“Edelweiss is commissioned by Henry Morgan himself, the acting governor of Jamaica, and the best privateer Jamaica has ever seen. England may be at peace with the Netherlands, France and Spain, but that won’t always be the case. Morgan’s put us in league with a couple of Dutchman in Sayba, but France and Spain’s ships are fair game, as long as we either sink or commandeer the ships and leave no survivors to give account.”
“Dead men tell no tales,” I said dully, having heard the phrase in a Bristol tavern.
“Aye, that’s it, no bugger can tell a tale from under the sea, can they, lad? The plunder’s shared out between the crew and any seaworthy ships taken to Sayba.”
“What happens to them there?”
“Refitted, crewed and sailed to Africa. We need strong, healthy men to harvest the sugar.”
I thought back to my brief visit to Windhaven and the man the ostler’s boy had insulted in such an offhand manner.
“Slaves? You trade in slaves?”
“Not us, boy, we trade in ships. It’s not for us to say how they’re used. Those Dutchmen are nasty characters, though. Jan, the elder, is bad enough, but watch out for his son, lad. There’s something not right about Eric van Ecken. I’ve never seen the eyes of a living man look so dead.”
A crash made me jump, and Tarr spun round—Jonesy had fallen out of his bed.
“Get him sorted, lad, then I’ll reintroduce you to the crew. And no more ‘Uncle Richard’, understand?”
I nodded and got up to see to Jonesy. What the hell had we gotten ourselves into?
Chapter 12
“Cheval. Here.”
One of the men dropped the line he was coiling and scampered over to Uncle Richard—I still found it difficult to think of him as Captain Tarr—giving me and Jonesy the once-over; one of the most calculating looks I’d ever seen.
I glanced over at Jonesy, who raised an eyebrow in reply. I didn’t like where this was headed.
“Cheval, I have a couple of new deckhands for you to train up. Meet my nephew, Henry Sharpe, and his good mate, Jonesy.”
Cheval smiled at us, but I spotted a fleeting glimpse of something else in his eyes before his mouth stretched. Wariness? Distrust?
“Welcome aboard,” he said, his voice accented with France.
“Cheval will show you the ropes, you’ll master the deck before you head into the tops or onto the quarterdeck.”
The Frenchman visibly recoiled at the mention of the quarterdeck but I ignored him and smiled at my uncle.
“Don’t let me down, boys. It’s serious work, Cheval here will show you how to stay safe.” He paused, clearly waiting for Cheval’s affirmation—which did not come. “Won’t you, Cheval?”
“Oui, Capitaine.”
“Sharpe here is precious to me.” He grasped my shoulder. “If anything happens to him, it’ll be your neck I string up.”
I glanced between the two men, realizing the first impression Jonesy and I had formed of the Frenchman was shared by my uncle. I narrowed my eyes in confusion. Why would he put us under the care of a man he does not trust? Is this a test? And if so, whom is he testing, Cheval—or me?
“You’ll need to shed those coats and boots—footing’s bad enough in bare feet, never mind leather. Gather by the foremast in two minutes, then I’ll show you ’ow to swab the decks.” Cheval grinned, turned his back, and sauntered forward.
I raised my eyebrows in question at my uncle. I was a lord for Christ’s sake! This Frenchman was having me do the work of a scullery maid!
Uncle Richard shrugged. “No rank aboard ship, lad, unless captain. Everyone starts at the bottom—you’ll find your places naturally. I wouldn’t keep Cheval waiting, he has a cruel streak.”
Jonesy pulled my arm and I let him lead me to the hatch to stow our outer clothing. I glanced back once at Uncle— no. Captain Tarr. It was already easier to think that way.
*
Jonesy nudged me. “Listen,” he whispered and glanced toward a gaggle of men at the rail. I stopped pushing the bible-sized block of sandstone over the deck and sat back on my heels, my back popping as I stretched.
I looked over and realized Cheval was holding court over half a dozen men. Even had I been unable to understand French, it would have been clear by the amused smirks and frequent glances thrown our way that Jonesy and I were the subject of their amused conversation.
I caught the odd word as the Frenchman’s voice rose. Babysitting, neveu—nephew, inutile—useless.
I made to stand and Jonesy grabbed my arm and shook his head. “Your uncle has done us a service by introducing you as Henry Sharpe rather than Lord Rowleston. We have a card up our sleeve, no sense in telling him we speak French—knowledge gleaned may come in useful later.”
I nodded, my teeth gritted, and bent back to my task while keeping both ears primed.
“Sail oh.”
I jumped at the shout from overhead.
“Where away?” came Tarr’s answering bellow.
“A league off to starboard.”
I watched my uncle jump into the ladder of rope leading up the mast—the ratlins—glass to his eye. After a moment he leaped back down, shouting.
“All hands, clear the decks. Prize to leeward.”
“You ’eard ’im, clear that away and get yourselves some weapons.”
I gaped at Cheval, who laughed. “Welcome to battle. Don’t worry, the first one’s the worst—assuming you survive it!”
Jonesy took hold of my arm once again and we looked at each other. Neither of us had any words.
“Go. Dump that water overboard and put the bibles away. Arms and blades are being brought up. Step to or you’ll be left with the duds.”
He walked away, still cackling, and Jonesy and I swung into action. Whatever happened now would depend on the gods—and my uncle.
Chapter 13
Standing at the starboard rail, the ship was clear to see. Two masts and a hull low in the water.
“A nice bonus there, lads.”
“Little!” I greeted him in surprise. “What are you doing here?”
He shrugged. “Dunno. Seemed a good idea last night when I signed the articles.” He looked off to the other ship. “Not so sure now, though.”
Neither I nor Jonesy had a reply and we watched the ship draw closer in silence.
*
“Follow my lead, boy, I’ll see you right.”
I started at my uncle’s hand on my shoulder and could barely hear his words over the cacophony of the crew shouting, “Kill! Death! Blood!” in accompaniment to a percussion of weapons striking the rail.
I nodded, my mouth dry.
“Don’t mind this,” he indicated the bloodlust around us, “it’s theatre. If you’re feeling awed, imagine what that crew are feeling, seeing us bear down on them like this, knowing there’s no escape.”
“No escape?” Jonesy asked.
“None.” Tarr indicated the flag now flying at the top of the mainmast. “Blood red. It tells everyone at sea there’ll be no quarter given if they resist.
“And do they? Resist?”
“Not for long, boy. Look at those men—they have cannon aboard. They aren’t firing. Just as well, she’d make a good prize to accompany us to Sayba, and she’s no good to us underwater. But we board as if they’ll fight to the death.” Tarr grinned and I recoiled at this caricature of the uncle I’d known and admired as a boy. “Here.” He passed us both a long, wide silk ribbon. “Tie each end to a pistol and drape it round your neck. It’s easy to bring your guns to bear and your ball won’t fall out, even if it’s not properly wadded. Probably.” He stooped to pick up something else. “You’ll need one of these, too.” He handed me a grappling hook knotted onto a line. “Throw hard and throw high. Get that secure in their rigging, then swing—just like when you were a boy, eh Henry?”
Still unable to speak in my fear, I could only take the small iron boat anchor and rope. The rope swing I’d used as a boy had been about merr
iment. This was about battle. Death. Nothing like my boyhood games.
Tarr—I was thinking of him that way most of the time now—clapped me on the shoulder, almost hard enough to threaten an undignified tumble over the rail as our bow cannon exploded with a warning shot. Only Jonesy’s steadying hand saved me.
“Keep your wits about you, boy.” He raised his voice to include Jonesy and Little. “Your eyes peeled, your weapons handy and your fear in check. You’re privateers now, lads—buccaneers. The seas are rich for a man brave enough to help himself.”
I nodded, my mouth still arid and lacking coherent speech.
“Steady, men, on my mark.
“Tops—covering fire if you please.”
I jumped as muskets fired above, then again as Tarr roared. “Go. Throw them high, throw them sweet, we’ll be rich men come dusk!”
Screams caterwauled in accompaniment to a multitude of three-pronged iron spikes clanging against each other, then spars.
I’d thrown my own with the others, barely realizing it, and joined my new crewmates in jumping and swinging. I wondered if their screams were for effect or contained as much terror as mine did.
I pulled my blade as soon as I landed, despite falling to my knees, and just managed to parry a blade swinging for my neck. I headbutted the man in the groin, then scrambled to my feet, glancing around to see if anyone had witnessed my ungentlemanly conduct. Cheval grinned at me. Why did it have to be him?
My heart jumped when I spotted a man with his eye on Tarr and bringing his pistol to bear.
“Capitaine.” Cheval shouted the warning and we both took aim—Cheval belatedly due to his call. My ball felled the man before Cheval even got his shot off.
He swung round and stared at me in amazement. “That was a hard shot! But I’d have got ’im myself, you know.”
I smiled at his attempt to negate his praise, and looked around for another target. There were none. The crew were overwhelmed and under-armed. We had the ship.
“My thanks, Henry.” My uncle shook my hand. “I didn’t realize you’re such a crack shot, you’ll be in the rigging next time with a barrel full of muskets.”
“ ’Twas an easier shot than it looked, Un— Captain,” I hastily corrected myself. I glanced over at Cheval, who had flushed bright red in rage. I smiled at him, amused that he hated the thought of another earning praise from his captain. I flicked my eyes lower, to his hand which still held his gun, now pointed at me.
“Do you intend to use that?”
“Cheval,” Tarr reprimanded.
The Frenchman’s jaw worked furiously—he looked like he was chewing the words he did not quite dare utter. Then he lowered the gun. I laughed as the ball fell from it, unable to help myself in the relief of the fight being over. My mirth proved infectious as the men nearby realized what had happened and joined in. I could almost see Cheval’s fury turn to hate and my laughter died in my throat. I had made an enemy this day, and something told me he was not a man to let go of a grudge lightly.
“Sharpe.”
I turned at Jonesy’s shout, then burst into laughter once more.
“To replace the one you lost overboard at Bristol,” he said as he presented me with a perfectly curled periwig.
PART TWO
June 1683
Chapter 14
“Captain?” Blake, Tarr’s quartermaster and second in command, prompted, and Tarr tore his eyes away from his intense inspection of one of the ships in Eckerstad’s harbor.
“Down helm. Let go anchor,” he boomed. A man at the bow struck a pin and three and a half tuns of iron smacked the surface then plunged to the depths.
“Main topsail aback.
“Loose all sail.”
Amidst the frantic activity of the crew stowing sail and line, Tarr beckoned both myself and Blake to come closer.
“That twinmaster,” Tarr almost whispered to Blake. “Isn’t she the one we took two months ago off Saint Lucia?”
Blake gave the vessel a close examination of his own. “Aye, Captain, you’re right, she is, but she don’t look to have been refitted as a slaver.”
“No, she’s been fitted for speed, look at the rake of those masts.”
Blake nodded. They were leaning back at an angle rather than standing straight upright like the other vessels in the harbor, making the ship faster, but harder to work.
“There’s not many sacrifice ease for speed,” Tarr added. “Them that do are usually privateers, pirates or men-of-war.”
“So which is that one then?” I asked.
“Good question. I’m guessing we’ll find out soon enough. Keep your eyes and ears peeled today, lad. I don’t like the look of this at all.”
*
Tarr, Blake and I dismounted in front of the most ostentatious buildings I had seen since my arrival in the West Indies. It was huge. Built of brick—where do they get that out here? I wondered—it had two stories and towers topped with Dutch whatnots at either end of the house. I had thought Rowleston Hall impressive, but this was arrogance beyond belief.
“Henry.”
My uncle’s voice knocked me out of my reverie and I blinked at him.
“Give Wilbert the horse.”
I realized an African man dressed in indigo and gold livery was standing by me, patiently waiting for me to put the reins in his outstretched hand.
“My apologies,” I said, and smiled as I passed my horse over to him. He didn’t look up, but kept his eyes turned down then led the three horses away, all without saying a word.
“Come on, lads, time to enter the lions’ den. Keep your eyes open and your mouths shut. The elder van Ecken is sound enough, but his son scares the bejesus out of me.”
I looked at him in surprise, then at Blake, who nodded silently. I faced the house again, nervous now about meeting the Dutchmen.
The door opened and another African man stepped aside to allow us entry. My eyes widened at the opulence of the entrance hall. Open to the roof—all that space, wasted—a staircase fit for any of King Charles’s palaces rose before us, then widened to serve both corridors of the upper floor.
“You’re expected in the drawing room,” the liveried man said.
“Right you are, Hendrik, or is it Hans? I can never tell you two apart. Open the door then!”
The man didn’t react, but took our frockcoats and opened one of the two doors leading off the entrance hall.
I flicked a smile at him as I passed, but again, no reaction. The rules of etiquette are different in the New World, I mused, remembering the ostler’s boy on my arrival. I don’t like it, good manners cost nothing.
Inside, four men sat on sofas, glasses already nearly empty.
“About time, Tarr,” a middle-aged, rather rotund man remarked, and all four stood.
“Sir Henry. This is a surprise,” Tarr exclaimed.
“Aye, well, I’ve been too long in England and neglected my business interests. Who’s this?” He flicked his cane in my direction.
“My apologies. May I present my nephew, Lord Rowleston the Earl of Shirehampton, Sir Henry Sharpe. Henry, this is the revered Sir Henry Morgan, Deputy Governor of Jamaica.”
Even I’d heard of Henry Morgan: Admiral, Buccaneer, Scourge of the Spanish. He’d been sent to England in disgrace after his attack on Panama; only to be feted by all of London society and King Charles himself, knighted and made deputy governor of Jamaica. He had then turned against his fellow buccaneers, and was responsible for the hanging of scores of former colleagues. A ruthless bastard, currently engaged in a bitter war with the new governor, Thomas Lynch, Morgan was not a man on whom to turn your back.
I bowed. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Sir Henry. Your reputation precedes you, this is truly an honor.”
“Hmm. Another Sir Henry, hey? Can the Caribbees bear two of us, do you think?” He turned to include all the men in the room in the joke, then faced me again. “You have a big name to live up to, boy, let’s hope you prove yourself. Blak
e.” He nodded a greeting to Tarr’s quartermaster, preventing me from making any reply.
“Sharpe,” Tarr said, careful not to use my Christian name again in front of Morgan. “May I present Mijnheer Jan van Ecken and his son, Erik.”
“Pleased to meet you.” I shook their hands. With no title, they did not merit a bow and I was slightly flustered that neither offered one to me.
“And this, if I’m not very much mistaken, is Edward Hornigold.”
I nodded a greeting to the man who stood behind Morgan, and he narrowed his eyes at me.
“Aye, the two of ye sailed together, did ye not?” Morgan asked. “All three of ye were with me at Panama. Ah, those were the days.” He knocked the rest of his drink back; rum by the color of it. “Right, enough chitchat. Now that you’re finally here, let’s eat.”
He led the way through another door and I noticed the set jaws of both van Eckens. They had barely uttered a word, and clearly did not enjoy being treated as guests—and lesser guests at that—in their own home.
Chapter 15
I was surprised to see Henry Morgan take the seat at the head of the table and Ecken Senior seemed resigned to the foot, but his son Erik looked, to my eye, to be amused at this usurping of his father’s position at his own dining table.
I took my seat between my uncle and Blake.
“What’s he doing here?” Blake whispered across me to Tarr.
“Hornigold? Nothing good, that’s for sure,” he replied. And to me he added, “We sailed with him at Panama in ’71. It was a nightmare: a jungle road to Hell that Morgan led us down. Hundreds of men died by starvation and Spanish lead, and the rest of us only survived by eating the leather of our belts and boots. And then there were barely any spoils to be had.”
I gaped at him as he shuddered; the story he had told in his letters had included no mention that he’d partaken in the destruction of that city.
“Aye, lad, it weren’t pretty,” Tarr continued in a murmur. “When we finally reached Panama City, them that still lived, anyroad . . .” He paused. “I’m ashamed to say we were all gripped by a murderous madness. Too many people died too many torturous deaths. Aye, some of them at my own hands,” he added in response to my unspoken question.
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