Captain Crossbones

by Donald Barr Chidsey

He threw himself into an X-chair, and placed a paper on the desk.

  “Rounsivel, your report’s magnificent!”

  George flushed. He had been troubled about that report. He would have preferred more preparation he didn’t like to dash a thing off. A good part of the previous afternoon had been spent in giving an informal oral report, in having his back treated, and in trying on new clothes in his cell-he was technically a prisoner, under sentence of death. Not until dusk, when he had called for candles, did he call also for paper, ink, plume.

  He had written the treatise more than once in his mind; but white paper that seems to stretch endlessly, a wetted pen held above it—these have the trick of making plans look absurd.

  “You must understand, sir, that that’s only . . . well, it’s just a first draft. I’d like to polish it a bit.”

  “It’s superb!”

  “You would send then to ask a pardon for me?”

  “I have already done so. Your treatment of my niece in itself would have prompted it. But this—” He down-knuckled the paper—“This is piracy’s death warrant.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  It was a world-famous author who spoke, and George Rounsivel would have been something less than human if he didn’t feel delighted. In truth, though he would have wished to touch up the wording, he himself was pleased with the content of his report. He had thought about it many times, though until last night he had not made any manner of outline or notes, as he would have liked to do, for he was aware that a few of the Jorobado gang, and notably Jack Rackham, could read.

  The report was divided into two parts.

  The first part was matter-of-fact and immediate, specific. It recommended consultation with the governors of North Carolina, South Carolina, and Jamaica, about way and means of keeping the Florida Strait safe from sea robbers. It urged stronger restraining methods and much sterner punishments for any who were found to have dealt with pirates, whether harboring them, helping them, supplying them, or, worst of all, buying their loot. It told of piratical habits and in particular the piratical frame of mind, the reverence for writing, the dependence upon chiefs or kings, and offered suggestions as to how this could be taken advantage of. It pointed out that the Bahamas were a maritime colony, and proposed that the governor issue a decree creating a sea militia, the members of which would do their required military service in vessels constructed and maintained for this purpose. Such vessels might be modeled after the Spanish guardacostas. They need not be armed, but they should be low, narrow, shallow of draft, and extremely fast—that is, like the pirates’ vessels. Among other duties, these militiamen should question the seamen of vessels from New York and Bermuda who could often be found raking salt in the southern islands.

  That was a dreary and not notably profitable trade—they carried the salt all the way to the Newfoundland coast where fishermen always needed it for preserving their catch. The salt raker, approached by a pirate, seldom was above getting for supplies or even for cash, goods he knew had been bought with blood. However, the salt raker was not naturally a criminal. He wasn’t fierce. He could be frightened. If he was warned, loudly, that any deal with a proven pirate would make him liable to hang, he’d stop it.

  The most powerful enemy of piracy in this part of the world, the report went on, was not recognized as such, perhaps because it was also an enemy of the merchant and the Royal Navy. This was the teredo, that persistent, insistent, dioecious, ship’s worm. George had estimated that freebooters spent a third of their time scraping their bottoms. The teredo slowed them, in a matter of months; they couldn’t risk being slow. A suitable careening site, the report stated, must offer both wood and water, and a high lookout point, a cove or creek that was protected from squalls, a gently sloping beach. There could not be too many such places in the Bahamas for listing, and each of them should be visited periodically by the guardacostas. This would make impossible in the future a base such as Jorobado, unknown to the authorities at Fort Nassau, barely over the horizon. It would force the sea robbers to resort to the awkward inefficient method of careening at sea known as “boot-topping,” whereby in calm weather and far from land all the guns of a sloop are run to one side, so that she is tipped far over, almost on her beam-ends; and the exposed side is then scraped, after which, if the seas allow, the process is reversed. Pirates dreaded boot-topping, as well they might. Caught in that position they would be helpless.

  It was the second part of the report that George himself fancied. Though of fewer words, this was longer-reaching, for in effect it asked the question: What makes a pirate? He had sundry answers, none of them cheery.

  I’m having copies made, and I’ll see that they’re passed around where they will do the most good.” The governor gave a thin thorny smile. “R.N. captains ain’t going to like that last paragraph.”

  “Yet it’s the truth! Man after man I talked to, if he wasn’t a deserter from the Navy he was a deserter from a merchant ship because he feared that the Navy would press him; then he’d be flogged every time he sneezed. And caned, and put into bilboes, and keelhauled. He’d be starved half to death, so that he could hardly drag himself around—and cursed and kicked because he didn’t move fast enough. He’d never see his pay, and he’d never be permitted to go ashore.” George spread calloused hands. “Well, your excellency can catch their point of view? If a man’s to be treated like a dog he might as well pick his own kennel.”

  “Don’t some of them think it’s a lark?”

  “Some, yes. Just at first. They soon learn it isn’t, but then it’s too late. It’s easier to get into piracy, your excellency, than it is to get out again. They’re always afraid of being exposed. They’re afraid their old comrades’ll find them out. Deserting from a pirate gang, governor, is as bad as deserting from the Navy. They don’t go in for forgiveness, those men. If they ever lay hands on me, for instance . . . well, there’s no need to go into that now.”

  “You certainly found it easier to get into than get out of, didn’t you?”

  “Aye. And about that, governor—”

  “Yes?”

  “Now that we’ve terminated our contract, as I take it, I want to ask you one thing: If I had refused to break out of this place two months ago would you have hanged me?”

  Woodes Rogers had eyes the color of violets, but they could be slatey. They were mild and understanding now, reminding George of Delicia’s eyes.

  “No,” he said simply. “But I believed that I would, at the time. I had to make myself believe it, so that I could be convincing to you. There was a great deal at stake, Rounsivel. I was desperate. I cheated you, in effect. I lied to you. But . . . I was desperate.”

  “I see.”

  “And now, even besides what you have done for my niece—and I’ll never be able to thank you for that—even besides that, I am eternally in your debt, sir. You have done a masterful piece of work.”

  There were two windows in this tower room, one facing the bay, one the courtyard. It was through the window on the bay side that George Rounsivel had first seen the tropics. Through the other, a little while ago, he had last seen Delicia Rogers. He went to that other now.

  She was recrossing the court, Thomas Robinson at her side. Robinson minced, pointing his toes in the fashionable London manner. He wore more ribbons and bows than she, who was always a plain dresser, yet his affectations and la-di-das did nothing to make her show masculine.

  A hand slid over George’s shoulder.

  “She tells me that your literary flair isn’t confined to reports, Rounsivel. It seems you wrote a certain paper whilst at sea . . . Whatever happened to it?”

  “I threw it overboard.”

  “Oh? She has a fortune. And you might have had a claim.”

  “Your excellency is being rude.”

  “True. Forgive me, Rounsivel.”

  The governor hobbled to the other window.

  “You said that if they got you now they’d kill you?”

&nbs
p; “Oh, for sure. And in a very leisurely manner.”

  “Well, they’ve lost no time coming.”

  “Eh?”

  He went quickly to the other window. The customary harbor craft were in sight, anchored or beached, but nothing was coming in past Hog Island.

  “You can’t make them out from here, but they’re in the offing just beyond the pass. My scouts have brought me word. Two sloops that seem to have met by chance. One’s the John and Elizabeth, and the other, they think, is the Revenge, which was seized last month off Hispaniola by Charles Vane. They’re sending in a longboat from the John and Elizabeth, with a white flag. There it comes around the island, right now. Want this glass?”

  “I don’t need it, sir. I know what they’re coming for. Me.”

  “I’m afraid they are.”

  “Well, if they want me they can take me—at a price. May I have my sword back, sir?”

  The sword has always been a symbol of might, of power, authority. Woodes Rogers could have thought only that George was asking for a return of his blade as evidence that his prisoner’s status was but nominal. The law was the law, as nobody knew better than George Rounsivel, a convicted felon under sentence of death; but since his return to New Providence the previous afternoon it had been shown in many ways that if he was indeed a prisoner he was a privileged one. Though he had stayed the night in a cell, he was provided with every comfort there, and the door was left open. The taking of his weapons might have been no more than a matter of routine, as their return, at this time, could be considered a mark of confidence in him. In any event, the governor did not hesitate. He handed George his sheath knife, the rapier that had been “given” him by the captain of the Nostra Signiore, and the long cavalry saber. The first two George strapped on. The third he handed back.

  “This is yours. I, uh, I borrowed it.”

  If Woodes Rogers could have chuckled he would have chuckled then. But his nature was a decorous one.

  “Oh, yes. I heard about that. Robinson’s been twitchy to have at you, ever since.”

  “Pity I can’t accommodate him.” George glanced out of the window. The longboat was about to be beached, out of range of muskets or even cannon. George could not distinguish any of the faces, but there were almost twenty men. The flag was conspicuous: a man in the bow, upright, held it. “And now, if your excellency will order the gate opened—”

  His excellency sprang to his feet.

  “Good God, Rounsivel, you don’t really mean to go out there!”

  Gazing through the window, George frowned a little. He did not look forward with delight to a surrender, but he was made even more uneasy by the prospect of appearing to pose as a hero.

  “I don’t see anything else for it, sir. If they do what they want with me it may slake their rage. They may not attack. Perhaps I could even help to dissuade them, with lies about the strength of this place. But if they don’t have me, then they certainly will attack. It’s the least we can do for . . . for . . . your niece.”

  “You’ve already risked your life to save her! D’ye want to do that every day? It would be nothing less than suicide for you to go out there. And remember, we need fighting men.”

  “Your excellency’s making it very awkward. Will you please order that gate swung open?”

  In truth the gate—it was directly below this tower room—might have been open then. At least, a party had issued forth upon the beach down there, a party of three, the middle one, Corporal Pugh, carrying a white flag. They did not hurry; even from behind they looked ready to spin around at the slightest alarm and sprint back to cover. The pirates walked toward them a little, then stopped; the party from the fort also stopped. They began to shout back and forth. It was impossible, in the tower, to make out what they said. Soon, however, the Pugh party, moving faster now, started back for the gate.

  “Excuse me, Sir Galahad—”

  The governor pushed past him and leaned out of the window.

  “Pugh! You corporal down there! What’d they say?”

  The soldier executed a trim salute, then cupped his hands informally.

  “They say they want George Rounsivel! They must have him!”

  “Well, let’s not keep them waiting,” muttered George.

  The governor was looking at him, and seemed about to say something, but changed his mind and limped to the door.

  “Stay here a few minutes,” he tossed over a shoulder.

  It was as good as an order; but a prisoner who has not given his parole can ignore orders. The door was open. George had his rapier. He might have gone down the spiral staircase and sallied forth from the gate—fighting his way out, if need be. But he would be chased; and if he was going to his death he preferred to go at his own pace, not scurrying like a hare.

  He did not even turn his head when the governor left, but still watched the pirates down the beach. They had planted the flag in the sand, and were waiting. But they were alert! With the glass, though he could not make out the faces, he saw that the men were armed, and saw too that each carried at his waist the cloth or leather purse containing coins, his share of the Nostra Signiore money. That was like them, never trusting one another.

  There was a rush of feet, and he turned to clasp Delicia Rogers in his arms.

  She went there naturally, without hesitation; they kissed, while she clung to him with the wild desperation of one who feels herself slipping over the lip of a precipice.

  “George, you can’t go out there!”

  “Your uncle was shrewd to have sent you,” he murmured. “Or were you listening at the door?”

  “No, he sent me. He told me what you meant to do. That’s madness, George! You’d be killed if you went!”

  “And you’d be killed if I didn’t. Dearest, you don’t think those men would go away without me? If you do, you don’t know them as well as I do.”

  “I won’t let you! It . . . it would be desertion!”

  “No it wouldn’t. And you know that. What you don’t seem to know, my dearest, is that it’s more than a gesture. It isn’t just for you—it’s for myself too. I feel dirty, having mixed with those men. I’ve got to make myself feel clean again.”

  “But . . . just when we . . when we’re like this at last—”

  “That does make it harder,” he whispered.

  They kissed.

  “I trust I am not intruding?” said Thomas Robinson.

  Arms skimbo, feet spread, he stood in the doorway. There was a sour sardonic smile at his mouth, and his eyes swam with venom

  George put his beloved carefully aside, placing her behind the desk. If steel was bared that might be the only safe place.

  “You are,” he said coldly. “What the Devil do you want?”

  “You. Please don’t scowl. The captain-general sent me, and I am obliged to take his commands. I am to ask if you’re sticking to the plan of giving yourself up to those rogues out there. If so, I’m to arrest you.”

  “I am already under arrest.”

  Robinson smiled crookedly.

  “Not the way I’d do it,” he said. “But I see you’re sworded? And of course if you’d care to resist—” He glanced at Delicia, moving his eyes as though that very motion hurt them. “If the lady would leave the room . . .”

  “No,” George said quickly. “I have a rendezvous, and I’ll not risk being late.”

  “I weep to hear you say that.”

  I’m sure you do.”

  “And now, if you’ll have the goodness to precede me down the stairs—”

  “May I examine those pistols first?”

  The request jolted Robinson, whose hands went to the two small silver guns he carried in the scarf flung across his left shoulder. But soon he was smiling again.

  “I see. You fear you might be shot in the back whilst trying to escape, eh? You needn’t. I’d hardly be such a fool as to go around with these things loaded. Look—”

  He took them out, cocked them, snapped them, whacked
them against the heel of his hands to prove that no powder could be forced out of the touchhole.

  “Very well,” said George.

  He went to Delicia, and bowed, and kissed her hand. He was formal, but at the same time tender.

  “Good-bye, my dearest. I regret like you that we didn’t learn sooner. Good-bye.”

  She said nothing, simply stood there with tears streaming down her cheeks.

  The gate still was open, though the Pugh party had returned. There appeared to be some difficulty in bringing the two leaves together. The soldiers, always clumsy, were inexcusably slow now. Or—did they have their orders?

  George stopped. He looked at Robinson, who blandly looked back.

  “Why not?” Robinson said in a low voice. “You are something of a veteran at escaping from Fort Nassau. Would another time hurt? I’d raise a hullaballoo, of course, but nobody would shoot after you—not straight anyway.”

  “Damn it, man, I’m an important prisoner nowl You’d be cashiered if you let me get away!”

  “And d’ye think I’d mind being cashiered, in the circumstances?”

  “No,” George said slowly, at last. “No, I don’t think you would. All right.”

  With three strides he was at the gate, and he slipped between its closing halves. He ran a few yards, then slowed to a walk.

  There were shouts behind him, the clank of the chain, banging on the gate. A shot was fired, but George never heard the ball.

  He kept walking toward the men down the beach.

  Then he heard his name called, again and again, from the tower. Delicia was imploring him to come back.

  He didn’t turn his head. He didn’t dare to. He kept walking.

  He was not afraid of death in itself. Only a coward can die more than once. George had for so long existed side by side with the realization that he was lucky to be alive that the mere ending of consciousness would come not as a shock but as a confirmation. What he did dread was to be mauled by these ruffians, to be manhandled, hacked, beaten. And it was toward this, he was sure, that he walked. Yet his step was steady. He had ceased to struggle. He had ceased to care. He might have been walking in his sleep.