It was easy to slip inside the coil with Timothy Allsworth, for he was pencil-thin. In fact, everything about Timothy was thin— his nose, his lips, his twiglike arms, even his toes, which rather looked like earthworms. But he had a monstrous head of nut-brown hair, always seeming blown by the wind.
Of course I told him everything that had happened to me. About my father, and Faith. About Josiah, Will Putt, and the man who had tried to kill me. “They're murderers, you know. All of them. They killed your captain as well. Someday I will see them hang.”
“I'm glad they killed Captain Hewitt,” said Timothy. “He was worse than Master Noggin.”
“No one could be worse than Master Noggin.”
“I tell you, 'tis true. One time Captain Hewitt smacked me in the head with a bucket, and all because I didn't answer fast enough.”
“Master Noggin used to do that too.”
“With a bucket?”
“Well, with a ruler, anyway. Or a book.”
“Buckets hurt more. Besides, there was another time when Captain Hewitt hung a basket of grapeshot around some poor fellow's neck and tied his arms to the capstan bars until blood burst from his nose and mouth. The basket must've weighed two hundred pounds. Tis certain Master Noggin never did that.”
“But that's horrible!”
Timothy nodded. “Aye. The fellow up and died because of it, and all because he swiped two biscuits from the larder. The next day I peeked in Captain Hewitt's log and saw that he'd recorded the fellow had died of fever.”
“But such an entry was a lie!”
“Aye. But Captain Hewitt, he was like a king with his own country. Once he flogged a sailor so hard his skin flayed off. Then he ordered him soaked in a barrel of brine. Then once when I was sleeping, Captain Hewitt punched me for no reason, and then because I was protecting myself, he grabbed a marlinspike and beat me with it. I still have lumps.”
He pulled up his shirt, and I touched the knots of rib bone, my mouth agape.
“‘Twas a torture ship,” he added. “‘Twas a lucky day when the pirates came to save us.”
I shook my head in disbelief, running my fingers over the skin on his back, over welted scars from whippings, like the tangled branches of a tree, wondering.
“You see, Daniel,” he whispered, “I'll take freedom over torture any day.”
Was that why so many men willingly turned pirate? Was it more than just a thirst for blood or riches? Even to think such a thought seemed a betrayal of my father. And yet for the first time, I admit, I was uncertain of the answer.
A few days later as Timothy's bruises faded to yellow and green, I found him on the fo'c'sle deck, scrubbing out his laundry in a wooden tub, the tangy smell of soap sharp in the air. He sang, his voice like a Sabbath angel, soap suds up to his elbow. Over our heads, freshly laundered clothes hung from the rigging, flapping in the stiff breeze. Droplets spattered. A damp sleeve brushed across my face.
“That's a lot of laundry,” I said.
Timothy grinned. “Some of the fellows are paying me to wash their clothes. I really need the money, seeing as I'm not going to get paid for my two years aboard the Mercury and my mother's counting on me to bring something home. For all I know, she's in the poorhouse by now.”
His mother. Poor lady. I remembered the Widow Allsworth well—frail, bent, drenching a dozen handkerchiefs on the day her only son left for sea. I imagined her sitting alone in her house, waiting and waiting for Timothy to return, not knowing what had happened to him. I chewed my lip, wondering if I should tell Timothy that it was blood money he was earning.
“Need your clothes washed?” he asked, giving my clothing a close scrutiny. “I'll do it for free.”
I glanced down at myself. My clothes were grayed, rumpled, and beginning to look downright ragged. My trunk of nice clothing, which I'd taken with me from Boston, now lay at the bottom of the ocean. I was wearing all I owned—a pathetic wardrobe for the grandson of a governor. I sighed and looked away. “No.”
Timothy stood, soapy water sliding off his arms. “Look, Daniel, if you're going to be sailing all the way to the Red Sea, you'll need more than just one set of clothes. Here, take these.” And, selecting from a pile beside him, he handed me several shirts, pants, vests, stockings, and drawers.
“But—”
“Don't worry. They don't belong to anyone here.”
I frowned. “What do you mean, they don't belong to anyone here? Then where did they—” my voice caught. “They're Captain Hewitt's, aren't they?”
Timothy went back to scrubbing the clothes in the tub. Water splashed out on my shoe, trickling between my toes. Finally he said, “My mother used to say that when life gives you a bees’ nest, look for the honey.”
When still I hesitated, Timothy urged, “Go on, take them. Captain Hewitt certainly doesn't need them anymore. Consider it my pay for two years of working for the tyrant. Besides, come a month or so, you won't be so picky when all you're wearing is a thread or two.”
I fingered the clothing. They were fine shirts, linen, stitched with skill. And the breeches—as first-rate as my father's. They would be a little big, but it was better than wearing rags. Plus, I felt sure that Captain Hewitt, could he speak to me now, would want me to have them, seeing as I was a hostage at the hands of the very men who had murdered him and would someday see all his murderers hang for their crimes. “Thanks, Timothy.”
“Don't mention it. Now get out of those god-awful stinky clothes and hand them over before I retch into the washtub.”
The cutlass sliced toward my head. I parried, grunting, my arm trembling with fatigue. Steel clashed and scraped.
Still he came at me, again and again, his face black as cinder, his lips stretched in a grin so wide that his teeth shone like a skeleton's. He was well muscled and lithe, bald as a cannonball, with a laugh that sounded both cruel and contented. I yelled as I lunged, thrusting the cutlass toward his chest, but with a quick flick of his wrist, he parried and sidestepped, tripping me with his foot.
I fell onto the sand, rolling at the same time. But before I could gain my feet, the point of his cutlass was at my throat. I dropped my weapon and lay motionless. A pinprick of pain jabbed my Adam's apple.
“You dead, Fat Boy,” said Caesar, still grinning. “I win again.”
He removed his cutlass, and I sat up, wincing, rubbing my throat. “Do you have to make it so real?”
Caesar shrugged. “This way you not be surprised when it battle. You be tough. Don't forget to beat my sword back before you try for kill. That why you lose.”
“Is it my turn yet?” asked Timothy. He sat under a palm tree, chewing his fingernails. The wind made his hair look wild as Cook's mop.
About a month ago, Josiah had asked Caesar to teach both Timothy and me swordsmanship—trying to turn me into one of them, no doubt. Caesar, who seemed to like nothing better than slashing, tearing, ripping, stabbing, and all manner of destruction aimed at the flesh, readily agreed. Now Caesar crouched, cutlass slicing through the air. A slow grin spread across his face, and he motioned Timothy toward him. “Come get me, Choirboy.”
As Timothy and Caesar crossed swords, I flopped beneath the palm. We were anchored at a deserted island off the west coast of Africa. As soon as the pirates finished lazing about and filling up the water casks, we planned to head southwest, catch the westerlies, and sail around Africa's Cape of Good Hope into the Indian Ocean.
I squeezed a handful of sand, then watched it trickle from between my fingers. Caesar didn't know this, but I was learning swordsmanship only so that I could defend myself against the likes of him. Never would I raise my sword against another in battle. Never. (Even Timothy didn't know this, because now he was one of them. The day before, he'd participated in pillaging one of the villages on another island. I'd watched in horror from the rail while he'd helped load pigs, chickens, goats, turtles, and fruit into the longboat. Thief! What would your poor mother say?)
“You'll be glad
of it when we're months out at sea,” Timothy had said in answer to my accusing stare once he climbed back aboard. “Even pirates can starve. You should try it sometime. Maybe then you won't be so high and mighty.”
Now I threw a fistful of sand, cursing when it caught the wind and blasted back into my eyes. Thief or not, I thought, crying into my sleeve, Timothy's my only friend.
I didn't notice they had approached until I saw their feet out of the corner of my gritty eye. Nine of them—feet, that is. Plus one wooden stump. Some feet were shod in leather boots, some in square-toed shoes; others were bare. One foot had only two toes. I glanced up, blinking.
Five men stood facing me, including Josiah, his face expressionless. Basil Higgins, the quartermaster for the Tempest Galley, a fair and decent fellow as far as murderers went, held a parchment. Manuel Featherstone, the scar-eyed man, short and wiry and deadly with a dagger, held a pot of ink and a quill. Will Putt clutched a Bible. Then there was one-legged Abe Corner, who'd run away at age twelve and was now the company cook. Beside Abe was a barrel.
“Daniel Markham?” Basil had a crooked nose—smashed in battle, no doubt—and eyebrows so bushy they grew together in the middle. A mat of curly hair peeped out from behind the brace of pistols strapped across his chest. I remembered him from when I was a child and liked him.
“Aye.”
“We've business to discuss with ye.”
It seemed to me that everything became instantly quiet. The clash of swords ceased. Even the birds stopped squawking and twittering.
“You've been with us three months now—”
“Two.”
Basil cleared his throat, his voice deep and raspy as though he'd been hacked across the neck too many times. “The point being, young Daniel, we don't allow no one aboard who won't sign the Articles.” He held out the parchment. Written across the parchment were a dozen paragraphs or so. At the bottom were numerous signatures, scrawled in halting form, X's scratched everywhere.
My mouth fell open. Surely they weren't serious! “But—but you took me against my will!”
“Aye, that may be true, but you're one of us now.”
“I'll never be one of you!” I looked from face to face, my temples throbbing. “You murdered my father! You're all devils!”
They stared at me. Then Basil shrugged. “Very well, lad. Have it your way.” He withdrew a pistol and laid it at my feet.
“What's that for?” I asked.
Basil didn't answer.
Abe Corner tapped the cask beside him with his peg leg. “Full of sailor's biscuit. Water's about a hundred paces that way.” He pointed over his shoulder.
Biscuit? Water? A pistol? Do they plan to leave me here?
As if to answer my question, they began to walk away. Caesar and Timothy followed them. Timothy glanced back. “Farewell, Daniel.”
y heart began a horrible pounding, and my ears roared with blood. I ran after them, grabbing Josiah's sleeve. “Josiah, you can't be serious!”
Josiah turned, his face hard. “The Articles are for the benefit of all the men, including yourself. Rules keep things fair and everyone honest.” He stared at me unblinking before looking away. His voice softened. “They took a vote, Daniel, my boy. I'm sorry, but if you don't sign the Articles, you have to stay behind.”
I snorted. “You talk of honesty? You, a pirate and a murderer?”
Josiah hesitated, and in that moment I glimpsed pity in the depths of his black eyes. Pity, and … something else. “I'm sure you'll make the right decision.” He pried his sleeve out of my fist, turned, and walked off with the others.
“But—but you can't leave me. I—I'm your hostage!” The wind gusted. Sand peppered my legs. My hair whipped into my eyes. I glanced about me. A sandy beach. A few palms, scrubby trees, and grasses. A mountain in the center of the island—a volcano, probably, like the one we'd seen smoking just a few leagues away. With just a pistol and a cask of biscuit, I wouldn't last long. And no one, other than Timothy and this band of cutthroats, even knew I was here.
They reached the longboat, climbed inside, and set their oars to the locks.
They're leaving me. They're actually leaving me!
And with a creak of the oarlocks, they shoved off as the last man climbed aboard.
They can't leave me! They can't! I'll die! “No! No!” I shrieked, running into the water. The oars stopped. Seven faces stared at me. Stumbling, water lapping about my thighs, I reached the boat and grabbed the gunwale. “Don't leave! I'll sign.”
Basil nodded, cleared his throat, and read the Articles, paragraph by paragraph.
Every man to have a vote in affairs. Food and drink to be divided equally …
All prizes to be divided equally. Captain and quartermaster to get double shares. If a man robs the company, his ears and nose will be slit, and he will be marooned on a sandbar.…
If anyone loses a limb, he will be given eight hundred dollars. Three hundred dollars for an eye.
Cowardice or deserting the ship in battle is punishable by death.
All men must keep pistols and cutlasses clean and ready for service.…
My vision blurred. My throat swelled. I placed my hand on the Bible.
My voice sounded far away. “I, Daniel Markham, swear an oath on the Bible to abide by these Articles.”
A quill was thrust into my hand, the parchment placed over the Bible. I heard the scratch of my signing, feather against paper. A splotch of ink spread across the parchment like blood.
They hauled me aboard and I sat, my heart dry as sand, ignoring Timothy, who patted me on the back, saying that he was glad I had come to my senses. That it was all for the best. That forced men couldn't be condemned for piracy, so I was safe no matter what happened.
I looked out over the harbor to where the Tempest Galley lay anchored.
It was unthinkable that I would lie while taking an oath upon the Bible. Such profaning of holy things would damn my soul to eternal torment in the lake of fire and brimstone.
Aye, I will abide by your miserable Articles, Josiah Black, I told myself. But I am not a pirate. I am not a thief. I am not a murderer. And never will I be.
Then a wretchedness from deep within burst out like pus from a wound. Hot. Scathing. I hid my face on my knees and sobbed.
Late that night, as men danced to the raucous music blasting from the fo'c'sle deck, I sat between two cannon, cross-legged, a lantern beside me. Upon my request, Basil Higgins had given me a parchment, a bottle of ink, and a quill.
To Whom It May Concern,
I am a forced man. I have signed the Articles of the- Tempest Galley
by force, not by choice. I am not a pirate, nor a thief, nor a murderer.
I am a hostage.
It was not perfect. Master Noggin would no doubt toss it in the stove and tell me to write it over, this time with straight lines and without ink splotches. But it was good enough for my purposes, and besides, Master Noggin was far away.
As I signed my name, Timothy approached, carrying a platter heaped with roasted chicken and yams. He settled beside me, the lantern between us. “What are you doing?”
Though I was still angry at him, I showed him the paper.
“Blood and thunder, that's messy. Master Noggin's probably having apoplexy right now.”
“It's for the courts. In case we get captured.” I read it aloud while he chewed on a drumstick, his chin glistening with grease.
“Chicken?” he asked when I was done, offering me the platter. “Abe gave me extra so you could have some. He said you haven't eaten all day.”
I almost said no, remembering where the chicken and yams had come from, remembering that Timothy was a thief, but my stomach hurt and the smell was like heaven. I took a piece. “I'll need a couple of witnesses,” I was saying, my mouth full. Grease dripped onto the parchment.
“Sure, I'll sign.” Wiping his hand on his shirt, Timothy took up the quill, dipped it in ink, and signed his name followed by the w
ord wittnes. “Daniel, just so you know, I knew that you'd sign the Articles. We all did.”
I was silent.
“That's one reason why we all voted to maroon you. Because we knew you'd sign.”
“Even Josiah?”
“No, not him. He was the only one who voted otherwise.”
I chewed my chicken, surprised, digesting this bit of information, wondering why Josiah would vote on my behalf, why he had not thrown me overboard a dozen times already. Perhaps it was because I was too valuable a hostage—after all, I was the grandson of the former governor. “I need another signature. Maybe Caesar will be a witness too.”
Timothy frowned. “He can't.”
“Why not?”
“Because slaves can't be witnesses.”
My mouth dropped open in shock. A piece of chicken plopped onto the parchment before I closed my mouth and swallowed. “Caesar's a slave?”
“Used to be, anyway. Him and Cicero and Tom and August. All of them. Here they receive equal treatment. They've signed the Articles just like everyone else.”
It was difficult to fathom … slaves receiving equal treatment. I didn't know what to make of it, only knowing that, despite myself, I liked Caesar. Before my lesson just that morning he had given me a gift of a crossbelt and cutlass, saying it was time Fat Boy stopped using his.
“I'd rather be one of the Brethren any day than a slave,” Timothy added.
“Maybe Abe Corner will sign my statement, then.”
Abe's a good choice.” Timothy wiped his hands on his shirt. “Well, the music's calling me. I'm going to go dance. Want to come?”
“My father says dancing is of the devil.”
Timothy sighed and shrugged. “I dunno, Daniel, but it seems like hell's a much livelier place. There's rum and brandy in case you change your mind.”
Voyage of Plunder Page 5