The town crier announces the ninth hour as we reach the print shop. Candles still burn low in the windows of nearby homes. I stand silently before the door. The sign my father painted has been removed and an engraved one hangs in its place.
“Pinkerton,” I say in a voice that can barely be heard. My voice shakes, but I read the sign aloud: “Samuel Pinkerton, Printer and Recorder.”
Jabbart places his hand upon my shoulder. “Do not forget why we are here, lad,” he cautions. “One cannot change what has already happened. Save your anger for another day.”
For a moment, I want to rip the sign from its chain and fling it to the street. But I know Jabbart speaks the truth. The print shop has already been stolen from me, and there is nothing I can do about it.
“Another day, then,” I murmur, my hand upon the door. “I shall stand on these steps another day.”
Looking up and down the empty street, Jabbart turns the knob slowly, pushing against the door. “’Tis locked tight,” he says, frowning. Up until that moment, I had not considered what we would do if the thieving printer had locked the door behind him. I hold my breath as Jabbart pulls a dagger from his pocket and inserts the tip into the lock, twisting it from side to side. The lock clicks loudly as the knife finds its mark. Jabbart pushes on the door and it swings open.
Stepping across the threshold, I whisper to Jabbart, “I will open the shutters on the bottom window. If you see someone approach, tap against the pane to warn me and then move into the alley.”
Jabbart sticks his hand into his coat pockets. “Work as fast as you can, lad, for surely I will freeze if you don’t.”
“Surely you will hang if I don’t,” I say. With those words, I enter my father’s shop and pull the door shut behind me.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
I allow my eyes to adjust to the darkness before moving into the type room. I don’t need a candle to lead me to the sectioned type board where the metal letters lie, each in its own space.
Standing before it, I breathe deeply, savoring the smell of the metal type, the taste filling my throat. I brush my fingers against the top row, knowing instinctively which letter follows which, feeling my way along until I near the end. My hands stops at Q, and I pick up the top letter and place it aside. Then my fingers move down the board to U. I remove a lowercase letter and place it alongside the Q. My fingers flying, I go back down the board to the Es and then to the Ns. Picking the type comes naturally, and I work quickly, pausing only to light a small lantern near the board. I pull from my pocket the expired Letter of Marque. My eyes move continually between it and the type board as I choose the letters needed to create a new copy.
Selecting the type doesn’t take long; I once spent hours doing the same for my father. The harder task comes when it is time to place the letters between the wooden railings that will hold them straight so they can be inked. My fingers feel clumsy as I work in the narrow space, and more than once I drop a letter onto the floor. Rather than take the time to look for it, I leave it and pull another.
Finally, I stand up straight and stretch. My back aches from bending over the board. The pain vanishes as I survey what I have done. A new Letter of Marque, dated one year hence, lies before me. Pride washes over me as I hurry to the cabinet where my father kept the inks.
When I reach the ink cabinet, I tug on the silver handle, but the door is locked. My stomach sinks as I move about the room, pulling open drawers and running my hand along the shelves. Not one bottle is to be found. I feel myself beginning to panic. I glance nervously at the window. Is it my imagination, or is the sky lighter than it was a few moments earlier?
“What would my father do?” I say aloud, though I cannot recall a time when my father ever faced such a moment. Then an idea comes to me, and I look around the room for the small pots of ink that my father used for signing documents. I discover a small crate of them beneath a table near the window, along with a small box of silver-nibbed quills.
As I ink the type, I think fleetingly of the printer. Does he still sit at the table before the fire, or has he started the walk home? Had the old woman been generous enough with the ale?
After applying ink to the last row of letters, I blow gently on them to dry them quickly so they do not stick to the parchment. Then, placing the paper over the type, I lower the board and press down with all my might.
Praying silently that nothing has smudged, I wait a few minutes and then lift the board. My breath catches as I look down on the new Letter of Marque. “Identical,” I whisper. Not even my father would have been able to tell the difference between the two.
My heart pounding with excitement, I open a fresh bottle of ink and dip the silver-nibbed quill into the pot. Staring hard at the Queen’s signature, I steady my hand above the parchment. Then, with a sweeping motion, I sign Her Majesty’s name to the new Letter of Marque. Stepping back, my eyes fill as I look at what I have done. I wish my father were beside me and that we were gazing upon the Letter together.
As I begin to clean up, it occurs to me that my father would not have approved of the forgery. I had no choice, I reason. Without this document, the Captain will die. And if the plan fails, he still may. I quickly pour ink from bottle to bottle, balancing each so that it won’t be easily noticed that they were opened. By the time the printer discovers the empty bottles, Destiny will be far from Charles Towne. “It was the right thing to do,” I murmur. Then I repeat the words aloud, as if someone else is there to hear them.
I am wiping the ink from the last letter when I hear a hard tap against the window. I thrust the dirty rag beneath the table and slam the cover board down. After returning the roll of parchment to its place in the corner, I run to the window and pull the shutters closed. I quickly survey the room, looking for any sign that I had been there half the night. Everything appears as it should. With the new Letter of Marque tucked inside my jacket for safekeeping, I make my way to the back of the shop.
Jabbart appears as soon as I open the door that leads to the alley. “Be quick. The merchants are emptying their slops. They will soon open for business.”
“What of it?” I say, my voice smug with satisfaction. “In our fine clothes we look like two of Charles Towne’s finest citizens.”
Jabbart snorts. “Fine citizens, indeed! I am sopping wet, and your hands are splattered with black ink.”
I hold my hands out in front of me. Even my fingernails are tipped black. “I had to work quickly,” I explain with a sigh.
“No matter,” Jabbart says, beckoning for me to follow. “Stuff your hands in your pocket and let’s hurry, lad. We must be across the harbor before it fills up.”
We see no one until we start to untie the boat from the wharf. A man appears, but he continues on down the pier, his mind elsewhere. As we row toward Destiny, I replay the day’s events in my mind. Surely Gunther is wrong; no one with the devil’s luck could have accomplished what I had that day.
It is only when I step onto the deck of the ship and see spots of silvery gull droppings upon the polished wood that I remember the metal letters I dropped onto the print shop floor. In my haste to clean up, I forgot to retrieve them and place them back on the type board. My face must have shown my dismay.
“What is it?” Jabbart asks quietly.
“The letters,” I say. “I dropped some and forgot to pick them up. They lie beneath the board where they fell.”
Jabbart smiles with relief. “Is that all? Surely a printer drops a letter now and then.”
“Perhaps,” I say doubtfully. “But a real printer, a good printer, picks them up and returns them to their place. A printer’s letters are like gold to him.”
“You did a fine job this day,” Jabbart says. “Now stop worrying about such a small thing and go below and sleep. Tomorrow is the day before court. We still have much to discuss when you wake.”
In the storage room, I remove my ink-stained clothes. Wrapping my blanket around me, I sink down on the pallet. My mind drif
ts from the tavern to the print shop with its new sign upon the door. “Another day,” I murmur as sleep quickly overcomes me.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The next morning, I rise early and wash from head to toe, scrubbing my ink-stained hands with salt until they are red and stinging. I dress carefully, buttoning the collar of my shirt up to the neck, and polishing the brass buttons on my coat. I replace the rigging I used for a belt with a leather strap I found in one of the crates. I pull back my hair with a ribbon borrowed from the Captain’s cabin and tuck it beneath my hat so that only a few strands are visible.
Jabbart smiles when he sees me and says I am every bit a royal sailor. After we eat a hurried breakfast, he rows us across in the longboat. Before he finishes tying the boat to the wharf, all eyes are upon us. He has warned me to be prepared, confident that the news of Attack Jack’s arrest will cause much excitement amongst the townspeople. As I climb from the boat, I force myself to return their stares with a disdainful glance of my own, hoping that the royal uniform I wear will keep even the boldest from approaching.
With the hour of trials almost at hand, the harbor and streets are jammed, and merchants have set up tables near the courthouse.
“’Tis like a fair day,” Jabbart says, amazed at the excitement. “Surely they must know that this day brings death for some of the accused.”
“Their memories are short,” I reply, remembering how my father’s friends had turned their eyes from mine on auction day.
The sun casts a glare against the cobblestones, and I place my hands above my eyes to shield them as we walk toward the courthouse on Main Street. I have been inside the one-story building only once with my father, when he made a delivery. It contains a room for holding trials and a smaller room with barred windows where the accused are kept until it is time to approach the magistrate’s bench.
A crowd has formed out front. A low murmuring begins as we shove our way into the building, but no one challenges our right to enter. I hear a few men mutter the Captain’s name. Jabbart has guessed right; the charge of piracy against a royal officer has caused a stir. No doubt half of those present have come hoping to see Attack Jack get his comeuppance.
A fire in the hearth warms the main hall. We rub the chill from our hands in silence and wait for the trial to begin. From time to time, I pat my coat pocket to reassure myself that the new Letter of Marque is still there.
At exactly noon, the courthouse bell rings, signaling the jailer to march the prisoners to the courthouse. I draw a deep breath and think about what lies ahead. Will the magistrate believe the Letter has just been found? Will anyone recognize me as the indentured servant who disappeared a year ago? I wipe my clammy hands against my breeches.
When the crowd’s excitement reaches a pitch, Jabbart and I turn toward the door. The crowd parts to allow the prisoners through. Many of the townspeople hold scented cloths to their noses to ward off the smell of the filthy prisoners. Some of the men shove them as they pass.
I clinch my teeth when I see the line of prisoners. Most have their heads down, defeated and weary from their stay in the jail. There is one woman, the rest are men.
“Where is he?” I whisper. The procession of prisoners has ended and the Captain is nowhere to be seen. Alarmed, Jabbart looks about. Then, the sound of clanking irons fills the hall and the Captain, separated from the rest of the prisoners, is led to the front of the line.
“They’ve shackled him like a mad dog,” I say angrily.
“Aye,” Jabbart replies. “’Tis normal for a prisoner as famous as he. Still, they have not broken him.” Unlike the other prisoners, the Captain holds his head high, a bored look upon his face.
“’Twill soon be over, lad,” Jabbart says, pointing to the magistrate, who has taken his position behind his bench. “It appears that they want to hang him this day.”
I cover my mouth to whisper. “I shall not step forth until they ask for evidence of innocence. We do not want to give them time to think about why we have come.”
Jabbart nudges me toward the front of the room. “Go in closer, but don’t show yourself until the last moment.”
I swallow hard and take a deep breath. My stomach and legs feel weak. When the magistrate bangs his gravel calling for order, I move quietly to a position near the bench.
“Bring forth the infamous Attack Jack,” he says eagerly, as if he has long waited for such a moment.
His shackles clanking loudly with each step, the Captain moves to stand before the bench. In a defiant tone, he speaks first. “You have wrongfully accused a loyal officer of the Queen. I demand you release me this moment.”
The magistrate bangs his gravel. “You will speak only when addressed. You have no authority in this court.”
“When Queen Anne hears of what you’ve done,” the Captain says, “you will rue the day you called for my arrest.”
Laughing, the magistrate shuffles his papers. “’Tis Her Majesty’s wish that we hang all pirates. From the documents you’ve produced, or should I say, have not produced, you fit that description.”
“The document you seek is on my ship. Were I able to get it, I would prove I am not a pirate.”
“There is no need,” the constable says. “Your commission to act on the Queen’s behalf is on record. ’Tis clear it was expired when you boldly attacked the Spanish ship.”
“The Spanish captain fired first; I did not seek a fight.”
“Then you admit you fired upon the Spanish ship?”
“I fired to protect the property of Queen Anne and for no other reason.”
Looking around the room with a wry smile, the magistrate replies, “With an expired Letter of Marque, you no longer had authority to act in her name. As an experienced captain, surely you know that!”
Some of the onlookers applaud the magistrate’s challenge. Jabbart, who has slipped through the crowd to my side, nudges me. “He has fallen into a trap by admitting he fired upon the enemy ship. It matters not who fired first.”
The magistrate bangs his gavel again. “You cannot refute the charge of which you are accused. Acting under an expired Letter of Marque, you fired on a Spanish merchant. By doing so, you have broken the Treaty of Utrecht and shamed our Queen. And for that you will hang.” He looks around, smirking. “Unless, of course, there is someone present who can prove your innocence.”
“Now!” hisses Jabbart, urging me forward.
As I make my way to the bench, an excited murmur fills the room. I glance at the Captain only long enough to see a look of astonishment on his face.
“I have the proof you seek,” I say, pulling out the Letter of Marque.
“What is this?” the magistrate says, his voice tight. “What tricks do you seek to play on this court?”
I hand over the document. “I have brought the Letter of Marque. Proof of the Captain’s commission is before you.”
“And who might you be?” the magistrate asks haughtily.
“A royal sailor, sir, in service to Queen Anne aboard her ship, Destiny.”
“You lie to save your captain,” the magistrate says. “And for that you will hang beside him.” He unrolls the document and holds it close before him. When his eyes fall on the dates at the bottom, his face darkens.
“This cannot be,” he says. “The records we have do not match what you have produced.”
“Records are slips of papers and nothing more, sir. Surely our Queen’s signature overrules all else.”
The magistrate scans the letter again. Clearly confused, he bangs his gavel down hard. “Send the constable to bring the printer,” he says. “He must vouch for the document’s truth.”
Though my legs go weak, I smile as if this suggestion is ridiculous. “Our Queen’s signature sweeps across the page. Is that not proof enough?”
“Perhaps,” the magistrate says. “If the printer vouches for Queen Anne’s signature, your Captain will indeed go free. But God pity you both if the printer finds it false. Your arm
s and legs will be pulled from your bodies and displayed with your lying heads for all to see.” Waving me away, he calls for the next prisoner to be brought forward.
“We are done for,” I whisper to Jabbart. “The printer will surely remember that he did not set such a document.”
“Pray hard, lad. The guards have locked the doors. No one is permitted to leave until the printer speaks.”
By the time the printer is found and brought to the courthouse, four of the accused have learned their fates—one to go free and the other three to serve terms in prison. When the printer steps into the room, all conversation stops. He makes his way to the bench.
The magistrate hands over the Letter of Marque. “You have been called to verify the signature across the bottom as that of Her Majesty, Queen Anne.”
Taking the letter, the printer rubs his chin, clearly enjoying the importance placed upon him. He reads the letter carefully, his eyes scanning the page and then going back to the top. As he reads, a bewildered look appears on his face.
“He cannot figure it out,” I whisper to Jabbart. “It looks valid, but he does not know how it came to be.”
“He must say it’s the Queen’s signature,” he says. “Anything else and the Captain will swing.”
The printer clears his throat. “I cannot say if this is an official royal document.”
I rush forward and snatch the Letter of Marque from the printer’s hand. “Surely you need spectacles,” I say, waving the paper before his face. “The Queen’s signature is spread across the page.”
Startled, the printer opens his mouth to speak, and then quickly closes it. His eyes meet mine, and I see a flicker of confusion within them. Frowning, he stares at the letter and then at me, as if he is trying to sort it all out.
I speak quickly. “As Charles Towne’s printer, you must be able to recognize the Queen’s signature.”
“Aye,” the printer says slowly. “As a printer, I have seen it many times.”
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