Voyage of Plunder (13 page)

One day I sat upon the bulwarks, cutlass in hand, wind in my face, and realized to my surprise that I had come to love the sea and even the
Tempest Galley,
despite the despicable morality of the ship's company. So, in between my daily fight lessons with Josiah, and upon my request, Basil now taught me seamanship. How to tie a bowline, a rolling hitch, a sheet bend. The manner of ships’ bells. How to handle the helm and box the compass. How to trim the sails for any tack. What to do when I heard the cry, “All hands wear ship!” and “Stand by to set cro'jack! Let go the brails, haul out!”

Of course I wondered about what Basil had said to me.
There's things in Josiah's past that you don't know nothing about,
he'd said.
What things?
I wondered.
What did Basil mean? And what does it have to do with me?
I asked Basil about Josiah while we were aloft, reefing the fore course because the
Sweet Jamaica
was falling too far behind. “Why did he become a pirate?”

“Captain Black, he was a privateer commissioned to hunt down ships of England's enemies. Only thing was, when Captain Black returned after a year or so with his treasure, the government denied ever having given him a commission and locked him up instead. It was an injustice, Daniel. A terrible injustice.”

“Why did they deny having given him a commission?”

Basil shrugged. “Can't say.”

“What happened?”

“He escaped, of course, and took up the life again. Only this time he didn't have a commission and targeted the governor's ships. The king's ships as well. They don't take too kindly to that, you know.”

“But what did you mean when you said there's things in Josiah's past that I don't know anything about?”

“I'll say no more about it,” Basil replied, seeming to seal his lips shut even as he said so. “There are things of which it is better not to speak.”

And indeed, no matter how many times I begged or cajoled, now Basil acted as if he didn't know what I was talking about.

One night, as the half moon carved the black sky like a scimitar, I asked Timothy what he knew of Josiah. Had he heard anything? Some secret in his past, maybe? We both stood at the bow, the bowsprit pointing into the darkness. Beneath us, wave caps shimmered moon-silver as the
Tempest Galley
sped along, close-hauled on a freshening breeze that blew us day and night toward the Red Sea.

Timothy didn't answer me right away, instead taking a swallow from his cup. “Drink?” he offered, holding out his cup to me. His hand trembled, and even in the moonlight I could see bags under his eyes.

I shook my head. “You're not looking so well.”

He brushed his hand through his mop of hair. “Can't help it. Toke's getting low. Rum's all out. I'm getting dry, Daniel, awful dry, and my head's busting. Can't hardly think straight anymore.”

“Maybe you should stop drinking so much. Look what it's doing to you.”

“Maybe you should mind your own bloody business,” he replied, his voice high and sharp. “You sound like a bloody minister. Or bloody God on his bloody throne.”

For the last couple of weeks, Timothy had grown more and
more irritable. I sighed, supposing it was like he said—the rum was all out and the toke was getting low. “Just trying to help.”

“Well, you can stop now. You aren't my mother.”

“Don't you miss her?”

Timothy looked away. “Of course.”

“Don't you think she worries about you?”

“Believe me, once I come home a wealthy man, she'll forget all her worries. I'll buy her the biggest house in Boston, dresses fit for a queen, and anything else she wants. I'll take care of her, you can be sure of that. She'll never again have to worry about being sent to the poorhouse.”

“Do you really think you'll come home a wealthy man?”

Timothy looked at me, eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

I shrugged and looked away, pretending this was just nonchalant conversation. “Just wondering how good Captain Black really is, that's all. Just wondering if he's good enough to make everybody on this ship a wealthy man.” It wasn't what I really wanted to know, but it was good enough for starters.

“Bloody fire, Daniel, where have you been? Sulking around with your head up your backside, likely. Everyone knows Captain Black's the finest pirate captain that ever lived. There's a reward on him for five hundred British pounds sterling, dead or alive.”

I did not have to pretend surprise. “Five hundred pounds?”
Now that would be a fortune indeed!

“They say that once Captain Black fired a broadside on a fleet of merchant ships at anchor, and that each of their captains was struck with a cannonball. Then he went aboard each ship, and they were so scared out of their wits that he just helped himself to whatever he wanted. It was a fortune intended for the king of England. Of course, Captain Black could have retired, but he didn't. Not him. And every man aboard his ship was so rich they never had to work again.”

“Sounds like poppycock to me.”

Timothy's skinny shoulders rose and fell in a shrug. “Well, you can think what you want, but as for myself, I intend to have a piece of that sort of poppycock.”

As Timothy wandered away, I chewed my lip, wondering.
Is Josiah really such a wanted man? Did he steal a fortune intended for the king? Am I really in the hands of the most infamous pirate in the world?

I asked other people about Josiah too. I asked Caesar as we were drilling on the twelve-pounder cannon; I asked Will Putt as we set the stuns'ls because the
Sweet Jamaica
was now too far ahead. I asked just about everyone I had a chance to ask. I even joined Timothy and his dice-playing scoundrels just to hear the talk. Some said Josiah was a determined man, fearless, the best in battle, the finest swordsman, someone they would willingly follow anywhere. Others told yarns so fantastical, as if Josiah had wings and could fly, that they were more or less a load of bilge in my opinion.

But no one, it seemed—save Basil Higgins, whose lips were duly sealed—knew the things about Josiah's past of which it was better not to speak.

On the twenty-third day of July, 1697, the fleet hove to in a harbor at Perim Island, located in the narrow Bab el-Mandeb at the southern end of the Red Sea. The strait was only twenty miles across, the island a perfect base for monitoring traffic both entering and exiting the Red Sea.

Uninhabited, bare, sandy, strewn with hilly rocks that reared like yellow scars into the azure sky, Perim Island was a dismal affair. The air was baking hot and dry as dust. The occasional wind gust blew sand into our eyes, drying the backs of our throats and stinging our skin. With the raising of the green silk flag on the main halyard of the
Tempest Galley,
all men from the three ships
repaired to shore for a general council. I sat on the sand next to Timothy, shirt off, ducking my head whenever I caught sight of Gideon Fist.

Aye, Fist had lived. I'd first seen him a few weeks earlier, pacing the deck of the
Defiance,
steps slow and shuffling at first, day by day seeming to gather both strength and speed. My disappointment was acute. I'd beseeched, prayed, cajoled, begged the heavens to let Fist die, to send him to the hell he deserved, but alas, heaven remained unconvinced on that account.

“Men, like many of you, I've been on the Round before,” said Josiah, his voice flat and dull in the smothering heat. “It's a well-known fact that each year the pilgrim fleet coordinates their departure from Mecca with the monsoon seasons. And once they set sail for India, they will have no choice but to sail past us. That, my men, is the moment for which we have been waiting, for which we have sailed thousands of miles to attend. And we must be ready.”

While Josiah was talking, Fist had moved to stand beside him—two pirate captains, side by side. If Josiah knew Fist was there, he made no show of it.

“Weapons must be kept sharp and clean,” Josiah was saying. “Ammunition dry. Every man ready for action at a moment's notice. We must employ ourselves making grenadoes and stink pots and preparing the cannon. Decks must be kept clear for ease in fighting, grappling hooks at the ready.…”

Slowly, Fist swiveled his head and turned his treacherous gaze directly on me. He neither blinked nor twitched, and it was almost as if I could hear his thoughts—rank thoughts reeking like the bilge.
I'll get you, puppy. I'll rip out your tongue and eat your eyes. I'll boil your innards and hang your hide to dry. I'll make you wish you'd never been born.

A fresh sweat broke out on my forehead that had nothing to
do with the heat. I looked away, absently patting my crossbelt, the treasure map scratched on its underside. I didn't hear much else of what Josiah said, scarce noted the cheers and roars of the pirates at the conclusion, the blasts of pistol fire.

At my first opportunity I shipped back to the
Tempest Galley
aboard the pinnace. Even as I put my back to the oars, even as I saw Josiah wring Fist's hand, saying that it was good to see him up and around at last, Fist's gaze was upon me, boring black holes through my heart.

I wore four pistols at all times—cleaned, primed, loaded, and ready to fire, two hooked to my crossbelt, two shoved in my sash, along with my cartouche box, filled with twenty-three charges and bullets. Hanging from my crossbelt at my left hip, my cutlass, shining, honed so sharp it could slice a feather floating in midair. A boarding ax, short like a hatchet, shoved in my sash. In my waistbelt, two sheathed daggers, double-edged—one at the small of my back, one at my right hip.

I practiced drawing my dagger. Again. Again. Faster. Stealth-ier. Flinging it at the mainmast from ten paces over and over, until it stuck fast, quivering, every time. Until Basil finally ran me off, saying I'd ruin the mast before I was finished.

The three ships patrolled the strait, returning to Perim at nightfall. Fist captained the
Defiance
once again, and whenever our two ships passed I ducked out of sight behind the bulwarks.

And after that first day, I never went ashore again. I stayed aboard the
Tempest Galley,
well remembering the danger I was in and what might happen if Gideon Fist caught me alone. As it was, Fist came aboard the
Tempest Galley
multiple times, supposedly to speak with Josiah, who was the fleet commander. But each time, his gaze roved about, seeking me. Always I surrounded
myself with a half dozen or more men, suddenly finding interest in dice.

As July passed into August, whispers circulated like gusts of hot air. The southwest monsoon was beginning to wane, and the pilgrim fleet would pass any day now, any hour, thirty ships or more. With no more defenses than a child, each ship would be loaded to the gunwales with jewels, silver and gold coins, coffee, and wine, its cabins filled with wealthy passengers, each dressed like royalty.

Meanwhile, Timothy and I assembled grenadoes. We packed gunpowder and small shot into hollow balls of lead, with a fuse ready to be lit and thrown. (I planned to
accidentally
throw the grenadoes into the water during battle, where they would fizzle and die. Unless, of course, I saw Fist coming to get me, in which case I prayed for the accuracy to toss a grenado down his throat.)

Then, for three days, we choked and gagged on the fumes that wisped aboard. Abe Corner stood on the shore, bandanna tied around his nose and mouth, stirring a giant cauldron filled with pitch, tar, saltpeter, sulfur, and other such stinky substances. So diligent was Abe in his task of making stink pots, flinging himself away occasionally for a good juicy cry and a blowing of his nose, that the crew got together, myself included, and voted him an extra share of the booty He smiled and waved at us from shore, stumping around on his wooden leg, snuffling loudly, eyes red as the devil.

One day, following a sword fight lesson that left me helpless as a struggling fly lying flat on my back panting and groaning, Josiah withdrew the point of his cutlass from my chest and said, “You've improved, Daniel.”

The sun blazed behind his head, hurting my eyes. “I—I have?”

“Aye. You ducked when you should have, advanced when you saw the opportunity and beat me back with a strength and skill you've not possessed before.”

“But you won. Again.”

I saw the glint of a smile. “Your day is coming. You already surpass most men on this ship—most men in the fleet, for that matter, who count on their brute strength rather than their skill and agility.”

He helped me to my feet, and I sheathed my cutlass, my arm trembling with fatigue. Despite myself, I felt pleased under his approval.
Can I really beat most men in the fleet? Including Fist?

For the rest of that day, I admit, I strutted about the deck. I strutted until nightfall, until I finally collapsed with a clank of weapons on the deck next to Timothy, who rolled over sleepily, muttering something about Daniel acting like an idiot.

I drifted into a deep sleep, dreaming of fancy footwork, flashing swords, daggers quivering in the mainmast, when someone shook me awake. I sat up, groggily rubbing my eyes. Timothy had been shaking me a long time, it seemed, for everyone else was up though it was still the dead of night.

“Wake up, Daniel, wake up. It's the fleet. The pilgrim fleet. It slipped past us in the dark.”