by Lance Morcan
#
Just before dawn, the cart rolled to a halt outside a cluster of workingmen’s barracks at a construction camp on the outskirts of Sydney Town. The two workmen bade each other goodnight and retired to their quarters.
Jack gratefully dropped to the ground and peered out from beneath the cart. There was no sign of life. He was relieved to find the workmen had left the cart in front of a trough. The thirsty horses were noisily drinking from it. Keen to assuage his thirst, Jack crawled out from beneath the cart, pushed himself slowly to his feet and immersed his whole head into the trough. Ignoring the horses which were now both observing him strangely, he scooped handfuls of water into his mouth until he’d drunk his fill.
Anxious to get into town before daylight, he then hurried off into the darkness. His clinking leg-irons reminded him he must remove them quickly if he was to avoid being captured.
The young convict scurried toward Sydney Town’s docks. Besides the occasional drunk and a solitary prostitute, the streets were mercifully deserted.
#
Hours passed before Jack found what he was looking for: a blacksmith’s shop that was accessible to someone, like himself, who didn’t possess a key to its front door. Breaking into it via a rear window, he quickly located the tools he needed to remove his leg irons. The young Cockney wrapped cloth around the leg irons to muffle the sound then attacked them with an axe and a heavy mallet. Three well placed blows with the former and two heavy blows with the latter was all it took.
Free of his leg irons, he then scouted around for a change of clothes. When he couldn’t find any he hurried outside and walked along the street until he came to a residential suburb. Rows of modest cottages lined both sides of the narrow, dusty street.
Dawn was breaking and residents were beginning to emerge from their homes. Mainly workers, the residents appeared to be in a hurry to report to their respective work-places. Few took any notice of Jack.
The escapee spotted men’s clothing hanging from a makeshift clothesline at the rear of a cottage whose occupants did not appear to have surfaced yet. He hurried to the line, selected a near-new shirt and a pair of trousers, and changed into them before hiding his discarded convict clothing in a rubbish bin. The shirt and trousers were a near-perfect fit.
Jack strode off down the street, confident he could now merge in with the civilian population. He could already taste freedom as he headed for the waterfront. Don’t get ahead of yerself Jackie boy, he cautioned himself. You ain’t free yet. And if they catch you again, they’ll flog ya until there ain’t nuthin’ left to flog.”
#
Down at the docks, Jack surveyed the various vessels in port. There was any number that could meet his needs. On the wharves, seamen mingled with waterside workers while unemployed civilians queued outside the labor office hoping to secure casual work.
Jack made a beeline for the labor office. He pulled up when he noticed Red Coats doing random checks of civilians queuing up for employment.
The Cockney guessed the soldiers were checking for escaped convicts. He just hoped they weren’t searching for him. Unlikely, he thought. They’ll have only just discovered I’m absent without leave back at Parra. Logic told him there hadn’t been time to get word out about his escape from Parramatta. Even so, he didn’t want to take any unnecessary risks. He turned his back on the docks and returned to town.
Storekeepers were displaying their wares and setting up for the day as Jack walked along the main street. His rumbling stomach reminded him he hadn’t eaten since the previous day. He spied a tavern nearby and headed for it just as the establishment’s proprietor stepped outside, humming a popular Scottish folk song. “Are you the owner?” Jack asked.
“Aye, Joseph McNeish,” the proprietor answered in a strong Scottish brogue. “And who wants to know?”
“Billy Kennedy,” Jack lied. “I’m lookin’ to earn me breakfast. Can you spare a penny or two if I do some sweeping or something?” He flashed a cheeky grin.
“Have ye tried for work down at the docks?” Joseph asked.
“Yeah, but they’re full up today. I just missed out.”
Joseph looked like he was about to send Jack on his way when he had second thoughts. “Matter of fact, there may be something for ye.” He began walking back inside the tavern. “Follow me, Billy Kennedy.”
Jack followed the proprietor through to the kitchen where the previous night’s unwashed drinking glasses, jugs and dinner dishes lay stacked almost to the ceiling.
Joseph turned back to the Cockney. “Our bottle washer’s off sick today.” He looked around at the unwashed dishes. “Think ye can wash and dry these without breaking any?”
Jack nodded with as much enthusiasm as he could muster.
“I pay two pence an hour less one penny for every plate ye break. Fair?”
“Fair.”
“Well get to it Billy and I’ll have cook rustle up some brekky for ye out back.”
Jack polished off the dishes without breaking a single plate. He received sixpence for the three hours it took him and he enjoyed a cooked breakfast better than any he could remember. The accommodating proprietor, who had taken a shine to the young man he knew as Billy Kennedy, even threw in a bottle of Guinness to help wash the food down.
22
Makah Nation, West Coast, North America, 1841
True to his word, Nathan set out to see Tagaq before the next full moon. The two weeks since he’d last seen her had seemed like a year. Tagaq’s naked body occupied his thoughts from dawn till dusk, and his nights were filled with dreams of their lovemaking. He could feel himself hardening at the thought of her.
Even though he ran the four miles to the valley where Tagaq and her banished family lived, it seemed to take an eternity. He was breathing hard as he reached the top of the bluff that overlooked the valley that was home to the family of outcasts.
Nathan stopped to catch his breath. All seemed quiet in the valley below. There was no sign of Tagaq or any of her siblings. Smoke curled from the hole cut in the roof of the tiny family lodge, indicating someone was home at least.
Avoiding the temptation to run, Nathan walked down the hill toward the lodge. As he neared it, the sound of women wailing greeted him. Something’s wrong! He started running toward the dwelling.
Before he reached the lodge, Tagaq’s father, Kenojuak, emerged. His grim face told Nathan something was definitely wrong.
The old warrior stepped forward and, in the manner of the Makah, clasped Nathan’s left shoulder with his right hand. “I see you, Nathan Johnson.” He had to speak loudly to be heard above the sound of wailing.
“And I see you, Kenojuak,” Nathan replied.
“You have come to be with Tagaq?”
Nathan nodded.
“She awaits you inside.” Kenojuak stepped aside and allowed Nathan to enter.
Nathan had to stoop so his head cleared the top of the doorway as he entered the lodge. As his eyes adjusted to its gloomy, smoky interior, he saw Kenojuak’s two wives and their younger children. They were sitting in a circle in the middle of the room. The women ceased wailing as soon as they saw their visitor.
At first Nathan didn’t see the object lying at the feet of the two women. When he did see it, it took a few seconds for him to work out the object was a lifeless woman. Tagaq? She was unrecognizable. The flesh and eyes had been torn from her face.
As his eyes ran down her body, Nathan realized he was looking at Tagaq, or what was left of her. “Tagaq!” he screamed. Nathan fell to his knees alongside her. He stroked her hair as he repeated her name over and over. Where is your face? What have they done to you? He couldn’t make sense of anything.
The young white suddenly had to get away. He pushed himself to his feet and drunkenly lunged for the doorway, cracking his skull against it as he stumbled out into the fresh air.
Kenojuak had been waiting for him. As soon as he saw Nathan, he came toward him. Nathan didn’t even see him; he ran int
o the surrounding trees and didn’t stop running until exhaustion halted him in his tracks.
#
Kenojuak was still waiting for Nathan outside his humble lodge when Nathan finally returned. He walked up to the young man as soon as he saw him. The two faced each other in stony silence for a long time.
Since the shock of seeing Tagaq, or what was left of her, had passed, Nathan had had time to think. He realized she must have been attacked by a wild animal. “Was it a puma?” he asked at length.
Kenojuak shook his head. “Black bear.”
“When?”
“Yesterday afternoon. She was collecting herbs.” The warrior pointed in the direction of the cave that Nathan and his lover had so often frequented. “Up there.”
“Where will she be buried?”
Kenojuak shrugged. “I have not yet decided.”
“I have a place in mind.”
“Show me.”
Nathan led Tagaq’s father off toward the cave.
#
Later that day, Nathan looked on as Kenojuak and his family laid Tagaq to rest in the cave the two lovers had come to know so well. Wrapped in the rug they’d so often made love on, Tagaq was gently lowered into a shallow grave before Nathan joined the family members in shoveling freshly dug earth over her.
That done, they filed somberly from the cave. Nathan helped Kenojuak roll a large rock over the cave entrance so the gravesite would forever remain undiscovered and animals couldn’t disturb the body.
Kenojuak’s wives resumed chanting and wailing as they led the young children back to the lodge, leaving the two men standing outside the cave’s concealed entrance.
“I must go now,” Nathan said. He needed to be alone.
“I know.”
“I will not see you again, Kenojuak.”
“I know that also, Nathan Johnson.” Kenojuak grasped Nathan by the shoulders and looked deeply into his eyes. “Take this blessing with you.”
So blessed, Nathan turned and walked away.
“There is something you should know,” Kenojuak called out.
Nathan turned back to face the older man.
Kenojuak smiled for the first time that day. “She was going to tell you she would be your woman and would go with you to the distant lands of the White-Eye.”
The words hung in the air between them. Nathan’s mind raced as he tried to make sense of what he’d just heard.
It slowly dawned on Nathan that Tagaq knew he was going to flee Neah Bay, and she’d loved him so much she wanted to go with him. The realization saddened him. Finally, he said, “Thank you, Kenojuak.” With that, Nathan turned and walked away. He never looked back.
23
Gulf of Guinea, 1848
Minstrel’s crew knew they were under attack for the approaching brigantine had made no effort to answer the semaphore messages second mate Sven Svenson had been flashing non-stop for some time now. Nor did she bear a visible name on her hull or a flag of origin on her mast – sure signs the vessel’s crew had bad intentions.
“Give up, Mr Svenson,” first mate Fred Paxton advised him. “They have no intention of responding.”
Svenson lowered the flags he’d been waving above his head, picked up the musket he’d left at his feet and took up his allotted firing position alongside Drake Senior atop a bulkhead. The two men studied the fast-approaching brigantine as she closed with Minstrel.
“She means business,” Drake Senior observed as he nervously checked his pistol.
“Aye, that she does,” the second mate agreed. The Swede studied his companion, trying to reconcile the man of God he knew the reverend to be with the gunman lying next to him.
Drake Senior could read his companion’s mind. The good Lord helps those who help themselves. He smiled to himself.
Further along the deck, beyond Svenson, the clergyman saw Harold Simpson familiarizing himself with the musket someone had handed him. It was very evident by the clumsy way he handled it he’d never even held one before. Drake Senior whispered a silent prayer for the missionary.
The approaching brigantine was now only fifty yards away. She was on a collision course with Minstrel and looked set to ram her mid-ships.
“She’s gonna ram us!” someone shouted unnecessarily, for it was obvious to all.
Now they could see the crew of the other craft. Around thirty strong, they were a cut-throat bunch armed with a variety of weapons ranging from swords and daggers to axes and lances, but mercifully not a firearm in sight.
“We have superior firepower,” Svenson murmured to himself.
Drake Senior could see the pirates appeared to be of indeterminate nationality. Predominantly light-skinned, their features were a mix of African, European and possibly Asian. In fact, they were a mix of all these and more. They were the last remnants of the feared Barbary Coast pirates – the privateers who operated out of North Africa and who, since the Sixteenth Century, had struck fear in the hearts of voyageurs throughout the Mediterranean and down West Africa’s Atlantic seaboard and beyond.
“No-one shoots until I give the word,” Kemp reminded everyone.
Too late. A very nervous Simpson fired his musket at the enemy craft. The shot went wide.
“I said no-one shoots till I say so!” the former colonel repeated. Kemp was exerting the authority the first mate had given him now that conflict was imminent. This gave Drake Senior and the others some confidence: Kemp was clearly no stranger to conflict.
The men could only watch as the bow of the other vessel rammed into Minstrel’s side. There was an awful cracking of timbers followed by the sounds of women’s screams from below.
“Fire!” Kemp shouted.
A dozen musket shots rang out almost in unison accompanied by small arms fire. Drake Senior saw five pirates fall in the first volley. He was pretty sure he’d shot one of them. Certainly, the pirate he’d aimed at had been struck down. The clergyman didn’t realized it, but the pirate he thought he’d shot was the pirates’ leader. This would be fortuitous for the men aboard Minstrel for, although outnumbered, they were now fighting a leaderless enemy.
The pirates threw grappling irons over Minstrel’s near rail, to secure the two brigantines together, then began swarming aboard, swinging their cutlasses at anything that moved. Fierce fighters, they found themselves seriously disadvantaged in the face of firearms. Four more were felled by musket and small arms fire. Nevertheless, they had some success. Three of Minstrel’s defenders including the steward’s assistant, a lad of only eighteen, were killed.
“Stay together!” Kemp shouted. Having positioned the men close together so they could cover each other’s backs, he was anxious they not become separated.
In the saloon below deck, the women and children huddled together fearfully listening to the sounds of battle raging above. Using tables and chairs, they’d barricaded themselves in, in case the pirates prevailed and came looking for them. Many were crying.
Hiding her own fear, Susannah led the women in prayer. The other women took strength from this. Knowing she was the clergyman’s daughter, and a determined young lady to boot, the others automatically turned to her for comfort. Susannah recited the Lord’s Prayer with all the confidence she could muster, all the while hoping her father survived the violence on deck.
On the bulkhead above deck, as he furiously reloaded his pistol, Drake Senior noted Captain Mathers was giving a good account of himself despite his hung-over state. Armed with pistol and sword, the captain shot one pirate then dispatched another with a blade through the chest.
The rotund German cook Hans Schmidt was also proving an asset. Schmidt shot one pirate then, wielding a cutlass, despatched two more overboard. They were quickly taken by the sharks that were now circling the two brigantines. More sharks arrived and a feeding frenzy quickly developed.
Much of the gunfire was wayward as many of Minstrel’s men were using their weapons in anger for the first time. Some however – like Kemp, Mathers and Schmid
t – were no strangers to violence and were making their presence felt. For every defender struck down, two or three pirates fell.
Three pirates came at Drake Senior and Svenson. The clergyman shot one between the eyes; the second mate shot the other at point-blank range. The third pirate, a fearsome character with a sword in each hand, advanced on them before either man could reload. With one thrust of the sword in his right hand he ran the blade through Svenson’s chest, mortally wounding him, and with his other sword he slashed Drake Senior diagonally across the abdomen. The wound went deep, gravely wounding the clergyman who was catapulted backwards onto the deck. He landed heavily and lay there groaning.
The pirate turned his attention back to the second mate who was raising his musket, club-like, for one final act before departing this world. Before Svenson could bring the musket down, the pirate decapitated him with a single slash of the sword he’d just used against Drake Senior.
Svenson’s head rolled along the deck. The sight of it galvanized the surviving defenders into action. Led impressively by Kemp, they fought with a fury most never knew they possessed.
Simpson was one of a number who both distinguished himself and surprised himself at the same time. After priming and firing his musket twice more and failing to find his target even once, the missionary threw the weapon aside, picked up a fallen cutlass and quickly despatched two pirates over the side. He’d collected a minor head wound for his trouble, but so far was otherwise unharmed.
Gradually, the tide turned and the surviving pirates were forced to back-peddle. One by one, they leapt the short distance back to their own brigantine. As soon as the grappling irons had been disengaged, a dozen pirates manned the oars and began rowing away from Minstrel as fast as they could.
