The Noble Pirates (10 page)

As a result, England insisted I learn how to fire a pistol, and that I carry both pistol and knife on my person. He showed me how to load it with two balls and swan shot from a horn that hung, along with my pistol, on a ribbon that slung across my chest. He told me to fire at close range, when the aggressor was just a couple yards away, to ensure that “he’d not live to see a good day afterward.”

He also had me try my hand with a cutlass, showing me some basic thrusts, cuts and parries. I was a sorry sight, holding my weapons “like a girl.” England was a patient, if highly amused, teacher, and everywhere I looked I saw a pirate grinning from ear to ear, watching as I accidentally dropped the cutlass no fewer than five times. God help me should I ever need to use it.

“What do I do, when, er, you know…” I rubbed my arm uncomfortably. “When you finally… see a ship worth attacking?”

England smiled wryly. “Get yerself in the cabin and stay there ‘til I say ye can come out.”

My anger flared. “Forget that!” I cried. “Give me something to do, to help. You know how much I hate going belowdecks where I can’t see the horizon.”

Before England could retort, Jameson stepped in. “She could be of use to the gunner, Cap’n. He’s in need of a powder monkey.”

“I’m sorry, a what?” I asked, imagining a baboon with a powder compact.

The two men were silent for a moment, looking at each other. I was acutely aware of the power struggle between captain and quartermaster as they surveyed each other, a crackling tension in the air. Jameson wanted me to be useful, England wanted me to stay out of the way. England finally answered, “Ye’ll be running the charges to the guns on deck.”

“I will?” I wasn’t thrilled with the title, but it sounded like a job I could do.

Jameson took me to the master gunner, a man with a cleft palate called Griffith. He in turn showed me the gunpowder room, where the charges were made and kept ready. I was to help make the powder charges, which were hand-sewn bags of gunpowder. I had never sewn anything in my life, and said so to Griffith, who snorted with contempt. “Well, ye better learn, and quickly!” he growled at me. “If the bags ain’t sewn proper, the powder’ll leak and we’ll all of us be blown straight to hell!”

I was also to make sure each gun had enough charges during the heat of battle, so that the gunners would not be forced to use loose powder in the cannons – something that could cause a fire and, in a worst-case scenario, explosion.

It was a chore a monkey could do, but I nervously wondered if I’d have the presence of mind to perform it when the time came.

Nearly nine weeks into the voyage, I became ill with some virus or another. I lay in a hammock in the cabin, drinking some chamomile tea and wishing I had some serious drugs on me. Vicodin, Percocet, anything… It was probably just a common head cold, but I felt miserable. The misery was enhanced by the fact that I could not submerge myself in a bathtub, could not take a hot shower, could not sleep in a warm bed.

We were quickly approaching Sierra Leone, and it was only a matter of time before England captured his first ship. I was ready to stand on firm land again. I would never get used to this life. Not after knowing what luxuries would eventually exist. I longed for my worn pajamas, my big pillow-top mattress, my coffee maker, my
So You Think You Can Dance
and nightly dose of
CNN
. I missed my little girl so much my chest ached every time I thought of her. I even missed my estranged husband and his inconsiderate habits – how he always dropped his clothes on the floor and left his dirty dishes in the sink, joking that a little “dish fairy” would come and clean them up. What I wouldn’t do to be his dish fairy right now.

I reached for my knapsack, swaying from side to side as I leaned from the hammock. I had kept everything from my backpack, even my useless Blackberry and iPod, holding them now like they were relics. They were relics of my past and yet somehow, also of the future. Tanya’s makeup bag, the little toothbrush and nearly empty tube of toothpaste; the bathing suits and cover-ups, the wallets filled with credit cards and money that were of no value; Sky’s romance novel, now missing a good twenty pages from a critical love scene between Lord Lance and Ginger (ahem).

I sighed, pulling Sky’s other book,
Rovers of the Sea
, from its plastic bag. Why couldn’t she have brought something else along, like
Confessions of a Shopaholic
or something? Why did it have to be about damn pirates? I’d had it up to
here
with pirates. But I was sick, hammock-ridden, and wanted to read something, so this would have to do. I flipped through it, humming to myself, when it occurred to me that this was not a novel – it was non-fiction. I turned to the table of contents, my heart-rate accelerating.
The Golden Age of Piracy… 1680-1730… Famous Pirates of the Era…

Oh my God. Oh my
God
.

I frantically skimmed the index:
Bellamy… Blackbeard… Bonnet…
the Es
… England, Capt. Edward, pirate career of, 222-230.
He was here. With trembling fingers, I opened the book to
page 222
.

“The Merciful Pirate”: Irishman Edward England, a successful New Providence pirate who, unlike Charles Vane and Blackbeard, set off for the coast of Africa… a good-natured man, who was not avaricious and was against the abuse of prisoners…

I couldn’t read fast enough. I turned to the last page – I had to know the ending first:

…When England refused to have Captain Macrae killed, he made many enemies among the crew… they decided he was unfit to command…left him on the shores of Madagascar to live out the rest of his days in poverty…living off of the handouts of others… a beggar and a drunk…

Oh my God.

I swallowed. On a whim, I looked up Charles Vane:
…March 29, 1721, was hanged in Jamaica… his body hung from a gibbet…

Calico Jack Rackam:
…November 18, 1720, also hanged in Jamaica… his body hung across the harbor from Vane’s…

I couldn’t decide which fate was worse, Vane and Rackam’s, or England’s. As I went back to read the rest of England’s entry, I heard the cry, “A sail! A sail!” and the thumping of feet running on deck. I wasn’t entirely sure what that meant, so I dog-eared my page, tucked the book in my knapsack, and flipped out of the hammock in a highly inelegant fashion. As I came up on deck, I spotted England on the quarterdeck, peering through a spyglass. I hurried up to him, past the pirates as they prepared for the chase.

“What’s happening?” I asked, breathless, my head throbbing from both my cold and my new revelations. I looked at England as though for the first time, a lump in my throat.

“I’ve just set her by the compass,” England replied, nodding out toward the horizon. “She’s to leeward, so we’re letting out all our sails, bearing down on her.”

I glanced around at the frenzied preparations. “Will Griffith be needing me?” I asked.

He looked at me. “Not yet. Ye have time yet, lass. Get some rest.”

I galloped back down into the cabin and grabbed the book. Would it reveal what was about to happen? I flopped down on the floor and scanned the first few pages about England for something regarding the ships he captured, but could only find vague references. The only entry of interest in this period of his life involved the merchantman
Cadogan
, which was significant because England’s crew brutally tortured and killed its captain, a guy named Skinner, and because England gifted the
Cadogan
to its first mate, another guy named Howel Davis…

I stopped reading. My eyes blurred over the words “brutally tortured and killed.” Those were not words I associated with England, not
my
Captain England. But then, neither were the words “a beggar and a drunk.” Maybe this author got it wrong? I went back to read about Charles Vane. Yep, it was all there – the arrival of Woodes Rogers in Nassau, his exchange with Vane, and the fire-ship. Then maybe the book was right. Other than the night I was nearly raped, I had never seen England as a cutthroat pirate. Maybe he was brutal, and his kindness only extended to me…

The ship lurched, and I became nervous. Would this be the
Cadogan
? I hid the book in its plastic bag and stuffed it into my knapsack, then went back up to the deck. “Clear the ship for engaging!” England cried. The black flag had been raised, the gun ports opened, the cannons pushed loose. I realized that I should probably already be in the powder room.

“Sabrina!” Jameson roared from amidst the frenzy. “Get you below!”

I stumbled as I ran, practically falling down the hatch. I didn’t want to be down there. I wanted to be on the deck to better see what was happening. Luckily, Griffith had me packing cartridges and running them onto the deck almost immediately. The
Royal James
fired across the merchantman’s bow and the vessel lowered its flag in a show of submission. It was a smaller ship with far fewer guns, so surrendering was, in my humble opinion, a prudent decision. Even so, the pirates fired their muskets into the sails, banged their cutlasses against the gunwales, and let out bloodcurdling war cries. I crouched against the bulwark and covered my ears, terrified. I couldn’t imagine what the men aboard the merchantman were thinking.

The ships were alongside now, and the pirates, still howling like animals, threw their grappling hooks onto the prey, as well as grenades and fireworks so that they could board under the cover of smoke. From the forecastle, the pirates leaped onto the merchantman, armed with pistols, cutlasses, and boarding axes. I peeked over the gunwale at the chaos, fascinated. It was one big game of intimidation, since the pirates didn’t want to engage in battle any more than the prey.

I stood, possessed by a sudden urge to join the pirates on the captured ship. In the many weeks that had passed, I had learned a lot about sailing, ships, weapons, and battle. I had, by some miracle, acquired my sea legs, and was fairly confident in my abilities to handle a pistol. Plus, I didn’t want to be left behind on the pirate ship by myself.

Had I been on cold medicine, I would have blamed that for this irrational, ludicrous impulse. With my heart pulsing in my ears, I drew my pistol, cocked it, and ran up to the forecastle. I paused only long enough to assess the distance between the ships and, without thinking about the consequences, jumped over the space.

I made it – barely. I plunged headfirst onto the deck, unable to see because of the smoke that swirled aboard the merchant ship. As I landed, my pistol went off. I lay on the deck, disoriented, when I realized I was covered in blood. It wasn’t until I felt the searing pain in my left arm that I realized the blood was my own.

I had just shot myself.

Major fail, Sabrina.

Chapter Thirteen

  Two strong hands seized me before I had time to assess how badly I was hurt, and I turned to see England’s face. Concern and fury fought in his expression. He carried me with purpose, taking long strides through the smoke, as though he knew where he was going. He burst into the captain’s cabin – a more luxurious place than the cabin aboard England’s ship, for sure – and set me on the pillowed bunk. He tore the sleeve of my shirt from the wound, then wrapped the cloth around my arm in an attempt to staunch the bleeding. Then he drew his weapons and left.

  I tried to sit up, tried to look at the wound in my shoulder. I was getting dizzy, and found that looking at my injury was making me feel faint. The door to the cabin flew open, and in walked an ashen-faced man carrying a chest, England behind him, holding his pistol firmly against the man’s back. England ordered, “Clean yer fucking hands and get the ball out of the lad’s arm.” He looked at me. “Tell him what to do, so he doesn’t butcher ye.” Then he left again.

The man shook as he opened his chest, bafflement and fear on his face. I was breathing hard. “What ship is this?”

The man, presumably the doctor or surgeon of the merchantman, stammered, “‘Tis the snow
Cadogan
from Bristol.”

This was it. “Do you have water and soap?” I asked, in a hurry to get this over with, the pain choking me. He nodded, and I directed him to scrub his hands clean, and to disinfect his instruments with soap, water, and alcohol before using them. He seemed puzzled by my demands but did not object. Once done, he unwrapped my makeshift bandage and examined the wound.

“‘Tis just a flesh wound. But I’ll have to get the ball out,” he said. “This will hurt quite a bit, so be a good lad, now.”

I felt the sweat roll down the back of my neck and bead my brow. Oh, why didn’t I just keep my happy ass on the pirate ship? I bit my own torn shirt as he used forceps to extract the ball, which hurt like a son of a bitch, but didn’t take as long as I thought it would. Or maybe it was because I had temporarily passed out. I opened my eyes to see the doctor holding smelling salts beneath my nose, my arm throbbing but wrapped in clean linen.

He offered me a drink from a bottle of wine, which I happily took. He had a strange expression on his face as I drank deeply, as if seeing me for the first time. “You’re a woman,” he said, wonderment in his voice. While I wanted to ask him how he came about that revelation – maybe he’d peeked down my shirt while I was out, the dirty bastard – I was more concerned with the whole “brutally tortured and killed” thing that was supposed to happen any moment now.