As Kinsman was led aft Sir John turned his attention again to the pirates. ‘Mr Williams, these gentlemen shall be in your charge. Have them in irons – all except these three,’ he indicated Malloy, Carty, and Ben. ‘Their wounds must be dressed. Thereafter you will confine them unchained, apart from their fellows. As for the woman, have her confined alone with a trusty man to guard her. If,’ he added resignedly, ‘there is such a thing as a trusty man aboard. Perhaps you had better have two trusty men, and each can watch the other.’
‘Aye, aye, sir,’ said Williams.
‘Very good, then.’ He turned away. ‘Mr Hamilton, I’m obliged to you and we shall make ready for sea.’
‘The men ashore, Sir John,’ ventured one of his officers, and the captain frowned.
‘Ah, yes.’ He walked to the rail and looked across the cobalt waters towards the cliffs. ‘According to Bankier’s information there must be close on sixty of the brutes. Do you know, Mr Hamilton, I think they are very well where they are? They’ll go a-pirating no more, or I’m much mistaken. The Spaniards will see to it. Besides, at the first sign of boats being lowered they will take to the woods like rabbits. I think we have done very well as it is.’
Williams watched him mount the ladder. ‘Now then, sharp about it,’ he snapped to the master-at-arms. ‘These three to the surgeon’s mates, the others below. Keep the woman apart; we’ll deal with her in a moment.’
Anne Bonney was taken out of the line, and as the guards pushed him towards the hatchway Rackham saw that she was sobbing. The seaman who guarded her eyed her doubtfully, then muttered, ‘Never fear, honey, they won’t let you swing. Not a fine-looking lass like you.’
A voice behind Rackham spoke. ‘She’s goin’.’ Rackham looked up and in the brief moment before he was jostled down into the ship he saw the Kingston for the last time. She was barely afloat less than a cable’s length from the King’s ship, the water gushing in over her rail, swirling among the wreckage of the deck. For a few seconds she was awash, with a tangle of broken spars, rigging and canvas forced up by the water, her broken foremast pointing up like a jagged finger. Then the water boiled above her, bubbling through the wreckage, and the Kingston was gone beneath the placid surface of the bay.
17. THE KING’S JUSTICE
The court-room at St Jago de la Vega, capital of the British island of Jamaica, was a mixture of the old world and the new; or rather of the old adapted to new conditions. At one end of the long, white-washed room was the bench, with its pulpits of oak and high-backed canopied chairs, and beneath it the massive table with its bewigged and black-gowned clerks and officials. There was the long box for the jury on one hand, and the stand for witnesses on the other, and in the well of the court the dock, a large pen fringed with the inevitable steel pikes.
All this was of the old world, and the huge fans which hung from the ceiling beams, swishing softly to and fro as they were twitched into motion by black slaves who squatted at the side of the room, the little black boys who stood at either side of the empty judge’s chair with fly-switch and fronds, the latticed screens, the walls with their glaring whitewash – all these things were strangely at odds with the impedimenta of a court of law.
But the most vivid contrast was in the occupants of the public benches assembled to witness the trial of the Kingston pirates. Down one side of the court behind the witness box ran a spacious gallery packed with spectators, and Rackham could guess before he even looked at them that they would be the exact counterparts of the audience who had watched in the Fort at New Providence when he and his fellows had received the Royal pardon – planters, merchants, officers of the garrison and navy, and their womenfolk. Jamaican society, in fact.
There they were, in their finery of plumes and silks and taffetas, with their affectations and their mannerisms, their wealth and – in some cases – their beauties ostentatiously displayed, their chatter and their laughter, a carefree, uninhibited multitude eager to enjoy the spectacle. They stared at the dirty little group of chained men and one woman in curiosity and amusement, discussing them freely and loudly, although every word was audible in the dock.
The talk of three in the front row of the gallery directly opposite Rackham caught his attention. There were two men and a woman – one of the men a magnificently dressed elderly rake, yellow of face and somewhat shrivelled, but with a wicked eye which he fastened from time to time on the blonde young woman who sat beside him. She might have been his grand-daughter except that she looked a little more worldly than a grand-daughter has any right to be. The other man was a typical planter, substantial and middle-aged.
‘And they will hang them all?’ the blonde girl was asking.
‘Every last one, m’dear,’ said the old rake. ‘Higher than Haman, dammit, and they hanged him high enough, didn’t they, Jerry?’
The planter frowned. ‘No punishment can be too severe,’ he said ponderously. ‘There’s every crime in the calendar in that dock. Hanging’s too kind for ’em.’
‘Quite so,’ remarked the other. ‘Robbery, murder, rape – begging those pretty little ears their pardon – and attack on a King’s vessel, rot it, into the bargain. What more could a jury ask?’
‘But it seems—,’ the girl hesitated, ‘—it seems … so many at once … well, rather a—’
‘A waste of good manhood, ye’d say?’ The old rake guffawed. ‘D’ye hear that, Jerry? Praise God there are no women on juries.’ He dabbed his eyes with a handkerchief and leered at her. ‘And what would you have done wi’ them, eh? If we mustn’t hang ’em, what then?’
She tossed her head. ‘They could be sold as slaves, to work in the plantations, or some such tasks.’
‘Some such tasks, d’ye say?’ He winked at the planter. ‘Ladies’ maids, or footmen, perhaps. I don’t doubt they’d leap at the opportunity, if ye follow me.’ He chuckled and shook his head. ‘But I think I’d sleep safer o’ nights if I knew they were swinging in irons – and so would others I could mention.’
The planter scowled savagely. ‘I’d have ’em flogged to death by inches.’
‘Gallows-bait, gallows-bait,’ nodded the old rake happily. ‘Jerry is so right, my love. Bloody, desperate fellows. Why, this same Rackham, I’m told, once rifled the great Spanish silver fleet off Florida. ‘Codso, he did. Took a fortune from the cursed Dons, rat me, from under their very noses. Oho, I warm at the very thought of it. But ye must see that such dangerous rogues are safer – far safer – hanged and out of harm’s way.’
The girl was studying the prisoners with interest. ‘Which one is Rackham.’
‘Eh? Rackham?’ The old rake peered at the dock. ‘Stab me, how should I know? One looks as bad as t’others. That big one, perhaps, with the fair beard.’ He pointed towards Bull. ‘What matter, anyway? Ye’ll know soon enough. Plague on ’em.’ He drew closer to her. ‘Let me tell ye the story of Bill Noodle and the milkmaid. What, ye ha’nt heard it? Well, then—.’
Rackham felt hot rage mounting inside him as he listened. He who had never truly hated in his life was learning at last the hate that is fiercest of all – hate inspired by fear. He was a brave man, but he was mortally afraid of what they were going to do to him – the rope, the fire and the disembowelling knife had been in his mind all through that voyage when he had lain chained in the depths of the King’s ship, and in the cell at Port Royal’s Fort Charles where he had been confined alone because as the supposed leader of the Kingston pirates he was held to be doubly dangerous. He had been afraid, he was afraid now; but it was the kind of fear which when it reaches its peak is translated not into panic but into a dreadful anger. He hated these fine ladies and gentlemen, not because they might be guessing his fear and gloating over it, but because they were sitting at ease, watching idly, and he was chained and in rags and waiting to die.
He looked up at the gallery again and his gaze fell on a woman on one of the middle benches; a fleshy, over-painted female of middle age, still well-preserved enough to be acc
ounted handsome, with dull eyes that were fixed steadily on a point beyond him. She was watching Bull, and Bull was eyeing her in return, swelling out his mighty chest, conscious of the imposing figure he cut with his great blond beard and magnificent physique.
Rackham could read the thoughts that were passing between them: Bull was lusting, even now, and the woman up there, for all her expressionless eyes and mask-like features, was considering Bull as a lover. It was ghoulish and unnatural, and it sickened him on the woman’s account rather than on Bull’s, for Bull, after all, was little better than an animal and would remain so to the end.
Four knocks sounded, and the babble of conversation stopped in the court-room. A door was flung open behind the judge’s bench and a small procession emerged headed by an official, wigged and gowned, who glanced about sharply to see that all was as it should be. He noted the prisoners and the scarlet-clad sentries on either side of the dock, nodded to an acquaintance in the gallery, and stood aside to admit the judge and his chaplain. As his lordship entered, the court rose with a swishing and rustling of gowns and dresses, standing until he had seated himself and his chaplain had ensconced himself on a stool at one side.
Chief Justice Peter Bernard, in his red robe and flowing wig, was an impressive figure. He was also slightly drunk, and everyone in the court knew it, except the prisoners. They watched him in fearful fascination, unconscious of the winks and nods being exchanged in the gallery, seeing only the personification of the King’s justice which was shortly to provide for their sentence and execution.
They saw a florid, handsome man on the threshold of middle age and already inclining to portliness. The face framed by the full-bottomed wig was youthful despite the flush that denoted the drinker, with a mobile sensitive mouth and rather prominent grey eyes which were concealed by heavy lids as his lordship settled himself comfortably in his padded seat. He had breakfasted heavily on Malaga, to which he was addicted, and was not inclined to exert himself.
He seemed to be dozing in his chair, hardly stirring when the jury filed in and were sworn, and rousing himself only briefly to nod agreement to a question from his clerk, a nervous little man who sat in front of his lordship’s pulpit and had to stand on tip-toe to make himself visible to the judge. Then his lordship settled back again while the charge was read – a charge of piracy only, since the Crown was confident of convicting on that count and did not wish to waste the time of the court by pressing other charges of murder, robbery, arson, assault, and putting into fear. This was explained to the jury, who were given to understand that the accused would hang just as surely for piracy whether the other crimes were taken into account or not, and the jurors, wearing the expressions of gravity and bewilderment common to juries of every age and clime, nodded and were silent.
The clerk began to recite the names of the accused.
‘John Rackham, hold up your right hand.’
There was a buzz of interest on the public benches. Rackham started involuntarily at the mention of his name, and slowly rasied his hand, the shortness of his manacles forcing him to lift his left hand breast-high at the same time.
‘Are you guilty or not guilty?’
It would be easy to say guilty and get the whole hellish business over. He knew he was doomed, whatever he said, and there seemed no point in prolonging the farce. But there was another side to it, too. Even if he could not make a fight for his life, there might be others among the pirates who had hopes of winning acquittal – a ridiculous hope, in his view, but that would not stop some of the simpletons from entertaining it. A plea of guilty on his part would certainly damage their chances, and besides, why should he save the law the trouble of proving him a pirate? The bastards were paid for it, let them work.
‘Not guilty.’
His plea was echoed by the others as their names were read, and the judge drowsed on, even through the titter that greeted Bull’s growl of ‘Not guilty, o’ course,’ accompanied by a broad smirk for the benefit of the spectators. Bull was determined to give them their money’s worth.
The clerk came to the last name. ‘Anne Bonney, hold up your right hand,’ he intoned, and the judge opened his eyes.
‘Are you guilty or not guilty?’
Chief Justice Bernard leaned forward and addressed the clerk. ‘Have the prisoner stand forward, Mr Prentice.’ It was a voice completely at variance with his appearance; a sharp, incisive voice that made the little clerk leap as though he had been stung.
‘Come forward, Anne Bonney,’ he cried. ‘Let her past, you two. There, now, answer the court: are you guilty or not guilty?’
She hesitated, and the clerk supposed that she was dismayed at having been singled out and thrust to the front of the dock with the eyes of the court upon her. In this he was quite wrong. Anne Bonney had never known cause to be dismayed by public regard, and she knew that his lordship’s attention was excited by more than mere curiosity. She had seen that look on men’s faces before, and it occurred to her that here might be an opportunity. She gave him time to look at her, from the red hair tumbling about her shoulders to the patched and outrageously revealing black shirt, and said in her soft, husky voice, ‘Not guilty.’ And she added, almost as an afterthought, ‘my lord.’
His lordship looked at her, and somewhere at the back of the gallery a woman tittered and was hushed by her neighbour. The judge took no notice but sat back, motioning to the clerk to continue.
The clerk, however, had come to the end of his catechism, and it was for Mr Mitchum, who was to conduct the case for the Crown, to begin his preliminary address. He had watched the foregoing passage with a cynical eye, for he knew his lordship and he had an excellent view of Mistress Bonney. However, that had nothing to do with him, and he addressed himself to his case, which, he assured the jury, was a simple one, but none the less damning for that. He gave a brief recital of the facts, and drew attention to the unusual abundance of evidence which the prosecution had at its disposal, including that of Captain Alan Kinsman who had sailed unknown to the pirates as an agent of the Crown.
This announcement caused something of a sensation in the court, and Mr Mitchum paid tribute to public curiosity with a few comments of the gallantry and shrewdness of the intrepid officer whose evidence, in his opinion, was by far the most conclusive that could be advanced against the prisoners. Then, sensing that the spectators would rather see the hero himself than hear eulogies of him, Mr Mitchum concluded his address and called Kinsman as his first witness.
As the Captain, trim and soldierlike in a new suit of buff and with his own hair tied neatly back from his lean, sunburned face, took the stand, Mr Mitchum permitted himself a smile of approval. Such authority and bearing could not fail to convince the jury as they were even now having their effect on the spectators.
Kinsman proved an ideal witness. In a dead silence the court listened while he described the voyage of the Kingston, the attack upon the Star, the subsequent change of command at Mosquito Bank, the voyage along the Cuban coast, and the final capture. Of his duel with Penner he said nothing, but on every other point he was painstakingly explicit. He named the prisoners in turn, showing how each was undoubtedly a conscious participant in the piratical activities of the ship, and concluded with a reminder to the jury that if they thought him suspiciously exact they must remember that he had been acting throughout with a view to collecting evidence for just such an occasion as the present trial. With that he laid down his notes and looked inquiringly to Mr Mitchum.
There were echoes of approval from the public gallery which went unchecked by the court as Mr Mitchum rose to remark that His Majesty’s subjects in the West Indies no less than the Government itself owed to Captain Kinsman a debt which they trusted would be amply repaid. All this Kinsman accepted with an impassive face and only the least bow of acknowledgement, which heightened the already favourable impression he had created.
‘The one matter in which I would have the gentlemen of the jury informed beyond all possible
doubt is this, sir,’ continued Mr Mitchum. ‘You can say, can you not, that each one of the accused did knowingly and willingly act in the seizure of His Majesty’s ship Star, and that none sought to hinder or impede that crime?’
‘That is so, sir.’
‘In effect, you know every one of them to be pirates?’
‘I do.’
Mr Mitchum looked significantly at the jury. ‘And can you think – I ask you as one who, I am sure, will wish above all to see justice done – can you think that there exists in the case of any of these accused, extenuating circumstances which might be held to excuse their offences in any way whatsoever?’
Kinsman appeared to hesitate. He looked at the dock and for a moment his eye met Rackham’s. In that moment Rackham realised that it lay in Kinsman’s power possibly to save Anne Bonney from the gallows. If he gave a full recital of the details surrounding the Penner affair and told of the assistance, unwitting though it had been, which she had given him, it was just possible that the jury might recommend her to mercy. Surely Kinsman would be bound to do that much at least; he who had been her lover.
Kinsman looked back to Mr Mitchum. ‘I know of none, sir.’
So Anne Bonney was doomed with the rest of them. She could hang for all Kinsman cared. And yet perhaps there was something that could be done even now.
As the prosecutor sat down and the judge invited the prisoners to question the witness, Rackham held up his hand.
‘Did you not,’ he asked Kinsman, ‘receive some help from one of the prisoners at any time?’
Kinsman’s eyes narrowed slightly. ‘None that I recall.’
‘Did no one assist you in the murder of Major Penner, then?’ asked Rackham.
There was a sudden gasp of astonishment from the public benches, and Mr Mitchum swung round angrily to stare indignantly at this presumptuous questioner. He was preparing to leap to the defence of his witness, but his witness was already defending himself in the same cool, precise voice with which he had given his evidence.
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