The Rebels: The Kent Family Chronicles (26 page)

“Oh, it’ll take a spell for it to reach England,” was Edes’ reply. “But it should get there eventually. Here, I’ll see to the posting—” He plucked the letter from Philip’s fingers.

“I must pay you—” Philip began.

“No, it’s a patriotic service to one of our army lads. Just like buying the tea and biscuits.”

“You think the letter’ll get through, then?” Philip asked.

“Well, I’m not positive. But there are plenty of New England privateersmen coasting down south hunting for British ships to plunder. They drop mail for Europe in the Indies. From there, neutral ships carry it to the continent, and it crosses back to England. We might get lucky and make a more direct connection on a Frenchman going home light after dumping powder here.”

“The harbor is certainly crowded,” Anne remarked. “On the way back from the market, we walked by the Sawyer Yard. I’ve never seen it so busy.”

Edes said, “These days the slogan is—if it floats, arm it. A new privateer puts out practically every day, seems like. Only problem is finding money to build and equip ’em. And men to sail ’em.”

He unfolded the copy of the
Gazette
he’d brought along, pointed to an advertising notice headed in bold type. Philip had heard that the launching of privately owned war vessels under letters of marque issued by the Congress was a move to help offset America’s virtual lack of a navy. But something much more personal about the notice captured his attention:

An Invitation to all brave Seamen and Marines, who have an inclination to serve their Country and make their Fortunes.

The grand Privateer Ship ECLIPSE
commanded by WM. CALEB, ESQ., and prov’d to be a very capital Sailor, will shortly Sail on a Cruise against the Enemies of the United States of America. The ECLIPSE is excellently well calculated for Attacks, Defense, and Pursuit—This therefore is to invite all those Jolly Fellows, who love their Country, and want to make their Fortunes at one Stroke, to repair immediately to His Excellency Governor Hancock’s Wharf, where they will be received aboard ECLIPSE with a hearty Welcome by a Number of Brave Fellows there assembled, and treated with that excellent Liquor call’d GROG, which is allow’d by all true Seamen, to be the LIQUOR OF LIFE.

The moment he’d finished reading, Philip said, “Annie, look at this.
Eclipse
is the ship that brought my mother and me from England.”

Edes’ eyebrows lifted. “You know Will Caleb?”

“If it’s the same man—”

“First-class captain. From up Maine way.”

“That’s the one,” Philip nodded, warming at the memory of Caleb’s kindnesses to him aboard ship after his mother’s burial at sea. “As I recall, though, Captain Caleb didn’t take to sailors drinking—”

“Can’t attract a crew without grog,” Edes commented. “And Caleb needs more crews than one. He’s going into privateering in a big way. Got
Eclipse
and another ship armed already. He’s trying to raise money to build two more. Depending on his luck at sea, he and the people who buy in stand to lose a lot—or get rich.”

Anne glanced up from the paper. Her brown eyes took on a speculative look:

“Does this Captain Caleb have his commissions in order?”

“Think so. Two from the Congress on the vessels already afloat. Two more are supposedly guaranteed by the Massachusetts legislature soon as his new ships are built. A real enterprising fellow, Caleb is.”

“Where is his office?” she asked.

“The head of Hancock’s Wharf, a little further up from where the ship’s berthed.”

Crisply, Anne swung to her husband. “Philip, I think we might go along and look up your old friend.”

“Whatever for?”

“To see whether we might put a bit of Papa’s money to work for us.”

“Annie, we’re saving that!”

“So you can turn into my competitor one of these days,” Edes joked.

“The money’s just sitting there,” Anne said. “And we don’t need every last pound to live. If we had an opportunity to help the cause and make a modest profit at the same time—”

Skeptically, Philip cut in, “We’re more likely to see that kind of investment sunk in the ocean and gone forever.”

“At least it’s worth investigating, don’t you think? I do.” Her emphatic nod left Philip smiling in spite of himself:

“Annie, sometimes you are the most surprising woman—”

“She’s a woman,” Edes said. “That explains it all.”

Philip said to him, “I think she’s just making up for her mother not being able to stay in the ship-building business because it wasn’t permissible for women. Her grandfather owned Sawyer’s—”

“Enjoy your chauvinism, gentlemen,” Anne said cheerily, rising. “I intend to look out for the interests of Kent and Son.”

“Is that the name of my competition?” Edes asked.

Anne smiled her sweetest smile. “It will be.”

“If she’s your business manager, Philip, I might as well quit right now. There won’t be a printing house in New England can stand up against the combination of you on the press and your wife on the ledgers.”

“I think you could be right,” Philip grinned as he rose to join Anne, who was obviously impatient to leave the smoky taproom. “Goodbye, Mr. Edes.”

The printer looked mockingly mournful. “Remember me when I’m bankrupt and need a loan, will you?”

“How much interest can you pay?” Anne asked.

Edes laughed, then she did too, as she and Philip left.

They walked into the February sunlight. Melting snow ran in the street channels. Philip shook his head:

“Annie, I repeat—you are a damned astonishing woman.”

“Why should you be astonished, darling?” She settled her market basket over her arm. “You know our plans as well as I do. You’re going to get through this detestable war, which we’re going to win, and you might as well open your shop with two or three presses instead of one—and have something left to hire a couple of apprentices. Captain Caleb just might make that possible. So it’s all settled.”

“Yes, I had that feeling a few minutes ago,” he laughed, admitting privately with some chagrin that he wished he’d thought of the idea himself.

In a tiny loft office at the head of Hancock’s Wharf, Philip introduced his wife to a momentarily dumbfounded Will Caleb:

“Lord, you were barely more than a boy when you crossed on
Eclipse.
I hardly know you!”

“Well, a good deal’s happened since that voyage, Captain Caleb.” Philip moved a chair into position for Anne beside the Maine seaman’s cluttered work table. “Right now I’m on leave from a Massachusetts regiment down in Jersey.”

“The army?”

“Yes.”

Caleb had really changed very little, Philip decided. He had to be approaching sixty now. But he was still as trim and tanned as when Philip had sailed with him from Bristol. His beak nose and flowing white hair reminded Philip of the prow of one of the swift New England merchantmen on which Caleb had spent his life.

Caleb said, “If you’re in the army, then you sure as hel—uh, your pardon, Mrs. Kent. You surely didn’t come here to sign aboard one of my privateersmen.”

“No,” Anne put in, “Mr. Ben Edes mentioned that you were searching for investors to help underwrite the construction of two additional vessels.”

Caleb’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve money to put into such a venture?”

“Possibly—under a captain with an outstanding record,” Anne told him. “Both Philip and Mr. Edes say you’re every bit of that. We might be able to raise a sum of two hundred pounds if the proposition was suitable.”

Philip almost strangled trying to protest. Two hundred pounds sterling represented just about two thirds of the total bequest left them by Anne’s father. He’d been thinking more on the order of fifty. It was painfully evident—again—that his business affairs were now securely in the hands of his wife.

Captain Caleb likewise nearly broke out in a sweat at the mention of the amount. At once he unlocked a lower drawer of his desk and produced a bottle of rum and rolled-up plans. Anne declined the offer of strong drink but Philip, still nonplused, helped himself to a bracer. Caleb eagerly spread the inked drawings:

“You know anything at all about seagoing vessels, Mrs. Kent?”

“A little. My grandfather founded Sawyer’s.”

“The devil! That’s where I’m going to have these two beauties built. Here, let me show you—”

Anne bent forward with interest. To Philip the drawings resembled a confusion of spiderwebs. He recognized a hull plan and elevation, but not much else. He rapidly became lost in Caleb’s nonstop references to fore-and-aft rigging, hull displacement, sharper deadrise for greater speed and reduced tumble-home thanks to smaller-bore cannon, another weight-saving scheme.

“All the newest designs, Mrs. Kent. And the best long guns we can purchase. The idea’s to crack on as much canvas as possible, for short cruises. Carry fewer provisions, less ammunition—speed, speed! Catch those lumbering Britishers! If we hit, we’ll hit big.”

“What are the financial arrangements if you do seize an enemy merchantman, Captain?”

“Works like this. A prize crew brings the ship back to an American port—I can’t afford agents in France and the Indies. Besides, the owners lose out if the prize is sold in a foreign port. That’s standard in the Articles for any privateer.”

“All right, that’s clear.”

“We publish the captured ship’s name in the papers and wait fifteen days. There’s a trial to determine whether she’s legally a prize—formality, mostly. Don’t imagine any Britishers are going to hop across the Atlantic to appear in court and fight the claim. Soon as the jurors condemn the captive as a prize, we pay off the trial costs and put her on sale—cargo
and
vessel. There’s auction expense to be deducted, but that’s a pittance. Whatever the auction brings, the Articles for each privateer of mine state that no more than a third is divided among the captain and crew. The remainder’s to be paid to the owners, in proportion, according to how much they put in.”

Anne said, “I’d want all of that in writing. I mean the exact amount of ownership in each vessel.”

“Each?
You’d want to invest in both?”

She nodded. “A hundred pounds per new ship. The designs are excellent, so by dividing the investment we double the chance of a return, and halve the chance of loss.”

“Anything you say!” Caleb beamed. “I’ve papers here to completely describe the agreem—”

“No, we’re not prepared to negotiate today. But you’re welcome to call at our home in Cambridge with the documents. Also your letters of marque which I’d of course like to see personally.”

“I’ll be there inside of a week! With two hundred pounds promised—”

“Not promised,” Anne warned. “Available.”

“Yes, yes, understood. But still, that’ll be a big help. Enough so that I can pretty near raise all the funds for at least one of the new ships right away.”

Anne rose and extended her hand in a business-like fashion. “Then do call at your convenience, and let’s discuss the terms.”

“Yes, ma’am, I surely—”

Footsteps on the stairs leading up from the wharf distracted them. A tall, swarthy man in a blue wool captain’s jacket stalked into the office, carrying documents. The man was perhaps ten years older than Philip; in his thirties. He had dark, tight-curling hair, heavy brows and a small white scar at the outer corner of his right eye. The scar pulled the skin downward to lend the eye a peculiar slitted look.

Despite that, the man exuded cockiness. His expression had a certain arrogance that repelled Philip completely.

“Pardon me, Will. Didn’t realize you had visitors.” The man’s nasal voice identified him at once as a New Englander.

“Potential investors, Malachi,” Caleb said. “Mr. and Mrs. Kent of Cambridge—my associate, Captain Rackham, in command of
Nancy,
the other privateer I’ve already got on the water. I’ll be skippering
Eclipse
till the new ones are built.”

“Pleasure,” said Rackham, bowing but obviously unaccustomed to it. Philip noticed how the man’s eyes worked their way from Anne’s face to the outline of her breasts. Uncomfortable, Anne fiddled with the cloth cover on her market basket.

Caleb didn’t appreciate Rackham’s somewhat brazen interest either. To divert him, he asked sharply:

“You’ve something for me, Malachi?”

Rackham showed the papers. “A good morning’s work. Two more prize masters for
Nancy,
plus the cooper and the sailmaker you’ve been hunting for
Eclipse.”
He tossed the articles of agreement on the desk, then helped himself to rum. “But it can wait while we entertain our guests.”

“We’re leaving,” Philip announced, taking Anne’s arm and steering her toward the captain, whose rakish figure blocked the head of the stairs.

Rackham stared at Philip—considerably shorter—for a moment or so. Then he smiled with insolent charm:

“Shame. Thought we might all become better acquainted, seeing as how you’re planning to join our venture.” He took account of Philip’s tricorn hat with its black army cockade. “Serving with the troops, are you, Mr. Kent?”

He met Rackham’s gaze without blinking. “That’s right.”

“Stationed where?”

“Jersey. I’ll be going back soon.”

He said it without thinking. An instant later he regretted the damnable frankness. Captain Rackham seemed to have become extremely interested in the contents of his mug of rum. But Philip saw the seaman’s eyes flicker toward Anne with renewed interest.

Or was he only letting his imagination get the better of him?

Captain Caleb remained perturbed by the minor confrontation: Philip and his wife at the stairs, Rackham casually pretending he didn’t realize he was blocking their way. Caleb reached out, gently but firmly pushed Rackham’s shoulder.

The taller captain stiffened, his quick glare giving Philip a clue to his temper. Caleb, however, was clearly in charge. Rackham took the shove and stepped aside without protest.

“Philip, I wish you safety in Morristown,” Caleb said.

“Thank you, Captain, I’ll take that wish. Things may get pretty lively when the weather breaks. General Howe is slow-moving. But Lord Cornwallis is turning out to be fast and foxy—”