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Salvation

Port Royal, 1781

The sea smelt of salt and death.

The bustling port city on the southern shores of Jamaica ran with booty and blood. The Brethren of the Coast or, more familiarly, men of dubious employ, otherwise known as pirates, came to the city to trade the goods they had amassed at sea in questionable circumstances. Of course, there was honour among thieves and all of that, but there were also short tempers and ravenous appetites for more than food and good ale.

Food and ale…

I licked my cracked lips and huddled deeper into the threadbare jacket I’d pulled off a washing line an hour earlier. It was the only clean thing on me, in fact. My other garments were stained and filthy, like my frigid skin.

So far, this coastal town hadn’t fulfilled its imaginary promise of a fresh and welcome start. I’d left the town of my birth to embark on a new life, thinking that my luck might be better in Port Royal.

Born in Spanish Town to missionary parents, I had been orphaned at twelve, following a calamity that had left them dead, and I was lucky enough to have been taken in by a friend of my mother’s, who saw to it to educate and care for me as best he could. My life was decent, though dull, until the age of twenty-one when he died of yellow fever, and I was forced to look to my own means for survival. I should have found my own way before that advanced age, but Carago had enjoyed looking out for me, since his wife had died in birthing his only son, who had lived for three days before following her.

Perhaps my childlike attitude and spoilt sense of entitlement were due to Carago’s fatherly indulgences, although innocence had flown from me long before his passing.

So far, in Port Royal, I’d been attacked at knifepoint by a fearsome fellow the night after I’d arrived and also robbed of all my belongings but for a meagre allotment of coin that I’d hidden in my boot. He’d left me with a sore shoulder, a black eye, and a newfound respect for, and fear of, strange men.

In Spanish Town, my encounters with strange men had been more cordial, although nothing I would ever have described to Carago, who, to my bad luck, had held a similar attitude to those of my father and wider society. An unruly mop of red hair and a face full of freckles had ensured me a boyish countenance that I’d likely retain into middle age—God willing I got there to enjoy the benefit. Men liked the look of me, to be frank, and I hadn’t lacked for companionship, although only in brief, physical bursts that had still proved rewarding.

I’d heard of the Brethren of the Coast—supposedly a breed of men who’d taken to a life of piracy with a different kind of philosophy, holding themselves to a higher standard than the average swashbuckling vagabond. If these visionaries did, in fact, exist, and if I could find one of them and beg for a place aboard his ship, perhaps I could prove my worth and gain passage off this pisspot of an island. A life at sea was a much better prospect than one on land at this point, and I was ready for an adventure.

I ducked into a tavern called The Penny Whistle to get out of the rain that now came in torrents, but not before I became soaked to the skin and chilled further. Quite a sorry thing to be so adrift at twenty-two, bedraggled and wet and without prospects.

The tavern was warm, at least, and nobody turned me out. A fire roared and crackled in a large hearth, in front of which a motley group of strangely attired men were seated at tables, their attention captured by an imposing figure who stood with his elbow on the mantle as he regaled them with animated voice and gestures.

I slunk to a stool by the bar and sat, my stomach cramping as the scent of cooking food filled my nostrils. I soon found myself as transfixed as the others.

The man was everything a pirate captain ought to be.

He was of indefinable race—likely a mixture of at least two. He was exceptionally handsome in a way far beyond his physical appearance, which was unique and appealing. And he was an excellent orator, regaling his audience with honeyed words and dramatic cadence.

He wore the jacket of a British officer, although the item had seen years of wear, and the badges had been removed, or torn from the cloth. The garment looked fine on him and gave him a ruffled distinction. His shirt and breeches were navy issue as well. He looked more put together than his crew, who sported the mismatched garb of unaligned men of the sea. He had the accent of a British officer and the elocution of a magistrate.

The serving wench made her presence known, approaching the captain, laughing in the way women do when they want a man to think of them fondly. But as far as I could tell, her charms weren’t working upon him.

The crew was another matter.

“Oy, my darling, come here and perch on me knee awhile,” a heavyset fellow suggested, leering at the young woman and waggling his eyebrows.

“Now, now, Mister Denbrooke. What would your wife think?” the captain said with an indulgent smile.

“My wife, Captain Martin,” Mr Denbrooke said, “is probably spreading her ample thighs for the butcher and the baker at the moment. So she wouldn’t care a damn.”

Captain Martin. I’d been right in my supposition.

“Oh, go on,” the girl said and flounced to the bar where she frowned and pretended to be unaffected by the captain’s disinterest.

Everyone laughed and the captain grinned wider.

“Never was able to keep her satisfied,” Mr Denbrooke continued. “I’ve only got one cock, and she likes to have three at once.”

The men laughed and Captain Martin nodded.

“Hmm. Well, I can’t fault your wife for that,” he said.

The men laughed harder and some even hooted, and my foggy brain couldn’t keep up.

I concentrated on dealing with the hunger pangs that assailed me and rehearsed ways I could approach this formidable man who took up space with such entitled ease.

“Hello, my name is Simon White. I’d like a position on your ship.” Or, perhaps I should say, “Simon White here. You gotta place for me on board?” or “I’m strong and quick—when I’m fed, at least—Are you taking on crew?”

None of these were likely to get me what I needed, so I sat there, suffering, whilst they shoveled beef stew into their gobs and tore up whole loaves of bread to devour amongst themselves. My mouth became dry as I watched. What I wouldn’t do for an ale or even a paltry glass of water.

There were things I’d thought about doing. Things that men paid dearly for in the back alleys and the whorehouses. But I couldn’t bear the thought of trading an activity I enjoyed so much for food and drink or coin. I hadn’t gotten to a point so desperate to fall into that. If I could only get onto Captain Martin’s ship, I wouldn’t have to contemplate a life of whoredom.

“I know you’re watching me,” Captain Martin said.

It took a moment to realize his words were directed my way.

“Why don’t you grow a set of bollocks and come over, if you’re so interested?”

I gaped at him through the pain of my empty stomach, surprised to be addressed at all.

“Hmm. Perhaps you are deaf…or dumb…or both.”

His words were cruel but his attitude benign, as if he didn’t really give a damn whether I responded.

Such a long spell since I’d said a word to anyone, I had to clear my throat before speaking. “I can hear you,” I finally got out.

His eyes widened and a smile stretched his lips, like treacle spreading on a plate. “Well, well, well. The filthy cur speaks.”

He was right about the filthy part.

“Stop hiding in the shadows. Show yourself, man,” the captain said, beckoning with a finger.

I found myself obedient to his natural authority and worried about the reaction of his men if I didn’t heed their captain’s request. I pushed off the stool. My knees buckled, but I took a breath and fought the collapse, my heart beating a tattoo and my mouth dry.

I’d wanted the attention of the captain, but now that I had gained it, I wasn’t at all sure what to do with his interest.

“Aw, leave him alone, Dinesh. He’s as dirty as a stray kitten and likely as nasty.”

I straightened and tried to smooth my filthy mop, as if to belie the statement, but my hands were just as grimy as my hair. Probably more so. Perhaps I should have stripped naked in the rain and taken a scrub brush to my skin. Captain Martin’s men, who had gathered their garments from a variety of distant lands, were nonetheless cleaner than I’d expected a pirate crew to be. They regarded me with skepticism as I approached, and I couldn’t blame them. I cleared my throat and summoned courage.

“My name is Simon Bartholomew White,” I said, doing my best to level a steady gaze at the captain. “I’m looking for a place, if you please. I want to come aboard your ship.”

He laughed. “What makes you think I have a ship?”

I blinked at him. Glanced at his men. I didn’t know what to say. I scowled with frustration and tugged the leather purse from my boot. I held the pouch towards him with shaking fingers.

The captain regarded the offering with distaste, as if I were holding a dead rat.

“What do you have there, Simon Bartholomew White?” he said with some amusement.

His eyes—the colour of stormy seas—held untold depths.

“Enough coin to convince you to take a chance on me, Captain.”

The purse held all I had, and I’d come close to spending it. But the benefits of one night’s food and lodging were a waste when I needed a position in order to ensure my long-term survival. Then again, perhaps a bath and a full belly would have bettered my chances.

Some of the men laughed, and others cursed my boldness. The captain regarded me for a long moment.

“As it so happens, I do have a ship. Called the Arrow .”

His men turned and chatted amongst themselves, losing interest in our conversation.

I tried not to sway on my feet. I was so tired and weak. I stared at the coin purse in my outstretched hand as it began to go in and out of focus. Was I about to faint?

The captain continued, “But why do you want a place on a ship you only heard about a moment ago? And only supposed before that?” he asked.

He looked me up and down with more skepticism than his crew had given me.

Perhaps this was a useless endeavour. How could I convince him that I’d be an asset?

He raised his eyebrows. “In search of a wild life, are you? Dreaming of glory and women?”

No.

“ No,” I said as emphatically as I could. “I just need a place, sir.”

My legs trembled and my heart quailed. I was a grown man, truly, but I’d never felt more like a child than I did at that moment.

“Any place,” I whispered.

Some indiscernible emotion crossed his face. Disdain? Sympathy? Interest?

He took two steps toward me and plucked the purse from my hand. He stroked it with his thumb and fondled the contents through the soft leather, narrowing his eyes in contemplation.

When he met my gaze, a spark passed between us.

Then he averted his gaze and tucked the purse into the pocket of his fine jacket.

“Off with you, Mr White. I’m not in need of men,” he said.

He pulled out a chair and sat, straddling the seat as he prepared to address the others.

A desperate rage took hold of me. He’d taken my coin—all I had left to my name—and for a moment, it had looked like I might be in luck. The spark that had ignited at his look became a lightning rod of rage, giving me a burst of strength and a tendency to recklessness.

I gazed wildly about me, spotting a half-full tankard of brown ale that might or might not have been his. I grabbed the cup and threw it at him, uttering a string of curses and insults, demanding he return my coins, or I’d set his ship ablaze by morning.

None were more surprised at this turn of events than I, except perhaps for the captain himself. The tankard bounced off his middle, and ale splashed onto his fine clothes and up to his chin, the crash of the cup to the floor heralding the return of my sanity.

What have I done?

Captain Martin stared at me with apparent calm as the frothy liquid spread over his clothes. He reached under his jacket, pulled out a flintlock pistol, and aimed the barrel at my head.

“I suppose you’re going to beg for mercy,” he said in steely tones that suggested pleading might be my only option.

But I was all-in now, and there was no going back.

I kept my voice low. “Give me back my coin or bring me aboard.”

I didn’t have anything to lose now that he had my money. If he didn’t do either of those things, then he might as well shoot me and be done with me.

I stared at Captain Martin, and he stared back. He was probably as surprised as I that I wasn’t backing down. But strength had come from somewhere, and a sense of destiny held me straight and sturdy in front of him and all his crew. If I was meant to die now, then so be it. I’d not shed any tears for this place.

Captain Martin narrowed his eyes as the crew looked on with baited breath and, no doubt, a yearning for blood. I closed my eyes, ready for the end.

My own quick breaths hung in my ears as I waited.

“I’ll not waste a bullet on you. Come aboard, then. If you don’t prove your worth to me in a week, you’ll walk the plank.”

I let out my breath and opened my eyes. We stared at each other, neither willing to back down, but at least he hadn’t shot me.