And Edward had to report to President Madison that the Americans gave up the ship.
Tarot: THE NINE OF PENTACLES
Revelation: May experience enthusiasm and
interest in a new field of work.
A fact Peter soon realized: pay for both the recruited and the impressed sailors ran months, even years, in arrears.
Another reality: One out of every four sailors deserted His Majesty’s Navy.
So: Peter Sidney, impressed at Penshurst Village, deserted. Like the hundreds before him, he jumped overboard and swam away.
The flat and low coral island was beautiful. Peter began walking along the sandy white beach while the surf gently lapped at the shore. He noted turtles and a couple of very long lizards sunning themselves among the lavender-colored succulents. Farther inland, he found salt ponds studded with mangroves, and wading flamingos, herons, and terns. Cattle, donkeys, and inquisitive goats helped themselves to water in the chalky puddles or sought shade under the white-flowered trees. It was an ideal place, thought Peter, where ships might stop to take on supplies. At least, that was what he was hoping. In the meantime, though he knew it was a silly comparison, he felt as if he were the hero of his favorite book, Robinson Crusoe.
It was his third day on the island when he saw the pirates. He crouched behind one of the trees, hugging its root system, as if to blend in. He felt something pecking at the back of his shirt. It tickled. Not wanting to move, Peter tried to ignore it. Then he brushed his hand behind his back, hoping it would stop.
It didn’t. Finally spinning around, Peter found himself looking into the eyes of a goat.
Peter tried to swat at it. “Scoot! Scoot! Go away!” he hissed.
It looked at him, seemingly unperturbed, and then it bleated.
“Shove off, now, I say!”
No effect. Another bleat.
“Ahoy, mates! Look what we have here!”
Peter looked up from his crouch to see a giant of a man, brightly dressed, arms akimbo, glaring down at him menacingly. Three men were with him; one had a pistol drawn. Peter quickly got up, eyes wide, raising his arms in surrender.
The pirates surrounded him, scrutinizing him closely.
“I suspect it’s one of them English king’s sailors. Wonder where his ship is,” observed the man with the pistol.
“Just looks like a bilge rat to me!” another responded.
Peter remembered the slop buckets in the bilge on the Royal Navy’s ship. It was considered the filthiest dead space for obvious reasons. Bilge rat: not a nice comparison; not a good start.
“Well, mates,” said the giant, folding his arms across his immense chest, “what shall we do with him?”
“Wait!” sputtered Peter.
“Yessssss?”
“I’m Peter Sidney from Penshurst Village in Kent, England. I escaped from the British Navy. Perhaps I can be of service to you. I am a carpenter!”
The large man looked at Peter, and a rumble started in his stomach and grew into another booming exclamation.
“A carpenter, you say! Well, today’s your lucky day, Peter Sidney. Our carpenter, Jack, has a bursted belly from lifting one of his own barrels. Didn’t realize how heavy it was, I guess. What do you say, mates?”
“Aye!” They all nodded.
And Peter was led off to yet another ship.
Tarot: THE SIX OF WANDS
Revelation: Good news and conquest.
September 1813
“Come in, Edward.”
“Mr. President. It’s a message from Commodore Oliver Perry.”
“Good news from Lake Erie?”
“Yes, sir. The commodore’s words: ‘We have met the enemy, and he is ours.’ The British Lake Erie squadron has surrendered.”
“This is a first, Edward. Never before has an entire British naval squadron surrendered. Outstanding!”
“Yes, sir. We have taken more prisoners than Commodore Perry had men onboard.”
“And the captured vessels?”
“Two ships, two brigs, one schooner, and one sloop. All brought back to Presque Isle.”
“Excellent! Not only will that secure the northern borders of Ohio, Pennsylvania, and western New York, but it will make it much more difficult for the English to supply Detroit.”
“This may be the turning point in the battle for the West, sir.”
“Indeed, Edward. Commodore Perry should receive some sort of medal for his heroic achievement!”
Tarot: THE SIX OF SWORDS
Revelation: Passage away from difficulties.
It was Peter’s fourth, uneventful day as a pirate aboard the Dorada, and he was inspecting the inside of the hull for any minor battle damages. He was also brooding about his fate again, when he heard Bartholomew playing a lively jig on an accordion.
As Peter watched several men laughing and dancing, his mood lifted. One of the fellows beckoned to him to join them. His spirit soared even more when they began singing a familiar tune with ribald lyrics. As each sailor added a verse, Peter’s frame of mind became more buoyant.
When his turn came, he enthusiastically delivered, “And now for number eight, and she says, ‘You’re my best mate!’”
His new peers joined in, bellowing happily, “Roll me over in the clover; do it again!”
A few tunes later, Bartholomew took a break and Peter went over to talk to the musician. “Great entertainment, Bart! Wonder if you know a little ditty from my homeland; don’t know the words, but I could whistle a few bars. . . .” Peter began to pucker up.
Bartholomew reached out to grab his shoulder. “No you don’t, Peter. Whistling onboard will curse us with a terrible storm!”
“Really?”
Bartholomew’s nod was stern. “Aye!”
“Good to know.”
“Try humming the tune, though; I can play by ear. Always looking for new music. That’s my job. Keep the boys from getting bored; don’t want them getting drunk. So if my music keeps them moving, makes them merry, then this ship is run efficiently.”
“You’re a valuable member of the crew!”
“Thanks, but certainly not as crucial as you, Peter! We’re lucky to have found you, since Jack is still recuperating from his hernia. All of us depend on your keeping the ship’s leaky seams in check!”
“Keeps me busy—lots of wood around and beneath us!”
“And you may even be asked to fill in as a surgeon if we go into battle!”
“What? I can’t possibly; why, I wouldn’t know what to do. . . .”
“Think about it: you have similar tools and cutting experience. If we have many wounded, who else? That happened a couple of times when I was sailing on merchant ships out of Boston.”
“Boston? You’re an American?”
“Aye, but when President Jefferson started the embargo, I was unemployed. That’s why I signed on a coastal trader headed for New Orleans. Now, that’s a dancing town! Those Creoles can always find a reason for a party or a ball: weddings, baptisms, holy days—even after a funeral! I’m not a churchgoer, but I sure like how religion’s practiced in New Orleans, compared with Boston. I’ll never go back there! But I missed the sea and signed on with Captain Lafitte.”
Changing the subject, Bartholomew said, “You seem to be adapting well, Peter; you apparently approve of our privateering.”
“Privateering? So, that’s what you call it!” Peter laughed.
“Of course! We’re merchants operating private armed vessels. We’ve been given a letter of marque. It’s a document that authorizes us to capture the ships of that country’s enemies. Therefore, the crews of such ships are also called privateers—not pirates.”
“What country hired the Dorado?”
“The Republic of Cartagena.”
“Never heard of it.”
“It’s on the northwest coast of South America. Declared itself independent of Spain in 1811.”
“But what about the loot you take from other foreign ships?”
&n
bsp; “Yes, well . . . that all ends up in New Orleans, too, and the proceeds are divided among the crew. You’ll see! But whatever you call it, you’re feeling more comfortable within our operation?”
“Definitely! Much better than I did in the English navy. Although,” he added, “some things are the same.”
“Like what?”
“Well, the crucial jobs of the gunners, sailing masters, boatswains, carpenters, and surgeons are also held by the most skilled. And some of your rules are the same as those of King George’s vessels.”
“Such as?”
“Drunkenness and gambling for money are both forbidden, fire safety is imperative, and weapons have to be well maintained and fit for service at all times.”
“Same rules on the merchant ships, and of course they make sense! And there are differences?”
“Absolutely. The captain of the Dorada was elected by the crew members, as well as the rest of the officers. And although breaking the rules leads to punishment, the crew decides the severity.”
“Aye. Each of us has an equal voice in the affairs of the ship, as well as an equal share in the captured loot. That’s different, and better than the merchant ships, too.”
“Also, there’s more free time. Unless I’m busy cleaning and repairing my weapons, doing my carpenter’s mending, or needed for normal ship maintenance—”
“And don’t forget raiding!”
“Right. Raiding . . . Hmmm.”
“Don’t worry about it, Peter. But you were saying?”
“There’s more free time. I can play cards, checkers, or backgammon, dance, sleep, or talk, whenever I want.”
Yes, Peter thought, the pirates’ code of conduct is simple and fair, and I have willingly sworn my allegiance.
Of course, if I hadn’t, I would be marooned on a deserted island with only one bottle of water, a pistol, powder, and shot.
Still, Peter missed his home in Penshurst. He felt like an outsider. The other crew members were cautious around him; many of them were French or Spanish and did not like the English. I wonder if they think King George impressed me to decrease the number of inmates in English jails.
Plus, although the crew had gathered provisions on “his” island, he surmised that eventually the food aboard the Dorada was bound to be like that of the Royal navy. I’ll wager this food, too, will be meager, pickled, and infested.
Last but not least, he worried about the ship. It could sink!
Bartholomew broke into his thoughts.
“You’re frowning now, Peter. What’s the matter?”
“Huh? Oh. Sorry, Bart. To be honest, I don’t really feel like I belong yet, but I hope to. There’s a sense of trust, respect, and, of course, freedom onboard here. It’s a fellowship like my pals in Penshurst have.”
“Give it time, Peter. They’ll get used to you.”
“Good.” He smiled. “So, besides sinking—”
“Won’t happen!”
“Or being killed in battle, what’s the worst that could happen?”
“You could be captured by a ship of another country’s navy and impressed or even hung.”
Seeing Peter frown again, Bart patted him on the back. “Don’t worry. Our leader, Jean Lafitte, is smart and shrewd. We’ll be home in a couple more days, and you’ll meet him.”
“Home?” asked Peter.
“Yes! Before you joined us, we picked up some slaves and goods from a Spanish ship. They’ll be auctioned off to plantation owners when we get to Barataria, which is our home.”
“Where is it?”
“Barataria Bay is south of the city of New Orleans, in the new state of Louisiana in the United States.”
“And the American government allows this auction?”
“Absolutely not!” Bartholomew laughed. “Governor Claiborne despises Jean Lafitte. The auctions are held secretly, but they’re well attended. The Louisiana Creoles love our goods. They can’t import them legally, because of the war and embargo, so business is good.”
“Besides the auctions, what else is there to do?”
“The city of New Orleans has plenty of pleasures for a fellow like you, Peter! Do you like Opera? Theater? Cockfighting? Billiards? The racetrack? But first you’ll need to take care of the Dorada. She has to be careened.”
“Careened?”
“Don’t worry—we’ll all be helping you. Several times a year, during low tide, the ship is turned on her side and secured. Then, under the carpenter’s supervision, we carefully scrape all the seaweed and barnacles off the bottom of her hull. Come high tide, she flows back into the water.”
“And is able to sail faster without all the critters and muck hanging on?”
“Right. As privateers, we spend a great deal of time cleaning and repairing—not only the ship, but also our weapons. Which reminds me: you’ll need to get yourself a boarding ax to slash through rope netting, and several pistols. Some of the seamen carry six at a time in a sash slung over their shoulder—keeps their hands free for fighting, you know. And maybe a musket, which you can always use as a club. Your choice.”
“Oh. Yes. About the raiding; I, um, don’t really know much about weaponry. . . .”
“You will. And actually, although we’re well armed and always ready to attack, we also have four to five times more men than you’ll find on a merchant ship. We only want to terrorize them and capture the ship and its cargo. We don’t want to spill blood for a sunken ship and cargo, especially the ship, if we decide to take it. So it’s best if we can scare them into cooperating. And they usually do. You’ll see.”
Peter nodded slowly, thinking, Not soon, I hope!
“Now, how ’bout another tune?” Bartholomew began playing a few chords. “One of my favorites; it’s called ‘Yankee Doodle.’”
Tarot: THE SEVEN OF CUPS
Revelation: Scattered energies
in many dreams and desires.
Jacques’s visit, short as it was, made Marguerite quite animated. The following day, against Sheila’s advice, she insisted upon getting up early and taking on her responsibilities as a plantation owner’s wife. After breakfast in bed—two slices of cane syrup–soaked pain perdu—she made a couple of changes to the cook’s dinner menu. Bounding out of bed, she enthusiastically selected a favorite, light-colored frock to wear. Meanwhile, Sheila continued her warnings.
“You’re not well enough, Marguerite. You need more rest. What’s the hurry? At least another week, now . . .”
Marguerite ignored Sheila’s admonitions and hummed to herself as her maid tightened her corset. The conical stays pressed her breasts upward, and although her waistline had not quite returned to its prepregnancy shape, the newly popular empire style would camouflage her midriff nicely. She stepped into the dress and twirled around with a smile.
“See, Mother? Good as new! I’m ready to help Jacques with the plantation.”
“You do look lovely, Marguerite, but there’s no need to rush into things,” Sheila repeated. “The most important task you have is to make sure you’re strong and healthy to become pregnant again.”
“I’m fine, and my husband needs me! If you could have seen how sad he was to see me still in bed . . . Bless his heart, he did not want to wear me out, so he did not stay long, but I know he misses me. We are a team. I must not let him down! I know you have overseen the domestic responsibilities during my recuperation, Mother, and I thank you. But I’m ready and able now.”
Sheila seemed to grasp that Marguerite was determined to take on her duties, so she did not argue any further.
“In fact,” her daughter continued, “I think we shall have a party. It’s been so long since we’ve had laughter in this house. Yes—a fine celebration! The men will hunt, the women will play tennis, and at night we will all dance. We’ll have a feast: fried oysters, pheasant, quail, salads, and fruitcake. Oh, won’t that be fun, Mother? Jacques will be so pleased. I can’t wait to tell him!”
Marguerite danced out of her bedroom,
eager to find Jacques. She spotted him outside, behind the main house, with his servant Tobias, watching some workers build a new row of slave cabins.
She stopped to observe her husband and slave for a minute. With their hats on, they were almost identical from behind. Both were close to six feet in height, slim, and brawny. The two also had a sort of vibrant energetic aura, which was very apparent during their animated discussions. And, she thought, each was handsome in his own way. Jacques had reddish-blond hair topping his tanned complexion and complemented by his remarkable green eyes; Tobias had thick, wavy, sable-colored hair; a lustrous, dark complexion; and large, burnt umber–like eyes.
They had grown up together; Tobias’s parents had been house slaves for Jacques’s folks. The boys were inseparable as playmates. Tobias also learned how to read and write with Jacques; the tutor found both students capable, competent, and competitive, and the fact that they challenged each other enhanced their performances. Tobias also had a flair for numbers, as well as farming. After Jacques’s parents passed away, the young master often conferred with Tobias when planning additions to or changes in the plantation.
And, Marguerite thought, like a brother, Tobias had been there for Jacques when his parents had passed away, and, of course, when the baby had died. Jacques had no siblings; how fortunate, she thought, that he had Tobias.
Master and slave were now comfortably talking and nodding to each other. Jacques smiled at something Tobias had pointed out.
“Jacques!” she called out. “Hello!”
Jacques said something to Tobias, and the slave nodded and headed toward his quarters, which were above Jacques’s office.
“Marguerite! What a surprise!”
His wife hurried to his side and drew her arm through his. He leaned over and kissed her cheek. “You look very pretty today, dear; you must be feeling better!”
“Yes, darling, I feel wonderful and am ready to resume my role as plantation mistress. And I have the most marvelous idea: let’s have a party! I know you’re busy with these buildings and the planting, so Mother and I will take care of all the arrangements.”
The Cards Don't Lie Page 5
