Voyage of Plunder

by Michele Torrey

  Would I never return home? I was finished with this life and longed to escape at the first opportunity to put my back to the Tempest Galley and lose myself in the waterfront docks at Boston Harbor.

  The excitement aboard the Tempest Galley faded to puzzlement when our prey also plied on all sail and set an intercept course. The puzzlement quickly changed to alarm when Josiah, who had been peering through his eyeglass atop the foremast crosstrees, slid down a backstay and called for everyone to gather around. “Man-o’-war,” he told us. “Forty guns at least, and judging from her lines, she'll be faster than smoke and oakum.”

  As he spoke, the skies opened and a great rain began to pour. Thunder rumbled.

  Water sluiced off Josiah's cocked hat. “It is possible that news of our misdeeds has already been reported by the mogul's representatives to the British authorities. After all, we spent much time in Saint Augustine's Bay. Time enough for an East Indiaman to sail ahead of us.” He peered out into the gray gloom. “We shall try to outrun them, but be prepared for battle, men, if it comes to that.”

  Lightning flashed, followed by a crack of thunder so sharp it rattled my bones. The wind gusted suddenly and the Tempest Galley groaned, increasing her heel.

  “Captain Black,” cried the lookout, “I've lost sight of them in the storm.”

  Josiah smiled grimly. “Maybe we can slip through the gauntlet after all. Alter course to west by northwest and prepare to take in sail.”

  Inch by sodden inch, flogged by yards of beating canvas, we took in sail while perched precariously atop the footropes. Afterward we cleared the decks for battle, trailing the pinnace to our stern by its painter, and prepared our big guns and our weapons. I was soaked through, shivering cold, and famished by the time we finished. As yet, there was no sign of the man-o’-war. Perhaps we had indeed given her the slip.

  I crouched with many others in the sheltered area beneath the fo'c'sle deck, gobbling a quick meal of salt beef and biscuit, trying to keep my pistols dry.

  The Tempest Galley heaved and pitched through the waves. The wind roared through the rigging. Lightning flashed every few seconds, illuminating my shipmates’ faces—eerie and ghostlike. Water poured over the aft edge of the fo'c'sle deck. Some leaked between the deck boards and trickled onto our heads. No one spoke, for speech was next to impossible. And besides, I knew they were sobered. Should the man-o’-war find us, we stood no chance—every man aboard would be either blown out of the water or hanged for piracy.

  As they ate their meal, men glanced about them, as if they could spy the man-o’-war from beneath the fo'c'sle deck. An hour later, men visibly began to relax. Some got out their pipes and smoked a bit. Others joined in a game of dice. Still others left for their watch, replaced by sodden, shivering men who gratefully accepted some salt beef and biscuit from Abe, tired though we all were of such miserable fare. One game fellow even tried to drown out the storm with his accordion.

  As he was singing about the fine ladies of Port Royal— perfume, lace, and pretty smiles—we heard a cry from the lookout. A frightened shriek.

  “Man-o’-war on our windward quarter! She's almost on us!” For a split second, the men beneath the fo'c'sle deck stared at one another, faces deathly white with a stroke of lightning.

  Then, like rats spilling out of a cellar, we tumbled over one another out onto the upper deck.

  ater, inches deep, rolled in waves across the upper deck, gurgling out the scuppers. I sloshed through it, rain spattering my face.

  The man-o’-war was huge, ghostly, terrifying.

  The very sight of her made my mouth dry.

  Two decks of guns towering high.

  A voice called from over the waters. “Strike! I order you to strike, in the name of His Britannic Majesty King William of England!”

  “We strike to no man!” cried Josiah.

  There was a momentary pause before her cannon belched flame—a thunderous broadside aimed at us.

  “Prepare to fire!” Josiah ducked as cannonballs whizzed past, one mere inches from his head. “Cast loose the guns!”

  This time the powder box was located on the lower deck, out of the rain. I scurried down and up the companionway, lungs burning, first wrapping each cartridge of gunpowder in a greased sailcloth to keep it dry.

  Down in the lower deck, again and again, cannonballs smashed the hull of the Tempest Galley, sending a barrage of deadly splinters through the darkened corners.

  On the upper deck, Josiah cried, “Fire!” And each time he cried thus, a boom loud as thunder exploded, the air convulsed with a shock wave, and the deck shivered beneath me. The two ships were now but one hundred feet apart, pummeling each other with shot as fast as the gunners could load and fire. I heard men screaming—shot with lead, pierced with wood shrapnel. One poor fellow was blasted into two parts, a twenty-four-pound cannonball through his middle.

  I was on deck, running, cartridge tucked carefully to keep it dry.

  “Worm and sponge!” Josiah was ordering.

  As I passed, he grabbed my arm. “Take care, son,” he said.

  Startled, I looked him full in the face for the first time since the night of his confession. I wanted to tell him to have a care too, but my throat clogged and my tongue wouldn't work. Instead, I wrenched out of his grasp and was off and running again, slogging through the water, my heart twisting like a dagger inside my chest.

  I handed over my cartridge to my gun crew, and after the powder and shot were rammed home, the guns of the Tempest Galley boomed once again.

  Suddenly a great crack rent the air. There, across the water, the foremast of the man-o’-war began to teeter. Swaying for a moment as if undecided, the foremast finally fell, creaking and crashing, men scattering out of its way on the deck beneath. Rigging snapped and sails billowed upward in a great whoosh.

  The pirates erupted into cheering. We'd disabled them!

  “Cease firing!” cried Josiah once the cheering somewhat abated. His face was hard, his eyes dark as the storm clouds. “Man the sweeps! Let's put some distance between us. Fine work, men.”

  I hurried below—not to man the sweeps but to put on my coat, the one with my share of the loot sewn into the lining. I strapped my two daggers under my coat, plus a coil of rope, crossbelt secure as always across my chest. In addition, I stuffed the now flimsy and waterlogged document—the one declaring that I was a forced man, a hostage, with both Timothy and Abe's signatures as witnesses—into one of my pockets.

  Back on the upper deck, I ran, long coat slapping my shins. By now the rain had stopped, the thunder a distant rumble. A gray mist had settled over the waters, the afternoon light fast fading.

  I heard the sloshing of the sweeps in the water, felt the Tempest Galley gain speed. Josiah was amidships, talking with Basil. Glancing around to see if anyone had noticed me, I hurried into Josiah's cabin under the quarterdeck. I latched the door behind me, my breathing loud in my ears.

  There wasn't much time.

  Striding across the cabin, I flung open one of the stern windows and peered into the water below. The pinnace trailed behind the Tempest Galley, secured by a rope. She was half swamped—forgotten in the tumult of the storm and the battle.

  Pulling out the rope from inside my coat, I secured one end to the bed railing and tossed the other end out the window. I took a deep breath, said a quick prayer, climbed out the window, and slid down the rope, battered against the Tempest Galley as she heaved and tossed through the ocean swells. By the time I sat in the pinnace, water halfway to the thwarts, I was sore and bruised.

  Just then, I saw movement up above. It was Josiah, leaning out the stern window. Our gazes locked.

  Part of me wanted him to try to stop me, to plead with me not to leave. But he said nothing. His expression was unreadable, his eyes pools of black. Part of me wanted to stay, to stop myself from untying the pinnace, leaving the Tempest Galley, Josiah, and this life behind me.

  But I untied the pinnace anyway, my hands s
haking. I put the oars to the locks and began to row through the mist toward the man-o’-war. Again, my heart twisted, hurting. The pinnace rose heavily up and over the swells.

  And Josiah grew smaller … smaller … framed like a miniature in the stern window until finally both he and the Tempest Galley disappeared in the mist.

  I'm sure I made a sight—standing before the captain of the man-o’-war, damp and smelly as a bilge rat, a pool of water about my scruffy shoes, red kerchief wrapped round my head, skin darkened by sun and weather.

  “They forced me to sign their Articles,” I was telling him, “saying that unless I did they would maroon me on a deserted island. I was not a willing pirate.”

  “I see. And the name of the pirate captain?” Captain Wellington wore a powdered wig, tied in a queue beneath the cocked hat of a naval commander. Eyes pale as a morning sky pierced through me, as if he read my thoughts rather than heard my words.

  “Josiah Sharp,” I lied, hoping they would think he was just one of many petty pirates, rather than the most hunted cutthroat in the world.

  Several of the captain's officers flanked him, and upon my words they glanced at one another as if they did not believe me. Immediately I sensed that something was wrong. The captain cocked his eyebrow. “And what waters did the Tempest Galley cruise?”

  My heart began to pound. Was this a trap? Did they know something? “The—uh—the Red Sea. But we were unsuccessful.” When the captain said nothing, I added, “I ask for safe passage to the colonies. As a forced man, I cannot be convicted of piracy. I have done nothing wrong.” I cursed inwardly when my voice sounded unconvincing and weak.

  “Tell me,” said the captain, “how you came to be aboard the Tempest Galley.”

  “They captured my father's ship.”

  “Ah. And your father's name?”

  “Robert Markham. He was a merchant in Boston.”

  “I see. And your first name?”

  “Daniel.”

  Upon my speaking such, the captain turned to his officers. “Bind him and throw him in the brig as a pirate.”

  The officers seized me. I heard a roar in my head. My temples pounded. They're arresting me. Me! A forced man! “But—but I told you that I was a forced man! You cannot do this!”

  “We have orders to arrest one Daniel Markham on sight. This Daniel Markham will be aboard the Tempest Galley, having roamed the waters of the Red Sea and having participated in the capture and pillage of the merchant ship Jedda, among others.” Again the eyes pierced me. “You are Daniel Markham, are you not?”

  I was confused. How could they have possibly heard of me? “Yes, but I have done nothing wrong! Here, wait! I have the document to prove it.” I tried to wrest out of their grasp, but they held me tight. “It's in my coat pocket. There. On the left.”

  The captain signaled one of the officers who stood beside me, pinning my arm. The officer reached in my coat pocket. A puzzled expression came over his face. He patted my coat, then opened it and in one motion, ripped off the lining. Gold and silver coins flashed in the lantern light. A silk packet of jewels dropped to the deck.

  Silence pressed down.

  The captain picked up the packet and with a tug opened it. He tapped the contents into his palm. Diamonds. Sparkling like ice.

  The captain's voice was steely as a cutlass. “As I said, throw him in the brig. We'll return to Boston, where he'll stand trial for piracy. And may the Lord God have mercy on his soul.”

  et the prisoner at the bar!”

  The guards grabbed me and propelled me forward. Leg irons clanking, wrists manacled, I shuffled to the waist-high rail that divided the courtroom. Murmurs rippled through the crowd—standing against the walls, seated shoulder to shoulder on the hard wooden benches.

  All of them watching me.

  Me, Daniel Markham. Accused of piracy and villainy upon the high seas.

  Before me, the judge's bench towered, a formidable fortress. On the wall behind the bench were the king's arms, and above that the silver oar of the judge of the Admiralty The judge peered down from his great height, his eyes small and unsympathetic in a pink, fleshy face.

  My hands itched to hold my locket, for it had always been a source of comfort and strength. The locket and the treasure map were still on my person, for though I had been searched, an elderly jailer had let me keep the locket, moved by my tears. And though he had made me remove my crossbelt during the search, he had seemed unconcerned when I fastened it around me afterward.

  I knew I looked the guilty wretch—hair to my shoulders, matted, crawling with lice, a scruffy beard, my clothes now grayed and tattered as the sails of a neglected ship, barefooted. Likely I stank too. After six months in jail my world was filled with stink.

  The judge frowned, his voice thundering through the rafters of Boston's Town House. “Read the indictment against the prisoner.”

  “That Daniel Markham, on the seventh day of January in the eighth year of the reign of our sovereign lord King William, did, against the peace of God, upon the high and open seas, pirati-cally and feloniously set upon one ship Mercury, during which time the captain was slain and the men placed in bodily fear of their lives.…”

  Dressed in silver-buckled shoes, silk stockings, breeches, pale blue silk coat reaching to his thighs, waistcoat, and powdered wig, the secretary read in a flat monotone, as if he were reading instructions on how to thread a needle.

  “He did feloniously and piratically steal, take, and carry away her tackle, apparel and furniture, ninety pieces of weaponry, fifteen tons of bread, two hundred pair of woolen stockings, one hundred barrels of wine and rum, and three hundred ten pounds in gold specie.”

  A vast numbness crept through my mind, as if he were talking about someone else—someone who had committed terrible, vile acts against humanity. I scarce heard his voice now, droning from across an entire ocean. On and on he read. The Jedda … the Surat Merchant…

  The list of charges was long. So long …

  Robbery…

  Murder…

  Terror …

  For months I'd lain in my cell, day after day, hour after hour, awaiting rescue. And as each month passed to the next, I gradually understood that there would be no rescue. The pirates had deserted me. Josiah had deserted me. Surely they had heard of my fate. All of Boston was talking about it, the jailer had told me. If only they could have captured Josiah Black, everyone was saying, a villain if there ever was one. But they had Daniel Markham instead—once such a nice boy, grandson of the former governor, now a bloodthirsty pirate. Daniel Halfhand, they called me.

  I only hoped that once I was allowed to speak in my defense, everyone would recognize my innocence. I'd been told that innocence never failed to shine forth, which was why, they said, I did not require an attorney and must perforce make my own defense.

  The judge was speaking to me. “How sayest thou, Daniel Markham? Art thou guilty of this piracy and robbery or not guilty?”

  “Not guilty.” My voice, a whisper.

  “Eh? Pray speak up.”

  “Not guilty.”

  “How wilt thou be tried?”

  I blinked, confused, my knees trembling. What was I to say? “Sir, I—I beg you, I am ignorant of the proceedings.”

  The judge's face did not soften. There was a titter of laughter from behind me. I saw the frowns from the twelve men seated in the jury box, all merchants and shipowners of Boston. “How wilt thou be tried? You must answer, ‘By God and my country’”

  “By God and my country.”

  “Call for witnesses.”

  The crier stood. “Hear ye! Hear ye! If anyone can inform my lords the king's justices, the king's sergeant, the king's attorney general, or His Majesty's advocate in his High Court of Admiralty, of the piracy and robbery whereof the prisoner at the bar stands accused, let them come forth, and they shall be heard.”

  After a moment of silence, rain spattering the windows, there followed a rustling in the audience. The
whisper of clothes. Steps upon the planked floor. The tap of a walking stick. Then, to my dismay, five men joined me at the bar. Three I did not recognize, yet two I knew: one of the men who'd been playing cards aboard the Jedda, and the captain of the man-o’-war, who had thrown me into the brig. All of them were dressed in fine silks and laces, one crinkling his face at me in disgust, pressing an embroidered handkerchief over his nose.

  “This court recognizes one Benjamin Lewis of Boston, mariner and first mate aboard the merchant ship Mercury. The rest of you may be seated until called forward.”

  Mr. Lewis approached the witness stand and was sworn in.

  The attorney general, a finely dressed and bewigged gentleman with a face like a bloodhound, strolled before the witness stand. Whenever he glanced at me, it was as if I did not exist, as if I was already guilty, hanged, buried, and forgotten. “Pray, Mr. Lewis, will you give my lords and the jury an account of what you know of the prisoner and his part in the capture of the Mercury?”

  With a few clearings of the throat and a cough or two, Mr. Lewis began. “We approached the ship—the, uh, Tempest Galley— on account of the man who stood at her masthead. On account that he was waving a flag that appeared to have blood on it. We thought they were in trouble and required our assistance. Perhaps they did not have a doctor aboard.”

  “But I was only trying to—” I began.

  “Silence!” thundered the judge, pinning me with a baleful stare. I shrank back, manacles and leg irons clanking.

  People shifted on the hard-backed benches behind me, and I heard whispers, laughter.

  The judge hammered his gavel, his periwig flapping like a sail, wig powder dusting his black robes. “I will have order!” With a scowl, he pointed the gavel at me. “One more word from the prisoner and I will have you gagged. Do not speak unless spoken to. You will have an opportunity for your defense after the witnesses have spoken.” The judge straightened his wig. “Proceed.”