Tread Carefully On the Sea

By David K Bryant. and Mary Harris

Through one last crime, pirate Captain Flint brings menace to a governor's niece, a Royal Navy captain ... and himself. A kidnapping, sea battles, disease and mutiny mean they must all Tread Carefully on the Sea.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Doce Blant Publishing
• Release date: Aug 3, 2022
• ISBN: 9781955413084

David K Bryant.

David K. Bryant began to write novels after a successful career in journalism and public relations in the United Kingdom. His love of real events permeates the rich stories he weaves in his collection of historical fiction novels. David is happily married to his wife of more than 40 years. He has two children and three grandchildren. David continues to write while retired in the lovely county of Somerset in England.

Book preview

The Background

I was seven years old or thereabouts and I walked round the garden reading Treasure Island. When I got to the bit about the musket and cutlass battle, I was so engrossed I walked into a tree. I was proud of my bleeding nose—I imagined I got it in a fight with a pirate.

What intrigued me most about that classic book by Robert Louis Stevenson was all the references to Captain Flint, a pirate king who was brutal, intimidating, and quite likely an alcoholic—yet obviously very clever.

Without Flint there would have been no Treasure Island for he was the man who had buried the Treasure on the Island. Yet in that book we hear about Flint only in reminiscences from some of the protagonists because Flint is dead by the time the story begins.

Stevenson’s narrative tells us Flint took six men ashore with him to stash the loot. But, having apparently murdered the others, only Flint came back to the ship, giving him the security of being the only man who knew where the cache was buried.

There had to be a story around that. For me, Flint deserved a biography of his own. What’s more, it should answer all those other questions posed by Treasure Island. If, as Stevenson tells us, Long John Silver had lost his leg in the same broadside as Old Pew lost his deadlights, what were the circumstances of that broadside? And how come that Billy Bones, the first mate, came into possession of Flint’s map where X marked the spot of the horde? It’s taken me a long time but now I have supplied my own answers. I hope you enjoy them, and I hope you identify with the experiences of the other characters I’ve created when you read Tread Carefully on the Sea.

Some of the characters in this book were real historical figures, most notably Governor Edward Trelawny, Queen Nanny, and Catherine Penny. While the story is fiction, I have endeavoured to portray these people with respect.

Preview

Fifteen men on the dead man’s chest, yo ho ho and a bottle of rum Drink and the devil had done for the rest, yo ho ho and a bottle of rum

Imagine that song wafting up from a secluded English cove as you took a cliff-top stroll.

You had wanted to watch the sun set down the Bristol Channel and hear nothing except the wind, surf and night birds. Now the idea of relaxation was shattered.

There were a number of voices. They were not in harmony and they were chanting rather than singing. The accents were rough and despite the jollity suggested by the yo ho ho, the rest of the lyrics were sinister.

An encounter with the singers could be dangerous. They were probably smugglers or even wreckers who lured ships on to the rocks for plunder. You thought of retracing your steps and running away. But those strangers would crest the rise from the beach at any moment and the surrounding land was mostly open with a long clear view in both directions along the coastal path and inland towards the copse. They would see you and give chase because they would not want their presence reported to the revenue officers. If they caught you, they might kill you.

So, you quickly chose the best option that was available. Three gorse bushes growing closely together gave enough width and height to provide a hiding place. With luck, the twilight would enhance the camouflage. The horizontal rays from the setting sun made the shadows longer, increasing the dark area around the bushes. The gorse and the gloom would be your cover. It would be safe to leave when the men had gone on their way, east or west towards one of the fishing villages.

You crouched behind the middle bush, making sure your head was below its crown. It really was unlikely that the men would realize anyone was there. There was, however, a convenient gap in the tangle through which you could observe them.

They were definitely miscreants of some kind. That was clear from the moment the first man reached the summit. His head appeared and he was wearing a tricorn hat but one section of its brim had fallen and was flapping over his left ear. His face looked like varnished wood, both in colour and substance, with a huge scar across the right side. As his body came into view, you saw the blue topcoat which once would have been smart but should have been discarded years ago. The rest of his clothing was equally scruffy, as was that of the men who followed him.

The first eleven of them came one at a time, then there was a team of two carrying between them a large sea chest. That would have been difficult because the upward trail was steep, winding and littered with loose stones. No wonder they dumped the chest on the ground as soon as they completed the climb.

After that, you were deceived. Shielding your eyes against the sunset, it looked at first as if the pair with the chest had been followed by one very fat man. But he had two heads, three legs and two long feelers like those of an insect. What kind of beast from the sea had followed these men on their ascent?

But you realized that it was not a monster but a combination of two men, their arms round each other’s waist. They were supporting each other and now you understood why. One had only one leg and was putting some of his weight on his companion; the other was blind and was relying on his partner’s eyes. The feelers were lengths of wood. In the case of the one-legged man the timber had been fashioned into a crutch to substitute for the missing leg. The blind man’s staff was simply part of a tree branch, not entirely straight and knotted at several points. He used it to find his way.

Now the whole gang gathered by the cliff edge and formed into a circle, with the chest at the centre. Most of them slouched on the ground but the man with the scarred face, obviously the one in charge, stood with his hands on his hips.

He began walking around the outside of the ring of men. He had an awkward gait and stopped occasionally as if he was nervous or uncertain what to do. He went into the middle of the group and up to the chest, from which he took pouches. He shook them and gave one each to his comrades, presumably sharing out stolen money. Next, he took from his pocket something that looked like an oilskin packet and was apparently referring to it because at one point he held it aloft. You strained to hear and were helped by the way the man crashed out his words as if competing with the breakers as they beat on the rocks thirty feet below.

The map’s inside this packet. I’m putting it in the chest here, so’s you all can see me do it. When the right time comes, we’ll put to sea again and go and collect the loot. But that can’t be for a while because we’re wanted men and if we stay together, we’ll be caught and hung for sure.

So, your suspicions were confirmed. These men were criminals. The map contained information that would convict them. It certainly would be fatal for you to be discovered. You tried to hide yourself more securely by crawling farther under the bushes and bending your knees to condense your body. In doing so, you moved a branch or twig and it scraped across the dry ground. It made only a little noise, but any giveaway could be perilous.

You had been concealed well enough and should have stayed still. You cursed yourself under your breath and couldn’t resist looking to see if the men had heard the sound. Thankfully, they were still in their circle listening to their leader. In fact, whatever he had just said had brought a cheer from them. They were not aware of your presence—apart from one.

The exception was the blind man. His body, head, and even his face had been covered by a heavy cloak, but now he had moved the hood back, revealing a leather mask across his eye sockets and a nose as knobbly as his stick. He was standing away from the others, sniffing at the air as if he were catching the wind. Then he shouted, more accurately shrieked, at the rest of them:

We’re being watched. There’s someone close. I heard ’em and I can smell ’em.

With that, he held out his stick and began finding his way across the flat ground. He tried one direction and fortunately he went away from you. But evidently his instincts told him it was the wrong way. He moved sideways, carefully checking with the stick before each footfall. Then he uttered a short ah to indicate he had found his bearings. He quickened his step and was coming straight towards your hide. He reached the bushes on the opposite side and began beating them with the stick. Your fear was now terror. Should you run? You thought you would be too petrified to move and tried a silent prayer instead. The blind man was yelling again: Over here, you lunks. I told you there was a spy about.

Then you find ’em, responded one of the other men, followed by some words you couldn’t hear. He scowled at the blind man and started walking away.

The others followed suit. Some headed in one direction along the clifftop path, some the other. In frustration, the blind man gave the gorse a final whack. But if he continued his quest to find you, he would need the help of sighted men and they were departing. His zeal to uncover an eavesdropper gave way to anxiety about being left alone and lost. He called to the one-legged man: Mate, come and join up with me. The amputee positioned the crutch under his arm, hobbled over, and took the blind man’s hand. They merged themselves together again, arms around waists, and set off, leaving the cliff-top to regain its tranquillity.

The crisis was over. Those fifteen pirates were on their way to another story*. It’s one you should read if you enjoy great adventures.

But please read this one first.

*Treasure Island by Robert Louis Stevenson

PART ONE

Jamaica

Chapter One

The Gathering

Back in England, the house would not have warranted the word mansion. In the mother country, the homes of the aristocracy were like small castles: stone-built, as much as one hundred and fifty feet high and with turrets, towers, and chimneys all over the roofs. The grounds would have hedges cut into the shapes of birds, a lake festooned with lilies, trees arranged in lines to calm the wind and parkland that stretched as far as the eye could see.

Here in Jamaica, society was smaller, and consequently King’s House was not a grand piece of architecture. That did not diminish its importance as the official home of the Governor, the King’s representative in the colony that had been described by Charles II as the darling plantation. On this island it was the sugar cane that stretched to the horizon or at least to the foot of the mountains.

King’s House was like a hacienda, redolent of Jamaica’s Spanish past. It was of rectangular construction, with the interior space being provided by its width, not its height. The walls were rendered white and topped with a gently sloping roof of red barrel tiles. Both of the storeys were lined with tall windows behind green latticed shutters. The corners of the upper floor had verandas with iron balustrades, which curved around the bedroom suites of the governor and his family. At ground level, elegance was provided by both the portico that stretched the length of the frontage and the wide colonnaded central porch with its own high-pitched roof.

There was no irony in the Union Jack flying over this most un-English of buildings. That flag flew over the peoples of numerous colonies in this region of the world.

On the night of August 23rd, 1749, King’s House was the venue for a special occasion, the twenty-first birthday of the governor’s adopted daughter. Unfortunately, the celebration would be prevented from taking place. Instead, there would be tragedy and terror in a long sequence of events that would change the lives of many and bring death to some, good and bad. Unknown to the people gathering for the party, that story had already started to unfold.

The carriages had been arriving for nearly an hour. The discordant thud of hooves and the rumble of wooden wheels on the crushed stone of the driveway were followed by the rattle of harnesses and springs as the coachmen brought the horses to a halt on the gravel circle outside the house. Thousands of insects added a pattern to the lanterns as the ladies and gentlemen of Jamaica disembarked.

The man who greeted them could have been posing for a portrait. Framed by the grooved columns of the porch, he stood proud if not tall, square-shouldered although podgy. The expression on his face showed that this was one of his happiest days. The criss-cross of light from within and without the house pinged back from his medals while his dark blue dress coat was set off by the white of the walls. His left hand rested on the brass pommel of the sword at his side; his right remained outstretched in continuous welcome. With every hand he shook or, in the case of the ladies, kissed, his big black eyebrows twitched as if offering their own welcome. His name was Edward Trelawny. Of all the governors Jamaica had seen, his tenure had been the longest and the most successful. The colony was prosperous and at peace. He had a right to his pride.

Greetings completed, the guests passed through the porchway to an inner balcony where, in an alcove, musicians with two violins and a piano played a sonata. The Great Hall itself was sunk five steps below the level of the balcony and that, combined with the marble of the checkerboard floor tiles, gave the reception area of the house some slight relief from the tropical heat. The ice colour of the crystal chandeliers and the white marble busts on plinths helped to give the impression, if not the effect, of coolness. To the left, big double doors with biblical engravings in their panels led to the dining room, now set with one hundred and fifty places. On the opposite side of the hall, a pair of three-foot high urns, black with yellow images of tropical flowers, framed the red-carpeted staircase to the upper floor.

The guests were not dressed for the climate. The men took off their three-cornered hats on entering but were still in powdered wigs, coats, thigh-length waistcoats, starched cravats, knee breeches, stockings, and buckled shoes. The women wore wide gowns, tall wigs, and elbow-high white gloves but at least had ventilation at the neck and in some cases the shoulders. All the clothes were brightly coloured and collectively formed a kaleidoscope of mainly blues, reds, greens, gold and white. The flamboyance of the costumes brought out the inner peacock in the people and they stood and talked in a manner that said, Look at the cut of my coat or Have you noticed the silk of my ruffle? There was a lot of wealth represented in King’s House that night, most of it made from the cultivation of sugar and cocoa. The availability of that wealth would prove fortuitous later when events turned sour.

At the back of the hall, right next to the grandfather clock with its pendulum visible through its glass front, a plain functional door led to the kitchens. That door was continually swinging open and shut with the passage of servants bringing in silver trays of canapés and drinks or returning with the used plates and glasses. Amongst the guests the waiters walked upright and correct even when avoiding collisions with each other. But with the opening and closing of the door there were glimpses of the scene in the back of the house where everyone was in a hurry, making demands of each other and arguing about who was to blame for what.

Frantic people in starched white hats were busy with turnspits, stoves and cooking pots. The plan was that the meal would give the diners a reminder of their native England but also draw on the best of the Jamaican dishes. The starter would be white or pepperpot soup. That would be followed by salt fish caught that day. For the main course the pigeon, beef, ham, turkey, and that most special of meats, venison, could equally have been served on a London table. The brown stew chicken and curried goat were quintessentially local. To a plate of some or all of the meats could be added steamed cabbage, shredded coconut, and potatoes. The latter were to be served steaming hot to melt the butter while it was spread on them. For dessert, the local cocoa would make excellent chocolate—it had been stewing for hours and was now being thickened with egg yolks. The meal would be rounded off with pineapple served with cheese which was presently tied in cloths and hopefully would dry in time for serving when coconut milk would be added. What a shame it was that none of this feast would be eaten because of what was to transpire at King’s House that evening.

The head steward had chosen a corner away from the industry of the kitchen to gather together those staff who would serve at the tables. He wanted to give a final briefing to make sure they understood the timetable and the procedures. One servant was missing. Does anyone know where Perkins is? asked the head steward.

Nobody did. It was unlike Perkins. He’d always been reliable but what a time for him to be absent. However, Richard Perkins had other business that evening and would never do any honest work at King’s House again.

With nearly all the guests now gathered in the Great Hall, Governor Edward Trelawny asked his nephew John to wait at the porch and have him informed as soon as the last two people arrived. They were certain to come because their ship had been seen to berth. Then the host went inside to the hall. He took the arm of his companion, Catherine Penny, the widow of Jamaica’s late attorney-general and a woman who did not need her expensive clothing and jewellery to make her look distinguished. They made a noticeable couple. Catherine was half a head higher than Trelawny and the tallest woman at the party. They varied in complexion, too; him browned, her pale. They began moving from circle to circle, picking up on passages from conversations and taking care to display their interest in those matters of commerce, politics, and justice that concerned the visitors.

Catherine took an opportunity between socializing to ask Trelawny when he intended to present his adopted daughter Jessica, whose birthday they were to celebrate.

We need to wait for Captain Townsend to arrive, said Trelawny. She’ll want him to be here first.

Oh yes, remarked Catherine, there’s a twinkle in her eye for him. No doubt we’ll be holding another event at this house soon.

It’ll be bigger than the one here tonight, pledged Trelawny, and as if to show he meant it, he inverted his lips as he completed the sentence.

Catherine gave a benevolent smile. She thought it sweet the way Trelawny doted on Jessica and John, his niece and nephew whom he had adopted after their parents’ early deaths. They were his only family, since he was a widower and his only child had died in infancy.

CHAPTER TWO

The Ambush

For Captain Michael Townsend, master of the Royal Navy frigate HMS Ambitious, the twenty-first birthday of Jessica Trelawny was an event not to be missed. He had served with her uncle, the governor, in the capture from the Spanish of Port Louis in San Domingo and had admired the way the man organized his regiment and coordinated its action with the navy’s. Townsend had since visited the Trelawnys a number of times, and when at sea, had found himself thinking of Jessica and of marriage. On this occasion, he may actually bring himself to ask a certain question of the governor.

The birthday celebration, and a few days in Jamaica, would also come as a welcome relief to Townsend after months of hunting the pirates who preyed on the Caribbean shipping lanes. He reckoned that a number of merchant vessels had safely reached their destinations because the Ambitious had been able to thwart the raiders. The capture of one of the pirate crews was his next goal, but that could wait. He had taken leave from his squadron; his crew deserved a rest, and he had some serious socializing ahead of him.

The Ambitious had sailed east to Jamaica against the particularly strong trade winds and the slow progress had meant that, instead of arriving two days before Jessica’s birthday as Townsend had planned, he only docked at Jamaica’s big harbour in the city of Port Royal as the sun was going down on the very night of the function.

It was thoughtful of the governor to have his carriage waiting for us at the dock, said Townsend’s first officer Lieutenant Patrick O’Hara as their driver guided the team away from the quayside.

Edward doesn’t leave anything to chance, replied Townsend. He would have been concerned about our lateness and had a watch kept for our ship over the last two days. When news was brought to him of its approach, he would have dispatched the carriage immediately.

O’Hara frowned and added: I hope we won’t have the embarrassment of entering when the banquet is already under way. We can hardly expect that the governor will risk his guests’ impatience for our sake.

There’s no need to worry, Pat, the captain assured him. Edward will keep them chattering. He now knows we’re coming and it’s my guess he won’t want to present Jessica and start the feasting until everyone is present. This is a man who does everything properly. Now sit back and relax. We have a few pleasant days ahead of us to take our minds off the pirates. It’s going to be a week of good food and wine, interesting company, and some recreation in the sunshine so let’s not waste a minute of it.

Captain Townsend and Lieutenant O’Hara had become good friends since O’Hara had joined the Ambitious six months earlier. They were both in their late twenties and had risen to high rank early in their careers. Townsend had a patrician look to him—dark hair over a high forehead, brown eyes and firm chin. His family had a naval history, and he had the confidence and attention to detail instilled by a solid education. His technical skills earned him the respect of his men, and his easy manner made him better than most skippers at getting the best from them.

That was quite an accomplishment when the navy, stretched to protect its interests in various parts of the world, had turned to pressganging foreign mercenaries and even beggars to make up its numbers. A professional Able Seaman found it difficult to accept the influx of ragamuffins and even more difficult to tolerate waiting up to two years to be paid. Nearly a decade earlier, but still a bone of contention with the long-servers, the rum ration had been cut. Once, the sailors had enjoyed half a pint a day of 160-proof neat rum. Now it was a quarter of a pint mixed with equal parts water to make grog, the grimness of that name reflecting the men’s contempt for the mixture. It was a good master who could keep up discipline with the minimum of floggings. Townsend was such a captain.

But while he was an easy man to follow, there was something else about Townsend that was kept below the surface. Lieutenant O’Hara sometimes sensed a sadness in his captain and as yet had not figured out or intruded to ask why. It was something to do with the past; O’Hara knew that. He had once asked Townsend about his background and the answer had been polite but defensive. It had been made clear that whatever had happened was not a matter for discussion. O’Hara could accept that. There were things in his own life that hurt deeply. The difference was that he would have talked about them if the subject had arisen. But if it was Townsend’s way to shut the door then that was his prerogative.

O’Hara had a much different heritage. He was a big bear of a man with a round ruddy face, not a very different shade from his hair. Some minor scars and the well-developed muscles both resulted from one of his previous occupations—boxing. He had that warm Irishness and the ability to be tough with a smile on his face. His self-belief was founded on common sense and hard work. He may well command a ship himself one day, but in the meantime, there was no one his present captain would prefer to have beside him in a battle or a storm. Put that compatibility alongside the pleasure of sailing the Ambitious, a fine refitted frigate with a worthwhile mission, and the two men were both well satisfied in their roles. And tonight, they had particular reason to be proud of their profession. They were wearing for the first time the newly introduced officers’ dress uniform of dark blue jacket with gold lapels and white facings, high white shirts with ruffs, white breeches and stockings, and black shoes with gold buckles. The ebony and gold steel scabbards that hung from the left side of their white leather belts contained their ceremonial swords.

The officer at the Customs House recognized the governor’s coach by its gilded gold bodywork and the team of four grey carriage horses, and he waved it by. Townsend and O’Hara, sitting opposite each other, eased back on the green leather upholstery and started one of those do you remember? conversations as the vehicle entered the streets of Port Royal.

The journey from the docks to King’s House would once have been directly along Port Royal’s High Street. But this was a city that had suffered three times from disaster in the last sixty years: first an earthquake, next a fire, then a hurricane. There had been reconstruction after all of the catastrophes, but the place was a mishmash of intact buildings and ruins, habitation and desertion. The city was life and death, side by side. The High Street itself was typical of this power struggle between Man and Nature. One side was extant, lined with randomly spaced single-story houses and businesses; the other was no longer there, or at least all that was to be seen was flattened land interspersed with incursions of the sea. So, the coach driver had to take a circuitous route, frequently turning left or right to keep to the surviving sections of highway. Even so, progress was varied because of obstructions in the road caused by uncleared heaps of rubble. The city’s population didn’t help by leaving carts, barrels and boxes scattered about, as well as presenting a hazard to wheeled traffic by ambling around the streets, or simply sitting on the thoroughfare drinking and talking. It was slow going, especially when the coach came to the clock tower. This had once stood proudly in the centre of the road but had been sliced in half by the earthquake; the remaining section of the clock face providing a record of the time of the tremor with the hands stuck at 11:43. The coach had to traverse a narrow strip between the tower and a burnt-out building. It could pass with the horses at a slow walk and had done so often. But this time, instead of breaking into a trot when they had negotiated the restricted passageway, the horses came to a stop.

Captain Townsend was concerned at already being late for the function at King’s House. He heard the driver’s call of halt and took out his pocket watch. In the dimness he could just see that it was almost seven o’clock, the time the dinner should be starting. Townsend shouted to the coachman to ask what was wrong, but his query hung in the still warm air and needed no reply as the captain simultaneously stuck his head through the side opening and saw the reason for himself.

A few yards in front of the coach stood seven or eight villainous-looking men, all with a musket or pistol pointed at the vehicle. They formed a line across the street and there was no one else in view at this spot. To one side of the supposed highwaymen was the Meat Market, long since closed for the day. Opposite that was more of Port Royal’s dereliction. Besides, these thieves, if that was what they were, would have scared off any potential witnesses before stopping the coach.

Townsend flung open the door and jumped out. If it’s money you want, here’s my pocketbook, he shouted, holding out the leather purse with his left hand while keeping his right poised, ready for any opportunity or necessity to draw his sword. Please take it and let us get on our way. We’ve an important appointment to keep.

One of the gang gave a cynical laugh and stepped forward two paces.

As his eyes became more accustomed to the increasing darkness, Townsend realized that these were not local criminals but seamen. You could always tell a seaman. He would stand at an angle, even on shore, as though the land beneath him would sway like the deck of a ship and he would have to shift his footing. Besides, most of these men were wearing the loose