Authors: Mark Keating
Twenty-First Parallel, North Atlantic Ocean, May 1717
To the captain of
Ter Meer
it was the only course of action. They had come across the black smoked mirage of the two ships locked in combat shortly after one o'clock, two points off the starboard bow, two miles ESE.
At first the Dutch fluyte believed it to be a ship ablaze and intended to seek some 'waveson', the floating goods of a sinking ship - along with any survivors, naturally.
As they drew closer, Captain Claes Aarland perceived two ships crawling through a floating fog of battle, sailing abreast of one another, their sterns facing his spyglass. The escutcheon of one read
Lucy,
the rather innocent name besmirched by the black and white flag she clearly flew. The other, to his horror, nobly displayed the tricolour of his countrymen, her name plainly shot away, her sails in disarray, although his sailing master had insisted that the flag had not been visible moments before.
Nevertheless, Captain Aarland had given the order to close: to aid the black Dutch frigate, assured that there was no pirate who would stand against two allied ships. With their odds out of favour they would flee like the cowards they were.
Ter Meer
boasted only ten six-pounders and eighty souls, a merchant sailing home from Curaçao, but to the frigate she would be an angel, and the brigantine that through some lucky happenstance had surprised her would surely show her heels. Aarland pictured the celebratory meal that the two gallant captains would share and the gratitude that would be bestowed upon him.
It was somewhat disappointing to Aarland, then, that he found himself now chained to his own foremast with the fearful cackling of the pirates ringing throughout his deck like the black pleasure of a crowd around a gallows.
At first all had gone well. As
Ter Meer
approached, the brigantine had lowered her sails; the cannon stopped; she veered away. Cheers echoed across the
Ter Meer
as her anxious crew realised they would not fight this day and they could forget about their wages being lost along with their blood amongst the scuppers.
There had been some mild concern that as they reached the frigate, the gun-crew still seemed engaged in frantic action, but this had been dismissed as wise caution as the pirate brigantine was still close by.
On drawing level with the stationary frigate, Aarland scanned the ship for her captain and waved above his head, slow and high, to signal his presence.
Instead of the salutations of a beholden compatriot, a deafening broadside of chainshot cracked from the deck and quivered over Aarland's head. There was a strange sensation of air being sucked away, of an alien heat against his face. Rigging and spars flew from their place. Men seemed to shrink, returned to wailing children as black smoke crept over the gunwale.
The shouts of Baernt Corniel, his sailing master, spat into his face, and Aarland turned to see the travelling masts of the brigantine above their bow. She had turned, a formidable show of speed, heeling against the wind. Now her larboard guns faced
Ter Meer,
and on the up-roll released a broadside of chain into the foremast, tearing the course like paper.
His wife would weep at an empty grave now, he was sure, no doubt baring her shoulders in a black dress to his brother. Such thoughts at such a time. Focus on the now. Concentrate on the black-haired pirate now wearing Aarland's tricorne, moving amongst the quelled crew, who sat with lowered heads and crowded the deck. He dared, audaciously, to make a speech to the men.
His
men. Some insistence that they would not be relieved of their personal belongings, that they were safe as long as they obeyed, for only the cargo held the pirates' interest, and the officers' wares of course.
Now the pirate turned his attention to Aarland. He stepped carefully over the legs of the crew towards him, the deck mercifully free from blood due to their immediate surrender.
Aarland was lashed uncomfortably to the mast, his coat long stolen and being worn by a scarlet-faced brigand, his grey wig slanted almost over one eye, sweat sticking his shirt to his narrow back. He was in this state, far removed from the one he awoke in, when a pirate spoke to him.
'Captain Aarland.' The man's voice was soft, even cultured almost. 'The deception of the cannon was my own thought, designed to bring you gallantly to our rescue. My apologies if I have humiliated you, but you must admit that my plan caused the least harm to us both.'
'Damn you, English! I will not have words with you! How dare you speak to me!' Aarland's Dutch accent was proud and Devlin let him have his moment of bravado.
'My men will remove whatever you have in your hold that's of use to us. I myself require more trivial goods, namely your logs and any news you may have carried from the Indies of what goes on lately. If you'd be so kind.'
'I will be kind enough to tell you to go to hell, dog!' Aarland's voice was shrill. His anger had grown from the moment that the man with the bald head and red beard lashed him to his own ship. He had watched helplessly as men ran from his cabin carrying his medicine chest, personal goods and sea charts. Now he was raging.
Devlin winced. 'Now that attitude won't help any of us settle this matter quickly, will it, Captain?'
'It is my dignity that forbids me from helping you,
sir,
not my humour!'
'Ah! Is that it? I understand.' Devlin wheeled round to the Dutch sailors. He watched their curious faces staring at the two captains. He half turned back to Aarland. 'I can remove that obstacle from you, Captain, if it helps our discussion.'
A few minutes standing naked in front of his crew and Claes Aarland found a new voice. With some encouragement, Devlin learned of the blizzards that had paralysed trade all along the northeast coast of the colonies at the end of February. Of the death of the infamous Sam Bellamy, former consort of Benjamin Hornigold, whose ship
Whydah
went down with all but two of its crew in a storm off Wellfleet, Massachusetts, barely a fortnight ago, the sinking of which had brought treasure hunters from all nations to drag the area. The world was rid of a notorious cut-throat.
There was little news of consequence to cause any consternation in Devlin. He thanked the captain for the access to his logs as he leafed casually through the tome that Sam Fletcher had brought him.
Devlin walked the waist of the ship as he tried to read the Dutch scrawl. Deciphering most of the words was strangely simple but he found himself hovering over the cargo list, until the scrawl became meaningless again. He was broken from his thoughts by the unfortunate sound of Hugh Harris singing drunkenly from the quarterdeck, a bottle of brandy in each hand, Aarland's wig now adorning his head, his pistols hanging from a red sling round his neck.
Most of the rather frugal goods had been craned aloft or shouldered by the crew to the
Lucy,
now designated consort to the
Shadow,
the name he had properly christened the frigate.
Molasses, rum, hogsheads of pork and indigo were all the hold of the
Ter Meer
seemed to have, but Devlin's eyes returned to the log.
There were pages of figures. Scribblings, often written in double figures, that from their dimensions made no sense until it dawned that they could only be ages, and that the repetition of three words over and over were the Dutch words for woman, boy, girl, alongside the obvious
'man'.
It was as the words on the page began to cohere that something else also fell into place: the smell.
On coming aboard after the first few exciting minutes were over and the Dutch had been corralled, there had been amongst the customary scent of damp wood, pitch and oakum, an echo of something almost effluent, akin to all the obnoxious discharges that flow down London's streets and mingle with the vomit of the starving drunks outside the gin houses.
Peter Sam appeared before him and Devlin looked up at the severe face and closed the book. Peter Sam held a small chest, the timbers of which were held together by black ironwork, the lock smashed.
'I'd say there were about ten guineas' worth of Dutch tin in here. A poor haul by accounts.' He sighed his disappointment. 'Nothing but these notes is all else there is.' He passed a crumpled batch of papers into Devlin's left hand. Each slip was no larger than a note of credit.
Devlin had not been below. Peter Sam had.
'What's it like in the hold, Peter?' he asked.
'Stinks like they swab with chamber lye, Cap'n.' He grinned.
'Chamber lye?'
'Piss, Cap'n. It stinks like they swab with piss. They got more irons down there than Newgate, I wouldn't doubt and all.'
Devlin looked to the notes in his hand, then turned and walked back to Captain Aarland.
Aarland's grey body was still lashed to the foremast. He was holding his gaze above the heads of his crew and watching his goods being swung over to the pirate vessel by pulleys rigged over the yardarms as makeshift derricks.
'Aarland.' Devlin pushed Aarland's shoulder to force his attention. 'There were slaves aboard this ship. Where's the gold for them?'
'I have no gold for them,' he sneered. 'What I have are those papers in your hand.'
'What are these?'
'Worthless to you,
piraat
.' Aarland spoke confidently, as if it did not matter about his exposed extremities. 'I had sixty Negroes from El Mina. They were diseased; over half died. Those papers are my insurance I must take back to reclaim my monies.'
Devlin glanced at the notes. 'These chits are for all the Negroes. You said half died?'
'Ignorant fool! I don't get insurance for half a cargo! They all go over the side! They are all chained together, it is easier, they fall like rosary beads!'
Devlin had only ever met one slave. It had been outside a house in Chatham one freezing February night. Devlin had stood, tramping his feet, clenching his fists and hunching against the cold, waiting for Coxon to appear from the warmth within.
Standing at one of the pillars of the house had been a black man, smartly dressed with fine buckled shoes and white stockings, but quite absurd in a white wig above his ebony face. Devlin had offered him some tobacco, which he had politely refused. Devlin had asked him his name.
'Adam,' he had replied. Then, in a second breath, 'But my real name is Ehioze Omolara.' His eyes had glowed wistfully. 'It means "Born at the right time above the envy of others". May I ask what is your name, sir?'
'Patrick Devlin.'
'And what does that mean, "Patrick Devlin"?'
'It means I'm stuck out here with you, Adam.'
'We should leave, Cap'n,' Peter Sam stated. 'We should take some men with us.' This was true. The real motive when Sam Morwell had first spied the Dutch fluyte was to gain more hands. Splitting forces between the two ships, twenty-five on the
Lucy,
eighty on the
Shadow,
with Black Bill commanding the
Lucy,
left the pirates shorter-handed than they liked it. Devlin, however, was reluctant to press men into his service, but the Dutch sailors looked neither hungry nor desperate.
'I’ll ask the question of them, Sam.' He looked over Peter's shoulder as he watched Dan Teague carrying a sack. A light load considering he held it away from him like a dead thing.
'Take a look at this, Cap'n.' Dan presented the bag at the foot of the mast before Aarland. Devlin and Peter Sam both peered into its mouth at what appeared to be black clumps of coarse, wiry wool.
'Hair.' Aarland nodded to the sack. 'For
kussen,
you know? Cushions. Cheaper than feather. Very good.'
Devlin straightened himself. 'I'm confident of that, Aarland. I'm beginning to think that your mother raised you from afar.' His speech was muted. He felt a rising in his stomach and the smell of the ship became almost palpable. 'You say these sixty notes are for your insurance, then, Aarland'
'Ja.
No monies you will have from me,
piraat.'
'We'd best be putting them somewheres safe, then, eh?' He winked at Aarland, then shouted to Hugh Harris. 'Hugh! Be bringing me a bottle of that brandy fore!'
'Time's a-wasting, Pat,' Peter Sam reminded him.
'Long summer, Peter. Get back to the
Shadow.
I'll be along.' Peter Sam nodded and moved to ascend the boards that joined the ships.
Hugh came up and slapped a bottle into Devlin's hand. 'Now, Kapitein' - he faced Aarland - 'I would be happy to see you eat the fruits of your labours.' He stuffed the first of the notes into Aarland's shocked mouth, then poured a swig of brandy into his face. Aarland sputtered a stream of soaked obscenities. Devlin answered by shoving more paper into his hole.