Owen didn’t have to be climbing the rigging at this time of the evening. He was off duty and could have been playing cards, reading, or cleaning his kit. He was a Royal Marine, not a seaman, but he was good at climbing and it gave him a chance to be away from the other marines and sailors who frequently ridiculed him. They called him ape, or monkey, because of his physique. He was short, squat, and dark haired. His arms were disproportionately long and heavily muscled, which enabled him to swing through the rigging with consummate ease.
This strength meant he’d won most of the fights with people who’d initially tormented him. If he got them in his massive arms, it was all over. He would wrap his arms around their chests and squeeze until they either gave up or passed out. He hadn’t yet killed a man with his strength, but he’d come close and that would be bad. It was one thing to kill an enemy, which he’d done, but entirely another to kill a fellow British crewman.
Along with being very strong, Owen was also a deadly shot with his musket. His place in combat was in the rigging, firing down on an enemy deck after clearing the enemy’s rigging of their own riflemen. Lately, that had meant the French, and he’d killed several of them.
Owen was only twenty years old, but had been a Royal Marine for seven years. He’d enlisted after lying about his age and after finding that the local sheriff and squire were after him. His crime was poaching on the squire’s grounds and eating the squire’s damned rabbits, which was how he’d learned to shoot and track. He’d only shot the squire’s rabbits because he was suddenly an orphan and was hungry. For killing rabbits they’d had him flogged before turning him over to the pressmen from the navy.
From his high perch, he could see the Victory’s captain far below on the quarterdeck. He’d never been on the quarterdeck. That was officer’s territory, and that struck him as strange. After all, it was just wood planking. The captain was accompanied by Admiral Sir William Cornwallis and General Sir John Burgoyne. Sir William, he’d heard, was the younger brother of Charles Cornwallis, the governor general of the colonies. As if it mattered to him. He toyed with the idea of spitting down and seeing if he could hit either of his mighty lordships on the head. He decided that was not a wise idea as he’d be flogged until his bones showed through, although the thought of hitting someone so important with a gob of spittle made him smile.
The Victory was the flagship of an enormous British fleet heading towards the American colonies. Even though it was a dark night, he could see the shapes of a score or more merchant vessels and a half dozen escorting warships, including other massive ships of the line like the Victory and a number of smaller, swifter frigates. He’d heard that the French navy wasn’t much of a threat anymore, but it didn’t pay to take chances.
Owen had made a decision. On reaching the New World, he would desert. The country was vast and, even though the British ruled the land, he was confident he could disappear in it. He had some money saved up from winning shooting matches, and, as a marine, he would likely be sent ashore to guard the sailors while picking up stores as he’d done before. His job would be to see the sailors didn’t desert, and no one would be watching for him to run. He’d acquired a reputation for being trustworthy and it was time to use that to his advantage.
Somehow, he’d get civilian clothes and maybe a musket for protection from the red savages, or even the outlaws who, he’d heard, roamed the land outside the cities. He couldn’t keep his smaller, naval version of the Tower musket as that would be too obviously property of the king. He thought seriously about joining the outlaw rebels to the west of the colonies, but discarded it. The army in the convoy was being sent to destroy them, which meant they would be destroyed. He’d never seen rebel soldiers, but he had seen the British and a rebel mob would never stand against them.
At least that was the plan. He shuddered at what could happen to him if it all went wrong. He’d be lucky if they shot him or hanged him. More likely he’d be flogged to death. He shuddered again. He’d been flogged once while in the navy, fifty lashes. He’d screamed after twenty and his back still bore the scars on top of the ones given back in England. He’d been hit with a short knotted rope called a starter a thousand times, but that didn’t count. Everybody got hit like that. He’d worked hard at being a good marine and there was talk he might be promoted. Sure, he laughed, in a hundred years. Thanks to his squat physique, he didn’t wear a dress uniform because none would fit him, which meant he could never command in the ranks. What he did wear was a large man’s uniform that draped all over him.
Burgoyne and William Cornwallis appeared to be arguing. He wondered about what. He could hear the sounds of their voices but couldn’t make out the words or meaning. He thought of the damage he could do to the British cause with his musket if he had it and shot down at them. He was Welsh, not British, and he’d been taught to respect and fear the British, but never to love them.
He wondered what he’d be when he was free.
* * *
“Get your lazy ass up,” Homer said jovially. “We be leaving now.”
It was the middle of the night, and Will had been dozing on a pile of rags. “What’s happened?”
“There’s a whole goddam fleet coming in and it’s gonna be bringing more Redcoats than can be counted. They’ll be crawling all over the place and all of a sudden I don’t think this is a good place for us to be.”
Will dressed quickly. He had nothing else to carry with him. At least it wouldn’t look all that much like they were running away, he thought ruefully. He realized there was another problem involving British security.
“We don’t have passes.”
“Yes, you do.” Homer rummaged in his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. It identified the bearer as Thomas Wolfington, a merchant from Providence, Rhode Island. His date of birth said he was in his late thirties and the document carried all the appropriate stamps and seals. “Like I said, you white people need the pass. Nigger slaves don’t need one. Lucky us.”
Will examined the paper. “Where’d you get this?”
“Off of Thomas Wolfington of Providence, Rhode Island, where else? He was drunk as a lord and fell down in the gutter.”
“Won’t he miss this when he wakes up?”
“He won’t wake up, leastwise not on this earth. I dumped his sorry ass in the river. He’s probably halfway out to join that British fleet right now.”
Will grimaced. Homer had killed a man on his behalf. So what if the man was probably a Tory, it was murder, not battle. But then, did he want to run the risk of being picked up in a city that was full of Tories and soon to be inundated with British soldiers? As with all he had done to survive on the prison hulk, he would beg forgiveness later. Now it was long past time to go, and if Mr. Thomas Wolfington truly was dead, then he was a casualty of a brutal and ongoing war.
Very early in the morning, they rented a wagon and a horse. They promised the stable owner they’d have them back in a day or two and headed north to the Harlem River. As planned, Will drove while Homer sat behind him, the picture of docility.
There was excitement in the air. The overwhelmingly Tory city of New York was expectantly awaiting the arrival of the fleet. There were those who said they could see a forest of sails from the church steeples, which made the need for their departure even more imperative.