Voyage of Plunder

by Michele Torrey

The tips of my toes scraping the planks. The rope, so tight. My head pounding with blood. The world turning black.

  The platform, sinking, sinking, sinking.

  “Set the prisoner free and arrest Josiah Black for piracy and murder! We have him, men, we finally have him!”

  “Upon your honor as gentlemen?”

  “Aye, upon our honor …”

  hey gave us five minutes only.

  Five minutes.

  Josiah gripped the iron bars, his eyes black in the feeble light. “You came,” he said.

  “They would not let me come before,” I replied, my voice a whisper, my throat swollen.

  And then we stood, awkwardly.

  “Does your neck pain you?” he asked finally.

  I touched my neck. After four days it was still sore, bruised, an ugly purple welt stretching under my jaw from one ear to the other. I nodded, remembering, still hardly able to believe that I was the one now free and he the one condemned to die.

  The very day he had offered his life in exchange for mine, they had taken Josiah to the Town House, where he'd pled guilty. Scarce had he finished uttering the word than they sentenced him to death—gleefully almost, hardly able to keep the smiles from their faces. They had furthermore condemned his body to hang in irons at Bird Island for two years—a warning to all mariners lest their feet take a fancy to villainy.

  “Do you have need of anything?” Josiah asked. His voice, so silken, so … so … kind.

  “I—I don't know. I don't think so.”

  “Do you have a place to stay?”

  “At my father's house. Faith has been living there this past year. Her son's name is Robert.”

  “Robert. That's a good name.”

  “Aye.”

  Josiah paused, then took the bottom corner of his jacket in hand. Breaking a thread in the seam, tugging it apart, he reached inside the lining and pulled out a woman's ring, a pearl surrounded by tiny diamonds. “It was your mother's,” he said, handing it to me through the bars. “It was all I had of her. Besides you, of course.”

  He dropped the ring onto my palm. I could say nothing, my throat tight. Hurting.

  “Daniel—”

  “Aye.”

  “You were always a good boy. Pray forgive me for the things I have done.”

  At the end of the hall, a key rattled in the lock, echoing. Then they were approaching. The constable, keys jangling in his hands. Six musketeers, boots tramping, faces hard.

  It was then I became aware of the sounds outside. Dogs barking, the excited yell of the crowd, shouting, laughter, prayers.

  It was time.

  And all the things I had wanted to say, still unsaid.

  I closed my hand over the ring. Josiah was still looking at me. My throat filled; my eyes stung. I stood there looking back at him, feeling something inside me burst open, as if it could stay hidden no longer. “I always loved you,” I said, lips trembling.

  “I know, Daniel, my boy. Do not let it trouble you now. Be at peace.”

  The constable pushed me aside, placing a key in the lock of Josiah's cell. “Your time is finished,” he was saying. “You will proceed from hence to the place of execution.”

  I was crying now. And as the door to the jail cell opened, I rushed inside, hearing the curses from the guards, and threw myself into my father's arms. Hands grabbed me from behind, but Josiah wrapped his arms tightly around me.

  “Father!” I cried. “Don't die! Don't do this. Why did you have to come back?”

  “Daniel, Daniel,” he said softly. “It was the only way.”

  “No, Father, no!”

  They wrenched me from his grasp.

  “Father!”

  They marched him away, down the hall.

  Josiah was turning back, saying, “Go fetch what you left behind in Madagascar, Daniel. Live a life of goodness! A life of charity and mercy! Do what I could not!”

  And then they were outside, where the provost marshal was waiting with his silver oar, where the minister waited with his Bible, where the crowd waited with their soft tomatoes and rotten eggs.

  n the sixth day of November in the year of our Lord 1698, they hanged Josiah Black for piracy and murder.

  I pushed my way through the crowds until I stood atop Broughton's Hill. And there, from a distance, I watched my father pass from this world into the next. I watched because I could not bear to leave him to suffer and die alone.

  Late that night, not long after the town crier had announced, “One o'clock and all's well!” I rowed out to the scaffold and took my father's body down. For a long time I wept, holding him in my arms on the scaffold, forgiving him of every wrong he had ever committed, crying until I had no more tears left, until my legs stiffened and my head throbbed.

  Then, with a strength beyond me, I pulled him into the boat and rowed ashore.

  With the assistance of a shovel, a small cart, and a sheet of canvas, I conveyed my father's body to the churchyard. And there, beside my mother, I buried him.

  An unmarked grave.

  I have visited it many years since, and so it remains.…

  There is a peace that abides with me now. A peace of understanding, knowing the failings and weaknesses of my parents—my mother and both my fathers—but loving them nonetheless. And I have learned that there is enough love for all of them, and to spare.

  Sometimes I feel as if they are watching me. As if they see me as I go about this life here, and they approve and are themselves happy.

  I believe that life is good. That life is filled with sweetness and honor and charity if one seeks it, if one does not look elsewhere.

  It is a gift my parents have given me.

  It is a gift Faith has given me.

  And for that, I give thanks.

  f you happen to peek in the windows of Boston's orphanage, you might find it passing strange that the children are warmly dressed clad in fine clothes from head to foot, with new primers, new slates, a new stove or two, ample-wood for the winter, and plenty to eat. You also might find it strange that the gravedg-ger of the- churchyard now lives in a grand house, and that the grave of Abigail Ball Markham and the adjacent plot of grass are so well cared for, adrned with fresh flowers whenever they are in season. Let us not forget Timothy's mother, the Widw Allsworth, who for all intents and purposes should have been in the poor-house, but who instead has ten new dresses every year, an abundance of food a fiveyear supply of candles in her storeroom, and her taxes paid to the very last penny.

  The key to such strange occurrences is found upon Jamaica's northern shore, where the breezes are warm and the sands soft and sugary, where there lies a size-able plantation. If you care to listen closely, you will hear laughter. A young boy plays with the island children, his schoolmates. They chase one another beneath the coconut palms and lie under the shad of the banana trees when the sun be-comes too warm. You might not recognize the boy's mother, but perhaps you would. She is rosy-cheeked, her eyes vibrant, and there is a skip to her step each morning as she walks to the new schoolhouse to teach the local childen their letters. And when she returns home, she is greeted by a young man, Daniel Black by name, sun-browned and strong, one who loves her as a brother loves a sister. And who is to say what the years hold in store? But that is beyond our tale. For now, for this moment, it is enough.

  Pirates have always captured our imaginations. They swashbuck-led under the Jolly Roger, kidnapped beautiful princesses, and danced merry jigs. Treasure chests bursting with diamonds, emeralds, and gold were buried on palm-studded islands. Peg legs, eye patches, parrots—these images have been perpetuated through movies and books. We love our pirates. Their easy lifestyle appeals to us. They are a symbol of freedom, answering to no one but themselves. But with so much fiction that glamorizes piracy— emphasizing the gallant and downplaying the atrocious—it is easy to forget the barbarities that were often perpetrated by pirates. David Cordingly a respected authority on pirates, says, “… it is important to keep in
mind who these people really were—all of them thieves, and some of them murderers. Some of their acts were so barbarous—mutilating people, torturing their victims— that their eventual decline must be viewed with relief.”1

  Piracy was nothing more than grand theft at sea. We see nothing glamorous about muggers nowadays, who shove a gun in your face and demand your wallet, or robbers who hold up the corner mini-mart. Pirates throughout history terrorized their victims. They chased down merchant vessels and swarmed aboard, swinging their cutlasses and brandishing their pistols, using terror as a weapon to induce submission. In most cases, if the horrified victims cooperated, no harm was done except for the inevitable looting. But if there was resistance, by the time the pirates finished, often the deck was strewn with dead bodies or the ship itself was ablaze. The world quickly learned to offer no resistance.

  So then, is all pirate fiction merely that—fiction? Not at all. Because of the violence of their occupation, pirates indeed lost limbs and eyes. Preferring warmer climes, they frequented tropical islands, where some did adopt parrots for pets. And it is a documented fact that pirates captured treasures of jewels and gold while Jolly Rogers or bloody flags flew atop their mainmasts (although they were more likely to capture a “treasure” of socks, molasses, and flour). And, like any group of individuals, pirates varied from those who conducted themselves with panache and chivalry, to the vast majority who were foulmouthed, hard-drinking, quick to violence, and finally to those who would likely be our serial killers of today. Yet the atrocities have been forgotten, while the dashing romance has thrived, captivating the hearts of audiences, especially children's, for centuries. This has caused us to view pirates through a surreal lens, glimpsing only caricatures of the actual men.

  With Voyage of Plunder, I sought to help readers experience the real-life drama and terror that went hand in hand with piracy. What would it really be like to be boarded by pirates? I also fashioned the pirates in Voyage of Plunder after actual pirates. Gideon Fist was patterned after Blackbeard, a pirate who lived during the Golden Age of Piracy (approximately 1691-1723), a terrifying giant of a man who went into battle with lighted matches stuck beneath his hat so that the smoke swirled about his enormous beard, making it appear to be on fire.2 Josiah Black was modeled after two infamous pirates: Thomas Tew and Henry Every, who were active in the late 1600s, when men made “the Round” to the Red Sea.

  Piracy began flourishing in the American colonies when England passed the first of the Navigation Acts in 1651, forcing colonists to trade exclusively with British ships. Goods imported into the colonies were now priced exorbitantly, while exported goods were sold for a song. Desperate to help themselves, many of the colonists turned to smuggling and piracy. Some high-ranking officials financed pirates and their vessels, taking a cut of the booty upon the pirates’ return. Pirated goods flooded the colonies. Pirates were given hospitality and protection. One governor even married his daughter to a pirate to help establish the pirate in a new political career! Often pirates were given fake privateering commissions. Privateers were granted permission by their respective governments to attack and plunder the ships of enemy nations—a time-honored and acceptable method of war. The confiscated goods belonged to the government, less a percentage for the privateering captain and crew. A fake commission was used as a cover for good old-fashioned piracy.

  In 1692, Thomas Tew received a commission from the governor to attack a French outpost on the Guinea coast. But once at sea, Tew had other ideas. Captain Charles Johnson, author of the definitive and seminal book A General History of the Robberies and Murders of the Most Notorious Pyrates, published in 1724, wrote: “[Tew proposed] to shape a Course which should lead them to Ease and Plenty in which they might pass the rest of their Days. That one bold Push would do their Business, and they might return home, not only without Danger, but even with Reputation. The Crew finding he expected their Resolution, cry'd out, one and all, A gold Chain, or a wooden Leg, we'll stand by you,’ ”3 a statement echoed by the crews of the Tempest Galley, the Defiance, and the Sweet Jamaica.

  Tew and his ship, the Amity, entered the Red Sea, and in July 1693 fell upon the Mogul's flagship of the treasure fleet. When the Amity received no resistance, Tew and his men gathered up a treasure worth in excess of £100,000 (about $62 million today) in gems, silks, bars of gold, spices, and “elephants’ teeth.”4

  Arriving fresh from his exploits at Newport, Rhode Island, Tew became an instant sensation and was entertained by such respected men of society as the governor of New York. Merchants from Boston, like Robert Markham, swooped down to Newport to snatch up the booty. News of the coup reached the ears of every young man—sons of rich planters, of poor farmers, of struggling merchants—and by the time Tew was outfitted for another voyage, they all clamored to be a part of his crew. Piracy reached a fever pitch, and ships by the tens and hundreds left the colonies to seek their fortunes upon the high seas.5

  Henry Every, known as the “grand pirate,” needed no such encouragement. Already second mate aboard a privateer, Every took control of the vessel, ousting the captain and a few loyal men. “You must know,” Every told the captain, “that I am Captain of this Ship now, and this is my Cabin, therefore you must walk out; I am bound to Madagascar, with a Design of making my own Fortune, and that of all the brave Fellows joined with me.”6 Every then sailed to Madagascar, where a number of pirates and their ships joined forces with him.

  In August 1695, Every, in command of his formidable fleet, arrived at the mouth of the Red Sea. One of the sloops was the Amity, captained by Thomas Tew. The first ship they attacked was the Fateh Muhammed, one of the ships of the Mogul of India's grand treasure fleet. Although they captured £50,000 in gold and silver, Tew was downed by a shot to his belly, dying as did Timothy in Voyage of Plunder, “who held his Bowels with his Hands some small Space.…”7

  Despite Tew's death, Every next set his sights on the Ganj-I-Sawai (which means “Exceeding Treasure”). This formidable vessel was carrying 400 soldiers, 80 cannon, and a number of passengers on pilgrimage to Mecca.8 Although she was the largest ship in the Mogul's fleet, Every succeeded in overwhelming her in a two-hour battle. The booty from this victory was so great, each pirate's portion came to £1,000. This was a staggering amount of money, as an average sailor earned only £1.66 in one month's honest work. It is estimated that the loot from both catches totaled as much as £325,000, or the equivalent of $200 million today!9 The captures made in Voyage of Plunder are loosely modeled after Tew's earlier seizure of the Mogul's flagship and Every's overpowering of the Ganj-I-Sawai.

  Eventually, piracy in the Atlantic Ocean and the Red Sea became so out of control, so embarrassing, wresting so-called “fair trade” out of England's hands and outraging the Indian government, that England responded by tightening the noose on piracy in the colonies. The governor of New York was replaced as were other pirate supporters, and there was a bounty placed on many of the pirates, including Every. Robert Markham and Josiah Black would have been swept up in this zeal to strangle piracy. Pirates were no longer welcomed into the community with open arms, but were now captured, tried, and hanged as criminals. One pirate who came to such an unhappy end was Captain William Kidd, a man commissioned to sail to the Red Sea to hunt down pirates, but who supposedly turned pirate himself. Following a web of political intrigue, including the convenient “loss” of key documents, Kidd, former pewholder and respected member of New York society was tried for piracy. In 1701, he was hanged, his body tarred and wrapped in iron bands and his remains suspended from a gibbet at Thames's Tilbury Point for several years afterward.10 Kidd's infamous ship, the Adventure Galley, a sleek, fast warship, was the prototype for Josiah Black's ship, the Tempest Galley.

  In all likelihood, had Daniel been captured and accused of piracy as he was in 1698, he would have been taken to the Admiralty Courts in London for trial. But for the sake of simplicity and because only two years later England granted authority to the colonies to
try, condemn, and execute pirates,11 I brought Daniel to Boston. Pirates tried in Boston were indeed hanged on gallows that were located in the mouth of the Charles River, accessible only by boat; if they were particularly notorious, their remains hung at Bird Island. Much of the dialogue in Daniel's trial is taken from actual trial transcripts, including the trial of 1696 in which six men from Henry Every's crew were found guilty and executed.

  A desire for riches wasn't the only motivating factor in becoming a pirate. Life on a merchant vessel was hard; the food was meager and unappetizing, the work demanding and dangerous, mortality rates high, and the pay low. Dr. Samuel Johnson says, “No man will be a sailor who has contrivance enough to get himself into a jail; for being in a ship is being in a jail, with the chance of being drowned.… A man in a jail has more room, better food, and commonly better company.”12 And then, of course, merchant or naval seamen had to deal with discipline meted out by the captain in a day when it was believed that physical punishment kept men in line. In Voyage of Plunder, Timothy recounts how “Captain Hewitt hung a basket of grapeshot around some poor fellow's neck and tied his arms to the capstan bars until blood burst from his nose and mouth. The basket must've weighed two hundred pounds or more”—an incident based upon a true event.13 This case and many like it, to be sure, are extreme. History is only aware of them because these incidents were reported and brought before the courts. The captains who treated their crews fairly and with appropriate discipline did not come under the court's scrutiny and of them history remains unaware. But the basic concept itself, that men would only obey if made to fear authority was prone to corruption at its core and could not help but foster such atrocities.

  Small wonder, then, when such a ship was captured by pirates, that the allure of the “easy life” would have sparkled like diamonds for many of the merchant crew. Other men became pirates when international wars ended, glutting the harbor towns with out-of-work sailors. Others crossed the fine line between privateering and piracy. And still others abandoned their life of poverty on land— where jobs were scarce and wages abysmal, where the laws allowed a person to be hanged for shoplifting or pickpocketing—14 taking to the life of piracy where men treated one another with equality and where no one was in authority over another.