Chapter 32: Leaving the Shadow

Before John Little became John Little, he had once been Ole’jia, the nephew and heir presumptive of the Oba of Oké, the ruler of what was called Lagos by Portuguese slave traders in what is now Nigeria. Ole’jia was a warrior and at twenty-two years, the right hand of his uncle. He had dealt with the Portuguese slavers before; he knew them and distrusted them. Nevertheless, it was a Portuguese, one Joao do Pinto, who warned him of his uncle’s treason. Young Ole’jia had become too popular both with the Awori people and with the warriors, and his uncle feared him. Thus, the ruler conspired with some of the slavers to have his nephew seized and shipped to Brazil.

Learning of the treason, Ole’jia confronted his uncle. In the heated argument, the elder man stabbed at Ole’jia who responded with a jab with his own spear, killing the traitorous ruler. The guard was loyal to the Oba, and they chased Ole’jia through Oké for three days before he could steal a small boat and escape to the sea where he would be picked up by HM frigate Medusa, entering his new life as John Little.

From that time, Ole’jia or John Little still held a deep-sitting grudge against traitorous rulers. To John Little, the Navy had become his people, and the Asia was his tribe. His tribal chief had been betrayed by the ruler, Admiral Keller, and it was time to set things right.

The squadron had hove-to, after bringing some distance between the ships and the shore, and the wounded and cold men were tended. Lt. Dougherty, standing in for his captain, had been rowed to the flagship, and John Little had insisted on commanding the gig.

To his satisfaction, the Malta was a spitting image of the Asia. Even the lay of the cabins seemed to be identical. The gig was made fast on the leeward side of the flagship, and John Little climbed aboard pretending to have a message for the Malta’s purser. Captain’s coxswains were always regarded as trustworthy, and John Little was able to make his way to the wardroom which he did not enter. Instead, he climbed to the upper deck through the aft hatchway, getting a good glimpse of the lay of Keller’s cabin. He noted that Keller had his privy to port, much like it was in the Asia‘s admiral’s cabin.

John Little also noted the sentry and the lay of the other cabins, for the secretary, the steward and the Admiral’s coxswain. Nodding with satisfaction, John Little returned to the gig and waited until Lt. Dougherty called for it.

The ships remained hove-to, and from what he overheard Lt. Dougherty talking to Lt. Chalke, there had been angry cussing between Admiral Keller and Captain Masters. It seemed that Admiral Keller would demand a court-martial against the Captain for insubordination. John Little smiled to himself. Masters had been a good man back in the Medusa, and he would enjoy to help him out of his predicament.

Soon, the night fell, and John Little began his preparations. Luck was with him. Eric Johnsen was watch free, and Eric admired Captain Carter more than anyone else, save for John Little himself. Johnsen was clearly worried, but he agreed to help. Once the darkness fell, John disrobed and greased his tall, ebony body generously. The Malta was lying hove-to less than half a cable length to windward, and slightly ahead of Asia. Eric Johnsen helped John lower himself from a lower deck gun port into the cold, black water. Staying mostly submerged, John swam for the Malta‘s stern. The biting cold nearly paralysed him towards the end, and the length of rope he carried slowed him, but he managed to get a hold of the stern ornaments and to lift himself from the water. Willing away the cold, he climbed up, using the decorations as hold. He evaded the windows of the wardroom, climbing up at the very edge between stern and side, and making his way up to the Admiral’s privy. Fortunately, the privy was well-cleaned, and John was able to squeeze his sinewy body through the hole in the privy seat.

His bare feet hardly made a sound as he glided towards Keller’s bed chamber. He could hear soft snoring from the inside and he smelled stale wine. Good. Keller had imbibed on wine. John Little’s disdain for the man went up a notch. Noiselessly, he opened the door and bent over the snoring man. Taking a deep breath, he closed his strong hands around the scrawny neck. His thumbs pressed inward, effectively crushing Keller’s larynx. The man struggled shortly and ineffectively, but then a stench of urine and defecation assaulted John Little’s nose as Keller lost any muscle control. It was over.

He opened the door cautiously, but nobody was outside. The sentry was on the other side of the bulkhead, separating the upper deck from the Admiral’s quarters. Turning, John Little lifted the soiled, lifeless body over his shoulder and carried him to the privy. There, he bound a ten foot length of rope around Keller’s chest and forced the scrawny body through the hole in the privy seat and lowered him down to water level. The rope was barely long enough, but John managed to keep the end in his hand before he himself lowered himself through the hole and climbed down into the water.

The next three or four minutes were a struggle for survival, human will against the cold of the water. The night was moonless, and John Little was able to drag Keller’s body away from the Malta and towards the Asia. He was barely conscious when he reached the gunport again, and Eric Johnsen had to help him up and through the port. Johnsen had a net with a thirty-two-pounder roundshot ready which they tied to the rope around Keller’s chest. Then, Johnsen let the roundshot slip into the water, and the weight pulled the dead admiral’s body down towards the bottom, fifteen fathoms below.

By now, John Little was shivering uncontrollably from the cold and the exhaustion, but Eric Johnsen helped him to his small private cabin where he rolled into his blankets until he finally warmed up. He smiled as sleep claimed him. Once again, Ole’jia of the Awori had struck down a traitor.

Tony awoke from his laudanum-induced sleep and looked up at the deck planks above his head. His seaman’s sense automatically picked up the information that his ship was hove-to, riding what seemed to be short, choppy waves in a lively breeze. Protected waters.

He tried to move but the pain that shot into his left foot made him wince. His movement was noticed, though, and Grimes stuck his head in.

“Good morning, Sir. I’ll call Doctor Wilkes right away.”

He was gone, but only a few minutes later, Jonathan Wilkes showed.

“Good morning, Anthony. Did you sleep at all?”

“Surprisingly, I did. What’s with my foot, Jonathan? Tell me the truth.”

“The truth is, I don’t know yet. It was too swollen yesterday to examine it. Let’s have a look now.”

The poultice was removed and Tony had his first look. The foot, from ankle to toes was a blue, swollen mass. Jonathan probed and pressed here and there, eliciting sharp intakes of breath from Tony.

“Can you remember what happened?”

“The ball hit the launch below the stern sheets, and I was thrown into the air.”

“I see. Your foot must have been hit by a board. It may be just bruised or broken. You have to lie absolutely still until the swelling subsides completely. Dougherty was called to the flagship, by the way. Something is brewing over there.”

“Well, whatever it is, it has to brew without me,” Tony answered. “It’s better that way. I don’t think I could face Keller and not run him through.”

“Did you mean what you said, about Keller sending you knowingly against that battery?”

“I can never prove it,” Tony sighed. “He’ll claim the chart was faulty, and the flag officers will close ranks. I have to think. He seems hell-bent to see me dead, or else, he is a colossal ass. Either way, I must get out of his reach. This foot may give me an excuse to give up the command.”

“You’re not serious?”

“I don’t know, Jonathan. I have a wife and children. I want to see my son growing up. I want to be with Harriet. There is so little left for me to prove in my profession and so much to miss with my family.”

“You must think of your officers and crew. They need you.”

“Jonathan, had that ball hit the launch just a foot higher, they would have to get by without me anyway.”

“Well, think well about it before you make a rash decision. That’s all I’m asking.”

“I shall. Thank you for caring, Jonathan. What’s the butcher’s bill, anyway?”

“We lost five men in your launch. Able seaman Flint got a belly full of wood splinters, Corporal Reilly lost his leg and bled out before they could get him here, and three of the marines drowned. Midshipman Wallace had his arm broken by the tiller. That cannon ball must have hit the rudder. It’s a clean break, and it should heal well. It could have been worse.”

“I guess it could,” Tony sighed.

John Little came next, and he looked the worse for wear. Even with his dark skin, Tony could see dark rings under his eyes.

“Bad night?” he asked Little.

“Didn’t sleep much, Sir,” Little answered. “Your breakfast is ready. Let me help you sit up.”

With two cushions in his back, Tony could sit in the cot and eat his breakfast. Grimes had gone into the stores. There were two fried eggs with bacon, with potato hash, and a large jug of freshly brewed coffee.

After breakfast, Jonathan was back to fit splints around Tony’s ankle. The carpenter had fitted him a crutch, too, and this allowed Tony to visit his privy for some urgent business. With help from John Little, he was able to throw on some clothes and sit on the upholstered bench at the stern windows, with his left leg propped up. It was there where Lt. Dougherty found him.

“Good morning, Sir Anthony. I bring bad news. I just came back from the Malta. It seems that Sir Winston disappeared during the night. Captain Shields called us this morning, and we spent the last hour going through Admiral Keller’s cabin. We ... We made a disturbing discovery, Sir. May I allow Captain Shields in, Sir? He can explain our findings.”

Tony shrugged. The news were surprising, but hardly disturbing to him. If only Keller stayed missing, all was well. Shields came in, his face showing deep worry.

“Good morning, Sir Anthony. I hope you are recovering?”

“We’ll have to wait. The foot may well be broken, but it’s too early to tell.”

“Let us hope not, of course. Sir Anthony, as you may have heard, Sir Winston disappeared from his cabin during the night. His steward left him shortly before midnight, but this morning he was gone. His bed is soiled, and it seems he visited his privy, but there is no trace of him in the entire ship.”

“Were the windows latched?” Tony asked.

“Yes, everyone of them. The sentry swears he did not leave his cabin. We searched the entire ship, too, but he has vanished.”

“That is indeed strange, Sir. I am afraid I cannot be of much help, though. Doctor Wilkes gave me a heavy dose of laudanum yesterday, and I never woke before this morning.”

“Yes, of course, Sir Anthony. Nobody would think you’d have a hand in it anyway. No, the reason for my coming is that whilst searching Sir Winston’s cabin for clues, we found his diary. I shall have to hand it over to Sir Charles. It explains some of the happenings of the lest weeks. It ... It would seem that Sir Winston was deeply infatuated by the Lady Carter. He ... He wrote poems about her at first, but then his thoughts turned towards, well, towards getting you - err - removed. It would seem that he exposed you to dangers on purpose, in the hope of winning your widow in the aftermath.”

“Are you jesting?” Tony replied incredulously.

“No, I’m afraid not. Not that there is anything that even hints at your wife knowing of this.”

“May I see this diary, Sir?”

“Of course. Here, you have one very revealing passage,” Shields pointed out.

Tony’s eyes flew over Keller’s handwriting.

‘Carter must be in liege with Satan. Survived again. Cotton is angry. Must find another way. I dreamt of Harriet again, of her soft arms. She will come to me for help after Carter is dead. She will be better off with me. I shall bring the Lord’s word back into her life and help her find pure, untainted love. Wescott is weak, he refuses to redraw the charts. He’ll bow to pressure, I’m sure, and then Carter will be gone.’

Tony looked up, shaking his head.

“Is he mad?” he asked Shields.

“As a hatter,” the captain confirmed grimly. “He better be dead, too, for I shall show this to Sir Charles Cotton. Keller knew of the battery on the beach. Here is another clue.”

Shields held Keller’s bible, and there was a page marked from the Book of Samuel. It was the story of Uriah the Hittite. Tony shook his head again.

“Who played Jaob?”

“Wescott, of course. I placed him under arrest. Sir Charles can deal with him, and that’ll be the last prayer ever in my ship.”

Tony’s thoughts had gone further, and he had a worry.

“Sir, if possible, I would like to keep my wife’s name out of this. She’ll be devastated to hear that she was the unwitting focus of Keller’s obsession.”

“I had not thought of that, but of course, we should keep her good name out of this sordid affair. I imagine Sir Charles will want to keep this under wrap anyway. So far, only Captain Masters, Mr. Dougherty and I saw this, and we shall keep quiet.”

“I appreciate your discretion, Sir. With last year’s duel, my wife is quite sensitive to such matters.”

“Say nothing more, Sir Anthony. We had better find Sir Charles now, to get new orders. I fear I’ll have some explaining to do. I don’t think any flag captain ever lost his admiral.” Suddenly, Shields’ eyes grew wide. “What if he tried to swim over to Asia, to finish you? I mean, look at this diary — he’s a nutter if ever there was one. With you wounded, he could not send you into harm’s way anymore, and with the water as cold as it is, he would have never made it.”

“I don’t know, Sir, how would he have come aboard?” Dougherty said thoughtfully. “The lower deck was packed with sleepers, and the gun ports were closed.”

“There is still the question how he left his cabin, Sir,” Tony added.

Shields snapped his fingers.

“The privy. It’s the only way to get out unless he had an accomplice to latch the windows after him.”

The thought made Tony smile.

“You are not planning to offer this explanation to Sir Charles? An admiral squeezing himself through a latrine seat to go and kill a captain?”

Shields shrugged.

“His last traces were in his privy. I must offer an explanation, and this one is a good as any other we came up with. Also, nobody else is to blame that way.”