Old Glory

by Christopher Nicole

  The surgeon nodded. ‘That complexion is sometimes caused by a virulent fever, and a most contagious one. No one knows where it arises, but it can destroy a company of soldiers in a week.’

  ‘My God!’ Paul exclaimed. ‘Then we are all at risk.’

  ‘If it is the yellow fever, certainly. You are all dead men. And the authorities will thus consider you and your ship a source of contamination and no doubt burn the vessel, if not yourselves. However … I do not think it is the yellow fever.’

  ‘You’ll have to explain that.’

  The surgeon shrugged. ‘Your captain has been sick too long; yellow fever does not waste time in killing men. Then, his temperature was never sufficiently high. And then again …’ he gave a half smile, ‘you should have died yourself, and your crew, days ago. Had I truly thought it was, how do you say … Yellow Jack, I would not have attended him this past week. I have a wife and family, monsieur.’

  ‘Then what can it be?’ Harry demanded, standing at Paul’s shoulder.

  ‘There are other parts of the human body which, when diseased, can turn a man yellow. Feel here.’

  He rolled the dead captain on his side, and squeezed the flesh between the shoulder and thigh. Cautiously John Paul followed his example. ‘My God,’ he said. ‘What is in there? Some kind of rock in his gut?’

  ‘That is his liver,’ the surgeon said. ‘It is far bigger than it should be. Swollen, eh? I think his death, and the colour, may have come from that. I have seen a death like this before. So, if you would avoid such misfortune, Mr Paul, I suggest that you put me ashore, and without a word to a soul take your ship to sea. When you are well offshore, consign this unfortunate cadaver to the deep and continue about your business.’

  ‘And suppose you are mistaken, and it is Yellow Jack, after all?’ Paul inquired.

  The surgeon gave another of his shrugs. ‘Then, monsieur, as I have explained, you are undoubtedly already a dead man.’ He looked at Harry. ‘And your crew, also.’

  *

  The body of Captain Abner Dowding, sewn up in a piece of spare canvas, and weighted with lead ballast from the hold, slid over the side of the Carolina Wind and plunged into the clear blue waters of the Caribbean Sea. The watching men saw it descend for several feet before it disappeared.

  ‘May God have mercy on his soul,’ John Paul said. He replaced his tricorne, and turned to face the assembled crew, who shuffled their feet and also replaced their caps.

  The ship, yards backed, rolled in the low swell some ten miles off Martinique; the peak of the volcano of Pelee was still clearly visible. It was early afternoon, and the rain had come and gone; now the sky was blue and the wind no more than gentle.

  ‘Well,’ Paul said. ‘As of now I am captain of this vessel. Mr Lucas, you will be First Mate instead of Second. As Second Mate, I am appointing Mr McGann here.’

  The men stared at Harry. Not only had he only been on board for twenty-four hours, and regarded in that time merely as a friend of the First Mate, but he still wore only his loincloth, there being no clothes on board to fit him.

  ‘Mr McGann has sailed with me before,’ Paul went on, watching their expressions. ‘And is admirably qualified for the position.’

  ‘And none of us are, is that it?’ asked a voice. John Paul continued to gaze along the line of faces. ‘In my opinion, no,’ he said. ‘And it’s my opinion that counts now. Now then, I am afraid that our fortnight in Fort-de-France not only means that we have missed the Leewards crop, but that we are dangerously close to the onset of the storm season in these parts. All that will be left in Eustatius will be the dregs, hardly worth our while wasting the time to collect. I therefore intend to return to Norfolk and trade the coast until the hurricane winds have blown themselves out.’

  ‘There’ll be scant profit in that,’ someone muttered.

  ‘Can’t be helped,’ Paul said. ‘It was God’s will that Captain Dowding should be taken ill.’

  ‘And is it also God’s will that we return to our families with empty pockets?’ someone else asked. ‘Sail with you and Captain Dowding, you told us, and we’d make our fortunes. Now our holds are empty. God helps those what helps themselves, I’ve always heard said.’

  ‘And just how were you thinking of helping yourself, Mr Martin?’ Paul inquired, his voice quiet.

  The seaman called Martin pointed back to the distant peak. ‘Fort-de-France is full of ships. Some loading sugar, some loading other things besides. And we’re sitting here with nothing to do. We could as well sit here a day or two longer, until one of them Froggies comes out.’

  ‘You are proposing piracy,’ Paul told him. ‘What’s the odds? You can’t pirate a Frenchie. We been fighting them Frogs since time began.’

  ‘Unfortunately, the two countries are at present at peace,’ Harry pointed out.

  ‘Who’s to know?’ Martin asked. ‘They could be at war again by now, and us not hearing of it yet.’ He turned to face the crew. ‘So who’s for a touch of the Jolly Roger, now, and a nice fat profit at the end of it?’

  ‘Aye,’ a man said.

  ‘Aye,’ said another, to be followed by a chorus of ayes.

  John Paul glanced at Harry, then at Lucas, who chewed his lip uncertainly. Then he stepped forward. ‘You seem to be forgetting there’s a captain on this ship,’ he said. ‘I make the decisions.’

  The crew looked at him, and then at Martin. Who grinned. ‘You don’t want to go making decisions, Mr Paul, until you’ve got the hang of the job. You just shut your eyes to this decision. Keep to your cabin and we’ll do the job. We’ll even give you a share of the profit, you keeps your mouth shut.’ His grin widened. ‘If you won’t, well, maybe the lads and I will elect a new captain.’

  The two men stared at each other, and then Paul looked past the mutineer at the rest of the crew. There was no doubt who they would support. And if Harry knew Paul could count on him, he was less sure of Lucas. Yet Paul would never surrender to the threat of mutiny, he was sure. He tensed his muscles, looked for a possible weapon — these men would be far less likely than the Indians to be overawed by his sheer size — and felt the tension drain away in consternation, as, without another word, Paul turned and went through the hatchway leading down to the cabin.

  Martin’s grin became a guffaw. ‘There, now,’ he said. ‘That’s the way to deal with recalcitrant officers, lads.’

  The crew gave a cheer.

  Harry just could not believe what he had seen. That Paul would back away from a fight … he did not know what to do himself. How to react. He felt sick.

  ‘So what part do you mean to play in this, Irish?’ Martin inquired. ‘You can go below too, if you choose; we’ll tell you when you can come up and start playing at being Second Mate. Or you can get over the side and do one of your swimming tricks; it’s only ten miles to land.’ Proving that he had heard all about Harry’s past. ‘Or you can give us a hand.’

  Harry gazed at him, his brain in a turmoil. His instinct was to seize the man and throttle him. But what then, if he could not even count on Paul’s support?

  Martin gave a contemptuous shrug, and turned away. ‘So here’s my orders,’ he said. ‘We’ll just lie here, hove to, and taking it easy, until we sees a worthwhile looking sail coming out of Fort-de-France, eh? Then we’ll move. Meanwhile, as I’m in command, I issue an extra ration of rum to all hands. Save the Captain. He don’t deserve it.’

  The men gave another cheer, which suddenly tailed away in a curious fashion. Harry, gazing at them, turned to look aft, and felt his heart give an enormous leap. Martin frowned, and also turned, to gaze at John Paul, who had re-emerged from the hatchway. Now he wore his blue shore-going coat and his new tricorne hat, again usually only worn ashore. Round his waist was a heavy leather belt, and over his shoulder a leather baldric; from the baldric there hung his sword, and in the belt were thrust two pistols. In his right hand he carried another sword, and in his left, two more pistols.

  ‘Are you crazy, man?�
�� Martin asked, but he licked his lips in sudden apprehension.

  ‘Harry!’ Paul said, and tossed the sword. Harry caught it easily enough. He knew nothing of weapons beyond his father’s rifle and the squirrel gun he had himself owned in Tramore. But a sword in his massive grasp looked a fearsome weapon.

  ‘You, sir,’ Paul said, taking a step towards Martin, ‘are under arrest for mutiny. Put him in irons.’

  Martin glared at him, then gave a brief bark of laughter, and turned back to face his fellows. ‘You’ll not obey this white-livered scab,’ he said. ‘He ain’t got the guts of a peacock.’ He faced Paul again. ‘Give over, mate. Drop those weapons you don’t know how to use. We’ll tell you when you can strut that deck.’

  He took a step towards Paul, and the little Scotsman levelled his first pistol, now held in his right hand, and shot him through the head.

  *

  There was a moment of absolute silence, as the echo of the explosion dwindled into the distance. Martin lay on the deck, his face an unrecognisable mess of blood and shattered bone. Mr Lucas fell to his knees beside him, as if in prayer. The rest of the crew bunched closer together, as the Caribs had done when faced with the superior force and determination of Harry. Harry himself prepared for action, the sword thrust forward.

  But there was no action. John Paul thrust the still smoking pistol into his belt, and drew another. ‘Who’s next?’ he inquired.

  The crew needed only a moment’s reflection. ‘He was a bad one, that Martin, Captain Paul,’ someone said.

  ‘Oh, aye, a bad ’un,’ others agreed.

  ‘So you’ll return to your duty,’ Paul told them. ‘Take this carrion and prepare it for burial. Then stand down.’

  He watched them go forward, carrying the dead body of Martin with them, then turned back to the hatch. ‘Harry!’

  Harry went below with him. In the cabin, Paul laid the sword and pistols on the table, took off his belts, remained standing above them, his shoulders hunched. ‘I have killed a man,’ he said.

  ‘Have you not before?’ Harry asked.

  ‘To my knowledge, no. He was unarmed.’

  ‘He was a mutineer,’ Harry reminded him, gently.

  ‘He was unarmed. But that is not the worst of it, Harry. I went on deck to kill him, no matter what he did. I was angry. I had murder in my heart.’

  ‘I have had murder in my heart,’ Harry said. ‘And killed for it.’

  ‘Savages.’

  ‘Men.’

  Paul slowly straightened. ‘So what’s to be done now?’

  ‘Your duty. Which as captain of this ship, you have already done.’

  ‘And what of my duty to Mr Jones, as master of his ship? That man was right, there’s the problem. This voyage will show a total loss, if we return now. Times are too hard for that.’

  Harry frowned. ‘You’d go a-pirating yourself?’

  ‘If I have to. But on my terms, not those of that scum forward. I’ll not fight the French. For a Scot, or an Irishman, that would be too much like robbing your own brother. But there’s a Spaniard in that harbour. She’s been there almost as long as we were, having repairs done to a sprung foremast. Yesterday I reckoned she was about ready to sail; they were taking on fresh water and green vegetables. She’s no ordinary trader, Harry. She was from the mainland, and bound for Cadiz when she ran into the squall which damaged her. She neither loaded nor unloaded all the while she waited in Fort-de-France. Now, what do you suppose might be in her hold?’ Harry grinned. ‘It’d be a treat to find out.’

  ‘Then you’ll sail with me?’

  ‘I don’t reckon I have a friend in the world, John, saving for my family, and you. And my family are beyond my reach, right this minute. I’d like you to be sure what you’re about, though. Great Britain is at peace even with Spain. There’ll be protests, and accusations …’

  ‘Which will take months, maybe years, to get back to Norfolk, Virginia. And will be ignored then. It may mean the French ports will be closed to you, but I’ve no wish to make them regular calls anyway. There’s no way any Dutchman is going to take offence with us for relieving a Spaniard of some silver. But Harry, that’s all we’re going to do. There’ll be no killing, save a man opposes us with weapons in his hand. They can have the ship once we’ve taken what we want and spiked their guns. And if there are any women on board, they’ll be treated right. And I’ll shoot the first man who argues that.’

  Women, Harry thought. In Fort-de-France he had carefully looked the other way whenever an exquisitely dressed French lady had passed him by. But he had looked away from the noirs and the cafe-au-laits as well. He had spent a year with a Carib. He would never dare look any other woman in the face again.

  ‘If I hadn’t have reckoned that would be your attitude, Captain Paul,’ he said. ‘I’d not be aboard.’

  *

  William Jones was a tall, thin man, with a somewhat lugubrious face in repose, but a rare lightening of the gloom whenever he smiled, which was often enough. And he was smiling now. ‘Silver bullion,’ he said. ‘And pearls. Oh, I’ll not ask where you found it, John Paul, providing you’ll assure me it was no Virginia vessel.’

  ‘It was not, sir,’ Paul said.

  ‘I’d like to be sure there was no bloodshed, either.’

  ‘Two flesh wounds, Mr Jones,’ John Paul told him. ‘We had the advantage of complete surprise. The Dons thought we were in distress until we were actually alongside.’

  ‘Hush. You have already said too much. But I congratulate you, most heartily. And look forward to hearing some more of your adventures, Mr McGann, where they were not of a piratical nature. You’ll be seeking a permanent berth?’

  ‘He has one, with your permission, sir,’ John said. ‘As my First Mate.’

  Jones raised his eyebrows. ‘There’s Lucas.’

  ‘Not the man for me, sir. I’ll take Harry.’

  ‘And what do you say to that, Mr McGann?’

  ‘I’d be deeply honoured, Mr Jones.’

  ‘Then consider it done. You’ll come out to the plantation and take dinner when the ship is put to rights. We’ve things to discuss.’

  ‘When we’ve got Harry fitted out with some decent gear,’ John Paul said. ‘He’s a shocking sight right this minute.’ He grasped Harry’s hand. ‘You and I, Harry McGann, we’ll sail the seas together until Kingdom Come. I reckoned when I first clapped eyes on you, in that scoundrel O’Hare’s tavern, that you’d make my fortune. And by God, I was right, despite the Royal Navy. Now, let me make yours in turn.’

  A fortune. What he had always dreamed of. To be sure, what constituted a fortune was relative to a man’s birth and expectations. William Jones, for instance, was a truly wealthy man. His house, huge and four square, protected from the rain by a many pillared portico, perhaps lacked the elegance of Squire O’Rourke’s — but all the acres owned by the Squire O’Rourke could have been placed in one corner of the Jones Plantation, and forgotten. Jones’ wealth was neither inherited nor gained from sharp speculation; it was obtained from the land he had cleared and the cotton crop he had planted, and was displayed in his hundreds of Negro slaves — his ships and the men who sailed them were no more than adjuncts of that wealth. He could snap his fingers and have twenty men bowing and twenty women curtseying, eager to anticipate his next whim. Harry found this less than edifying, personally, and more than a little hypocritical. He could not reconcile the human omnipotence of a Virginian planter with the fiercely expressed determination of those same planters not to be treated as slaves by German George and his Parliament in Whitehall.

  It was, however, an ambivalence which was difficult to air, in Virginia. He only ever sought to do so with John Paul, because of the closeness of their relationship. But the Scot was apparently not troubled at all. ‘You’d not rank a Negro with a white man, now would you, Harry? Any more than you’d treat those Caribs as humans.’

  ‘Any more than an Englishman treats an Irishman as human, or a Navy captain trea
ts his men?’ Harry asked.

  ‘The difference is that, whatever your persuasion, English and Irish, officers and men, they’re all Christians. Not savages. And savages have some uncommonly unpleasant habits, as you should know.’

  ‘I also know that we have some uncommonly unpleasant habits, John.’

  For a moment Paul’s eyes flashed. Then he smiled. ‘I’ll not quarrel with you, Fighting Harry McGann. I’ll never do that. I would but ask you to consider that there is an ordained nature of things. As far as any of us can see, it is ordained by God, that some men shall be superior to others. You can go against men, Harry McGann. But surely you cannot go against the rule of God.’

  ‘And do you not suppose that Cromwell and his Puritans had the same problem a hundred years ago?’ Harry asked. ‘Seeing as how they were brought up to believe that the divine right of the Kings was ordained by God?’ Then he had laughed himself, to end the quarrel; there was a total absurdity in an Irishman holding up Cromwell, who had to be the greatest mass murderer of Irishmen in history, as an example of anything except the best way to hang a felon.

  He trusted John Paul absolutely, and had no doubt at all that whatever he said to so close a friend was held in the utmost confidence. Yet his feelings were undoubtedly obvious to all who observed him closely, and thus certainly to the Jones family. But this was a very limited circle; William Jones and his handsome wife were two of those people cursed by a natural law which not even total belief in their own superiority could overcome — they were childless. And therefore lonely. Thus Jones undoubtedly looked on John Paul as more than just a sea captain, for they were actually distantly related, Harry grasped, and when Jones had rescued Paul from a beachcombing life after the boy had fled Scotland for some undisclosed crime several years before, it had been in the spirit of kingship more than charity. Since that moment a considerable degree of intimacy had grown up between them, for all that Jones undoubtedly recognised his cousin’s faults. Harry soon came to recognise them as well, but with John Paul it was a simple matter to separate the vice from the virtue, and seek only the latter. The Scot was a consummate seaman, a man of the utmost determination, as bold as the British bulldog he affected to despise, and at sea, a very model of behaviour. John Paul in port was as often as not a drunken debauchee, who sought only the vilest class of women and the cheapest of whisky. Faults which William Jones overlooked simply because he had grown to love and value the man.