by Alex Scarrow
‘Gentlemen,’ he started, ‘as some of you I am sure have marked, we have been maintaining a southerly course and not, as expected, heading west out to sea.’
‘Aye!’ someone called from the back. ‘And when do we turn?’ There came a ripple of voices across the deck, all of them wondering aloud the very same thing. The crew, none of them navigators, were all savvy enough to notice the sun had been rising on the port bow and setting on the starboard and, of course, there on the port horizon there was still the faint, grey pencil-line of land.
‘I know you men all signed on to voyage across the Atlantic and to make your fortunes from whatever hapless Spanish merchant ships we encounter in the Caribbean. And this, as God is my witness, we shall eventually do. However … it is my decision, as captain of this ship, that our commercial enterprise will start with a small detour.’
‘Detour?’
‘You men, I am sure, will have heard tales of the immensely rich trade routes between India and Arabia. Ships laden so heavily with silks, wines and coin that they wallow like calf-bearing heifers. The Indian Ocean is a rich and fertile hunting ground for us and an opportunity for this crew, this ship, to make good fortune.’
‘We want Spanish gold! Not spices and materials for ladies’ dresses!’ called out Henry Bartlett. Several of the crew cheered that, and not in a light-hearted way, Liam noted. There was palpable discontent stirring among the men.
‘That way takes us to Cape Horn!’ shouted one of the men.
‘Aye and we’ll have to put ashore for supplies somewhere. There’ll be savages an’ man-eaters an’ the like!’
The mood was turning ugly.
‘This ain’t what we signed on for, Teale!’ cried Henry. ‘This ain’t what none of us came aboard for!’
Jacob Teale stroked his Cavalier whiskers thoughtfully, a thumb hooked into the hip pocket of Rashim’s waistcoat. Maintaining a very deliberate air of nonchalance, he waited until the chorus of barracking voices eventually died down, rather than shout over the top of it. He waited until he had absolute silence.
Oh, he’s good, thought Liam. There was an air of the frustrated thespian about the man.
‘Gentlemen, gentlemen,’ he began calmly. ‘We will get our hands on gold, more gold than you men could possibly conceive. More gold, I imagine, than this schooner could safely carry. For every Arabian barque heading one way with trade goods, there’s another returning with a hold full of coin. We shall all return to England as rich squires. Each man here will have enough booty that he shall never need to work another day of his life. Each man here will live out his life enjoying fine things, wearing fine clothes. Enjoying fine women!’
Liam noted a few of the men considering that – picturing that scenario in their minds.
‘And mark this, gentlemen, and mark this well, for I know this weighs heavily on the mind of each man here. Every last ship in the Indian Ocean is considered fair game with or without licence from the King. These are Moors, Muslims … ships of Arabia and India. We shall not be branded pirates for the plundering we do, but instead we will be welcomed home as heroes!’
A roar of approval erupted from some of the men. None of them wanted to be branded a pirate. It meant only one thing: a life lived entirely on the run. Henry Bartlett had told Liam the main reason he’d been so keen to sign up to Teale’s ship was the assurance the captain had made that, with his connections, the ship was guaranteed a privateer’s licence.
Teale picked out the man who had talked of savages. ‘And you, sir, you fear a few dark-skinned barbarians?’ He threw his head back and laughed. Liam winced at how cheesy a stage laugh it was, but then suspected none of these men would have seen Errol Flynn or Douglas Fairbanks playing the swashbuckling daredevil in some flickering black-and-white movie.
‘I’ll wager a single shot from one of our cannons will cow them. They’ll scatter like rabbits; that or they’ll bow to us as if we are gods!’
Some more of the men cheered at that.
‘Gentlemen, we will make ourselves rich in the Indian Ocean this year. Then next year, I promise you, we shall cross to the Caribbean Sea with our fortunes and buy plantations and build spectacular mansions and be kings of all we survey!’
A roar of voices erupted across the deck, even Henry Bartlett nodding appreciatively at that.
‘We shall be kings among pirates!’ Teale added. And, with that, he had the entire crew like putty in the palm of his hand.
Liam looked sideways at Rashim. ‘Blimey, he’s almost got me convinced.’
Chapter 19
1667, aboard the Clara Jane, somewhere off the west coast of Africa
It was only two days after Captain Teale had reasserted his authority with promises of inconceivable wealth for all that one of the men aloft, repairing a sheet bracket on the foremast, spotted sails on the horizon south of their position.
Teale was keen to make an early start to their adventure, so with the wind in their favour he decided to give chase. Every last sail and outrigger was fully unfurled and let out, and the Clara Jane bore down on it with the sheets taut and thrumming with tension, the bow carving through the deep blue sea, leaving a long trail of foaming water in their wake.
Old Tom barked orders for the ship’s kegs of gunpowder to be rolled out of the armoury and cracked open, and for the Clara’s two dozen long-barrelled muskets to be primed and distributed to those members of the crew who made the most convincing case that they could hit a target.
Henry Bartlett shoved a cutlass into Liam’s hands and passed a hatchet to Rashim. He was grinning like a loon. ‘About bleedin’ time we had us some action!’ He moved on, handing out weapons from the small cache he held in his arms. Young William was following behind him, laden with flintlock pistols dangling from long silk ribbons slung round his neck.
Liam looked down at the curved blade in his hands. ‘I’m not sure if I’m excited or absolutely terrified,’ he muttered.
Rashim nodded. ‘I’d rather not get my hands bloody if it is possible. I’m not good with blood.’
An hour after first sighting the ship, they were close enough to make out some detail on it. Teale had invited Rashim and Liam up on to the foredeck to enjoy the chase with him. ‘Damned good sport this is, eh, gentlemen?’ He pulled a spyglass from his belt, extended it and braced himself against the foredeck’s handrail as he squinted into the lens.
‘Triangular-shaped sails. And quite low in the water. Looks like a Moorish ship to me.’ He passed the spyglass to Old Tom. Tom studied the ship for a moment. ‘It’s a dhow, Skipper,’ he said. ‘Two masts, lateen sails. Perhaps a couple of hundred tons.’
‘Now is that big?’
Tom shrugged. ‘She’s a fair size.’
‘Will she have cannons?’
Tom looked at his captain incredulously. ‘She’s a merchant ship, Skipper … of course she don’t have no bleedin’ cannons.’
Teale nodded assuredly. ‘Well, yes, indeed. As I very much suspected.’
The pursuit lasted into the afternoon: the dhow ahead of them had clearly spotted them in its wake and every one of her sails was out.
‘She’s tending towards port!’ called out Tom.
‘That’s left, isn’t it?’ muttered Rashim. Liam nodded.
‘Those Moors are trying to make a run for the mainland!’ bellowed Teale, nodding at the coastline of the continent. It was much closer now, perhaps no more than half a dozen miles to port. Rashim had told him his best guess as to where they were was somewhere off the north-west coast of Africa: about as useful as saying New York was somewhere on the right-hand side of America.
Teale turned to Rashim and Liam. ‘Damnable cowards will try to make for some cove or inlet to lose us. Ha! ’Tis just like hunting fox!’
If this really was Teale’s first time commanding a ship, Liam wondered how the man could be so certain of that fact, or of anything actually.
The arrogance of the aristocracy. Give a man a lifetime of being told
he’s a better man than most and he’ll believe he can do anything, Liam decided.
The dhow was close enough now that Liam could make out some detail without the aid of a spyglass. Three burgundy-coloured triangular sails, a long, low, galleon-like hull that rose up and overhung at the rear – it reminded him of the too-close-together buildings of London, upper floors almost meeting each other above the narrow streets. He could make out the movement of individual crew on the rigging frantically trimming the sails to make their best speed.
Old Tom shook his head and looked up at the Clara’s wind-tell pennant, snapping and fluttering towards port. A south-easterly wind, pushing them towards land. He looked confused.
‘What is it?’ asked Liam.
‘She should be making better speed than that. She’s rigged fore and aft. The wind’s begging her favour more than it is ours.’
Teale slapped his shoulder. ‘She’s stuffed to the rafters with our booty, Tom! Didn’t I tell you! These ships are like cattle fattened for slaughter!’
Another hour passed with the Clara Jane crashing energetically through the ocean in hot pursuit as the sun above them passed to its zenith. Teale ordered the helmsman to steer port-side of the dhow, in an attempt to get between it and land to herd it out to sea. Now they were as close to land as they’d been in three weeks. Liam could pick out individual trees and the humps of craggy rocks, the pale line of beaches and breaking surf. The coastline here was arid, rocky and, more to the point, treacherous: headlands tipped with craggy, weather-worn spurs of rock like long, bony fingers reaching out to sea. And at the end of them the ocean foamed and boiled round rocks just beneath the surface.
‘Captain Teale,’ said Rashim, ‘are we not getting a little too close to the shore?’
Teale leaned over the rail to get a better look at the water to port. ‘Perhaps you’re right.’ He turned to the helmsman. ‘Southward now and no closer to the shore!’
‘Aye, Cap’n.’
Ahead of them the dhow was now only four or five hundred yards away.
‘What’s that?’ said Liam. He pointed to a faint line trailing behind the dhow. A faint line that angled down into the water, and there he could make out something churning the water white and leaving a wake of foam. Rashim followed his finger. ‘Yes, now what the hell is that?’
Teale trained his spyglass on it. ‘It appears that they are dragging something behind them.’ He chuckled. ‘The fools have most probably hoisted their valuables over the side hoping we shan’t find them when we board her.’
‘Stupid idiots. But that’ll be draggin’ her … slowin’ ’er right down,’ muttered Tom.
Liam looked at Rashim. ‘Deliberately?’
Rashim understood his meaning instantly. ‘Oh God … do you think …?’
‘She’s bait?’ Liam was about to answer, when a voice cried out. ‘She’s coming about!’
The dhow had severed its dragline and was now cutting sleekly through the water as it turned a hundred and eighty degrees, its burgundy lateen sails fluttering manically for a moment as they lost the onshore breeze, then snapping taut as they filled; the dhow heeled over hard and was now bearing down on them.
Teale stared at the approaching ship, goggle-eyed. ‘I’ll be damned! The fox has turned!’
‘It’s a trap!’ said Liam.
‘Don’t be silly, lad!’ he called over his shoulder. ‘There’s not a single cannon on that ship!’ He turned and grinned at Liam. ‘We outgun those fools.’
Liam looked at the dhow; it was hurtling straight towards them. At the rate it was approaching, Teale’s twelve cannons would be lucky to get one volley off on target before the thing was upon them.
‘Tom! Our guns are all ready, aren’t they?’
‘Aye. Gunner and crew’re standing by for your orders, Cap’n.’
Teale smiled. ‘Then let’s swing her around and give those Moors the cannon!’ He turned to the helmsman. ‘Steer her to the right.’ He gestured towards the open sea. ‘Starboard, that’s it … hard to starboard!’
The helmsman at the wheel hesitated. ‘But … ’
Teale strode across the foredeck and wrenched the wheel from his hands. ‘This is no time to dally, man!’ He spun the wheel and the Clara Jane began to sway slowly round.
‘WHAT?’ Tom spun round to look at his captain. ‘What are ya doin’!’ he screamed at him.
Teale glared at his insubordinate tone. ‘Good God, man, I am turning the ship so we can give them a damned volley!’
‘Look!’ barked Old Tom, jabbing a finger up at the sails. ‘Ya turned into the wind!’ All of their sails were flapping and rustling listlessly and the ship itself wallowed on the swelling sea, robbed entirely of its forward momentum. The turn to starboard was painfully slow – if at all.
‘We’re sittin’ heavy as a rock now, ya fool!’
Meanwhile the dhow scythed towards them, no more than a hundred yards away. Quite clearly she wasn’t a mere merchant’s trade ship with no more than a dozen or two crew on-board. Liam could see that now. Her deck was lined with men, among them the glint of swords, hatchets drawn and the barrels of one or two flintlocks readied.
‘They’re corsairs!’ bellowed Henry.
Liam looked at Tom and Captain Teale.
‘Corsairs?’ Teale had gone as white as a sheet.
‘Bloody pirates!’ muttered Tom. ‘First ship we try an’ plunder and it’s another load of pirates.’
‘Oh, marvellous,’ hissed Liam, wishing not for the first time that they’d taken Bob and Becks along with them to enjoy the Great Fire of London.
Chapter 20
1667, aboard the Clara Jane, somewhere off the west coast of Africa
The dhow gracefully, artfully, cut in towards the landward side of the Clara Jane and mere seconds before their hulls made contact the lateen sails were slacked off and left to flutter as momentum brought the dhow alongside with quick and well-practised precision and the hulls bumped heavily, causing every man to stagger to keep his footing.
A dozen grappling hooks arced across from the dhow and tangled with their rigging and the first muskets began to fire with a fizz-boom of powder igniting.
Liam watched the dhow’s crew stream aboard the Clara – fifty … sixty of them, maybe more. Not quite as many in number as them, but they all looked so much more ferocious, so much more ready for this fight than the crew of the Clara.
Liam looked at Rashim, his face almost as pale as Teale’s. ‘You OK?’
Rashim nodded quickly, licking his lips anxiously.
It was right then that Liam felt it – recognized that something in him was so very different. The last time he’d faced the threat of imminent violent death – the possibility that at any second he might be disembowelled by the chance sweep of the cutting edge of someone’s blade – he’d felt the urge to vomit, to evacuate his bowels. This time …?
I’m all right. I’m not actually scared.
Perhaps knowing what he was. Knowing that he was a meat product …?
I’m just like Bob. I’m like Bob. I’m like Bob. I’m indestructible.
Maybe he was. Maybe not. But hadn’t he taken what would have been a mortal wound back in Ancient Rome and recovered from it?
Liam found himself grinning. My God – he panted, hefting the cutlass in his hands, feeling the weight and the balance of the blade – I can do this. He turned to Rashim. ‘Stay up here on the foredeck!’
‘Uh? Wh-where are you g-going?’
Liam pointed his blade down at the squirming mass of men on the main deck. ‘To fight!’
Rashim grasped his arm. ‘It’s … Liam, it’s dangerous down th-there! You could get –’
‘Rashim.’ He eased his friend’s hand off. ‘I’m not even human. Not really.’ He laughed, perhaps with just the slightest note of bitterness, regret. ‘It’s not like I’ve ever really lived anyway.’ He patted Rashim’s shoulder firmly. ‘You stay up here! You stay safe. And make sure Will stays below deck.
’ He turned and jogged across the afterdeck and slid down the ladder on to the main deck.
He came almost immediately face to face with a man taller and wider with a dark-skinned face and dazzling blue eyes framed by a mop of black coiled hair. The man raised his weapon, a long-handled machete, and swung it down at the junction of Liam’s neck and shoulder. He blocked it with his cutlass, feeling the blade vibrate jarringly in his hands. The man had a dagger in his other hand and went to thrust it at Liam’s hip.
‘No you don’t!’ Liam wrenched his cutlass down, still locked with the man’s machete, pulling him off balance. The dagger thrust went low and wide. And Liam found his elbow made hard contact with the man’s jaw. The blow knocked him backwards and he was bracing himself against the edge of the Clara’s gunwale. Liam stepped smartly forward and shoulder-barged into him. The man lost his balance, flailed a moment before toppling backwards over the edge and disappearing into the dark gap between the two ships’ bumping hulls.
Liam turned to his left and saw Henry Bartlett ferociously swinging a fire axe at two other corsairs, useless roundhouse sweeps that were merely keeping them at bay. The two were grinning, toying with Henry, knowing he wasn’t going to be able to keep that up forever.
Liam’s feet stubbed against a body on the floor. A face he recognized if not a name he could remember. The dead man had a flintlock pistol on a ribbon round his shoulder. Liam stooped down and grabbed it, yanking it free of – Jason. That’s it … his name was Jason.
He aimed down the pistol’s long barrel at one of the men taunting Henry and, hoping the hapless Jason hadn’t had a chance to fire it before going down, he pulled the trigger. The flintlock clacked down, powder fizzed for a heartbeat and then the whole pistol bucked in his hand as a dense cloud of smoke erupted from the end.
‘Jay-zus,’ he hissed. His hand and arm tingled from the recoil impact of the weapon. The smoke was a languid, blue-white mushroom cloud that refused to clear. Impatiently he stepped through it to see the man he’d been aiming at drop down heavily on to one knee, clutching at a gaping, ragged wound in his chest.
