admiral, a hand re-grasping at the tricorne tucked under his arm. "A handful of small towns, nothing substantial." He looked more alive than the thin-faced and pale officer who had greeted the rear admiral in Port Royal. For that matter the gathered officers all did, not sullen and withdrawn from the long experience dockside for two months without a commanding officer. It was surely remarkable what a day at sea and one coming upriver could do for a man's constitution and fortitude. And although he did not mention it directly, the thoughts and rumors of a cursed ship were never far from the back of his mind. Getting away from the dead and the memories of the dead in Port Royal was surely helping morale.

"On deck ahoy!" a shout thundered through the open skylight to the deck. "Boat coming into sight, one port on the larboard bow!"

From ashore the great frigate looked like a bird waiting to fly, her sails carefully furled and anchor chains leading out from fore and aft. Her gunports were open but the guns not run out, in order to encourage some measure of ventilation of the lower decks that had begun to smell rancid. Indeed the smell had begun to part, a fact Latham noticed when he led the way up on deck, his peg leg thumping on the planking. Avoiding looking at it was a fact that the crew had quickly caught on to. Deckhands before the mast with peglegs were uncommon but still an oft-seen sight. Officers were another story.

A midshipman was up for'ard, with a hand pointing at the small dot coming around the bend in the river, as Latham arrived with his spyglass in hand. "Boat in sight sir," the young man reported as he touched the brim of his hat in respect. "Looks to have something with her in the water." With a 'hmm' of thoughtfulness the captain focused in on it and was silent, as deckhands and officers began to pay more attention to the proceedings up forward. Someone kicked a sleeper nestled in between two of the long eight-pounders away aft, causing the man to jerk awake with a blink of eyes.

"Well I say," Latham finally remarked to his first lieutenant, standing to his side and watching the boat with his own glass. The captain lowered his glass. "It looks as if Mr. Hutchins has had some measure of prosperity. For I do believe he has a tree in tow." A smile ghosted his face, the first one in a long time as he chuckled in pleasure. "A few days to carve, another to step, and a few more to mount the rigging again, and we can be underway." He thumped the first lieutenant on the shoulder as the two stood there, grinning to the river as the small boat headed their way.

[steward_serenitatis]

Jamaica Station, April 1721

- Port Royal, Island of Jamaica -

The Bellerophon stood out to sea from Port Royal on a fine spring day in April of 1721, fresh from overhaul and ready to kick the Crown's enemies square in the teeth.

She was a magnificent sight, the red hull with the deep blue stripe just aboard the waterline, canvas falling from the spars to be caught and held taut by the thick lines and heavy oak blocks. Aloft a red British ensign fluttered in the stiff breeze sweeping off the inner harbor, ruffling the water and stirring up a small chop around the boats that the frigate was towing behind her. It snapped from time-to-time in the stronger gusts that rattled hats and made the officers aft pull their coats a little tighter. The sun was warm, but said warmth was easily extinguished in these waters.

On deck however the rest of the ship's company could not have cared less, for they were too busy to really take notice of the wind. Roars from aft sent them scurrying about, carrying items to be stowed, others to be cleared out of the way of those doing actual work, and sent the stragglers bending to lines with a will. From his perch aft the captain could clearly see a line of sailors on the portside heaving on a line, tightening up one of the sails that threatened to spill the wind. Forward of them more hands were tightening up the lines for the foresail and several of the headsails. Already the ship was beginning to list as it caught more of the wind coming off the land.

Aft of the vessel, on the foredeck of one of her consorts, Rear Admiral Latham eyed the frigate as it heeled in a strong breeze that almost swept his tricorne away. But even as a hand was clapped to the cover, holding it in place, the Bellerophon scudded ahead with a will. It was almost as if the ship was eager to break into a steady trot, wanting to clear the land and leave it far behind for the first time in its short life. It was fine enough for the admiral, who had intentions and destinations to the north, but still the sight of the racehorse-eager ship made him laugh.

"Sir?" Captain Pierson, former lieutenant and navigator of His Majesty's Ship Rosewood, now flag aide to the admiral, stood respectfully nearby and glanced at Latham inquiringly. In the time since his arrival in Turtling Bay, sufficiently early to witness a reckless arrival in pitch-black skies with two prizes in tow, the short, stout, almost barrel-shaped man had become a vital aide and assistant to his superior. His knowledge of the Caribbean waters was almost uncanny, and if the admiral didn't know him better he would have assumed that the thick mutton chops concealed maps and charts that could be produced on command.

A broad hand in reply was waved at the frigate ahead. "Quite the sight. Magnificent, isn't it?" Without waiting for an answer Latham moved to the larboard side and looked aft, seeing the line of canvas stretching out astern that posed the answer to his question. The Bellerophon as was her right and custom was in the lead, the advance ship for the formation. Behind her came the tall-sided Bombay Castle of 72, a new arrival fresh from the shipwrights at Turtling Bay. In trail were the Rosewood and the plucky Norfolk of 12 guns. The latter was so quickly snapping on speed that it threatened to smartly overhaul the larger 32-gun frigate. Bringing up the rear was the lumbering storeship General Wagner, a former Company vessel now riding high and in ballast, save for extra shot and provisions in its hold.

A string of signal flags could have fixed the issue of the Norfolk's overeagerness, but the admiral couldn't have cared less at the moment. He had a deployment to supervise; better to let his staff address the problem. One look at the commander at his side was enough to confirm that he'd spotted the unwarranted ambition and inattentiveness on the part of the lieutenant in command of the Norfolk.

The two officers adjourned to the great cabin as the ships headed out to sea, leaving the land far behind. A table at the center of the cabin was covered in charts and maps, pinned to the desk by a stack of books titled with such extravagant subjects as On the Particulars and Natives of the Caribe, Henri's Charts and Maps of Hispaniola, and many others. More were stowed in a pair of chests against one wall, six deep in some cases. Thick tomes bought at great expense from England or acquired in Port Royal and the surrounding environs, the musty pages held a wealth of knowledge to serve the Crown's interests on this station.

On deck at the wheel, the four men manning the two spoke-lined handles linked by a barrel-like assembly turned it in unison. Slowly the heavy ship turned to follow in the wake of her smaller cousin, the frigate stepping lively and out in front as it opened the distance. A stream of flags were being hoisted aloft at a direction from the ship's captain, snapping out in the breeze and fluttering like drumshots in the wind. It took a few minutes before they were met with bursts of activity from the trailing ships, which began crowding on canvas and closing up with the flagship.