image [https://i.imgur.com/15eGPa6.jpg]
trim – The angle of a boat as it moves through water. To adjust trim simply means to raise or lower the bow (front) of the ship.
THE LIVELY HAD taken no damage, none at all, and Jacobson was surprised by this. As first mate to Captain Vhingfrith, his truest wish was for the mission’s success, of course, as it brought them all profit and glory, and as an Englishman he knew any man was worth less than nothing if he prayed for catastrophe for spite’s sake. And yet.
The pistol was still in his hand, the acrid gunpowder smell was trapped in his nostrils, paramount even above the salty sea air. The pistol weighed heavy on him. It was a cursed object, used to murder a man who had not yet committed a crime. To be sure, Burr had been holding a knife when he died, Jacobson had seen it, but he had not advanced. It might have been a mistake. More, the captain had not even given Burr a warning. More, Burr had never once been disciplined for insubordination, nor anything else for that matter. Not ever.
And yet Captain Vhingfrith had shot him, ended his life with less thought than he gave to a course change, and then ordered his body thrown overboard.
Because Burr was going to kill him. And because his words were becoming seditious. He even indicated the other men were on his side.
He could not fool himself. Even as he hung on to a spar and watched Bernhardt, the gun captain, issue new commands for reloading the cannons, Euric Jacobson could not find the fault in Vhingfrith’s decision. Violent, yes, but violence was often essential in maintaining order, and making inviolable the total authority and dominion of the captaincy.
“Fire!” Bernhardt shouted. The sound of half a dozen cannons was deafening. The salvo ripped into the Spanish ship’s rigging and Jacobson saw men plummeting from the mizzenmast down into the flames below.
Jacobson’s hands were busy with something. Without realizing it, he had gone about the business of reloading the pistol, and presented it back to Captain Vhingfrith, standing right beside him. “It’s ready, Captain,” he said.
“Thank you, Mr. Jacobson.” The captain accepted the weapon and tucked it in his waistline.
Everyone else was shouting, but these two were close enough to hear one another above the shattering din.
“Shall I prepare the fighting men, sir?”
Vhingfrith’s eyes bore into him. “Can you manage it?”
“Faith, I will complete the victory you have laid before us.”
Seawater surged between the Lively and the nao and drenched them both. The ship’s planks gave an agonizing moan. The two men were competitors for the captaincy, but not yet enemies. Not yet. Vhingfrith wiped water from his face. “Then be about it, Mr. Jacobson.”
“Right. Ready boarding action!” he bellowed. More cannons boomed a moment later, those coming from the pirate vessel Hazard. Lively climbed another small wave, crested it, and the Spanish nao groaned like an elephant’s he’d heard about in stories, when multiple spears brought them down.
As he drew his cutlass, Jacobson tossed one more look back at Vhingfrith, who never even flinched. The cat-eyed captain looked away from Jacobson, both his gaze and mind set upon other goals. There was a moment when Jacobson thought he could do it, he could kill the captain now and no one would see. Everyone’s back was turned. He could say the captain attacked him. No one would believe him, but most of them would go along with it. Because most of them hated the half-Negro as much as he did. Several times now, Vhingfrith had brought shame on them by allying their cause to men of ill repute. Men like John “the Ladyman” Laurier. John “the Doxy.” John “the Molly.”
That shame might follow them, like the stench of rot, from one port to another. And then what work could they find? What ship would take Jacobson and the other men after working a year or two on the Lively? Who among the privateers of Jamaica would not smell the Devil’s Son on them?
But I daren’t kill him. Not now. Perhaps not ever. Perhaps only a vote will remove him, if any of us survive this mad plan. Though, I would be lying if I said my heart wasn’t stirred by such adventure! God, what nerve Vhingfrith has! And the possibility of a nao’s treasure—
He neared the starboard railing. The men had already tossed their grappling hooks over and had secured the line. The Spaniards were still firing but the time between each volley was lengthening, they were stretched too thin, struggling to reload while the ship heaved and scraped against the shoals and took on water, all while two enemy vessels flanked her and smashed her aft castle and rigging, removing her leadership and her ability to steer. Lively and Hazard were like wolves trying to bring down a buffalo, and their teeth were already sinking in.
Now all that’s left is to finish it. But can we?
Jacobson gave the order, and, screaming, nearly forty desperate men sprung into action. Their minds were fearful but their hearts were emboldened by extra rations of rum, a tradition before a raid. Half of them leapt across to grab hold of the galleon’s sagging rigging or the gunports, the other half climbed the ropes attached to the grappling hooks. Jacobson was one of the latter. His cutlass sheathed at his side and two pistols tucked firmly in his waist, he took one of the taut ropes and hung by his hands and feet. Hand over fist, he climbed upwards. Twenty men with muskets were left on the Lively to send up another volley if they saw Spanish riflemen peeking over the nao’s gunwale.
The two ships heeled away from one another. Two of the ropes between them snapped and three men fell into the sea. Each dead man was a loss, but if they won the day, then by God there would be more shares now for everyone. Jacobson smiled at the thought of it. Returning home to Jessica, perhaps with his honour restored. They could leave Port Royal and return home, to England, perhaps start a family…
At the nao’s portside railing, privateers clambered over. Jacobson was one of the last to surmount the rail, and before he was even over, he heard the screams of men fighting and dying. The storm was abating, the thunder grew distant, so he heard the ring of death clear. He very nearly fell off when the nao heeled to port, but then she corrected herself and everyone could hear the scraping of the coral heads beneath her. The ship was a gutted whale, taking on water and dying.
When Jacobson stepped over the rail, his life nearly ended then and there, when the bayonet at the end of a musket slashed at his throat. He ducked it, unsheathed his sword, and parried the next blow. His own mind was sloshed with rum, and he screamed England’s wrath at the Spaniards as he hacked at the neck of the first soldier and slashed another across his face. A blade punctured his long coat but bounced off his ribs. Grinning through the pain, he first punched his enemy in the face, sending him backpedaling, then kicked him squarely in the chest, but another of Lively’s men rammed a dagger into the Spaniard’s throat and he clutched at the wound as he fell to his knees, gargling.
And from here Jacobson moved into the fray. Bodies churned on the top deck and pistols fired from point-blank range. The flames licked like red tongues as they climbed the mizzenmast. He stepped through the flames briefly on his way to defend one of his men against a Spanish soldier, and during his brief exchange the Spaniard slipped and fell through a hatch.
Jacobson laughed and turned to address more enemies.
Men screamed. Throngs of angry, determined souls roared with savagery, knowing nothing but the fact that if they did not win the day, they were dead. The deck was shamed by pools of black blood sliding into the scuppers, and men trudged across a dying ship in frenetic assaults, completely uncoordinated, all sense of discipline lost, and only barbarism and cruelty would prevail. The details of the winding frenzy were given accent by the flames and the occasional bolt of lightning, glimpses of a man skewered or a man being choked or a man with a chest wound crawling across the deck. Tableaus of men strangling other men, their religions and beliefs in Hell momentarily suspended at the thought of gold doubloons, handfuls of them, waiting in the holds below.
And from below came more Spaniards. Officers and soldiers who had been hiding below so as not to clutter the deck from the true sailors now came spewing from hatches and holes, some pale-faced from seasickness, barely clutching their swords the right way. One or two well-dressed envoys, doubtlessly sent by some Spanish noblemen to oversee his treasure, tried joining the fray in their fine purple pants and white silk shirts, terror etched across their faces. They were slain almost instantly.
Most of his enemies were easy to tell apart from his own crewmen. The Spaniards wore dark-blue uniforms, the men of the Lively had on brown breeches and dark shirts, and the pirates of the Hazard wore naught but basic tunics, red handkerchiefs on their heads, worn tarpaulin pants, and often were barefoot.
Jacobson met the next enemy’s blade and parried it without pause, headbutted him, and slashed across his wrist, severing the tendons that kept his grip. When the Spaniard’s sword melted from his hand, Jacobson ran him through, twisted the blade to make it easier to remove, and spun to meet the next Spaniard, whose blade he blocked before he kicked the man’s feet out from under him. With his free hand, he pulled his pistol and fired it into the chest of an enemy rushing him from his left flank.
Someone hit him in the jaw, and he tasted blood.
And then the nao heeled to starboard and everyone slid or fell or tumbled to the other side of the deck. A spar came loose and swung netting that whipped a man overboard. Jacobson dropped his now-useless pistol and grabbed hold of a piece of netting dangling overhead to keep his balance. When she straightened out again, the nao seemed to yaw. The entire ship shuddered, and it was obvious she had collided with coral again.
The galleon’s speed was slowing, practically at a standstill. They called these ships "castles-at-sea," and he laughed thinking how appropriate. The nao moved about as sluggishly as a castle would.
A Spaniard came up at him, giving vent to a primal scream as he thrust his cutlass at Jacobson’s midsection. Jacobson shuffle-stepped backwards, parried, slipped, fell, rolled backwards, and sprang back up to his feet to defend. His rear foot touched the base of the steps leading up to the quarterdeck, and here he paused. For a moment, he and the Spaniard sized one another up. Then Jacobson feinted high but went low, stabbing the enemy in the thigh. It went deep, into the femoral artery, and gouts of black blood came pouring out. The Spaniard fought for only five more breaths before he realized something was wrong. The blood loss was immense, and he passed out and fell face first onto the deck. When next the ship heeled, his body slid into a hole leading belowdecks, and vanished.
Two lesser-skilled Spaniards advanced on him, and for a moment he fought in a coordinated attack pattern with one of Hazard’s men. Then two more Spanish marines approached, and he descended on them like dragon’s breath, each of their throats opened, and they staggered backward through the flames and fell in a welter of blood and fire. Both the Lively’s sailors and the Hazard’s pirates advanced. The troopers broke in frantic, milling thickets, bounding over crates and barrels to reach escape.
Someone fired a shot into the pirate beside him, and the man fell gasping.
A foot landed in his back.
He blocked a blade out of nowhere and punctured another man’s arm.
A hatchet embedded itself in a mast just beside his head. He never saw who threw it.
A huge swell suddenly smashed the nao’s side and a shower of seawater blinded him.
He saw someone advancing on him and stabbed the man, only to realize, belatedly, that it was one of Hazard’s pirates.
It was frenetic, the screams and flames and blood and cannonfire nearly robbing him of his senses. Jacobson once more felt as though he were in a dream, his motions and fate predetermined, his hands and cutlass guided by God and a hatred for all things Spanish.
Two more Spaniards tested him. Jacobson had never been second to anyone in a swordfight. Each parry only opened up another line of attack, and each block let him see his enemy’s mind, their plan. He shuffle-stepped forward and slit one man’s throat before parrying a cutlass and jamming his blade tip through the other one’s eye. Overhead, a spar that had been damaged broke, and a shower of splinters rained down on him as a piece of the mast felt onto the deck, crushing a Spaniard and one of Lively’s men. A third enemy stormed directly at Jacobson, the blade hissing just past his head. Jacobson sidestepped and prepared to defend—
The side of his enemy’s head exploded, and brain matter splattered against the capstan. Jacobson had only a moment to find the source of the bullet. The Ladyman stood twenty feet away, skirt drenched in blood, smiling his pretty smile, his spent pistol in his hand. Captain Laurier turned away, his skirt fluttering as he headed belowdecks with a team of eight men, but before he did, Jacobson swore he saw the Ladyman wink at him.
The galleon slammed into something hard. The three ships spun around each other, rutting. Wood moaned and snapped as the sea heaved once more and the nao wrenched free. They wrestled each other, wood gnashing against wood in a cacophony that made it impossible to issue orders, and yet Jacobson did so. To anyone who would listen, he screamed for them to rally to him. One or two saw his gestures and got the gist, and formed a rough formation around the remaining Spaniards. The rest would surely be below with whatever surviving officers there were, locking themselves either in their cabins or, more likely, the holds.
The galleon’s rigging spun in the wind, getting entangled with the rigging hanging from what was left of the stump of the foremast. But the gun deck below was not finished, the Spaniards released their first effective salvo into the Lively, and Jacobson was near enough the portside railing that he saw pieces of her hull come away and go winnowing out into the night.
And so the battle raged on, as it always did, with neither side knowing what exactly victory would look like if they achieved it, nor how they would know when the battle was over. But of all the chaotic situations he had been in, Jacobson had never been in a quagmire so terrible as this. He saw Maxwell, Lively’s cook, run screaming past him, clutching his neck and bleeding badly. Someone’s intestines were under his boot, and he kept slipping on them and cursing. Theirs was a joined madness in the maelstrom of chewed-up bodies spilling their gore, and he kept pushing forward, into the tangled mess, deflecting and slashing and even once biting a man’s ear off. A bullet went through his left arm and he ignored it, he kept tearing into Spaniards, stabbing any dark-blue coat he saw, until at last he found himself staggering around the destroyed deck, alone at the bow, listening to the battle splitting into smaller, flashfire battles on other decks below.
“You’re bleeding,” Galbraith said to him.
Jacobson stared at the Lively’s second mate, wondering what he had just said and where the fuck he had come from. He pretended to understand, then said, “Get belowdecks. Secure the treasure before—” He paused when the galleon once more heeled, and he clung to rigging. “Before the bloody Ladyman gets his claws on all of it!”
____
If there was ever a God, John Laurier reckoned, as he strode down the companionways of the Nuestra Señora de la Purificación, with his cutlass dripping blood, then surely, He would not have designed human bodies to be so easy to puncture, and those punctures so devastating. It sometimes troubled him how easily men died when a blade was slipped underneath a rib or between their shoulder blades. The whole body seemed to be made out of liquid—excepting the skeleton. Simply pierce any part of it and you could either kill a man or make the rest of his life miserable.
Laurier laughed, but the grin on his face was a mask. His whole body trembled, his scalp tingling like his hair was on fire. The excitement rushed across him in waves as turbulent as those outside. Another man fell to his blade and he strode on, eight trustworthy men following in his wake, occasionally reaching out a hand to touch a wall and stabilize their footing. The ship kept heeling, though not as heavily as before.
The companionway was narrow and, at the moment, tilted to starboard. He stormed through the corridor at a lean, the men behind him panting and laughing in the hot, musty confines. Cabin doors were shut and bolted from the inside. That was no matter. The Spaniards in those rooms could burn or drown in there, whichever came first, all he cared for was what was in the forward hold, and who was guarding it.
A sailor no older than seventeen leapt out and swung a carpenter’s hammer at him. Laurier lopped his hand off and kicked him in the chest and stepped over the crying boy and kept walking without breaking stride. Behind him, his men clashed with three Spaniards who tore open their cabin doors and came charging out with daggers. Laurier continued forward through the galley, where the tables and dishes had all been strewn about as the galleon tossed in the waves. He had to dodge tables as the ship once more heeled to port. Dark passages lay ahead, where men screamed as more of Hazard’s crew found them hiding. Laurier thought he spotted one or two of Lively’s privateers dash across the deck, chasing after a Spaniard in uniform.
His men rejoined him at the next set of stairs leading down. It was a gun deck, and here he saw Anne and Okoa working in concert against a gun crew, most of whom had either fled or gotten themselves injured by cannon shot or by a pirate’s blade. Hopping on his one leg, Okoa compensated by alternating between leaning on a cannon, a wall, or another pirate. The African was a gifted fighter and could hop almost as fast as a two-legged man could jog. Anne and five others stayed close to Okoa, fighting with mad ferocity that shocked the Spaniards.
Laurier gave them a helping hand, puncturing a man’s liver and continuing to stride across the deck, leaning as the ship slewed and heeled and moaned and creaked.
Down another ladder, his men followed. Puddles of water sloshed across their path. At the end of the next companionway, a door tore open and a sailor lashed out at him with cutlass. John parried easily, struck him with a backfist, stunning him, then deflected the man’s next thrust before slashing open his throat and kicking him to one side. He was beginning to lose patience with these Spaniards.
He rounded the next corner, and leapt back just in time to miss the volley. Six muskets fired as one, their deadly lead balls embedding in the place his head and chest had been only a second before, sending showers of splinters at him. Laurier did a quick peek around the corner and saw his enemies in a narrow passage, at the end of which was a door with a giant iron lock. They were guarding it. Six other riflemen were now advancing, kneeling with their rifles aimed at him, while the first six riflemen reloaded.
“Amigos,” Laurier called out. He signaled the men behind him to stand ready, then waved for Tomlinson to hand him his primed and loaded pistol. “Your ship is ruined. I know you risk being hanged by Philip if you don’t adhere to your duty, but Philip’s not here and I am. So’s this.”
He stuck the pistol around the corner and fired blindly and heard a man scream.
“There, you see? I know I hit one of you, and I did not even have to try. You’re all bunched together like sardines, in a narrow passage, and there’s a locked door behind you—” The corridor gave a vertiginous lurch back to port. Laurier gave a chuckle. “There is nowhere for you to go, nowhere for any of us to go but down to Davy Jones’s locker—unless you choose life. Life for us all. I’ll even give you a cut of what is in that hold behind you. And King Philip never need know. I’m the Ladyman. John Laurier. Ask any man, I only want what I can carry. After that is done, the rest belongs to whomsoever wants it.”
Something rumbled on the deck below, men perhaps screaming, but to the Ladyman’s ears it was but a confused murmur. Then Laurier heard heavy panting and footsteps, and he and the others turned quickly to see Anne Bonny walking up a corridor across from them, her blouse open, breasts and hair drenched in blood. It looked like she was crying. As long as Laurier had ever known her, Bonny had always cried in battle.
“You know my reputation,” he called to the Spaniards. “You know I am a man of my word. You may go. You will not be prisoners longer than it takes for us to set you down someplace, or we may even leave you here, adrift. You may go. You have my word. You may go,” he repeated once more.
There was a long pause, during which the only sound was the water rushing up from below and the screams of dying men.
“But I need an answer. Now. If yes, toss your muskets through the door.”
This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.
There was no response.
Laurier nodded to his crewmen. They nodded back. He looked over at Bonny. She nodded back. He was about to give the signal to charge when the first couple of muskets were thrown through the doorway, and clattered to the floor beside him. A moment later, the rest of the muskets came flying through.
“Good lads.” Laurier swept inside fast and commanded his men to pick up the muskets, and told Bonny to select three men to escort the Spaniards up to the main deck. “But before any of you go—the key, please.”
One of the Spaniards stepped forward and removed a necklace, at the end of which was a large key. When the Spaniards were gone, Laurier looked at the iron lock. It had a wax seal on it, in the shape of King Philip of Spain. The seal kept sailors honest—if it was ever broken, it would mean the crew had tampered with it. He cracked it with the butt of his cutlass and used the key to open the door, then grabbed a lantern hanging from a rafter above him and stepped inside.
John stared into a hold filled with locked chests. He had seen their like before. They would be filled with gold doubloons and gems. The chests were uncountable, they were stacked and jammed together, up to the rafters, and the depth of the room was impossible to determine. It was perhaps the largest haul he’d ever seen and his men laughed when they saw it and patted the Ladyman on his shoulders.
Sheathing his blade, he said, “It takes two men to carry one. So let’s get the word out. Get men down here before this ship—”
“We can help,” a voice said. “We would be glad to.”
John turned and saw Lively’s bald-headed first mate entering with a dozen of his own crew. “Jacobson. I see you made it.”
“Captain Laurier.”
The ship lurched. Laurier noticed Jacobson’s right arm was bleeding. The man had taken a shot. But even injured, Jacobson was formidable. He had rippling muscles beneath that black coat, and two decades of training and experience with a blade. Laurier was more than confident with a blade in his hand, but perhaps no duelist in the Caribbean was more feared than Euric Jacobson.
Will he try to kill me now? Will I try to kill him? Or will he let the bounty go another day? He’s been shot, so he’ll be slightly off. If he comes for me, he knows it will displease Vhingfrith. And what of it? Is today the day he finally decides to topple Vhingfrith?
It seemed everyone was waiting to see the answer to these questions. But the Ladyman had not survived this long, outcast that he was, by merely letting others decide his destiny for him. He often wrestled the reins away from Fate herself and steered other people towards his destination. It had been this way for as long as he could recall. “How happy that you’ve all made it,” he said to Jacobson and his men. “As you can see, there is much to take. Without you lot, we wouldn’t have time to gather all this treasure up.”
John gave a smile. The bomb seemed to be defused. Some of the men exchanged glances. John stood aside and let them see the treasure within the room. And once their eyes were on it, none of Lively’s crew—not even Jacobson—could miss its enchantment. Treasure was everything, and prizes like this were a rarefied thing! Their eyes glittered. Weapons were sheathed and men got to work, privateers and pirates watching one another closely. They were all enemies of Spain, but only one crew was sanctioned for this sort of operation—Lively had a letter of marque issued by the King of England, Hazard did not. Jacobson gave Laurier one last wary look, then grabbed a chest all by himself and started moving back up the decks.
The operation commenced forthwith, and there was no stopping once it started. Someone had gained control of the helm and someone else had dropped the Nuestra Señora de la Purificación’s anchor. They worked fast, and prioritized those areas they had easiest access to. No need to pound on the cabin doors of sailors or officers that did not want to come out. The storm, though lessened, was still going on, and the fires had done considerable damage. Laurier knew the score. They needed to be free of this directionless behemoth, and soon—the truce between pirates and privateers would not last long.
On the main deck, Laurier saw Hazard’s and Lively’s sailing crews had both wisely chosen to pull back from the galleon. Longboats were being sent across shallow waters and chests were loaded onto it. Only one slipped free in the chaotic waves, and John winced as he watched the treasure sink beneath the black waters. No matter, there is so much more.
Prisoners were taken to the Nuestra’s main deck and made to kneel with their hands in the air. The captain was found shot and barely alive, and it was mentioned that they ought to take him aboard Lively, to be given to the Governor of Jamaica, perhaps to be used as ransom. But Jacobson shot down that idea, he did not want any more complications from this raid.
“What do you mean, ‘complications’?” Laurier asked, standing close to Jacobson on the deck.
Jacobson lifted a rag off a dead sailor’s head to wrap his bloody arm, and looked at Laurier grimly. “Too many prisoners may rally while in chains. Mutiny. Take over the ship. Better to let them go and tell the tale.”
“Perhaps we ought to ask your captain?”
“You mean your good friend Vhingfrith?”
There was the hint of a dark suggestion. Laurier let it pass. The Nuestra rocked again, then settled on a sandbar. He steadied himself on the shifting deck. “Why hasn’t he come aboard?”
“Why don’t you go ask him yourself?” Jacobson sat on the railing and swung his legs over the side, descending the rope down to the longboat waiting for him.
Laurier watched him go, then turned to the Lively’s second mate, Mr. Galbraith, and coordinated with him for the last bit of treasure.
Soon, all matters were settled. The Nuestra was both heavy with water and run aground on a large sandbar. All other surviving officers were chained to the common sailors and left belowdecks on the nao, while the sloop and the brig sailed away.
Hazard moved away from the galleon first, followed soon after by Lively. Laurier and Vhingfrith never communicated this. Indeed, they never even met or saw one another during the whole ordeal. Their two ships sailed clear of the shoals, out into deeper waters to wait out the rest of the storm, which only took about two hours. Then, once again without communicating any of this, they sailed together for Bocas del Dragón, a series of straits separating the Gulf of Paria from the Caribbean Sea, and a safe stretch of ocean to escape any other Spanish ships that might happen along these latitudes.
After six turns of the glass, they were running at broad reach, on a clean southeasterly course. Dead men on each ship were dealt with and dropped into the sea. Aboard the Lively, they were sent away with prayers and honours. Aboard the Hazard, not so much, the men only sang a song of fellowship. Injured men on each ship were taken belowdecks and worked on.
The skies began to clear, the clouds slowly spreading as thin as cotton and the stars shone fully and proudly over ink-black seas. From the portside railing of the Hazard, the Ladyman stood looking over at the Lively, clutching the locket hanging from his neck. He waited for the signal. He had never been more frightened in all his life. If the signal came, it meant all was forgiven, but if it did not come, he would know he had gone too far, and broken a most sacred trust with Vhingfrith.
The water was oily calm, which was common after a harsh storm.
At last, a light shone from Lively’s stern, right about where the captain’s cabin ought to be.
John breathed a sigh of relief, and placed both hands on the railing and fought back the tears. His shoulders shook. He recomposed himself when he heard a bell ring five times. That would be Jaime, the Scotsman he had put on the dogwatch, letting everyone know the time. John stood straighter and squared his shoulders and looked at that single lanternlight glowing from Lively’s stern a hundred yards out. It was a beacon of continued friendship. Of hope.
John stood there a while longer, until he heard LaCroix and the others ripping up planks from the deck behind him. They were going to use the lumber to repair Hazard. Right then, John had Kepler setting course for Jocomo Island, a small little cove he knew of with a sandy bottom, perfect for careening a ship and getting some repairs done to the hull.
It’s done, Benjamin, he thought, walking aft. Please forgive me, but you will know why it had to be done.
Then he heard Abner limping up behind him. “The haul?” John said.
The quartermaster had a ream of parchments in his hand. “It’s very good, Captain. Very good. Nine casks of rum, almost as many in wine. The men wanted to open one in celebration, and I took the liberty of allowing them one ration apiece. Sixteen pipes of brandy, a dozen barrels of spice, fifteen barrels of sugar, twelve barrels of salt, two barrels each of tobacco and cotton, some spare sails, plus various repair accoutrements.
“As for coin—I cannot count it all now, but I’d estimate eight thousand Spanish doubloons. We’re full to bursting, Cap’n. Hazard can’t take any more or else the slightest squall will sink us. If a single shilling fell from the sky, we would sink. We’re bloated beyond—”
“I believe I understand, Abner.”
“We took some spare cannon shot but I ordered most of it left behind when Kepler told me how she was steering—Hazard is drawing low in the water. The raids on Ciro and Dominica didn’t just paint us as targets, they made us heavy. And now we’re just too damned bloated. We must needs find harbour soon to sell some of this off.”
John sighed. “Very good. Yes, very good. But that seems an awful lot. Did the Lively get their full share?”
“That’s the strange part, sir.”
John looked back at him. “Strange?”
“Yes, sir. Some o’ the lads have said the Lively’s crew did not spend much time divvying up what was theirs. Instead, they tore into the Nuestra’s captain’s cabin, pulling out books and maps, and they ransacked the quartermaster’s quarters, taking dozens of account-books away.” Abner shrugged. “They did take some of the loot. Just…not as much as I would’ve thought.”
John scratched irritably at his chin. “Account-books, you say?”
“Aye, sir. Among other books.”
Account-books? What the bloody hell is Ben thinking? Laurier said nothing.
“It was well executed, Captain. Your whole plan, from start to finish. It was impeccably done.”
Laurier still said nothing for a while. Then, “Thank you, Abner.”
“Sir, some of the men are saying they saw some old patchwork repairs on the nao. Looks like she was badly hurt before we ever went after her.”
“Yes. She was a wounded dove before we ever clapped eyes on her.”
“You knew this?”
“I did.”
“How?”
Laurier did not answer.
“Your spies in Panama?”
Laurier still did not answer. “What’s our losses?”
“Minor damage to hull. LaCroix’s working on it now, along with Kendrick, Dobbs, a few others. Two yardarms cracked but haven’t yet snapped,” Abner said, looking up. “LaCroix says it can be replaced within the hour, and with better components, since we got spares from the Nuestra.
“As far as men: we lost Colm, Guthrie, Nattleby, Portman, Drake, Hitchens, both of the Taylor boys, Mortimer, Zachary, and I think Baxter. I can’t find him anywhere and no one’s seen him. Cedar says Stephens isn’t likely to make it. But the men are all very happy. They wanted to sing more songs but they know how you hate that.”
John snorted out a laugh. “Give them all an extra ration of rum, will you? And tell them they can sing all they want. For an hour, no more. We still need to press for Jocomo.”
“Aye, skipper.” But he delayed.
“Something else?”
Abner sighed. “It is the source of vigourous debate, Captain.”
“What is?”
“How did you know?”
Laurier glanced back at him, then looked at the lanternlight on Lively’s stern. “In battle, foul weather is preferable for the weaker force, and something that the stronger force would do well to avoid. Even though the storm hammers both ships, the storm hampers and damages larger ships disproportionately.” He scratched his chin. “The shoals were finely placed. I’ve done this technique before, though not with the same crew. You know my methods by now.” He shrugged. “And the nao appeared to be headed more or less in the right direction—and the wind pushing hard east didn’t hurt.”
“And, the storm?”
“It’s that time of year. Not quite time for hurricanes, but mounting squalls—squalls that start off small then surge, then die quickly—those are due this time of year. It’s in most of the almanacs. I ran some figures, checked it against the Peregrin Almanac collection we took from Antigua last spring. Remember that researcher in San Juan? He told me it would be in Sir Lawrence’s collection.” Laurier shrugged. “And then it’s just experience. I’ve been out here a long time, Abner. I’ve sailed the Caribbean a long, long time.”
“I see. And what if it had not been just so?”
“Pardon?”
“I know you’ve done this before, but that’s about my point, Captain.” Abner hesitated. “I’m only asking, what if the conditions were slightly off? What if the winds were blowing north instead of east, or the ship had been headed south instead? What if her captain had gone in irons, come to a dead stop when the water was deeper, and waited to pound us, all before Lively showed up? What if whatever informants told you about the Nuestra’s path were wrong?”
“I didn’t think she would. In fact, I was almost certain she wouldn’t—”
“But if she had?” Abner pressed.
“If she had, Abner, then the plan would’ve been completely different.” He turned to his quartermaster. “You’ve seen me do things like this before. Why does it bother you now?”
“I’ve seen you do things, aye. But never quite like this, Cap’n. We punched above our weight tonight. More than ever before.”
Laurier looked out at the lanternlight a hundred yards out. “I spend all my time planning. I’ve little else to do these days.”
The clouds had mostly gone, and the gibbous moon shone down on the deck, and the cross hanging from Abner’s neck glimmered in the silvery moonlight. John looked at the amulet with revulsion. The old man caught himself fingering it absentmindedly, and tucked it out of sight. “Some of the men, sir…they’re all happy, mind you, but some of them…they wonder about your methods. Your fondness for storms. How you know them so well. Some of the stories they tell…are not flattering.”
“They think I’m in league with devils. That my mother was a siren.”
Abner shrugged. “They say many things.”
“And why do you think I dump most of them at port every few months and pick up a new crew?”
“You’re running out of men who haven’t heard your reputation, sir. It’s one thing you and the Devil’s Son have in common; a possible drought in future crewmen. As your quartermaster, it is my duty to inform you of these things.”
“Thank you for your concern, Abner,” the Ladyman said, and spun back to the railing, his bloody skirt swirling around his waist. “You and Kepler handled the ship well while I was gone. I can always count on you.”
“Kepler’s one of them that thinks you might be part siren, sir. Begging your pardon for putting a damper on your celebrations, but you ought to know.” Abner gave a curt nod of his head and limped away.
Laurier watched him go. “Tell Dobbs I said nice shooting.”
Abner tossed up an acknowledging hand before he went belowdecks.
Are you a Judas, Abner? Or is Kepler? Or all the men? Is that what you’re telling me? Or are you accusing me of being some Judas? Is that why you want so badly to know my methods? Do the winds of your faith steer your heart now more than your trust in me? What are you trying to tell me? And what are you telling the others about me? Or, perhaps more to the point, do you fail to douse those rumours about me when they are lit? Do you let them pervade?
For a long while, all John did was stare at the Lively’s lanternlight at stern. He fingered his locket. Then he looked around and saw Jaime turning the glass again. That bothered him for some reason. He did not know why, but something suddenly felt wrong. In fact, it felt so wrong that a small thrill of panic went up through his guts and arrested his heart. He looked out at sea, suddenly sure he had missed something, some underlying threat, hidden behind a veil of dark water. It was only a moment, and then his nerves settled. What at a funny little thing to happen. Laurier looked at his hands. They were trembling. Funny thing.
An unseasonably cold wind rippled over the boat. He looked up to see by moonlight two men already trimming the sails to account for it, without having to be told. That was always a sign of a good crew.
Still, that cold wind…
His hands steadied themselves.
Laurier’s eyes went back to the hourglass, to the sand running through it. He looked out at the sea mistrustfully, suddenly feeling as if he had overlooked some clue. The storm was in retreat, the clouds thinning even more. The stars shone down hard, looking like thousands of flecks of diamond scattered across a black tablecloth. The night sky always shone harder after a storm. But that was not the issue. Some other wind blew through his soul, making him feel suddenly as small as when he fled England, as weak and as frail as when his father found out what he was and, in disgust, cast him out.
Perhaps that is all it was. Just a reflection of a night long ago, when his future had never been darker and his prospects never more in doubt. Ink-black waters had awaited him back then, too.
Laurier took one last look at the sand tumbling through the hourglass. Nearby, Owens was gazing up at the sky, gathering information from the stars for their next course. Laurier’s eyes suddenly felt heavy. His whole body felt fatigued beyond measure, and all at once he was desirous of nothing more than to vanish into his cabin and sleep till midday.
Okoa hopped past him on his single crutch, and said, “You’re bleeding, Captain.”
When Laurier looked down, he saw a cut on his sleeve he had not noticed. It was not deep, but it would still need stitching. “Where are the slaves?” he asked. Before abandoning the Spanish galleon, some of Laurier’s people had discovered the hold filled with Negroes chained in the darkness. Some of the slaves had been taken aboard the Lively, and some had gone to the Hazard. Slaves found inside Spanish ships were not uncommon, though these had been treated uncommonly well. They looked well fed and unabused.
“They in the bilge, Captain,” Okoa said.
“In the bilge?”
“No place for them. Too much treasure now.”
Laurier nodded. “It’s time for a palaver. Take me to them.”
In the dark, dank bilge, standing in cold, shin-deep waters, the six black men stood in irons. Okoa tried speaking their tongue, though he warned the captain that there were many different tongues and dialects among the African tribes, and that he had been gone a long time from his home, and it could be difficult for him to translate perfectly what was being said.
Laurier asked for a leader of the group, someone who understood Okoa’s dialect best. Okoa translated, and a tall man stepped forward, his face pocked with old scars, his sweating flesh the colour of polished ebony. Laurier stood beside Okoa and asked him only to translate a speech he’d given to a handful of freed men before:
“There is nowhere on this earth where freedom exists for you, not even back home where your people are from, not anymore. Because that is where England found you in the first place, before the Spanish took you from them. You do not understand England. It is like the sky, it blankets everything, encompasses everything.
“Africa was your home. Not anymore. Return there, and they will find you again. Run, and they will hunt you. I know, because I am also like you. There is no empire that will defend you, there is no navy that will protect you. You can try to run for a while, and perhaps taste freedom for a day, a month, a year, but eventually you will end up back in those chains and working in sugar fields until the clothes on your back rot and fall off. You will see your women raped and be raped yourselves for sport. You are alone in the Universe. Do you comprehend the Universe?”
The scarred man shook his head.
“The Universe is everything. It is the whole world, it is the moon, it is the sun and stars and even the blackness between the stars. The Universe is everything. So, when I say you have no friends in it, I want you to understand my full meaning. You are alone in the Universe.”
The scarred man stared back rigidly. His eyes may have flickered in rage.
“There is no land you can run to where freedom has any meaning for people like you. No land, brother. But here, on this ship, and only on this ship, you may be free to do as you please—within reason, of course. There is food, water, and safety in numbers. There will be no chains on you, unless you hurt one of your own crew. There is hard work to be done, but to me, you have the look of men who aren’t strangers to work. As to freedom, you have only two choices: you have the freedom to stay, or the freedom to leave. In all the Universe, only on this ship, do you have an ounce of freedom.
“If you stay, you will work. Everyone works, including me. But the choice is yours. I will not coerce you one way or the other, nor will I try and tell each of your men which is best for them. Each of them must decide on their own. That is all the freedom I or anyone can offer you. Go or stay. Simple as that.”
The slave wiped a rivulet of sweat off his dark brow, then whispered something to the others. Then he looked over to Okoa and spoke a few sentences in his native tongue.
“What did he say?”
Okoa rubbed his hands together fretfully. “He say he understands most of what Captain say. He say he had dream, where one day he saw great-grandfather rise from his grave, and say to him, ‘One day you will wake, and open your eyes, and you will see that there are no more chains in the world.’ On that day, his great-grandfather promised, all his people will be free.”
John chewed on that. “Well, I don’t trust dreams, or gods, or ghosts of ancestors. Let’s hope your prophecy is real. But, until that dream comes true, brother, you still have only one choice. Go, or stay. If you want to go, I can set you down on the next island we come across. Go, or stay. Which will it be? You must decide now.”
The scarred man said something else.
Okoa translated, “He want to know why Captain dress like this?”
Laurier looked down at his skirt and feminine-style cavalier boots. “Does it bother you?”
Okoa translated, and the scarred man mumbled something. “He say he never see white man dressed so.”
“I ask again, does it bother you? Let me rephrase. Does it matter to you how the agent of mercy happens to dress?”
The scarred man pondered something, then shook his head.
Okoa shrugged. “Suppose not, Captain.”
“You still haven’t answered: stay or go?”
The scarred man looked down at the chains puddled around his feet. Then he looked the Ladyman in the eye and said, “Stay.”
“A wise choice. My name is John Laurier. What is yours?” He extended his hand.
The scarred man took it. “George.”
“Not the name the English gave you, nor what the Spaniards called you. Your true name.”
The scarred man hesitated, then answered, “Akil.”
“Akil. An auspicious name. I will take it as a sign from whatever God is left that gives a shit about men like us that we are meant to sail together. Okoa, take Akil and these men to Reginald, tell him to feed them and give them plenty of water, then tell Cedar to check them over for lice or injuries and all the rest of it. When all that’s done, find them space for lodging. If they’ve any signs of King’s evil or other fever, put them in the bilge with my apologies.”
“Aye, Captain.”
“Welcome aboard the Hazard, Akil. May she serve you as well as you serve her.”
Akil gave only a fractional nod.
As Okoa undid the rest of their chains, Laurier watched Akil closely. The African was glacially calm, appearing to be a statue chiseled out of obsidian rock, rough edges left intact. John turned to leave up the stairs. He felt bedraggled, and wanted nothing else but to sleep. But then, he had to see Cedar about the cut on his arm. Though not large, it was still bleeding.
A single candle lit his way to his cabin. He hollered for someone to send for Oswald Cedar, Hazard’s only surgeon. He waited there in his cabin, listening to the ship moan and creak. There came the lilt of music, men were rejoicing, congratulating each other on a fine job. Laurier listened to that music while waiting on Cedar. Where is he? He sat on the edge of his bunk, his mind going to Benjamin Vhingfrith.
He closed his eyes, taking in deep breaths. The lively music from the galley started to soothe him, and he gently dozed off while sitting up.
Moments later, he was jolted awake. He heard a clamour, and was slightly alarmed to hear someone pounding on his door. He didn’t know how long he’d been out. Someone kept pounding at the door. When he opened it, he found Jaime, who was panting like Lucifer had just chased him across the ship. “Captain, good God, sir…we’ve got a problem!”
“Can it not wait? If so, can you not at least impose yourself on Kepler or—”
“It canna wait, sir—”
“I’m awfully tired, Jaime, and I would like to get some sleep soon. Is it serious?”
“Fairly serious, sir.” It was then he suddenly noticed the Scotsman’s face was ashen, and his eyes were unblinking and appeared fearful in the flickering candlelight. “The sun, sir! The sun’s not comin’ up!”