by Robin Lloyd
They stopped to catch their breath and Morgan yelled out again, “Stop or I will fire! There is nowhere for you to run!”
Suddenly out of the darkness came a scream. A black figure ran toward them. Morgan fired and then fired again. The others shouted in confusion. The figure continued hurtling toward them. He was carrying something like a spear extended out in front of him. He was screaming like a madman. Morgan prepared for the end when the unknown assailant fell to the ground with a crash.
“I got his foot, Cap’n!” yelled Lowery.
The man was growling and struggling like a wild animal caught in a trap as Whipple held the lantern up high and put a knife to the intruder’s throat. Morgan put his pistols away and rolled the man over so he could see his face.
“Who are you? What are you doing on my ship?”
Whipple brought the light closer so they could now see who it was. The man’s eyes were deeply sunk into his hollow, gaunt face. His hair was wild and ragged. Whiskers sprouted from his chin like bristles on a hog’s back.
Morgan was shocked as he suddenly realized who he was looking at.
“Do you recognize him, Cap’n?” asked Whipple, who hadn’t removed his knife from the man’s throat.
“It’s John Taylor,” gasped Morgan as he looked intently at the fearful eyes now staring back at him. He turned to his stewards and told them to tie him up with some of the hawse lines that were scattered around the bilge area.
Whipple began swinging his lantern in a circle until he found the man’s weapon.
“Here’s what he was trying to kill you with, Cap’n. Looks to be an augur, a big one at that.” Whipple held out a large unwieldy tool into the light with a nearly two-foot-long metal drilling bit some two inches in diameter. Morgan had an awful feeling as he tried to imagine what Taylor would be doing in the bottom of his ship with a deadly weapon.
“What were you doing here, Taylor?”
Morgan reached for the man’s throat.
“Tell me!”
Morgan wasn’t waiting for an answer.
“Quick Whipple, check the area he was in. I think he must have been trying to scuttle us.”
The old ship’s carpenter ran back to the center of the bilge near the keel area and began crawling around on all fours, keeping the lantern on the planking.
“There are about a dozen two-inch-wide holes in the thick outer planking of the ship about eight feet from the keel, Cap’n.”
“Is water coming in?”
“There is some weeping, but I don’t see no leaks.”
“Check them through and through, Whipple.”
“Looks like he may have gotten close, Cap’n, but he didn’t get all the way through the copper sheathing.”
Morgan told the two stewards to take the man up above into the lower cargo area. He then examined the holes closely. It looked as if Taylor had drilled a hole all the way through the outer planking and pricked the copper sheathing. With that little protection, the first heavy beating they encountered during the Atlantic crossing would have caused the ship to spring several major leaks.
“He was trying to sink us, Cap’n,” Whipple said matter-of-factly.
“Plug up the holes with trenails and caulking, Mr. Whipple. I will be asking our visitor some questions.”
Morgan found Taylor tied up in a chair, a lantern swinging over his head. He ran a critical eye over the man. Taylor was a pitiful sight. His thin, pointed face, covered with sweat and grime from the bilge, was unshaven and his hair was dirty. His eyes were sunk into their sockets with dark shadow underneath them. His mouth and teeth were black from smoking an opium pipe. Taylor looked up at him with dull, dead eyes.
Brandishing the augur in his hand, Morgan asked, “Why did you do this?”
“I ain’t talking. He’ll kill me if I say anything.”
“Who?”
“No matter what you do to me, I got nothing to tell you.”
Morgan turned to Lowery.
“Mr. Junkett, I am sure Scuttles has some rancid slush in his bucket in the galley. Bring that. I hear tell Mr. Taylor has a love of rats.”
Taylor’s eyes bulged out with horror and fear. Morgan then turned to Lowery.
“Blindfold him, gag him with a cloth, and get me a hog-bristle brush.”
An hour later, Morgan watched as Lowery and Junkett coated Taylor’s face and body with a thick coat of the slobbery mess. The man was squirming and struggling in his chair as the two stewards spread thick gobs over his face and hair. The smell of rancid grease filled the cargo hold, and it wasn’t long before the rustle and scurrying of small feet could be heard in the dark corners of the hold. Along with that came the high-pitched squeals of hungry rats.
“Do you hear that, Taylor? They’re starting to squeak with pleasure in anticipation of their feast. They can smell the grease. I reckon there are scores of rats in this ship. We’re going to leave you here now, alone, so you can meet your new friends.”
The blindfolded man struggled spasmodically to get free of the rope that bound him to the chair. Even with the gag, he was making terrible sounds as he tried to scream. Within minutes, a dozen rats appeared and began crawling over his body, starting at his feet and working their way up to his face, squeaking and snarling as they gorged themselves. Their bodies and tails wiggled and twisted as they happily bit into the man’s slushy face, his head, and open neck. Taylor’s body was in convulsions. He grunted and heaved, struggling to breathe as he tried to shake off his attackers.
Soon the man’s face and arms were covered with squirming and squeaking rodents, hungrily nipping and tearing into the exposed flesh. After five minutes of listening to his muffled screams, Morgan reappeared, swatting away the rodents, kicking the persistent ones that were reluctant to leave their feast. He pulled off the man’s gag. Taylor screamed, loud and long, his body still twitching with terror.
“Mercy. Have mercy,” he gasped. “It was Blackwood. He told me to do it,” cried out the still-blindfolded man. “For the love of God, set me free.”
At the mention of Blackwood’s name, Morgan was silent. He still made no move to untie the man or remove the blindfold.
“Is he the one giving you opium?”
“He promised me if I did this one job for him I could spend my days chasing the dragon.”
Morgan glared at Taylor.
“Why? Why are you doing this?”
“Have mercy, Captain. The pipe is the only thing that helps me. Liquor was my salvation at first, but then I fell into the terrors and I began having horrible visions. Then I heard voices. They wouldn’t stop. The pipe gave me a way to forget. When I smoke the voices go away.”
“Where is Blackwood?” Morgan asked sharply. He pulled off the blindfold. Taylor’s eyes blinked rapidly as he tried to adjust to his surroundings.
“I don’t know. He finds me. I don’t find him.”
Morgan slowly took a Havana cigar out of his pocket, rolling it in his mouth. He picked up the lantern and lit it. After the first puff, he began speaking in a more strident voice.
“Well, Taylor, you are not leaving this ship until you tell me what you alone know. What happened to my brother all those years ago? He was your friend and you betrayed him. I already know that the Charon was a slave ship. Most of the crew were blind and the captain was losing his eyesight. Abraham was put in the hold. Why? Did he die there?”
Taylor looked shocked, but said nothing, lowering his head at first as if refusing to speak. His hands were noticeably trembling as he began speaking slowly with great hesitation.
“We were in the middle of the Atlantic. The captain ordered the hatches battened down. Those Africans in the lower hold got no air, only a little bit of hard biscuit thrown down at them. No one wanted to go down into that dark cavern. It reeked of sickness and death. Blackwood and his mate, Tom Edgars, we called him Big Red, they were having a discussion about what to do. Blackwood ordered us to get those sick Negroes up on deck. He kept telling Abra
ham and me that we Yankee seal pups needed to get to know the ship’s cargo. He would laugh and tell us, ‘Learn the trade, boys. Ye ’ave to learn the skill of handlin’ black ebony.’”
Taylor paused as he gulped several times and pulled nervously at his stringy, dirty hair.
“It was too awful a sight to look at. Most of them Africans were infected, their eyes already crusty and closed. They were diseased. They couldn’t see. The women were moaning and shrieking. Blackwood took a whip to them, prodding the noisy ones in their privates. ‘That’s ’ow ye make ’em respect yer,’ he said. They were all manacled together, chains clanking away on their ankles and their wrists. He separated the healthier ones, but kept them up on deck. He summoned Abraham over and told him to shackle all two hundred slaves who were going blind to the anchor hawse line.”
“He did what?” Morgan asked, his voice shocked and horrified.
“Abraham refused. Blackwood grabbed him and picked him up by the neck. ‘Ye follow orders ye Yankee pig-dog,’ he said. Those were his very words, Captain. Then it got worse.”
Taylor looked up at Morgan with pleading eyes.
“Go on,” said Morgan coldly as he braced himself for gruesome details he knew he didn’t want to hear.
“He threw your brother down on the deck and drew his clenched fist back and slammed it into his face, telling him to crawl on his knees like an animal. ‘Filthy Guinea lover,’ he called him. Abraham struggled, but Blackwood kicked him and then brought out a rope with a knot at the end of it and started to beat and thrash him until he passed out. He fell flat on the deck. Blackwood ordered two of the men to take Abraham below deck and lock him in the hold.”
Morgan said nothing, too astonished to react. His knuckles tightened on the augur he was still holding.
As if he was recounting a bad dream, Taylor continued, his eyes now becoming moist. He began speaking faster, his voice strained.
“Blackwood then turned on me and ordered me to do it. All the men were crowded around. They wanted to see what I would do. All those eyes were looking at me, Captain. I was so frightened. I tied that hawse line around the chains on the first slave and then ran it back through the long line of Africans, finally attaching the end to the kedge anchor. The slaves were moaning and wailing. Blackwood then ordered me to throw the anchor overboard, and ‘make the sharks ’appy.’ That’s what he said.”
“Make the sharks happy?” Morgan repeated in disbelief. “What kind of animal . . . ?” He shook his head in amazement at this tale of human brutality. “What did you do?”
“I told him I wouldn’t do it, but he came at me with his rope, laughing like a madman.” Taylor’s face was now moist with perspiration. His body trembled and shook. He started weeping. His voice cracked.
“To my eternal shame, I did what he asked.”
“Lord sakes” was all Morgan could say.
“The anchor fell like a boulder with a loud splash. I watched spellbound as those slaves, screaming and wailing, were pulled over the bulwarks, their eyes white with fear. I watched as one by one, all two hundred of them fell to their death, the splash of each body hitting the water, the sharks swarming around the ship turning the sea red, and then finally silence.”
“Did the other slaves see this?”
Taylor nodded slowly.
“I have never forgotten the way they looked at me as they shuffled by, their chains clanking on the deck, their eyes piercing into my soul like sharp daggers. I can still hear the women sobbing and moaning.”
He paused before continuing.
“I tried to tell you before, but I couldn’t bring myself to confess.”
Taylor looked over at Morgan, his eyes seeming to plead for forgiveness. Despite his revulsion of this pitiful, broken man, Morgan began to feel sorry for him. He took the cigar out of his mouth, and looked down at its glowing tip. His voice softened somewhat.
“What happened next?” he asked.
Taylor looked down at his hands, which were shaking uncontrollably, and continued with his story.
“That foul disease spread all over the ship. We were cursed. Soon enough, it was mostly Blackwood and me sailing the ship along with a few other men.”
“How did you avoid getting it?”
“I drenched my hands and face with rum and put tarred mittens on my hands.”
“What about Abraham?”
“I gave him food and water in the hold each day. Most of the other sailors were lying on the deck with bandannas around their eyes. Even Big Red, the mate, was of little use. Blackwood told me where to steer. Toward the end, he was losing his eyesight, which made me all the more important to him.”
“What about the storm? Where were you when it struck?”
“We thought we were somewhere to the north of Puerto Rico when it started blowing hard. I was clutching onto the wheel as tight as a barnacle on a whale’s back. The wind was howling and the waves rolling across the ship. They were like mountains. Must have been twenty feet high. We sailed westerly under one topsail, we thought, toward Jamaica, the winds coming in hard from the north. I spotted Cape Mole and I could barely see the mountains of Haiti as we laid a course through the Windward Passage. All the time, I could hear the moaning down below decks. That was the last time I ever saw Abraham. I gave him some hard biscuit that morning and he handed me his journal, making me swear I would give it to his mother.”
Taylor paused, stumbled, and then lowered his eyes.
“Go on,” Morgan said impatiently.
“It was in the middle of the night when we felt the first jolt. The ship reared up like a horse, and then came crashing down. That was when we heard the breakers. Blackwood told me to bear off. I did as he asked, but it was too late. The ship drove right onto the reef, the keel lodging itself in between rocks and coral. I could hear the cracking and splintering of wood and the cries of desperation from inside the ship. We were slanted over like a sloping hillside due to the force of the waves and Blackwood told me to lower the quarter boat. He grabbed Big Red and a couple of the other sailors who could still see and told me to load them up. We left behind most of the blind sailors on deck, crawling on all fours pleading for help, clutching any rope they could find. All the time I could hear the wailing from the belly of the ship. It was like the ship itself was crying out.”
“What about Abraham?” Morgan asked slowly, as he tried to control his emotions.
“Blackwood had a pistol to my head. I had no choice but to row away. I am sorry, Captain. That was how your brother died. We left him trapped inside the hold along with all those Africans and the blind sailors with the ship taking on water. I am sorry. Not a day passes that I don’t hear those cries for help and imagine those eyes staring at me in fear and hatred. Not a day passes that I don’t imagine Abraham lying there in that wet holding locker, blind and unable to move with the water rising.”
Morgan felt a sudden helplessness sweep over him. So that was it. He was glad his mother had never found out the truth. It had been better she had died with the faint hope that one of her two sons lost at sea was still alive.
“Did you make it ashore?”
“We survived the waves that stormy night. When daybreak came, we saw these huge mountains off to the west and we rode the breakers onto the beach near a place called Morant Bay. It turned out we were on the southeastern shore of Jamaica in the parish of St. Thomas. As soon as I got ashore, I ran away and kept running ever since.”
“You never got the eye disease?”
“No. Blackwood and Big Red weren’t so lucky. By the time we got to land, Blackwood’s eyes were infected. To this day he bears those scars and Big Red lost one eye to that disease.”
“Where did you hide out all these years, Taylor?”
“Many places. For many years it was the White Goose Tavern down on Water Street, you know where the blood sports pit is located. That was my hideaway. O’Leary, the Rat Man, put me to work collecting rats down at the wharf. I would come in at night
with a fresh supply in a bag. Weasel bait we called it. One night I was about to make my delivery when I thought I saw Big Red. He had a patch on his eye. I ducked out of sight, but I think he spotted me then.”
“When did they catch you?”
“It was only a few months ago that Blackwood tracked me down in the Blow-Hole Tavern over on Cherry Street.”
Taylor reached into his pocket and pulled out a letter.
“Before I forget, Captain, Blackwood said I was to leave this by your cabin door before I left. You were supposed to find it in the morning.”
Morgan took it from the man. The letter was addressed simply to Captain Morgan, the Southampton. It had no return address. He opened it and began reading a card. The handwriting was small, but clearly came from an educated hand. It was from Captain James Stryker on the H.M.S. Hydra, one of the paddle-wheel steam frigates of the Royal Navy.
27
Morgan straightened up as he stood beside the giant form of Icelander at the helm. It was pitch dark, just shy of midnight. The Southampton had cleared the markers outside the protected waters of Sandy Hook, and the force of the wind now filled the ship’s sails. The Black X packet had a full load of first-class passengers. There was a sense of urgency on board. Morgan had informed the crew that the ship would be pushed to its limits. To reassure himself he was making the right decision, he pulled out the letter he had received from Stryker and read it again under the lantern light by the binnacle.
Dear Captain Morgan,
I am writing you from across the Hudson River in New Jersey at the Cunard Docks. It gives me great satisfaction to inform you that we have in our custody the runaway sailor and deserter Hiram Smith. We apprehended him in the West Indies. He is now a prisoner of the Royal Navy. He will be brought to justice before the Admiralty when we get back to England. The charges will be desertion from one of Her Majesty’s ships, and espionage. I am thoroughly confident that he will receive the full taste of English justice which a foreign spy so richly deserves. After recoaling, we leave for England at first light.