Noel lay frozen, realizing the pirate had been shamming sleep all along. After a few seconds Gumbel released his ankle and resumed his snoring, but Noel remained tensed and uneasy. He believed Gumbel’s threat. Through the ages, prison inmates had clung together in cliques and found numerous ways to kill informers despite a lack of weapons and the constant presence of guards. This situation was no different.
He’d accomplished nothing with the woman, and he’d turned the pirates against him.
“Good going, Noel,” he whispered to himself and could not sleep.
The next day, Captain Miller put half of the prisoners to cleaning brass and mending sails, and the rest went down into the bilge to man the pumps. Noel found himself among the latter delegation.
The hold was a hellish place of dark filth. Groaning slaves lay chained together, packed in so closely they could barely move. Most of them were clad in loincloths and some still wore amulets of bone or necklaces made from animal teeth and shells. They shrank in fear from the lantern light cast across them; their dark eyes held a bewilderment and desperation that haunted Noel. He realized that they had been captured from their African villages, rounded up and sold like animals. They did not know the language of their captors. They probably could not envision the grim future that awaited them beyond the slave block.
The bosun shoved Noel forward so hard he nearly stumbled. His ankle chains clanked dismally.
“Get on there! No gawking.”
Squealing rats fled the intrusion of light down into the creaking bowels of the ship. Her timbers stank of damp mildew. The change in temperature told Noel that they were now below the waterline. He thought about those crude wooden boards holding back endless gallons of water, and felt increasingly apprehensive.
Wooden barrels of cargo stood lashed together to keep them from shifting. Crates stamped with exotic trademarks of foreign companies and sacks of grain and provisions filled the space with only a narrow trail leading to the stern.
There, where the ship’s hull curved in and the low ceiling kept Noel and his companions from standing upright, the bosun raised a metal grille set into the planking and shone his lantern down into a cavity. Greasy black water reflected the light.
“Down you go,” the bosun said.
Noel shivered. He hated cramped, dark places. He hated cramped, dark, wet places. The entire hold stank of human waste, rats, rotten grain, and mold, but he had never smelled anything quite as vile as bilge water.
He had never been obliged to stand in any, either. It was waist-deep, and that alarmed him more than anything else.
“Are we sinking?” he asked. “Why is there so much water in here?”
The pirates looked at each other, then burst into uproarious laughter. They slapped each other on the shoulders and shook their heads, hooting and wiping their streaming eyes. Even the bosun smiled, staring at Noel as though he couldn’t believe what he’d heard.
“Aye, you’ve told the truth,” he said. “You’re no pirate. You’re certainly no seaman.”
“That’s right,” Noel answered fiercely, feeling the heat of embarrassment creep past his collar. “I told your captain I’m a historian. He didn’t believe me.”
“Merciful heavens, are we sinking?” shrilled a thin pirate with buck teeth and a boil-infested neck. He clasped his hands beneath his chin and batted his eyes. “There’s water in the ship. Oh, I’m so afraid.”
The pirates went off into fresh laughter, while Noel longed to shove the buck-toothed one under the water.
“Enough of your fooling about,” the bosun said. “Get to the pumps, and be lively about it.”
There were three pumps, odd-looking devices of wood and metal with a double handle on the top that went up and down in a seesawing motion. Two prisoners manned each pump, and a seaman who looked about sixteen squatted above them to hold the lantern steady and to count time.
Every half hour, the boy let them rest while he sounded the bottom with a lead and measured the dropping depth of the water. When the depth was below Noel’s knees, the bosun came and escorted them topside again. Noel wanted to ask why they didn’t pump out all the water, but this time he held his tongue. Chance remarks regarding ballast and the ship’s trim told him enough. By the standards of his own century, the technology of this ship was crude, even primitive, but it worked. The men who operated the ship did so with skill and artistry. Only the harsh conditions and flogging scars on the back of almost every man aboard spoke of commonplace brutality.
Drawing in a clean breath of sea air, Noel paused a moment to savor the sunshine. A small cluster of passengers, including the woman he’d spoken to briefly last night and a young boy with long golden ringlets and a sash, stood at the base of the poop deck.
Noel stared at the young woman in an effort to catch her eye. She refused to look in his direction, however. As she spoke to her companion, her gestures were graceful and animated. Her hair was a lustrous shade of brown, and her skin as pale as cream. She wore a pert straw hat tied under her chin with broad green ribbons, and a long dress of green and yellow stripes. Neither she nor the other woman ventured beyond the shade cast by the poop.
The Plentitude was running under full sail, streaming along at a speed Noel found exhilarating.
“How fast?” called the captain through his bullhorn.
An officer consulted a seaman in the bows and shouted back, “Seven, almost eight knots.”
“Crowd on more sail!” Miller said. “I want no less than nine knots while we have this wind. If God is with us, we’ll make Port Royal by tomorrow.”
The order was passed, and sailors scrambled up ratlines into the rigging. Although the mainmast towered almost thirty feet into the sky, the men on the spars seemed unafraid of the height. Some of them even ran along the yardarm without bothering to keep a handhold. Another sail came crashing down, unfurling white and square. Almost at once it swelled with wind, dragging the men below who struggled to belay it.
Noel clung to the railing in delight, letting the wind fling his hair back from his face. He had learned the trick of balancing himself against the pitch and yaw of the deck. In effect, he had found his sea legs. “This is great!” he said.
“Great, is it?” sneered Natty Gumbel, appearing at his shoulder like an obnoxious gadfly. “We’ll only reach Jamaica that much sooner, ye fool. Are ye so eager to hang, then?”
Before Noel could answer, a man on the mast yelled, “Sail, ho! Starboard side.”
Tension flashed through the crew. The women stopped talking. Even the prisoners ceased working and looked up. Captain Miller strode to the right side of the ship and trained his spyglass on the horizon.
“What’s she rigged for?” he asked.
The man aloft stared a long time. Noel himself could see nothing more than a speck of white between the azure of the sea and the paler blue of the sky. The lookout must have the vision of an eagle.
He called down, “Brigantine-rigged, sir!”
Dread flashed across the crew’s faces, and the pirates lifted a cheer.
At once Captain Miller whirled around. “Quiet those men.”
The bosun laid on the lash, and the pirates crowded back against the railing with reluctance. But they kept grinning at each other, and Natty Gumbel started rattling his chains slyly.
“What’s a brigantine?” Noel asked quietly.
Gumbel rolled his good eye while the blind one stared off at nothing at all. “One of ours, lad. One of ours.”
The unease on the deck was palpable. Some of the crew shook their heads. The passengers huddled together. Captain Miller’s back looked stiff and unnaturally straight.
He glanced up at the lookout. “Is she clean-tailored?”
Again there was a long pause before the man answered: “The sun’s in me eyes a bit. Don’t appear to be no deckhouses on her, though.”
The pirates flashed each other looks of glee.
“It’s Lonigan come back to get us,” said one.<
br />
“Naw, he’s gone like a whipped dog,” said another. “He don’t care about us, nor this plunder. Five pieces of eight says it’s Kidd.”
“Yer wrong, yer wrong,” Natty Gumbel chanted, dancing a hornpipe. “It’s Lonigan.”
“Naw, it ain’t. Ye be daft, Natty, daft in yer pate. Lonigan’s heading for the Carolina coast where the pickings are easy. It’s Kidd.”
Gumbel hooted. “And him in the Red Sea? Get on! Lonigan ain’t forgot us. And he don’t like to lose. He’s been biding his time, waiting to strike again.”
The speck of white on the horizon grew larger.
“What flag, sir?” asked the bosun. His bald head gleamed brown in the sun.
The captain kept his spyglass trained on the approaching vessel. “British.”
“Thank God,” said one of the women.
The pirates snickered among themselves. Noel eyed them with a frown. They were like psychotic children, sullen and vicious one moment, gleeful imps the next.
“Hasn’t she seen us?” asked the quartermaster in puzzlement. “She ought to be a trifle more cautious in these waters. Unless she’s Navy. Do you suppose Lieutenant Thurston sent her out to protect us?”
Captain Miller watched through his spyglass and made no answer. Then he stepped jerkily back from the rail as though he’d been shoved. He lowered the spyglass to his side.
“She’s sent up a Jolly Roger,” he said in a hollow voice.
The pirates cheered again, and this time no one stopped them. “Join us, mates!” Natty Gumbel called to the crew. “Surrender this ship to the Brethren, and share in the booty.”
The bosun struck him with the cat, and Natty squawled in pain.
“Beat to quarters,” Miller snapped. “Chain the prisoners to the gunwales. They’ll block the attackers’ line of fire. Passengers are to get below decks. Bring me the charts of these waters. If we can outrun them, we have a chance of hiding among the smaller islands.”
“Sir, we can’t outrun—”
“Against a sloop we wouldn’t have a prayer, but that brigantine is our size and no faster.”
“But, sir, she’s gaining—”
“Damn you, man! Fetch me the charts.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
The officers scattered to carry out orders. The seamen climbed into the rigging. Atop the quarterdeck, the helmsman grimly changed places with an elderly replacement that was wizened by years spent in sun and salt water. With a cold corncob pipe stuck in his toothless mouth, the new helmsman took hold of the enormous wheel with a competent spin. The Plentitude bore away gracefully and turned her ample stern to the pirate ship.
Her sails filled, then luffed as they turned into the wind. Corrections were bawled out. The crew scrambled rapidly to close-haul the sheets. They tacked across the wind and came on their new course. The sails caught, and the Plentitude surged forward. A few minutes later the ship tacked again. Her speed increased steadily, and for the first time since she’d been sighted the pursuer failed to gain on them.
Meanwhile, the prisoners were herded to the starboard side and lined up along the gunwales. A guard held a musket trained on them while a man in a leather apron strung a heavy chain through each man’s leg shackles. The pirates were white-faced and fearful. They knew, as did Noel, that they would be cannon fodder in the opening salvo. And if this ship sank, they would sink with her.
Fear was a stink in the air. Below decks the gun ports opened and the cannons rolled into position with a rumble that made the deck vibrate beneath Noel’s bare feet.
His pulse hammered hard in his throat. He did not intend to stand here tamely and be chained like a dog, but it would happen unless he could think of a way out. The docility of the pirates surprised him. But without a leader, they seemed incapable of rebelling on their own.
Without access to his LOC, he did not know if this ship was destined to escape or founder. He wasn’t supposed to interfere or participate, for he could destroy the future with a single decision. Yet he had to act.
The locksmith was threading the chain between Gumbel’s ankles. Gumbel watched with an expression of sick horror, but did nothing.
Noel stared at the pirate ship. It was gaining again, close enough now that he could see her lines. She was long and wide in the beam, and shallow-bottomed to allow her to maneuver easily both in shoal water and narrow inlets. That alone made Miller’s desperate plan to hide in some island channel both foolhardy and futile.
Two-masted, with a triangular-shaped sail in the stern and two square sails in the bows, the pirate vessel was painted black. Her figurehead was a woman with arms outstretched and hair streaming in thick black coils. One wooden hand held a severed head, and only then did Noel squint and realize that she had snakes for hair.
“It’s our Medusa!” one of the pirates cried.
Natty Gumbel threw his cap in the air. “Didn’t I say it? God’s my witness, didn’t I say it would be Lonigan’s ship? Aye, Black Lonigan, the devil incarnate.” He grinned at the crew. “Say yer prayers, mates, fer he’ll send yer souls to hell this day.”
About that time the Medusa ran up a crimson flag beneath her skull and crossbones. The locksmith stared, forgetting his job, and the guard moaned softly.
“They mean to have our blood,” he whispered.
“Not mine,” Noel said, making up his mind. He shoved past the locksmith and tackled the guard.
The musket went off between them, making Noel’s head ring, but the shot went wide and ripped a hole in a nearby sail. At once the wind caught the small tear and ripped it wider. In minutes it was flapping tatters, and the shout went out for a spare.
Noel rolled with the guard, wrenching the weapon from his fingers. Aware that the weapon was spent, Noel swung it like a club and knocked the man unconscious. With howls, the pirates overcame the locksmith and hurled him overboard. Freeing themselves from the long chain, they scattered as rapidly as their shackles would allow.
A pistol shot rang out, and the ball plucked at Noel’s sleeve. Whirling, he saw Captain Miller raise another pistol and take aim at him. Noel dived for the deck, and the second shot missed him, grooving into the gunwale instead.
The Medusa opened fire with her fore guns, sweeping the deck with vicious chain shot. A second salvo sent bits of metal and scrap iron into the rigging, cutting it and the sails. The Plentitude faltered and slowed.
“Break out muskets!” Miller shouted, but by then most of his crew was too paralyzed with fear to obey.
Natty Gumbel struck the Plentitude’s colors, and with a roaring cheer, hundreds of pirates suddenly sprang into view from their hiding places on the Medusa’s deck.
“Fight to the death, men!” Captain Miller shouted, working frantically to reload his pistols. “It’s our only chance.”
“Ho the Plentitude!” came a shout echoing across the water. “Do you surrender?”
“Get our flag back up, damn you!” Miller snarled to one of his men.
The bosun tried to obey, and one of the pirates plunged a dagger into his stomach.
In a mob, the freed prisoners—some armed with knives taken off the crew, others carrying belaying pins—swarmed the quarterdeck, Noel among them. White-faced, Miller and the helmsman backed up.
“Give Lonigan quarter,” Natty Gumbel said.
“Never,” Miller whispered.
“Sir, it’s our life if we don’t,” the helmsman said.
“I tell you never! It’s my ship. I won’t surrender her to a pack of cutthroats.”
Spitting out his pipe, the helmsman darted forward. “I’ll join with ye. I’ll—”
A pistol roar cut him off. The seamed, withered face assumed an expression of astonishment; the squinty eyes opened wide. Without another word, the helmsman crumpled to the deck, his back bloody from where he’d been shot.
Miller threw the smoking pistol aside and raised his spare. Noel saw the defeat in the man’s eyes. He saw the pistol point upward and knew that Mi
ller meant to use it on himself. Outraged by the senseless murder that had just been committed and horrified that the man meant to take a coward’s way out and splatter his brains across the deck, Noel jumped forward and grabbed his wrist.
“Don’t be a fool!” he said angrily. “You can’t—”
Crimson filled Miller’s plump face. Enraged, he swore at Noel and struggled to break free of his hold. Aware of the dangerous pistol wavering between them with Miller’s finger still on the trigger, Noel strained to lift Miller’s wrist. The muzzle swung Noel’s way. Gasping, he shoved it back. Around them the pirates shouted and whistled encouragement.
Miller’s free fist smashed into Noel’s face without warning, just below the painful bruise already on his temple. Jagged pain flashed through Noel’s head. He slipped, fighting off the black suction of unconsciousness. Somehow he kept his hold on Miller’s other wrist. Miller struck him in the mouth.
Noel tasted blood, and lost his temper. After all, he was only trying to save the stupid fool. He kicked Miller’s feet out from under him. The captain fell heavily, dislodging his wig in the process and revealing a pale shaved head. But he didn’t drop the pistol.
“Damn you!” he gasped. “Damn you!”
He staggered upright, fending Noel off wildly when Noel reached again for the pistol. At Noel’s back the pirates waited like wolves circling for the kill.
“Finish him, Noel!” Gumbel shouted. “Stick his gizzard!”
Miller stepped back, breathing heavily. He aimed his pistol at Noel with hatred in his eyes. His finger whitened on the trigger. Desperately Noel knocked the pistol up just as it went off. He meant only to point it at the sky, but his shove was too hard and instead he drove the muzzle against Miller’s chin. The deafening report and the splatter of blood were simultaneous. Miller’s blood splashed hot across Noel’s chest.
That terrible instant seemed to last an eternity, then at last Noel forced his nerveless fingers to release their hold on Miller’s wrist. The corpse crumpled at his feet, and the spent pistol thudded on the deck.
Pieces of Eight Page 3
