West Point to Mexico Page 11

  Chapter Nine

  November 1842, USS Somers, Atlantic Ocean

  “Are you afraid of death? Do you fear a dead man? And dare you kill a person?” The questions came in an excited tumble, hushed but insistent.

  George King sat on the foremost boom of the USS Somers and restrained himself from shoving the speaker into the ocean below. “I don’t believe I’m particularly anxious to die quite yet, but I do not fear death.”

  “And killing a man?” Midshipman Philip Spencer, son of the Secretary of War, pressed him. It was just after mid-watch, the start of the 25th of November, 1842, and the Somers had been at sea since early September. Stars sparkled overhead as the ship cut a course west across the Atlantic.

  “If honor is involved, I could kill a man,” King assured him.

  Spencer appeared disappointed with the answer. “Can you keep a secret?”

  Now King was in a bind. First, it was wrong to be out on the boom according to ship’s regulations. The only reason King had agreed was he sensed that Spencer had something of great importance to say and the situation on the Somers had been deteriorating since the ship had turned around and begun its return cruise from Liberia to St. Thomas. There were one hundred and twenty souls on board the ship, a hundred of them under the age of 18. There were dark whispers that Spencer was up to something and King wanted to know what it was. The boom was one of the very few places on board where a whispered conversation could be had and not have a half-dozen over-hear it whether they tried to or not.

  “I can keep a secret,” he said.

  There were only two men on board who could navigate the ship other than the handful of officers, and King had not only noted Spencer in the constant company of those two, he’d also seen Spencer pay them money and slip them illegal liquor. King had gone under Boatswains Mate Cromwell’s verbal lashings several times and had great distaste for Seaman Small’s disposition.

  “Will you take an oath?” Spencer pressed. He was a tall, thin fellow of nineteen who had seemed amiable enough on the outbound voyage from New York City, but King had seen something in his eyes on first meeting that had never left—a sense of instability in the mind. He’d seen that look before in his own father’s eyes just before the end, and not recognized it then for what it was.

  “An oath on what?”

  That gave Spencer pause. “On your father.”

  King smiled coldly in the dark. “Certainly.”

  “I lead a group,” Spencer began, “who will take the ship.”

  “Mutiny?” King couldn’t believe he had just said the word. It was unthinkable. There had never been a mutiny in the United States Navy.

  “I have at least twenty who will follow. We’ll have to kill all the officers, of course. But the plan is solid. Everyone has their assigned task.”

  “What do you wish from me?” King asked, more to gain time than anything else.

  “You bring expertise with the rigging. We’ll need good top men, especially among all these boys. We’ll strike during mid-watch when Midshipman Rogers has the duty with me. We’ll stage a fight on the forecastle and when Rogers goes to intervene, throw him overboard.” Spencer’s voice was low, but excited. “I can get the keys for the arms chest, then we’ll cover all the hatches. I’ll kill the captain while Cromwell and Small and some others take care of the rest of the officers. We’ll take two of the aft cannon and train them forward. Then we’ll let the rest of the crew up. Those with us, we’ll keep. Those against, we will kill.”

  The plan had spewn forth as if a mad man were saying them as a prayer. However, upon a moment’s reflection, King realized it might work. “Why do you want the ship?”

  “We’ll become pirates,” Spencer said, slapping King on the shoulder. “Raise the black flag. We’ll head for the Isle of Pine and gather more crew from among the pirates there. We’ll also get some women. And rum.” King could see Spencer’s teeth as he smiled at the thought. “Things will be much different with me as captain. We’ll have a much better time and soon all of us will be rich.”

  King took a deep breath of sea air as he tried to determine a course of action. The ship was under a good head of sail, but St. Thomas was ten days away. The Somers was the newest ship in the United States Navy, a hundred feet long, with a twenty-five foot beam at its widest. It boasted two square-rigged masts and was fast and nimble in the water. She carried only twelve cannon, but her agility could more than make up for that lack. She could run if heavily outgunned or she could fight if the situation was right, and King felt a sudden affinity for the ship.

  “Are you with me?”

  King didn’t realize he was shaking his head as he answered. “Yes.” Fortunately, the night covered his true answer.

  “Good. I’ll be back to you once we decide which night to strike.”

  King stood and made his way along the boom, his bare feet, now callused and rough, gripping the wood. On his back, was slung a boarding axe, cradled in a special leather sling he’d had one of the men who repaired sales make for him. The axe had a two-foot long handle with a wicked steel, double-headed blade. One side of the head was a razor sharp axe blade, the other a pick-like spike. It was a useful tool on board ship, as well as a very lethal weapon if the need arose.

  King made it to the spar deck—the main deck of the Somers, which sported no other levels, being flush decked from bow to stern. He saw Small in the shadows, watching him and as he made his way aft, he realized Small was following. He’d seen Small with an African dirk, more a sword, he’d bought in Cape Mesurado in Africa, constantly honing the blade to a sharp edge. The dirk was conspicuously tucked in Small’s belt.

  King changed course, realizing there was no way he could get to Captain Mackenzie or First Officer Gansevoort, without Small intercepting. He slid down a hatch into the berth deck and wove his way through the hammocks holding sleeping sailors until he found his own. He climbed in and spent the rest of the night tossing and turning sleeplessly as he tried to come up with a plan.

  As morning came and the watches changed, King accepted he could not get to either Gansevoort or the Captain. Both Cromwell and Small were always about, always within eye’s reach, not a hard task on such a small ship. Nor did King know who else was in on the plan with them.

  He went to breakfast and wrangled a seat next to the ship’s purser, who had access to the officers. Speaking as quietly as he could, King relayed what Spencer had said to him the previous evening. He did this with one hand on the starter tucked under his blouse. He had no idea if the purser was true to his duty or in league with Spencer. The midshipman had claimed 20 among his mutineers among a crew of 120, which made for favorable, but still dangerous, odds.

  The purser took the matter seriously. “Follow me. I’ll put you in my storeroom then fetch Lieutenant Gansevoort. That’ll prevent these spies from knowing that you meet.”

  King followed the man, weaving through the maze of the ship. He caught a glimpse of Cromwell with Small and he tapped the purser on the shoulder. “It won’t work. You relay the message.”

  King diverged from the purser’s path and went over to the conspirators. They stared at him, no one speaking a word.

  King finally broke the silence. “The officers have no clue. I was just talking to the purser. All thoughts are on getting to St. Thomas.”

  “They’ll not make St. Thomas.” Cromwell folded tattooed arms over his burly chest. “I hear you are with us.”

  “I am.”

  “Good. Make sure your axe is ready. There will be bloody work soon.”

  Aloft in the masts of the ship, King was balanced on a high wire act both physically and mentally. His expertise had pushed the officers to send him aloft ahead of the other trainees. He found he had a natural affinity for the heights and the sails. While the ship rolled in the swell, the effect was magnified tremendously at the top of the one-hundred and twenty foot main mast. Even experienced top-men sometimes suffered sea-sickness, but not King.

&nb
sp; There were no safety ropes or protective gear other than one’s nimbleness, strength, and sense of balance. King relished the challenge and today it kept him from dwelling too much on what was developing below. He’d observed Lieutenant Gansevoort shadowing Spencer throughout the day, but no overt move was made on either side. The tension coming off the crew was a palpable wave even high in the topsails.

  Then, around noon, Spencer began climbing up and King felt a moment’s alarm, but the midshipman went to another top-man and sat next to him. The man began working a tattoo onto Spencer’s forearm.

  It was well past his watch, but King remained in the rigging. It was calmer than on the deck below, where the current of men moving about was disturbed, as if a heavy stone had been thrown into a stream. Slightly after two past the noon, the storm broke open.

  Lieutenant Gansevoort came to the base of the mast and hailed Spencer, ordering him to instruct all the top-men to come down. Spencer did not relay the order, but he didn’t need to. Everyone began clambering down, King included. He reached the spar deck and noted that Spencer had also finally climbed down, but had stopped on the Jacob’s ladder and was staring at Gansevoort. King felt a chill go down his spine as he watched the two engage in eye contact for over a minute. Gansevoort and Spencer exchanged a few words and the lieutenant finally walked away, shaking his head. The gauntlet had been thrown down, it would now come to who would strike the first blow.

  The blow came before darkness fell.

  The crew was summoned to quarters, everyone reporting to duty stations as if preparing for combat, except there was no other ship in sight. Then they were called to assemble aft. King stood in the ranks, seeing the grim looks on the handful of officers standing by Captain Mackenzie.

  The Captain was of middling height with thin hair, his forehead balding. He was not a tyrant as a commander, but firm when need be.

  Mackenzie walked up to Midshipman Spencer and spoke in a voice all could hear. “I learn, Mister Spencer, that you aspire to the command of the Somers.”

  The words washed over the crew with electric effect, but Spencer seemed unconcerned.

  “Oh, no sir.” Spencer had a smile plastered to his face and his voice was not at all challenging to the Captain.

  King stiffened as Mackenzie glanced in his direction. “Did you not tell Mister King, sir, that you had a project to kill the commander, the officers, and a considerable portion of the crew of this vessel and convert her into a pirate?”

  King waited for Spencer to glare at him, but he was ignored as the midshipman focused on the Captain. “I may have told him so, sir, but it was in joke.”

  “You admit you told him so?” Mackenzie confirmed.

  “Yes, sir, but in joke.”

  King had little sense of humor, but he was absolutely certain he had not been told a joke.

  The Captain and midshipman sparred back and forth in dialogue for a quarter hour, Spencer sticking to his attempt to play it all off on misunderstood humor. The fact that Mackenzie was arguing with a subordinate in front of the crew over such a serious manner disillusioned King. This was a time for swift and decisive action, not discussion.

  Finally, it seemed, Mackenzie had had enough. After another joke defense, the Captain slapped his hand on the hilt of his saber. “This, sir, is joking on a forbidden subject. This joke may cost you your life.”

  They found papers in Spencer’s footlocker. Written in Greek. They were quickly deciphered. On one sheet the names of the crew were listed in three columns: Certain; Doubtful; To Be Kept Willing or Unwilling.

  King learned his name was in the third column, which meant his subterfuge on the boom had not fooled Spencer.

  The midshipman was in irons, chained to the deck, aft, and furthest from the crew.

  The crew was dismissed and the ship sailed on.

  King felt at peace the next day after a tense night. He was high in the royals, a hundred feet above the spar deck. The only sails higher than the royals were the skysails. Flanking the royals, further out on arms, were the studdingsails. Walking out to them was a particularly challenging feat as they were over the water. These sails produced tremendous torque on the mast and were dangerous to deploy, but Captain Mackenzie’s urgency to reach St. Thomas was playing out among the canvas he ordered unveiled to the wind.

  The ship was angled to the breeze, on direct course for the Bahamas. King felt invisible so high up, the wind whistling about him and the sails flapping. Too much flapping, he realized. He looked over and saw there was too much slack in the studdingsails and one side was losing power from the wind while the other side gaining too much. He stood up, one hand on a rope, the other on the mast, when an order came bellowing up from below as the officer of the deck noticed the same thing.

  “Tighten down the slack on the larboard studdingsail,” the officer of the deck called out.

  King edged toward the rigging when he noticed Small and several other sailors climbing up the ropes like monkeys, much too eager to do a dangerous job. King joined the small group and they pulled on the brace, adjusting the sails. The task was done in less than half a minute.

  King and the others let go of the brace, but not Small. He kept pulling.

  “What are you doing?” King yelled, trying to be heard above the wind and sails.

  Small ignored him.

  “Belay!” the officer of the deck screamed. His order was echoed by Captain Mackenzie: “Belay!”

  “Stop it!” King yelled at Small, who continued to haul away, then suddenly stopped. Too late for the ship.

  The topgallant mast ripped away from the main mast, taking with it the rigging and sails attached to it. A spider’s web of sails, rigging and wood began to tumble overboard. King slapped away the canvas that threatened to engulf him, realized his purchase on the yard was doomed and then he jumped, over a hundred feet above the deck, into the topgallant sail, sliding down it until he grabbed a stay and swung himself over to the yard. Everything above him had been torn away into the sea, but was still attached to the ship by all the rigging from spar deck and lower yards, forming a massive sea anchor on one side of the vessel.

  The Somers heaved to, abruptly changing course, almost capsizing.

  Mackenzie and Gansevoort began yelling orders, getting men aloft to cut away the wreckage. King whipped the boarding axe from its sheath and slashed at rigging. He noted that Cromwell and Small were up top, but neither seemed overly concerned about doing their duty. He had no time for them. King focused on the immediate danger. Who cared about mutineers when the ship could founder?

  He stopped for a second and focused on the complex puzzle of ropes, sail, and wood. The sails that were dragging in the water were twisting the ship about. There were critical points of stress in the rigging. Taking a deep breath, King made his decision. He ran along the yard, no concern for his own safety, and began to chop away key lines, separating the ship from the former part of it that threatened to consume her. Within two minutes, with remaining ropes snapping, the wreckage ripped away from the ship and the Somers righted and veered back on course.

  King halted, balanced on the arm, breathing hard, then suddenly realized the precariousness of his position. He scampered over to the main mast and clutched it with his free hand. He started laughing uncontrollably. It lasted a few seconds, then he snapped to, hearing Mackenzie yelling near the stern of the ship. He was upbraiding Midshipman Oliver Perry who had direct responsibility for the sails.

  King climbed the rest of the way down. The sullenness of the crew was giving way to something electric as Gansevoort appeared next to the Captain with a cutlass and a brace of pistols. The Captain called out for Cromwell and Small to come aft. They were in irons in a flash, joining Spencer.

  And with that the rest of the crew was like a sail with no wind. Men turned to follow orders, clearing the ship of the rest of the debris and conducting repairs.

  But King had a feeling they had just passed through the eye of the hurricane, but ha
d yet to come out the other side.

  It was after dark before the work detail got around to replacing the topgallant mast, an arduous and dangerous endeavor on a ship under sail. King was aloft, guiding the rope that was lifting the mast. On the deck below a large number of men were pulling on the rope. But then, strangely, men began to let go of the rope and drift away in the darker shadows on the deck.

  King’s first hint of trouble was when the rope stopped moving. He heard a bosun mate berating men to get back to work. Sensing disaster, King grabbed the line. He secured the lift rope to a spar as the shouting below got louder and angrier. By the time he was done, he could just make out a large mass of men gathered in the forecastle. A bosun’s mate was swinging his ‘starter’ to get the men moving.

  It all went to hell quickly.

  The mass of men charged toward the rear of the ship. Right toward Mackenzie and Gansevoort. As the Captain raced below for his Colt revolver and its six shots, Gansevoort drew his single-shot pistol and screamed at the men to halt.

  “By God, I’ll blow someone’s damn head off if you don’t halt!”

  King joined a bosun mate, shoving his way into the crowd, and drawing his boarding axe. “Come men,” King shouted. “Follow orders.”

  Someone hit him in the ribs and King blindly struck back with the flat side of axe, knocking the man to the deck. The melee ended when Captain Mackenzie arrived back on deck, standing shoulder to shoulder with his first officer. He cocked the Colt and the odds swung in favor of the officers, as other armed midshipmen joined the two senior men.

  King used the axe to shove the young sailors back toward the forecastle. With much muttering and cursing, the mob broke apart and a tense peace was established.