As the Dutch ship carrying Christopher and Turlough made way, it had passed one from England, heading into port. Christopher had gazed at it with longing. How much easier it would have been to sail straight home than to be obliged to go first to the Low Countries! But if he had known what that ship carried he would have been grateful to be escaping now. For the English ship carried letters, one of which would have ended his life had he still been in the city.
As the English ship arrived in Constantinople, carrying its incendiary cargo, James Bramble was lying on a marble bed while his body received with somnambulant pleasure the ministrations of the man who kneaded his flesh. James was pleased with himself. He had regained the map that purported to show every detail of the secrets within the Sultan’s palace. Of course, it did no such thing, but he had spent a considerable amount of money and effort to make it plausible enough to send to his contact at the English court. He had just that morning written, telling his contact that, although the map had been delayed, it would, by secret means, arrive soon. Little did he suspect that later that day he would read in a newly delivered letter that his contact would tell him not to bother with the map. For the King now has one, no doubt a better and more accurate one, delivered to him by a fellow known personally to the King.
James Bramble’s certainty of making a good profit from the English king, only to find that he would not, would infuriate him, and if Christopher had still been there, the city of Constantinople would have been his agony and his tomb. But chance, which had first entangled the Morgans in James Bramble’s web, on this occasion threw Christopher free. For a while, James still imagined a satisfactory death ready for Christopher when he returned to the Rumfustian Inn. But Daniel Johnson was no longer there to carry out such a deed, and Christopher Morgan might yet be of some use. Besides, in England, some wealthy fool whose son, brother or father was missing would buy the map, in the fond hope that it would aid a slave’s return. There were many Christian slaves and many gullible families. The matter was of small moment.
And James was brooding on other things. When he returned to the city he loved, he also returned to the man he loved. Sometimes, he could convince himself that Ahmed loved him in return, but in his heart, he knew he did not. They would never be more than business partners. It plagued him not to be possessed by the man. He longed for that more than anything, but Ahmed would not stoop to such depravity, as religion had it. Perhaps, James considered, for a contented life to be possible, no man could have everything he wanted, because if he did, he would want not to have everything, or else to die. Life was not a life if there was nothing left to achieve. But not being able to master Ahmed made it very difficult to master himself, however hard he tried.
ABEL MORGAN
20
The Angel shuddered and heeled over. The surgeon’s instruments I had neatly laid out tumbled off the bench and skittered across the scrubbed oak timbers.
‘Abel! Look sharp!’
I slithered after the instruments. The light wasn’t good below deck. The lantern hanging from a beam swung wildly, casting shadows all around. I managed to gather the saw, along with both dismembering knives, but I couldn’t see the bullet extractor. I was cursing myself for taking it out of the chest, for it was not a large instrument and might not be needed, when the ship righted herself without warning. I lost my footing on a puddle of blood, lurched to avoid the injured sailor who was waiting for treatment and was flung onto my back with all the breath knocked from my body.
The surgeon, Ptolemy Moore, was on me in a moment. ‘No bones broken? Get up, boy. And take more care.’
‘Yes, sir.’
I struggled to my feet. I could hear the slopping of waves against the side as the Angel wallowed while her sails searched for the wind. We were desperately vulnerable in this state, but if we had kept our course we would have been caught in the bay. Our captain had no choice. We must run for the open sea. Already, one ball from our attacker had found its mark, smashing into the upper deck and injuring two men.
The Angel was slower than she should be due to the weed adhering to her hull. We had been going to careen her, but as we had made for what we thought a safe place on one of the small islands that dotted the Caribbean, we had been ambushed.
‘Bring him over. Steady now!’
Two sailors brought the casualty over to the table. It was Jim Carew. His leg was smashed and I could see no help for it. It would have to come off.
The ship felt steadier as her sails filled and she leant into the wind. The waves began to slap with a rhythm as she picked up speed. I started to hope that we might yet escape without further mishap, but at that very moment something made me look up and I saw death approach.
Bursting through the side of the ship crashed a great cannonball. It flew straight at me. It splintered the vessel’s great timbers as easily as tearing a wall of paper. It brought shards of timber with it, each one as deadly as a spear, but I had eyes only for the ball. Its force almost spent, it dropped onto the deck and growled towards me along the oak planks. I was transfixed, awaiting my death like a man drugged. I could not move, even to save my life. And yet somehow the iron ball missed me by the width of a finger and hit a sailor standing next to me, smashing his lower leg and taking off his foot.
My senses returned, and with them the screams of the wounded and the smell of hot blood meeting the shocking green aroma of the sea, draining in as it was through the shattered timber. All was chaos. I looked in panic to my master for instruction. Mr Moore was bent over Jim Carew, seeming his usual calm self. Then I noticed the shaft of wood that had punctured his back. It had gone right through his body and skewered him to his patient. I went to help, but they were both quite dead.
The only remaining able-bodied man was already shouting for help. He was contriving to fix the piece of tarpaulin that had conveyed Jim Carew to us over the hole the cannonball had made. It was just above the waterline, but the hole gulped water like a parched mouth. The carpenter arrived and, with the sailor’s help, he was soon at work making a temporary patch.
I went to the man with the smashed leg while keeping a wary eye for the iron ball, lest the motion of the ship should set it rolling once more. I thought the man had fainted, but then I could see that he, too, was dead. I was angry at that. His injury should not have killed him, but my master had told me that God’s ways were not ours and we could not presume to know His mind.
Up above I heard a great crash and much shouting as another ball found us. We began to lose way again. The carpenter finished his work and took the sailor with him, leaving me with the dead.
If they had been alive, my master would have been taking off Jim Carew’s leg. Maybe he would have invited me to do it. I had helped him perform such an operation twice before, as well as dealing with many other procedures, and he had recently commented that I was strong enough at last to wield the saw. Now he would speak to me no more.
My master had been like a father to me and I wanted to afford him some dignity in death, but try as I might I could not loosen the spar that horribly pinned the bodies. I struggled for some moments before hearing Mr Moore’s calm voice, as if he were yet alive. Pay no attention to the dead, Abel, but attend to the living.
The Angel had almost completely lost her way and was listing badly. I went on deck to find a mass of tangled sailcloth, rigging and spars draggling over the side. Almost all the men were desperately hacking at the rigging. I went to help, but one of the crew waved me away. It was well he did or I might have been killed by a spar that, just then, being freed, fell onto the deck.
Eventually, the immediate danger of capsizing was passed, but much sail and rigging still dangled, obscuring our gun ports. The men stood where they were and gazed sullenly at our captor. She was standing a little way off with all her gun ports open, favouring us with the promise of a broadside should we make any further resistance.
I approached Richard Darte, who had been a particular friend of our surgeon. He,
like the rest, was regarding the vessel that had attacked us. I had been long enough in the Caribbean to recognise the black flag that had been unfurled and flapped in the breeze. I strove to stay calm while a longboat full of pirates approached us, but my guts churned and squeezed as it drew alongside.
As a privateer, some would call us little more than pirates ourselves, and indeed we had several times traded with them, but this ship had made it clear that it did not wish to trade.
Mr Darte felt me at his shoulder and half turned. ‘Is the surgeon coming up?’
‘I regret to say Mr Moore is dead.’
There was real pain in his eyes at the news. ‘Did he …?’
I shook my head. ‘He was gone in an instant.’
Mr Darte put his hand on my shoulder. ‘Ptolemy was very fond of you.’ He was quiet for a moment, but then looked at me again. ‘Stay close by me until we see which way the wind blows. And hang on to those tools of your trade.’
I looked at my hands and realised to my surprise that I was holding the saw and one of the knives. I had no recollection of picking them up, but I must have done so without thinking, after trying to free my poor master.
As the pirates came on board, our captain stood forward to receive them. They were well armed and wore flamboyant combinations of clothing, gaudy silks and satins being favoured, though much stained and frayed by wear. Once on board, the leader of the band entered into a low-voiced discussion with our captain, and I found my attention straying to their vessel. I wondered what life was like on board. Some said that a pirate’s life was for the most part easy and democratic, with riches being distributed so none would feel badly done.
Raised voices drew my attention back. The pirate leader appeared calm while our captain was very agitated.
‘Yet I will have your ship,’ said the former in a mild voice. Without warning, he calmly raised his pistol to our captain’s breast and shot him. The captain fell and lay groaning on the deck. The pirate leader, a slight, wiry man, lifted his voice to us, cutting through the tension on board. ‘This ship is our prize,’ he told us. ‘You may choose to be put ashore and make your way to the town on the other side of this island, or ask to join us or resist.’ He paused. ‘I do not advise the latter, and in truth we are many and not in need of extra hands.’
A buzz of discussion rose up, but I took no part in it, knowing my duty. I pushed my way to the captain and knelt beside him. There was a hole burnt in his jacket and his life’s blood was spreading over it, changing the blue to black. He tried to say something. His voice was gone, but he fixed his eyes on mine and held them for a long, gurgling breath. Then he gave up the ghost and I closed his eyes.
A booted foot prodded my master’s instruments, setting them to rattle together. I looked up. It was the leader of the pirates. ‘Are you the surgeon’s mate?’
‘I was,’ I said angrily. ‘Until your attack killed him.’
He sucked his teeth. ‘And we in need of a sawbones ourselves.’
It came to me all at once how it was. I had been a captive on the Angel and would be on the pirate vessel, unless I took my future into my own hands. ‘If you will have me,’ I said, ‘I will join with you and be your surgeon. Although I am young, I have much practical knowledge, my late master’s books and his instruments.’
I gathered the saw and knife and stood up. I was a little above the pirate leader’s height, but that didn’t seem to bother him. He looked me over with a critical eye and then glanced at his men.
‘What say you?’ he asked them. ‘Shall we try him on Will and Black Tom?’
I held myself straight and purposeful.
‘Aye.’
‘Let’s try him.’
‘It seems we have an agreement,’ said the leader to me. ‘So, young Master Sawbones, take my hand on the deal and then, if you will, go gather your belongings and put them into the longboat. You are needed on the Revenge.’
I looked him in the eye. ‘I will want my fair share of any prizes,’ I said.
He laughed. ‘If your doctoring is as good as your resolve, you’ll do well enough. What is your name, lad?’
‘My name is Abel Morgan.’
He held out his hand. ‘I am Rowan Mantle, present leader of the ship Revenge. Be welcome.’
We clasped hands over the body of my dead captain. A warning voice called out from behind me. ‘You’ll hang if you’re caught, Abel.’ It was Mr Darte. A few minutes before I might have listened to him, but I was done with other men’s advice. Several years ago, I had seen my much-loved father shot and killed, much like the captain just now. Today, the surgeon I had come to love and respect and from whom I had learnt so much had been horribly slaughtered. I resolved never to love as a son again, nor to respect as an apprentice. It hurt too much when people I cared for died. I was as tall and broad as a man now. I would be my own person and determine my own fate. I would not be dragged onto a pirate ship. I would go there of my own free will.
I went below decks to collect my few belongings. I wanted to take the surgeon’s unguents, oils and books, as well as his instruments. He had no further use for them and, if I was to make my way as a surgeon, I would need them all.
It was melancholy going into his small cabin where we had spent so many hours discussing medicine. He had been a well-educated man, a physician who had, I think, become adrift during and after the civil war, although he didn’t speak much of it. At one time a fugitive, he had lost the will to settle back in England. He told me he had no family left alive, as indeed was my situation. We had taken comfort in each other’s company, Ptolemy Moore and I. We were, I think, each other’s family in all but name. At least that is how it felt to me, but now he was dead, a few short steps away, and I must once more make my own way in life.
There was too much to put into my bundle, so I opened his sea chest and packed everything inside. Even a year ago I would have been unable to lift it, but now I could manage with the help of one man. A hostile muttering broke out as the crew realised I was deserting them, but I hardened my heart and left nothing behind. They had only to trek across the island to where they had been told there was a settlement. I would need to prove myself if I was not to be thrown overboard, and Ptolemy’s medicines would, God willing, help me to survive.
A mahogany-skinned pirate with merry eyes widened his mouth in a grin. ‘We’ll row you across,’ he said. ‘You have two patients waiting.’
He and another man, heavy limbed, with large hands and feet, took the oars and in a few moments we were at their ship. I climbed up and looked about me. In the shade of a rigged piece of sail lay a man. I didn’t wait for my box, but hurried to him, anxious to make a first assessment of his condition, praying it was one I would know how to mend.
I could see straight away he had a fever. He was conscious, but his eyes were glassy. Then I noticed the discoloured bandage on his leg and my blood ran chill. My future might depend on saving this man, but I knew the odds were not in my favour.
‘I must look at your wound,’ I told him. ‘Is it painful?’
He nodded slightly. He clenched his teeth as I bent to unwrap the cloth. A jagged tear in his calf had been badly stitched. His leg had swollen and the skin around the wound was an angry red. To my relief there was yet no sign of rot. I prayed I was soon enough, for both our sakes.
The merry-eyed pirate and his companion had brought my chest on board and were watching me closely. ‘His wound is angry,’ I told them. ‘It needs cleaning. I will need you to hold him while I do it.’
Merry-eyes nodded. He seemed satisfied at my decision, though his lugubrious companion was less comfortable. ‘Why not take off his leg?’
‘I hope I am in time to save it,’ I said, trying to sound confident. ‘But if that is not possible I shall certainly remove it.’
I freed the wound from the stitches and washed it with oil. The procedure was bravely borne, although the man must have been in severe pain. Afterwards he looked a little easier and even fo
und me a nod of thanks before the sleeping draught I gave him took effect. I took my time to prepare a good plaster for the wound with the materials in my plaster box. I had a supply of silken thread, some already waxed, and I knew the needles, like all the instruments, were clean and free of rust for I had lavished much time on their care. I hoped the swelling would reduce and I would be able to stitch it again. I knew I could make a good job of it. I could hear the surgeon’s calm words in my ear. Have great respect to the true beauty and former comeliness of the wounded part. This was what he had always said about stitching.
The second patient, lying in his own filth in his hammock with vomit on the planks, was much simpler to deal with. I was fairly sure a goodwife could have given him the herbs he needed to settle his guts. He was over-purged and needed rest from all food for a while. At least I hoped it was so and that he did not have some kind of disease with which I was not familiar. When I was done with him I went thankfully back on deck and drew a bucket of seawater to wash my hands, something my master had always insisted upon. I had thought him overly fastidious, but it had soon become a habit with me too and I saw no reason to change it.
I was satisfied with my work as I emptied the bucket over the side. As Ptolemy always said: We do what we can, but God makes the final decision.
‘Their fate is in God’s hands,’ I told the two pirates who still loitered nearby. ‘And while they wait for his judgement, sleep will ease their suffering.’
‘With a young lad as their nursemaid,’ grunted the lugubrious one, still glaring at me with undisguised suspicion.
They said no more, leaving me on deck as they went below. They returned a few minutes later, along with several others. To my surprise, all began climbing into the longboat.
‘Where are you going?’ I called out.
The Outrageous Fortune of Abel Morgan Page 18
