Only Life That Mattered

by Nelson, James L.

  “Silence!” Lawes growled. “One more word from the prisoners and you all shall be gagged!”

  The pirates were silent, their expressions just on the safe side of insubordinate. The secretary continued on.

  Here I am . . . here I am . . .

  Jack Rackam had always wondered how it would end. Had entertained thoughts of spending his latter years in some fine house he had built with the great riches garnered in the sweet trade. Living to a venerable age with Anne by his side. Rogering the house girls when Anne’s looks deserted her. Dying peaceful in his bed. Or perhaps in one of their beds.

  Who was I bloody trying to fool? Myself?

  It didn’t end that way for men like him.

  Look at the others. Bold Charles Vane whom he had supplanted had now disappeared. Look at Edward Teach, that monster they called Blackbeard. Took five bullets, twenty sword thrusts to bring him down, but now he was dead. Fifteen of his men hanged, that idiot Stede Bonnet hanged, old Ben Hornigold thrown in with the British Navy.

  Black Sam Bellamy drowned three years back, his bones buried in the shifting sands under the waters off Cape Cod. Woodes Rogers sweeping the pirates from New Providence, using persuasion and the gallows in equal measure.

  Men like us do not die of old age.

  This was how it ended, in a Court of Admiralty, listening to the dull words that dull men wrote, “made for the more effective suppression of piracy.” Listening to descriptions of your own crimes rendered in phrases so boring that it did not seem possible they were describing actions for which you would be hung, and soon.

  Sir Nicholas Lawes turned to Chief Justice Nedham, said something which Jack did not follow—he was too distracted to understand much of what was happening—and then the women were taken away.

  Jack watched them go, wished Anne would turn and meet his eye, give him that little cock of the eyebrow that he loved, the little half smile that told him she was not afraid, that together they could beat back all the civilized world.

  But she did not look at him. She moved with a dignified grace, despite her manacled hands. Beside her, Mary did the same.

  She blames me for this, but it is not my fault. What did she think when she went out on the sweet trade?

  It was because of them, he knew, that this trial was so well attended. Who would have come to see him and his men tried? Pathetic picaroons who robbed fishing boats, they were nothing, the kind of petty thieves who were hung by the score all over the Caribbean.

  It was the women who were of interest.

  The secretary was no longer reading the interminable Act. Now Sir Nicholas was saying something and Jack looked up, sharp, in case it was something that had to do with him but it was not.

  It is my death they are debating here, and I do not even know what is acting.

  At last the President turned and looked, not at the prisoners, but near them, and said “Set the prisoners at the bar.”

  Rough, unsympathetic hands grabbed Jack’s arm, propelled him forward until he was pressed against the low rail that divided the court.

  “We shall proceed with the charges against Rackam and the others.”

  Jack glanced down at himself, at his torn and filthy clothes, now ill-fitting as well. He had grown thinner, his appetite quashed by rotten food and gnawing anxiety. The once bright calico was dingy. He could feel the irritation of a week’s growth of beard on his cheeks.

  It’s no wonder Anne won’t look at me, he thought. Come, play the man, don’t look so bloody hang-dog. He pulled himself up straight, fighting the forces that seemed to be crushing him. He could not smooth his hair, his hands were constrained by the manacles, but he gave his head a toss to get the hair over his back. He squared his shoulders, faced the judge. There.

  The crier stood, yet another sheet of paper in his hand, and read, “All manner of persons that can inform this honorable court, now sitting, of any piracies, felonies, or robberies, committed in or upon the high seas . . .”

  It was the proclamation that called for witnesses against the pirates on trial. He read it three times, and as he did, several men from the galleries stood and moved toward the bar, and they were not men that Rackam loved to see.

  There was Thomas Spenlow, captain of a schooner they had plundered. Held him two days as their prisoner, he damn well knew their faces. And with him, two Frenchmen they had taken off Hispaniola and made work aboard the ship for weeks. They would give no help to the defense. And so it went.

  The Register turned to the pirates, turned first to Jack Rackam. “What have you to say? Are you guilty of the piracies, robberies, and felonies, or any of them, in the aforesaid articles mentioned, which have been read to you? Or not guilty?”

  “Not guilty.” It was a reflex action, like shielding your face when a pistol is fired into it, and just as useless. Still, it had to be done. Any other plea and they were done for, then and there.

  Down the line the Register went, and each of them, Corner, Fetherston, Davies, Howell, Bourn, Harwood, Dobbins, Carty, Earl, and Fenwick, each in his turn said “Not guilty.” The pleas did not raise one sound from the gallery, did not move the President’s face a fraction of an inch. It was just another formality, like the reading of the King’s Commission.

  “This Court calls one Thomas Spenlow, of Port Royal, in the Island of Jamaica, mariner, master of the schooner in the third article.”

  Spenlow stood, stepping up to the witness stand with that same shuffling gait that Jack recalled from the two days he had held the man prisoner. The Court swore him in and he told his tale.

  Oh, dear God, dear God . . . we are done for . . . Jack felt the panic welling up, the fox tearing at him with abandon. He thought of how the noose would feel around his neck, thought of his beautiful body coated in tar and hung from a gibbet as an example to all. His eyes pecked at by the birds. He thought he might be sick.

  Oh, God, it is so damned unfair . . .

  And then his more rational part had to note that it was not, in fact, unfair. Spenlow was not lying. And when the Frenchmen, Peter Cornelian and John Besneck, stood and through an interpreter gave their testimony, they did not lie either, nor did James Spatchears who had sailed in company with Barnet, who had tipped Barnet off to their location.

  John Rackam, alias Calico Jack Rackam, was guilty of piracy. He knew the punishment for that crime even before he had signed aboard his first ship.

  The testimony and deposition of the witnesses went on and on until Jack wanted to scream. It was torture of the most despicable kind. They were making the accused men stand there and endure the agony of waiting to discover what hideous fate would be theirs.

  It was just what he had been pleased to do with his own prisoners, back in the day. Jack finally got the grand joke of it, and he did not laugh.

  At last the witnesses were done and President Sir Nicholas Lawes swung his heavy face toward the pirates. “You have heard these charges and the witnesses against you. I will ask you each and severally if you have any defense to make or witnesses to swear on your behalf, or if you would have any of the witnesses who have been already sworn cross-examined. And if you do, I will tell you to propose to the Court what questions you would have asked.”

  He stared down from his cliff of a bench, his meaty face framed by the white wig. “John Rackam, have you any defense to make?”

  Jack swallowed hard. This was it, this was it, and he had not one damned thing to say. “No, my Lord.”

  “Have you any witnesses?”

  “No, my Lord.” Ah, it was the fight with Barnet all over again, cowering away, too terrified to move, submitting to inexorable fate.

  Sir Nicholas said nothing, turning his attention to Fetherston. “George Fetherston, have you any defense to make?”

  “Yes, my Lord, to say, we never committed an act of piracy, my Lord, and we are not guilty of that what those witnesses said.”

  This was greeted with a murmur and a nodding of heads from the other pirates, and Jack
wondered what bloody good they thought would come of that. This was their defense, to say again that they were not guilty?

  Sir Nicholas did not look any more impressed than Jack. “Very well. Have you any witnesses to prove this . . . lamb-like innocence?” That received a chuckle from the gallery, a nice touch of levity in an otherwise dreary procedure.

  “No, my Lord.”

  “Richard Corner, have you any defense to make?”

  “Yes, my Lord.” What will he say now? Jack wondered. Why are they bothering?

  Because they are not cowards. They are fighting, not shrinking in a corner and taking it, like you did. Like you did with Barnet and like you did just now.

  “My Lord,” Corner began, his voice earnest, “I wants to say just that our designs was against the Spaniards, sir, and never did we mean to hurt a fellow Englishman, and we didn’t neither. It was just the damnable Spaniards, we was for.”

  “Very well. Have you any witnesses, or do you wish now to cross-examine those who have been already sworn?”

  “No, my Lord.”

  And so it went, with most of the pirates offering some excuse or other which only served to annoy and exasperate the Register, the Commissioners, and Sir Nicholas Lawes.

  None had witnesses to their innocence. There could be no witnesses because they were not innocent.

  When it was over the prisoners were taken from the bar, taken through the packed courtroom and out the big door at the far end of the room. Off the waiting room was another door, and this was a holding cell, and into that they were thrust while the President and the Commissioners discussed the evidence and decided on a verdict.

  In the cell were Jacob Nedham and some of the others whom Jack had forced into their company. They were not being tried with the original Pretty Annes and Jack did not know why. Perhaps the courts decided beforehand who was definitely guilty and who was possibly not guilty and tried them accordingly.

  Whatever it was, he did not have the energy to care, so he ignored them, and they ignored him. He sat down heavily on the stone bench there. The others were silent.

  Jack thought of those turning points in his life, the decisions that had led him down one path, down another, down another, and ultimately here.

  Running away from the blacksmith in Depford to whom he was apprenticed. Shipping out as cabin boy at twelve, moving from ship to ship, blowing his money on women and booze every time he was paid off at the end of a voyage. Jumping ship in Nassau and discovering the sweet trade. Deciding to throw in with Charles Vane. Choosing to manipulate the Ranger’s men, play their run-in with the French man-of-war to his advantage.

  Falling for Annie, letting her talk him into going on the account one last time.

  His life was a barrel rolling down a hill, bounding here and there off each imperfection on the ground.

  And now, the bottom of the hill, perhaps. This moment would change everything, no matter what the verdict reached.

  As if that verdict was ever in doubt.

  Jack Rackam, sitting in his holding cell, waiting to hear from nine hostile strangers whether he would live or die. Sunk lower than he had ever been before.

  He was a very different man from the Calico Jack Rackam who left the Hoorn wallowing, broken and plundered, in his wake. Quite another fellow from the one who in his exuberance was wildly making love to Anne Bonny in the great cabin, a frenzied, victorious coupling, a kind of frantic release of tension and march triumphant, all in one.

  Back from the Hoorn and by unspoken, mutual consent they had raced to the great cabin, tearing at one another’s clothes, the blood lust of the day before turned now to lust of the flesh. They had handled one another roughly, squeezing and biting, pushing each other down, growling like animals, cursing.

  And then they came together: wild, driving, moving together in perfect synchronization, him thrusting, her pushing back and forth with her legs, the sloop rolling under them in a quartering sea, it was all a perfect symmetry of motion.

  When it was over he collapsed on top of her, put the weight on his elbows so as not to crush her, felt his skin slick on hers where they pressed together. Her legs were still wrapped around him, he was still inside her. The Pretty Anne lifted and fell and rolled on the sea, swooping them along like a magic carpet, keeping them moving still, even as they lay quiet, letting their breathing return to normal.

  Jack turned his head, looked out the salt-stained stern window. The dark blue sea reared up, obstructed his view, and then moved on under them, picking the sloop’s stern end up. As they crested the wave he could see the Dutch merchantman’s masts, just three tiny dark lines against the horizon.

  She would be riding higher in the water now. Most of what she carried was stowed down in his own vessel’s hold.

  This is the pinnacle of life, he thought. This was the moment for which most common people worked and sweated and plodded and dreamed and never achieved, and it was his. He was on top, and under him—literally—a beautiful woman, a ship, his command, stuffed to the gunnels with loot.

  Anne stirred, shifted, brought her legs down, and Jack moved as well. He would have been content to lie there for hours, but Anne always became restless and wanted to move, even after he had given her a good thrumming.

  “Mmm, Jack,” she said as she came up into a sitting position, her long legs tucked under her. Her breasts looked so fine, Jack thought he might just be ready for another go in not so long a time.

  He sat up as well, gave her a kiss.

  “You should be well pleased with yourself, Calico Jack Rackam. A fine prize taken and our hold quite full. And then you boarded me with as much vigor as ever you did the Dutchman.”

  “I might only wish the Dutchman had put up so little resistance as you, my dear.”

  “Do you think me a tart, sir?” she asked, playful.

  “Aye, but my tart, and no other.”

  Her hair fell half over her face in a manner most alluring. She arched her back, stretched, brushed the hair away. “For those few we lost taking the Dutchman, you have made a fair exchange, I think.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The young lad who has come with us. Read. He is a good exchange for the others.”

  “Perhaps. We shall see.”

  “Well, he nearly bested Dicky Corner, and that is no mean feat.”

  “I said, we shall see.” Why were they talking about this whoreson Read? There was only one pirate he wished to discuss at that moment and that was himself, Calico Jack Rackam.

  “Well, you needn’t get curt, Captain Jack, I was but saying he is a fair trade.”

  “And so you said, and it needs no more saying.” His desire for another flourish was fading, and he could see from Anne’s expression that the chances of his getting one were fading as well.

  Anne’s brow furrowed and a certain look came over her face—not quite the look she had had when she sentenced her husband to death by blurting out his treason, but approaching that. Under different circumstances, Jack realized, he might be frightened of her.

  And then her expression softened as she made herself put the anger aside, and she leaned forward and put her arms around his neck. Her breasts pushed against his arm and he felt a spark of life in his groin. “Forgive me, my dear Jack. Do not think I could ever have eyes for another.”

  “No . . . I do not . . .” And in truth he didn’t. It had never occurred to him that she might find any man more desirable than him. Until that moment.

  Mary woke to the sound of the ringing bell.

  “Damn it!” She sat up, fast. Eight bells, change of watch, and she was late. It was a great sin on shipboard to be even a moment late for watch. She should have been woken ten minutes before, to be on deck at the exact moment.

  But she was on deck. She looked around, confused, let the memories settle into place.

  She was not in her bunk, she was not aboard the Hoorn. She had collapsed on the pirate’s deck, exhausted from the previous day’s fight, a
nd from breaking bulk and stowing it down aboard the pirate sloop, and from lying awake all night in indecision. She had been wrapped in a blanket of sleep so thick that she was having difficulty putting all the events in order.

  She had made her farewells to the Hoorns, shaking each man’s hand, even those who only grudgingly gave theirs, disgusted at her turning pirate. But they had been family for that short time, in the way that a ship’s crew will come together in their special bond for as long as they are at sea, and so they did not let her go with never a word.

  She had said farewell to a visibly distressed Hans Franeker. She had wanted to say more, but for all the good-byes in her life she was still not good at it, so she clapped him on the shoulder, gave him a weak smile, said “Godspeed, Hans,” and then collected her dunnage and stepped aboard the pirates’ sloop. She had joined the Brethren of the Coast.

  There was little ceremony involved. Five minutes after she had come aboard, the men were treating her as if she had been there for five years. She had proved her courage in battle, even if it was against them, and she had proved her spirit in joining with them, and that was enough.

  She had jumped into the job of getting the sloop underway, lent a hand on the sheets and halyards with the confidence of an experienced mariner, knowing where help was needed and what was needed to be done.

  Calico Jack Rackam and the woman had disappeared. Mary could see the lightning crackling between them, recognized the signs of consuming lust, and she had no doubt as to what business they were off to attend to.

  None of the others made comment, none of them seemed even to notice, so Mary concerned herself with her work and said nothing.

  An hour or so later they were back on deck, Jack and the woman, and Jack had with him a document, a great rolled piece of vellum, which he carried with impressive solemnity.

  “Here, Read, a word with you,” he called. His tone was not overly friendly, and indeed he seemed the least welcoming of all the pirate band.

  Mary put down the line she was long-splicing, stood, ambled aft, as did the others. “Yes, Captain?”