Morwenna was there as well, but she didn’t wave. She just stood and watched. None of the village boys came to see me off. I expect they didn’t know I was going, but even if they did, I doubt they would have come. I expect they were glad to see the back of me.
The next few years were the toughest of my life. Nothing could have prepared me for life aboard a working whaling vessel. The roughness and desolation of the cold seas, the anger and violence of the sailors, the stench of whale meat. In Blashy Cove, I was top of the heap. On the boat, I was bottom of the pile. I scrubbed the decks—a particularly grim job after a successful whale hunt. I sharpened the harpoons. I assisted the cook, which basically meant chopping vegetables for hours upon hours. The only job I didn’t mind was climbing the rigging. While I was nervous at first, my time spent in the trees at home had served me well. I skittered up and down those nets with natural ease. I was a fierce, pugnacious lad back then. Tough and callused from the many fights, falls, and failures of my earlier life, and built like my father—square, solid, and strong.
Roughly two years after leaving Blashy Cove, my father earned the rank of captain. Through some wrangling—the details of which I’m unfamiliar with to this day—the ship we served on became his property, and the previous captain departed. I suspect there was some gambling involved, despite there being a very strict code against games of chance on board. His tenure as captain was tumultuous, to say the least. The crew were wildly displeased at the change in command. We caught increasingly fewer whales, the money began to dry up, and the crew became even more disgruntled. Eventually, working on that ship became an untenable prospect and my father arranged for the boat to be sold, then he and I parted ways with the crew and the whaling business.
We were at some port I forget the name of—wherever it was, the sun bore down mercilessly during the day and the air smelled of jasmine at night—figuring out what to do next when my father was approached by a man in a very neat uniform and a very tall wig. They spoke in confidence, and I was never privy to the exact details, but the upshot is my father purchased a smaller ship—which I renamed the Fledgling Crow—hired another crew, and suddenly we were privateers. It was our job to intercept pirate vessels on behalf of the authorities, capture—or kill—the crew, and seize any contraband.
That word shocked him. “Kill.” He’d spent his whole life refuting the idea that his father was a killer.
This was a very different way of life for us. It was also significantly more exciting. And dangerous. We had a successful couple of years, during which time I learned a great deal more about sailing, fighting, and being a captain. My father and I had a working relationship only. He was as cold and distant as ever, and I was less spirited than I had been in my youth.
After a few years of this work, we became aware of a distressing turn of events. It appeared having civilian vessels doing the work of the navy had become an embarrassment, and increasingly difficult to justify to the public. Any privateer vessel caught breaching their letter of marque—their licence, that is—in even the slightest way were immediately declared pirates and hunted down. And so it was in the spring of 1717 my father, myself, and the whole crew of the Fledgling Crow—for a minor miscalculation in the reporting of a seizure of rum—were declared pirates. We were set upon by two navy vessels, which hunted us for weeks. We tried to explain how we had simply miscounted the amount of rum recovered, but they were convinced we had kept some for ourselves—either to drink or to sell—and that was good enough for them. There would be no hearing. No appeal.
The next part is a blur. I remember a lot of gunpowder smoke in the air, the shouting of the men, the creak of the masts. One of the navy vessels was close to us, attempting to board. Buckshot from their muskets whizzed around our ears. I heard something slump to the deck behind me, and turned to see my father lying there, propped up against the ship’s wheel, holding his throat. He gasped slightly a handful of times, and then he was gone. I assumed command and through sheer luck and a fortunate strike from our cannons, managed to evade our would-be captors.
In calmer waters, we buried our dead at sea. I said farewell to my father as he sank below the waves. I wish I could say I shed a tear, that I felt a great swell of grief, but the truth is I felt nothing. I was numb.
Robin re-read that passage several times. His father had never told him any details about what happened to his grandfather, saying simply that he’d died at sea. He felt a great swell of pity for his father. To feel so little at the loss of someone so important must be an odd sensation indeed.
My crew and I—for they were my crew now—spent a long time discussing what we would do next. We knew there was no chance of us returning to respectable work and decided if we were going to be treated as pirates, then we would act the part. We began raiding vessels, capturing goods which we used either to keep our supplies topped up or to sell at less reputable ports. We had a profitable few years. Other pirate crews set about crafting a reputation for themselves, a cloak of fear to drape about their shoulders in the hopes their targets would be so overcome with terror that they would make mistakes or be unwilling to fight at all. We took a different approach, eschewing the cultivation of notoriety and allowing our exploits to be attributed to the blowhards and glory hounds. Let them grab the attention of the pirate hunters and the navies; we were content to operate in obscurity.
There were times when a sailor’s loyalty to his ship or masters would cloud his judgement and goad him into taking arms against us. Where we fought, it was only for a swift end, a decisive act to curtail any other thoughts of action from the crew.
He took comfort in the idea that perhaps his father hadn’t been a bloodthirsty buccaneer after all, but fought only when necessary.
It was at one of the disreputable ports I mentioned where I made what I now realise was one of the worst mistakes of my life. It was 1723, and needing to bolster our numbers, we took on a handful of new crew members, including a man named Thomas Oughterlauney. Initially, he was sullen and withdrawn, but I was assured by his associates that he was a hard worker and reliable. This turned out to be true, in a sense. What they hadn’t mentioned was how he was prone to extremely violent outbursts, and that he was ambitious. He quickly began spreading dissent among the crew. My men were loyal, but he turned some of their heads with talk of larger shares of our bounties. As we continued our raids, he became more and more violent, until one day he murdered a fellow crewman. A man named Anthony Cook. A good, loyal man who had served with my father and I since the very beginning.
Robin thought perhaps the man was related to old Oliver Cook, who lived in the north of Merryapple.
After that, I had no choice but to follow our code and maroon Oughterlauney on a remote island. I knew there was a source of fresh water and plenty of food. As was our way, I left him a musket with a single shot. He would live the rest of his days in isolation, or—if life became unbearable—he would use the musket.
I hoped that would be the end of the matter and I would hear no more of Mr. Oughterlauney, but it was not to be. He was rescued from the island and staged a mutiny on another vessel. We would eventually come to blows again in a decisive battle that would leave a sour taste in my mouth. The navy had long since given up on chasing us and I handed over command of the Fledgling Crow to my most trusted crewmember, a man named Collan Kind. For the first time in over twelve years, I returned home to Blashy Cove.
Mrs. Hannity Kind was prone to singing the praises of her brother, Collan, the brave sailor. Robin wondered how she’d react to the news that he was a pirate, too.
Upon landing at Merryapple pier, I went straight to my childhood home on Anchor Rise. Another row of houses had been built on the opposite side of the road. Indeed, there were a good deal more houses and buildings now than when I was a boy, they stretched up the hills and beyond. Despite the expansion, everything felt smaller than I remembered. I had left as an agile and energetic boy, and returned as a lead-footed and weary man. The growt
h of the village during the years I’d been away necessitated the addition of numbers to the houses on the Rise. My home was now number five.
I nervously knocked on my old front door, cap in hand, expecting my mother to answer. Instead, it was our neighbour, Mrs. Buddle. For a moment, I thought I’d come to the wrong house, perhaps they also had a sky-blue door and I’d become disorientated. After getting over her shock at seeing little Erasmus standing before her a full-grown man, she invited me in. She poured me some tea and we sat in the kitchen. The house was so quiet. So still. She talked on and on about nothing until finally I asked her where my mother was. I wanted so badly to speak to her, to hear her voice, to tell her what had happened to my father, to explain why I hadn’t returned sooner. Mrs. Buddle welled up as she broke the news to me. Apparently, she had taken ill after receiving word of my father’s death and been left for years in a weakened condition. She had passed away in the spring, a handful of months earlier. Assuming I would return one day, Mrs. Buddle and her husband had been looking after her home—my home—ever since.
As Mrs. Buddle left the house, closing the door behind her, I sat in the front room of my childhood home and realised that, for the first time in my life, I was completely and utterly alone. In my heart, I had always held this place as a safe port of call. My unchanging rock to which I could return at any time, finding my mother standing at the shore as she had done when I left, unaging, unbending, my true north. Alas, that was a childish notion, and I had returned to find nothing but an empty house. If I had come home sooner, perhaps I could have prevented my mother’s passing, or at least spoken to her, one final time.
Regret is a horrible thing. Regret will eat you, Robin. It will burrow inside and gnaw at your very soul, if you let it.
He closed the journal and sat back in his chair, sniffing away a tear. After the events of the past few days, his father’s words struck right to the heart of him. He walked to the window, composing himself, before returning to where he left off.
I found the village as I had left it—industrious and welcoming. The boys I had run around with had become men—some worked the sea, others the fields. The girls had become women, and most had married. Including Morwenna Day, or Morwenna Whitewater as she was by then. I saw her later that evening, standing by the harbour as the sun was setting, silhouetted against the burning orange sky. I recognised her instantly. She greeted me warmly, as if I’d only been gone a day. She introduced me to her husband, a charming fellow named Barnabas. They both made me feel very welcome as I tried to build a new life for myself on Merryapple.
I commissioned a lugger from the local shipbuilders. Together, we worked on the plans and crafted something a little different from the other boats of the harbour. I wanted to be able to comfortably operate alone, and thus she was built somewhat smaller than the average lugger. I named her Bucca’s Call, and she proved herself sturdy and reliable, and more than adequate for my needs.
He felt a sharp pang of loss for his boat once again. She’d served both him and his father well.
At first, I began fishing for pilchards, but there were already plenty of other fishermen in the village doing this, so I decided instead to focus on oyster dredging. This proved to be much more successful, and profitable. I sold them to old Bob Blackwall, who ran the fishmongers in the village.
I began to feel lonely, and my thoughts returned to Morwenna. The three of us—her, Barnabas, and I—spent a lot of time together. I wanted to know what had happened while I was away. I wanted to reconnect, I suppose is the word. Reconnect with my home. With my past. They wanted to hear tales of seafaring adventure. We drank cider in the moonlight and swapped stories. Until the night I pushed it too far. Barnabas was painting, as he usually did, and Morwenna and I walked along the headland. We stopped under the Wishing Tree and I kissed her. She looked so shocked. I did it because I was drunk. And because I wanted to. I swore to myself I wouldn’t lie to you, Robin. I’m not proud of my actions, but I did it and I’d do it again. I kissed her because I wanted to, plain and simple. She slapped me and ran away. I felt guilty. More guilty than I ever could have imagined. So, the next morning, I packed up Bucca’s Call and left Merryapple. I began touring the islands, sleeping with any woman who would have me. I was handsome enough, so I’m told. Tall, blonde, sturdy. I was also wealthy, which didn’t hurt matters.
“Modest, too,” Robin said as he rolled his eyes.
I spent a lot of time on Blackrabbit. Drank a lot. Screwed a lot. I was determined to find some woman, any woman, to replace Morwenna in my heart. I found none.
Two years later, I returned once again to Blashy Cove. This time, I was determined to have her. The girl who got away. The girl I should have married. It would have been easier if Barnabas had treated her badly. If he’d disliked me or if I’d disliked him. But try as I might, I couldn’t. He has a way of disarming people, a charming sort of naivety that gets under your skin. You can’t help but like him. There were plenty of girls in the village who would regularly throw themselves at him, including a red-headed girl who still pesters him at every opportunity, but he only has eyes for Morwenna.
I’ll spare you the details, Robin, but suffice it to say Morwenna eventually fell for my charms. We stole away together every chance we got. I still felt guilty, but this time, I stayed. I was getting what I thought I wanted.
Then one night in 1730, my whole world was changed. Morwenna and I were aboard Bucca’s Call, out in the cove. We watched the falling stars overhead when suddenly she cried out. She was wracked with pain and I panicked. My time at sea hadn’t prepared me for what was about to happen. She fell to the deck, screaming, and just a few minutes later, I was holding the tiny fragile body of my son in my arms. You were so small, Robin. We wrapped you up and wondered what we were going to do. Morwenna had no idea she was pregnant, and you were definitely mine. Barnabas was unable to father children. Everything was different now.
Between us, we concocted a story about a woman from Blackrabbit Island—who I named Rose—coming to Blashy Cove under the cover of darkness and leaving you in my boat. It was Morwenna who named you. She knew we had to pick a name that couldn’t be tied to either of us, and she had always liked that one. It was roughly an hour before dawn when we got back to the harbour, left you safely in Bucca’s Call, and returned home. When the sun rose, I would return to the harbour, ready to set sail for the day’s fishing, as usual. It was the longest hour of my life. I worried about someone finding you first. I worried about you dying in the cold. Finally, the sun began to rise, and I tried not to look like I was hurrying to the harbour. Everything went exactly as we had planned. We “found” you on my boat, with the note I had written, and that was that. The whole village had seen me discover my son.
At first, he didn’t know what to make of the notion that his father was prepared to run the risk of letting his newborn son freeze to death in order to save his own skin. But then he reasoned it wasn’t really for his father’s sake, but rather for Morwenna’s and Barnabas’s. In any case, he resolved not to dwell on it.
For the next few years, I devoted myself to you, Robin. With the help of Morwenna and Barnabas, I raised you and made sure you were able to take care of yourself. I worked hard as well. I had money left over from my pirating days, and I wanted to make sure you didn’t end up like me or my father. I didn’t want you to have to go to sea. I didn’t want that coldness soaking into your bones. You were the happiest, most joyful baby any father could have wished for. There were several times when I had to leave you in Morwenna and Barnabas’s care for extended periods. Events conspired to drag me back to sea. Either work I needed to take or unfinished business aboard the Fledgling Crow. But the less said about that, the better.
It was difficult for Morwenna; I realise that. We weren’t lovers. We were something else. Secret parents. Barnabas knew we were close, and over time he and I had become dear friends, too. I love them both. It upsets me that we can never tell Barnabas the truth, but he
is a sensitive soul, and we know how it would hurt him. There’s nothing noble in this lie, Robin. I’m not trying to make excuses; I’m simply trying to be honest.
Please don’t be angry with Morwenna for hiding this from you. I put her in an impossible position. And please don’t tell Barnabas. I know I have no right to ask you, but telling him now would do no good. Let him live the rest of his days in peace.
Barnabas painted my portrait in the winter 1736. We sat by the fire in his house and talked for hours, the three of us. It took weeks. You were there for most of it. I’m sure you remember. He has such talent, that man. I thought some of it might rub off on you, but you showed little interest in art. You preferred to be on the water. So much like your father. Hopefully not too much.
I hope that I—that the three of us—gave you a good start in life.
9th August 1740
I have to put an end to this.
Please forgive me, Robin. You deserve better.
I hope you can forgive us both.
When Eva Wolfe-Chase had told Robin that his father was part of the crew of a pirate ship, Robin had scarcely been able to believe it. Hearing it from Morwenna made it real for him. Another secret she had kept from him. Robin had always maintained whatever happened to Barnabas on the headland hadn’t been Erasmus’s fault, and now the whole village knew that was true. What still troubled him, however, was what really happened before the sinking of the Caldera.
The Moth and Moon Page 16
