A Sacrifice of Pawns

Chapter 2

2

MacKim heard the quick patter of feet on deck, listened to the steady creak of Martha, and left the tween decks to check his men. They lay in various corners of the vessel, some silent, others grunting or snoring in their sleep. MacRae was talking in his native Gaelic, Parnell snoring like a bull, Oxford curled in a foetal ball, Danskin holding a letter to his sweetheart, but all present and correct.

MacKim nodded, satisfied that his men were safe. Only a few weeks ago, they had all been quartered in Quebec, secure in the knowledge that they had conquered Canada and hoping their war was over. After years of hard campaigning, MacKim’s parent regiment, the 78th Highlanders, had settled into the Canadian city, while Kennedy’s Rangers had engaged in routine patrolling and picket work.

MacKim smiled as he remembered these quiet days when he had spent many of his off-duty hours walking with Claudette.

“What are your intentions with that woman?” Kennedy had asked, half-joking, yet wholly serious.

MacKim had considered the implications before he replied. “I’m not sure I have any intentions.”

“In the eyes of the rest of the Rangers,” Kennedy said, “you two are already married with a brood of children.”

“I’m too young for a wedding,” MacKim said as the idea of married life slid into his mind. “And a soldier’s life is no life for a woman.”

“Harriette is happy enough,” Kennedy pointed out. Harriette was Private Chisholm’s wife, as tough and hardened a campaigner as any soldier in the British Army. MacKim had known her from his early days in the 78th Highlanders when she was married to Corporal Gunn, now dead. Chisholm, a much-scarred veteran, had befriended MacKim when he was a Johnny Raw.

“Harriette was born in the Army,” MacKim said. “She knows no other life.” He had looked over the ruins of Quebec, which the Army and Quebecers were gradually rebuilding after the British bombardment of two years previously. He liked the spirit of Quebec, although he found city life constraining.

“Claudette favours you,” Kennedy urged, smiling.

MacKim temporised. “Maybe after I leave the Army.”

“That won’t be long now. As soon as peace comes, the king will disband us all. Geordie doesn’t need Rangers in time of peace.”

Peace. The concept was alien. MacKim could not imagine a world at peace. He knew he could never return to scraping an existence at the whim of a landlord or a clan chief. After fighting with the 78th in the vastness of North America, and particularly after making his own decisions with the Rangers, MacKim would never bow down before imposed authority.

“Maybe then,” MacKim said. “It all depends on the Spaniards. If Spain remains neutral, we can force France to the negotiating table, although God knows they’ve little to negotiate. We’ve removed most of their colonial possessions from the chessboard.”

“They still hold Martinico, Louisiana, and part of Hispaniola,” Kennedy said. “Let’s hope Spain does not get involved. That would mean another couple of years of war until we can force her to submit.” He grunted. “On the other hand, if the Spanish do ally themselves to France, we can grab Florida.”

“I don’t want to grab anything,” MacKim said.

“Except Claudette?” Kennedy said, smiling.

“There are obstacles between us. Claudette is Roman Catholic, and I am Presbyterian.”

Kennedy looked away. “That is an obstacle.”

“Aye. I’m not giving away my life to the dictates of the Pope.”

“Maybe you could convert Claudette to the Reformed Church?” Kennedy asked.

“Claudette is staunch in her Catholicism,” MacKim said.

MacKim remembered that conversation as he lay in his uncomfortable cot. The religious obstacle seemed insurmountable, for MacKim’s mother had fed him tales of the horrors of the Roman Catholic Church. However, his family had fought for the Catholic Stuarts in the late Jacobite Risings in Scotland, which was always a paradox in MacKim’s mind. To him, man had debased the simple teachings of Christ by creating hierarchies of religion, with different factions preaching alternate varieties of the Gospel.

MacKim shook his head. Should people not have allowed the fundamental truth to shine through without confusing the issues for their own ends?

He heard a sudden shout on deck, sighed, and tried not to listen. MacKim had grown used to the crew’s nightly raids on the cargo and subsequent drunken return to the fo’c’sle. He ignored the shouts and yells and tried to get back to sleep, but the noise was different this night.

The distinct crack of a pistol brought MacKim to full wakefulness.

“What was that, sergeant?” Kennedy’s voice sounded through the gloom.

“It sounded like a gunshot,” MacKim said as he controlled his suddenly increased heartbeat. “Wait here, and I’ll investigate.”

“Drunken fools!” Kennedy said. “Captain Stringer ought to get them in hand.”

With the Rangers’ firearms held elsewhere, MacKim only had a bayonet as he slid onto the main deck. He had no sooner emerged when he knew something was badly wrong. A crewman lay dead beside the mainmast, with blood spreading from his chest, and his eyes and mouth wide open.

“Trouble, lads!” MacKim ran below to warn the still-sleeping Rangers.

Before the Rangers could react, a rush of men thundered onto the ship with a pair of pistols pointing at MacKim and others directed at the half-sleeping men.

“What the devil?” MacKim asked.

“Allez!” the man with the pistols gestured for MacKim to return to the main deck. Only then was he aware of the vessel tied up alongside Martha.

“Who are you?” A smiling, slender man pushed through the crowd to confront MacKim. “You are not part of this crew.” His strong French accent informed MacKim what had happened. Unseen in the cloudy night, a French vessel, either a royal warship or a privateer, had closed with Martha and sent a boarding party onto the Boston vessel.

Now that they had control of the brig, the Frenchmen lit lanterns, whose smoky, flickering light illuminated the deck, allowing MacKim to have a partial picture of events.

Looking over the faces of the men who pointed pistols, boarding pikes, and swords at the Rangers, MacKim guessed they were privateers rather than seamen from one of King Louis’s ships. They looked more like buccaneers from the seventeenth century than seamen from the more civilised eighteenth—ragged, fierce-eyed, and composed of a multitude of nationalities.

“Who are you?” the smiling man repeated.

“I am Sergeant Hugh MacKim of Kennedy’s Rangers. Who are you?” MacKim tried to keep calm.

“I am Captain René Roberval of the privateer Douce Vengeance,” the slender man gave a sweeping bow as he confirmed MacKim’s suspicions. “You may have heard of me?”

“I have not, monsieur,” MacKim replied in English.

“You will, sir. You will.” Roberval sounded disappointed.

“You appear to have us at a disadvantage,” MacKim said as the privateers ushered the Rangers onto the main deck. A glance assured MacKim that the French had complete control of Martha, with other privateers holding weapons to the crew. MacKim was aware that the Caribbean and east coast of the Americas swarmed with French privateers, civilian vessels officially licensed to prey on their country’s enemies. Some were as disciplined as any French royal vessel, but others were little more than pirates.

“You damned French scoundrel!” Captain Stringer roared from aft. “You’ll not take my ship, by God!”

“Oh, it seems that I have taken your ship, by God,” Roberval said. “You are the master, I presume?”

“You’re damned right I am!” Stringer strode forward, with a grinning black man holding a cutlass to his chest. “Get off my ship, damn your eyes.”

“Damn my eyes?” Roberval said. “You’ll damn my eyes?” He stepped up to the much shorter Stringer. “You won’t damn my eyes, captain, but I’ll have yours.” The suave voice altered to a deadly hiss.

After years at war, MacKim recognised a dangerous man and sensed the malignant force within Roberval. Behind the polished façade, this privateer was vicious, despite the faint outline of a cross that marred his smooth forehead.

“Hold him,” Roberval ordered in French, and two of his men wrapped their arms around Stringer. Drawing a long, slender knife from his belt, Roberval approached Stringer and slowly, deliberately, gouged out the captain’s eyes.

“You bastard!” Lundey surged forward, only for two of the privateers to knock him to the deck and kick him into submission.

“Dear God in heaven,” MacKim breathed as the Rangers watched in horror. “He’s as bad as the Indians.”

“Now,” Roberval said as Stringer writhed, screaming, with blood flowing down his face, “throw him overboard.”

“You monster!” Oxford shouted until MacKim clamped a hand over his mouth.

“Best keep quiet, son,” MacKim said. “You can’t help, and yelling will only turn Roberval’s attention to you.”

The privateers pushed the struggling Stringer to the rail, punched him in the stomach until he doubled up, and casually pushed him into the sea.

Even the war-hardened Rangers flinched at the cold-blooded murder.

“Keep quiet,” MacKim snarled to his men.

“Why are Kennedy’s Rangers on this vessel?” Roberval asked, cleaning Stringer’s blood off his knife on the scarf he wore around his neck.

“Captain Stringer was taking us to join the rest of the British Army,” MacKim said.

“I have Kennedy,” Roberval said. “How many Rangers are there?”

MacKim glanced over his men. If any had managed to hide, he would have given a false figure, but all were present. “Twenty-five,” he said. “Including me. Plus Lieutenant Kennedy.” He knew that hesitating or lying to Roberval would bring retribution on him or his men.

“Hmmm,” Roberval said. “Where are you bound, sergeant?”

MacKim shook his head. “I don’t know, captain.”

“Hmmm,” Roberval said again. “Perhaps the sergeant would not know. It’s a small matter.”

The tropical night was already easing, with a band of lesser dark along the eastern horizon. MacKim knew that it would be full daylight in fifteen minutes, with the harsh sun ensuring every man would droop in the heat. He was not yet used to the speed of sunrise and sunset this far south, so different from the protracted dawns of more northern climes. He surveyed his surroundings, with the sea rising in a regular swell to north, south, and east, but a dense smudge to the west suggesting an island huddled nearby.

“Bring me Lieutenant Kennedy,” Roberval ordered. Within two minutes, three of his men shoved Kennedy along the deck. The lieutenant nursed a heavily bruised eye and left cheek while blood dribbled from a split lip.

“It’s nothing serious,” Kennedy said with an attempt at a smile. “I’ve had worse from my mother.”

“Join your men,” Roberval ordered dispassionately.

Kennedy did so, sinking to the deck in sudden pain.

Dawn came swiftly, with the island now plain. It was a scrap of land with a small hill on the north and a scattering of palm trees catching the horizontal rays of the sun.

“Bring me Martha’s crew,” Roberval ordered in his pleasant voice, and the privateers pushed and dragged forward the twelve-strong crew.

MacKim looked around. The privateer’s vessel—a long, fast, black-painted ship—lay alongside, with three steeply raked masts and a row of cannon on her deck, plus a dozen swivels for scything down the crew of any vessel that showed resistance. Douce Vengeance must have crept up during the night when most of Martha’s crew were asleep and half the others lushy with rum. Roberval would have boarded silently, with his more numerous boarders easily overpowering Martha’s men.

Beyond Douce Vengeance, the island was becoming clearer by the minute. However, MacKim’s geography of this area was so vague, he could only guess it was an outlier of the Bahamas group.

Roberval smiled as Martha’s crew huddled before him, with one or two looking at the fresh bloodstains on the deck.

“Who’s first?” Roberval asked.

The hands looked at one another without understanding.

“You, I think.” Roberval spoke English with a decided accent, as though he was used to mixing with the lowest in society, however resplendent his clothes. He pointed to Lundey, who responded with a defiant glare.

“Me what?” Lundey asked.

In response, Roberval strode forward, drawing his sword. As Lundey lifted his fists in defence, Roberval cut off the mate’s left arm. The blood spouted as Lundey stared, too shocked to scream.

“Throw him overboard,” Roberval ordered as the remainder of Martha’s crew stepped back or roared in horror. Two privateersmen grabbed Lundey and threw him over the side.

“And the rest of the crew,” Roberval ordered, and a horde of privateers rushed at Martha’s remaining crew, cutlasses raised as they hacked at the helpless merchant seamen.

“You murdering bastards!” MacRae reared forward, only for two privateersmen to thrust boarding pikes at him, forcing him back.

“Careful, sergeant!” MacRae said.

“Right, men,” Kennedy spoke urgently. “This French Roberval’s crazed. I’m going to rush him and try and take the boat back. On the count of three!”

“He’ll kill you,” Oxford said.

“I think he’ll kill us all, whatever we do.” MacKim balled his fists.

“We’ve no weapons.”

“We have our fists and boots,” Kennedy said. “One, two…”

“Allez!” a Frenchman on the upper mast of Douce Vengeance shouted through cupped hands. “A British frigate is coming from the lee of the island!”

“Back to Douce Vengeance!” Roberval ordered.

In an amazingly short space of time, the privateers fled Martha, leaving her crew dead or dying on the deck, or floating overboard in the sea.1The newcomer, with the Union flag flying proud, approached at some speed. When she was within three-hundred yards, her gunports opened, and twelve cannons rolled out, their muzzles black and evil.

Douce Vengeance unfastened herself from Martha, caught the wind, and danced away, leaving the frigate standing.

“Thank God for the Royal Navy,” Kennedy said. “They saved us in the siege of Quebec, and they’ve saved us again here.”

“They didn’t save Martha’s crew,” MacKim pointed out.

“Nor did we,” Kennedy said.

The frigate came to three cables-lengths from Martha with her broadside run out and a row of black-muzzled cannon menacing the brig. Within two minutes, the frigate launched a pinnace, which pulled across the intervening water. A young, gloriously uniformed officer sat in the stern as a dozen men strained at the oars, cutlasses at their hips and pistols prominent in their belts.

“Here they come.” Kennedy stepped to the rail. “We’re glad to see you!” he shouted.

The pinnace came alongside, with the crew raising their oars at the last possible moment and one man expertly using a boathook to attach the pinnace to Martha. The officer scrambled on board, quickly followed by every man save one, who remained in the pinnace.

“Thank God for the Navy,” Kennedy said.

“Qui es-tu?” Who are you?the officer asked. “British?”

“You’re French.” Kennedy stepped back.

“Oh, dear God in heaven,” MacKim said.