Pirate Latitudes

“I will hear more of this news,” he said. “Please join me at dinner this evening.”

“With great pleasure,” Morton said, bowing once more. “Your Excellency honors me.”

“Save that opinion until you see the table this poor colony provides,” Almont said. “One last thing, Captain,” he said. “I am in need of female servants for the mansion. The last group of blacks, being sickly, have died. I would be most grateful if you would contrive for the convict women to be sent to the mansion as soon as possible. I shall handle their dispersal.”

“Your Excellency.”

Almont gave a final, brief nod, and climbed painfully back into his coach. With a sigh of relief, he sank back in the seat and rode to the mansion. “A dismal malodorous day,” Commander Scott commented, and indeed, for a long time afterward, the ghastly smells of the town lingered in the governor’s nostrils and did not dissipate until he took another pinch of snuff.

CHAPTER 3

DRESSED IN LIGHTER clothing, Governor Almont breakfasted alone in the dining hall of the mansion. As was his custom, he ate a light meal of poached fish and a little wine, followed by another of the minor pleasures of his posting, a cup of rich, dark coffee. During his tenure as governor, he had become increasingly fond of coffee, and he delighted in the fact that he had virtually unlimited quantities of this delicacy, so scarce at home.

While he was finishing his coffee, his aide, John Cruikshank, entered. John was a Puritan, forced to leave Cambridge in some haste when Charles II was restored to the throne. He was a sallow-faced, serious, tedious man, but dutiful enough.

“The convict women are here, Your Excellency.”

Almont grimaced at the thought. He wiped his lips. “Send them along. Are they clean, John?”

“Reasonably clean, sir.”

“Then send them along.”

The women entered the dining room noisily. They chattered and stared and pointed to this article and that. An unruly lot, dressed in identical gray fustian, and barefooted. His aide lined them along one wall and Almont pushed away from the table.

The women fell silent as he walked past them. In fact, the only sound in the room was the scraping of the governor’s painful left foot over the floor, as he walked down the line, looking at each.

They were as ugly, tangled, and scurrilous a collection as he’d ever seen. He paused before one woman, who was taller than he, a nasty creature with a pocked face and missing teeth. “What’s your name?”

“Charlotte Bixby, my lord.” She attempted a clumsy sort of curtsey.

“And your crime?”

“Faith, my lord, I did no crime, it was all a falsehood that they put to me and—”

“Murder of her husband, John Bixby,” his aide intoned, reading from a list.

The woman fell silent. Almont moved on. Each new face was uglier than the last. He stopped at a woman with tangled black hair and a yellow scar running down the side of her neck. Her expression was sullen.

“Your name?”

“Laura Peale.”

“What is your crime?”

“They said I stole a gentleman’s purse.”

“Suffocation of her children ages four and seven,” John intoned in a monotonous voice, never raising his eyes from the list.

Almont scowled at the woman. These females would be quite at home in Port Royal; they were as tough and hard as the hardest privateer. But wives? They would not be wives. He continued down the line of faces, and then stopped before one unusually young.

The girl could hardly have been more than fourteen or fifteen, with fair hair and a naturally pale complexion. Her eyes were blue and clear, with a certain odd, innocent amiability. She seemed entirely out of place in this churlish group. His voice was soft as he spoke to her. “And your name, child?”

“Anne Sharpe, my lord.” Her voice was quiet, almost a whisper. Her eyes fell demurely.

“What is your crime?”

“Theft, my lord.”

Almont glanced at John; the aide nodded. “Theft of a gentleman’s lodging, Gardiner’s Lane, London.”

“I see,” Almont said, turning back to the girl. But he could not bring himself to be severe with her. She remained with eyes downcast. “I have need of a womanservant in my household, Mistress Sharpe. I shall employ you here.”

“Your Excellency,” John interrupted, leaning toward Almont. “A word, if you please.”

They stepped a short distance back from the women. The aide appeared agitated. He pointed to the list. “Your Excellency,” he whispered, “it says here that she was accused of witchcraft at her trial.”

Almont chuckled good-naturedly. “No doubt, no doubt.” Pretty young women were often accused of witchcraft.

“Your Excellency,” John said, full of tremulous Puritan spirit, “it says here that she bears the stigmata of the devil.”

Almont looked at the demure, blond young woman. He was not inclined to believe she was a witch. Sir James knew a thing or two about witchcraft. Witches had eyes of strange color. Witches were surrounded by cold draughts. Their flesh was cold as that of a reptile, and they had an extra tit.

This woman, he was certain, was no witch. “See that she is dressed and bathed,” he said.

“Your Excellency, may I remind you, the stigmata—”

“I shall search for the stigmata myself later.”

John bowed. “As you wish, Your Excellency.”

For the first time, Anne Sharpe looked up from the floor to face Governor Almont, and she smiled the slightest of smiles.

CHAPTER 4

SPEAKING WITH ALL due respect, Sir James, I must confess that nothing could have prepared me for the shock of my arrival in this port.” Mr. Robert Hacklett, thin, young, and nervous, paced up and down the room as he spoke. His wife, a slender, dark, foreign-looking young woman, sat rigidly in a chair and stared at Almont.

Sir James sat behind his desk, his bad foot propped on a pillow and throbbing badly. Sir James was trying to be patient.

“In the capital of His Majesty’s Colony of Jamaica in the New World,” Hacklett continued, “I naturally anticipated some semblance of Christian order and lawful conduct. At the very least, some evidence of constraint upon the vagabonds and ill-mannered louts who act as they please everywhere and openly. Why, as we traveled in open coach through the streets of Port Royal—if they may be called streets—one vulgar fellow hurled drunken imprecations at my wife, upsetting her greatly.”

“Indeed,” Almont said, with a sigh.

Emily Hacklett nodded silently. In her own way she was a pretty woman, with the sort of looks that appealed to King Charles. Sir James could guess how Mr. Hacklett had become such a favorite of the Court that he would be given the potentially lucrative posting of Secretary to the Governor of Jamaica. No doubt Emily Hacklett had felt the press of the royal abdomen upon her more than once.

Sir James sighed.

“And further,” Hacklett continued, “we were everywhere treated to the spectacle of bawdy women half-naked in the streets and shouting from windows, men drunk and vomiting in the streets, robbers and pirates brawling and disorderly at every turn, and—”

“Pirates?” Almont said sharply.

“Indeed, pirates is what I should naturally call those cutthroat seamen.”

“There are no pirates in Port Royal,” Almont said. His voice was hard. He glared at his new secretary, and cursed the passions of the Merry Monarch that had provided him with this priggish fool for an assistant. Hacklett would obviously be no help to him at all. “There are no pirates in this Colony,” Almont said again. “And should you find evidence that any man here is a pirate, he will be duly tried and hanged. That is the law of the crown and it is stringently enforced.”

Hacklett looked incredulous. “Sir James,” he said, “you quibble over a minor question of speech when the truth of the matter is to be seen in every street and dwelling of the town.”

“The truth of the matter is to be seen at the gallows of High Street,” Almont said, “where even now a pirate may be found hanging in the breeze. Had you disembarked earlier, you might have seen it for yourself.” He sighed again. “Sit down,” he said, “and keep silent before you confirm yourself in my judgment as an even greater idiot than you already appear to be.”

Mr. Hacklett paled. He was obviously unaccustomed to such plain address. He sat quickly in a chair next to his wife. She touched his hand reassuringly: a heartfelt gesture from one of the king’s many mistresses.

Sir James Almont stood, grimacing as pain shot up from his foot. He leaned across his desk. “Mr. Hacklett,” he said, “I am charged by the crown with expanding the Colony of Jamaica and maintaining its welfare. Let me explain to you certain pertinent facts relating to the discharge of that duty. First, we are a small and weak outpost of England in the midst of Spanish territories. I am aware,” he said heavily, “that it is the fashion of the Court to pretend that His Majesty has a strong footing in the New World. But the truth is rather different. Three tiny colonies—St. Kitts, Barbados, and Jamaica—comprise the entire dominion of the Crown. All the rest is Philip’s. This is still the Spanish Main. There are no English warships in these waters. There are no English garrisons on any lands. There are a dozen Spanish first-rate ships of the line and several thousand Spanish troops garrisoned in more than fifteen major settlements. King Charles in his wisdom wishes to retain his colonies but he does not wish to pay the expense of defending them against invasion.”

Hacklett stared, still pale.

“I am charged with protecting this Colony. How am I to do that? Clearly, I must acquire fighting men. The adventurers and privateers are the only source available to me, and I am careful to provide them a welcome home here. You may find these elements distasteful but Jamaica would be naked and vulnerable without them.”

“Sir James—”

“Be quiet,” Almont said. “Now, I have a second duty, which is to expand the Jamaica Colony. It is fashionable in the Court to propose that we instigate farming and agricultural pursuits here. Yet no farmers have been sent in two years. The land is brackish and infertile. The natives are hostile. How then do I expand the Colony, increasing its numbers and wealth? With commerce. The gold and the goods for a thriving commerce are afforded us by privateering raids upon Spanish shipping and settlements. Ultimately this enriches the coffers of the king, a fact which does not entirely displease His Majesty, according to my best information.”

“Sir James—”

“And finally,” Almont said, “finally, I have an unspoken duty, which is to deprive the Court of Philip IV of as much wealth as I am able to manage. This, too, is viewed by His Majesty—privately, privately—as a worthy objective. Particularly since so much of the gold which fails to reach Cádiz turns up in London. Therefore privateering is openly encouraged. But not piracy, Mr. Hacklett. And that is no mere quibble.”

“But Sir James—”

“The hard facts of the Colony admit no debate,” Almont said, resuming his seat behind the desk, and propping his foot on the pillow once more. “You may reflect at your leisure on what I have told you, understanding—as I am certain you will understand—that I speak with the wisdom of experience on these matters. Be so kind as to join me at dinner this evening with Captain Morton. In the meanwhile I am sure you have much to do in settling into your quarters here.”

The interview was clearly at an end. Hacklett and his wife stood. Hacklett bowed slightly, stiffly. “Sir James.”

“Mr. Hacklett. Mrs. Hacklett.”

THE TWO DEPARTED. The aide closed the door behind them. Almont rubbed his eyes. “God in Heaven,” he said, shaking his head.

“Do you wish to rest now, Your Excellency?” John asked.

“Yes,” Almont said. “I wish to rest.” He got up from behind his desk and walked down the corridor to his chambers. As he passed one room, he heard the sound of water splashing in a metal tub, and a feminine giggle. He glanced at John.

“They are bathing the womanservant,” John said.

Almont grunted.

“You wish to examine her later?”

“Yes, later,” Almont said. He looked at John and felt a moment of amusement. John was evidently still frightened by the witchcraft accusation. The fears of the common people, he thought, were so strong and so foolish.

CHAPTER 5

ANNE SHARPE RELAXED in the warm water of the bathtub, and listened to the prattle of the enormous black woman who bustled around the room. Anne could hardly understand a word the woman was saying, although she seemed to be speaking English; her lilting rhythms and odd pronunciations were utterly strange. The black woman was saying something about what a kind man Governor Almont was. Anne Sharpe had no concern about Governor Almont’s kindness. She had learned at an early age how to deal with men.

She closed her eyes, and the singsong speech of the black woman was replaced in her mind by the tolling of church bells. She had come to hate that monotonous, ceaseless sound, in London.

Anne was the youngest of three children, the daughter of a retired seaman turned sailmaker in Wapping. When the plague broke out near Christmastime, her two older brothers had taken work as watchmen. Their jobs were to stand at the doors of infected houses and see that the inhabitants inside did not leave the residence for any reason. Anne herself worked as a sick-nurse for several wealthy families.

With the passing weeks, the horrors she had seen became merged in her memory. The church bells rang day and night. The cemeteries everywhere became overfilled; soon there were no more individual graves, but the bodies were dumped by the score into deep trenches, and hastily covered over with white lime powder and earth. The deadcarts, piled high with bodies, were hauled through the streets; the sextons paused before each dwelling to call out, “Bring out your dead.” The smell of corrupted air was everywhere.

So was the fear. She remembered seeing a man fall dead in the street, his fat purse by his side, clinking with money. Crowds passed by the corpse, but none would dare to pick up the purse. Later the body was carted away, but still the purse remained, untouched.

At all the markets, the grocers and butchers kept bowls of vinegar by their wares. Shoppers dropped coins into the vinegar; no coin was ever passed hand to hand. Everyone made an effort to pay with exact change.

Amulets, trinkets, potions, and spells were in brisk demand. Anne herself bought a locket that contained some foul-smelling herb, but which was said to ward off the plague. She wore it always.

And still the deaths continued. Her eldest brother came down with the plague. One day she saw him in the street; his neck was swollen with large lumps and his gums were bleeding. She never saw him again.

Her other brother suffered a common fate for watchmen. While guarding a house one night, the inhabitants locked inside became crazed by the dementia of the disease. They broke out and killed her brother with a pistol-ball in the course of their escape. She only heard of this; she never saw him.

Finally, Anne, too, was locked in a house belonging to the family of a Mr. Sewell. She was serving as nurse to the elderly Mrs. Sewell—mother of the owner of the house—when Mr. Sewell came down with the swellings. The house was quarantined. Anne tended to the sick as best she could. One after another, the family died. The bodies were given over to the dead-carts. At last, she was alone in the house, and, by some miracle, still in good health.

It was then that she stole some articles of gold and the few coins she could find, and made her escape from the second-story window, slipping out over the rooftops of London at night. A constable caught her the next morning, demanding to know where a young girl had found so much gold. He took the gold, and clapped her in Bridewell prison.

There she languished for some weeks, until Lord Ambritton, a public-spirited gentleman, made a tour of the prison and caught sight of her. Anne had long since learned that gentlemen found her aspect agreeable. Lord Ambritton was no exception. He caused her to be put in his coach, and after some dalliance of the sort he liked, promised her she would be sent to the New World.

Soon enough she was in Plymouth, and then aboard the Godspeed. During the journey, Captain Morton, being a young and vigorous man, had taken a fancy to her, and because in the privacy of his cabin he gave her fresh meats and other delicacies, she was well pleased to make his acquaintance, which she did almost every night.

Now she was here, in this new place, where everything was strange and unfamiliar. But she had no fear, for she was certain that the governor liked her, as the other gentlemen had liked her and taken care of her.

Her bath finished, she was dressed in a dyed woolen dress and a cotton blouse. It was the finest clothing she had worn in more than three months, and it gave her a moment of pleasure to feel the fabric against her skin. The black woman opened the door and motioned for her to follow.

“Where are we going?”

“To the governor.”

She was led down a large, wide hallway. The floors were wooden but uneven. She found it strange that a man so important as the governor should live in such a rough house. Many ordinary gentlemen in London had houses more finely built than this.

The black woman knocked on a door, and a leering Scotsman opened it. Anne saw a bedchamber inside; the governor in a nightshirt was standing by the bed, yawning. The Scotsman nodded for her to enter the room.

“Ah,” the governor said. “Mistress Sharpe. I must say, your appearance is considerably improved by your ablutions.”

She did not understand exactly what he was talking about, but if he was pleased then so was she. She curtseyed as she had been taught by her mother.

“Richards, you may leave us.”

The Scotsman nodded, and closed the door. She was alone with the governor. She watched his eyes.

“Don’t be frightened, my dear,” he said in a kindly voice. “There is nothing to fear. Come over here by the window, Anne, where the light is good.”

She did as she was told.

He stared at her in silence for some moments. Finally, he said, “You know at your trial you were accused of witchcraft.”

“Yes, sir. But it is not true, sir.”

“I’m quite sure it is not, Anne. But it was said that you bear the stigmata of a pact with the devil.”

“I swear, sir,” she said, feeling agitation for the first time. “I have nothing to do with the devil, sir.”

“I believe you, Anne,” he said, smiling at her. “But it is my duty to verify the absence of stigmata.”

“I swear to you, sir.”

“I believe you,” he said. “But you must take off your clothes.”

“Now, sir?”

“Yes, now.”

She looked around the room a little doubtfully.

“You can put your clothes on the bed, Anne.”

“Yes, sir.”

He watched her as she undressed. She noticed what happened to his eyes. She was no longer afraid. The air was warm; she was comfortable without her clothing.

“You are a beautiful child, Anne.”

“Thank you, sir.”

She stood, naked, and he moved closer to her. He paused to put his spectacles on, and then he looked at her shoulders.

“Turn around slowly.”

She turned for him. He peered at her flesh. “Raise your arms over your head.”

She raised her arms. He peered at each armpit.

“The stigmata is normally under the arms or on the breast,” he said. “Or on the pudenda.” He smiled at her. “You don’t know what I am talking about, do you?”

She shook her head.

“Lie on the bed, Anne.”

She lay on the bed.

“We will now complete the examination,” he said seriously, and then his fingers were in her hair, and he was peering at her skin with his nose just a few inches from her quim, and even though she feared insulting him she found it funny—it tickled—and she began to laugh.

He stared angrily at her for a moment, and then he laughed, too, and then he began throwing off his nightshirt. He took her with his spectacles still on his face; she felt the wire frames pressing against her ear. She allowed him to have his way with her. It did not last long, and afterward, he seemed pleased, and so she was also pleased.

AS THEY LAY together in the bed, he asked her about her life, and her experiences in London, and the voyage to Jamaica. She described for him how most of the women amused themselves with each other, or with members of the crew, but she said that she did not—which wasn’t exactly true, but she had only been with Captain Morton, so it was very nearly true. And then she told about the storm that had happened, just as they sighted land in the Indies. And how the storm had buffeted them for two days.

She could tell that Governor Almont was not paying much attention to her story. His eyes had that funny look in them again. She continued to talk, anyway. She told about how the day after the storm had been clear, and they had sighted land with a harbor and a fortress, and a large Spanish ship in the harbor. And how Captain Morton was very worried about being attacked by the Spanish warship, which had certainly seen the merchantman. But the Spanish ship never came out of the harbor.

“What?” Governor Almont said, almost shrieking. He leapt out of bed.

“What’s wrong?”

“A Spanish warship saw you and didn’t attack?”

“No, sir,” she said. “We were much relieved, sir.”

“Relieved?” Almont cried. He could not believe his ears. “You were relieved? God in Heaven: how long ago did this happen?”

She shrugged. “Three or four days past.”

“And it was a harbor with a fortress, you say?”

“Yes.”

“On which side was the fortress?”

She was confused. She shook her head. “I don’t know.”

“Well,” Almont said, throwing on his clothes in haste, “as you looked at the island and the harbor, was this fortress to the right of the harbor, or the left?”

“To this side,” she said, pointing with her right arm.

“And the island had a tall peak? A very green island, very small?”

“Yes, that’s the very one, sir.”

“God’s blood,” Almont said. “Richards! Richards! Get Hunter!”

And the governor dashed from the room, leaving her lying there, naked on the bed. Certain that she had displeased him, Anne began to cry.

CHAPTER 6

THERE WAS A knock at the door. Hunter rolled over in the bed; he saw the open window, and sunlight pouring through. “Go away,” he muttered. Alongside him, the girl shifted her position restlessly but did not awake.

The knock came again.

“Go away, damn your eyes.”

The door opened, and Mrs. Denby poked her head around. “Begging your pardon, Captain Hunter, but there’s a messenger here from the Governor’s Mansion. The governor requests your presence at dinner, Captain Hunter. What shall I say?”

Hunter rubbed his eyes. He blinked sleepily in the daylight. “What is the hour?”

“Five o’clock, Captain.”

“Tell the governor I will be there.”

“Yes, Captain Hunter. And Captain?”

“What is it?”

“That Frenchman with the scar is downstairs looking for you.”

Hunter grunted. “All right, Mrs. Denby.”

The door closed. Hunter got out of bed. The girl still slept, snoring loudly. He looked around his room, which was small and cramped—a bed, a sea chest with his belongings in one corner, a chamber pot under the bed, a basin of water nearby. He coughed, started to dress, and paused to urinate out of the window onto the street below. A shouted curse drifted up to him. Hunter smiled, and continued to dress, selecting his only good doublet from the sea chest, and his remaining pair of hose that had only a few snags. He finished by putting on his gold belt with the short dagger, and then, as a kind of afterthought, took one pistol, primed it, rammed home the ball with the wadding to hold it in the barrel, and slipped it under his belt.