Captain Barney

by Jan Westcott

 

Preface

Captain Barney is fiction.
But the daring and vigor of Captain Joshua Barney, American privateer and United States Naval officer, have come down through the years so generously to quicken my invention and to augment the action of this novel that I must acknowledge my great debt to him. He lived his life in the finest tradition of the romantic hero.

---

Part 1
Chapter 1

A t ten o'clock on the night of August 24, 1780, the commandant of Mill Prison scribbled his initials on the last paper on his desk. They were all routine matters. The prison was overcrowded and understaffed, and there was hardly hope for a betterment of conditions while the war went on.

The commandant looked down at the top paper -- tomorrow's guard duty. Idly, sleepily, his eyes wandered up the list. When they reached Thomas Browne, south gate, he wondered why the devil he was reading the list. He picked up the papers and handed them to his weary adjutant.

"Goodnight," he said.

Outside the summer moon rose. The night was still. The town of Plymouth and its harbor and inlets were bathed in moonlight. It was not till five in the morning that the fog began to roll in.

 

In the solitary cell, Benjamin Barney slept, sprawled out on his narrow cot, one hand dangling over the side; he slept the light sleep of a very hungry man. He was dreaming of food, then abruptly the dream changed and he was lying flat in the water drain, his big hands fastened in the grating, trying to shake it loose with the remainder of his strength. It wouldn't come loose, and he swore slowly and with deep venom; he muttered aloud in his sleep and this wakened him. He opened his eyes.

It was still dark. For a moment the blackness made him think he was still imprisoned in the black hole of a dungeon; they had kept him down there for forty days after they had caught him trying to escape through the dank water tunnel. But his hands were not manacled and now he was fully awake, and he knew where he was. He stood slowly. He went to the window.

He could smell the fog. It came off the sea and smelled of salt. It was like a breath of freedom and the image it conjured of the rolling vastness that lay murmuring so near these stone walls was a sudden sharp thrust of pain. But it was cold and damp too, so he took his blue service greatcoat off the nail and lay down again, spreading it over his long length carefully, so as not to muss it. He lay looking up at the blackness, rubbing his wrists, for they still ached, even though the wounds had healed and only the telltale scars of the manacles remained. Lying there, sleepless now, he went over again in his mind the details of his new plan of escape. He knew very well the consequences if he were caught; he did not permit himself to dwell on them, but only on the essentials of the scheme. Last time he had attempted to take six other men with him through the tunnel. This time he must try alone.

An hour passed. The fog was still thick. Gradually the walls of the cell took shape; he could see the crutches leaning against the stone walls, the barred door. With the passing minutes his hunger grew, the familiar gnawing pain; this was a kind of clock, always worst in the hour preceding the scanty meal. He reckoned it was almost six and -- proving him right -- the sound of the first bell came within seconds. He rose, hung up the greatcoat and opened his sea chest.

He began to strop his razor in long even strokes. By the time he had finished, he heard the guard's footsteps. His morning meal was bread and water; there was water for washing. The guard said, "Morning, Captain," and the door swung shut again. Barney couldn't resist wolfing the bread. With the basin of water still in one hand, he tore off a big hunk of the bread with his teeth and swallowed it too fast. He should eat slowly; all the men had told him that. He sat down on the edge of his cot and began to chew methodically, restraining his eagerness to swallow, and taking frequent sips of water.

He was finished too soon. He drank most of the water. Then he fished his tiny piece of soap out of its oilskin and began to soap his face. When he had finished shaving, the post-breakfast lassitude had settled over the prison again though he could hear the voices of the men in the big barracks down the hall. Roll call would begin soon. Impatience gripped him; he longed for the moment when roll call would be completed and his door would be unlocked and he would be allowed out into the courtyard for the rest of the morning. As was his frequent practice, he began to pace the small cell, back and forth, back and forth, trying to ease the terrible restlessness that drove him. Perhaps today --

He answered as his name was called, his voice clipped and almost contemptuous. Then he stood at his barred door, towering there behind the iron, his dark face taut with unleashed anger. This morning the guards did not speak. After they had had a look at his face, they went on by.

Now he would be left alone for about thirty minutes. No one would pass his door. So he set himself his usual morning task. Methodically he began to remove the faded uniform of the Continental Navy of the United States of America; the gold braid was tarnished. He stripped it off and laid it carefully under his mattress, at the same time taking from the mattress another uniform, with the blue undress coat of the Royal Navy, smuggled to him by a guard named Thomas Browne, who had served in America. He had not even demanded a high price for this precious uniform, bought from a pawnshop where a lieutenant of the Royal Navy had left it and never returned to redeem it. Probably by now he never would.

Barney dressed. He drew his sock up over the heavy bandages on his left ankle; he adjusted his greatcoat so that it swung closed in front and did not reveal any of him save his shoes. Then he eased the crutches in place, closed the sea chest, looked around the cell.

Everything was in order. No one could perceive that he wore a British uniform under his coat. He always went hatless; fortunately so did many officers, even the British, and often, too, they had their hair clipped short. Men of the sea were starting a fashion which others would follow. He waited by his door.

In five minutes he heard the tread of his fellow prisoners as they marched two by two. When the group from the first barrack room had passed, his own door opened again, and he fell into step with Colonel Silas Talbot. They nodded their good mornings, and it was not until they were out in the courtyard that they finally spoke.

The yard in which they stood was made up of two courts at right angles to each other as they extended around two sides of the prison. The stone walls were ten feet high, pierced by four gates. Past those walls was another ten-foot wall, but these outer gates stood open, and were manned by two sentries. The inner gates were also manned, each by a pair of sentries, but these gates were always locked. With Talbot trailing behind, Barney hobbled along on his crutches as fast as possible, around the corner, looking toward the south gate. He stopped suddenly. Thomas Browne was one of the sentries on the south gate.

Talbot almost bumped into Barney. His eyes took in the figure of the sentry, he heard around him the noise of the men released from bondage. He was standing near the wall; he leaned back against it negligently and managed to convey a warning to Barney as he said:

"I saw by the paper last night that Charles Fox had been set upon by a highwayman, and succeeded in turning the tables and capturing him. Watch your coat."

"Yes," said Barney. "That was the Morning Post of three days ago." The south gate was the only gate that was not directly opposite the gate of the outer wall; further, it was set at right angles to the main yard.

"I take it you are not an admirer of Charles Fox," Talbot continued his conversation.

"I find the arrogance of the English Whigs almost as stinking as the Tories," Barney said truthfully.

Talbot smiled. "The Post suggested it was a pity Fox couldn't be hanged instead of the highwayman. Barney, are you sure you want to go through with this?" He looked sideways and up at the face of his fellow prisoner, at the thick, rough dark hair, and he met the gaze of the dark eyes as Barney turned toward him.

"Yes," Barney said. A boy was coming toward the two men. Barney's face softened and he smiled. "Good morning, lad," he said.

 

At ten o'clock the fog had lifted a little and was swirling over the lawns of the country residence of Lord Edgecomb, five miles from Plymouth on the river. The head gardener touched his cap as he saw a lady come down the wide stone steps toward the waiting carriage.

"Good morning, Lady Douglass."

"Good morning, Matthew," Douglass said, as the footman aided her into the open coach. She settled her skirts, raised a hand to touch her highpiled thick hair. Her grey eyes were wide-set and fringed with heavy black lashes. Her red mouth was full; her chin dimpled. She yawned a little, and leaned back, while Lady Edgecomb gave her a brief envious glance. The carriage swung smartly out of the long drive.

"Have you ever seen the prison, Douglass?" Lady Edgecomb asked.

"No," said Douglass.

"It's not far. We do this quite often," she said, "because conditions at the prison are so bad; Bertram has spoken in Parliament about it. We take food and clothes." She had been speaking absently. With more wonder she asked, "Douglass, what are you going to do? Will you really meet your brother-in-law and let him make your decision?"

In answer Douglass Harris opened her gold-topped reticule, extracted a letter and held it out. "Read it," she suggested. Her delicate brows were drawn a little as she watched Clara run her eyes over the very brief message.

Clara Edgecomb read it twice, folded it and handed it back. "The Belgian packet to Brussels in three days, then," she said. "It's like a man, though. Will you go?"

Douglass replaced the letter. She shrugged. The shrug was belied by a gleam in her eyes. "I must. Sounds like a cold-blooded flounder, doesn't he? 'Considering that it is quite impossible for me to come to England, if you wish to confer with me, I suggest you take, etc.' " She stopped. "As yet he -- this Joshua -- has not paid me a cent from James's estate, and two years have passed." Her red mouth set and the dimple in her chin became more pronounced. "I must go to 'confer' with him. I -- " She broke off again, deciding not to tell Clara she had already asked Lord Edgecomb for a loan for her passage. Clara might not approve. "Is that Mill Prison?"

Ahead was the massive stone outline of the prison.

The coachman was slowing his horses, he turned their heads toward the wide open gate; the sentries saluted. The coach came to a halt outside the south gate.

Within, Thomas Browne took the heavy keys from the ring attached to his belt and unlocked the iron gates. They swung inward, and the coach entered the yard while the other sentry walked forward and motioned the men back toward the center of the court. There were very few men here anyway, in this part. The footman jumped down and began unloading boxes. Douglass sat straight and looked into the yard.

The ground was bare, gritty. There was shouting and laughter from the men around the corner who were playing games. And just ahead of her, standing rather awkwardly, was a man on crutches.

Douglass' grey eyes fastened on him; she was sure it was he. She leaned over the side of the carriage to speak to the guard.

"Is that -- could that be -- Barney?" she asked, her eyes wide.

Browne nodded importantly. "Yes, ma'am."

She could not take her eyes from him. She had seen him pictured many times; he was one of those rarities of war -- an admired enemy. She recalled one picture vividly, the pistols at his waist, the smoke curling around the dark head, and the legend written underneath: "Captain Barney, le terreur des Anglais." This had been reproduced in the English newspapers, and many English women were half in love with this raider.

She leaned forward a little. The sun had come out again and made her blond head gleam. He was coming toward her now, awkwardly, on the crutches, staring at her, as though there were no one else in this prison yard with its high stone walls. A bit of dust blew. Douglass' heart beat fast. Then a voice cut through.

"That's far enough, Barney!"

A man had swung around the corner, coming from the small guard house in the center of the middle court. He gave a few brief orders to the guards, but Douglass didn't hear what he said. Barney stood only ten feet away.

His handsome face was thin; the great wide shoulders looked thin, too, even under the big coat, but the superb and arrogant assurance was undimmed. She saw that quickly as he bowed very briefly, as if they had just met, according to their own code of introducing each other. His dark eyes went over her.

Douglass leaned over the side of the carriage toward him. For her he had a magnetic quality.

Blandly he appraised her. How bold an eye! Her sensation raised a telltale flush in her cheeks. The coachman cracked the whip. Douglass sighed, leaned back again in the seat. The carriage turned.

It moved slowly out of the gate. She heard, above the horse's hoofs, the sound of the gate's closing with finality.

At one precisely, the prison bells rang. Barney said, "Run along, lad." He gave no reason. And the boy obeyed him immediately. Barney watched the two sentries at the south gate.

Thomas Browne was unhooking the heavy bunch of keys from his belt. He was handing them, as was the custom, to the other guard. The other guard swung them in his hand as he walked by Barney.

At this time, when the prison guards ate their dinner, only one sentry was left at the gate. But he had no keys. The key-carrier passed around the corner.

18 On the lookout for this move, Talbot lounged around the same corner toward Barney. There was no one else in this portion of the court. Together, without a word, they moved toward the south gate. When they reached Browne, he whispered:

"Quick, then!" Browne's face was pale.

Barney dropped the crutches. Talbot braced himself against the wall. Barney stepped into his cupped hands; Talbot gave a heave; Barney's hands found a hold on top the wall. In a second he was perched on top. Talbot handed his crutches up to him. "Goodbye. Good luck!" The New Englander repeated that injunction. "Good luck!"

Barney nodded acknowledgment. He dropped from sight. Talbot brushed from his hands the mud from Barney's shoes that had clung to them. He said in his dry voice, "It is to be hoped they don't discover this for a while, Browne." Upon this understatement he walked away.

On the other side of the wall, Barney laid down his crutches, flat against the wall. The authorities would wonder about those crutches. He let the greatcoat swing open. With no sign of a limp, he strode easily toward the outer gate twenty feet around the corner. One sentry was standing there. He saw the undress uniform of the Royal Navy. He saluted.

Barney returned the salute with a brief wintry smile. He walked out of the gates. He turned right. Soon he was out of the sentry's sight down the dusty road on the way to Plymouth.

 

 • $7.99 •