Cat Island (Privateers & Gentlemen) Page 2

  “Is it? Thank you, sir,” Stanhope said. He focused the glass on the tern schooner and whistled. “I remember her, sir,” he said. “My grandfather was particularly proud of her— said he was the finest thing he’d ever done.”

  “She’s been very successful,” Favian said. “Your grandfather had reason to be proud. Perhaps we can arrange for you to visit her.”

  “I’d like that, sir,” Stanhope said, returning the pocket glass. “Thank you.”

  The pilot boat, under the practiced direction of Captain Poquelin, came sweeping up to the Custom House wharf, the crewmen scampering to put out fenders to guard the bulwarks from the wharf’s timbers.

  “Mr. Stanhope,” Favian said, “pass the word for Kuusi— for my cox’n.”

  “Aye aye, sir.” Stanhope ran forward, nimbly dodging among the busy sailors.

  The Finn, Kuusikoski, known as Koozey Koskey even to Favian, was a tall, burly blond man with a strange history, first exiled from his homeland by the Russian invaders, then persecuted because Macedonian’s superstitious sailors insisted he was a witch. All Finns were witches, according to the superstitious sailors, and early in the voyage Koskey had been savagely attacked. In order to protect him, Favian had promoted him coxswain, and now it seemed the Finn had found a degree of acceptance— at least no one had offered to harm him.

  Koskey bustled back and saluted; Favian ordered him to get his men into his pinnace, which the Beaux Jours had been towing astern, and prepare to receive the officers’ baggage. Kuusikoski saluted again, then ran forward to collect his crew. They were all turned out smartly in embroidered jackets, white duck trousers, red sashes, and the knit cap the Macedonians preferred to the more usual glazed hat, all provided at Favian’s expense in order to support the dignity of his captain’s rank. Favian remembered, when he first took command of the Experiment, how he had counted the pennies to outfit his boat’s crew with even the most rudimentary uniforms, and was now thankful for the proceeds of Markham’s Raid in his purse.

  Favian went below to take his number one coat and hat out of his sea chest; he dressed carefully, knotted a black silk cravat over his white linen neckcloth, combed carefully the fashionable spit-curls on his cheeks and temples, brushed the long side-whiskers, struggled into tight white breeches. He would present himself in full uniform to Commodore Patterson; he would not insult the dignity of the New Orleans commander by appearing in travel-stained clothes.

  Despite his height and gangling body, he knew his uniforms fit him superbly, thanks to his father’s tailor in Portsmouth. He attached the heavy bullion epaulets to his coat and slipped the coat on; he stamped on a pair of jackboots, hesitated for a moment, and then clipped to his belt the gaudy-hilted smallsword given him in New York for his part in the original capture of the Macedonian a little over two years ago, in 1812.

  Favian collected the briefcase of captured documents, went on deck to supervise as the officers’ chests were brought up and put down in the pinnace, then said farewell to Captain Poquelin and stepped down into the stern sheets of his boat.

  “Let go painters and sternfasts,” Kuusikoski said in his accented English, aware that this was his first official occasion as coxswain of the captain’s pinnace and quick with the proper orders. “Fend off forrard. Out oars! Give way smartly. Where to, sir?”

  “Take us to the flagship yonder, cox’n. The small schooner.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  The steamboat New Orleans vented steam with a hissing white cloud as the pinnace passed, drowning the chanty of the black workmen as they rolled her cargo over the levee and onto the wharf. The pinnace skimmed over the brown water, her oars moving in perfect unison, Kuusikoski grinning with obvious pride as he held the tiller. Their destination was obvious to the quartermasters on the schooner, and they were hailed when they’d gone halfway across the intervening water.

  “Boat ahoy!”

  “Macedonian!” Kuusikoski shouted as he half-rose from his seat. Answering with the name of Favian’s ship would alert the schooner to the fact of a frigate captain’s arrival, allowing them to make the appropriate welcome. Favian could imagine the surprise created by the unexpected answer, the sudden dashing for telescopes to confirm the fact of a man in the boat with two coveted epaulets, and sudden panic on the part of the watch officer as he tried to remember the required size of the welcoming party and the proper number of sideboys— Favian knew that if there had ever been a full captain in New Orleans, he had come purely on private business, for the station had always been held by a master-commandant.

  There was the sudden shrilling of bosuns’ whistles as the astonishing sight was confirmed, the trampling of feet in the hatches, the sudden explosion of the schooner’s crew on deck. Favian watched as the sideboys dashed to the entry port, drawing on their white gloves as a squad of marines appeared on deck with a rattle of muskets. The schooner was making a creditable performance in response to a completely unprecedented circumstance. The pinnace swept under the bow of the schooner, and Favian glanced up to see the name: Carolina.

  “Toss oars,” Kuusikoski shouted. “Hook on there, forrard.”

  “Pipe the side, bosun,” came a firm voice from the schooner, and Favian made his jump for the battens that served as a ladder, the sideboys reaching down to hand him in as he scrambled up the Carolina’s side. Before him there were the rows of sideboys forming a lane that led him to the schooner’s officers, with drawn swords at the salute, backed by the row of marines.

  He took off his hat to the quarterdeck and then to the officer standing before him. “Captain Favian Markham of the Macedonian frigate, at your service, sir. I bring urgent dispatches for Captain Patterson.” The “captain” had been chosen by Favian as a compromise between “master-commandant” and “commodore”— Patterson could legitimately be called by any of the three, at least according to the dizzying world of naval etiquette. As the senior officer present, Favian had arguably usurped the role of “commodore,” and so he had tried to compliment Patterson by giving him the highest title still available.

  “I am Patterson,” said the officer, returning his hat to his head. He was a compact, well-formed man a little below middle height. Though it was not quite seven in the morning, he was dressed in full uniform: a splendidly cut coat with rather more gold lace than was usual in a mere master-commandant, the single epaulet with the silver star of the commodore, neckcloth and two cravats, dandyish Hessian boots, and a full-dress cocked hat. Favian was glad he had chosen to dress formally on this occasion: Patterson obviously ran a taut ship. The deck was spotless; the officers standing on the quarterdeck were rigged out in full undress uniform, with blue trousers and round hat; the marines’ uniforms seemed complete and well tended. Favian could see at first glance that Patterson’s attention had not been given entirely to appearances: the Carolina’s rigging was well set up and tended; the carronades were ready to be cleared for action at a moment’s notice, even here in a safe harbor; the crew seemed understrength but in good health and were all well clothed from the slops chests. Windsails were set up over all the hatches and carefully trimmed to the morning breeze in order to ventilate the berth deck for the health of the men.

  “Captain Markham,” said Patterson, “may I introduce Lieutenant John Henley, Acting Lieutenant Coleman, and Ensign Carados of the Marines.” Favian received the salutes of the officers and introduced his own officers.

  “I was eating breakfast when the lookouts sighted your boat, Captain Markham,” Patterson said. “Would you care to join me? I’m sure Lieutenant Henley will be happy to offer the hospitality of the gunroom to your officers.”

  “Of course, sir,” said Henley smoothly, knowing a command when he heard one.

  “I am honored, sir,” Favian said, realizing this was no time to mention he’d eaten on the pilot boat. He knew that Patterson’s eating this early bespoke an active officer, whatever his other talents might be— there were far too many captains in the service who slept until
nine thirty, ate breakfast at ten, dinner at four or five, and supper at nine in the evening, regardless of the more severe hours allotted to the people for their meals.

  Favian followed Patterson down the aft scuttle to his cabin and took the seat offered. Patterson offered Favian coffee, sent for his steward, and called for another breakfast; Favian urged the commodore of the New Orleans station not to wait for the new meal to arrive but to finish the meal Favian had interrupted. Patterson thanked him, tucked his napkin into his neckcloth, and began to finish his shrimp omelet, chop, and cheese.

  The formal exchange of courtesies, Favian knew, had been a testing of the waters, opening salutes in the gentlemanly game of commodores, in which officers in the same service quietly battled for power and precedence. Patterson had been watching carefully for any clue as to the meaning of Favian’s presence with a clear weather eye out for sign he was to be superseded, while Favian had been observing the routine of the Carolina schooner, making his judgments, and reflecting on the business of supersession himself. He decided to relieve Patterson of at least some of his suspense.

  “We escaped New London over three weeks ago,” he said.

  “A fast passage, sir,” Patterson said. “You must have been cracking it on to get here.”

  “Aye, a fast passage,” Favian said. “The more so because we did not set out bound for New Orleans. I intended to head for the Indian Ocean, but off Montserrat we captured a British corvette, the Carnation of twenty-four guns.”

  “My heartiest congratulations, sir,” Patterson said, a smile breaking out over his face. Favian wondered how much of the man’s cheerfulness was occasioned by the sudden revelation that Favian had not come to New Orleans bearing orders from the Secretary of the Navy to take charge of the station.

  “Give you joy of the prize money, sir, give you joy,” Patterson said, beaming.

  “Thank you, Captain,” Favian said. “It happened that we took the Carnation in a fast boarding action after sunset, and so surprised her that we captured her secret papers and dispatches for the British commanders in Jamaica.”

  Commodore Patterson's fork paused halfway between his chin and the plate, his eyes suddenly intent. The fork returned to the plate with a clink.

  “Did you?” he asked quietly. He took the napkin from his neckcloth and dropped it on the table. “I take it you’ve discovered British intentions?”

  “We did, Captain Patterson,” Favian said, picking up the briefcase he’d brought with him, surprised to discover his hands were trembling. He lowered his voice, delivering the news as calmly as he could. “They’ve pulled their fleet and army out of the Chesapeake, and they’re waiting under Admiral Cochrane at Negril Bay in Jamaica. Once they’re reinforced from the British armies in France to the number of five thousand, they’ll head for New Orleans. Wellington’s veterans from the Peninsula, mostly, under one of his generals, Sir Edward Pakenham. There are another eight thousand waiting in Europe, ready to form an army of occupation once the city’s taken. The details are here, sir.”

  Patterson took the sheets handed him, looking at Favian keenly as he did so. “You are certain these papers were not meant to fall into our hands?” he asked.

  “Not unless the British were able to predict Macedonian’s movements even before I knew them,” Favian said. “They couldn’t have known we would have been cruising that stretch of water— the British in the Caribbean couldn’t have known Macedonian had broken the blockade.”

  “I see.” Patterson leaned back in his chair and, after examining the broken seals, read through the documents, his breakfast forgotten. Favian’s own meal came, a beautifully cooked omelet which he would at any other time have devoured gladly; he picked at it politely but kept his attention on Patterson. He had himself read the documents over and over: he knew they contained an exact list of the British forces, every regiment and battery, every ship of the line and transport.

  The papers fell to Patterson’s desk with a soft rustle. “I thank you for bringing the news with such dispatch, Captain,” he said. “This will turn a good many heads, sir. I only hope we can respond to the threat in time.”

  “Amen to that, sir.”

  Patterson rang for his clerk, glanced again through the captured papers, and looked up at Favian. “This is not the first indication we’ve had of British intentions in the Gulf,” he said. “In July a British squadron took possession of Pensacola, in Spanish Florida, with the connivance of the Spanish governor. Following this illegal usurpation, in September they and some of their Creek Indian allies launched an attack on the fort guarding the entrance to Mobile Bay.”

  This was far worse than Favian had suspected; the merest glance at a map of the Gulf of Mexico showed that Mobile, which had been taken from the Spanish only two years before, was a perfect base for an attack aimed at New Orleans. With Mobile gone, the British could march across country and take Natchez, cutting New Orleans off from reinforcements from Kentucky and Tennessee. It was a terrifying picture.

  “How many men do the enemy have in Mobile?” Favian asked, his mind working madly on a plan. Macedonian might be able to take on board some of the army, retake Mobile before major British reinforcements appeared in the Gulf...

  “You mistake me, sir,” Patterson said. “The British attacked Fort Bowyer, but failed to take it, Thanks in part to Captain Gideon Markham, your brother. Gideon captured a sloop of war and a schooner in a fight in the Mississippi Sound, and the British were forced to abandon their flagship under the fort’s battery and set it afire. It was a complete repulse, sir.”

  Relief swam into Favian. The situation was not so desperate after all.

  “I’m happy to hear it!” he said. “And by the by, Captain Gideon Markham is my cousin, not my brother.”

  “Pardon my mistake,” Patterson said. “It was a natural one to make— you are brothers in gallantry, after all.”

  Favian accepted the flattery without comment, pleased that his cousin had made a name for himself.

  “He has performed brilliantly here,” Patterson said, “and has shown what American sailors can do.” He scowled. “I wish other privateersmen in the Gulf would profit by his example,” he said darkly. “Most are mere pirates. Because they make such tempting profits, in part because they are allowed by the civil administration to dispose of their goods without paying the duty, they lure the sailors away from more honest trade—I have nearly a full crew for Carolina here, but Louisiana, my heaviest boat, is virtually unmanned, and I’ve had to lay up six of my eleven gunboats for lack of men to put in them.”

  “Perhaps the news of the British moves will spur enlistments,” Favian offered. He now understood why Patterson had his flag on the smaller, more easily manned Carolina instead of the more powerful Louisiana, and why the forlorn, abandoned gunboats were rotting at their anchors.

  “Thus far it has not,” Patterson said. “As a good Navy man I hate to grant the Army a great deal of credit, but I must give them their due in General Jackson. He is in charge here in the Gulf, and he’s performed wonders— earlier this month he stormed Pensacola, Spanish flag or no Spanish flag, and ended the Creek Indian menace for once and all. I’m embarrassed to say he had precious little help from me in his endeavors; the Navy sat on its anchors waiting for the patriotic citizens of New Orleans to enlist.” His gaze turned baleful.

  “We’re still waiting,” he said. He drummed his fingers on the table, then went on. “Jackson’s returned his army to Mobile for the present— he expects the British to attack him there and has called up troops from Tennessee and Kentucky to meet him. He can march his present forces to the city in a few weeks. So New Orleans may not be entirely unprepared, sir— but I am much afraid the Navy shall be.”

  “Captain Patterson,” Favian said, “the city of New Orleans may consider that Macedonian has enlisted in its service, and I think we should tell them so. I had to send some of our complement off with the Carnation, but we also obtained some recruits, Americans pres
sed into British service, and the result is that we have nearly three hundred eighty men aboard, as well as the power of a thirty-eight-gun frigate. This hardly compares with the fleet the British will send against us, but the British will not be expecting to find Macedonian waiting for them, and we may count surprise as being on our side.”

  Patterson leaned back in his chair, a smile of grim pleasure playing over his face. “Aye,” he said, “it might raise the spirits of the town. Though I must inform you, Captain Markham,” he said, speaking flatly, “that a big frigate may prove less use here than you might think. The waters are shallow here; many of the approaches to New Orleans are suitable for nothing larger than barges. Here, at least, Mr. Jefferson’s gunboats can be used to good effect, and mere schooners like Carolina and Louisiana can serve better than a ship of the line.”

  “I am comforted to hear it,” said Favian.

  Patterson smiled a satisfied smile, having made his point in the gentlemanly little skirmish between the two American captains over ultimate command of naval forces in the Gulf. His words devalued Macedonian by showing it might not prove as important as Favian seemed to think, implied that only Patterson and Patterson’s men knew the waters and channels of the Mississippi Delta, and suggested to any astute listener that Favian could not be expected to command in shoal waters he did not know. Favian expected Patterson’s next play to be the suggestion that Macedonian transfer some of its crew to Louisiana and the gunboats, in other words from Favian’s sphere to Patterson’s, but Patterson refrained, perhaps he expected Favian, sooner or later, to suggest the idea himself.

  “I think we may have some recruits from the, ah, the gentlemen of the coast,” Patterson said, employing the phrase that meant pirate. He folded his hands in front of him. “Not tars of the best quality, to be sure, but men-of-war’s men of a sort, who know how to lay a cannon. I have recently put many of them out of business,” he said with satisfaction. “Many of their captains are in irons in the calabozo, where we may expect them to rot.”