Voyage of Plunder (8 page)

“But—”

“Don't worry. They don't belong to anyone here.”

I frowned. “What do you mean, they don't belong to anyone here? Then where did they—” my voice caught. “They're Captain Hewitt's, aren't they?”

Timothy went back to scrubbing the clothes in the tub. Water splashed out on my shoe, trickling between my toes. Finally he said, “My mother used to say that when life gives you a bees’ nest, look for the honey.”

When still I hesitated, Timothy urged, “Go on, take them. Captain Hewitt certainly doesn't need them anymore. Consider it my pay for two years of working for the tyrant. Besides, come a month or so, you won't be so picky when all you're wearing is a thread or two.”

I fingered the clothing. They were fine shirts, linen, stitched with skill. And the breeches—as first-rate as my father's. They would be a little big, but it was better than wearing rags. Plus, I felt sure that Captain Hewitt, could he speak to me now, would
want
me to have them, seeing as I was a hostage at the hands of the very men who had murdered him and would someday see all his murderers hang for their crimes. “Thanks, Timothy.”

“Don't mention it. Now get out of those god-awful stinky clothes and hand them over before I retch into the washtub.”

The cutlass sliced toward my head. I parried, grunting, my arm trembling with fatigue. Steel clashed and scraped.

Still he came at me, again and again, his face black as cinder, his lips stretched in a grin so wide that his teeth shone like a skeleton's.
He was well muscled and lithe, bald as a cannonball, with a laugh that sounded both cruel and contented. I yelled as I lunged, thrusting the cutlass toward his chest, but with a quick flick of his wrist, he parried and sidestepped, tripping me with his foot.

I fell onto the sand, rolling at the same time. But before I could gain my feet, the point of his cutlass was at my throat. I dropped my weapon and lay motionless. A pinprick of pain jabbed my Adam's apple.

“You dead, Fat Boy,” said Caesar, still grinning. “I win again.”

He removed his cutlass, and I sat up, wincing, rubbing my throat. “Do you have to make it so real?”

Caesar shrugged. “This way you not be surprised when it battle. You be tough. Don't forget to beat my sword back before you try for kill. That why you lose.”

“Is it my turn yet?” asked Timothy. He sat under a palm tree, chewing his fingernails. The wind made his hair look wild as Cook's mop.

About a month ago, Josiah had asked Caesar to teach both Timothy and me swordsmanship—trying to turn me into one of them, no doubt. Caesar, who seemed to like nothing better than slashing, tearing, ripping, stabbing, and all manner of destruction aimed at the flesh, readily agreed. Now Caesar crouched, cutlass slicing through the air. A slow grin spread across his face, and he motioned Timothy toward him. “Come get me, Choirboy.”

As Timothy and Caesar crossed swords, I flopped beneath the palm. We were anchored at a deserted island off the west coast of Africa. As soon as the pirates finished lazing about and filling up the water casks, we planned to head southwest, catch the westerlies, and sail around Africa's Cape of Good Hope into the Indian Ocean.

I squeezed a handful of sand, then watched it trickle from between my fingers. Caesar didn't know this, but I was learning
swordsmanship only so that I could defend myself against the likes of him. Never would I raise my sword against another in battle. Never. (Even Timothy didn't know this, because now he was one of them. The day before, he'd participated in pillaging one of the villages on another island. I'd watched in horror from the rail while he'd helped load pigs, chickens, goats, turtles, and fruit into the longboat.
Thief! What would your poor mother say?)

“You'll be glad of it when we're months out at sea,” Timothy had said in answer to my accusing stare once he climbed back aboard. “Even pirates can starve. You should try it sometime. Maybe then you won't be so high and mighty.”

Now I threw a fistful of sand, cursing when it caught the wind and blasted back into my eyes.
Thief or not,
I thought, crying into my sleeve,
Timothy's my only friend.

I didn't notice they had approached until I saw their feet out of the corner of my gritty eye. Nine of them—feet, that is. Plus one wooden stump. Some feet were shod in leather boots, some in square-toed shoes; others were bare. One foot had only two toes. I glanced up, blinking.

Five men stood facing me, including Josiah, his face expressionless. Basil Higgins, the quartermaster for the
Tempest Galley,
a fair and decent fellow as far as murderers went, held a parchment. Manuel Featherstone, the scar-eyed man, short and wiry and deadly with a dagger, held a pot of ink and a quill. Will Putt clutched a Bible. Then there was one-legged Abe Corner, who'd run away at age twelve and was now the company cook. Beside Abe was a barrel.

“Daniel Markham?” Basil had a crooked nose—smashed in battle, no doubt—and eyebrows so bushy they grew together in the middle. A mat of curly hair peeped out from behind the brace of pistols strapped across his chest. I remembered him from when I was a child and liked him.

“Aye.”

“We've business to discuss with ye.”

It seemed to me that everything became instantly quiet. The clash of swords ceased. Even the birds stopped squawking and twittering.

“You've been with us three months now—”

“Two.”

Basil cleared his throat, his voice deep and raspy as though he'd been hacked across the neck too many times. “The point being, young Daniel, we don't allow no one aboard who won't sign the Articles.” He held out the parchment. Written across the parchment were a dozen paragraphs or so. At the bottom were numerous signatures, scrawled in halting form,
X
's scratched everywhere.

My mouth fell open. Surely they weren't serious! “But—but you took me against my will!”

“Aye, that may be true, but you're one of us now.”

“I'll
never be
one of you!” I looked from face to face, my temples throbbing. “You murdered my father! You're all devils!”

They stared at me. Then Basil shrugged. “Very well, lad. Have it your way.” He withdrew a pistol and laid it at my feet.

“What's that for?” I asked.

Basil didn't answer.

Abe Corner tapped the cask beside him with his peg leg. “Full of sailor's biscuit. Water's about a hundred paces that way.” He pointed over his shoulder.

Biscuit? Water? A pistol? Do they plan to leave me here?

As if to answer my question, they began to walk away. Caesar and Timothy followed them. Timothy glanced back. “Farewell, Daniel.”

y heart began a horrible pounding, and my ears roared with blood. I ran after them, grabbing Josiah's sleeve. “Josiah, you can't be serious!”

Josiah turned, his face hard. “The Articles are for the benefit of all the men, including yourself. Rules keep things fair and everyone honest.” He stared at me unblinking before looking away. His voice softened. “They took a vote, Daniel, my boy. I'm sorry, but if you don't sign the Articles, you have to stay behind.”

I snorted. “You talk of honesty? You, a pirate and a murderer?”

Josiah hesitated, and in that moment I glimpsed pity in the depths of his black eyes. Pity, and … something else. “I'm sure you'll
make the right decision.” He pried his sleeve out of my fist, turned, and walked off with the others.

“But—but you can't leave me. I—I'm your hostage!” The wind gusted. Sand peppered my legs. My hair whipped into my eyes. I glanced about me. A sandy beach. A few palms, scrubby trees, and grasses. A mountain in the center of the island—a volcano, probably, like the one we'd seen smoking just a few leagues away. With just a pistol and a cask of biscuit, I wouldn't last long. And no one, other than Timothy and this band of cutthroats, even knew I was here.

They reached the longboat, climbed inside, and set their oars to the locks.

They're leaving me. They're actually leaving me!

And with a creak of the oarlocks, they shoved off as the last man climbed aboard.

They can't leave me! They can't! I'll die!
“No! No!” I shrieked, running into the water. The oars stopped. Seven faces stared at me. Stumbling, water lapping about my thighs, I reached the boat and grabbed the gunwale. “Don't leave! I'll sign.”

Basil nodded, cleared his throat, and read the Articles, paragraph by paragraph.

Every man to have a vote in affairs. Food and drink to be divided equally …

All prizes to be divided equally. Captain and quartermaster to get double shares. If a man robs the company, his ears and nose will be slit, and he will be marooned on a sandbar.…

If anyone loses a limb, he will be given eight hundred dollars. Three hundred dollars for an eye.

Cowardice or deserting the ship in battle is punishable by death.

All men must keep pistols and cutlasses clean and ready for service.…

My vision blurred. My throat swelled. I placed my hand on the Bible.

My voice sounded far away. “I, Daniel Markham, swear an oath on the Bible to abide by these Articles.”

A quill was thrust into my hand, the parchment placed over the Bible. I heard the scratch of my signing, feather against paper. A splotch of ink spread across the parchment like blood.

They hauled me aboard and I sat, my heart dry as sand, ignoring Timothy, who patted me on the back, saying that he was glad I had come to my senses. That it was all for the best. That forced men couldn't be condemned for piracy, so I was safe no matter what happened.

I looked out over the harbor to where the
Tempest Galley
lay anchored.

It was unthinkable that I would lie while taking an oath upon the Bible. Such profaning of holy things would damn my soul to eternal torment in the lake of fire and brimstone.

Aye, I will abide by your miserable Articles, Josiah Black,
I told myself.
But I am not a pirate. I am not a thief. I am not a murderer. And never will I be.

Then a wretchedness from deep within burst out like pus from a wound. Hot. Scathing. I hid my face on my knees and sobbed.

Late that night, as men danced to the raucous music blasting from the fo'c'sle deck, I sat between two cannon, cross-legged, a lantern beside me. Upon my request, Basil Higgins had given me a parchment, a bottle of ink, and a quill.

It was not perfect. Master Noggin would no doubt toss it in the stove and tell me to write it over, this time with straight lines and without ink splotches. But it was good enough for my purposes, and besides, Master Noggin was far away.

As I signed my name, Timothy approached, carrying a platter heaped with roasted chicken and yams. He settled beside me, the lantern between us. “What are you doing?”

Though I was still angry at him, I showed him the paper.

“Blood and thunder, that's messy. Master Noggin's probably having apoplexy right now.”

“It's for the courts. In case we get captured.” I read it aloud while he chewed on a drumstick, his chin glistening with grease.

“Chicken?” he asked when I was done, offering me the platter. “Abe gave me extra so you could have some. He said you haven't eaten all day.”

I almost said no, remembering where the chicken and yams had come from, remembering that Timothy was a thief, but my stomach hurt and the smell was like heaven. I took a piece. “I'll need a couple of witnesses,” I was saying, my mouth full. Grease dripped onto the parchment.

“Sure, I'll sign.” Wiping his hand on his shirt, Timothy took up the quill, dipped it in ink, and signed his name followed by the word
wittnes.
“Daniel, just so you know, I knew that you'd sign the Articles. We all did.”

I was silent.

“That's one reason why we all voted to maroon you. Because we knew you'd sign.”