"Shoals ahead, two cables!" some lookout screeched on the bow.
He could not hold this course a minute longer, Alan realized. The schooner's master was praying that he'd have to bear away soon, whilst he could continue to run south and perhaps get astern of the gun ketch that was tearing his little command to bits.
" 'Vast, there!" Lewrie shouted. He was out of syncopation in his turnings with the schooner. "Mister Ballard, lay us full-and-by to weather on the larboard tack. Then once you have way 'nough, tack us and wear about sou'east, to keep us ahead of them!"
"Aye, aye, sir!" Ballard grinned, nodding with understanding. "Hands to the sheets and braces, hands wear ship aweather! Mister Harkin, prepare for stays!"
Alacrity swung away from the schooner, almost showing her her stem, but kept on turning, crossing the eye of the wind and heeling over with the wind on the starboard side, pointing sou'west.
The schooner's captain took the opportunity to run south, and steer wide of the threatening bars and shoals.
Then Alacrity wore, falling off the wind in a small circle to race back across that narrow channel on her best point of sail with a bone of foam in her teeth, and her larboard battery ready once more.
There would be no escape.
"As you bear… fire!" Fowles cried.
The schooner was smothered in spray as even the two-pounder boat-guns got into the act from fo'c's'le and quarter-deck at a bare two-cables' range. She staggered under the impact of solid round-shot, and swung up toward the wind as if to cut across Alacrity's stern.
"Shoals ahead, one cable!"
"Helm down, Mister Ballard. Beat sou'west and keep ahead of her. And be ready to haul your wind should she duck back towards the shoals on the east side of the channel."
"She's in-irons!" a lookout called as most of the crew and the officers were busy with the maneuver and the reloading. "They're all aback! Takin' t'the boats, sir!"
The schooner was being abandoned. One small launch was being led around from astern, another was already filled with men and was being rowed east towards the shoals, the oars worked like hummingbirds' wings.
"Wear about to the sou'east!" Lewrie demanded. "Get the guns on them before they escape!"
But before they could fire more than two broadsides, they had to turn once more to keep off the shoals themselves, and their route was almost blocked by the abandoned schooner, listing and drifting towards the shoals. The boats with their two-foot draft got over the shoals and bars, and into deeper water off Grand Cay.
"Cease fire!" Lewrie shouted, fuming. Once more, pirates had outsmarted him and escaped him. "Mister Ballard, secure the people from Quarters. Send Mister Odrado, with my cox'n Cony, over to take charge of the schooner before she takes the ground. Mister Harkin, we'll fetch-to! I'll see to this, Arthur. You carry on."
"Very well, sir."
"Helm alee, lay us close-hauled on the larboard tack, Mister Neill. Stations for stays, Mister Harkin! Fo'c's'le captain, we'll leave the jibs on larboard tack! Brace-tenders, prepare to back the main tops'l! Ready about? Helm alee!"
Alacrity rounded up as if she would cross the wind's eye, but stalled in-irons, her gaff sails trying to drive her forward on the starboard tack, but her backed jibs counteracting their force like brakes, so she cocked up into the wind and came to a halt, slowly drifting north on the current and making a tiny leeway.
"A neat morning's work, sir," Fellows congratulated, swiping his thinning ginger hair and looking more like a harried clerk. "The schooner took. Whippet with her foe aground in the north channel, and another pirate band with their business stopped."
"Ummph!" Lewrie commented.
"Damme, the way we handled her, sir, sweet an' fleet as some pleasure yacht! My word, sir… 'twas hellish fun, that."
"They got away, though," Lewrie glowered.
"Can't have it all, sir," Fellows chuckled.
"Why the devil not, Mister Fellows? Just why the devil not?"
Chapter 9
"It's a regular treasure-trove ashore, sir," Lieutenant Ballard reported to Lewrie and Rodgers. "Arms and powder, of course; money and plate. But there's heaps of cargo, covered with sailcloth and palmettos. A ship's chandlery and fancy-goods shop in one. An ocean of drink, too, sirs. Fancy wines, brandies, rums… I've put a guard over that so the hands don't get at it"
"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!
Chapter 10
"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."
"But we didn't capture a single pirate, they all escaped us," Lewrie sighed. "And to track down the goods' original owners, to find the ships mentioned… even if we had captured a few, they could say they bought them half a world away as used. Got 'em as gifts! How does one track down 'Cock Robin' off the good ship Barnacle outa New York? All that's left of her is anonymous bosun's stores, nails and a pocket watch, if she was pirated. Probably sunk, and seaman 'Cock Robin' murdered and gone down with her! Now were we to find goodies from old Barnacle aboard the pirate schooner, and ashore, and aboard Guineaman, we have your prima facie case to lay."
Lewrie leaned back in his chair and gazed through half-shut eyelids at the overhead beams as Ballard could be heard shuffling his stacks of papers over again, between sips of his vile coffee.
"That might not do it, even then," Lewrie muttered. "Say someone aboard Guineaman, one of the mates, had a packet of used goods in his sea chest. The pirates could have rifled the chest when they took Guineaman … if they ever did… and it could have ended up ashore or in a pirate's sea-bag when they went shares of their spoils, so…"
"There is a fine box of Manton pistols, with an inscription on the case as belonging to a Captain Henry Beard, sir, that were found aboard the schooner, in her master's cabins," Ballard informed him. "The inscription tells us Beard was master of the Matilda. Then, we have several hundred pounds of chain and ankle bands and wrist locks ashore. The sort of restraints used to arrange slaves into coffies, sir. Rusty, abandoned for some time I'd say. But they bear Liverpool markings, with the name Matilda scratched into them on the bands. There was something…" He urgently riffled through his papers.
"A Liverpool ship?" Lewrie asked, tipping his chair forward to take more interest. "Damme, a British vessel?"
"Ah!" Ballard said. "An especially fine spyglass with a brass plaque bearing the name Nathaniel Marriyat. Presented to him by his family upon becoming first mate of… the Matilda! And, damme!"
It was rare for Ballard to swear.
"That was found aboard Guineaman, in the ready-use rack by the compass binnacle and the traverse board, sir!" Ballard almost shouted with joy. "Three items from the same vessel, linking together. This Matilda must, from this scant evidence, be a Liverpool slaver. Rusty as the chains and fetters are, she must have been taken at least one year ago. The pistols, and the chains, that proves the pirates were here at Walker's Cay before this incident. The spyglass proves that Guineaman had met them before yesterday. Wait! Wait, I…! Yes!" Ballard giggled, losing all his soberness as he sorted more papers. "Boxed set of navigational instruments. Brass ruler, dividers, compass… and a sextant! Guineaman's second mate had them! But they were engraved originally as the missing Captain Beard's, sir! When we questioned Guineaman's crew, he claimed he'd bought 'em in Liverpool, a year or more past!"
"Matilda," Lewrie pondered. "Matilda. Now where have I heard that name? Seems I have… damme, I'm sure I have."
"A Liverpool 'black-birder' could sell a cargo of slaves here in the Bahamas, sir. Do the Middle Passage, Dahomey to Nassau, with the demand for slaves increasing here, now that…"
"Wait, Arthur! Ssshh!" Alan demanded, raising a hand. "Let me think."
It was recent; he was certain of that much. Since arriving in the Bahamas? He tried to remember ships which might have lain nearby Alacrity at anchor. Portsmouth-no. On the voyage out? Again, no. Slavers stank to high heaven. They crammed three or four hundred men and women into hard wooden racks, forced them to lie back-to-belly as tight as cordwood and fettered for months. Fed them in those racks, half the time, if the weather was bad. Puking sick, incontinent from rotten hog-swill victuals, they fouled their own sleeping spaces and had to lie in excrement like beasts. One remembered slavers close by!
Slavers were fast ships, frigate-built, or like a "razeed" 3rd Rate, cut down to two decks from three. Were they slow, the rates of mortality cut their profits to nothing. The faster the ship, the more slaves arrived alive for sale, though twenty-five percent attrition was the norm for even the most considerate and "gentle" captains.
Where had he seen such a fine, frigate-built ship, a vessel aseaman would envy, foul as that line of work was? In the Caicos, in some harbour… Nassau Harbour… Cat Island…
"Christ!" Lewrie gasped. He got to his feet and crossed over to the chart-space to grope through his bookshelves. "Cony, fetch a light!"
William Pitt hissed at him from the dark. He had been sleeping like a tawny, orange-colored plum-duff on the high outboard shelf by the chart table between the chronometer and the sextant case. And did not like his naps interrupted.
"Oh, bugger y'rself!" Lewrie griped. "Ah, thankee, Cony!"
He found the gold-lettered spine of the book he was seeking, Les Liaisons Dangereuses, and flipped through it to see if his memory was correct.
"Eureka, Arthur! Bloody hell! Read that dedication!"
"My God," Arthur Ballard said with a bemused expression when he had completed it. "How the devil did you come by this, sir?"
"Bought it used for six shillings," Lewrie crowed. "Look at the date. March of 1785. It's accounted so bawdy there was an Order In Council to ban its publication in England, but some printer… a Liverpool printer, note… ran up a few hundred on speculation, 'stead of the usual subscription. Matilda was at short-stays, ready for a new slaving voyage, with Nathaniel Marriyat just promoted first mate into her. Time enough for your chains to rust?"
"But where did you get it, sir?"
"At Finney's on Bay Street, Arthur!"
"Aha!"
"At bloody 'Calico Jack' Finney's, not two months' past, damn his eyes! Arthur, they pissed in the font! They did the unspeakable! They took a British ship! A ship we can ask about among the slaver captains who frequent Nassau, among the slave dealers who dealt with her in the past. We can document one of the victims, show that goods off her were aboard Guineaman, the schooner, and piled with other loot ashore long enough ago to confirm when they took her. There'll be a brace or two of 'black-birders' in port soon with the first slaves of the summer. They'll have seen Matilda in Africa, they'll know of her people, and whether she went missing. And this book proves that Jack Finney has bought pirated goods. We've got the bastard! Even if he doesn't do a hemp hornpipe on the gallows, he's finished in these islands… or I'm a Turk in a turban!"
VI HERCULES
Chapter 1
"But he's as guilty as home-brewed sin, sir," Commander Benjamin Rodgers blurted out. "Matilda, all our evidence… no one's seen her for over a year. Due here about July of '85, and…"
"That's as may be, Commander Rodgers," Commodore Garvey shot back, pacing angrily behind his desk. "The court said he is not!"
"But she was pirated, sir," Lewrie ventured to interject. "I find the idea that her people sold off their most prized possessions ludicrous. Why would Captain Beard pawn his navigation instruments just before embarking on a voyage? Why would this Nathaniel Marriyat pawn his brand-new spyglass and his books?"
"Gambling debts," Garvey dismissed with a savage chop of his hand. "To raise money for buying blacks of his own for sale in the West Indies. We don't know, and we will never know. Matilda could have gone down in a storm. It happens, don't ya know, Lewrie. The few items of your flimsy evidence were accounted for by documents of sale, and your case confounded."
"Forgeries, sir!" Rodgers exclaimed. "They had over a month to concoct what was wanting."
"I warned you when you laid this before me, your supposition was weak. I did everything in my power to dissuade you from pursuing this fantasy," Garvey sneered. "The prosecutor…"
"Was a brainless arse, sir," Rodgers retorted. "He didn't like it. He was afraid of prosecuting a powerful man, so he did his least, and that, badly!"
"He told you beforehand it wouldn't hold water, and it didn't. Finney was absolved faster than any court I've ever seen," Garvey said. "Listen to the mob out there, sirs. Listen, you fools! Now Finney's being chaired through the streets like a sitting member of Parliament on his hustings, and King's Justice has been made amockery. The Navy has been made to look stupid, sire, the Bahamas Squadron, and me with it! Our new governor Lord Dun-more is most exercised over this. Bade me over to ask me what sort of idiots I had under my command, and were there any more of 'em out there, running roughshod! What could you have been thinking, Rodgers? There're untold tens of thousands owing Finney now. You shot Guineaman to rags, wounded some of her people, put her on a shoal… you deliberately torched every stick of goods on Walker's Cay, and sank everything that wouldn't burn in the bay! He'll demand recompense, and even should the Crown uphold you, I expect it'll take the entire budget for governing these islands for the next year, sir! The next year entire!"
"She fired into me first, sir, and if pirates really held her as Finney and Captain Malone claim, then nothing is owed, sir. God damme, sir, I salved her afterwards, didn't I? Set her…"
"You'll not blaspheme in my presence, Commander Rodgers, do you hear me, you simple dullard?" Garvey bellowed. "You could have put a guard over the cache of goods…"
"We could not carry it off, sir, and there was too much drink to guard," Lewrie said. "We'd have had to torch that, or tip it into the harbour, anyway, or we'd have lost the crew left behind as guards."
"You do not interrupt me, Lewrie! You do so at your peril! I hold you responsible for this. You're just as culpable, and liable in this affair, as Rodgers!"
"He was following my orders, sir," Rodgers stated. "Finney's agent Runyon told you it was private property, saved for later sale in the off-season, yet you persisted!"
"It was not marked as his property, sir," Lewrie rebutted. "We did bring off the coins, plate and all, and those items we could identify as Finney's. The rest could have been pirate booty, so we…"
"So you set fire to it, with fiendish, childish delight, just to see it burn, you pyromaniac! You hen-headed simpleton!"
"Sir, we…" Lewrie attempted.
"Both of you! Going off at half-cock quick as a brace of two-shilling muskets! Wasn't one band of pirates enough for you, eh, Lewrie? Did you get a taste for acclaim and glory? Had to go out to win more, hey? And you, Rodgers. You were sure to be made post your next commission. What need had you to gild your laurels with this… this act of complete lunacy? Envy Lewrie his crowd of backslappers? Feel left out or ignored, did you, you vaunting coxcomb? Ha? Did you?"
"Sir, I did my duty as best I saw it," Rodgers growled deep in his chest, with his chin tucked back hard against his neck-stock. "I saved a Spanish merchantman and gave chase to the pirates who had taken her. I tracked them down to Walker's Cay and I engaged them. I saw no pirates fleeing Guineaman, and I was fired upon by her, so I opened fire into her, aye, sir. I discovered evidence which led me to believe that the goods on the island were booty, and this Finney neck-deep in the support of criminals, sir. I…"
"What pirates, Rodgers?" Garvey roared. "You let 'em escape! You did not arrest one person who should have been in the dock! You had no captives to interrogate to determine whether it was booty or not! And out of spite, out of frustration that you'd been bested, you saw what you wanted to see, learned only what you wished to hear, abused the master, mates and crew of Guineaman, brought scandal upon their good names, invented a circumstantial fairy tale, then laid a case against one of Nassau's most illustrious merchants, just so you had something to show for your swaggering antics!"