Captain in Calico (20 page)

Somehow he was surprised to see Anne Bonney still alive, and near her Kinsman. So she had found him after all. Her face was so grimed that he would have been hard put to it to recognise her as a woman at all, in spite of her hair, which hung wildly disordered about her shoulders. The sailors evidently took her for a man, or else they were indiscriminate with evil-doers, for one of them pushed her roughly forward, sending her sprawling in the scuppers. Kinsman made as though to help her, but another sailor jostled him aside.

Bull, Dobbins, Earl, Bourne, Malloy, Carty, Anne Bonney, Kinsman, Ben, and himself. No, there was Fenwick, another
dock-rat, being hauled out from under a mass of rigging where the foremast had gone overside. That made eleven – eleven out of thirty. Eleven of two hundred who had sailed from Providence.

‘Mr Williams!' A voice rang out from the quarter-deck of the King's ship. ‘Come away, Mr Williams, why d'you wait?'

The young officer looked up. ‘If you please, Sir John, there are wounded men caught in the wreckage.' He spoke in an apologetic tone, as though he had put them there. ‘It may take some time to free them.'

‘How many of the villains have you?'

The side of the red ship towering above them was lined with men, and aft, at the gilded rail of the quarter-deck, stood a group of officers, foremost among them a slight gentleman in a magnificent suit of apricot taffeta. His face, pale among the bronzed skins about him, was refined and almost like a woman's. He held a snuff-box in one hand and tapped the lid impatiently.

‘Eleven, Sir John,' said Williams.

‘You don't say so? Then I think you have done well enough. You'll be swimming back to the ship if you wait much longer. Bring them aboard.'

Williams hesitated, and the
Kingston
lurched again with a clatter of broken timber sliding across her deck. The men aboard her had to cling for support.

‘Come, come, now.' Sir John's voice was almost conversational. ‘She'll sink, you know.'

Williams struggled to keep his balance. ‘But the wounded men—' he began.

‘Come aboard, Mr Williams,' came the order, and Williams hesitated no longer. The pirates were driven to the rail and forced to scramble up the red hull to the deck of the King's
ship. The sailors followed them, Williams last of all, and even as he swung himself off the rail the
Kingston
shuddered and sank lower in the water.

On the broad open deck of the King's ship the pirates were pushed into an uneven line under guard of the seamen's muskets. Williams, who went in evident apprehension of his soft-spoken commander, supervised their marshalling with a great show of energy and one eye on the quarter-deck. When he saw a trickle of blood dripping from Carty's wounded arm to the spotless planking he rapped out an oath.

‘Have that man's arm bound up,' he cried, adding in a lower tone, ‘And clean that mess away. If Sir John sees it he'll go mad.' He strode along the rank, pushing the prisoners into line so that no irregularity of dressing should annoy the great man, exclaiming impatiently when Malloy, too weak from his wound to stand, tottered and sank to the deck.

‘Blast him, pick him up,' he commanded. ‘Here you,' he pointed to Bull, who had recovered his senses but was still dazed and was staring about him vacantly, ‘help him up and hold him, d'you hear?'

A sailor prodded Bull with his musket butt, but at that moment Williams' attention was distracted by a scuffle at the end of the line. He wheeled round furiously, to see Anne Bonney attempting to wrench free from a sailor who was gripping her wrist. As she did so, swinging a fist against the side of his head, another seaman sprang forward to his mate's assistance.

‘Fight would ye, ye bloody pirate,' he snarled and grabbed at her shoulder. He missed his hold and caught her shirt, and as she wriggled free there was a tearing sound and the garment came away in his hand. The sailor who had her wrist gave a yell of surprise and released her, his jaw dropping.

‘Hell!' he shouted. ‘A mort!'

Williams started towards them. ‘What the devil—' he began, and stopped as he saw Anne Bonney stripped to the waist. ‘My God!' he exclaimd, colouring with embarrassment.

One of the sailors, grinning broadly, reached out towards her, and Williams leaped as though he had been stung.

‘Drop that!' he snapped. ‘And you, woman, whoever the devil you are, cover yourself. You, you there, give her a coat or a shirt. A cloth or anything. Rot me!' A thought struck him. ‘Who – what – are you one of these villains, woman? Or were you their prisoner, or what?'

Anne Bonney snatched the torn remnant of her shirt from the sailor and calmly arranged it over her shoulders and breasts. She nodded to the pop-eyed officer.

‘You can look away now,' she said.

‘Eh?' Williams was bewildered. ‘But who—'

Ben, who was standing only with the support of Rackham's arm round his waist, raised his head.

‘She's one of us, an' twice the man you'll ever be,' he growled, and had his face slapped by the petty officer.

‘Have you done with them, Mr Williams, or shall I wait your convenience?' The elegant captain was descending the ladder, followed by his officers, and Williams jerked round, his face scarlet.

‘I'm at your service, you know, Mr Williams,' the captain continued. He crossed the deck, glancing from one end of the line to the other and back again.

‘Which of you is John Rackham, or is he with those ashore?' he asked.

Surprised, Rackham looked up. ‘I am.'

Bright eyes considered him from the pale, effeminate face, and then they passed on to Anne Bonney. ‘And the woman,
of course. Perhaps I should have warned you, Williams, that we might have a lady with us.' He turned his head as Kinsman stepped out at the end of the line, and Williams started forward, outraged. But before he could intervene Kinsman had caught the captain's attention.

‘By your leave, sir. My name is Kinsman. I'm an officer of the King and an agent of Governor Rogers of New Providence.' He put out a hand to restrain Williams. ‘I can prove what I say, Sir John, if you please.'

Williams stopped, staring in disbelief.

‘You're a what?' he exclaimed. He stared at Kinsman's grimed face and torn clothing. ‘You? Why –.'

‘Mr Williams,' Sir John spoke as though to a small child. ‘Would you be so obliging as to step aside? I thank you. You must learn to govern yourself, Mr Williams. You are too impetuous by far, a fault of which I am continually reminded every time I have the misfortune to partner you at play. What is claimed can easily be tested.' Williams fell back abashed, and the captain advanced across the deck towards Kinsman. ‘Now, sir, this proof you spoke of.'

Kinsman stooped and took hold of the top of his boot with both hands. He tugged with all his force and the lining parted with a sharp tearing sound. From the tear he drew out a small flat packet of oilskin which he ripped open, revealing a folded paper which he handed to Sir John. The captain unfolded it, raised his eyebrows, and began to read.

It was a brief enough warrant: two lines to say that the bearer was the trusted servant of Government. It made no mention of the organisation which Woodes Rogers, patient and thorough, had built up for the security of privateers and merchantmen, so that no vessel sailed from Providence without a secret agent aboard. In ninety-nine cases out of a
hundred they sailed unnecessarily, but here was the hundredth case, and the Governor's system had paid its dividend. Kinsman had not been able to prevent crime, but he had done his next duty, which was to help bring about the ruin of the criminals.

With a sudden animal growl Bull flung himself out of the line and flung himself at Kinsman, but a seaman thrust out his foot and Bull tripped sprawling on the deck. Before he could rise he was pinioned and dragged away by the bosun's mates, yelling threats until one of them cracked him hard across the head with a hand-spike, and he was silent. His fellow pirates stood silent, watching Kinsman and hating him, but making no move, while their guards hovered about them ready to quell any show of resistance.

Rackham was remembering and beginning to understand. He should have known that there was something wrong about Kinsman. Now everything became clear – why Kinsman had been so willing to encourage Bull in his folly. Rackham had been ready to put it down to ignorance of the sea, or to a desire on Kinsman's part to stand well with his commander. He knew better now.

He wondered, had Anne Bonney known, and glanced along the line towards her. He was shocked by what he saw. She stood motionless, her face pale, biting her lip and staring straight ahead at nothing, bewildered and miserable. If she had behaved as Bull had done, and flown at their betrayer like a wild-cat, he could have understood. That would have been like Anne Bonney. But the drawn, hopeless look in her face was something he felt he should not have seen, and he looked away.

Sir John had finished his reading, and Kinsman was speaking. ‘As you see, sir, the document bears my signature.
You'll observe it is part covered by the Governor's seal, a precaution he took lest it be thought I had forged it.'

The captain nodded. ‘Ingenious,' he murmured.

‘I'll write my name again, and you can compare them,' offered Kinsman, but the captain waved the suggestion aside.

‘I think that will not be necessary.' He looked sharply at Kinsman. ‘You took a great risk, captain. It seems Governor Rogers has hard men in Providence. You shall tell me later how far we are indebted to you for the capture of these villains.' He turned to one of his officers. ‘Conduct Captain Kinsman to a berth, James. See that he has all he needs.'

As Kinsman was led aft Sir John turned his attention again to the pirates. ‘Mr Williams, these gentlemen shall be in your charge. Have them in irons – all except these three,' he indicated Malloy, Carty, and Ben. ‘Their wounds must be dressed. Thereafter you will confine them unchained, apart from their fellows. As for the woman, have her confined alone with a trusty man to guard her. If,' he added resignedly, ‘there is such a thing as a trusty man aboard. Perhaps you had better have two trusty men, and each can watch the other.'

‘Aye, aye, sir,' said Williams.

‘Very good, then.' He turned away. ‘Mr Hamilton, I'm obliged to you and we shall make ready for sea.'

‘The men ashore, Sir John,' ventured one of his officers, and the captain frowned.

‘Ah, yes.' He walked to the rail and looked across the cobalt waters towards the cliffs. ‘According to Bankier's information there must be close on sixty of the brutes. Do you know, Mr Hamilton, I think they are very well where they are? They'll go a-pirating no more, or I'm much mistaken. The Spaniards will see to it. Besides, at the first sign of boats being lowered
they will take to the woods like rabbits. I think we have done very well as it is.'

Williams watched him mount the ladder. ‘Now then, sharp about it,' he snapped to the master-at-arms. ‘These three to the surgeon's mates, the others below. Keep the woman apart; we'll deal with her in a moment.'

Anne Bonney was taken out of the line, and as the guards pushed him towards the hatchway Rackham saw that she was sobbing. The seaman who guarded her eyed her doubtfully, then muttered, ‘Never fear, honey, they won't let you swing. Not a fine-looking lass like you.'

A voice behind Rackham spoke. ‘She's goin'.' Rackham looked up and in the brief moment before he was jostled down into the ship he saw the
Kingston
for the last time. She was barely afloat less than a cable's length from the King's ship, the water gushing in over her rail, swirling among the wreckage of the deck. For a few seconds she was awash, with a tangle of broken spars, rigging and canvas forced up by the water, her broken foremast pointing up like a jagged finger. Then the water boiled above her, bubbling through the wreckage, and the
Kingston
was gone beneath the placid surface of the bay.

The court-room at St Jago de la Vega, capital of the British island of Jamaica, was a mixture of the old world and the new; or rather of the old adapted to new conditions. At one end of the long, white-washed room was the bench, with its pulpits of oak and high-backed canopied chairs, and beneath it the massive table with its bewigged and black-gowned clerks and officials. There was the long box for the jury on one hand, and the stand for witnesses on the other, and in the well of the court the dock, a large pen fringed with the inevitable steel pikes.

All this was of the old world, and the huge fans which hung from the ceiling beams, swishing softly to and fro as they were twitched into motion by black slaves who squatted at the side of the room, the little black boys who stood at either side of the empty judge's chair with fly-switch and fronds, the latticed screens, the walls with their glaring whitewash – all these things were strangely at odds with the impedimenta of a court of law.

But the most vivid contrast was in the occupants of the public benches assembled to witness the trial of the
Kingston
pirates. Down one side of the court behind the witness box ran a spacious gallery packed with spectators, and Rackham could guess before he even looked at them that they would be the exact counterparts of the audience who had watched in the Fort at New Providence when he and his fellows had received the Royal pardon – planters, merchants, officers of the garrison and navy, and their womenfolk. Jamaican society, in fact.

There they were, in their finery of plumes and silks and taffetas, with their affectations and their mannerisms, their wealth and – in some cases – their beauties ostentatiously displayed, their chatter and their laughter, a carefree, uninhibited multitude eager to enjoy the spectacle. They stared at the dirty little group of chained men and one woman in curiosity and amusement, discussing them freely and loudly, although every word was audible in the dock.

The talk of three in the front row of the gallery directly opposite Rackham caught his attention. There were two men and a woman – one of the men a magnificently dressed elderly rake, yellow of face and somewhat shrivelled, but with a wicked eye which he fastened from time to time on the blonde young woman who sat beside him. She might have been his grand-daughter except that she looked a little more worldly than a grand-daughter has any right to be. The other man was a typical planter, substantial and middle-aged.

‘And they will hang them all?' the blonde girl was asking.

‘Every last one, m'dear,' said the old rake. ‘Higher than Haman, dammit, and they hanged him high enough, didn't they, Jerry?'

The planter frowned. ‘No punishment can be too severe,' he said ponderously. ‘There's every crime in the calendar in that dock. Hanging's too kind for 'em.'

‘Quite so,' remarked the other. ‘Robbery, murder, rape – begging those pretty little ears their pardon – and attack on a King's vessel, rot it, into the bargain. What more could a jury ask?'

‘But it seems—,' the girl hesitated, ‘—it seems … so many at once … well, rather a—'

‘A waste of good manhood, ye'd say?' The old rake guffawed. ‘D'ye hear that, Jerry? Praise God there are no women on juries.' He dabbed his eyes with a handkerchief and leered at her. ‘And what would you have done wi' them, eh? If we mustn't hang 'em, what then?'

She tossed her head. ‘They could be sold as slaves, to work in the plantations, or some such tasks.'

‘Some such tasks, d'ye say?' He winked at the planter. ‘Ladies' maids, or footmen, perhaps. I don't doubt they'd leap at the opportunity, if ye follow me.' He chuckled and shook his head. ‘But I think I'd sleep safer o' nights if I knew they were swinging in irons – and so would others I could mention.'

The planter scowled savagely. ‘I'd have 'em flogged to death by inches.'

‘Gallows-bait, gallows-bait,' nodded the old rake happily. ‘Jerry is so right, my love. Bloody, desperate fellows. Why, this same Rackham, I'm told, once rifled the great Spanish silver fleet off Florida. ‘Codso, he did. Took a fortune from the cursed Dons, rat me, from under their very noses. Oho, I warm at the very thought of it. But ye must see that such dangerous rogues are safer – far safer – hanged and out of harm's way.'

The girl was studying the prisoners with interest. ‘Which one is Rackham.'

‘Eh? Rackham?' The old rake peered at the dock. ‘Stab me, how should I know? One looks as bad as t'others. That
big one, perhaps, with the fair beard.' He pointed towards Bull. ‘What matter, anyway? Ye'll know soon enough. Plague on 'em.' He drew closer to her. ‘Let me tell ye the story of Bill Noodle and the milkmaid. What, ye ha'nt heard it? Well, then—.'

Rackham felt hot rage mounting inside him as he listened. He who had never truly hated in his life was learning at last the hate that is fiercest of all – hate inspired by fear. He was a brave man, but he was mortally afraid of what they were going to do to him – the rope, the fire and the disembowelling knife had been in his mind all through that voyage when he had lain chained in the depths of the King's ship, and in the cell at Port Royal's Fort Charles where he had been confined alone because as the supposed leader of the
Kingston
pirates he was held to be doubly dangerous. He had been afraid, he was afraid now; but it was the kind of fear which when it reaches its peak is translated not into panic but into a dreadful anger. He hated these fine ladies and gentlemen, not because they might be guessing his fear and gloating over it, but because they were sitting at ease, watching idly, and he was chained and in rags and waiting to die.

He looked up at the gallery again and his gaze fell on a woman on one of the middle benches; a fleshy, over-painted female of middle age, still well-preserved enough to be accounted handsome, with dull eyes that were fixed steadily on a point beyond him. She was watching Bull, and Bull was eyeing her in return, swelling out his mighty chest, conscious of the imposing figure he cut with his great blond beard and magnificent physique.

Rackham could read the thoughts that were passing between them: Bull was lusting, even now, and the woman up there, for all her expressionless eyes and mask-like features,
was considering Bull as a lover. It was ghoulish and unnatural, and it sickened him on the woman's account rather than on Bull's, for Bull, after all, was little better than an animal and would remain so to the end.

Four knocks sounded, and the babble of conversation stopped in the court-room. A door was flung open behind the judge's bench and a small procession emerged headed by an official, wigged and gowned, who glanced about sharply to see that all was as it should be. He noted the prisoners and the scarlet-clad sentries on either side of the dock, nodded to an acquaintance in the gallery, and stood aside to admit the judge and his chaplain. As his lordship entered, the court rose with a swishing and rustling of gowns and dresses, standing until he had seated himself and his chaplain had ensconced himself on a stool at one side.

Chief Justice Peter Bernard, in his red robe and flowing wig, was an impressive figure. He was also slightly drunk, and everyone in the court knew it, except the prisoners. They watched him in fearful fascination, unconscious of the winks and nods being exchanged in the gallery, seeing only the personification of the King's justice which was shortly to provide for their sentence and execution.

They saw a florid, handsome man on the threshold of middle age and already inclining to portliness. The face framed by the full-bottomed wig was youthful despite the flush that denoted the drinker, with a mobile sensitive mouth and rather prominent grey eyes which were concealed by heavy lids as his lordship settled himself comfortably in his padded seat. He had breakfasted heavily on Malaga, to which he was addicted, and was not inclined to exert himself.

He seemed to be dozing in his chair, hardly stirring when the jury filed in and were sworn, and rousing himself only
briefly to nod agreement to a question from his clerk, a nervous little man who sat in front of his lordship's pulpit and had to stand on tip-toe to make himself visible to the judge. Then his lordship settled back again while the charge was read – a charge of piracy only, since the Crown was confident of convicting on that count and did not wish to waste the time of the court by pressing other charges of murder, robbery, arson, assault, and putting into fear. This was explained to the jury, who were given to understand that the accused would hang just as surely for piracy whether the other crimes were taken into account or not, and the jurors, wearing the expressions of gravity and bewilderment common to juries of every age and clime, nodded and were silent.

The clerk began to recite the names of the accused.

‘John Rackham, hold up your right hand.'

There was a buzz of interest on the public benches. Rackham started involuntarily at the mention of his name, and slowly rasied his hand, the shortness of his manacles forcing him to lift his left hand breast-high at the same time.

‘Are you guilty or not guilty?'

It would be easy to say guilty and get the whole hellish business over. He knew he was doomed, whatever he said, and there seemed no point in prolonging the farce. But there was another side to it, too. Even if he could not make a fight for his life, there might be others among the pirates who had hopes of winning acquittal – a ridiculous hope, in his view, but that would not stop some of the simpletons from entertaining it. A plea of guilty on his part would certainly damage their chances, and besides, why should he save the law the trouble of proving him a pirate? The bastards were paid for it, let them work.

‘Not guilty.'

His plea was echoed by the others as their names were read, and the judge drowsed on, even through the titter that greeted Bull's growl of ‘Not guilty, o' course,' accompanied by a broad smirk for the benefit of the spectators. Bull was determined to give them their money's worth.

The clerk came to the last name. ‘Anne Bonney, hold up your right hand,' he intoned, and the judge opened his eyes.

‘Are you guilty or not guilty?'

Chief Justice Bernard leaned forward and addressed the clerk. ‘Have the prisoner stand forward, Mr Prentice.' It was a voice completely at variance with his appearance; a sharp, incisive voice that made the little clerk leap as though he had been stung.

‘Come forward, Anne Bonney,' he cried. ‘Let her past, you two. There, now, answer the court: are you guilty or not guilty?'

She hesitated, and the clerk supposed that she was dismayed at having been singled out and thrust to the front of the dock with the eyes of the court upon her. In this he was quite wrong. Anne Bonney had never known cause to be dismayed by public regard, and she knew that his lordship's attention was excited by more than mere curiosity. She had seen that look on men's faces before, and it occurred to her that here might be an opportunity. She gave him time to look at her, from the red hair tumbling about her shoulders to the patched and outrageously revealing black shirt, and said in her soft, husky voice, ‘Not guilty.' And she added, almost as an afterthought, ‘my lord.'

His lordship looked at her, and somewhere at the back of the gallery a woman tittered and was hushed by her neighbour. The judge took no notice but sat back, motioning to the clerk to continue.

The clerk, however, had come to the end of his catechism, and it was for Mr Mitchum, who was to conduct the case for the Crown, to begin his preliminary address. He had watched the foregoing passage with a cynical eye, for he knew his lordship and he had an excellent view of Mistress Bonney. However, that had nothing to do with him, and he addressed himself to his case, which, he assured the jury, was a simple one, but none the less damning for that. He gave a brief recital of the facts, and drew attention to the unusual abundance of evidence which the prosecution had at its disposal, including that of Captain Alan Kinsman who had sailed unknown to the pirates as an agent of the Crown.

This announcement caused something of a sensation in the court, and Mr Mitchum paid tribute to public curiosity with a few comments of the gallantry and shrewdness of the intrepid officer whose evidence, in his opinion, was by far the most conclusive that could be advanced against the prisoners. Then, sensing that the spectators would rather see the hero himself than hear eulogies of him, Mr Mitchum concluded his address and called Kinsman as his first witness.

As the Captain, trim and soldierlike in a new suit of buff and with his own hair tied neatly back from his lean, sunburned face, took the stand, Mr Mitchum permitted himself a smile of approval. Such authority and bearing could not fail to convince the jury as they were even now having their effect on the spectators.

Kinsman proved an ideal witness. In a dead silence the court listened while he described the voyage of the
Kingston
, the attack upon the
Star
, the subsequent change of command at Mosquito Bank, the voyage along the Cuban coast, and the final capture. Of his duel with Penner he said nothing, but on every other point he was painstakingly explicit. He
named the prisoners in turn, showing how each was undoubtedly a conscious participant in the piratical activities of the ship, and concluded with a reminder to the jury that if they thought him suspiciously exact they must remember that he had been acting throughout with a view to collecting evidence for just such an occasion as the present trial. With that he laid down his notes and looked inquiringly to Mr Mitchum.

There were echoes of approval from the public gallery which went unchecked by the court as Mr Mitchum rose to remark that His Majesty's subjects in the West Indies no less than the Government itself owed to Captain Kinsman a debt which they trusted would be amply repaid. All this Kinsman accepted with an impassive face and only the least bow of acknowledgement, which heightened the already favourable impression he had created.