The Gun Ketch (35 page)

"Yet who shall guard the guardians?" Rodgers mused. "Loot, from a dozen ships, more like," Lewrie commented. "And that ship out yonder, that
Guineaman,
bung-full to her deckheads with general cargo, too," Rodgers grinned, a very happy man. "No manifest, goods from Cuba, from New York an' Baltimore an' Charleston aboard, goods from Europe ... yet, gentlemen,
yet
... no recent voyages in her log t'any o' those places! Like Lewrie here says, it's loot, bought from the pirates that took it."

"Well, sir ..." Ballard pouted, "there's a civilian merchant ashore in charge of the cache, a Mister Runyon, who
claims
the goods are warehoused here, that they're held until the prices go up in the winter when..."

"Aye, just like this Captain Malone of
Guineaman
claims that he was taken by buccaneers!" Rodgers hooted in derision. "Oh, he's wily, he is! Yet when I demanded he produce the pirates who sailed her out an' fired into a King's Ship, he cannot. Swears they went over the side an' escaped in a ship's boat, an' he an' his crew got free too late t'save her from groundin' on the shoals. Not from where I was watchin', they didn't! And do you know who
Guineaman
belongs to, eh? A Bay Street merchant name o' John Finney. 'Calico Jack' Finney, as he's better known in these parts."

"Finney!" Lewrie exclaimed, startled out of his skin, but glad the next moment. "Merciful God, that's wondrous! I mean, I've met the man.
Thought
he wasn't straight, from the very first Heard he was cherry-merry with cut-throats and such. And that pirate band I did for was led by a friend of his. A so-called former friend! Why, he must be in league with 'em!"

"Well, o'
course
he's in league with 'em!" Rodgers chortled. "Always has been, always will be, far's I know! Ran an 'all-nations' an' a buttock-shop for 'em, got rich off their trade, made loans for 'em, traded mis for that since he set foot in Nassau. He..."

"Excuse me, Commander Rodgers," Ballard said with a cough. "I did learn that this Runyon fellow ashore is one of Finney's agents!"

"Well, there you are, then," Rodgers exulted triumphantly. "We have proof positive against him, even if our pirates did escape us."

"Well, sir, this Runyon claims, as I said a moment ago, that the goods are cached here secretly, without having to pay duties or bonded-warehouse fees in Nassau, until hurricane season ends and the shipping trade across the Atlantic or down from America ceases until spring. Then they're loaded aboard his ships and sold at the peak of their scarcity, when their value is highest. All over, sir."

"He just came out an' admitted it?" Rodgers said, going bug-eyed. "Well, damme, the fellow's just convicted himself, an' his master with him! That's confession o' smugglin'!"

"Not exactly, sir," Ballard objected. "In a court of law, he could make it sound a plausible defense. If pirates discovered his secret cache, they would be tempted to raid it. He might even try to prove that a consortium of other Bay Street members put them up to it, to eliminate the competition! Then, should the duties be paid at Nassau when he declares them..."

"Ah, rot!" Rodgers snorted. "Now here's the way I see this was done, sirs. Finney does nought of the dirty work, see? But his old mates pirate inbound ships, and some passin' near enough. They have to have a method of profitin', and Finney's their middle man, their shore agent if you will. They'll keep the money, jewels and plate, but the dry goods and such, the foodstuffs ... Finney's agents meet 'em in just such a hidey-hole as this 'un. There's a deal o' lonely cays in the Bahamas with decent harbours, safe from pry in' eyes. A swap is made. Give 'em a quarter o' what it's worth—half-crown to the pound, perhaps less. They keep what takes their fancy, vessels they deem faster and better armed, and play the upright tradin' men in public, anywhere they please, between voyages."

"And they scuttle the poor ships far out at sea, along with theircrews and passengers," Lewrie stuck in. "Once they've had fun with some of them. Damn their blood."

"Or resell some o' the ships down in the West Indies or over in America for even more profit, aye," Rodgers grimaced. "A European oak-built ship'd be worth two Yankee ships made o' then-poor excuse for ship wood. Might even create new documents for 'em to ease the sales. But aye, it's wholesale murder For the victims. Then, here's the part where Finney makes his money back. He ships the pirated goods to New Providence, Eleuthera, Great Exuma, over to the Abacos, down to Long or Cat Island and sells 'em as clean goods!"

"Would he not have to pay duty on them, sir?" Ballard asked. "Land them in-bond first? In public? So..."

"Even so, what's the cost to him?" Rodgers scoffed. "Were he to send ships across the Atlantic out of season, pay an honest price for a cargo an' pay duty, it's a losin' proposition, or a damn' thin one, what with insurance and all. But, to get a cargo for a fourth its worth, sell it dear as salvation when no one else has the fancy stuff... well, what's a few shillings per hundredweight matter?"

"And once landed and re-shipped, they're legal," Lewrie grasped. "With Bahamian authorities, on Hispaniola or Cuba ...anywhere!"

"And sky's the limit on what he could reap!" Rodgers laughed. "Oh, we see his vessels settin' out for England, for the Continent, for America... and we see 'em come back months later. But do they ever really
go
anywhere, I ask you?"

"Some must, sir," Ballard pointed out, ever the keen one. "Aye, some must, granted," Rodgers allowed. "But enough come to lairs like this 'un, especially in winter. Only his most trusted masters and crews. He probably has captains and hands who never see this part o' his trade."

"So he might undercut the other merchants only slightly," Lewrie exclaimed. "Whilst the others do business at ten or fifteen percent profit, Lord... Finney must earn fifty or seventy percent!"

"Exactly!" Rodgers said.

"But why, sir?" Lewrie asked, perplexed. "Damme, the risk of being found out sooner or later... he made over 200,000 pounds from the war, I'm told. Owns a dozen fine ships, a planting and that big house in town ... a hero and all..."

"And partnership in a bank," Rodgers added. "Heard tell he put 60,000 up as his share to launch it proper. Far's we know, he plays banker and ship's-husband for his pirates, too! And loans to these new arrivals..."

"That's just it, sir," Lewrie insisted. "Mind you, I dislike him as much as cold boiled mutton. But why, once one has that sort of 'blunt,' that sort of respectability, would one risk it all just to make more, if an honest profit atop his bank and his pickings from the war would buy him a small country in Europe? It doesn't make sense."

"Because he's a semi-illiterate dog who hasn't the sense t'not feed like a starvin' wolf 'til he spews!" Rodgers sneered.

"Captain Lewrie has a point, sir," Ballard interjected. "He's not a stupid man, for all his lack of public-school letters. Look at how far he rose, and what native intelligence it required."

"Aye, he could have been as dense as his mate Doyle, once he'd gotten a purse full of 'chink,' sir," Lewrie countered. "Risen, then fallen in a fortnight. But he didn't, sir."

"Revenge," Ballard commented slyly, his sober countenance, and his slightly sad-but-observant eyes crinkling with secret mirth.

"Oh, rot!" Rodgers snorted with disdain.

"Vengeful amusement," Lewrie added, sharing a smile with his first officer.

"Against who, pray tell?" Rodgers demanded.

"Why, against just about anyone and everyone, I'd expect, sir," Ballard intoned with a quirky cock of one brow. "Society at-large, which's ever sneered at him."

"Rot, I tell you," Rodgers reiterated. " 'Tis of no matter why. What does matter is gatherin' evidence. Among all this cargo, there must be some sign it came off foreign ships, that it wasn't ever his."

"How do you come by that, sir? Why foreign ships?" Alan asked.

"Even
he'd
not be so foolish as to loot a British ship," Commander Rodgers chuckled. "They'd be missed! But foreign ships, which compete with British merchantmen, and undercut every New Providence merchant, well, they're fair game, as long as they aren't carryin' a Bay Street shopkeeper's cargo! Those fellows'd turn a blind eye an' like as not stand the pirates a round o' drinks, if it's piracy keeps dieir prices high. Cuts down on Finney's competition, and lines his purse at the same time, too! We have no way of knowin' how many foreign-flagged ships set out, or when, whether they were comin' to the Bahamas, or just passin' by. How long would it be before some Boston ship's-husband sends a letter to inquire about a missin' ship? And, with just the one overworked American consul, it might take years to answer, if answered at all, an' the bulk of 'em put down as 'lost at sea, cause unknown,' with their home port so far off."

"Bristol, Plymouth and Liverpool are just as far off, sir," Ballard stuck in, unable to stop himself.

"There's papers to look through," Rodgers said, disgruntled at having his logic questioned. "There's that pirate schooner to search from keel to truck. You strike me as a slyboots, Lieutenant Ballard. Why not turn your hand to delvin' me some answers, then? And listin' what we seized. I'll salvage
Guineaman.
I'll be too busy."

"Aye, aye, sir," Ballard intoned.

"We'll get to the bottom of it, sir," Lewrie promised, vowing to help Ballard in any way he could. Besides, he thought, there was more than one person in the Bahamas who could relish revenge. And, when it came to vengeful amusements, even he would be the first to admit to being buck-of-the-first-head at it!

"God Almighty," Lieutenant Ballard sighed wearily, as he and Lewrie pored over the lists they'd made. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands and peered about the dimly lit dining coach of Lewrie's cabins to see if the coffeepot was still, simmering atop a lamp-base warmer on the sideboard. "Cony, is there any of that left?"

"Aye, Mister Ballard, sir. Polish yer brass with it by now, ya could, though, sir. I could roust cook out an' fetch fresh."

"Trot that lot out, Cony," Ballard yawned. "The blacker the better. May it be strong enough to melt a pewter spoon, then it may also dissolve the dam in my poor wits."

"Don't see as how we're getting anywhere," Lewrie carped, deep in a brown study. He had looked forward to harpooning John Finney in a court of law, even though paper-work drudgery was never his strong suit. Had the records they'd seized, the inventories of booty they'd recorded shown any promise, he might still have felt enthusiastic to continue delving. But so far, they could find nothing truly damning, and Alan envied Commander Rodgers, who was being all nautical and tar-handed at salving
Guineaman.

"We shall, sir," Arthur Ballard assured him.

"It's all circumstantial, Arthur," Alan muttered. "Half of the goods are bulk cargoes. Rice, flour, dried beans and such in sacks or barrels. We know it comes from the Americas, but that's all. No sign or markings of seller, shipper or buyer! Same for the iron tools and farm implements, cloth and all. It could be his, legally."

"Yet none marked as consigned or bought by John Finney, sir," Ballard pointed out hopefully. "There's fancy goods from Spain, France and Portugal, with the producers' names for proof. There's sign they cleared foreign customs, there's sign export duties were paid."

"But no marks of who bought it or shipped it," Lewrie protested. "Could be construed as looted goods from a dago merchant. Or could be Finney's, after all."

"Aye, sir, but no proof
positive
of his ownership.
Ergo,
'tis not his, and
prima facie
evidence it could be booty."

"I take no joy in mat argument," Alan complained. "He could claim ownership, and produce all the sham records he wished. Or, he could say he purchased the fancy goods in Havana or Santo Domingo or a dozen other ports, from others, and brought 'em here."

"And been skinned by the original importers, sir?" Ballard said with a grin. "No one on a court would ever believe that tale, not if they were any sort of merchant or shopkeeper! No one would pay that dearly. No profit in it."

"What we need is some sign that part of the trove ashore belongs to other Bay Street merchants."

"We'll never get that, sir," Ballard sighed. "If they imported wares in foreign bottoms, they violate our Navigation Acts. Naturally, they would not wish their cargoes marked for a customs official to see."

"Finney could say the same."

"The other merchants do not possess a fleet of trading ships to do their carrying, sir."

"And if all goods in one of his ships are his, then who's to gainsay him when he claims they needed no markings?" Alan countered.

"Granted," Ballard shrugged as Cony set a pewter mug before him. "Then, there're the odds and ends the pirates left behind, sir. No written records of their gatherings, though."

"With three out of five sailors in the Fleet illiterate, 'tis only tobe expected," Lewrie frowned. "Uhm ... Arthur, excuse me ... but, you're really going to drink that?"

"Sir..." Ballard whispered back with a tiny grin. "Alan, do you allow me to be prodigal with your personal stores, I shall take it with four sugars. And all evident avidity!"

"Yoosh!" Alan commented with a sour-mouthed shudder. "Ditto that opinion," Ballard said once he'd tasted it and set it aside. "There're weapons, watches, navigational instruments, clocks and such that bear the inscriptions of unknown men. And some unknown vessels, sir. Far too valuable, the most of it, for common seamen."