For a while, in my quiet times, I found myself returning often to my captain’s words. Even now, after so many years, I can remember the scene so clearly. The thump of cargo being moved and the sound of bare feet on the deck. The heat of the sun raising the stink of the blood still under my nails and clotted in my hair. The sharp smell of sweat and Rowan’s face, burnt dark, his black eyes flinty and hard, his Welsh voice strangely mellifluous in that unforgiving place. He liked me. I know that. But I was also only a commodity he wanted to keep efficient. I learnt much from him, more than I realised at the time. Above all, I learnt that there is little profit for a man in being soft.
There was no reason not to head for Port Royal now we had a hold full of goods and purses full of gold. Some of the men wanted to keep the ship to add to our burgeoning fleet, but Rowan’s distaste for a vessel that had cost lives won the day. Without more ado, we let her go and soon she had drifted a good way astern of us.
I stood aft, gazing in the direction of the drifting prize with unfocused eyes. A surgeon got a good proportion of any prize, but if the pirates were unsatisfied with me they would vote my share down, no matter what their captain said. He commanded only because they had chosen him. If they decided I was of no use, they could still throw me overboard. It was up to me to prolong my usefulness.
I turned my face away from the abandoned ship and leant my back against the side to feel the breeze on my face. As I did, there came a noise like the firing of a great cannon and my heart set up a great hammering in my chest. I leapt away from the side. Had an enemy vessel crept up to us unobserved? Were the timbers splitting? Should I be lost into the sea? But the Revenge was as solid as ever. And on the sea was no enemy ship.
‘What has happened?’
Rowan, accompanied by several others, had hastened to join me. The captain pointed out to sea. ‘The prize ship is afire!’
Smoke was drifting up into the clean air and a fire blazed amidships. As I watched, the sails began to catch. Soon the whole ship would be burning.
‘How could this happen?’
Rowan looked troubled. ‘None of us set a fuse. I wonder, did the captain think to set us a trap?’
I grinned at him. The unexpected fire had quite restored my mood.
‘Never mind,’ I said to Rowan. ‘You did not want the ship. It matters little if it burns.’
‘What worries me is … GOD SAVE US!’
A much larger explosion rent the air and set my ears ringing. The burning ship seemed to leap out of the water, as if pursued by a whale. Flames shot out of her broken belly, taking with them all manner of things. I stared, but my captain was not inclined to do the same.
‘Look lively! Fetch water there. Cover the hatches!’
Some of the pirates scrambled to obey Rowan while others hastened to furl our sails. I wondered why until hot ashes began to fall upon us like rain from hell. Then I knew well why all made such haste. If our sails burnt we would be helpless, and if hot ashes got into the hold they could ignite our powder and we, too, could explode.
Soon, all that could be done was done. With the sails dampened as much as possible and a watch on them being kept, Rowan rejoined me. ‘I wish we had taken her powder and shot,’ he said. ‘We would then have discovered the mischief in her depths. But in truth we did not need them.’
‘Rowan!’
He and I turned together at the urgent voice.
‘The Black Angel burns!’
A trickle of smoke was rising close by from my old ship. Fear grabbed my heart and squeezed. Were we yet to be in trouble?
It was not easy to see the source of the fire with the smoke blurring the deck. For the first time I saw Rowan look indecisive. ‘We could send our longboat over to help …’
His mate shook his head. ‘Better we save ourselves. If we set sail now we can outrun any further fire. If we stay and the Black Angel explodes we will all be lost.’
There was some muttering of approval at this, but Rowan looked angry. ‘Are we in the habit of abandoning our fellows? Those sailing the Black Angel were our shipmates a little while ago. And remember that they have recently lost their captain. They will vote another in but may now be drifting rudderless in a time of difficulty. Would you have us abandon them?’
More muttering broke out. The crew was divided and with every minute that passed the Black Angel might pose more of a risk to herself as well as us.
‘I will go and aid them.’
It felt as if the whole crew was staring at me and, in truth, I had surprised myself. ‘I will go,’ I repeated more firmly, thinking of Black Tom. ‘Some may be injured. We should not abandon them.’
For a moment the silence held, then Rowan broke it. ‘I will not risk my surgeon, but I do ask for volunteers to come with me. The sooner we go the sooner the fire will be out, and we can head for Port Royal.’
Without waiting for an answer, he made for the longboat which lay alongside us. ‘Richard Trewson, you are captain until I return!’
His tone was so heroic, and his attitude so determined, he took the crew entirely with him.
‘I will go!’
‘And I!’
‘Let us take what buckets we have. Make haste!’
In no time, half a dozen men were in the boat with Rowan.
They pulled away with a will and were soon at the Black Angel’s side. Richard Trewson and I watched as they clambered aboard.
‘I see no flames,’ I ventured nervously. He didn’t answer, being a taciturn man, but only kept his eyes fast upon the smoke. Very soon it was reduced to a trickle and I began to breathe easy, but then a new column rose up, blacker than the first, and all of us remaining on the Revenge held our breaths.
‘It has the better of them,’ muttered one man.
Another said, ‘The fire is in their hold. We should set sail with all speed.’
The prize that had exploded was now astern of us and far enough away to cause us no more harm, but I swear every one of us had her earlier destruction uppermost in our minds as our grisly future to come.
‘Our hatches are battened,’ I reminded them. ‘And our sails and deck wet. We are well placed to resist a few ashes and have time to take our comrades on board before we flee.’
‘Aye. That’s maybe true.’ Richard gave me a cursory nod. ‘The young surgeon speaks well enough. Besides, the smoke pales again. And look, observe how they cast the fire into the sea.’
We watched as a quantity of goods was thrown overboard, trailing smoke as it went. Our captain didn’t seem in any hurry to return to us but appeared to be ordering matters to his satisfaction before he left. At length, the longboat put out with our crew members aboard. In a short while, it was alongside. The Black Angel was already raising her sails as our captain climbed aboard.
‘Set sail,’ he said into the clamour of men. ‘We will go straight to Port Royal while we may. No more pirating until we have enjoyed the plunder we have.’
This roused a cheer, to which I added my own voice.
‘I would have returned earlier,’ added Rowan. ‘But I wanted to satisfy myself that the hold was clear of smoulders. They had been more tardy than us at covering the hatches, and one box of plunder, various charts and clothing from the captain’s cabin, started to singe.’
‘Could you save none of it?’ asked Richard.
‘It pained me to lose the charts,’ said Rowan. ‘They were well-nigh destroyed except for this, but I don’t recognise the country or the legend. Here,’ he said, thrusting the charred article into my hands, ‘make of it what you will. I don’t think it is of these waters.’
Before we sailed, I asked if the crew of the Black Angel had elected a new captain. Rowan sucked his teeth. ‘They are still debating, which is not good for any vessel, so I suggested Black Tom as he seems to me the best person to take control.’
‘Will they choose him?’
Rowan nodded. ‘I think it more than likely. Black Tom would be a good captain to sail under. I
f I am voted down I would be proud to sail under a man such as he. Oh, I almost forgot, I have something else for your library.’
He held out something that looked like a charred piece of bread.
‘What is it?’
‘It is from the ship that exploded. Black Tom said it landed at his feet along with a mass of ashes and debris. Here, take it.’
It was part of the cover of a book. The pages had all burnt away, but this piece of leather with a few letters of the title had been propelled high in to the air to land upon the deck of the Black Angel.
‘Thank you.’
Rowan had thought it a fine joke to give me such a useless piece of a book, but I found it a great curiosity. The only legible words were The Won … I pondered often about what the title could have been and kept it as a memento of that day of life and death. I wrapped it in a piece of linen and stowed it in Ptolemy’s box. Sometimes, when I was feeling a little melancholy, I would take it out and wonder about the dead hands that had perhaps turned the pages of this book with gentleness, reading aloud to a wife or child. It was likely it had held a special place in someone’s heart. In the confines of a ship, only items that mattered found their way on board. The murdered owner’s flesh was doubtless all picked from his bones by now. How long would it be before his family heard that the ship was lost? How long would they wait before realising he would never return? At least I had known straight away when I was orphaned.
My father’s bones would be lying at peace in the churchyard, and I had no doubt that Jane and William would tend to his grave. It was sad of course that he was dead, but the physician I now was wondered if he had suffered from a disorder of his mind. He had been a very loving father but, considering my memories from a distance, it seemed to me that he was too brittle and unadventurous to make a success of life. Well, he was long gone and it was a mercy that I did not need to concern myself with his welfare, for that would be a drag on my own life. I had been saved the dolorous responsibility of caring for an aged, sick parent, something I know I would have resented, especially as I felt sure he would have been horrified at the company I kept. I honoured his memory but was proud that I had already done so much better than him in my life.
CHRISTOPHER MORGAN
22
It was a difficult journey home from Constantinople for Christopher. The weather was generally good, but the lack of a ship heading to England, having made it necessary to take one bound for Holland, troubled him greatly. It would be easy enough to find passage from there to London, but The Hague was the last place he wished to be because that was where Margarita’s parents lived. He had not visited her family after writing, eventually, to inform them of their daughter’s death. He had neglected to take Abel to meet his Dutch relations because he couldn’t bear to be reminded of his dead wife, and now Abel was lost to them all. Christopher knew he should visit the family since he would be in their town, but his head invented myriad reasons why he should not. How could he inflict this small, unwanted Irish child upon them when he had never taken their own grandson to see them? Besides, they would surely not want to see him after all his years of neglect. With luck, a ship to London might be got almost immediately, making no time for a visit. And yet, the embarrassment of perhaps meeting them by accident would be extreme and unforgivable. He would have to force himself to offer a visit, against everything his mind created as one impediment after another.
In the end, he sent them a note, finding that no suitable ship would be leaving for a couple of days. He received a surprised but generous invitation, including Turlough. To make that visit was the hardest thing Christopher had ever done. He took Turlough to the market to buy him a set of more respectable clothes, including a pair of shoes that were made wearable by putting him into two pairs of stockings. He had nothing to take as a suitable gift, so he made do with some sweetmeats, which might have come from Constantinople, but had not. He expected, even hoped, to be berated, but was not, which made their sympathy even harder to bear.
‘I am sorry …’
‘We all are.’
It turned out to have been a good idea to take the child. He had quite recovered himself during the voyage and seemed to be a natural comedian. His antics charmed and amused them all, distracting them a little from their sadness.
‘Do you purpose to raise him as your son?’ asked the merchant.
Christopher shook his head. ‘He will, I am sure, have some members of his family somewhere. And, just as no one could replace your daughter, my wife, so no child could replace our lost son. I will make enquiries and take him back to his own people as soon as I can.’
‘God has entrusted his safety to you,’ said Margarita’s mother, watching the child play with their kitten. ‘His family will be most grateful.’
As they were leaving, she pressed a toy into the child’s hands. ‘It belonged to Margarita,’ she told Christopher. ‘Our other grandchildren have grown out of it now and Abel would be too old for it, so this child may as well have it.’
‘We do regret not having met our daughter’s child,’ said the merchant, his tone at last betraying his anger and pain. ‘All I would ask now is that you inform us at once if he comes back to you and that you do then bring him to see us.’ He looked at Christopher helplessly. ‘Did you not consider all these years that we might have been able to help? We wrote …’
Christopher took his hat from a servant and bowed his head in shame. He had not been able to school himself to write a reply to that long-ago letter. ‘I have no excuse except for my grief, which made me foolish and unreasonable. I do promise to let you know as soon as I might have any news of Abel.’
As they made their way back to their lodgings, Turlough more than countered Christopher’s silence.
‘I have shoes!’ he prattled, going through a litany of his new possessions. ‘Shoes, and stockings, linen, breeches and a cat with wheels!’
‘Don’t put it down in the street!’ Christopher told him crossly. ‘It will be filthy in no time.’ The street was, in truth, much cleaner than any in London, but Christopher did not want to slow his pace. ‘You can play with it in our lodgings,’ he added in a kinder voice.
It was not the child’s fault that Christopher was so out of sorts. In truth, having managed the meeting a little better than he had feared, he was now burdened with a new problem, for Margarita’s father had given him a sum for prayers to be said at her grave. That night he had a terrible nightmare, which took him right back to the day he had discovered her body. He had opened the window to let her soul free, but in the nightmare her physical body also rose from the bed, trailing bloody sheets, the smells of birth and death entwined. As her body brushed past him, its dead eyes fixed him with a dreadful, accusing stare and the hand she raised to touch his cheek was made of cold, hard metal. He awoke at dawn, sweating. That his love for her should be tangled with the desire he had felt for that fearful man in Constantinople was unbearable. He lay in the grey light and tried to still his unbiddable heart.
He had sworn never to return to the place where she had died, but now, in all conscience, he would have to. He would have to go to the church, try to find her resting place and follow her parents’ wishes. He couldn’t bear it, but he must. He owed that at least, to them and to her. His mind rebelled. He could not help wondering when his wishes might be recognised. Duty was thrust upon him. He did not want any of it. He had not wanted to lose his wife after less than a year of marriage; he had not wanted to bring up their son, although that had turned out to be a blessing. He had not wanted to lose him, nor travel to Constantinople in vain. He did not want to look for his wife’s grave, nor take responsibility for the child sleeping at the end of his bed. None of this had he wanted or in any way asked for.
He glanced at the little boy and felt nothing but resentment. If he could have risen from his bed then, walked away and left him, he would have done so. It was only self-preservation that stopped him. He knew all too well that another abandonment wo
uld only add to his guilt. He must not allow himself to hate an innocent child and yet he did hate this extra burden, along with every other aspect of his life. He hated it all through the tedious journey to Norfolk, with the rain and thunderstorms suiting his mood and making him even more tetchy with the child. He tried to sympathise with Turlough’s fear of the storm but would far rather have been alone with his thoughts. In the end, the child crept onto his lap and fretted himself asleep, giving Christopher at last some quiet in which to fear and worry about what lay ahead.
It could have been so much worse. For one, he was able to leave Turlough at his lodgings, playing with the innkeeper’s daughters. Also, to his relief, no one at the church remembered him or Margarita. He remained silent about his connection to her, muttering that he was a messenger for her parents, which was true enough. The priest looked in the church records with him. They found a note of her burial, although no name. Had Christopher in his all-consuming pain neglected to leave her name along with the money for her burial? He could not remember. But the date was right and Margarita was noted to have been Dutch, dying in childbed. The priest was sorry, but he had no knowledge of which of the three rough wooden markers in the churchyard might be hers.
Christopher gave the priest the generous amount of money for prayers, adding what he could from his own purse, and asked that they should be said every year on the anniversary of her death. He stayed while prayers of thanks were made for this pious gift. Afterwards, in the quiet of the empty church, he began to feel a little peace. Although he doubted God’s forgiveness, perhaps he could begin to forgive himself for abandoning her body in his grief. And truly, standing in the churchyard, he felt himself to be quieter about her death than he had for many years. She did at least lie in this green hallowed place, even though he didn’t know exactly where. He wept, then, for the girl he still missed with a constant ache. He wept for their life together that could have been, but also in gratitude that she had not, as he had so long feared, been thrown into a ditch. Before leaving, he spent some time in prayer at each rustic marker, praying for whoever lay in each spot. At the gate he hesitated, looking his last at the church with its round tower and listening to the rooks cawing in the tall elm as the mist gathered in streaks over the flat marshland. If tragedy had come to them in this place, he realised, then also they had known a few weeks of great joy. He should remember that and try to be glad for it.
The Outrageous Fortune of Abel Morgan Page 21
