Yankee Privateer by Andre Norton
"Certainly not!" He mustered up what force he could throw into that answer. "We have been serving on a ship of war lawfully—doing our duty under a government commission. We're just prisoners of war like —like the Convention Army—Burgoyne's men we took at Saratoga. Why half of them have settled down in Maryland and intend to live there after the war is over, they like it so well. You've heard of them, haven't you, Mike?"
"But they say as how we're goin' t' th' Mill Prison, sir. An' I don't fancy settlin' down in England, neither." He ended with a touch of dry humor which made Fitz warm to him even more.
"Nor do any of us, Mike. And as for the Mill—these Britishers may put us in there, boy, but that isn't proof that we'll stay there all nice and safe afterward."
The smaller hand in his returned his clutch with interest. "Yo' mean—escape—sir?"
"Of course. What else does a prisoner ever think of? Lord, Mike, other privateersmen before us have been thrust in there and then have walked away from the redcoats as pert as you please. Why, I've heard tell of men who passed themselves off as British officers or guards and the real ones never sniffed the difference until too late. Conyngham played that sort of trick as easy as kiss your hand! Don't you worry about the Mill. We're not bad off at all: We aren't bound for the hulks. And if the lobsterbacks yell 'pirate’ at you, just up-nose them back. We've nothing to fear from words."
Fitz only wished he could be as sure in his own mind of the truth of what he was saying. The attitude of the British lieutenant had not been reassuring.
"Mike," he changed the subject abruptly, "where are Mr. Ninnes and Lieutenant Biggs?"
There was a long moment of hesitation before Mike replied in a small, colorless voice. "I heard tell, sir, as how Lieutenant Biggs was killed when we boarded th' prize. An' Mr. Ninnes, he took a nasty one in th' arm. I was one as helped carry him below. You're th' only officer left—wi' th' Cap'n gone."
Biggs was dead. Somehow Fitz found that hard to believe, no matter how many times he repeated the words. And Ninnes was lying down in Watts' bloodstained hole. He was the only officer left. Holding his hands to his aching head, he moistened his lips again before he raised his voice to carry the full length of their prison.
"Call the roll!"
They obeyed quickly enough. There were twelve confined there—eight unscratched and four with minor wounds. As far as they knew, they were the only survivors, with the exception of the seriously wounded still in the cockpit. And now, discovering that Fitz had gained his wits again, they clustered about him with a multitude of questions, most of them centering on the charge of piracy which the captors had been very free with while forcing the Americans below.
"We have sailed on a commissioned ship of war,"
Fitz repeated patiently, "Captain Crofts holds three commissions in truth, one from Congress, one from Maryland, and one from the Navy. And the British pride themselves on the legality of their conduct. Their judges cannot call us pirate when the truth is known."
"But, sir, I've heard tell as how they say that we are rebels an' our commissions don't mean a thing at law."
"Have any of you heard of a privateersman having his neck stretched as yet?" Fitz countered. This war has been dragging on a mortal long time, and I've yet to hear any stories of hanging on such a charge—in spite of their threats. Oh, yes, they'll send us to the Mill. But there're worse places we could be."
"Aye to that, sir!" one voice seconded him emphatically. "There're th' hulks! An' th' man what is sent int' them rots t' death bone by bone! Mr. Lyon has th' right o' it, boys—prison on land ain't so bad. Th' Cap'n, he left us somethin' t' grease th' palms wi' too, didn't he?"
"An' who's a-goin' t' keep us in their Mill?" another demanded challengingly.
"There's that point to plan on," Fitz agreed, touching the bandage around his head tenderly. "In a week or so we may all be skipping back across the Channel as merry as gigs. I was told that there are those ashore who will help an honest American seaman in his need. Is there a mouthful of water to be had in this stinking hole?"
"No, sir," Mike's thinner pipe cut through the mutters of the men. "They've given us naught since they sent us down here. It's kinda thirsty work, waitin' . . ."
"Wish I had me a plate o' my old woman's stew," a voice ventured wistfully in answer to that. "She kin make a stew as Fat George hisself never set tooth into—like as not "
"Rather have a good peg o' rum," he was interrupted. "A good peg o' rum now "
"Which at present we lack," Fitz pointed out. "And if we start thinking of food and drink "
"Th' more our guts are a-gonna t' pinch!" He received unexpected support from at least one member of the crew. "Sure, Mr. Lyon has th' right o' that. Best be a-plannin', boys, how you're a-goin' t' keep th' hard money th' Cap'n gave us. These lobsters'll think o' searchin' when we gets ashore. An' they ain't th' sort t' miss much."
There were scrambling, fumbling sounds in the dark. Apparently all hearers of that sage advice had been moved to check up on such precautions as they had already taken. But there came an interruption from overhead. The fastenings of the hatch were thrown off, and soon they blinked up at an open square of daylight.
"All right, you rebels," the voice above had the snap of assured authority. "Come up, one at a time. We've muskets on you, so try no tricks."
A rope ladder was dropped to them and the nearest man seized it. Mike lingered by Fitz.
"Can you make th' climb, sir, wi' your bad head an' all?"
"If I can't they'll have to carry me and I don't relish that I Get along with you now, Mike, and no kicking the biggest lobster in the shins until I get there—that is a privilege I want for myself!"
Mike giggled a bit shakily and began to climb. Then it was Fitz's turn. The rope scraped his hands and his head swam as he pulled himself up with all the energy of a tired old man.
The men of the Retaliation were being herded into line and manacled with clumsy irons in pairs. Fitz hotly protested this treatment and was threatened with a double dose of the same, but he continued to face up to the officer in charge.
"I demand to see your commander, sir! We are prisoners of war, not common criminals, and you have no right "
The British lieutenant made a sign, and Fitz felt the prick of a bayonet between his shoulder blades.
"You're a damned rebel pirate, and if I had my way you'd all be hanged from your own spars this morning. Get them ashore, Sergeant!"
Plymouth was an important and historical port. Drake and Hawkins had walked along the Hoe and sailed from its Devon harbor. But all Fitz saw of it that day was colored by a red fog of pure rage. The Americans were marched along in a body, their chains clanking loudly enough to draw a crowd to view their passing. Mike, who had been spared the irons because of his youth, tramped next to Fitz, trying to steady the marine officer when the footing was bad.
There were hoots and catcalls aplenty not only from the small boys of the town but from a good company of its shabbier citizens as well. Privateers were held beyond sympathy in a country whose commercial life-blood they were squeezing drop by drop. But the Americans were spared the hail of refuse when some of the first handfuls of muck spattered the guard as well as the intended targets, and the British marines united to drive away the marksmen.
Fitz longed to know what had happended to Crofts but there seemed to be no way of finding out except by asking the sergeant of the guard, and that, he vowed savagely, he was not going to do.
Their march ended in a stuffy courtroom where the Americans were forced to stand uncovered while they were arraigned before the worshipful justices of the peace. The charge was read—that they had been found "in arms and rebellion on the high seas, in the ship Retaliation, commissioned by the North American Congress."
And the stout, elderly man who delivered the sentence seemed extremely bored as he repeated it.
"You are severally and individually committed to Mill Prison, having been taken for rebellion, piracy, and
9
Stone Walls Do a Prison Make
Tho' a mad-hearted war, which Old England will rue,
At London, at Dublin, and Edinburgh, too,
The tradesmen stand still, and the merchant bemoans
The losses he meets with from such as Paul Jones.
—PAUL JONES
Double walls with a twenty-foot space between them encircled the group of stone buildings which was Old Mill Prison. The iron gates which opened into this cheerless enclosure were well guarded by sentries, and other redcoats patrolled the yard, or loitered here and there watching the motley crowd enjoying a certain amount of freedom within.
At that time almost three hundred Americans were penned in their particular section; and in other buildings almost as many French and Spanish were quartered. Exchange was a dream most of them had ceased to believe in. They had heard that it was possible, but had yet to see it in practice. The complications of Congress was increased twofold by the officers of His Majesty's government, and the chance of procuring all the forms and fulfilling all the conditions was perhaps one in a thousand. Most of the Americans preferred to pin their hopes on escape under their own power—spurred on by stories of one or two successful attempts.
From eight in the morning until sunset the captured privateersmen were allowed the liberty of the yard, and here ninety per cent of the talk ran to planning escapes. It was possible to get over the walls, or under them, or even through the gates. All this had been done.
"Recapture means forty or sixty days in the Black Hole on bread an’ water," Labron Coffin, lately of 1 Marblehead, spoke, looking down at the bit of softwood he was lovingly shaping into the form of a small sea horse, "but seem' as how they make us go short o' rations anyhow—that ain't too bad pay for a chance at gettin' away altogether. They say as bein' rebels we ain't entitled t' full rations an' they cut us down while ; the Frenchies an' th' rest o' them foreigners fill their bellies tight!"
He was giving voice to an old, old grievance which every American prisoner chewed on sooner or later. "Why, durin' th' cold time last winter some o' our boys caught snails t' give a mite o' flavor t' th' soup-so they did!"
The men of the Retaliation, who had held together jail morning, eyeing the old-timers a little suspiciously land still looking to Fitz for leadership, goggled at this tale of horror.
"Have you heard anything of Captain Crofts?" Fitz cut through the New Englander's yarning. "We haven't seen him since we were taken."
Coffin shook his head. "He hasn't been in here yet. You're th' newest fish aboard. Captain Adams might know somethin'—he's that officer over there wi' a whole coat on him "
A man with a whole coat on his back truly was memorable in the tatterdemalion crowd, most of whom still possessed only the clothes which had been on their backs at the time of their capture. Fitz pushed through the throng, skirting a ball game and the circle of watchers about a wrestling match, to the side of the man Coffin had pointed out. He was as neat as if he still trod his own quarter-deck, and he looked up quickly as Fitz instinctively came to attention and saluted.
"Sub-lieutenant Lyon, of the Retaliations marines, sir."
"Captain Adams, late of the Jason." His salute was returned by a gesture more nautical than military. , "I have just heard of your arrival in our midst, sir. In what manner can I serve you? Wait," he put out a hand, "let us get out of his hubbub "
Fitz glanced back. The men of the Retaliation were no longer a group to themselves. His leaving had broken up their clanishness. He glimpsed Mike's light head in the line of a leap-frog party, and the rest were drifting into other circles. His feeling of responsibility diminished, and he followed the captain eagerly into the building which housed the American prisoners. Adams, with something of a flourish, ushered him into a room where there was actually some degree of warmth. Hammocks hung on pegs in the walls, and the center space had been cleared for a rough table, some benches and stools, and a charcoal brazier.
"Our coffee house, sir. May I present Mr. Lyon, gentlemen, of the Retaliation out of Baltimore "
The four or five men in the room put down their papers, their cards, and stopped their conversation to look up and then rise and bow with a punctilious courtesy which appeared odd against the grim background.
"Captain Ezra Blount, of the Congress out of Maine, Captain Leonard Griggs, of the Washington out of Norfolk, Captain Conrad Blum, of the Franklin out of Philadelphia, Mr. Roger Towers, sailing master of the Mohawk, Massachusetts, and Mr. Peter Neagle, first officer of the Washington/*
The last named, a rather stout young gentleman with a round, open face, came forward, a steaming mug in his hand.
"You appear, sir," he said, as he held out the mug to Fitz with a languid air which would have been perfectly proper in an assembly room, "as if you would be the better for a portion of this beverage. It is the best obtainable since Captain Adams suborned our guard to purchase it for us. Drink up, gentlemen," he urged the others, "we seldom have a marine come aboard. Your home state, sir?"
Fitz had cautiously sipped at the contents of the mug, only to discover to his astonishment, that it was actually hot tea. For the first time his chronic headache eased into a faint pounding.
"Maryland " he managed to get out after swallowing his first good mouthful.
"A marine, eh?" Captain Griggs came up to sit on the edge of the table where the card players were engaged. "And a slightly damaged one, too. Best have Dr. Swift look at your head, young man, if it troubles you. But you'd be wise to stay out of the hospital if you can. I don't trust any lobster pill-roller. The Retaliation . . . Where were you taken?"
"In the Channel, sir." Fitz gave a short account of the encounter which had made an end to the Retaliation's luck.
"Dat is badt," Captain Blum shook his head. "Und der Kapitan, you haf not heard from der Kapitan?"
Fitz put down the empty mug and looked from face to face in the half-circle of listeners about him.
"Is there any truth in this talk of our being held as pirates?" he asked.
It was Adams who answered: "Well, they've put that tag on all of us here, and we've yet to see a man dangle for it. It's my opinion that they've taken your Captain Crofts for questioning, and when they find that they can learn nothing from him, we'll be greeting him here. You have little to fear for your captain, sir."
Fitz ventured a question of his own. "You have tea, sir. How "
"How do we do it?" Neagle finished his question. "It is simple enough. If you possess money you can have almost anything you wish. There is a regular fair about our wall gates. And with permission, also paid for as you may guess, we can purchase what we wish— or have the means for. Those of us who are clever with our hands fashion small souvenirs to sell to the townsfolk, to whom we are something of a raree show. The men who can carve have worked up a nice little business. Captain Blount here, for example. Will you show the gentleman your wares, Captain?"
The captain from Maine unwound to his full six-foot-three and went over to the corner, returning with a box from which he produced—with a pride he did not try to dissemble—a series of small figures of Indians, carved and painted with considerable skill. As Fitz exclaimed over them, Captain Blount pointed out the special features of each in turn, the face paint, the trappings, the style of scalp lock which made it representative of tribe or rank.
"I was captured when I was a lad," he explained, "back in the days of the French Wars. Lived two years among the tribes. Their life isn't ours and they're cruel enough, God knows. But I've seen white men as vicious. And they're good to their own folk. When they're starving they'll divide the last mouthful of meat among the whole clan if they can. This is Squamis," he picked out one of the figures. "He adopted me in place of a son who had died of the smallpox. He taught me how to use the bow and hunt. We're clumsy critters in the
"An' sarpents they be!" cut in Captain Griggs. "My brother was with that fool Braddock an' was captured too. Only he wasn't adopted—no, he was roasted— screaming—like a lot of others! They ain't human a'tall »
Neagle chuckled in Fitz's ear and whispered: "This is one of the classic debates which tend to enliven our captivity. We are men of many words, as you will discover. But," he raised his voice, "whether they are human or not, these Indians have proved a boon to our present company." He touched one of the half-crouching painted hunters with a finger tip. "The townspeople are half mad for them, and this mess lives fat because of Captain Blount's skill—and his two years of captivity. And now, sir, where are you quartered?"
"I don't rightly know. We were only marched in an hour ago "
"If you are in search of a space to bed down, may I suggest my own apartment? We are one short at the present. Mr. Bramley of the Terror went over the wall three days ago. Since we have heard nothing further we may even hope that he was successful this time "
"Had he tried it before?" asked Fitz with real interest. Neagle laughed and the others echoed him heartily.
"Poor Bramley has been trying ever since he came here. But heretofore the fates have been opposed. He has practically lived in the Black Hole between essays. Perhaps you may find his hammock lucky if you wish to try it."
Fitz hesitated. "That is passing kind of you, sir. But there's one of the ship's boys, Mike Sewall, he has been with me since we were taken "
Neagle waved a plump hand. "One boy will not be hard to pack away among the rest of us. Bring him along, sir. A smart and willing youngster to run errands will be an addition to our company."