Dark Mondays Read online

  Harry Morgan sat there in the pool of light with four others, prosperous captains all. They spoke together in low voices. John walked up to the table and took off his hat. “I do beg your pardon, gentlemen,” he said, with a dry mouth. “But I did hear there was an expedition toward, and take the liberty of inquiring whether you might need an able-bodied seaman. Sirs.”

  Morgan looked up at him.

  “An expedition toward, is it?” he said, and his Monmouthshire voice was sharp as a needle. “And who says so?”

  John swallowed hard. He mustered all the boldness he could and grinned. “Why, sir, even the chimney-pots have heard by now. Sure, Fame follows you like a shadow.”

  “Flattery, too,” said Morgan, eyeing him. He stroked his beard. “It may be, sir, that we are contemplating certain business. It may be that we need a man or two. Bradley!” He tapped his finger on the table before one of the other captains, and indicated John with a jerk of his head. “There is perhaps a berth wants filling on the Mayflower, is there not?”

  Captain Bradley looked around swiftly, but with elaborate casualness yawned, and said: “Perhaps. Who’s this great side of beef? Are you much of a fighter, sir?”

  “Please you, sir, a powerful fighter,” said John, showing the size of his fist. “And a gunner too, by God.”

  “Not a delicate one, are you?” Morgan demanded. “No trick knees? No weak backs? No fainting in the heat of the sun, eh?”

  “No, sir,” said John. “And I’ve had the fever and lived to tell the tale. I’m your man, sir, for a forced march or boarding a ship, either one. Nor blood don’t give me no swooning fits, neither.”

  “Well, that is a good thing,” said Morgan dryly. “And how much ready cash have you to hand? For, look you, you’ll want plenty of powder and shot. I should say three muskets and a brace of pistols, in good condition, and cutlasses too. Shall you have all these by the fourteenth? As we sail then, you know.”

  “Why—sure, I have them,” said John. “Or will have, by the fourteenth.”

  “See that you do,” said Bradley. “And if you are a true gunner, so much the better; you’ll get a double share.”

  “Always assuming there is any profit,” said Morgan, setting his finger to the side of his nose. “For we go out on the old terms, you know. No purchase, no pay.”

  “Aye, sir,” said John. “The fourteenth, is it?”

  “From King’s Wharf,” said Captain Bradley. “Mind you be there by the evening before, so as to sign on. Sooner, if you can; lest the berths be all full then.”

  “Aye, Captain,” said John. “I will, indeed.”

  They went back to their drinking, so he bowed and backed away. Emboldened by what he’d done, a crowd of men rushed to fill the place he’d just left, and John heard their voices raised in supplication to Morgan. He found his way out alone, and the relative cool of the night wind was sweet on his face.

  The plain truth of it was, John hadn’t a penny to his name. He owned a sea-chest, a cutlass, one pistol, a hammock and a pair of blankets, plus the clothes on his back; and he was reckoned pretty well-to-do for a sailor, at that.

  He lived, just then, in a camp on the beach some two miles along the sand spit, with some of his shipmates from the old Clapham. It was an easy life, living on fish and turtles, so long as a man had no thirst and wasn’t too particular about sand flies; but his mates were drifting away one by one, and pretty soon the camp would fill up with strangers. It was time to move on anyhow.

  Pity about the money, John thought to himself. He wandered away up Lime Street, half-hoping some thief would have a go at him; for he had turned the tables more than once, beating an assailant into unconsciousness and possessing himself of whatever he found in the man’s pockets. No one came near him tonight, however. The only other figure he could spot, all along the street, was a drunken man staggering along some thirty paces ahead of him.

  John being sober, pretty soon he came upon the other man, and was about to pass him when the fellow gave a sort of gasping cry and dropped as though he’d been clubbed. John stood back, aghast. He stepped into the shadow of a wall and watched for a long moment, as the cold starlight glittered down. The other fellow never moved again.

  So, John came and knelt by him, and turned him over. This took some doing, for the man was exceedingly fat, and soaked with sweat besides. He stared up at the stars unblinking, though sand was in his face and dusted on the lashes of his eyes. Dead as mutton; of apoplexy maybe, for he didn’t stink of fever, but only wine. And maybe his tonnage killed him, for it was all John could do to take him by his soft hands and haul him into Pelican Alley, so heavy he was.

  What John had his eyes on was the dead man’s boots, for they were grand things, new, by the look of them, high to the knee, and just John’s size too. John’s ankles stung with sand-fly bites, and his worthless rawhide shoes had worn through to the point where he could feel every broken shell in the lane.

  “After all, it ain’t like you’ll need them where you’re bound,” he muttered to the corpse, as he pulled the boots off. Oh, they were new: thick and stiff, fancy-stitched with colored stuff, and they went on John as though they’d been made for him. John was so happy he nearly walked away from the dead man there and then, which would have changed the way his life went considerably.

  But as an afterthought he turned back and went through the dead man’s coat. It was a heavy great coat. No wonder the man had dropped dead, if he didn’t know better than to wear something like that in this sticky heat. Then John encountered the bulge of the purse, and hauled it up as eagerly as though he were pulling in a netful of cod.

  It was a well-lined purse. John looked down at the dead man and grew thoughtful. This was somebody; this was no nameless redleg like him. People came asking questions after a corpse like this one. It seemed wisest to leave the dead man far in his wake. John took the purse and ran off, in the salvaged boots. Though they kept his feet from harm they were a little hot, and pretty clammy with the dead man’s sweat, and when he saw what sharp, clear prints they left in the sand behind him, John went down to the tideline and walked there, so the sea would wash out his track.

  When he got to the camp at last, it was deserted. Some nameless bastard had gone through his trunk and taken his weapons. Much he cared; he rolled up in a blanket and caught what sleep he could until morning, when he broke camp and hauled everything he had left back to town. Come sunrise John was sitting on his sea-chest outside the armorers’, whistling a cheery tune as he waited for them to open shop.

  * * *

  Three hours later John went swaggering up to King’s Wharf where the Mayflower was anchored, carrying a bundle of black doglock muskets over his shoulder as though they were new brooms, and a porter panting after him with his sea-chest and the kegs of powder and shot. Aboard he came, under the gaze of a sour-faced little man with the look of a clerk.

  “What’s your business, man?” he said to John.

  John tipped the porter, removed his hat and said grandly, “Reporting for duty, sir. As Captain Bradley said I ought, when I spoke to him personal yestereen.”

  The clerk took in all that shiny new gear, and his tone was a little more pleasant as he said: “Like enough. Why, then, you must be read in. Step over here, if you please.”

  He had a ship’s muster laid out on top of an empty water barrel, with ink and pen to hand. Here he seated himself on a nail-keg, took up the pen and said:

  “Your name, sir?”

  “John James,” said John, which was half a lie.

  “Very likely,” said the clerk with a sniff, but he wrote it down. “Your age, sir, and place of birth?”

  John told him, and they were lies too.

  “Able-bodied seaman, yes?”

  “Please you, sir, and I’m a gunner,” said John.

  “We’ll see about that,” said the clerk. “If the captain rates you so. Herewith the articles: Mariner sails conditionally at Captain Bradley’s pleasure, share to
be determined according to worth. Venture to be determined at the Admiral’s pleasure. Terms are, no purchase, no pay.

  “Mariner provides his own weapons, amounting to no less than two muskets, two pistols, two cutlasses, and powder and ball sufficient for the endeavor. All weapons to be kept clean and fit for service at all times.

  “Mariner shall not steal, nor quarrel, nor murder in the course of quarreling, nor dice, nor game at cards. Default in this at thy peril. Mariner shall not desert or turn coward under fire. Default in this at thy peril. Mariner shall not mutiny or propose venture other than ventures heretofore duly determined by the Admiral. Default in this at thy peril.”

  “This is hard straits,” protested John.

  “This is Harry Morgan’s way,” said the clerk. “We’re none of your pirates here. You may sign articles or you may go back on the beach, as you please.”

  “I was just saying,” said John, but he stood down. The clerk cleared his throat and went on:

  “Mariner entitled to free use of any garments taken in the course of venture, for his own proper wear. Mariner entitled likewise to victuals and drink so taken, with daily allotment from the ship’s stores, save upon occasion of short commons, when allotment to be determined at Captain’s pleasure.

  “In the matter of recompense for injuries: mariner to receive value of six hundred pieces of eight for loss of either right or left leg. Mariner to receive value of six hundred pieces of eight in recompense for loss of right hand. In recompense for the loss of right hand and left hand, mariner to receive eighteen hundred pieces of eight. In recompense for sight of one eye, mariner to receive one hundred pieces of eight. In recompense for the loss of the sight of both his eyes, mariner to receive six hundred pieces of eight.” John was nodding impatiently by the time the clerk had reached the end of the recitation. The clerk ignored him and read:

  “In the matter of recompense for singular bravery, if any man shall distinguish himself under fire, or be first to enter any stronghold under fire, or to lower the Spanish colors and raise those of England: that man shall receive fifty pieces of eight, to be paid directly upon division of spoils and the attestation of witnesses.

  “Mariner agrees to all articles herein and signs-or-makes-his-mark,” said the clerk, and offered John the pen and a paper. John signed his first name, started to write his last name, caught himself in time and scratched it out, blotting somewhat, at which the clerk pursed his lips. John hurriedly wrote JAMES after and underscored it with a flourish, and the clerk shook sand on the lot, and that was that.

  * * *

  The Mayflower sailed with the rest of the fleet on the day, certain as clockwork, following Morgan in the Satisfaction. Yet they went no further than up the coast a little to Blewfield’s Bay, there to put the ships in trim and take on stores and water. John heard mutterings that Morgan wanted to avoid losing his crews to the entertainments of Port Royal, nor have them talk overmuch while ashore.

  “Not that any one of us knows enough where we’re bound to tell,” said the old man with whom John had been set to work. They stood in the shadow of the Mayflower’s hull, vast above them as a dead whale, while they smashed and chipped off barnacles.

  “Well, we can’t be going out for Portobelo again, can we?” said John. “That well’s dry. And it won’t be Maracaibo again, neither.”

  “I hear it’s to be Vera Cruz,” said the old man dreamily, descending his ladder. He moved it over a pace and squinted upward. “Or Santiago de Cuba, the which I hope is wrong. That’s a hard place to take. Unless rumor’s true and Prince Rupert comes along with us. They say he could crack a fortress like a nut.”

  “Prince Rupert?” John turned, staring through the salt sweat that trickled down. He mopped his face with a rag. “What’s he?”

  “Only the king’s kinsman,” said the old man. “Fought for the old king against the Roundheads, you know. When they won, Prince Rupert took to sea and privateered. They say he was a right devil! I never sailed with him; but they do say he took Cromwell’s ships along with the Spanish, never mind whose blood he shed. I heard he had a familiar spirit like a dog, that sniffed out treasure fleets for him.

  “They say he came out here to try what he could get in the way of good fortune; but I reckon he lost his dog, for half his fleet went down in a storm, and his own brother with it. Gave it up for a bad job and sailed home again.”

  “He’d be old now, though, wouldn’t he?” said John. The other man winced.

  “That was only in ’52,” he said defensively. “Not so long ago as all that! He was a young devil then; he’d be a prime cunning devil now, you mark me.”

  “Aye, but—” said John.

  “He was burning Spanish ships when you was puking on your nurse,” said the old man, and dug with particular vehemence at a knotted gob of weed and shell. John shrugged and held his tongue.

  However good a privateer he might have been, no Prince Rupert came out of retirement to join them, when they’d all refitted and sailed off to Tortuga. Still it was a great host of the Brethren, French and English, that met with Morgan in the lee of Cape Tiburon. Morgan played the lord, with his brother captains sipping rum aboard his flagship, the great Satisfaction.

  Things weren’t nearly so grand for John.

  He was learning that he needn’t have hurried so to get aboard the Mayflower, she had plenty of berths free, for it turned out that Captain Bradley was no great shakes as a privateer. He had a reputation for being, you might say, unenterprising. No sooner had the Mayflower put in at Cape Tiburon than half its crew was over the side under cover of darkness, signing on with other captains. John would have deserted, himself, but that Bradley offered him position as chief gunner at three whole shares to stay.

  Worse, Bradley discovered John could read and write, and so offered him a fourth share to serve as mate to the pinch-faced purser, Felham. It was surely a better bargain than serving as a plain hand before the mast; and John’s mother started up her doleful crying in his head, and told him all about the respectable little shop he might set up in, if he made his pile on this expedition. So John stayed on, to his regret.

  He discovered that there was a deal of a lot of clerking to do, which might surprise those thinking a pirate’s life is all carouse. There were terms and articles, there were ships and their captains to be commissioned, there were shares to be reckoned and set aside for the King and the Duke of York. All of it so much inky nothing, as the fleet hadn’t taken in a penny yet. John climbed into his hammock at night with stained fingers, and heard shuffling paper in all his dreams.

  All the while, the steady desertion bled from Bradley’s ship. It wouldn’t do; Bradley wasn’t much of a man for taking prizes, but he was Morgan’s friend, and so Morgan put the order out that berths on the Mayflower would be filled before they sailed.

  * * *

  “They must have scoured the bilges for ’this lot,” muttered Felham. John, seated beside him at the plank table, felt inclined to agree. He cast a dubious eye over the stragglers lined up before them, and sneaked a glance at Captain Bradley, to see what he thought of it all. Bradley was looking pretty bleak.

  “Step up, you lot,” said John. “Who’s for a berth on the Mayflower, and riches?”

  Someone far back in the line cackled with laughter. There were cripples, and dazed-looking men far gone in drink, and thin, sickly fellows, and one or two clear lunatics. “Read them in, for the love of God,” said Captain Bradley, and stalked off to the wood’s edge to sit in the shade.

  “Name?” John inquired of the first to step up. He tilted his head back to see a tall man in shabby black, skeletally gaunt, white-faced, looking down at him. The man gave what must have been intended as a friendly smile. On a wolf, it would have been.

  “His name is the Reverend Mr. Elias Hackbrace,” piped a sharp voice, nothing like what John would have expected to come out of that narrow chest, and that was because it hadn’t. A small man stepped around Reverend Hackbrace.
He was a pale, mouselike individual, but his glare was flinty.

  “Reverend, is it, now?” John looked from one to the other. “Why, sir, with all respect, we ain’t likely to need sermons.”

  “We are perfectly aware of that,” said the little man. “It is our intention to pursue the vicious Spaniard, to the greater glory of the Almighty God, trusting in His monetary recompense by way of spoils of victory.”

  John and Felham looked at each other. John rubbed his chin.

  “To be sure,” said John. “But this is likely to be dirty work, see. I wonder whether the Reverend mightn’t feel a bit faint about killing a man?”

  “I assure you, sir, that is not the case,” said the other. “Mr. Hackbrace has a quite ungovernable temper when it is aroused.”

  “I have broken the Sixth Commandment on several occasions,” said the Reverend Mr. Hackbrace, in a rusty-sounding voice.

  John counted off the commandments on his fingers, and his eyes widened. “Murder?” he said.

  “Only Papists,” said Reverend Hackbrace. His hands twitched.

  “No worse than what any soldier would do, sir, in defense of his country,” said the little man. “Or, in this case, the true faith.”

  “Well, see, some of our mates here is Frenchmen, and they’re Papists too,” said Felham. “If he’s going to go killing just any Papists when his temper’s up, that won’t answer, will it?”

  “Oh, no; but the dear Reverend has discovered an unfailing means to check his wrath,” said the little man. “Allow us to demonstrate.”

  He pointed to a young palm tree that grew some ten yards away.

  “Mr. Hackbrace, regard that tree. Think of it as a sinful tree, Mr. Hackbrace! It is the very lair of the Old Serpent! It is the throne of the Woman Dressed in Purple and Scarlet, Mr. Hackbrace! It is the Pope’s own tree, Mr. Hackbrace!”