Voyage of Plunder (20 page)

You may have loved me once, Josiah Black, but it is clear you no longer do. It is clear you no longer wish to be my father. You are as finished with me as I am with you.

'I was the nineteenth day of April. Gray, rain-swollen clouds hovered over the choppy Atlantic waters, and the air was chill. Come midmorning, our lookout descried a sail three points off the windward bow. Immediately the pirates set all sail and lay in a new course toward the unsuspecting ship, securing any exposed cannon with canvas tents lest the promised rain begin to fall. I was disheartened by our decision to pursue the vessel, for
we were only several hundred miles from Boston now. For weeks we'd sailed the dreary Atlantic, and the closer we came to home, the more anxious I became. Each day seemed to stretch, minutes turning to hours, until it lasted forever. Now we would spend an additional day or two pursuing the vessel, and perhaps another few days looting them.

Would I never return home? I was finished with this life and longed to escape at the first opportunity to put my back to the
Tempest Galley
and lose myself in the waterfront docks at Boston Harbor.

The excitement aboard the
Tempest Galley
faded to puzzlement when our prey also plied on all sail and set an intercept course. The puzzlement quickly changed to alarm when Josiah, who had been peering through his eyeglass atop the foremast crosstrees, slid down a backstay and called for everyone to gather around. “Man-o’-war,” he told us. “Forty guns at least, and judging from her lines, she'll be faster than smoke and oakum.”

As he spoke, the skies opened and a great rain began to pour. Thunder rumbled.

Water sluiced off Josiah's cocked hat. “It is possible that news of our misdeeds has already been reported by the mogul's representatives to the British authorities. After all, we spent much time in Saint Augustine's Bay. Time enough for an East Indiaman to sail ahead of us.” He peered out into the gray gloom. “We shall try to outrun them, but be prepared for battle, men, if it comes to that.”

Lightning flashed, followed by a crack of thunder so sharp it rattled my bones. The wind gusted suddenly and the
Tempest Galley
groaned, increasing her heel.

“Captain Black,” cried the lookout, “I've lost sight of them in the storm.”

Josiah smiled grimly. “Maybe we can slip through the gauntlet
after all. Alter course to west by northwest and prepare to take in sail.”

Inch by sodden inch, flogged by yards of beating canvas, we took in sail while perched precariously atop the footropes. Afterward we cleared the decks for battle, trailing the pinnace to our stern by its painter, and prepared our big guns and our weapons. I was soaked through, shivering cold, and famished by the time we finished. As yet, there was no sign of the man-o’-war. Perhaps we had indeed given her the slip.

I crouched with many others in the sheltered area beneath the fo'c'sle deck, gobbling a quick meal of salt beef and biscuit, trying to keep my pistols dry.

The
Tempest Galley
heaved and pitched through the waves. The wind roared through the rigging. Lightning flashed every few seconds, illuminating my shipmates’ faces—eerie and ghostlike. Water poured over the aft edge of the fo'c'sle deck. Some leaked between the deck boards and trickled onto our heads. No one spoke, for speech was next to impossible. And besides, I knew they were sobered. Should the man-o’-war find us, we stood no chance—every man aboard would be either blown out of the water or hanged for piracy.

As they ate their meal, men glanced about them, as if they could spy the man-o’-war from beneath the fo'c'sle deck. An hour later, men visibly began to relax. Some got out their pipes and smoked a bit. Others joined in a game of dice. Still others left for their watch, replaced by sodden, shivering men who gratefully accepted some salt beef and biscuit from Abe, tired though we all were of such miserable fare. One game fellow even tried to drown out the storm with his accordion.

As he was singing about the fine ladies of Port Royal— perfume, lace, and pretty smiles—we heard a cry from the lookout. A frightened shriek.

“Man-o’-war on our windward quarter! She's almost on us!” For a split second, the men beneath the fo'c'sle deck stared at one another, faces deathly white with a stroke of lightning.

Then, like rats spilling out of a cellar, we tumbled over one another out onto the upper deck.

ater, inches deep, rolled in waves across the upper deck, gurgling out the scuppers. I sloshed through it, rain spattering my face.

The man-o’-war was huge, ghostly, terrifying.

The very sight of her made my mouth dry.

Two decks of guns towering high.

A voice called from over the waters. “Strike! I order you to strike, in the name of His Britannic Majesty King William of England!”

“We strike to no man!” cried Josiah.

There was a momentary pause before her cannon belched flame—a thunderous broadside aimed at us.

“Prepare to fire!” Josiah ducked as
cannonballs whizzed past, one mere inches from his head. “Cast loose the guns!”

This time the powder box was located on the lower deck, out of the rain. I scurried down and up the companionway, lungs burning, first wrapping each cartridge of gunpowder in a greased sailcloth to keep it dry.

Down in the lower deck, again and again, cannonballs smashed the hull of the
Tempest Galley,
sending a barrage of deadly splinters through the darkened corners.

On the upper deck, Josiah cried, “Fire!” And each time he cried thus, a boom loud as thunder exploded, the air convulsed with a shock wave, and the deck shivered beneath me. The two ships were now but one hundred feet apart, pummeling each other with shot as fast as the gunners could load and fire. I heard men screaming—shot with lead, pierced with wood shrapnel. One poor fellow was blasted into two parts, a twenty-four-pound cannonball through his middle.

I was on deck, running, cartridge tucked carefully to keep it dry.

“Worm and sponge!” Josiah was ordering.

As I passed, he grabbed my arm. “Take care, son,” he said.

Startled, I looked him full in the face for the first time since the night of his confession. I wanted to tell him to have a care too, but my throat clogged and my tongue wouldn't work. Instead, I wrenched out of his grasp and was off and running again, slogging through the water, my heart twisting like a dagger inside my chest.

I handed over my cartridge to my gun crew, and after the powder and shot were rammed home, the guns of the
Tempest Galley
boomed once again.

Suddenly a great crack rent the air. There, across the water,
the foremast of the man-o’-war began to teeter. Swaying for a moment as if undecided, the foremast finally fell, creaking and crashing, men scattering out of its way on the deck beneath. Rigging snapped and sails billowed upward in a great whoosh.

The pirates erupted into cheering. We'd disabled them!

“Cease firing!” cried Josiah once the cheering somewhat abated. His face was hard, his eyes dark as the storm clouds. “Man the sweeps! Let's put some distance between us. Fine work, men.”

I hurried below—not to man the sweeps but to put on my coat, the one with my share of the loot sewn into the lining. I strapped my two daggers under my coat, plus a coil of rope, crossbelt secure as always across my chest. In addition, I stuffed the now flimsy and waterlogged document—the one declaring that I was a forced man, a hostage, with both Timothy and Abe's signatures as witnesses—into one of my pockets.

Back on the upper deck, I ran, long coat slapping my shins. By now the rain had stopped, the thunder a distant rumble. A gray mist had settled over the waters, the afternoon light fast fading.

I heard the sloshing of the sweeps in the water, felt the
Tempest Galley
gain speed. Josiah was amidships, talking with Basil. Glancing around to see if anyone had noticed me, I hurried into Josiah's cabin under the quarterdeck. I latched the door behind me, my breathing loud in my ears.

There wasn't much time.

Striding across the cabin, I flung open one of the stern windows and peered into the water below. The pinnace trailed behind the
Tempest Galley,
secured by a rope. She was half swamped—forgotten in the tumult of the storm and the battle.

Pulling out the rope from inside my coat, I secured one end to the bed railing and tossed the other end out the window. I took a deep breath, said a quick prayer, climbed out the window, and slid
down the rope, battered against the
Tempest Galley
as she heaved and tossed through the ocean swells. By the time I sat in the pinnace, water halfway to the thwarts, I was sore and bruised.

Just then, I saw movement up above. It was Josiah, leaning out the stern window. Our gazes locked.

Part of me wanted him to try to stop me, to plead with me not to leave. But he said nothing. His expression was unreadable, his eyes pools of black. Part of me wanted to stay, to stop myself from untying the pinnace, leaving the
Tempest Galley,
Josiah, and this life behind me.

But I untied the pinnace anyway, my hands shaking. I put the oars to the locks and began to row through the mist toward the man-o’-war. Again, my heart twisted, hurting. The pinnace rose heavily up and over the swells.

And Josiah grew smaller … smaller … framed like a miniature in the stern window until finally both he and the
Tempest Galley
disappeared in the mist.

I'm sure I made a sight—standing before the captain of the man-o’-war, damp and smelly as a bilge rat, a pool of water about my scruffy shoes, red kerchief wrapped round my head, skin darkened by sun and weather.

“They forced me to sign their Articles,” I was telling him, “saying that unless I did they would maroon me on a deserted island. I was not a willing pirate.”

“I see. And the name of the pirate captain?” Captain Wellington wore a powdered wig, tied in a queue beneath the cocked hat of a naval commander. Eyes pale as a morning sky pierced through me, as if he read my thoughts rather than heard my words.

“Josiah Sharp,” I lied, hoping they would think he was just one of many petty pirates, rather than the most hunted cutthroat in the world.

Several of the captain's officers flanked him, and upon my words they glanced at one another as if they did not believe me. Immediately I sensed that something was wrong. The captain cocked his eyebrow. “And what waters did the
Tempest Galley
cruise?”

My heart began to pound. Was this a trap? Did they know something? “The—uh—the Red Sea. But we were unsuccessful.” When the captain said nothing, I added, “I ask for safe passage to the colonies. As a forced man, I cannot be convicted of piracy. I have done nothing wrong.” I cursed inwardly when my voice sounded unconvincing and weak.

“Tell me,” said the captain, “how you came to be aboard the
Tempest Galley.”

“They captured my father's ship.”

“Ah. And your father's name?”

“Robert Markham. He was a merchant in Boston.”

“I see. And your first name?”

“Daniel.”

Upon my speaking such, the captain turned to his officers. “Bind him and throw him in the brig as a pirate.”

The officers seized me. I heard a roar in my head. My temples pounded.
They're arresting me. Me! A forced man!
“But—but I told you that I was a forced man! You cannot do this!”

“We have orders to arrest one Daniel Markham on sight. This Daniel Markham will be aboard the
Tempest Galley,
having roamed the waters of the Red Sea and having participated in the capture and pillage of the merchant ship
Jedda,
among others.” Again the eyes pierced me. “You are Daniel Markham, are you not?”

I was confused. How could they have possibly heard of me? “Yes, but I have done nothing wrong! Here, wait! I have the document to prove it.” I tried to wrest out of their grasp, but they held me tight. “It's in my coat pocket. There. On the left.”

The captain signaled one of the officers who stood beside me, pinning my arm. The officer reached in my coat pocket. A puzzled expression came over his face. He patted my coat, then opened it and in one motion, ripped off the lining. Gold and silver coins flashed in the lantern light. A silk packet of jewels dropped to the deck.