Assassin’s Creed®

by Oliver Bowden

  We found it on the third day of hunting.

  ‘Sail ho!’ came the cry from above. We’d been used to hearing it, so we didn’t get our hopes raised. Just watched as the captain and quartermaster conferred. Moments later they’d confirmed it was the Galley and we set off across the water towards it.

  As we approached we raised a red ensign, the British flag, and sure enough the Galley remained where she was, thinking us an English privateer on her side.

  Which we were. In theory.

  Men primed their pistols and checked the action of their swords. Boarding hooks were taken up and the guns manned. As we came up alongside and the Galley crew realized we were primed for battle, we were close enough to see their faces fall and panic gallop through the ship like a startled mare.

  We forced her to heave to. Our men raced to the gunwales, where they stood ready for action, aiming pistols, manning the swivel guns or with cutlasses drawn and teeth bared. I had no pistol and my sword was a rusty old thing the quartermaster had found at the bottom of a chest, but even so. Squeezed in between men twice my age but ten times as fierce, I did my utmost to scowl with as much ferocity as they did. To look just as savage.

  The guns below were trained on the Galley opposite. One word and we’d open fire with a volley of shot, enough to break their vessel in half, send them all to the bottom of the sea. On the faces of their crew was the same sick, terrified expression. The look of men caught out, who now had to face the terrible consequences.

  ‘Let your captain identify himself,’ our first mate called across the gap between our two vessels. He produced a timer and banged it down on the gunwale rail. ‘Send out your captain before the sands run out, or we shall open fire.’

  It took them until their time was almost up, but he appeared on deck at last, dressed in all his finery and fixing us with what he hoped was an expression of defiance – which couldn’t disguise the trepidation in his eyes.

  He did as he was told. He followed instructions, ordered a boat to be launched, then clambered aboard and was rowed across to our ship. Secretly I couldn’t help but feel sympathy for him. He put himself at our mercy in order to protect his crew, which was admirable, and his head was held high when, as he ascended the Jacob’s ladder from his boat, he was jeered at by the men manning the mounted guns on the deck below, before being grabbed roughly by the shoulders and hauled over the rail of the gunwale to the quarterdeck.

  When he was dragged to his feet he pulled away from the men’s clutching hands, threw his shoulders back and, after adjusting his jacket and cuffs, demanded to see our captain.

  ‘Aye, I’m here,’ called Dolzell, who came down from the sterncastle with Trafford, the first mate, at his heels. The captain wore his tricorne with a bandanna tied beneath it, and his cutlass was drawn.

  ‘And what’s your name, captain?’ he said.

  ‘My name is Captain Benjamin Pritchard,’ replied the merchant captain sourly, ‘and I demand to know the meaning of this.’

  He drew himself up to full height but was no match for the stature of Dolzell. Few men were.

  ‘The meaning of this,’ repeated Dolzell. The captain wore a thin smile, possibly the first time I had ever seen him smile. He cast an arch look around at his men gathered on the deck, and a cruel titter ran through our crew.

  ‘Yes,’ said Captain Pritchard primly. He spoke with an upper-class accent. Oddly, I was reminded of Caroline. ‘I mean exactly that. You are aware, are you not, that my ship is owned and operated by the British East India Company and that we enjoy the full protection of Her Majesty’s navy?’

  ‘As do we,’ replied Dolzell. At the same time he indicated the red ensign that fluttered from the topsail.

  ‘I rather think you forfeited that privilege the moment you commanded us to stop at gunpoint. Unless, of course, you have an excellent reason for doing so?’

  ‘I do.’

  I glanced across to where the crew of the Galley were pinned down by our guns but just as enthralled by the events on deck as we were. You could have heard a pin drop. The only sound was the slapping of the sea on the hulls of our ships and the whisper of the breeze in our masts and rigging.

  Captain Pritchard was surprised. ‘You do have a good reason?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘I see. Then perhaps we should hear it.’

  ‘Yes, Captain Pritchard. I have forced your vessel to heave to in order that my men might plunder it of all its valuables. You see, pickings on the seas have been awfully slim of late. My men are getting restless. They are wondering how they will be paid on this trip.’

  ‘You are a privateer, sir,’ retorted Captain Pritchard. ‘If you continue along this course of action you will be a pirate, a wanted man.’ He addressed the entire crew. ‘You all will be wanted men. Her Majesty’s navy will hunt you down, and arrest you. You’ll be hanged at Execution Dock then your bodies displayed in chains at Wapping. Is that really what you want?’

  Pissing yourself as you died. Stinking of shit, I thought.

  ‘Way I hear it, Her Majesty is on the verge of signing treaties with the Spanish and the Portuguese. My services as a privateer will no longer be required. What do you think my course of action will be then?’

  Captain Pritchard swallowed, for there was no real answer to that. And now, for the first time ever, I saw Captain Dolzell really smile, enough to reveal a mouth full of broken and blackened teeth, like a plundered graveyard. ‘Now, sir, how about we retire to discuss the whereabouts of whatever treasure you might happen to have on board?’

  Captain Pritchard was about to complain, but Trafford was already moving forward to grab him and he was propelled up the steps and into the navigation room. The men, meanwhile, turned their attention to the crew of the ship opposite, and an uneasy, threatening silence reigned.

  And then we began to hear the screams.

  I jumped, my eyes going to the door of the cabin to which they had gone. Darting a look at Friday I saw that he, too, was staring at the navigation-room door, an unreadable look on his face.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I asked.

  ‘Hush. Keep your voice down. What do you think is going on?’

  ‘They’re torturing him?’

  He rolled his eyes. ‘What did you expect, rum and pickles?’

  The screams continued. Over on the other ship the men’s expressions had changed. A moment ago they had stared at us resentfully, balefully, as though biding their time before they might launch a cunning counter-attack. Like we were scoundrels and knaves and would soon be whipped like the scurvy dogs we were. Now in their eyes was sheer terror – that they might be next.

  It was strange. I felt both ashamed and emboldened by what was happening. I’ve caused my fair share of pain, and left sorrow in my wake, but I’ve never been able to abide cruelty for its own sake. Dolzell would have said, ‘Not for its own sake, boy; to find out where the treasure was hid.’ But he would have been telling a half-truth. For the fact was that as soon as our men swarmed their vessel they’d quickly locate whatever booty was aboard. No, the real purpose of torturing the captain was the changing faces of the men who stood opposite. It was to strike terror into their crew.

  Then, after I don’t know how long, perhaps a quarter of an hour or so, when the screams had reached a peak, when the heartless sniggering of the deckhands had been exhausted, and even the most pitiless man had begun to wonder if, perhaps, enough pain had been inflicted for one day, the door to the navigation room was thrown open. And Dolzell and Trafford appeared.

  Wearing a look of grim satisfaction the captain surveyed the men of our own ship and then the apprehensive faces of the other crew, before pointing and saying, ‘You, boy.’

  He was pointing at me.

  ‘Y-yes, sir,’ I stammered.

  ‘Into the cabin, boy. Guard the captain, while we find out what his information is worth. You too.’ He was pointing at somebody else. I didn’t see who as I hurried to the front of the quarterdeck, b
arging against the tide of a surge towards the gunwales as men readied themselves to board the other ship.

  And then I had the first of two shocks as I entered the navigation room and saw Captain Pritchard.

  The cabin had a large dining table that had been set to one side. As too was the quartermaster’s table, on which were laid his navigation instruments, maps and chart.

  In the middle of the cabin Captain Pritchard sat tied to a chair, his hands bound behind him. Lingering in the cabin was a brackish smell I couldn’t place.

  Captain Pritchard’s head hung, chin on his chest. At the sound of the door he lifted it and focused bleary, pain-wracked eyes on me.

  ‘My hands,’ he croaked. ‘What have they done to my hands?’ Before I could find out I had my second surprise, when my fellow jailer entered the room and it was none other than Blaney.

  Oh shit. He pulled the door to behind him. His eyes slid from me to the wounded Captain Pritchard and back to me again.

  From outside came the cries of our crew as they prepared to board the other ship, but it felt as though we were cut off from it, as though it was happening far away and involved people not known to us. I held Blaney’s gaze as I walked round to the back of the captain, where his hands were tied behind his back. And I realized what the smell had been. It was the smell of burnt flesh.

  18

  Dolzell and Trafford had pushed lit fuses between Captain Pritchard’s fingers in order to make him talk. There was a scattering of them on the boards, as well a jug of something that when I put my nose to it I thought was brine they’d used to pour on his wounds, to make them more painful.

  His hands were blistered, charred black in some places, raw and bleeding in others, like tenderized meat.

  I looked for a flask of water, still cautious of Blaney, wondering why he hadn’t moved. Why he hadn’t spoken.

  He put me out of my misery. ‘Well, well, well,’ he rasped, ‘we find ourselves together.’

  ‘Yes,’ I replied drily. ‘Aren’t we lucky, mate?’

  I saw a jug of water on the long table and moved towards it.

  He ignored my sarcasm. ‘And what would you be up to exactly?’

  ‘I’m fetching water to put on this man’s wounds.’

  ‘Captain didn’t say nothing about attending to the prisoner’s wounds.’

  ‘He’s in pain, man, can’t you see?’

  ‘Don’t you talk to me like that, you little whelp,’ snapped Blaney with a ferocity that chilled my blood. Still, I wasn’t going to show it. Full of bravado. Always tough on the outside.

  ‘You sound like you’re fixing up for a fight, Blaney.’

  I hoped I came across more confident than I felt.

  ‘Aye, maybe I am at that.’

  He had a brace of pistols in his belt and a cutlass at his waist, but the silver that seemed to appear in his hand, almost from nowhere, was a curved dagger.

  I swallowed.

  ‘And what do you plan on doing, Blaney, with the ship about to mount a raid, us in charge of guarding the captain here? Now, I don’t know what it is you have against me, what measure of grudge it is you’re nursing, but it’ll have to be settled another time, I’m afraid, unless you’ve got a better idea.’

  When Blaney grinned, a gold tooth flashed. ‘Oh, I’ve got other ideas, boy. An idea that maybe the captain here tried to escape and ran you through in the process. Or how about another idea altogether? An idea that it was you who helped the captain. That you untied the prisoner and tried to make good your escape, and it was me who stopped you, running you both through in the process. I think I like that idea even better. How’s about that?’

  He was serious, I could tell. Blaney had been biding his time. No doubt he wanted to avoid the flogging he would have received for giving me a beating. But now he had me where he wanted.

  Then something happened that directed me. I’d knelt down to see to the captain and something caught my eye. The ring he was wearing. A thick signet ring, it bore a symbol I recognized.

  The day I’d woken up on the Emperor I’d found a looking glass below decks and inspected my wounds. I had cuts, bruises and scrapes; I looked like what I was: a man who’d been beaten up. One of the marks was from where I’d been punched by the man in the hood. His ring had left its imprint on my skin. A symbol of a cross.

  I saw that very same symbol now on Captain Pritchard’s ring.

  Despite the poor man’s discomfort I couldn’t help myself. ‘What’s this?’

  My voice, a little too sharp and a little too loud, was enough to arouse the suspicions of Blaney, and he pushed himself away from the closed cabin door and moved further into the room to see.

  ‘What is what?’ Pritchard was saying, but by now Blaney had reached us. And he too had seen the ring, only his interest in it was less to do with its meaning, more to do with its value, and without hesitation, and heedless to Pritchard’s pain, he reached and yanked it off, flaying the finger of burnt and charred skin at the same time.

  The captain’s screams took some time to die down, and when they had, his head lolled forward on to his chest and a long rope of saliva dripped to the cabin floor.

  ‘Give me that back,’ I said to Blaney.

  ‘Why should I give it to you?’

  ‘Now come on, Blaney –’ I started. And then we heard something. A shout from outside.

  ‘Sail ho!’

  It wasn’t as though our feud was forgotten, more like it was placed to one side for a moment as Blaney said, ‘Wait there.’ And pointing with his dagger he left the room to see what was going on.

  The open door framed a scene of panic outside and as the ship lurched it slammed shut. I looked from that to Captain Pritchard, now groaning in pain. I’d never wanted to be a pirate. I was a sheep farmer from Bristol. A man in search of adventure, it’s true. But by fair means not foul. I wasn’t a criminal, an outlaw. I’d never wanted to be party to the torture of innocent men.

  ‘Untie me,’ said the captain, his voice dry and pained. ‘I can help you. I can guarantee you a pardon.’

  ‘If you tell me about the ring.’

  Captain Pritchard was moving his head slowly from side to side as though to shake away the pain. ‘The ring, what ring … ?’ he was saying, confused, trying to work out why on earth this young deckhand should be asking him about such an irrelevance.

  ‘A mysterious man I consider my enemy wore a ring just like yours. I need to know its significance.’

  He gathered himself. His voice parched but measured. ‘Its significance is great power, my friend, great power that can be used to help you.’

  ‘What if that great power was being used against me?’

  ‘That can be arranged as well.’

  ‘I feel it already has been used against me.’

  ‘Set me free and I can use my influence to find out for you. Whatever wrong has been done to you I can see it put right.’

  ‘It involves the woman I love. Some powerful men.’

  His next words reminded me of something the man in the hood had said that night in the farmyard. ‘There are powerful men and powerful men. I swear on the Bible, boy, that whatever ails you can be solved. Whatever wrong has been done to you can be put right.’

  Already my fingers were fiddling with his knots but just as the ropes came away and slithered to the cabin floor the door burst open. Standing in the doorway was Captain Dolzell. His eyes were wild. His sword was drawn. Behind him was a great commotion. Men who moments before had been ready to board the Amazon Galley, as organized a fighting unit as privateers could be, were suddenly in disarray.

  Captain Dolzell said one word, but it was enough.

  The word was. ‘Privateers.’

  19

  ‘Sir?’ I said.

  And thankfully, Dolzell was too preoccupied with developments to wonder what I was doing standing behind Captain Pritchard’s chair. ‘Privateers are coming,’ he cried.

  In terror I looked from Dolzell
to where I’d just untied Captain Pritchard’s hands.

  Pritchard revived. And though he had the presence of mind to keep his hands behind his back, he couldn’t resist taunting Dolzell. ‘It’s Edward Thatch, come to our rescue. You’d better run, captain. Unlike you, Edward Thatch is a privateer loyal to the Crown and when I tell him what has taken place here –’

  In two long strides Dolzell darted forward and thrust the point of his sword into Pritchard’s belly. Pritchard tautened in his seat, impaled on the blade. His head shot back and upside-down eyes fixed on mine for a second before his body went limp and he slumped in the chair.

  ‘You’ll tell your friend nothing,’ snarled Dolzell as he removed his blade.

  Pritchard’s hands fell to hang limply by his sides.

  ‘His hands are untied.’ Dolzell’s accusing eyes went from Pritchard to me.

  ‘Your blade, sir, it sliced the rope,’ I said, which seemed to satisfy him, and with that he turned and ran from the cabin. At the same time the Emperor shook – I later found out that Thatch’s ship had hit us side-on. There were some who said the captain had been rushing towards the fight and that the impact of the privateers’ ship had knocked him off the deck, over the gunwale and into the water. There are others who said that the captain, with images of Execution Dock in his mind, had plunged off the side in order to escape capture.

  From the navigation room I took a cutlass and a pistol that I thrust into my belt, then dashed out of the cabin and on to the deck.

  What I found was a ship at war. The privateers had boarded from the starboard, while on the port side the crew of the Amazon Galley had taken their opportunity to fight back. We were hopelessly outnumbered and, even as I ran into the fray with my sword swinging, I could see that the battle was lost. Sluicing across the deck was what looked like a river of blood, while everywhere I could see men I had been serving with dead, draped over the gunwales, their bodies lined with bleeding slashes. Others were fighting on. There was the roar of musket and pistol, the day torn apart by the constant ring of steel, the agonized screams of the dying, the warrior yells of the attacking buccaneers.