On deck the sailors were as prepared as they could be. They had six cannons, which were all now in place and ready to fire. Captain Ricky was intently observing the approaching ships through his spyglass. The smaller ship, a sloop, was almost within range.
“Are they hostile, Captain?” Mr Johnson asked, although there were far more men on the sloop than would be needed merely to sail her. As he pondered the implications of that, the larger of the ships, a brig, hoisted a flag, which gave him a definite answer.
“Shit,” Captain Ricky said, with great feeling. The flag was red, and in the centre of it was a black skull. He passed his spyglass to Johnson, who raised it to his eye.
“Can we outrun her?” he asked.
“The brig possibly, but not the sloop,” Ricky replied. “We’re at full speed now, and she’s gaining on us.” He looked at his men. None of them were experienced fighters. This was a merchant ship. He had only six guns on board, and he had counted twelve on the sloop. He ran quickly through his options. Flight was not one of them, so he could fight, or he could surrender.
If he chose to fight, he would have to completely cripple the sloop before she could damage his ship, which he was unlikely to be able to do. Most likely she would fire chain shot in an attempt to take down the masts. Whether he could sink the sloop or not, unless they escaped unscathed the brig would almost certainly catch them. If he attacked and lost, then, depending on the brutality of the pirates bearing down on him, he could lose ship, crew and cargo, and, alive or dead, be castigated for not surrendering and making the best of it.
On the other hand, if he surrendered without firing a shot there was a much better chance of the crew and human cargo surviving, but then there was the possibility of him being accused of cowardice.
He was no coward, but he was a pragmatist. It might be better to surrender immediately and have a chance of living to negotiate the ransom of the ship and prisoners, than to be remembered posthumously as a stupid hero.
As he was deliberating, the sloop, although still out of range of the Veteran’s cannon, fired a shot across the bows. It was a bow-chaser; a warning. Several of the sailors cried out, and from the hold below he heard screams, and then more banging on the hatch as the prisoners shouted to be released.
“They missed!” declared Johnson with a mixture of relief and trepidation.
Captain Ricky sighed deeply and made a decision. If even his first mate didn’t know what a warning shot was…
“Raise the flag of surrender, Mr Johnson,” he said resignedly.
After a few minutes of futile banging on the hatch following the sound of the shot, the prisoners gave up. It was clear that whatever the captain decided, he was not going to trust them to take his side. Which, all things considered, was probably wise, as none of them had any desire to work themselves to death in Antigua, while a good number would be willing to become pirates. After all, they were not exactly worried about falling foul of the law.
It was different for the women, though. They were very aware that whereas the men would probably have two choices; to be killed or given the opportunity to join the pirates, the options for the women were likely to be death or rape, possibly both; although some would probably resign themselves to becoming the pirates’ whores, if their lives were spared as a result.
Beth was not one of those women, and Elizabeth Clavering made it clear with her next words that neither was she, and that she believed there might be another alternative.
“There were two women pirates once,” she said. “Mary Read and Anne Bonny, they were called. Edmund tellt me about them when we were in prison, once he knew I was going to be transported to the Colonies. He jested that it might be an option for me if I could escape from my employer.”
“Many a true word hath been spoken in jest,” John Ostler quoted.
“Would you do that? Become a pirate?” Beth asked.
“In a heartbeat. Would ye no’ do the same?”
She hadn’t considered it, had had no idea that female pirates existed until this moment.
“It would depend on the alternatives,” she replied after a minute.
From above their heads came more running and shouting, and then there was a loud bang as the pirate ship apparently collided with theirs, throwing the prisoners against the side of the hold.
“Dear God, have they sailed into us?” one woman asked, when the screams of terror had died down.
“Why would they do that, if they’re pirates?” John Ostler asked. “Surely they’d fire at us rather than risk damaging their own ship by ramming us?”
No one answered. None of them had any experience of naval warfare or pirates. All they could do was wait, and try to interpret the noises as best they could. Looking through the tiny air vents was no help, as all the action, whatever it was, was taking place on the other side of the ship.
They all fell silent, not sure whether drawing attention to their presence at this point was a good idea. There came the sound of more footsteps and muffled shouts, and someone fired a pistol, after which there was a cheer and more talking and moving about on deck.
The prisoners were in the middle of a low-voiced discussion as to whether or not they should announce their presence and who they were anyway, just to end the suspense, when suddenly there was the sound of the bolts being drawn back, then the hatch opened. Everyone looked up as a head appeared and then was just as quickly withdrawn. There came an oath uttered in a foreign language followed by retching, then the head reappeared, the nose and mouth covered this time with a handkerchief.
“Bonjour, mesdames et messieurs,” the owner of the head said cheerfully, if a little indistinctly. “J’ai le regret de vous informer qu’il y a eu un léger changement de plan, et que vous n’irez pas à Antigua.”
The few people who understood French absorbed this, then John Ostler began to translate into English.
“He said that we will not be going to Antigua,” Beth said in Gaelic. “He’s speaking French.”
At this the rest of Mr Ostler’s halting translation was drowned out by a rousing cheer from the Gaelic speakers. French! Surely this was good news? After all, the French recognised James Stuart as King of Great Britain, did they not? They were allies!
“Vous êtes écossais?” the man asked, clearly relieved that it appeared part of the cargo could speak French, or understand it a little, at least.
Beth, who happened to be closer to the hatch than John Ostler, looked up at the speaker.
“Some of us are Scots, yes, and the rest are English,” she answered in French, “but we are all prisoners because we fought for Prince Charles Edward Stuart.”
The man nodded, and disappeared. The hatch remained open. Those who had cheered now reflected that although the pirates spoke French, that did not necessarily mean they had any affection for their native land, if they were outlaws.
“Should we go up?” someone asked after a minute or two.
“Maybe we should wait until they tell us to?”
“Well, they’ve left the hatch open, so tae hell wi’ it,” Donald MacDonald said. He started to make his way over to the hatch, but at that moment another head appeared.
“Please, come up,” the owner said in heavily accented English.
One by one the prisoners made their way up the wooden ladder, until they were all standing in the blazing sun. They blinked and squinted until their eyes became adjusted to the bright light, and then looked around with interest.
The deck was crowded with men. The Veteran’s crewmen, including Captain Ricky and Mr Johnson, were standing in a group to one side of the deck. Their hands had been tied behind their backs, and they were being guarded by some of the new occupants of the ship.
The small ship with one mast that Beth had seen earlier was now next to the Veteran, secured in place by a number of grappling hooks. That explained the banging and grating noise from earlier. There was still a number of men on the small ship’s deck, but the majority of them se
emed to have transferred to the Veteran. The big ship she’d seen earlier was once more on the distant horizon. Perhaps its presence had just been a coincidence, although Beth doubted it. It was apparent from the lack of artillery fire that Captain Ricky had surrendered to the pirates without resistance. Surely he wouldn’t have surrendered to such a small foe? Although what did she know about naval warfare?
While she was observing the situation, the pirates started to release the grappling hooks in order to free the smaller vessel.
They were an interesting-looking lot. Whereas the now sullen and fearful crew of the Veteran, with the exception of the captain and first mate, were dressed in shades of brown, blue and green for the most part, with cream-coloured shirts, many of the pirates were attired in brightly coloured breeches, although in common with the Veteran crewmen they were mainly barelegged. They carried cutlasses or hand axes, and round shields reminiscent of the Highland targe, and had pistols thrust through their leather belts. Some of them had scars, some were bare-chested, some wore scarves around their heads, others sported golden earrings. But all of them had two things in common; they were all tanned, their exposed skin a uniform mahogany brown; and they all looked to be experienced fighters.
As the prisoners were taking in the situation, a man who was obviously, by his flamboyant dress, either the captain or a high-ranking officer, came forward, and doffing his tricorn hat made an elaborate courtly bow to the newly liberated Jacobites that Sir Anthony Peters would have been proud of.
“Good day to you. Captain Paul Marsal at your service. I am told,” he said, in accented English, “that you are all Jacobite prisoners on your way to Antigua? C’est vrai?”
Beth translated quickly into Gaelic, attracting the attention of the captain.
“This language, it is Scottish, no?” he asked.
“Yes,” she replied. “Some of us speak only English, some only Gael…Scottish.”
“And you speak all three?”
“Yes.”
“Excellent! Then you can be my official translator,” Marsal said in French, smiling hugely. “My English is poor, and endeavouring to speak it gives me a headache. I am very grateful for your help, my dear madame.” He seized her hand and kissed the back of it in an overblown gesture again reminiscent of Sir Anthony.
In truth, apart from the fact that he wore his own hair, which was brown and tied back with a green ribbon, and his face bore no paint, but was tanned like his crew’s, he reminded her of the baronet. Not in looks; where Alex was tall and well-built with slate-blue eyes and regular, handsome features, Paul Marsal was only of medium height, with twinkling brown eyes and a wide mouth that seemed a little too large for his face. But the mannerisms, colourful costume and elaborate gestures all evoked Sir Anthony enough to make Beth’s heart clench, and to render her well-disposed to him, even though she had no idea as yet what he was like as a person.
“Are you a pirate, like Blackbeard?” Daniel McGillis blurted out, having observed the heavily armed men with terror. “Are you going to kill us all?”
For a split second Beth contemplated not translating this accurately, but then realised that Marsal certainly spoke some English and probably understood a lot more. Mistranslating the first question asked of him would probably not be wise. She duly translated, and knew she was right when he nodded slightly and smiled at her. Then he adopted a wounded expression and clasped his hand to his heart.
“Pirates! Blackbeard!? You wound me, monsieur!” he declared. “No, no, we are civilised men, operating with our dear country’s approval, and have letters of marque to prove it! We have no intention of killing anyone, unless you force us to do so. But I think if you are all followers of the Stuart family then we have much in common, do we not?”
Beth refrained with difficulty from laughing out loud, particularly as she could see Captain Ricky’s thunderous facial expression on hearing Marsal’s declaration of legality. Clearly he understood French as well. She translated, and was rewarded with looks of relief.
“What do you intend to do with us, sir?” John Ostler asked.
“Well, the first thing I intend to do with you is to enable you all to wash yourselves and your clothes. I’m afraid you really do smell absolutely dreadful,” Captain Marsal said. “Now, of course because there are ladies present, it is quite clear that we will have to make some arrangements in order to facilitate this. However before that I think it would be advisable to secure the erstwhile crew of the Veteran, and what better place to do that than in your previous salubrious accommodations?” He smiled broadly, and after Beth had translated, the Jacobites laughed, their tension draining away as they all started to take the measure of the charismatic Frenchman.
“I object, sir!” Captain Ricky stated. “We surrendered to you of our own free will, to avoid any unpleasantness. You cannot possibly expect us to tolerate such treatment!”
“I am most grateful to you for surrendering, Captain,” Marsal replied politely. “It would have been most tiresome if I and my men should have had to resort to violent means. And of course the result of your wise decision is that the fish in the surrounding area will have to seek their food elsewhere today. I am sure that an accommodation that was considered fitting for a hundred and fifty of your countrymen for several weeks will be nothing short of palatial for just twenty-two of you, for two days.”
“You cannot expect Mr Johnson and myself to stay down there with the men!” Captain Ricky persisted. “We are gentlemen, sir!”
“As am I, Captain,” Marsal said. “But I can hardly expect my men to endure hardships that I am not willing to share with them. I run a democratic ship, sir, and I highly recommend it. Of course tonight I will be making an exception and will occupy your delightful quarters, as you will not be needing them. Escort all of the gentlemen down to the hold, Germain,” he continued, gesturing to one of his crewmen.
“Now, let us arrange for you all to wash, to eat, and to make yourselves presentable, after which we will congregate here on deck again later in the afternoon, when the heat is not quite so oppressive for you all. I have been led to believe that your country is cold and wet, so I am sure you will appreciate a lower temperature. Then I will explain to you about your new destination, the beautiful island of Martinique, which we will reach, as I told Captain Ricky just now, in two days, if God is kind.” He bowed elaborately to the assembled Jacobites, then turned away. He then issued a series of commands, which were obeyed with an alacrity that made it clear to all that although foppishly dressed and elaborate in gestures and language, Paul Marsal was not a man to be trifled with.
He really was like Sir Anthony.
While the men stripped and washed themselves and their clothes on deck, the sixteen females were offered the use of the officers’ quarters, where they were given buckets of water, sponges, and soap. One of the men even produced a brush and a comb for them to use. They had to wash their clothes in turns, and in sea water, but they managed to do that and maintain their modesty by half the women washing the clothes of the others out on the deck, while the others washed their bodies and hair in the precious buckets of fresh water they’d been provided with. Then they carefully brushed and combed each other’s hair as best they could, killing as many surviving lice as possible. The clothes, spread out on deck under the hot sun dried surprisingly quickly, and within a couple of hours the now clean women were able to perform the same service for the others.
As awkward and inadequate as the washing facilities were, Beth had never appreciated being clean so much in her life.
They assembled on deck again just before sunset, where Captain Marsal informed his much sweeter-smelling, if still ragged audience that Martinique, the island they were to be taken to, belonged to France, and was extremely beautiful, far more beautiful than British-owned Antigua, of course. They were going to Fort Royal, where the island’s governor, the Marquis de Caylus lived, an excellent gentleman who was no great lover of King George II, but was a close friend
of the Comte de Maurepas, of whom some of them may have heard.
Beth had certainly heard of Maurepas. Alex had told her that it was Maurepas who had authorised the ill-fated ship full of arms and troops Elisabeth to sail with Prince Charles when he had travelled to Scotland in July two years previously. If the governor was a friend of the pro-Stuart Comte, surely this boded well for the reception the Jacobites would receive upon landing in Martinique?
Beth told herself that she must not count her chickens before they hatched, but she couldn’t stop the thrill of hope that ran through her. Although since her arrest over a year ago she had told herself repeatedly that she did not want to live if Alex was dead, she was young and by nature full of life. It was therefore with a mixed feeling of guilt and exuberance that she realised the future might hold some promise after all. And if she was to have a choice over her future, surely it would be better to make a new life in a country where no one knew her, and where there would be no painful reminders of all she had lost?
* * *
Beth was standing on the deck of the Veteran, which she now knew was a brig, as was the ship that had accompanied the Diamant, a sloop, when she had appeared over the horizon. Both ships were owned by the man who had given her the information she was now in possession of, and who was standing next to her looking out to sea. They were at the front of the ship, which was named the forecastle or fo’c’sle.
She turned and looked down the length of the ship, which was a hive of activity, and brushed her hair back off her face with her hand. She would be glad when it was long enough to tie back, although if she was going to live for any length of time in this heat, perhaps she would keep it short.
Tides of Fortune (Jacobite Chronicles Book 6) Page 6