Ronin of the Seas-On Pirate Shores

By Stephen Smith

After years of war Great Britain and France strike an uneasy peace. Their treasuries are empty; their armies and navies reduced to impotence. Pirates terrorize the Caribbean. It is the zenith of their power . . . and the beginning of the end.

The winds of change sweep across the Caribbean like summer squalls.

Desperate to secure her valuable West Indies colonies from marauding freebooters and thwart a clandestine French bid for Caribbean hegemony, Great Britain determines to crush piracy and foil French designs without risking a war she cannot afford.

Sensing the end of the old lawless era, Esau Jessup, quartermaster of the pirate sloop Sweet Alice, buys a pardon from a corrupt island governor and tries to find his own redemption in the arms of May Meehan, an indentured servant he’s rescued from Edward “Blackbeard” Teach.

Despite his efforts, Jessup is drawn into the gathering maelstrom when Gentleman Davy Fletcher, his charismatic but volatile friend and captain, is captured by a British frigate sent to intercept the Aurora, a French slave ship smuggling gold from Africa to Martinique. Sweet Alice’s pirates have already seized the slaver but are unaware of the immense golden treasure concealed aboard.

With British and French warships stalking Sweet Alice and her fabulous prize, Fletcher drifts into madness as Jessup searches for a way out of the rovers’ life. Their climactic confrontation on a lonely beach brings Europe’s two great powers to the brink of war and changes the destiny of empires.

Drawing on years of historical research, Ronin of the Seas is rich in the gritty sights and smells of the pirates’ world afloat and ashore. Set amid the tumultuous 18th-century Cold War between France and Great Britain, this tale of the Sweet Alice and her swaggering crew, the Bully Boys, drives relentlessly from the glittering intrigues of Versailles and Britain’s stuffy halls of power to Africa’s infamous Slave Coast; from the rawboned Carolina frontier to the tropical paradise of Nassau, the freewheeling pirates’ home port.

The greatest rovers of the time – Charles Vane, Henry Jennings, Benjamin Hornigold and Blackbeard – unwittingly cross swords and match wits with some of Europe’s most powerful and historically improbable figures: King George I of England – “German George,” who loathes all things British and refuses to speak the language; Louis XV, the seven-year-old King of France; one-time privateer Woodes Rogers, sent to restore order in the Bahamas; and fugitive Scottish financier John Law, who invents “junk bonds” to finance his vision of French global economic domination.

Ronin of the Seas melds the irresistible romance of the Caribbean swashbucklers with the stark realism of the freebooters’ tenuous, brutal, often extravagant existence against a backdrop of 18th-century realpolitik.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stephen Smith
• Release date: Mar 14, 2013
• ISBN: 9781939337436

Stephen Smith

Stephen Smith is an award-winning journalist, photographer and pewtersmith. He has written for military history magazines,served on the board of Fort Western in Maine,and has done military research in the public and private sectors. His first military figurine was recognized by the American Pewter Guild and displayed at the Smithsonian and Museum of America in Bath, England. Steve and his wife, both avid scuba divers, divide their time between New Hampshire's White Mountains and the Caribbean, where he first contracted "pirate fever." RONIN OF THE SEAS is his first novel. NIGHTMAN, On Pirate Shores, is nearing completion.

Book preview

BLUEFIELD’S BAY, JAMAICA, MARCH, 1715

Esau Jessup paced the beach, watched the lightermen tumble small barrels into Barsheba’s longboat and held his breath as a barrel bounced off the boat’s thwart.

Have a care! he shouted. That’s gunpowder, ya blunderheads!

The longboat and its volatile contents pulled for the sloop anchored offshore. He breathed a sigh and crossed ‘powder’ from his stores inventory. Down the beach, slaves unloaded more casks from a horse cart. Another lighter, piled high with meal sacks and crates of squawking chickens, pushed off for Barsheba.

He felt a sharp rap on his shoulder. You there … doodle.

Jessup wheeled around, startled, angry.

A tall, sallow-faced man stood before him, silver-capped cane poised to strike again. A battered portmanteau lay at his feet, ivory-hilt hanger strapped to its side.

Are you employed on that boat? the fop asked, pointing with the cane.

Jessup, bosun’s mate.

David Fletcher, gentleman. I wish to sign on.

Jessup conned him head to toe. The man’s garish clothes were threadbare with evidence of hasty repairs: elbows and knees rudely patched, buttons mismatched. His tanned face was mottled from drink. Jessup laughed. "Not a boat … Barsheba’s a sloop, and all our gentleman berths are filled."

Fletcher’s short, pointed beard twitched like a cat’s tail. His eyes narrowed. The cane shifted in his hand.

Jessup tensed and felt for his belt knife.

At that moment Henry Jennings, Barsheba’s owner, approached from town, engaged in animated conversation with sailing master Jamie Maynard.

Cap’n Henry, Jessup called, slipping his belt knife back into its sheath. "This gentleman wants to sign on."

"Gentleman? Jennings scoffed. Of what earthly use to me is a gentleman?"

I am skilled in the art of steering using the positions and movements of the sun and other celestial bodies as reference.

Maynard’s weathered face puckered a deep scowl. He raised an eyebrow, spat to windward; it blew back on Fletcher’s coat. "Ce-lestial bodies?" the sailing master asked.

It means I can navigate, my uneducated friend, Fletcher said, wiping off the spittle with his frayed cuff. He eyed the old man and grinned. And you, sir, can read the wind.

Jennings considered him for a moment. "We’ll not be barging on the Thames, your highness. Barsheba’s a privateer, lawfully commissioned by Governor Hamilton to destroy pirates and Jamaica’s enemies in these waters. It’s bloody business, not well suited to a gentleman."

Fletcher’s cane idly flicked at the sand. He locked eyes with Jennings: soulless, shark eyes.

Jennings recognized the emptiness from long years in the business of death. He nodded to Jessup. Tell Chaderton to sign him as a landsman at a half-share, no more. He turned to Fletcher. When you’ve learned the ropes you’ll report to the sailing master here. Maynard grinned a malevolent tobacco-brown smile, spat on Fletcher’s shoes. "Jamie’s the finest sea artist in the Caribbean.

We weigh for the Main with the morning tide, your highness, so you’d best be aboard and find a soft plank to lay your rug.

CHAPTER 2

Fletcher was given the most onerous duties: greasing the mast, tarring the standing rigging, dressing sails, holystoning the deck, shifting ballast. Shadow work, they called it. Jennings sent him aloft in the foulest weather. Fletcher puked but didn’t complain.

* * * * *

Barsheba ran down the Spanish Main, plying against light, sultry winds that fell dead calm for days at a time. Tar dripped from the standing rigging, oozed from the decks in the tropical sun. The drinking water turned slimy and stank; the salted beef went blue and rancid.

The stench became oppressive: dank corners, moldy canvas, rotting wood and, hanging over all like a gray cloud, unwashed, salt-encrusted bodies and excrement, both animal and human. Cockroaches, big as a fat man’s finger, hid from the light. Rats were ubiquitous and the entree at more than one supper when provisions failed. The men grew listless and uneasy with nothing to occupy time and mind but numbing routine. Fights erupted. Jennings confiscated the alcohol. Two men suffered Moses’ Law—forty lashes, less one—for stealing rum from his cabin.

* * * * *

Barsheba stood off Portobello on a hot, airless day. The sails hung limp. The crew lolled on deck, huddled in the shade.

On deck! Figg, the lookout, called. Sail! Two points off the larboard bow!

The sail revealed itself to be a small half-galley of the guardas costas, well armed, agile and, with fifty sweeps, impervious to the wind. Spain’s red and gold flag rippled at her ensign staff.

Hoist our colors, Jennings said. The sloop’s commission pennant climbed to the masthead. The red British ancient unfurled at the gaff.

The galley’s crew took in sail. The sweeps quickened the stroke. Her bow chasers fired. Two six-pound round shot thundered across Barsheba’s bow. Geysers of frothy sea erupted to starboard.

Damn my blood, Jennings said. That Creole dog means us to heave to. He intends to board us.

We ain’t at war with Spain no more, are we?

Jennings examined the galley through his glass. No peace beyond the line, Jamie.

Maynard glanced at the quivering sails. Ain’t gon’a show him heels with this breeze.

Then, by God, Jennings said, we’ll take the bastard! I’ll not be boarded by a goddamned Don! He considered the galley again. But softly, I think. Esau! Chaderton!

Strike our colors, he told Esau. Chaderton, all hands below except for five or six. Have ’em strike the main … slow and lubberly, then stand ready to make sail on Jamie’s word.

He turned to Maynard. When she’s at pistol range put us into her bow, Jamie: board and board. He watched the galley closing. The arrogant bastard’ll think he’s catched a Tartar, right enough.

The galley’s sweeps slowed. She drifted towards the helpless sloop: two hundred yards, one hundred yards. Jennings nodded to Maynard.

Make sail!

All hands on deck! Chaderton shouted. Men poured from the main hatchway. Run out starboard guns!

Chaderton, Jennings said, boarders to the fore … and, Miles, send his highness over first. He grinned.

Boarders to the fore! Stand ready!

The galley’s guns loosed a ragged salvo. Barsheba’s starboard four-pounders replied with a broadside that ripped into the Spaniard’s hull.

Fletcher—yellow velvet coat and red sash—appeared from the main hatchway. A brace of pistols hung on a crimson and gold silk ribbon around his neck. A huge dragoon pistol was tucked in his sash. Swive the bastards! he yelled. Rip ’em! He beat the flat of his ivory-hilt hanger against the hull. No quarter, my hearties! We’ll cut out their fucking hearts! Who’s with me, boys?

The boarders, sharp-edged survivors of a hundred melees, surveyed Fletcher with undisguised scorn.

Look, lads, Charles Vane said, it’s the friggin’ Duke of Marlborough hisself come to lead us ’gainst the heathen Dons. They all laughed.

I’m with you. Fletcher turned. Jessup stood at his side. At ’em, lads! Jessup shouted. Send ’em to hell! He beat his cutlass against the hull. Others joined. It sounded like distant thunder. Fletcher smiled, slapped Jessup’s shoulder. Maynard put Barsheba hard into the galley’s bow. Grappling hooks locked the vessels tight.

No quarter! Fletcher yelled, leaping to the galley’s deck. Swive the bastards! Make ’em bleed!

"Fuego!" The galley’s guns and swivels belched death at point-blank range. Barsheba shuddered to her keel; her bow disappeared in an angry swirl of smoke. Hot iron, ragged wood splinters tore air and flesh. Men fell—screaming, cursing, praying.

Jessup watched wide-eyed as the haze fell apart. Fletcher stood on the Spaniard’s deck, sword high, face twisted, shrieking like a madman. His coattails hung in shreds. Dark blood stained his yellow velvet sleeves and collar.

Handy-cuffs, lads! Jessup shouted. At ’em to the knife and knife to the hilt! The boarders scrambled over the rail. Fletcher turned for the quarterdeck, quickly dispatched two men with his pistols, then buried his hanger deep in a third man’s chest.

Barsheba’s swivels joined the fray, raining grape shot on the galley’s deck, sweeping a bloody path for the outnumbered boarders. Grenades burst spewing jagged shards. Marksmen in the shrouds and top targeted gunners and officers. The galley’s scuppers bled into the blue sea. Jessup gutted the second captain at the hatchway and made for the quarterdeck.

Bleeding from a half-dozen wounds, Fletcher stumbled up the quarterdeck’s companion ladder. The Spanish captain rushed him. He parried the thrust, backed away from the man’s long, unwieldy rapier, and then darted in close where the rapier was useless. He smashed the captain’s face with his hanger’s knuckle bow. Stunned, blinded by the blood surging from his forehead, the captain flailed the air.

Fletcher stood off, black with rage. He dropped his hanger, pulled the dragoon pistol from his sash and fell on the helpless captain like a Fury, beating his head to formless pulp with the pistol’s heavy brass-capped butt.

Fletcher threw the pistol aside, picked up his hanger and put the blade to the man’s throat. "Ir al infierno, you son of a bitch," he hissed.

"!Mi capitan!" a sailor cried, racing to defend his fallen commander. He coiled to strike. His body snapped. The cutlass flew from his hand. He crumpled to the deck. Fletcher turned. Jessup stood at the companion ladder. Smoke curled from his pistol’s muzzle.

Fletcher looked down at the captain, grinned and drove the blade through the man’s neck. The point stuck in the deck. The man gasped, spit blood and died.

The Spanish crew threw down their weapons and fell to their knees. "!Misericordia! !Madre de Dios! !Misericordia!"

Jessup walked across the slippery quarterdeck, glanced at the captain’s battered face, the blade in his throat. No call for that.

Fletcher’s eyes darted side to side. His nostrils flared. He put me in a temper. He reeled, clung to Jessup’s arm for support.

Say this for you, Jessup said, you can fight. Fletcher managed a weak smile. You’ll be on my watch; take your meals with my mess. I’ll teach you what you need to know. Fletcher started to speak, collapsed.

Jessup hoisted the limp body over his shoulder. But Henry’ll have your balls if you can’t navigate.

CHAPTER 3

Fletcher—now Gentleman Davy—proved an affable companion: personable, witty, brave to the point of recklessness, possessed of a vast repertoire of ribald drinking songs. He taught the men to play flapdragon, the latest fashion in London. They watched, spellbound, as he snatched raisins from a blazing bowl of brandy and popped the fiery fruit into his mouth. They cheered and huzzahed. The boatswain rushed over and doused the flames. Goddamn madcap, he muttered. ’At spills on deck and we’ll go up like a bucket of tar.

Maynard was impressed with Fletcher’s navigational skill. Regular wizard with a backstaff and compass, he told Jennings. Says his father’s an astronomer, member of some Royal Society.

Off watch, Jessup taught Fletcher basic skills: how to hand, reef and steer; read the wind; trim sail and a thousand things foreign to landsmen. Fletcher honed Jessup’s rudimentary navigational training: measuring the sun’s distance above the horizon with a backstaff; determining the sloop’s lee-way; calculating position by dead reckoning. Both were quick studies.

But like the treacherous black squalls that rise without warning from clear Caribbean skies, Fletcher’s temper could change in an instant. Ill humors drove him to the darkest, foulest recesses of the sloop’s hold where he drank alone, cursing the god he disavowed, until the chaos in his brain calmed. The crew gave him wide berth after Vane went to investigate noises in the cable tier. Fletcher beat him senseless.

That one’s got a demon gnawing at his soul, Jennings said, watching from the quarterdeck as Fletcher amused the watch with some sleight of hand.

Humors ain’t right, said Boatswain Robert Lathan, the sloop’s patriarch and doctor. Too much black bile, I’ll wager. Needs to be bled regular. Still, lads are right hearty to him, Henry. They say he’s pistol-proof an’ smart as a whip. Like ’at he’s a gentleman. There’s talk he should be a captain.

"Gentleman my rosy-red arsehole! Jennings snorted. Some stray bitch jumped the fence and pissed on his family tree … and he’s a madman’s courage. Fletcher’s trouble, and any man who follows him will suffer for it."

Maybe, Lathan said, considering Fletcher with rheumy eyes, but he’s the way about him, Henry. With a well-found sloop an’ a good quartermaster …

Like Miles Chaderton? Jennings laughed.

Nay, Esau. He’s the only man ain’t afeared of him, only man Fletcher respects. Only man Fletcher wouldn’t kill for sport, ’cludin’ you.

Confounds me, Jennings said, why Esau’s taken up with him. He’s too clever for Fletcher’s conjuring.

Some folks just naturally take to strays.

Aye, and get bit for their trouble. Jennings was quiet for a spell. "Captain, eh? It would get him off Barsheba before I have to kill him."

Or ’fore he sets the crew against you.

CHAPTER 4

SPANISH TOWN, JAMAICA

Sweat stung Governor Peter Heywood’s eyes. His shaved head itched like fire under the heavy Ramillies wig. He mopped his brow and rose from his ornate chair. The gentlemen of the Jamaica Assembly stopped fidgeting and fell quiet.

Honorable gentlemen, Heywood said, "I have received a proclamation from London: ‘Whereas Henry Jennings, master of the sloop Barsheba, and his Company, did, on or about the fifth day of January last, Piratically, Feloniously and without commission or license, attack the sovereign territory of His Most Catholic Majesty King Philip of Spain, to wit: Palmar de Ayz, so-called, in the Floridas, and did seize and take from that place coin, plate and other goods belonging to the said King Philip to the value of 350,000 pieces of eight, His Majesty King Philip and our most Sovereign lord King George then being in a state of Sacred Peace and Amity …’"

Shame, Peter Heywood! A man jumped to his feet, pointed an accusing finger at the governor. Shame! You know full-well that Jennings carried a commission from Governor Hamilton!

Not to plunder Spanish salvage camps, another shouted, and Hamilton is recalled to London to answer for his actions!

We’re not at war with Spain! an elderly man said. We’ve scarce buried our dead from the War of Succession. Last thing Jamaica needs is Henry Jennings setting the Spanish and French at our throats again!

The chamber erupted. Elegantly dressed men shoved and cursed each other. A wig skittered across the polished floor.

Pray silence, gentlemen, the clerk called, his gavel unheard in the uproar. Silence! Pray be seated. Slammed the gavel. Quiet! When order was restored, Heywood stalked across the assembly floor.

"Gentlemen, we are not at war with Spain and the treasure of their foundered 1715 plate fleet is the rightful property of the King of Spain. Had Captain Jennings possessed a lawful commission to plunder their salvage camp, then our government would have been complicit in an act of war. Heywood scanned the sweating faces. Do you understand, gentlemen? Jennings’ attack on the Spanish camp was an act of war.

However, he continued, scanning the faces, "if Captain Jennings did not possess license, then his was the action of a renegade—a pirate—regrettable, but the act of an individual. The governor again glanced at the assemblymen. Not an act of war. For the sake of peace, gentlemen, Henry Jennings did not have commission or license and His Majesty’s government will not look with favor upon any man who says to the contrary." The room was quiet. Heywood continued reading. "And whereas upon the high seas, in a certain place, distance about thirty leagues from the said Palmar de Ayz, Henry Jennings, master of the sloop Barsheba, and his Company, did set upon, shoot at and take a certain merchant ship belonging to His Most Catholic Majesty King Philip of Spain, and did seize and take from said vessel coin, plate and other goods to the value of 50,000 pieces of eight, His Majesty King Philip and our most Sovereign lord King George then being in a state of Sacred Peace and Amity.

"We, therefore, declare that Henry Jennings and each and all of his Company have committed Crimes against the Peace of our said Lord, King George, his Crown and Dignity and are hereby proclaimed Pirates and Enemies to the Crown of Great Britain, and are to be so treated and Deemed by all his Majesty’s subjects."

CHAPTER 5

How’d you come to be here? Jessup asked, sitting on deck one moonlit night, too sultry to go below.

You know full well, Fletcher laughed. You were on the beach. Hell, you damn-near chived me.

Jessup smiled. I mean in the Caribbean. Seems a long way from, well, wherever you hail from. Fletcher passed the rum. The jib rustled in the light air. A block rattled against the topmast. Esau took a drink.

Do you know what ‘primogeniture’ means? Fletcher asked. Jessup shook his head. It means that everything devolves to the eldest son. It means I can never inherit my family’s title, honors, estate—anything—so long as my elder brother lives. His voice rose. "It all passes to him. He is the family’s legacy; I am predestined to enter the military, the law or, God forbid, the church." He snatched the bottle, took a pull.

Doesn’t sound so bad, Jessup said. "Better than Barsheba."

"My brother’s a drooling idiot, a half-wit. Thrown from a horse on his tenth birthday; landed on his head. Doctors say he’ll never be right. My father says that primogeniture is God’s holy ordinance and must be obeyed on pain of eternal damnation. Damnation, my arse! My brother’s the one damned but the old bastard fears for his own soul. He slammed the bottle. It should be mine!"

A swell passed down the hull. The sloop groaned like an old man in winter. The boatswain turned the watch glass, struck three bells.

They said, my father said, that I tried to murder my brother, that I pushed him down the stairs. His voice became cold, emotionless. The old bastard gave me a thousand guineas and disowned me. He stared at the half-moon hanging low over an anonymous cay and took a long pull, brightened.

I went to London and squandered my bequest on earthly pleasures. Alas, Esau, I game with more enthusiasm than art and, facing the rather grim prospect of debtors’ prison, I decided to travel to Jamaica. For my health, you understand. He grinned. In Kingston there was an unfortunate affair: a tradesman who slandered my good name. He claimed I stole his purse and raped his wife, as if I’d have the old sow. Fellow disappeared. Likely hit his head on something and fell in the bay.

Jessup lit his pipe, passed it, faces warm in the soft glow.

Fletcher leaned on the windlass, asked, What was your sin?

I murdered my captain.

* * * * *

Jessup woke to the harsh clang of Barsheba’s bell. His head throbbed. Chaderton stood over him, kicked his foot. Turn out, Jessup. Your watch.

He rubbed his eyes and winced at the pain. He held up his right hand. A razor-straight wound slashed his palm from forefinger to wrist. A rum-clouded memory stirred. There had been a promise, a blood oath that he would never let Fletcher swing off for the hangman. Davy had also promised something. Jessup couldn’t remember what. He dragged himself from under the windlass and stumbled below to rouse the watch.

CHAPTER 6

Ben Hornigold has a good thing in Nassau, Jennings told the crew. "There’s a fine harbor, a careening beach, rum to drink and women to swive. Hell, Hornigold’s boys even sent the governor packing. There’re no guard ship, no militia to raise the hue and cry and best of all, lads, Nassau lies ’tween the Florida Straits and Windward Passage. Why, the prizes come to you … beg to be taken!" The men laughed.

The King has declared us pirates, Jennings continued, tone now serious. "Pirates, damn his blood! For ten years we defended his Caribbean plantations; we fought the French and Spanish while he played at war in Europe. Many a good seaman—our shipmates—died so His fuckin’ Majesty could have Jamaican sugar teats with his cocoa. Cries of Swive the bastard! and Goddamn the King!" rose from the men.

"Now, him and the boy-king of France have tired of their game, signed a peace treaty, call each other dearest brother and friend and call us pirates ’cause we still protect our English brothers and friends from the popish Frenchies and Dons." An angry roar swept Barsheba’s deck.

I say to hell with ’em, one and all! Jennings said. Damn them! I say we make for Nassau … join Hornigold and go on the account. If it’s pirates they call us, then, by God, it’s pirates we’ll be! The crew shouted approval.

Huzzah! Fletcher yelled, firing a pistol in the air.

Jessup stood apart, quiet.

* * * * *

They raised a sail beating northeast off Andros Island.

Bermuda sloop, Maynard said, nodding approval. Looks like she’s right off the ways. Make a fair prize. Barsheba bore down under full press, flying British colors and St. George Cross.

Hoist our colors, Jennings said as they closed. A blood-red banner replaced the British ancient. Gunner, put a shot ’cross her forefoot.

Heave to! Strike amain! Jennings hailed. Heave to you’ll have good quarter. The sloop’s master brought Judith Ann into the wind. Her sails shivered and backed. The crew lowered the gaff.

Maynard kept Barsheba windward of the prize. The newly-minted pirates stood by their guns, slow-matches at the ready.

Take a boarding party, Jennings told Chaderton, and see what we she carries. If they offer no resistance they’re to have good quarter. Be certain of it, Miles—they’re Englishmen. Give ’em provisions and their longboat. Jennings considered the sloop’s rakish lines. And, Miles, when you’ve done, put a prize crew aboard.

Chaderton smiled. As Barsheba’s quartermaster, he would command the prize.

Fletcher’s captain, Jennings said. Esau’s to be quartermaster. He’s to keep off our leeward quarter till we make Nassau.

Chaderton glared white-hot. "I am Barsheba’s quartermaster, he protested. I should command the prize."

You have your orders, Jennings snapped, raised a hand to his sword.

CHAPTER 7

NASSAU, AUGUST, 1716

The vessels riding in Nassau Harbor welcomed Barsheba and her prize with a thunderous cannonade. Jennings and Hornigold conferred ashore over bowls of traditional rum punch—one sour, two sweet, three strong and four weak—while Barsheba’s crew ran riot in the tiny town’s ramshackle rum shops and brothels. Nassau’s whores earned a year’s wages.

The next day Jennings purchased half-interest in The Fountain of Youth, the town’s most substantial tavern. That night he invited Fletcher and Jessup to share a bottle with him.

How do you find the prize? the captain asked without prologue.

Stands up well to her canvas, Jessup said, she’s fast and answers the helm smart.

Jennings nodded. Good. I’m giving her to you both. Fletcher and Jessup looked at each other, surprised.

Jessup cocked his head. A shallow smile crossed his face. He locked eyes with Jennings. "Giving, Henry?"

Well, the old captain grinned, for a tenth part of your plunder. And I’ll stake you to guns and stores for your first cruise. He settled back in his chair. She’s a fine sloop. You can do well with her, if you don’t hang.

Why? Fletcher asked.

We were lucky at the salvage camp, Fletcher, Jennings said. Spanish did all the labor and we reaped the rewards. Those days are past. Pirating’s a business now, like any other, only we don’t make or grow anything, we take it: tobacco, silk, indigo, cocoa, Negroes … anything of value. We bring it to market in Nassau and it’s auctioned to the highest bidder, like as not some respectable Boston merchant. He took a drink from his silver tankard with a whistle in the handle, like Henry Morgan’s.

Fletcher leaned forward. "You don’t take my meaning. Why are you giving us the sloop? I am surely to be captain. The sloop should be mine."

Crew will elect officers in council, Jennings said.

Crew! Fletcher rose, nearly overturned the table. The tavern’s great room went silent. Men stared. Jennings was known for his volcanic temper. No man raised his voice to Henry Jennings.

"I should be captain by right! Fletcher continued, slamming his fist. Crew be goddamned! No more than a bag of rats, to be kept stirred up lest they gnaw their way out!" He stormed into the street, cursing Jennings.

The tavern remained still for only an instant. Business resumed. The fiddler raised his bow; the tavern’s boy turned the spit at the fire. The oily aroma of roasting pig filled the smoky room. One of the whores squealed. Cost ya silver to feel ’at again!

Jessup watched the door slam, and then turned to Jennings. Why Davy and me, Henry?

"Men’ll follow Davy Fletcher, men can be damned foolish that way, but they trust you. He nodded to the door. Even that flamin’ madman trusts you, much as he trusts any living soul. You’re a seaman, Esau. You know your business. Fletcher doesn’t know the sea, doesn’t respect it and doesn’t respect the men who use it. Nay, he needs you more’n you need him and he knows it. Without you to temper him, Fletcher’ll get you all killed."

He took a drink and looked hard at Jessup. But don’t ever give him your back, Esau. Never let Fletcher get the weather gage of you. Never. They listened to the fiddler’s tune. Jennings blew the tankard’s whistle for a refill.

As for me, he said, I’ve decided I’m too old to live on salt horse and stale beer. He smiled, filling Jessup’s tar-coated leather blackjack mug. This, his arms swept expansively, is more to my taste. You and Fletcher do the bloody business. I’ll take a tenth part.

He slid a paper across the table. Articles for your first cruise. After that, crew can name their own.

Jessup read the first article: Every man to have a say in all Affairs of moment. The crew to decide by vote in Council on a Captain, Quarter-master, Master, Boatswain and Master gunner … the Captain’s word to be absolute in battle, chasing or being chased; the Quarter-master to command in concert with the Captain at other times.

He nodded. Fair enough. I’ll read it later, make it right with Davy.

"See Godwin at the chandlery for stores, and he’ll know where there’re guns to be had. Oh, and the sloop’s to be called Sweet Alice."

Jessup almost choked on his drink. The whore?

"Have a care, lad, you’re speaking of Mrs. Jennings. Leastwise she says I wed her, I disremember, and that I promised to name the sloop for her, in exchange for certain favors. He shook his head. Good a name as any, I s’pose."

* * * * *

Jessup supervised the sloop’s transformation to rover: ports cut for ten guns, deck reinforced to support the gun’s weight, bulkheads below removed. He bought a twenty-five-foot longboat to tow behind Alice. Spends Jennings’ money like he’s mad at it, Godwin the chandler laughed.

Dubbed the Bully Boat, ’cause it follows all meek an’ docile like a bull by the nose, the longboat was armed with a bow swivel. It would later boast two towering, curved horns at the bow, the remains of a huge steer roasted by the filibusters one wild night on a beach near Campeche, Mexico.

Jessup and Maynard took Alice for a trial run. With a clean bottom and fresh wind she made nine knots.

Can do better, Maynard said. Add a bit more ballast and freshen to starboard.

When all was done to Jessup’s satisfaction, a crier and drummer paraded through Nassau’s rude, dusty streets announcing that "the sloop Sweet Alice of ten guns is fully stored and ready to weigh anchor. Gentlemen of fortune desirous of a heavy purse, light duties, ample victuals and the best rum and spirits are encouraged to present themselves to Esau Jessup tonight at The Fountain of Youth to sign articles."

Sixty-three sun-baked, case-hardened seamen swore on a Bible and boarding ax to abide by the articles, then scratched their names or marks to the document in a circle—a round robin—so it could not be said who signed first. Most were in their twenties, ex-privateers or veterans of the merchant service or King’s Navy, where discipline was always rigid, often mindlessly brutal. Many bore the cat’s scars on their backs. They were English, mostly, with a few Scots Jacobites exiled after the failed 1715 rebellion, some Irish, Welsh and American colonials. One in five was black, either escaped slaves or free merchant seamen. One, called Kay—a corruption of "Que?—was a native of the emerald green rain forests of Tierra Firma. Short, wiry, intensely silent, he could skylark aloft quicker ’an a monkey, the boatswain allowed, an’ he’s damn-near as clever."

Some of the rovers had sailed ’round the Horn and raided in the South Sea and Gulf of Panama. They had plundered the riches of Potosi, the Peruvian mountain of silver. A few had cruised the Indian Ocean, domain of the Great Mogul and East India Company. Howard, a veteran of Woodes Rogers’ privateering voyage around the world, had a tattoo of a large red star incised on his chest, a novelty to most of the men. Many suffered malaria’s debilitating fitful chills and fever. Almost every man had the clap, happily contracted and passed on by Nassau’s legion of prostitutes.

To a man, they were savvy to the ways of wind and weather, accustomed to taking in vast horizons at a glance. Through squinted eyes they could read the sea’s moods by her color in the sun, her sound against the hull, even the taste of the spoondrift on their lips, as scholars read languages incomprehensible to most men.

* * * * *

They assembled in common council on Alice next day and elected Jamie Maynard sailing master, Robert Lathan boatswain and James Dunne master gunner. As Jennings had stipulated, they agreed to cruise under the flag of Gentleman Davy Fletcher. Jessup was quartermaster.

Now, lads, Fletcher said, moving among them. We’re honest seamen—plain dealers—and free men. Not many can say as much. Most sailors crew ships driven by black-hearted masters who wickedly abuse ’em, then flog ’em if they offer any complaint. Miserable bastards, they are: wouldn’t give a penny to a blind man, but they’ll steal bread from honest seaman and not think twice. Free men like us scare the piss out of such as them! The men roared agreement.

We hail from the sea, he continued, mounting the quarterdeck, as free men should. We go where we will, do as we please, take what we want and ask leave of no man. We claim as much right to seize a prize as any goddamn prince, potentate or beef-witted king with all their armies and navies, though we be called pirates for doing so! And if we end our days tossed overboard after a battle or stretch a rope, well, least we die free men and that’s as fine an end as any man could ask!

CHAPTER 8

LONDON, AUGUST, 1717—A YEAR LATER

Your letter to Lord Sunderland, m’lord, the secretary said, laying the document on James Stanhope’s desk. Stanhope, First Lord of the Treasury and King George I’s senior functionary, examined the communication to Charles Spencer, 3rd Earl of Sunderland, his partner in the ruling Whig government.

My Lord,

Mr. Secretary Addison of the Lords of Trade and Plantations has received a most alarming communication from Col. Thompson, a distinguished Planter from His Majesty’s Jamaica Plantation. That worthy Gentleman complains that Pyrates operating from New Providence in the Bahama Islands have seized the last two cargoes of sugar he dispatched and he greatly fears Financial ruin if something is not speedily done by His Majesty’s Government to suppress the brigands, the Islands’ present Lords Proprietors having consistently failed to do so.

Regrettably, Col. Thompson’s letter conforms in all particulars to Reports received in recent months by the Board from numerous of His Majesty’s Governors in the Caribbean Colonies. The Governor of Antigua Himself wrote that I do not think it advisable to go from hence except upon an Extraordinary occasion, not knowing but that I may be intercepted by the Pyrates.

To be candid, My Lord, France and Great Britain are engaged in a contest to determine which nation can first become Bankrupt. At present, France appears to be in the forefront of this enterprise, despite the burdensome Financial costs imposed upon our Treasury by the late War. Nonetheless, we cannot entirely depend upon the French to be the Instrument of their own destruction but must ceaselessly look to the welfare of Great Britain; any circumstance which threatens the very substantial Revenues we realize from our West Indies Plantations has the potential to prove calamitous and could, indeed, imperil the very well-being of the Nation.

These Pyrates represent a Dagger poised at our economic jugular and cannot be tolerated. They endanger our financial security, which makes our position relative to France all the more precarious, for, as you know, My Lord, despite the treaties of Amity and expressions of good will between our two Nations, the conflict continues, now waged with Sugar and Gold rather than Powder and Shot; nonetheless in earnest for being less sanguinary.

I urgently recommend that we exhort His Majesty, upon his return from Hanover, to pursue this matter with the utmost dispatch. I propose three actions: A General Amnesty for Pyrates who surrender Themselves to the proper Officers within an allotted time; Appointment of a Royal Governor for the Bahama Islands who will ruthlessly hunt down and bring to the gibbet any who do not then foreswear Pyracy; additional Men-of-war to support this effort and root out this Plague upon our vital commerce.

I am, My Lord, your most obedient Servant,

Stanhope

Stanhope took up his quill and scrawled across the bottom. Charles, something must be done at once!

CHAPTER 9

Sweet Alice rolled in the greasy swells off the Delaware Capes, hull down, all but invisible in the drowsy predawn calm. The fickle breeze teased her single jib. The air hung heavy after a morning squall. Thin wisps of vapor rose from the warm deck. Scattered swaths of fog, thick as a sailor’s coat, crept across the cold gray water.

Alice was a jaunty, swaggering piece of the shipwright’s art. A Bermuda sloop, built of the finest red cedar, sixty feet from stem to sternpost, twenty-one feet broad at the beam, with a low, lean silhouette that sloped upward to a raised quarterdeck, her single raked mast towered seventy feet above the deck. The fifty-foot bowsprit and jib boom was rigged for staysail, jib and, in light weather, flying jib. The fifty-five-foot boom, almost as long as Alice herself, carried a massive gaff-rigged driver, her main sail. Under a full press of canvas, she was a shimmering cloud scudding across the sapphire sea.

Like all of her kind, Alice was at her best working close to the wind—"Sail damn near into the wind’s eye, if you ask ’er pretty!" the sailing master claimed with a wink—and her fore-and-aft sails were easily trimmed from the deck. The square-rigged topsail and course gave added speed with the wind astern. With a clean bottom and stiff quartering breeze, Alice could make eleven knots or more, fast enough to catch any merchantman or show heels to almost any warship.

Her eight-foot draft enabled her to slip through shallow inlets and pass over sandbars to lie undisturbed in secluded coves. Ports were cut for six pair of sweeps, adding speed and mobility into the wind or, indeed, in dead calm. The oars also allowed her to maneuver amid treacherous reefs and shoals, an advantage that had saved the rovers more than once.

For all her beauty, Alice was a predator, armed with eight cast iron four-pound guns forward and two bronze six-pounders at the quarterdeck break. Eight short-range ‘murderers’—swivel guns firing grape shot or small round shot—lined the rails.

Sweet Alice was fast and ruggedly seaworthy, perfect for preying on merchant shipping in warm Caribbean waters in the winter and foraging off the Atlantic Coast of North America in summer and fall.

* * * * *

Jessup leaned on the taffrail. The sun still lay hidden below the horizon. Its reflected rays bathed the sloop’s oft-patched jib in a golden incandescence. Dawn, he knew, could reveal a rich prize hoping to slip past in the darkness or a man-of-war bearing down under full press of sail. He made it a practice to be on deck before the sun.

Joining him was a scrawny, piebald rooster seized from a Virginia-bound sloop and summarily condemned to Alice’s cooking pot until Jessup noticed that despite the most intemperate weather the bird flapped and scratched his way to the bow each morning to herald the sun. It was also discovered that the intrepid fowl would mount the midship rails at the sound of gunfire, flail his flightless wings and squawk defiance. The freebooters respected such bravado. The pugnacious rooster was granted a reprieve and christened Sir Harry in honor of Sir Henry Morgan, the revered buccaneer captain.