Cavalier Prince of Pirates (Post 2)

Howel drew up Articles of Agreement the following morning, and had all thirty members of the crew swear an oath of allegiance over crossed pistols. I swore as well, avoiding Howel’s eyes as I did so, forcing my voice to sound masculine, if boyish. The Articles were written in Howel’s hand and posted on the door of the cabin for all to see. I read them with interest, as this was a fascinating document.  Every man had a vote in “affairs of the moment, and had equal title to fresh provisions and strong liquors as seized,” although prizes would be divided among the men according to rank. The men were to keep their weapons in good condition, and no stealing or fighting amongst themselves would be tolerated. The best set of pistols found aboard a prize was to be awarded to the lookout who first spotted that prize. I chuckled to myself: the pirates even got workers‘ compensation and a retirement plan, which was far more than an ordinary sailor, who was no better than a slave, could ever hope for. I scanned the Articles for a clause about women, and only found this:

If at any time you meet with a prudent Woman, that Man that offers to meddle with her, without her Consent, shall suffer present Death.

Good deal. I wondered if Howel had me in mind when he wrote that particular clause. I hoped so.

He’d been a busy man of late, Howel had. He hadn’t glanced at me twice since he’d become rogue captain of the Buck. I chalked it up to his being busy, but I also sensed he was avoiding me. I told myself it didn’t matter — I was able to look after him, or simply be with him, and that was enough.

But it wasn’t.

When, a few days later, a French ship was spotted off the coast of Cuba, I was ready to do pretty much anything to get Howel’s attention. Including hand-to-hand combat. Sure, I still couldn’t handle a cutlass to save my life, but I couldn’t stand the fact that, as far as Howel was concerned, I did not exist. Risking my life would have been well worth the effort, even if he became angry with me.

The French ship had 24 guns and was considerably larger than the 12-gun Buck, which wasn’t much bigger than a large periagua, or a dugout. When Howel decided to pursue the vessel, his crew, understandably, wondered about his sanity. Hell, I know I sure did. How was this little sloop, with all of thirty pirates, going to capture a 250-ton, three-masted ship, with probably no fewer than eighty men aboard it?

When asked this question by several of his crew, Howel grinned and dismissed it with a wave of his hand. “Mere details,” he scoffed, his eyes fervid. “If we cain’t use brute force, then we’ll have to use cunning, now, won’t we?”

The crew stared blankly, hesitantly. Even the daring Walter Kennedy eyed his captain with uncertainty. But Howel wasted no time before giving orders. “We’re going to run straight for her.  She’ll either think we’re crazy or have bigger consort behind us.” He grinned. “Hopefully each in turn.”

I watched as the men did as they were told, fear lurking in their eyes. It was a desperate attempt at surprisal and deceit, and Howel armed himself and each of his men with a brace of pistols, or a baldric, and a cutlass. He pointed to a dirty tarpaulin. “Cover it in tar and fly it at the masthead,” he ordered. “It’s as good a black flag as any.”

As I watched the preparations, I realized something strange — I was not afraid. Here I was, on a small sloop with a bunch of amateur and born-again pirates, about to attack a much more powerful French ship. We would most likely die, all of us. And I was fearless. Living in 1718 had done something to me, brought out a very primitive courage, borne out of the desire to survive. It coursed through my veins, steadying me, giving me focus. I looked at Howel, leaning into the wind, his brow creased in concentration, the skin of his face, throat and forearms beginning to reacquire that baked brown color from the Caribbean sun. With a kerchief tied around his head to hold back his hair, his pistols slung across his chest, the cutlass at his hip, and those clean black boots, he looked nothing short of a swashbuckler. He knew that survival instinct, that raw pluck, so very well.

I walked up to him calmly and said, “Just so you know, I plan to fight alongside you.”

He looked at me, his eyes giving nothing away. “I wager there’s nothing I can say to stop you,” he answered simply.

I touched my pistols, the cutlass I had been given, and smiled. “Nope.”

He almost smiled back, I swear it. He looked away quickly and said, “Very well then. Mind you don’t get shot.”

They must have seen us coming, but the gun ports of the great ship remained closed, it’s course slow and steady. The French must not have been very intimidated by us, that they didn’t even bother to mount some of their cannons. Soon we were right alongside the ship, dangerously close at about a hundred yards. Had the ship’s cannons been mounted, we would have been within point blank range of them. The sun was setting, and several shadowy figures appeared on the quarterdeck of the French ship.

“Ohe!” the French captain, a fellow wearing a great plumed hat, called out. “D’où est vôtre navire?” (Ahoy! From whence your ship?)

Howel climbed to the poop deck so that he was clearly seen. His voice loud and strong, he shouted back the traditional pirate response: “De la mer!” (From the sea!)

“Comment osez-vous nous approcher de si près?” (How dare you lay alongside us?)

Howel laughed. “Pas tant d’histoires! Amène, chien!” (Enough babble! Amain, dog!)

There was some rushed discussion between the captain and another of his crew, and then he replied in heavily accented English, “What are you about, English dog? Do you wish to die?”

Howel said fiercely, “We’ve consort coming behind us, and if you do not heed me and strike your colors immediately, we will show no mercy!” Then he turned to the designated gunners among his crew and shouted, “Give her a broad-side!” As the cannons were fired at the French ship, he drew his cutlass and a pistol and ordered, “Lay her aboard!”

He was not wasting any time. The boarders threw the grappling hooks and lashed the little sloop to its much bigger prey. With Howel and Walter leading the way, the men of the Buck rushed to the forecastle and climbed the ropes onto the French ship, howling like bloodthirsty wolves. I followed, drawing my pistol but ensuring it was half-cocked. I wasn’t that stupid.

There was no battle, no bloodshed. The Frenchmen surrendered instantly, striking their colors and dropping their weapons. I watched, dumbfounded, as Howel ordered the French captain and twenty of his crew aboard the Buck as prisoners. The French captain was a portly man wearing a beautifully braided coat and waistcoat, a frilly lace cravat, and an enormous, curly wig that hung halfway down his back and rose over his brow.  He stood, horrified, his mouth agape, as Howel smiled genially at him.

“Bonsoir, M. le Capitaine!” he said cheerfully, clapping the stunned captain on the back.

“Ce n’est pas possible!” The captain muttered hoarsely, wiping the sweat that dripped down his nose. “Vous m’avez trompé!”

“Aye,” Howel responded. “We’ve fooled you, my good man. But lest you think yourself a coward or a fool, know that you deal with very crafty thieves!”

Walter, who had been standing nearby, came over and, rubbing his chin, fingered the lustrous curls of the captain’s wig. “‘Tis a fine head ‘o hair, you got there, Cap’n. ‘Twould have cost a small fortune, I’d wager.” He grinned. “A bit out ‘o fashion these days, but…”

“Walter, you’ll not be taking the man’s wig,” Howel snapped. “You know these Frenchmen. Already he must think it necessary to end his life, as in his mind he’s been dishonored. Let him have his hair, for God’s sake.”

I would have laughed, had it not been for the look on the French captain’s face: He did, in fact, believe his life to be over.

I couldn’t believe it. Howel had just captured his first prize with little more than courage and guile.

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