I thought of Fist attacking me with his cutlass, the glint of murder in his eyes. The next time we met, I planned to be armed to the teeth, with daggers up my sleeves, cutlass, pistols, and enough powder and lead to send him to the devil. “So, will you?”
“Of course.”
Hot days, they were. The Sweet Jamaica and the Defiance sailed in our wake, their yards of canvas filled with the steady breeze, billowing white against the sapphire blue of the Indian Ocean. Three ships filled with over four hundred men, out to make their fortunes.
At first, Caesar taught me swordsmanship as usual, while Josiah instructed me on how to use the pistol. But then one day in the middle of a drill on loading my pistol, Josiah drew his cutlass and pointed it at my throat. I felt my eyes widen, staring at him across the expanse of steel. “Always be ready, Daniel, my boy. You never know who might be waiting for an opportunity to kill you.”
From that day forward, Josiah taught me all manner of fighting. Daggers, hand to hand. Cutlasses, on a flat deck, on a heaving deck, dangling from the shrouds, two against one, three against one. Pistol with cutlass, one in each hand. Clash, bang— everybody watching. By the end of each session, I had long since discarded my shirt. My skin, darkened by the sun, glistened with sweat. As always, Josiah seemed unaffected, his skin still pale as winter, his white linen shirt and knee breeches not even damp. He'd shove his pistol into his sash, saying, “Enough for today.”
One fine day, as clouds scudded across the sky like a fleet of ships, I circled Josiah with a dagger in each hand, waiting for an opening to attack. Despite the breeze, the air was as stifling as a jungle's. We'd been practicing for over an hour, and he'd already beaten me a dozen times over. Now we circled again like animals, watching, waiting, my every nerve tense and ready to spring. When Josiah glanced away, a second only, I sprang, right dagger thrusting down, left dagger sweeping up. He caught me across the neck. I didn't even see it coming. One second I was charging, the next I was on the ground, gagging, dagger at my throat.
“Surrender, Daniel.”
I took a moment to recover my wits. Then I smiled and said hoarsely, “I never surrender when my finger's on the trigger.”
Josiah looked to where my pistol, still in its sash, was pointed at his belly, my finger, indeed, on the trigger. Suddenly he barked with laughter, released his hold, and offered me a hand, helping me to my feet. “Well done, Daniel, my boy!”
Still laughing, looking pleased, he clapped me around the shoulders while I grinned with satisfaction, having bested him at last. Suddenly my grin froze rigidly and I realized what I was doing, how friendly I was becoming with the murderer of my father. Guilt slammed through me like a cannon blast and I roughly shrugged out of his grasp. His laughter ceased abruptly. I picked up my daggers from the deck and hardened my voice. “Just because I'm learning to fight doesn't mean I'm a pirate. I still despise you for what you did and will see you hang.”
Then, to my shock, Josiah's expression grew dark and he thrust his face into mine. Against my will, I took a step backward. “No one hangs Josiah Black,” he whispered between clenched teeth. “No one. Not even you, Daniel Markham. And I will kill anyone who tries.” So saying, he sheathed his daggers and strode aft.
I suddenly became aware of everyone staring at me, the rigging slapping in the wind, the gurgle of water, the bellow of a cow 'tween decks. Sheathing my daggers as well, I sauntered to the fore companionway as if nothing were the matter and went below.
I threaded my way past cannon, past the galley oars set inboard except in light winds, around barrels, coils of rope, jumbles of canvas, chicken coops, pens filled with cattle. Rats scuttled in the darkened corners. Chickens cackled. Water sloshed against the hull. The heat made the stink almost unbearable, as if the air I breathed dripped with manure, piss, bilge-water, and mildew.
After stowing my pistol and cutlass in my sea chest, I climbed into my hammock, strung between the cattle pen and a twelve-pounder cannon, and held my locket in my hand, staring upward at the beams overhead.
I tried to visualize my father's face beneath his periwig, the spectacles perched on the end of his nose. I tried to remember how he looked whenever he took a pinch of snuff. I tried to hear his voice, pleading with me to look after Faith, telling me I was a good son. But all I saw was Josiah Black, looking pleased, laughing, his arm clapped around my shoulders.
I wanted to howl, to wail, to ridiculously beat my chest, but instead I squeezed my eyes closed, pressing back the sting of tears.
Forgive me, Father.
I felt a movement—a brush of whiskers and a wisp of foul breath. In a wild heartbeat my dagger was in my hand, the blade glinting in the semidarkness. “Who goes there?” I hissed.
“Truce! Truce! 'Tis I, Basil Higgins, the quartermaster! I come unarmed. I've only a wish to speak with ye.”
I lowered my blade and peered at him. Of all the pirates aboard, Basil was one I believed I could trust. It was his duty as quartermaster to act as mediator between captain and crew, to be sure power and greed didn't go to anyone's head, most especially the captain's. It was his task to oversee and divide the booty to manage provisions and supplies, to see that all was fair. Like the captain, he was elected by the men. “What is it?”
“Well, Daniel, I don't quite know how to say this—but what I mean is … well, I think that you're a good boy.” He ran a hand over his whiskers, his voice as deep and raspy as always. “I remembers when ye was a little lad sitting on my lap, and I thought to myself, now there's a good boy. A real good boy. Anyway, what I come to talk to ye about is, well…” Basil coughed and cleared his throat. “Well, a rather delicate matter.”
“Delicate?” I didn't know pirates knew such words.
“You see, Daniel, Captain Black, he's a sensitive man.”
I choked back a laugh.
“Don't get me wrong, he's ruthless too. Aye, very ruthless. I've seen him toss a fellow overboard because he was wasting air and had bad breath besides. I've seen him torture a merchant captain till he cried like a baby and told him where his wife and all the treasure was hid. So what I'm trying to say is, for you to be embarrassing him in front of his crew likely don't sit too good with his constitution, him being sensitive and ruthless. Are you getting my drift, lad?”
I thrust out my jaw, tears stinging my eyes once again. “I'll avenge my father if I choose. Any man aboard this ship would do the same. If he's even half a man, that is.”
“Now, that may well be, but I'm warning you. Don't be too hasty with your judgments.”
“What do you mean?”
“All I can say is, there's things in Josiah's past that you don't know nothing about.”
“His past?” I asked, strangely curious.
But Basil pulled away, leaving my hammock swinging, his one massive eyebrow scrunching in the middle. “I've already said too much. I've crossed me bounds, I have, but 'tis my job as the keeper of the peace to sometimes cross the boundaries, and I hope you'll forgive me. You and Josiah both.” And then he was gone.
he weather continued pleasant, and we made good speed toward the Red Sea.
Each night, scores of flying fish landed aboard and flapped about in the scuppers until Abe collected them in his bucket. Oft-times I helped him clean the fish and fry them in oil, my appetite growing with the smell of fresh fish drifting through the ship as the sun rose and the men began to stir.
Despite my desire to believe otherwise, I had learned long ago that what had appeared to be a ship of chaos, filled with men too lazy to lift more than a bottle of rum, was in actual fact a well-run alliance. Unlike a merchant crew with maybe fifteen to twenty-five men who worked four hours on and four hours off day in and day out, a pirate crew of 150 men shared the burden of work so that at any one time the vast majority of men were indeed lounging about and shooting the breeze.
Like the others, I was required to work no more than four hours per day but often chose to work more. Whenever I worked, I pretended
that this was a merchant ship or a navy ship, that I was an able-bodied seaman, and that life was somehow normal again. Or I pretended that I was Daniel Markham, gentleman adventurer and seeker of revenge, which I was, of course, battling every villain who ever lived.
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.
Voyage of Plunder Page 8