Prelude to Glory, Vol. 8 by Ron Carter

Author:Ron Carter [Carter, Ron]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction
Publisher: Deseret Book Company
Published: 2004-08-31T04:00:00+00:00

The Bahamas, Windward Channel

Early July, 1787

CHAPTER XIX

* * *

Miles Young climbed from the hold of the Zephyr, dropped the cover banging on the hatch, and walked barefooted toward the tiny quarterdeck of the small schooner, with the sun hammering down from directly overhead, and a strong, blistering east wind at his back, blowing his long hair and moving his dark beard. He wore nothing but a pair of frayed gray cotton pants that reached just below his knees. From his waist up and his knees down, he was burned brown. He moved on the smooth, worn deck with the easy, rolling gait of men who had learned the rise and the fall and the roll of the deck of a ship running with the wind. He took the four steps up to the quarterdeck two at a time and stopped where Caleb and Nathan Tunstall were standing next to the helmsman and the big wheel that controlled the ship, holding a chart down in the wind while they pored over the markings.

Caleb spoke without looking up. “How do we stand?”

Young looked at the written list he had made belowdecks in the commissary and answered, his British accent prominent, and his fourteen years of training as a midshipman and first mate in the British navy limiting him to as few words as possible.

“Two days fresh water, four days flour, four days salt fish, one day salt beef, no potatoes, no carrots. All rotted. We can eat fish from the sea for a while, and maybe get coconuts or bananas from one of these islands for a little milk and meat and fruit, but we can’t get fresh water unless we stop to resupply in the next few days. This heat sucks water out of a man. We’ve got to have fresh water.”

Caleb considered for a moment, then spoke to Tunstall.

“How far?”

Young hunched over the chart with them to watch Tunstall trace a course with his finger.

“We’re here, about center in the Windward Channel. One of the few good passages from the Atlantic to the Caribbean.” He shifted his pointing finger. “Here, about thirty-five miles to the east, is Haiti. French. Their biggest port is St. Nicholas, right here. The eastern half of the island is Hispaniola. Some call it Saint Domingo. Santo Domingo. Spanish, not French.” Again he shifted his finger. “Here, about thirty-five miles west of us, is Cuba. Spanish. No regular ports here on the east end but a lot of little coves and inlets where ships put in for water or fruit or tubers.” He made a circular motion with his hand. “This whole spread of islands is called the Greater Antilles.” He moved his hand south and west. “We’re headed here to Jamaica, dead ahead. In the Caribbean. British. Their biggest harbor is here, on the leeward side. Called Port Royal. The town of Port Royal—what’s left of it—is here, and across the harbor, here, is Kingston.”

Caleb studied the chart and repeated the question. “How far?”

“The harbor? From here, a little over three hundred miles.

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