Kingston by Starlight

by Christopher John Farley

  So I stood with the new recruits, a varied lot from their looks and dress and the sound of their talk among themselves. They were Spaniards and Swedes, Welshmen and Dutchmen, Moors and mulattos. They ranged in shade, from the darkest dark to the whitest white. They were united in this: sea-dogs these were not, but mere sea-pups. I was as eager and anxious as any of them, but I knew that continuing my ruse would require a certain effort. I couldn’t show myself as others could show themselves; I would have to spin an air of privacy and mystery about my person. I had taken the stage and the curtain was being pulled up. I positioned myself a bit apart from the crowd of my fellows, and I stood upright, squaring my shoulders, feigning an air of professional indifference as we waited for Calico to arrive.

  “I hear he’s killed two score men,” said one boy, with cheeks as round and red as a baby’s slapped bottom.

  “I hear half that number were his own crew,” said another, with a mouth of rotted teeth.

  A third boy, having heard the exchange, turned away to leave.

  “Where are you off to?”

  “Back to my uncle’s,” said the boy. “I’ll take my chances as a sailmaker’s apprentice.”

  And with that the boy walked away, and three others followed him.

  The talk among my fellows of such rough practices, to be sure, put me off, and not a little bit, but I was not swayed in my intention to set sail. What craftsman or merchant would take me in? There was not a blacksmith or ivory-tuner or limeburner or cordwainer or shipwright in the whole Caribbean who would teach me their profession and, what’s more, I did not care to learn a polite trade. The sea, I knew, was full of men with secrets, and no pedigree was needed or desired to establish one’s background and fitness. I laughed, ruefully and privately, at the recruits who had left— let them have their soft lives!— I was resolved to remain. A mulatto lad to my left cast me a knowing look.

  “They may have futures on land, but our only hope is at sea,” the dark-skinned sea-pup said to me in a soft voice, as if he was sharing a secret.

  “I am from Ireland,” I said. “Your tone seems to suggest there is some connection between us, when no such bond exists.”

  My skin, when kissed by the sun, invited such comments. The mulatto lad stepped away a few paces, and I looked out to sea. Soon, out on the cerulean expanse of Nassau Bay I spotted a small black dot growing. I nursed a quiet pride in my powers of observation that I noticed it first; now some of the other recruits were staring and pointing and talking about the approaching craft. The dot was small but growing and sported the red flag that we had been told to look out for. It was Calico Jack, rowing a longboat to shore. I hadn’t expected him to be manning the oars himself; I imagined that he’d have at his disposal a grizzled, muscled, hardened crew, following his orders and doing the physical work while he focused on strategy and leadership concerns. But there he was, in the middle of the craft, an oar in each hand. I could see now that his face was red and glowing with the sweat from his exertion. He was rowing a heavy boat built for a dozen or more souls and doing it alone.

  “Is that him?” said Baby-Bottom Face.

  “I thought he was blond, like De Graff,” said Rotten Teeth.

  Calico was within shouting distance of shore. He laid down his oars and stood up in the boat, waving his arms and motioning for us to swim out to the craft.

  “He’s not as tall as De Graff,” said Baby-Bottom Face.

  “Nor as blond,” said Rotten Teeth.

  “You fools,” said the mulatto lad. “You’ve never seen De Graff, none of you. You were both at your mother’s breasts when he sailed these waters.”

  “Still,” said Baby-Bottom Face, “I’m sure De Graff was taller.”

  “I think we should swim out to him,” said the mulatto.

  The mulatto waded into the drink, and a couple other sea-pups followed close behind. A few of the recruits hesitated— a number had brought with them heavy chests— but, since I had with me only a light leather sack, I dove right into the water. The Spaniards called the water ’round the Bahamas the Baja Mar, the shallow sea; and, indeed, I was able to wade a long way out before I had to begin to swim. The water near the shore is as clear as gin; beneath the water, with my eyes open in the stinging saltiness, I could see far out into the depths. A school of grunts flashed silver and a bright blue damselfish flitted past. Farther off, there were cities of coral, extending into blue shadows. A brown eel with gold stripes darted close to me off of my right shoulder but, lacking natural aggression toward humans, it soon swam off. Now I could see the bottom of Calico Jack’s boat approaching. I raised my head above the waves.

  I climbed into the boat; I was the third to emerge, a dozen others were straggling behind. Had I not paused to observe the wonders of below, I might have been the first. Still, I noted that the others were panting to catch their breath, and I, newly arrived, was already breathing with ease. Calico handed the oars off to the first two arrivals and he took his place at the fore. A few more recruits struggled into the craft and there were more still in the drink, but Calico gave the signal to depart.

  “What of the others?” said one sea-pup.

  “The swimmers who have not arrived,” Calico growled, “would be better off drowning themselves now, rather than all of us later.”

  “But—”

  “Listen, boy, and begin a new education: will not the bear, when caught in a trap, devour his own leg to escape?”

  Now Calico was looking out toward the mouth of the harbor at the western end; not far out from the opening, a warship was anchored. I wondered what he was considering. Above, a flutter of pink flamingos passed by.

  We kept rowing until the shore was no longer visible.

  “Where is your ship?” I said.

  “Our ship,” said Calico. “And there she is . . .”

  chapter 10.

  Your first ship is always your first love no matter how many loves you have had before it. No horse, no carriage, no material thing that one rides or owns can compare. The William is a craft that I remember with my heart, and not my head, for every detail of her, from stem to stern, from her sails to her guns, is colored with vivid affection. She was a small sloop, with perhaps a single mast, but she is bigger in my memory, and with a larger crew. I remember her having more guns than she perhaps actually had, and she was perhaps slower in the water than she is in my recollections, but all lovers have a duty to be generous to those who share their emotions. Her hull was sturdy; it was made not of fir, which they use for frigates, or the cedar they use for even smaller craft; no, only heart of oak would do for the William. Her ribs, too, were oak, and her keel a long straight stab of elm. In the sunlight, with a good wind, she did not ride on water, but sailed on the clouds. She was no mere assemblage of timber, this ship, but a giant oaken friend, who called out to you with rough invitation. The work was hard and the crew was tough, but the William and I, from the first hour, had a bond beyond blood. In the way that rank strangers can, in some circumstances, experience instant affinity, so, too, did this vessel, when I first stepped foot aboard her, seem to slap me on the back, throw a heavy arm round my shoulder, and take me into its confidences.

  Life on the open water has always seem’d to me the very opposite of mere existence on land. All things seem possible when the breeze spreads every sail, the sun rides high in the sky, and the cool of sea-spray is in the face. There are no roadblocks or milldams, no buildings or monuments or marks of humanity to obstruct one’s movement forward, ever forward. All is Poseidon’s turquoise kingdom. There is, by my troth, a liberating sense that perhaps one can, at long last, grab hold of the greatness and opportunity that have eluded one on the land. Ahh, give me the stink of fish parts on the gangway, the coarse fulmination of seamen’s voices bantering about the hardships of the voyage. Give me the rough camaraderie that comes when a group of men must haul together in order to survive each unknown horizon. How piteous must it have been for those sad folk who lived in that
antique time when there were not such vehicles to transport us to New Frontiers. Can there be victory without challenge? Can there be life without newness?

  To be sure, tho’, the men of the William were not focused on such things philosophic. They were a lustful and gregarious bunch, wholly unconcern’d with the soul’s interior. Tho’, as far as the spirit and inner life is concerned, many seem’d to me to be nursing hidden grudges and, as men on account are wont to do, many seem’d to be concealing secret histories. Beyond some hints, however, they were a hard group to understand. For the main, the men of the William kept their true names hidden, so I had to make do with nicknames, tho’ those monikers were often more revealing of character than proper surnames. Information, I decided, would come in time. The crew, over the first hours of our voyage, engaged in the long process of winging-out, which is when the bulkiest cargo from the ship’s holds is transported, piece by piece and with much sweat, from amidships to the wales, to make the ship steadier in the water as she goes. As we worked, and in the days afterward, I gather’d biographic stories and anecdotes to learn more about the men with whom I was sailing.

  The navigator, by the name of First-Rate, struck me as the most impressive of the lot. He was an officer and did not bear loads during the winging-out, instead directing it. The other hands were full of tales about him and the various adventures and tragedies he had seen in his career. Ranks, I found, were somewhat fluid on privateer ships, but he was consider’d by the men to be second in command to Calico himself, and, to be certain, it was clear he was a trusted and much esteemed adviser. He was an older gentleman, having seen some two score of years; with his balding pate, thin fishy lips, and a sharp, overhanging nose that dripped off his face like an icicle, he could not be described as handsome, but he was striking in his own well-pressed, well-dressed way. He had been an officer of some rank on a vessel in his majesty’s navy and he still had a regal bearing that befitted his former station. I learn’d also that Calico had taken his vessel long ago and given his captive a choice— to either swear allegiance to the life of a privateer or suffer death by marooning. He chose, of course, the former, but carried with him, in his deep-set eyes, the haunted, lonely look of a man who had selected the latter.

  Bishop was the fiend who served as boatswain, delegating day-to-day duties on the craft, meting out punishments, and supervising duels. He cut an arresting figure: he was bald and massively built. His face was color’d brown and weather’d much by the sea-sun and sea-wind, and the skin on his forehead, nose, cheeks, and chin were crack’d and peeling, like the ruins of an ancient fresco. Upon my first meeting with him it became abundantly clear that he was wholly unsuited to the task of managing and supervising other men. He counted himself pious, and he was given to quoting from the good Book, but his reading of scripture was like none I had encounter’d: Bishop’s version had Christ our Lord slapping whores, mocking lepers, and betting on cockfights. In sum, his soul was rank with meanness, perhaps poisoned by the Father of Lies himself, and he cursed and hurled insults with a lustiness that was unsurpassed in its cruelty even by the standards of men of the sea.

  “Go ahead, you shite-a-bed scoundrels!” Bishop could be heard to say, berating the hands on deck at their tasks. “You slabberdegallion druggels! You heirs of mongrel bitches! Remember what Christ our Lord once said: he who slows at his task is a he-whore catamite who should be buggered up the porthole! By God’s wounds you’d best remember those wise words and work harder at your stations! Amen!”

  Just where we were bound I did not know, but I had hopes it would be better than where I was. I took a place in a compartment in the lower deck; this was the place most of the ship’s regular crew was established— Calico, First-Rate, and Bishop had slightly larger quarters toward the upper deck. Upon reaching my quarters, I slung my hammock (a ratty affair provided to me by Bishop) and encounter’d for the first time a number of other members of the ship’s company, including a quiet lad with emerald eyes and woolly red hair named Poop (used like a woman, on occasion, by his fellows, he was given to frequently loitering on the poop deck near the captain’s quarters, seeking protection) and, bunking some length away, Angel, a scowling, stoop-backed blue-eyed blond who served as the ship’s master.

  Angel was known as perhaps the most dangerous sniper on the seas, but he was also quite possibly the most foolish of all the children of Adam. He was a man with much anger in him, having been marooned for some time by his previous captain over what he deemed a triviality (three times he tossed anchors overboard without tying them to the ship). His ignorance was so vast, it looped back and almost appeared to be a kind of wisdom: when asked the simplest of questions— the color of the sky, the time of day, whether or not fish can swim— his brow knits, his eyes narrow, and he ruminates deeply, almost loudly, as if he were going through the most abstract theorems of metaphysics in his mind. He seems to understand the principles of mathematics— I’ve seen his lips move as he silently counts to himself— but when asked to add one sum to another, no matter what the original numbers, his answer will invariably be seventeen. And if the subject of the fairer sex is raised within shouting distance of the man, he will never fail to ask if any beard-splitting was performed. I was told by shipmates that when Angel was a child, an uncle remarked that he was dumb enough to drink gunpowder with his tea. Angel, mistaking, as was his custom, the metaphorical statement for an instruction, began to drink gunpowder with heated water every morning. Perhaps early on in this ritual, he may have had the sense to question it, but, after years of the practice, I have no doubt that all his doubts— as well as a substantial portion of his sense— have been laid aside.

  Not all the men were easy with their introductions; in fact, in the main, most were rude, disturbingly boisterous, and vaguely hostile. One seaman, a Moor by the name of Zayd, kept his own counsel and his own company and utter’d not a word to anyone unless it was necessary for the ship’s function and the performance of his duties. Despite his air of silence, he seem’d to carry about him a kind of learned quality. His gaze was always steady, his perambulations about the ship deliberate and seemingly directed. As it turned out, he was the ship’s carpenter and surgeon. More than a few crew members charged, in muted mutterings well out of Zayd’s hearing, that the good surgeon seemed to take some satisfaction in making his cures as painful as possible, and, in many cases, his treatments were only a little more bearable than the diseases they sought to minister.

  Two other notably ill-willed shipmates were Hunahpu and Xbalanque. They had both originated in some once savage, but now settled, part of the Americas and their former way of existence was utterly laid waste. It was said the two, who were twins, identical in figure and face, were the last of their tribe, with no kin or community anywhere on this terrestrial sphere. They were of medium stature, well muscled, with high cheeks as smooth and flat as polished wood. Although the position of the man at the mast— a crew member designated for keeping a lookout for other ships, whether vessels to be pursued or escaped from— is usually a solitary task, the two brothers often performed the duty in tandem, and were deemed sharp-eyed as God in his heaven. The brothers were also incorrigible collectors of information and personal secrets, and their lordship over the ship’s store of gossip was perhaps what gave them a dim view of their shipmates and a haughty sense of themselves. When the two came down from their shift at the mast, they seemed to still view their fellows from on high. The talk among the men indicated that in the main the twins were despised but also feared, and therefore tolerated. Because of my unique position on the ship, brought on by the secret of my sex, I took careful note of the brothers’ comings and goings. I did not want to draw their ire or arouse their suspicions. Tho’ I tended to change clothes in the shadows of the lower deck— I had discover’d an unused nook— I avoided disrobing, even in seemingly private situations, when Hunahpu and Xbalanque were off-duty and roaming the ship. Xbalanque was said to be ever longing for the restoration of his former
land and its ways, while Hunahpu was in favor of establishing himself and his brother among the Europeans. I never heard either, however, express any such sentiments out loud, and if there was some way of telling them apart, whether through opinion or appearance, it was not apparent. They seemed to differ on nothing, and they both shared sharp eyes and even sharper tongues.

  Happily, there were some in the ship’s company whom I found to be quite agreeable in their personal relations. Chief among the friendlier sort was Sugar-Apple, the ship’s cook. He had, during some adventure in his long-vanished youth, been in some sort of debilitating fire: the features of his face seemed slightly drooped as if made of melted candle wax; whitish hair sprouted from his scalp in sparse, random thickets; and his skin everywhere was the color of raw meat. In outline, he looked like one of his dishes: his plump, spherical body had the appearance of three dumplings, one stacked on top of another. When he spoke, it was with a Swedish accent as thick as a meat stew, but more often he was laughing, whether at some joke he had just shared with the crew, or at himself. Sugar-Apple was long past his fighting days: thanks to injuries sustained in the taking of some ship or other, he had only one and three quarter legs and just four fingers on each hand. One running joke was that if Sugar-Apple had lost his digits while cooking, his dishes could only have improved in taste. Sugar-Apple’s position, I reckoned, was part of his privateer’s pension. In truth, Sugar-Apple was not too expert a cook— he consider’d his specialities to be burgoo (a horrid milkless porridgelike substance) and figgy-dowdy (a similarly repellent dish made by placing biscuits in a canvas bag, pounding them with a marlinspike, then dropping in bits of figs, raisins, and gristle and boiling the whole lot). But Sugar-Apple, despite his bonhomie, had his own secrets. When I mentioned that I was from Cork, his dancing eyes took on a faraway look, and his scarred smile faded. I thought I spied a look of suspicion, perhaps even fear, pass over his face. Quickly, though, his broad smile returned as our talk drifted onto other matters. Later, however, I found it impossible not to wonder about his strange shift in emotions.