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Authors: James Norcliffe
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Jamaica, and thence to meet up with Admiral Vernon’s fleet.’
At this Abel Griff gave a short snorting laugh and said, ‘What? Join Old Grog!’
‘What do you mean, sir?’ demanded Captain Lightower curtly, annoyed at the discourtesy.
Jenny Blade stared at the captain. ‘I think you have not heard the news, Captain Lightower,’ she said.
‘News, madam,’ said the captain. ‘What news?’
‘Why, that Admiral Vernon has just been roundly defeated at Cartagena,’ she said, ‘with large numbers of his ships, and so many of his men. A mere handful of Spaniards saw him off, and yellow fever did the rest.’
‘Is this true, madam?’ demanded the captain, shocked.
‘Quite, quite true,’ sighed Jenny Blade. ‘Poor Admiral Vernon … How the world must be laughing! To be roundly beaten thus and by so few, and by Blas de Lezo — a Spaniard with a wooden leg, only one good eye and only one arm!’
‘And all for one little ear,’ added Abel Griff, with another short laugh.
This was dreadful news. All those months ago when I’d boarded the
Firefly
I had been so pleased and so proud to be on my way to be part of the admiral’s campaign. Not even Captain Lightower’s contempt or my master’s cruelty had quite extinguished that pride. And now, this. I looked about the table and all were sombre, with the possible exception of Griff. But I was particularly struck by the expression on Mr Wicker’s face. For the first time since I’d known him, he had lost that arrogant self-assuredness, that smiling superiority. Quite simply he looked alarmed, as if he had lost something very, very valuable.
‘But Mistress Blade,’ he said, ‘can you be sure?’
‘Oh, there’s absolutely no doubt,’ she said. ‘Fifty ships lost, I understand.’
‘So Cartagena is not taken?’
There was a note of desperation in Mr Wicker’s voice. I looked at him curiously.
‘Certainly not,’ said Jenny Blade, ‘and the foolish thing is the admiral had ordered a victory medal struck before he’d even won the battle!’
‘What do they say about counting eggs?’ grinned Abel Griff.
There was a sudden scrape of his chair as Mr Wicker stood up. He looked distracted and a little desperate. ‘Excuse me, madam,’ he said. ‘I’m feeling … I feel I must have some air …’ And without further courtesies or apologies, he made for the door, opened it and stepped into the darkness of the quarterdeck.
At this abrupt departure, Sophie did allow herself a glance at me, raising her eyebrows in query.
We weren’t the only pair to exchange glances. I noticed as I looked back around the table that Mr Griff and Jenny Blade, too, had given each other a brief conspiratorial smile and this suddenly explained Mr Wicker’s departure.
The astrolabe.
Jenny Blade and Griff had talked about it on deck. The mysterious astrolabe that Mr Wicker was seeking was, he believed, being held in the fortress at Cartagena. With Admiral Vernon’s victory, he might have been able to retrieve it; but with Admiral Vernon’s defeat it would remain securely in the hands of the Spanish garrison.
His whole journey to the Caribbean had been dependent on Admiral Vernon’s victory.
Now it had been for nought.
CHAPTER 7
STILL AS A SLAVE
Much later I discovered Mr Wicker standing on the poop deck. He was gazing over the stern rail into the darkness, brooding, I thought. The night was clear with a hooked yellow moon and a great bowl of stars.
‘This news of Admiral Vernon’s defeat has you feeling in low spirits?’ I asked.
Mr Wicker turned and saw me there.
He nodded. ‘More than you can possibly know, little Loblolly Boy,’ he said.
‘Why?’
He did not reply.
‘You wished to visit there?’
Mr Wicker turned away and returned to the darkness.
‘Where is Cartagena?’ I asked. In truth, until this evening I had no knowledge of this place.
This was apparently a question Mr Wicker was prepared to answer. ‘Cartagena? Cartagena is a town
At this Abel Griff gave a short snorting laugh and said, ‘What? Join Old Grog!’
‘What do you mean, sir?’ demanded Captain Lightower curtly, annoyed at the discourtesy.
Jenny Blade stared at the captain. ‘I think you have not heard the news, Captain Lightower,’ she said.
‘News, madam,’ said the captain. ‘What news?’
‘Why, that Admiral Vernon has just been roundly defeated at Cartagena,’ she said, ‘with large numbers of his ships, and so many of his men. A mere handful of Spaniards saw him off, and yellow fever did the rest.’
‘Is this true, madam?’ demanded the captain, shocked.
‘Quite, quite true,’ sighed Jenny Blade. ‘Poor Admiral Vernon … How the world must be laughing! To be roundly beaten thus and by so few, and by Blas de Lezo — a Spaniard with a wooden leg, only one good eye and only one arm!’
‘And all for one little ear,’ added Abel Griff, with another short laugh.
This was dreadful news. All those months ago when I’d boarded the
Firefly
I had been so pleased and so proud to be on my way to be part of the admiral’s campaign. Not even Captain Lightower’s contempt or my master’s cruelty had quite extinguished that pride. And now, this. I looked about the table and all were sombre, with the possible exception of Griff. But I was particularly struck by the expression on Mr Wicker’s face. For the first time since I’d known him, he had lost that arrogant self-assuredness, that smiling superiority. Quite simply he looked alarmed, as if he had lost something very, very valuable.
‘But Mistress Blade,’ he said, ‘can you be sure?’
‘Oh, there’s absolutely no doubt,’ she said. ‘Fifty ships lost, I understand.’
‘So Cartagena is not taken?’
There was a note of desperation in Mr Wicker’s voice. I looked at him curiously.
‘Certainly not,’ said Jenny Blade, ‘and the foolish thing is the admiral had ordered a victory medal struck before he’d even won the battle!’
‘What do they say about counting eggs?’ grinned Abel Griff.
There was a sudden scrape of his chair as Mr Wicker stood up. He looked distracted and a little desperate. ‘Excuse me, madam,’ he said. ‘I’m feeling … I feel I must have some air …’ And without further courtesies or apologies, he made for the door, opened it and stepped into the darkness of the quarterdeck.
At this abrupt departure, Sophie did allow herself a glance at me, raising her eyebrows in query.
We weren’t the only pair to exchange glances. I noticed as I looked back around the table that Mr Griff and Jenny Blade, too, had given each other a brief conspiratorial smile and this suddenly explained Mr Wicker’s departure.
The astrolabe.
Jenny Blade and Griff had talked about it on deck. The mysterious astrolabe that Mr Wicker was seeking was, he believed, being held in the fortress at Cartagena. With Admiral Vernon’s victory, he might have been able to retrieve it; but with Admiral Vernon’s defeat it would remain securely in the hands of the Spanish garrison.
His whole journey to the Caribbean had been dependent on Admiral Vernon’s victory.
Now it had been for nought.
CHAPTER 7
STILL AS A SLAVE
Much later I discovered Mr Wicker standing on the poop deck. He was gazing over the stern rail into the darkness, brooding, I thought. The night was clear with a hooked yellow moon and a great bowl of stars.
‘This news of Admiral Vernon’s defeat has you feeling in low spirits?’ I asked.
Mr Wicker turned and saw me there.
He nodded. ‘More than you can possibly know, little Loblolly Boy,’ he said.
‘Why?’
He did not reply.
‘You wished to visit there?’
Mr Wicker turned away and returned to the darkness.
‘Where is Cartagena?’ I asked. In truth, until this evening I had no knowledge of this place.
This was apparently a question Mr Wicker was prepared to answer. ‘Cartagena? Cartagena is a town
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