Voyage of Plunder

by Michele Torrey

  I was the one who had lured them to the ship, Mr. Lewis testified. Aye, he recognized me, for I had spent all day at the masthead, on the lookout for more ships, coming down late at night to fight and kill one of my fellow pirates.

  The prosecutor frowned. “He killed one of his fellow cutthroats, you say?”

  “Pushed him off the mast, and then came down and kicked him when he was dead, meanwhile shouting murderous oaths. That's when Captain Black—”

  “Do not call him a captain. He is a pirate.”

  “Certainly. My apologies. That's when Josiah Black took him to his cabin. They seemed very familiar with each other. Josiah Black called him ‘Daniel, my boy’”

  “And when the Mercury was finally released, did the prisoner make any attempt to go aboard her and thus forsake the life of robbery and villainy?”

  “No, my lord, he did not.”

  “Did there appear to be any attempt by the pirates to hold him against his will?”

  “No, my lord.”

  Two more witnesses from the Mercury testified likewise. My chest burned with the desire to speak on my behalf, to tell them the truth—that I was a forced man, that I'd done none of this of my own accord, that I'd been trying to warn them. But I dared not utter a word.

  And then the man from the Jedda testified. I remembered him. I remembered asking him if he spoke English, and his blank look of incomprehension.

  But he'd been lying, for now he spoke in perfect King's English. “He burst into the captain's cabin with the rest of his gang of cutthroats. They put pistols to our heads and commanded us to surrender the ship or they would kill us all.”

  “Pray, go on.”

  “That man there—the prisoner—told us his name was Daniel Markham, and if we didn't move, we wouldn't be hurt. He then held us and all the passengers prisoner at the bow. He kept smiling.”

  Again the prosecutor frowned, glancing briefly at me. “Smiling?”

  “Yes, as if he enjoyed our plight. He kept smiling and waving his pistols. We were very much afraid. The women and children were crying, believing themselves about to be murdered.”

  “Did he take his portion of the share?”

  “Doubtless he did, for he seemed to be part and parcel of that murderous lot.”

  “But you do not know that for certain.”

  “No, sir. Not for certain.”

  I stared at the floor. At the dust gathered in the corners of the room. At the polished gold buckles on the attorney's shoes as he paced, turned, paced. At his silk stockings, bunched slightly around his bony ankles.

  This cannot be happening.

  After a few more questions the witness was dismissed, and Captain Wellington of the man-o’-war was called and sworn in. I remembered his pale blue eyes staring at me, his voice that of a man accustomed to instant obedience. He had shown no pity for me then, and I knew he would show none for me now.

  “Sewn in the lining of his coat, you say?” the attorney was asking.

  “Indeed. Gold, silver, rubies, emeralds, diamonds, pearls. A treasure worthy of a king.”

  I shifted my feet as the crowd gasped. My face burned, miserably realizing for the thousandth time that I'd set a trap for myself. Such a fool I was!

  “Pray tell me, good captain, how a man who is, shall we say, forced into piracy comes into possession of such treasure.”

  “Only by devious means.”

  “No further questions.” So saying, the prosecutor then turned to me. “If the prisoner at the bar will ask any questions of any of the witnesses, he may.”

  Blood rushed to my head until it thundered in my ears like the roar of a cannon. I licked my dry, cracked lips. “Cap-Captain Wellington—”

  “Pray, speak up, boy,” ordered the judge. “And do not address the captain directly. You will address the court.”

  “I desire to know whether I turned myself over to Captain Wellington willingly.”

  The prosecutor turned to the captain. “He desires to know whether he turned himself over to you willingly.”

  “Yes, he appears to have done so.”

  “And I desire to know,” I continued, “whether that does not speak of my innocence.”

  Again the prosecutor repeated the question.

  Captain Wellington smiled at me as if looking upon an errant child who did not understand. “Perhaps the prisoner intended to collect the reward for the capture of Josiah Black—I do not know. But as to the prisoner's innocence or guilt, that is not for me to decide. I leave that to the esteemed gentlemen of the jury.” Captain Wellington exchanged glances with the jury. There were knowing nods and smiles.

  “There was a document,” I continued, “attesting to my innocence. It was in my coat.”

  “Ah,” said Captain Wellington. “The coat lined with jewels and coins?”

  Again a ripple of laughter echoed through the room, and the judge hammered his gavel. Once the courtroom settled, the captain continued. “Yes, there was a paper, indeed. But it was illegible. Messily written, smudged with grease, and water-stained. The jury can see for themselves.”

  The prosecutor handed a familiar paper to one of the men in the jury box. He squinted, adjusted his spectacles, held it up to the light, then passed it around as more and more men shook their heads and clucked their tongues.

  It's useless, I realized. They cannot read it. Besides, even if they could, it would not matter.

  “Have you anything more to say?” the prosecutor was asking me, looking pleased with himself.

  All the months lying in my cell, straw reeking beneath me, with nothing but hard biscuit to eat, scummy water to drink, my single blanket crawling with vermin, I'd thought of all the questions I'd ask the witnesses, of the marvelous words I'd say to prove my innocence. But now all my brilliance seemed naught but foolishness. And I knew.

  I am guilty.

  Perhaps not of all of it—I was innocent of any wrongdoings concerning the Mercury—but I had indeed participated in the capture of both the Jedda and the Surat Merchant. I had made grenadoes. I had worked as a powder monkey. I had swarmed aboard with the pirates and fought alongside them. I had willingly taken my share. I had, in fact, to my everlasting horror, killed a man. And because of our attack, every man aboard the Surat Merchant had perished when she burned and sank. I was a pirate, a thief, and a murderer.

  God forgive me, I thought, hanging my head.

  The prosecutor stopped pacing the floor. I could feel him looking at me. “Have you any witnesses to call forward who can attest to your supposed innocence?”

  “No, my lord,” I whispered.

  “Well, then, may it please your lordship—”

  There was a rustle behind me and the squeak of a wooden bench. Then someone spoke. “If—if it please the court, kind sirs, I—I will speak on his behalf.”

  That voice—I recognize it.

  I raised my head. A ray of hope sparked within me.

  It was Faith!

  aith was thinner than I remembered. Her clothing plain, patched. Skin pale and pasty. Brown hair pulled back tightly. White cap upon her head, tied beneath her chin.

  She wept easily while standing at the bar, her eyes red and watery, her voice trembling. She told them about the capture of the Gray Pearl, about my protecting her, about the murder of Robert Markham, about our capture by pirates. She told them about her illness, of my coming to see her, of her being released to a doctor's care at Newport, Rhode Island.

  “Pray tell the court, Mistress Markham,” said the prosecutor, “why the prisoner did not also stay behind at Newport when he had the opportunity.”

  Faith glanced at me, lips trembling. “He—he told me that the pirates were holding him hostage. That if I talked, if I said anything to anyone about what I'd seen, they would—they would kill him.”

  “I see. Isn't it possible, Mistress Markham, that the prisoner willingly chose the life of robbery and plunder upon the high seas and merely told you a lie?”

  “W
hy, no. Daniel had no reason to lie.”

  “Embarking upon a life of robbery and plunder is no reason to lie?”

  Faith blinked, as if not understanding.

  The prosecutor paced before the witness stand, continuing. “If it was not a lie, then surely someone else must have also told you that Daniel Markham was a hostage, held against his will? The pirate Josiah Black, perhaps?”

  I heard Faith swallow, so still was the courtroom. “Please understand, I—I was very ill. It is possible that someone said something, but I was too ill to recollect—”

  Frowning, the prosecutor stopped pacing and stared at Faith. “Mistress Markham, I am a bit confused. Please help me understand. According to your recollection, the prisoner, accused of treachery upon the high seas, told you he was a hostage. Is this correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yet you say you cannot recall if anyone else spoke to you regarding the matter, because you were too ill at the time. Is this also correct?”

  Faith lowered her head, not answering, tears slipping down her cheeks.

  “How can they both be true, Mistress Markham? Were you in right possession of your faculties, or were you not?”

  She sniffed into her handkerchief. “My lord, I was in right possession of my faculties. I remember—” Suddenly she clamped her mouth shut, her face stricken.

  “Yes?” the prosecutor prompted.

  “Nothing. It was nothing.”

  “May I remind you, Mistress Markham, that you are under oath. Pray tell the court exactly what you remember. To do otherwise is a sin against God.”

  Every drop of blood seemed to drain from Faith's countenance. She twisted her handkerchief. Tears slid off her chin. When she finally spoke, her voice was a whisper. “J-Josiah Black spoke to me briefly before I was taken ashore at Newport.”

  “Yes?”

  “He said—he said it was best that I not say anything about what I had seen, as he could not vouch for the gentlemanly conduct of his men.”

  “I see. And what else did this Josiah Black say?”

  Faith looked at me, her face crumpling, a picture of misery. “I'm sorry, Daniel. Oh please believe me—I'm so sorry.”

  “Answer the question.”

  Between tiny, hiccuping sobs, she answered. “Josiah Black said—he said to get well and to not worry, for he would take care of Daniel and be certain he came to no harm.”

  There was a collective gasp in the courtroom, a cry of “No further questions!” from the prosecutor, the pounding of the gavel, after which followed a few moments in which the only sound was that of Faith weeping.

  Then the prosecutor addressed me. “Have you any questions for the witness?”

  I was deeply moved by Faith's willingness to stand before the court, to testify on my behalf. Tears clouded my eyes. I scarce found my voice. “I desire the court to thank Mistress Markham for what she has done and for what she has tried to do. She is a brave and worthy woman.”

  The prosecutor raised his eyebrows but relayed my message nonetheless.

  After that, everything happened swiftly.

  The prosecutor made his closing remarks. Thunderous. Impressive. Words lofty and pretentious as the judge's bench.

  I was escorted to a small holding cell while the jury deliberated.

  I was brought back and again placed before the bar.

  A deathly hush pressed upon the courtroom.

  “Gentlemen of the jury,” said the judge, “are you all agreed of your verdict?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who shall say for you?”

  “Our foreman.”

  “Hold up thy hand. Look upon the prisoner. Is Daniel Markham guilty of the piracy and robbery whereof he stands accused, or not guilty?”

  “Guilty.”

  The judge turned his small eyes to me. “Daniel Markham, you stand convicted. The law for the heinousness of your crime hath appointed a severe punishment, by an ignominious death, and the judgment which the law awards is this: that you shall be taken from hence to the place from whence you came, and from thence to the place of execution, and that there you shall be hanged by the neck until you be dead. And the Lord have mercy upon you.”

  On a misty November morning, the day appointed for me to die, I was taken from the Boston jailhouse.

  The provost marshal led the procession. He carried the silver oar—the emblem of his authority over the Admiralty Court. Behind him marched his officers, then the town constables, a minister, then me, flanked by forty musketeers.

  My breath plumed white. The cold of the cobblestones stung my bare feet.

  Onlookers jammed Great Street. They jeered and laughed, cried, prayed, exhorted, and sang hymns. Fathers held children on their shoulders for a better view of me. Someone threw a soft tomato, which hit one of the musketeers on the arm and splattered my face. Another threw a rotten egg, the stink of sulfur making my stomach roil, bringing back memories of a battle that now seemed so long ago.

  Today I will die.…

  The minister had his Bible open, his mouth moving. “The Lord watches over all who love him, but all the wicked he will destroy.…”

  “Pray for forgiveness, child,” said one woman as I passed.

  “A longer neck will suit thee well!” hollered a man, grinning.

  “Go back to hell where you belong, you eight-fingered spawn of the devil!”

  “You have shamed the memory of your grandfather!”

  “Mercy, Lord, mercy on his soul!”

  Today I will die.…

  “Daniel!”

  It was Faith. She hurried alongside the procession, panting, pushing people aside. A child bounced in her arms.

  “Faith!” My voice cracked.

  She was crying. Her babe was crying, mucus dribbling into his mouth. “Fear not! The good Lord loves you!”

  Then I was crying too, eyes stinging, choking out my words. “I'm sorry for anything I've ever done that has hurt you. Pray forgive me!”

  “Daniel, the good Lord loves you! You are always forgiven! Always! Do not be afraid!”

  “Blasphemer!” shouted the minister, his face twisting. “The Holy Scriptures tell us, ‘On the wicked he will rain coals of fire and sulfur; a scorching wind shall be the portion of their cup’!”

  Faith stumbled and fell behind, her cap now dangling from the tie about her throat. Strands of hair stuck to her sodden cheeks. The child sucked a finger and stared at me, sniffling.

  “Is he my brother?”

  “Aye. His name's little Robert. He looks like his father.”

  A musketeer prodded me in the ribs with the butt of his musket. “Move along, Halfhand.”

  “Bless you!” cried Faith. “Bless you!” Falling to her knees, she burst into a freshet of tears.

  At Scarlett's Wharf they shoved me into a boat. I stumbled against the hull, lying there until they yanked me upright. My mouth was cut, and I felt a trickle of blood. I almost asked the constable to loosen my bindings, as my wrists ached and my hands throbbed, but then realized that in just a few moments it would not matter. Nothing would matter.

  Today I will die.…

  A great grief pushed against my breastbone, raw, making it hard to breathe.

  It should not have been this way.

  We pulled away from shore. Now all was silent except for the creak of the oarlocks and the soft dip of the oars. A lone gull soared overhead.

  In the mouth of the Charles River, between the ebb and flow of the tide, foundation mired deep into the mud below the water's surface, a scaffold thrust out of the low-lying mist like a skeleton. Raw bones of wood, stark against the leaden sky. We bumped against the scaffold platform, a hollow thunk of wood on wood. One of the men stepped onto the floating platform and tied the boat's line. Then they forced me to my feet and onto the platform. The scaffold creaked, groaned.

  My legs were like jelly.

  They turned me to face the crowd.

  Men jammed the railings of the many ships.
They straddled the yards and hung from the shrouds, some climbing higher for a better look. Hundreds, maybe thousands of people lined the shore. Crammed shoulder to shoulder upon Scarlett's Wharf. Crowded upon Broughton's Hill. Hundreds more surrounded the scaffold, huddled in small boats, cloaks wrapped tight against the cold, the lower halves of their bodies lost in the mist, as if they were corpses rising from a watery grave.

  Hungry. All of them. Hungry to see me hanged …

  The minister stood in the boat, legs braced wide, holding his Bible open. Into the silence he proceeded to give a sermon on the justice of God. The punishment for those who committed crimes against humanity The lake of fire and brimstone that most assuredly awaited me. The suffering of eternal torment… His words became a blur, one long word drawn out forever.

  “I said, have you any last words?” someone was asking me.

  I stared at him, blinking, as if trying to comprehend who he was. Why I was here.

  And then the hangman was placing the noose around my neck, the hemp rough, scratchy. He positioned the knot against the back of my head and tightened the noose.

  Dear God, it has come to this.…

  They left the scaffold then and climbed back into the boat, everyone seated once again on the thwarts, watching me. Someone gave a signal and the platform beneath my feet began to sink.

  Dear God, have mercy.…

  At that moment, a man in one of the nearby boats stood, threw off his cloak, and drew his pistols, aiming one at the provost marshal and the other at the minister.

  “Stop the execution,” he said.

  It was Josiah Black.

  I was struggling already.

  Standing on tiptoe.

  The platform still sinking. Slowly.

  The noose about my neck tightening.

  “Help!” I gasped.

  “Release him!” commanded Josiah, cocking both pistols.

  The provost marshal had gone pale. The minister said nothing, eyes wide.

  “‘Tis Josiah Black!” cried the provost marshal.

  “I offer my life in exchange for his! Decide now or I will blow you to hell!”