Nobody’s Child

by Andrew Wareham

  “Butcher’s bill was not cheap, Jerry.”

  “Eight dead and a score of wounded, Giles. Don’t know how many of the injured men will survive to work again.”

  We both knew that answer – in tropical waters, something like two out of three of the wounded would die or be so hurt as never to be wholly fit again.

  “What are the Navy doing?”

  We looked across to the escorting squadron, anchored in a neat line astern, everything smart and tidy. There were parties of men boarding the gunbrig that had come to our aid in the night. As we watched they climbed down ropes at the stern and into the line of boats behind her.

  “She picked up the whole of the sampans, Giles, every last one of them. By the looks of it, they are distributing them around their ships, an extra boat to any who want one.”

  It was sensible, in its way. Better than burning good boats.

  “They were ours, Jerry. Should they not at least pay for them?”

  Jerry laughed, said I was coming to understand the ways of the privateer.

  We sat at anchor for a day while Captain Marker made enquiries of the cargo that had been promised. He was offered a hundred coolies, slave labourers to be taken to Cape Town where the Dutch would buy them, the local natives not making good slaves for some reason. He knew that his crew would not be happy if he took them and turned the offer down.

  “Had it been a hundred females, I might have brought them aboard, lads, but not coolies. I’m not in the slave trade, not by any intent.”

  There was a grunt of disgusted approval. Slave trading was low.

  I still think that to be true – slave trading and slave holding are both for the scum of the world. The Americans make much of their democratic heroes, but too many of them were slavers for my taste!

  There was no gain to remaining at anchor off Whampoa which was a very low seaman’s place, brothels and shebeens and both of the lowest sort, so we sailed early of a fine morning, leaving me to reflect that I had been to China, and had seen nothing of it, other than a number of dead Chinamen. I made a vow to myself that I would get ashore next time. I did, too.

  Captain Marker called the crew together minutes before we sailed, as was his wont.

  “Not much gain to sailing across the South China Sea. I think we should keep inshore for some part at least of our voyage back to India. There are many large ports and every possibility of picking up the odd ship as we go. I intend to use the Straits of Malacca and examine the coast there as well. Never know what may come about. Back in Bombay, we have our takings waiting got us. We might well give some thought to the coasts of Africa again after that, or perhaps find another cargo for China. We shall see when we get there.”

  It was all very vague, but we were making money, and that was what we were there for.

  “What about the pirate fleet, Captain? Will they be wanting a second round with us?”

  “Why should they? They will know that we must have landed the cargo they wanted. They are in the trade for a profit, just as much as we are. They will not be bothering with revenge.”

  It seemed rational.

  There was a fine offshore breeze and we were three hours out and making the better part of ten knots when we saw the pirate fleet. Not all of them, one wing or flotilla or whatever, the better part of forty junks, which meant four thousand men. The wind made returning to the safety of Canton almost an impossibility – tacking would have brought us onto the reefs and islands of the Ladrones, almost certainly putting us ashore, to drown or be taken by the piratical inhabitants.

  The junks were in a mass, in groups of ten or twelve together and pointing up to intercept our track. It was just possible that we might cross them at close range, more likely that we would hit into the most northerly of the clumps. They were pointing up and slower than us, and none of them in the nature of things were as speedy as us, junks tending to be broad in the beam.

  Master Gunner came up on deck and took a crew to the chase gun. The rest of us looked to our own responsibilities. I had a sudden thought.

  “Jerry, those four long rifles we picked up on the African coast. We did not sell them in Bombay, as I recall.”

  They were tucked away, wrapped up in sailcloth in the gunner’s room, as a curiosity, he thought.

  “We took ball to their calibre with them, Giles. Are you a rifle shot?”

  I could not make that claim but three of the Indian men had been called marksman in their battalion and one of the boarders, a silent and unobtrusive fellow – I had to think to place his name, he was so quiet – Jabez, had been a poacher before coming away from my lord’s deer park to go to sea. The four took the rifles and quickly cleaned and loaded them, briefly discussing the best charge of powder and examining the simple knife-blade sights and shaking their heads disparagingly.

  “Forty inch barrel, Master Giles, what might be good over three ‘undred yards, on land, where a man could ‘old ‘er steady. I seen worse guns nor this, so I ‘ave. What us reckons, Master Giles, be for all four of we to choose the same little bugger to shoot at, so as to be good and sure one of us’ll get ‘im. Steersman be best, if so be us can see ‘im. Officer if not. Takes a time on the reload, bein’ so long in the barrel, so first shot got to be good.”

  Jenny Dawes was pitching a little but rolling hardly at all – they thought they might be able to shoot within reason straight. I did not expect much from them, but even a couple of successes would cheer up the men watching and waiting.

  The four took their places, each with a man at his shoulder to carry his reload flask and ball and to murmur support and advice and watch the target. I heard urgent conversation behind me and turned my attention to the boarders.

  “Lay two-to-one they don’t hit nobody, first shot.”

  “I’ll take that for a silver crown.”

  “You’re on, Bob!”

  “I got a guinea says they’ll knock down a steersman in two discharges apiece.”

  There was no taker for that wager.

  “Tight buggers! I’ll lay three gets two. What about that?”

  Maneater covered that bet.

  Inside five minutes almost every man had laid two or three different wagers, their interest in the gambling far outweighing any fear of the pirates in the junks. I decided to join in.

  “What odds will you give me that they knock down a timoneer and cause his junk to fall off course and hit another?”

  They fell silent for a few seconds, considering the chances.

  “What will ye lay, Master Giles?”

  I had to be careful there – if I bet too much and won, I might impoverish one or more of my own people. If I lost a large stake, they might think me foolish.

  “They don’t pay me much at my age, Maneater. I can find a coach wheel.”

  I pulled a large silver crown out of my pocket.

  “Five to one, Master Giles.”

  “Done, Maneater. Fred, hold my stake for me?”

  I tossed the coin across to my man. If I lost, then Maneater might find it difficult to ask me to pay up, but there would be no problem in making the demand of Fred.

  “Twenty-five bob, Fred. If needs be, I shall pay thee in Bombay.”

  All of the men’s betting was on credit – they would have spent all of their loose cash in Bombay before we sailed. Officers were expected to carry coin, however.

  We spent the better part of ten minutes on the gambling, which was a good use of time in which they might have fretted, watching the junks crawl closer and with nothing to do. Jerry caught my eye and gave a nod of approval, which I valued greatly.

  Time for business, the junks were coming closer and we had to be ready.

  “Load all! Fire the muskets to my command, a single volley. Pistols when we close. Have we any of Master Gunner’s beer bottles?”

  “He give I six of they, Master Giles.”

  Fred pointed to a little wooden crate that had appeared at his feet.

  “What I reckons, Mas
ter Giles, be to give they to the boys. Send ‘em up the masthead with ‘em and a length of slowmatch and a musketoon as well.”

  The boys had appeared in Bombay, two of them, perhaps nine or ten years of age, fair-skinned for Indians, their fathers no doubt seamen passing through the port. They had begged a place aboard, saying in understandable English that there was nothing for them in India. Captain Marker had responded in the fashion that I learned was normal, taking them aboard as makee-learn seamen.

  Jerry had commented briefly that half-caste boys were a problem in every foreign port.

  “Most ships take them on when they can. The Navy will always do so. Their sisters can always make a living, of course and the prettier boys will go the same way. For the rest… life at sea ain’t easy for ‘em, but at least they’ll be fed. Better than being out of place and unwanted on shore.”

  I agreed with Fred’s suggestion – the boys would be out of the way and useful.

  “Tell ‘em to be careful, Fred, and not to set fire to us.”

  I would have told them myself but for some reason the boys did not like me and avoided me when they could. I did not know why and never enquired – it was their choice. Fred told me on a later day that they feared me, that they thought I was a hard man and dangerous. I was almost flattered, but I was a long way from grown-up then.

  I heard Captain Marker giving helm orders and saw the seamen busy aloft. Jenny Dawes was easing across the wind, just a little, and I wondered why. Watching for a minute or two and I realised that the nearest cluster of junks was coming across our bows, that we could not avoid them but that they were straggling into a line. There were perhaps a dozen in the grouping and the faster of them were pulling away from the seven slower. I counted carefully, made just four in the lead, eleven all told – well outnumbering us for men, much short of our number of guns.

  Captain Marker’s voice was raised, good and loud.

  “All guns, shoot as you bear. In your own time, Master Gunner.”

  The nine pounder sounded from the forecastle almost immediately.

  The nearest junk was at a good five cables distant and the ball hit her in the waist. Good shooting with a cold gun and no doubt annoying her and sending a cloud of splinters through her men. Not a wound that would slow her or render her much less dangerous – I doubted not that Master Gunner had been intending to hit her lower and towards the bows where she would take on water rapidly.

  It was nearly two minutes before the chaser fired again, suggesting careful aim.

  “Better, Master Giles!”

  I agreed with Fred. The second round had holed the junk well forward and low so that she took in water as she pitched. She fell off within seconds, her master choosing to change course so that she would no longer dig her bows into the sea.

  “Forget that one, Fred!”

  Jenny Dawes yawed sufficiently to bring the broadside guns to bear and all four fired as the second junk came on line. Three balls hit towards her stern, doing some damage and no doubt killing some few of her men. The junks were closing, however and we were lost if they could get their numbers aboard us.

  The four rifles cracked all together and the damaged second junk suddenly fell into the trough, her steering lost.

  “Rollin’ ‘er guts out, Master Giles. Be on ‘er beam ends if they don’t get ‘er back quick.”

  The junk was rolling through more than ninety degrees, I thought, slowly over to port and whiplashing back to starboard, repeating the process in less than a minute.

  “She’m going to go down, Master. Must ‘ave ‘ad a gun port or suchlike open, taking water by the ton, each time, so she be.”

  The next roll took her further over and one of her four masts broke, snapped away and half of it over her side and holding her. The others went, one by one, each pulling her a little deeper, or so it seemed.

  “She’m gone, Master.”

  I pulled my eyes away from the horrible scene – I could see men in the sea around her now – and turned to the others of her flotilla.

  The rifles were firing, with less obvious success and the six pounders gave another broadside.

  “Too bloody small to do the job, Master Giles. Was they twelves, now, they’d be battering them under.”

  I agreed with Maneater’s appraisal – the junks were taking damage, but insufficient to stop them. The junks were firing small cannon now, but I could not spot the fall of their shot.

  “Bloody useless gunners, Master. They don’t spend time trainin’ they on ‘ow to do the job.”

  “They ain’t navy, Fred. No discipline. They rely on boarding, and even more on fear, so I am told. Most of their victims simply surrender and hope to survive alive at least.”

  The two fastest junks were close to our bows now and in a position to come alongside within the minutes. They were taking damage, but insufficient to sink them or kill their men.

  “Muskets! Take aim at the nearest of them. Cock your locks. Shoot!”

  The volley was effective, but not enough to stop them, then suddenly the junk fell away, steering gone, fire blooming at her stern.

  “The boys, Master Giles. They dropped one of they bottles down on the big tiller and the men heaving at it.”

  The burning junk collided with her partner, both falling away. Jenny Dawes gave them a final broadside as we passed, received a scatter of shots in return. We had the wind of the pirate fleet now and used it, disappearing out to sea.

  I heard shouting from the stern, saw men clustered there.

  “They bastards got Captain Marker, blew his bloody head off!”

  He was our sole casualty.

  Chapter Eleven

  Nobody’s Child Series

  Nobody’s Child

  “Dead, Jerry?”

  “Head blown off his shoulders, Giles. The only one of their cannonballs that came close hit him square.”

  He was interrupted by a voice from the wheel.

  “Do you want to tack, Captain Jerry?”

  The second mate, aboard for watchkeeping rather than fighting, and a good navigator, made ready to give the orders.

  “Why?”

  “Go back and sink that bastard what killed ‘im, sir.”

  “No. It would put us all at risk. No sense killing every man aboard for the sake of vengeance. Course for the Straits of Malacca and the fastest passage back to Bombay. We must pick up our cash and then decide what comes next.”

  “What about anything we see, Captain Jerry?”

  “Chase down anything we can. Run from danger. The privateer’s Bible, man – loot what’s smaller, escape from anything with teeth bigger than ours.”

  There was an explosion in our wake, nearly half a mile astern of us.

  Maneater shouted in delight.

  “Bloody junk’s blowed up, Master! The one the boys set alight with their infernal machine. And it’s taken the other one with it – they was side be side, fighting the fire together. Must have taken a powder barrel. Smashed to smithereens, so they be – no survivors there, that I’ll bet.”

  Jerry looked about him, called for the boys.

  “You two get a full share when we reach Bombay. You pulled your weight today.”

  They probably did not understand what shares were; the men took them to one side and explained. They were quite pleased, but worried that the man who had taken them aboard was dead, fearing their employment might have died with him. The men explained they were part of the crew now.

  I said nothing but had the same fear. I was aboard through the generosity of Captain Marker. With him gone, so might I be.

  We made good time westward, seeing no Dutch ships as we passed through the Spice Islands, which avoided any explanations of our nature and provenance. Eight weeks after leaving Canton we were back in Bombay. Jerry had said little to me, or anyone else, in that time, mourning his bold brother.

  “Giles, Mr Arbuthnot knows you better than me. Join me in reporting to him, if you please.”

&nbs
p; I followed Jerry into a surf boat and casually leaped out on the strand – I was becoming a seaman, at least in my agility.

  “What do ye intend, Giles?”

  “I have it in mind to remain in the Orient, Jerry. I can see the chance of making a fortune here, and I know the basics of trading and of fighting now.”

  “You are a man now, Giles, no longer the boy who came aboard last year. I have it in mind to sell Jenny Dawes – my brother and I owned her half and half and she is now mine. I am for England. The ship will put two thousand at least in my pocket and I have the whole five hundred shares as well. There is an amount in a bank in England waiting for me, our profits from the War. I shall buy a chandlery in Poole, become a storekeeper and retire from the sea, if not from robbery. I would imagine that Arbuthnot will be amenable in the way of a passage home for any of the lads who wish to go. I suspect that the total of our takings will be close to eighty thousands – so a single share will be about eighty pounds. You will be in for four hundred with your five shares. You can live like a king for six months on that, in Bombay, that is. It will give you the chance to look around.”

  We came to Mr Arbuthnot’s office and begged audience of him. Jerry reminded me to smile much and say little,

  “Mr Arbuthnot, I am Jeremiah Marker, brother and heir to the late Captain Marker. He perished in battle with pirates off Canton.”

  The Company official said all that was appropriate – ‘in the midst of life…’

  “I have here the invoice and bills of lading for the cargo we took from Galle and delivered intact to Mr Ainslie’s factor in Canton, sir.”

  The documents were accepted and read through thoroughly and pronounced to be good.

  “I shall send a runner to Mr Ainslie this very hour, gentlemen. He will be pleased with the celerity of your passage. Did you lose many to the pirates, sir?”

  Jerry explained that we had fought them twice, on the first occasion with the aid of the convoy, which we had fortuitously come across in the approaches to Canton.