by James Nelson
About the Book
Former pirate and captain of the Guardship,Thomas Marlowe, is now a man of property, keeping his prosperous tobacco plantation in Virginia with his beautiful wife Elizabeth. But the Anglo-Spanish war has meant a decline in tobacco prices, and Thomas decides to come to England to trade his wares, little thinking that in the busy streets of London he will meet an old enemy from his pirating days.
Forced to abandon his tobacco and flee, he has to take to sea and finds himself in battle with the ships bound for the Moghul Empire, and in Madagascar he at last comes face to face with his pirate foes.
BOOK THREE OF THE ACCLAIMED THE BRETHREN OF THE COAST TRILOGY, FEATURING THOMAS MARLOWE
Contents
Cover
About the Book
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Epigraph
Author’s Note
Map
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Epilogue
About the Author
Also by James Nelson
Copyright
THE PIRATE ROUND
Book Three of The Brethren of the Coast
James Nelson
To Elizabeth Clare Nelson,
my beloved daughter
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks, as is always the case, are due many people. Thank you to Barry Clifford, Ken Kinkor, and especially Paul Perry for the information on St Mary’s on Madagascar’s coast, a happy coincidence that they were researching the place – and going there – at the same time I was writing about it! Thanks as ever to Nat and Judith for all their help and support, and to Nancy Becker for the swordplay. And with deep appreciation I extend my thank-you to David Semanki at HarperCollins and to Hugh Van Dusen, one of the last of the Renaissance men.
I am bound to Madagascar, with the design of making my own fortune, and that of all the brave fellows with me.
– THOMAS TEW
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The chief targets of those who sailed the Pirate Round to the Red Sea and the Indian Ocean were the treasure ships belonging to the ruler of India, the Great Mogul, who demanded and received vast tribute from the many lands united under his rule.
The Moguls were descended from Muslim invaders who conquered and ruled India, a largely Hindu land, from 1526 until their power waned in the 1730s. Despite their despotic rule, trade and commerce flourished under the Moguls, and the ships outbound from India with rich cargoes and then returning with the proceeds of their trading voyage were also enticing to the pirates.
Other targets of the Red Sea Rovers were the ships carrying well-heeled pilgrims to Mecca. In all, the wealth that flowed back and forth across the Indian Ocean was staggering, without parallel in the Christian world.
The Pirate Round is set in 1706–7, quite some time before anyone was overly worried about respecting other cultures. Only the staunchest moralists saw anything wrong with robbing dark-skinned non-Christians. Moralists, and the wealthy merchants who ran the various East India companies, whose lucrative trade was threatened as the Great Mogul became increasingly incensed by the depredations of European pirates.
To the pirates, and most Europeans at the time, any dark-skinned non-Christian was considered a ‘Moor,’ like Shakespeare’s Othello. It was a catchall that included Muslims, Hindus, Arabs, Indians, and the people of North Africa. In this book I have retained the word and use it as it was meant in the early eighteenth century.
J.L.N.
PROLOGUE
The air was hot, the wind steady. It blew down the length of the Red Sea, funneled through the straits of Bab el Mandeb, swept over the little island of Perim, which the pirates called Bab’s Key. A regular fifteen knots, but it brought no relief from the crushing heat.
The Amity sloop was moving well in that wind. Not her fastest, but well. She was under fighting sail, reduced canvas that would make her easier to handle during the coming action, keep her stable for laying the great guns.
Thomas Tew stood on the low quarterdeck, rigid, pressed against the weather rail. Grains of sand, swept up from the deserts of Arabia to the north and carried along on the wind, stung his face like tiny biting insects. They worked their way into his clothes, clung to the sweat that coated his body under his shirt, waistcoat, coat and breeches.
He envied the men forward, crowded into the sloop’s waist, stripped down, bare-chested, barefooted. He wished he could be in such a state of undress, but he could not. It was not for him, the captain of the Amity, the famous Thomas Tew, the fabulously wealthy Thomas Tew, to go into a fight dressed like a common sailor.
In fact, he was wearing his best suit of clothes, rich burgundy silks and cotton, silver buckles that gleamed so bright he could not look at them.
It was not a status he had enjoyed long. Three years before, when he had set sail from Newport, Rhode Island, with a commission to take the French factory at Goorie on the Gambia River, he had been no more than one of many, many minor privateer captains, the commander of a small sloop and sixty-odd men. Back then he had not worn such fine clothes on the quarterdeck. He had not even owned such things. He had not been wealthy, or famous.
Wealth and fame came after, and it started with the most important decision of his life, which was to not go to the Gambia at all. Rather, he called his men aft, told them that, former plans notwithstanding, there was little to be gained in Africa, and great danger in gaining it. The Red Sea should be their destination, their goal the great ships that brought annual tribute to the Mogul of India from all the lands over which he ruled.
It was a plan that was greeted with enthusiasm. ‘A gold chain or a wooden leg,’ the men cried, ‘we’ll stand by you!’
That was in 1692, and now, three years later, Tew could not help but recall that time, being as it was so very like his current situation. The Red Sea, the Great Mogul’s treasure ship, the eager men of the Amity ready at the guns, small arms draped from sword belts and shoulder belts, pistols clutched in sweating hands.
They had searched for months, back in ’92, and had seen nothing. Then, just past the straits of Bab el Mandeb, they happened on the great, wallowing treasure ship – a huge, high-sterned, gilded monstrosity, a row of great guns jutting from her slab side, three hundred dark-skinned, turban-clad soldiers protecting the riches in her belly. One well-laid broadside from her huge cannon could have swept the Amity from the sea, one coordinated rush of the soldiers would have trampled the meager sixty Rhode Island privateersmen underfoot.
It was folly to attack, but attack they had, blasting away with round and grapeshot, rushing up her sides, falling on the defenders like the screaming furies of hell. The three hundred who sailed in defense of the Mogul’s treasure stumbled over one another to flee in the face of them. The Indian soldiers flung aside muskets and swords and lances, raced belowdecks, fell to their knees in supplication.
Fifteen minutes of inconsequential fighting and the Yankees had in their possession a fortune
the likes of which had not been seen in the Western world since the heyday of the Spanish treasure ships. A hundred thousand pounds in gold and silver, gems, pearls, ivory, spices, silk. It was staggering. They sailed to St Mary’s, a tiny island off the northeast coast of Madagascar, divided the booty in the way of the pirates. Three thousand pounds sterling for every man aboard, and double that for the captain.
They made Newport in April of 1694, like Caesar returning triumphant to Rome. Tew, the little-known privateersman, was now feted in every great house in town. He and his wife and his two daughters were the special guests of Governor Fletcher of New York. Wherever he went, men and women wanted to meet him, to hear his tales of Arabia and the East Indies. He was a celebrated gentleman. That ugly word ‘pirate’ was rarely applied to him, and never by anyone of import.
That was nearly two years before, and here he was again. A different man – wealthy, renowned – but on board the same ship, on nearly the same patch of water, looking at a treasure ship three cable lengths away. High-sided, clumsy, heavily armed and ornate, she looked very like the one that had made his fortune.
Oh, Lord, why ever am I here? he thought.
The pressure had been overwhelming. All the young men of substance had begged him to go out again, and take them along. Servants ran away from their masters and pleaded to join in on another venture to the Red Sea. Wealthy patrons had offered to underwrite the voyage for a percentage of the profit. Thomas Tew had had eight months to enjoy his newfound fortune and the company of his wife and daughters before he had been convinced to sally forth again.
We shall take this big bastard, and then we are for Newport once more, he thought.
Tew took a few steps forward, felt the sweat running under his clothes. The pitch between the deck planks, made soft and gummy by the terrible sun, stuck to his shoes and resisted his efforts to lift his feet and move. He put his hand down on the cap rail and then jerked it away as the hot, oiled wood burned his flesh. He rested his hand on the pommel of his sword, the other on the butt of a pistol thrust into his belt.
Three years ago, three years ago … he had flung himself over the rail of the Mogul’s ship. He could see the soldiers with their long white coats like dresses, their bound heads, dark skin, bright silk belts, falling to the deck before the attacking Englishmen. Not one of his own men lost. Not one.
No reason to think it will be different today, Tew thought, but he did not believe it. There was something different. It was nothing he could hold down, just a quality that this ship had that the other did not. With his glass he could see men on her decks. There was no sense of panic, no rushing about. He could not hear the sounds of frantic preparation. The ship just stood on, stately despite her ungainliness, as if the pirate sloop closing for an attack were no more than a minor annoyance, a yapping dog at the heels of an untroubled bull.
Thomas Tew was not frightened. He had been frightened before, many times, in the course of his wandering life, and he knew that this was not fear. It was something else. Concern? Apprehension? A dull discomfort in his bowels that told him he was making a mistake, that he had pushed his luck too far.
But there was nothing for it. He looked down into the waist, wondering idly if there were some way he could break off the engagement. But he could see there was not. In the faces of his men he could see lust for gold, avarice that would not be arrested.
There were sixty of them and one of him, and if he insisted that they avoid this great ship, then they would just throw him into the sea and attack her anyway. There was nothing to support his authority as captain save for the traditions and usage of the sea, and those were a pretty flimsy bulwark against greed.
He ran his tongue over his parched lips, took another step forward in anticipation of issuing an order. His throat was dry; he was afraid his voice would come out as no more than a croak. He wondered if he should ask someone to fetch him some water, if that would look like weakness on his part.
What in hell is the matter with me?
‘Reeves,’ he said, and his voice was like gravel, ‘fetch me a cup of water.’
Reeves nodded – ‘Aye, Captain’ – and hurried forward. Tew felt himself relax a bit, felt the tension ease. He looked over the Mogul’s ship once more and tried to view it with disdain and derision, but he couldn’t quite muster that.
It was the quiet; that was what bothered him, he realized. He could remember that first treasure ship. Two cables away, and he could hear the sailors and soldiers shouting in their mounting panic and confusion. He recalled how the Englishmen had stood firm and silent, waiting for their moment, while the Moors had degenerated into chaos.
But not now. He heard none of that now. Just silence, and it made him profoundly uneasy.
Reeves came back on the quarterdeck carrying a tin cup running over with water. Tew took the water, nodded his thanks, not trusting his voice, and drank it down in three big mouthfuls. Green with growth and warm enough to shave with, still it had a marvelous restorative effect, more than any liquor could have had at that moment, and at last he dared speak to the men. He stepped up to the break of the quarterdeck.
‘Stand fast at your guns, lads! We’ll give them a broadside and then lay alongside and board ’em. Scream like the damned when you go up the side – it’ll scare the fight right out of ’em! You lads that was with me in ’92, you’ll recall!’
That little speech brought a cheer in the charged atmosphere, but Tew knew that any words from him at that moment would have had the same effect.
‘You lads that was with me in ’92 …’ There were not more than a dozen of them. The rest had elected to stay in Newport and enjoy their wealth or had never returned at all, had remained on that island paradise of Madagascar, lounging their lives away in the tropic warmth with all the liquor and women a man could dream of.
Tew felt a sudden twinge of regret as he thought of those men back in Newport. That could have been him. He need not have lifted a finger again for the rest of his life. He could be playing with his daughters on a broad grassy lawn, not sweating like a plow horse under the Arabian sun.
These men, his new crew, they were different. Not like the original Amitys. Those men had been a band of brothers. But these, they were fortune hunters, men out for quick riches, careless of anything else. Tew found that he resented them. They had talked him into this voyage, he was doing all this for them, and they gave not a tinker’s cuss for his sacrifice.
The treasure ship was a cable length away – two hundred yards – and it was time to stop such a useless thought.
‘Aim for her rails, lads, sweep her deck! We’ve but the one broadside to clear the way for us!’
No cheering this time. With the huge ship looming over them, dwarfing them even from that distance, the men were focused entirely on what would happen in the next ten minutes. Tew saw men yawn, a sure sign of fear, saw them pretend it was just boredom. He turned his eyes outboard, ran them along the Mogul’s ship.
God, she is a beastly great thing … Tew wondered if she was even larger than the first. She looked like a floating mountain. She was frightening to behold.
‘Ready, lads …’ Less than one hundred yards between them. In the waist the gun captains sighted down barrels, made last-minute adjustments to elevation. Such niceties would have little effect on accuracy. It was just something to do.
Tew gripped the handle of his sword and tried to fight down his rising panic. It was not something he had ever experienced before, and he did not know how to resist it. He had to give his orders precisely – and at precisely the right moment.
Fifty yards separated the ships, and from across the water, clear as a ringing bell on a still morning, came a single order, firm, decisive, in the Moorish tongue, and Tew guessed that order was ‘Fire!’ so without thinking he, too, shouted ‘Fire!’ down at the men in the waist.
The Amity fired, and the Mogul’s ship fired, nearly at the same instant. Great clouds of gray smoke banked in the narrowing sp
ace between them, the roar of the guns filling the air like something tangible. The Amity shook underfoot as the Mogul’s great guns hammered her sides, and Tew could think only, The other ship did not fire on us …
And then he felt himself pushed aside, as if the hand of God had reached through the smoke and given him the slightest of shoves. With never a thought he dropped his sword and clapped his hands over his belly, not even certain why he had done so. Then he felt a burning sensation there.
He staggered back a few steps, looked down at his hands. There was blood running over his fingers, streaming off his hands, pooling on the white deck. Bright red blood, pumping, pumping through his fingers.
He moved his hands a bit, enough to look behind them, and he could see the gleam of something else, and now he could feel it against his palms and he knew it was not flesh.
It was his bowels, he realized. His stomach was torn away, and he was holding his guts in with his hands, and with that realization he felt the first wave of agony sweep over him.
He fell to his knees, saw the smoky, chaotic world of the Amity’s deck swirl around him, saw faces turn towards him, heard weird voices shouting, men running aft to where he was kneeling.
No, no … he thought.
No, abandoning the Gambia was not the most important decision of his life. He saw that now. It was sailing again for the Red Sea, and it was with his life that he would pay for that decision.
He looked down. The deck and the red pool of blood was swimming in front of him, rushing at him, the perspective changing fast. He hit the deck, and what breath he had was knocked from him, and only then did he realize that he had fallen.
He lay there, motionless, his cheek pressed against the hot planking, looking across the deck. Such an odd angle. He could see men’s shoes and bare feet, could see where a corner had been imperfectly swept, could see under the rail to the bright blue water beyond.
Oh, Lord, what a shame, to die thus … Visions of his wife and daughters moved like dreams through his head, the sumptuous dinners at Governor Fletcher’s, the pride in his wife’s face as she looked on him, the weight of his two girls on his knees – how he wished he would see all that again.