Easton

1611. Pirates infest the oceans of the world. King James I of England is committed to peace and frowns upon the practice of English-owned ships raiding foreign vessels and towns along the coasts of Europe, Africa and the Americas. However, privateers who plundered and pillaged in the name of the Crown under Queen Elizabeth will not give up their freedom and licence just because the Crown has had a change of heart. Lacking the King’s authority for their activities, these commanders have turned to piracy. The few temporary English colonies and “plantations” along the shores of Newfoundland live in terror of the many pirate fleets which prey on lucrative cargoes of salt cod and threaten to requisition both men and weapons for their own purposes. As the plantations of Newfoundland prepare for the winter, admiral of the fishing fleet of St. John’s, Richard Whitbourne, sees his worst fear come true. One of the world’s most notorious pirates has just sailed into St. John’s harbour with ten well-armed ships. The pirate’s name is Peter Easton.

The flag billows
like freshly laundered bed linen, rippling and dancing high on the mast of the grand square-sailed frigate. Its red cross is like a gash in virgin snow, bold and startling. Richard stares though the glass as though under a spell, as if the constant motion might unfurl some answer to his predicament.

Hearing footsteps approaching, Richard turns away from the window and gazes hard at the papers on his desk. He doesn’t want any of his men to see him staring at the pirate flagship. It’s business as usual, he wants his demeanor to convey. He fumbles with the papers on his desk, blushing slightly and tilting his head from the door.

A piping voice speaks up as though reading his thoughts.

“It’s a beauty isn’t it, sir?” the child says.

It’s Tom Spurrell, the messenger.

Am I really so nervous that I cannot tell the footsteps of a boy from a man?
Richard thinks, admonishing himself.

“Boy,” he says. “Tell Captain Dawson I need to see him.”

“Yes, sir,” the messenger says quietly, still looking through the window. “Is there going to be a battle, sir?” The question is asked with an innocence that nearly floors Richard.

“Go!” the admiral bellows after a pause, and the boy skitters like a rabbit out of the office. The room is silent again. Richard turns to the window once more, his gaze drawn to the cannons of the great resting flagship, their polished open mouths pointing toward his own offices and fortifications. He can see the crew from where he is. They are as ragged and wiry as all seamen as they kneel and climb and scurry upon the deck like ants. They are dressed like pirates too, in shirts and tunics made of old sail tarred for waterproofing. Their appearance, indeed, is worse than the meanest of wood savages who roam godless amidst the dark forests. But there is something different about them as well. There is no officer in sight. Yet, as Richard watches a skinny sailor climb up the rigging like a spider, he becomes aware of how hard they are all working, how tireless and focused their efforts despite a total lack of the whip or any visible supervision.

He hears footsteps, louder than before. He turns again to face the door and sits down behind his desk. In a moment Captain George Dawson appears, his features alert like a fox. His red hair sticks up, quivering, as he marches toward the desk and composes himself. Tom Spurrell has followed the captain in. The boy now emerges from behind Dawson and stands by his side as though he too were to be part of the conference.

“You sent for me, Admiral?” says Dawson stiffly.

“Yes, Captain,” Richard replies. “I want you to board the
Mary Rose
tonight and prepare to set sail for Cuper’s Cove at first light. Once there you are to help advise and protect John Guy’s colony and look out for any pirate activity.”

“Yes, Admiral,” Dawson replies. But his eyes have become intense and his tongue pokes out as though he were preparing to speak.

“Is the order clear?”

“Clear, sir, but—”

“Your duty,” Richard interrupts in the sternest voice he can muster, “will be to help save Guy’s plantation, both people and supplies, even if it means hiding the
Mary Rose
and retreating toward the interior.”

“
Retreating,
Admiral?” Dawson whispers emphatically. He licks his lips again and springs forward, bringing his folded knuckles into contact with the surface of Richard’s desk. “Is it really appropriate for His Majesty’s navy to run from such a rogue as Easton?”

Richard folds his arms slowly over his chest.

Tom Spurrell’s gaze darts between Richard and Dawson, clearly sensing drama.

Richard fixes Dawson with his stare and then looks at Tom Spurrell.

“Out, boy!” he booms. The lad scampers once more out of the room.

Richard turns his attention to Dawson. He watches the young man’s indignation, waiting for it to subside. And sure enough, Captain Dawson stops, gulps, takes his hands off the table and stands up straight, shuffling his feet.

“But, Admiral,” he begins more softly, “what are your plans regarding the pirate fleet now resting off our harbour?”

Richard allows himself a little smile.

“What would you have me do, Captain?” he replies at last.

The young man’s eyes narrow and his face seems to flush. “I’m sorry if I spoke out of turn, sir, but the situation demands immediate action—”

“The situation,” interrupts Richard, “demands thought.” He pauses and watches the young captain. “Thought, Captain, not rash recourse to arms.” He sighs, stands and turns to look through the window again. “Think of my predicament, sir. You are my best trained, quickest and most promising officer. Yet you would turn yourself into cannon fodder in a moment without a thought.”

Dawson is silent. Richard turns to see him staring at the floor, red-faced and uncertain.

Richard continues in a whisper, “I am commissioned to fight piracy, Captain, an honour of which I am most proud. Do you think I would miss any chance to carry out such a commission?” He breathes in slowly, looking toward the insolently rolling flag once more. “But am I
equipped
to fight an enemy which outnumbers us three to one and has an arsenal of cannons which is at this very moment, Captain Dawson, trained upon our fortifications? We are far from England, sir,” he adds with a tired sigh.

“How dare he fly St. George’s Cross,” the young man merely comments, his face still pink and averted from his master.

“He dares,” Richard mumbles, “because there is no one to stop him and he knows it. He can create whatever illusion of virtue he pleases and we are in no position to challenge him.”

“Can we not at least fire a cannon across his bow to show we will be no pushover?”

Richard laughs and circles back toward his chair. “Captain Dawson, listen to me,” he says, still standing.

The captain looks up.

“We have a responsibility to preserve this little piece of the New World and keep it loyal to the Crown. We are not at liberty to expend ourselves like a small part of a greater army. Under such circumstances as we find ourselves, Captain Dawson, we must ascertain what our visitor is asking of us and make no move of any kind until we know.”

Captain Dawson is chastened, his head bobbing like a submissive colt.

Richard smiles slightly. “You must not be ashamed of valour, Captain Dawson. It flows freely in the veins of the young. Only age can give it the discretion of patience and maturity.”

The young captain is quiet for another moment. Then he gazes toward the window. Dusk is beginning to spill over the rounded hills and hollows which shelter St. John’s harbour.

“What do you think he wants?” Dawson asks in a quiet voice.

Richard thinks for a moment.

“Supplies perhaps,” he answers. “They have been on the run for some time. A young officer, Henry Mainwaring, was commissioned by the King to bring him to justice. He has obviously failed. It must be supplies and perhaps men.”

They are both silent, staring through the glass. The flagship looks so clean and undaunted, its cannons polished and sparkling in the sunset like a bird in summer plumage.

“Then why have they not approached and parleyed?”

“So that they can create exactly the effect they
are
creating. So that when they do ask for something, we will sigh with relief and give it gladly, grateful not to be destroyed.”