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You’d best be hitting your bed. Take an extra hour; I’ve eaten up half
a watch with this tarnal foolishness.”
Hawkins threw him a grateful salute as he hurried below. The
stench might be horrendous, but he was exhausted.
Hawkins collapsed onto his berth, expecting to sleep as soon as
his head hit the pillow, but Gossett’s superstitions badgered his
thoughts, making every creak of the hull seem portentous. He rubbed
his face, counting the days till he’d be shut of the Adeline. She was a
beautiful boat – a four-masted barque with more yards of canvas than
any ship he’d ever sailed on – but when they reached Havana he’d
leave her without even a glance behind him.
It wouldn’t be long now. They were just coming up on the Grand
Turks and Caicos. Tonight they would skirt northward, avoiding the
islands lest they be taken, their cargo seized, and their selves
imprisoned. Tomorrow eve they’d fall off southwesterly past Grand
Inagua and on to Baracoa, sidestepping the heavy traffic of the
Windward Passage. Two weeks beating north along the shore of
Cuba, dispensing of their cargo, and he’d never have to set eye on
Bayonne again, unless it were down the gun sights of a man-o’-war.
He had plans to join the blockade fleet after his marriage to
Louisa. His familiarity with the secret passages between the islands
and the hidden inlets where cargo was unloaded, ought to be worth a
promotion to first mate on a British or American privateer in the antislave
trade campaign. He’d bring Louisa to Dominique or Nassau,
and devote his days to chasing down ships like the Adeline.
He just hoped he could avoid prison. And that he wouldn’t be
plagued by night terrors.
Three hours later, he clambered out of his narrow berth, and
stretched mightily. After seven weeks at sea, there was nothing more
inviting than thought of a goodly hour in a rum-hole and a full night in
a feather bed, unless it were someone sweet to share them both.
The thumping of feet running past the door of the cabin he shared
with the chief mate roused him fully, and he headed to the main deck
to see what all the commotion was about. A Naval frigate hailing
them? A slave revolt?
He emerged from the below decks to a stiff wind and the shouting
of sailors. The Captain was amidships hurling orders at the crew,
pointing at two or three men with each command. It looked as though
Gossett’s hurricane was blowing up after all.
“Furl the mains and the stays. Hoist the storm sails and haul the
fore sail to the starboard and aft to the port. Stow the longboat. Rig
the storm lines. Batten down the holds, and check the carriages on all
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