Pirate Latitudes

Chapter 35

HE WAS TAKEN to a different cell; apparently the jailers of Marshallsea did not care one from another. He sat in the straw on the floor and considered his plight with care. He could hardly believe what had happened, and he was angry almost beyond understanding.

Night came, and the jail turned quiet except for the snores and the sighs of the inmates. Hunter himself was falling asleep when he heard a familiar hissing voice: “Hunter!”

He sat up.

“Hunter!”

He knew the voice. “Whisper,” he said. “Where are you?”

“In the next cell.”

The cells all opened at the front; he could not see the next cell, but he could hear well enough, if he pressed his cheek close to the stone wall.

“Whisper, how long are you here?”

“A week, Hunter. Were you tried?”

“Aye.”

“And judged guilty?”

“Aye.”

“So also me,” Whisper hissed. “On a charge of theft. It was false.”

Theft, like piracy, had a fatal outcome.

“Whisper,” he said, “what has happened to Sir James?”

“They say he is ill,” Whisper hissed, “but he is not. He is healthy, and under guard, in peril of his life, at the Governor’s Mansion. Hacklett and Scott have taken control. They tell all in the town he is dying.”

Hacklett must have threatened Lady Sarah, Hunter thought, and forced her to testify falsely.

“There is more rumor,” Whisper hissed. “Madam Emily Hacklett is heavy with child.”

“So?”

“So, it appears that her husband the Acting Governor never performs his uxorial duties upon the wife. He is not so capable. Therefore her condition is irksome to him.”

“I see,” Hunter said.

“You have cuckolded a tyrant, and all the worse for you.”

“And Sanson?”

“He came alone, in a longboat. There was no crew. He told the story that all died in a hurricane, save him alone.”

Hunter pressed his cheek against the stone wall, feeling the cool dampness. It provided a kind of solid comfort to him.

“What day is this?”

“Saturday.”

Hunter had two days before his execution. He sighed, and sat back, and stared out the barred window at the clouds across a pale and waning moon.

. . .

THE GOVERNOR’S MANSION was constructed of solid brick, a veritable fortress at the north end of Port Royal. In the basement, under heavy guard, Sir James Almont lay feverish upon a bed. Lady Sarah Almont placed a cool towel across his hot forehead, and bid him breathe easily.

At that moment, Mr. Hacklett and his wife strode into the room.

“Sir James!”

Almont, his eyes glazed with fever, looked over at his deputy. “What is it now?”

“We have tried Captain Hunter. He will hang on Monday next, as a common pirate.”

At this, Lady Sarah looked away. Tears came to her eyes.

“Do you approve, Sir James?”

“Whatever . . . you think . . . is the best course . . .” Sir James said, breathing with difficulty.

“Thank you, Sir James.” Hacklett laughed, spun on his heel, and left the room. The door closed heavily behind him.

Instantly, Sir James was alert. He frowned at Sarah. “Take this damnable cloth from my head, woman. There is work to be done.”

“But Uncle—”

“Damn it all, do you understand nothing? All the years I have spent in this godforsaken colony, waiting and financing privateering expeditions, and all for this one moment, when one of my buccos would bring back a Donnish galleon, laden with treasure. Now it has happened, and do you not comprehend the outcome?”

“No, Uncle.”

“Well, a tenth will go to Charles,” Almont said. “And the remaining ninety percent will be divided between Hacklett and Scott. You mark my words.”

“But they warned me—”

“Hang their warnings, I know the truth. I have waited four years for this moment, and I will not be cheated of it. Nor will the other good citizens of this, ah, temperate town. I’ll not be cheated by a pimple-faced moralistic knave and a dandified military fop. Hunter must be freed.”

“But how?” Lady Sarah said. “He is to be executed in two days’ time.”

“That old dog,” Almont said, “will not swing from any arm, I promise you. The town is with him.”

“How so?”

“Because if he returns home, he has debts to pay, and handsomely, too. With interest. To me, and to others. All he needs is a setting free . . .”

“But how?” Lady Sarah said.

“Ask Richards,” Almont said.

And then a voice from the gloom at the back of the room said, “I will ask Richards.”

Lady Sarah whirled. She looked at Emily Hacklett.

“I have a score to settle,” Emily Hacklett said, and she left the room.

When they were alone, Lady Sarah asked her uncle, “Will that suffice?”

Sir James Almont chuckled. “In spades, my dear,” he said. “In spades.” He laughed aloud. “We will see blood in Port Royal before dawn, mark my words.”

. . .

“I AM EAGER to help, my lady,” Richards said. The loyal servant had been smarting for weeks under the injustice that had placed his master under armed guard.

“Who can enter Marshallsea?” Mrs. Hacklett asked.

She had seen the building from the outside, but had not, of course, ever entered it. Indeed, it was impossible that she ever do so. In the face of criminality, a high-born woman sniffed and looked away. “Can you enter the prison?”

“Nay, madam,” Richards said. “Your husband has posted his special guard; they’d sight me at once, and bar my way.”

“Then who can?”

“A woman,” Richards said. Food and necessary personal articles were brought to prisoners by friends and relatives; it was ordinary custom.

“What woman? She must be clever, and avoid search.”

“There’s only one I can think,” Richards said. “Mistress Sharpe.”

Mrs. Hacklett nodded. She remembered Mistress Sharpe, one of the thirty-seven convict women who had made the crossing on the Godspeed. Since then, Mistress Sharpe had become the most popular courtesan in the port.

“See to it,” Mrs. Hacklett said, “with no delay.”

“And what shall I promise her?”

“Say that Captain Hunter will reward her generously and justly, as I am sure he shall.”

Richards nodded, then hesitated. “Madam,” he said, “I trust you are aware of the consequence of freeing Captain Hunter?”

With a coldness that gave Richards a shudder down his spine, the woman answered, “I am not only aware, I devoutly seek it.”

“Very good, madam,” Richards said, and slipped off into the night.

. . .

IN THE DARKNESS, the turtles penned in Chocolata Hole surfaced and snapped their sharp beaks. Standing nearby, Mistress Sharpe, flouncing and laughing, giggled and twisted away from one of the guards, who fondled her breast. She blew him a kiss, and continued on to the shadow of the high wall of Marshallsea. She carried a crock of turtle stew in her arms.

Another guard accompanied her to Hunter’s cell. This one was surly and half-drunk. He paused with the key in the lock.

“Why do you hesitate?” she asked.

“What lock was ever opened without a lusty turning?” he asked, leering.

“The lock is better for a proper oiling,” she leered back.

“Aye, lady, and for a proper key as well.”

“I judge you to have the key,” she said. “But for the lock, well, that must wait the proper time. Leave me a few minutes with this hungry dog, and then we shall have ourselves a turning such as you will not forget.”

The guard chuckled and unlocked the door. She went in; the door was locked behind her, and the guard remained.

“A few minutes with this man,” she said, “as decency permits.”

“ ’Tis not allowed.”

“Who cares for that?” she said, and licked her lips hungrily at the guard.

He smiled back at her, and walked away.

As soon as he was gone, she set down the pot of stew on the floor and faced Hunter. Hunter did not recognize her but he was hungry, and the smell of the turtle stew was strong and agreeable.

“You are most kind,” he said.

“You hardly know,” she replied, and, in a quick gesture, lifted her skirts from the hem, pulling them up to her waist. It was an astonishingly lewd movement, but more astonishing for what was revealed.

Strapped to her calves and thighs was a veritable armory — two knives, two pistols.

“My secret parts are said to be dangerous,” she said, “and now you know the truth.”

Quickly, Hunter took the weapons and stashed them in his belt.

“Do not, sir, discharge prematurely.”

“You may count upon my staying power.”

“How long may I count?”

“To a hundred,” Hunter said, “and there’s a promise.”

She looked back in the direction of the guard.

“I shall hold you to your word, at another time,” she said. “In the meanwhile, shall I be raped?”

“I think it is best,” Hunter said and flung her to the ground.

She squealed and screamed, and the guard came running. He saw the import of the scene in a moment, and hastily unlocked the door, running into the room.

“You damnable pirate,” he growled, and then the knife in Hunter’s fist was buried in his neck, and he staggered back, clutching at the blade beneath his chin. He pulled it free and blood gushed out, a hissing fountain, and then he collapsed and died.

“Quickly, lady,” Hunter said, helping Anne Sharpe to her feet. All around them, the men jailed in Marshallsea were silent; they had heard, and they were utterly quiet. Hunter went around, opening cell doors, then he gave the keys to the men and let them finish the task.

“How many guards at the gates?” he asked Anne Sharpe.

“I saw four,” she said, “and another dozen on the ramparts.”

This presented a problem for Hunter. The guards were English, and he had no stomach for killing them.

“We must have a ruse,” he said. “Call the captain to you.”

She nodded, and stepped out into the courtyard. Hunter remained behind, in the shadows.

Hunter did not marvel at the composure of this woman, who had just watched a man brutally slain. He was not accustomed to the faintheartedness of women, so fashionable in the French and Spanish courts. English women were tough-minded, in some ways tougher than any male, and it was equally true of low- and high-born women.

The captain of the Marshallsea Guard came over to Anne Sharpe, and at the last moment saw the barrel of Hunter’s pistol protruding from the shadows. Hunter beckoned him over.

“Now hear me,” Hunter said. “You may call your men down, and have them throw their muskets to the ground, and no lives shall be lost. Or you can stand and fight, and all surely die.”

The captain of the guard said, “I’ve been awaiting your escape, sir, and I hope you will remember me in the days to come.”

“We shall see,” Hunter said, promising nothing.

In a formal voice, the captain said, “Commander Scott shall have his own action upon the morrow.”

“Commander Scott,” Hunter said, “shall not live to see the morrow. Now take your stand.”

“I hope you will remember me—”

“I may,” Hunter said, “remember not to slit your throat.”

The captain of the guard called his men down, and Hunter supervised their locking up in the Marshallsea jail.

. . .

MRS. HACKLETT, HAVING given her instructions to Richards, returned to her husband’s side. He was in the library, drinking after dinner with Commander Scott. Both men had in recent days become enamored of the governor’s wine cellar, and were engaged in consuming it before the governor recovered.

They were, at this moment, deep in their cups.

“My dear,” her husband said, as she entered the room, “you come at a most opportune moment.”

“Indeed?”

“Indeed,” Robert Hacklett said. “Why, just this very moment I was explaining to Commander Scott the manner of your getting with child by the pirate Hunter. You understand, of course, that he will soon swing in the breeze until the flesh rots off his bones. In this beastly climate, I am told that happens quickly. But I am sure you know of haste, eh? Why, speaking of your seduction, Commander Scott was not previously acquainted with the details of the event. I have been informing him.”

Mrs. Hacklett flushed deeply.

“So demure,” Hacklett said, his voice taking a nasty edge. “One would never think her a common bawd. And yet that is what she is. What would her favors fetch, do you think?”

Commander Scott sniffed at a perfumed handkerchief. “Shall I be frank?”

“By all means, be frank. Be frank.”

“She is too lean for the usual taste.”

“His Majesty liked her well enough—”

“Perhaps, perhaps, but that is not the usual taste, eh? Our king has a preference for hot-blooded foreign women—”

“So be it,” Hacklett said irritably. “What would she fetch?”

“I should think, she would fetch not above — well, considering she has tasted the royal lancet, perhaps more — but in no case above a hundred reales.”

Mrs. Hacklett, very red, turned to leave. “I shall attend no more of this.”

“On the contrary,” her husband said, leaping from his chair and barring her way. “You shall attend a good deal more. Commander Scott, you are a gentleman of worldly experience. Would you pay a hundred reales?”

Scott gulped his drink and coughed. “Not I, sir,” he said.

Hacklett gripped his wife’s arm. “What price would you make?”

“Fifty reales.”

“Done!” Hacklett said.

“Robert!” his wife protested. “Good gracious God, Robert—”

Robert Hacklett struck his wife in the face, a blow sending her across the room. She collapsed into a chair.

“Now then, Commander,” Hacklett said. “You are a man of your word. I shall accept your credit in this matter.”

Scott looked over the brim of his cup. “Eh?”

“I said, I shall accept your credit in this matter. Have your money’s worth.”

“Eh? You mean, ah . . .” he gestured in the direction of Mrs. Hacklett, whose eyes were now wide with horror.

“Indeed I do, and quickly, too.”

“Here? Now?”

“Precisely, Commander.” Hacklett, very drunk, staggered across the room and clapped his hand on the soldier’s shoulder. “And I shall observe, for my own amusement.”

“No!” shrieked Mrs. Hacklett.

Her voice was piercingly loud, but neither man appeared to have heard her. They stared drunkenly at each other.

“Faith,” Scott said, “I’m not sure ’tis wise.”

“Nonsense,” Hacklett said. “You are a gentleman of reputation and you must uphold that reputation. After all, this is a consort worthy of a king — well, at least once worthy of a king. Go to it, man.”

“Damn me,” Commander Scott said, getting unsteadily to his feet. “Damn me, I shall do, sir. What’s good enough for a king is good enough for me. I shall do.” And he began to unbuckle his breeches.

Commander Scott was exceedingly drunk, and his buckles proved difficult. Mrs. Hacklett began to scream and her husband crossed the library and struck her in the face, cutting her lip. A trickle of blood ran down her chin.

“A pirate’s whore — or a king’s — can have no airs. Commander Scott, take your pleasure.”

And Scott advanced upon the woman.

. . .

“MOVE ME,” WHISPERED Governor Almont to his niece.

“But Uncle, how?”

“Kill the guard,” he said, and handed her a pistol.

Lady Sarah Almont took the pistol in her hands, feeling the unfamiliar shape of the weapon.

“You cock it thus,” said Almont, showing her. “Now careful! Go to the door, ask to go out, and fire—”

“Fire how?”

“Directly into his face. Make no mistake here, my dear.”

“But Uncle . . .”

He glared at her. “I am a sick man,” he said. “Now help me.”

She stepped a few paces toward the door.

“Right down his throat,” Almont said, with a certain satisfaction. “He’s earned it, the traitorous dog.”

She knocked on the door.

“What is it, miss?” said the guard.

“Open up,” she said. “I wish to leave.”

There was a scraping, and a metallic click, as the lock was turned. The door opened. She had a glimpse of the guard, a young man of nineteen, fresh-faced and innocent, his expression bemused. “Whatever Your Ladyship desires . . .”

She fired at his lips. The explosion rocked her arm, and blew him backward. He twisted and slid to the ground, then rolled onto his back. She saw, with horror, that he had no face left, just a bloody pulp mounted on his shoulders. The body writhed on the ground for a few moments. Urine leaked down the leg of his trousers, and she smelled defecation. Then the body was still.

“Help me move,” croaked her uncle, the Governor of Jamaica, sitting up painfully in his bed.

. . .

HUNTER ASSEMBLED HIS men at the north end of Port Royal, near the mainland. His immediate problem was wholly political, to reverse a judgment against him. As a practical matter, once he escaped, the townspeople would rally around him, and he would not again be jailed.

But equally practical was the question of his response to unjust treatment, for Hunter’s reputation within the town was at stake.

He reviewed the eight names in his mind:HacklettScottLewisham, the judge of the AdmiraltyFoster and Poorman, the merchantsLieutenant DodsonJames Phips, merchant captainAnd last, but not least, Sanson

Each of these men had acted with full knowledge of the injustice. Each stood to profit from the confiscation of his prize.

The laws of the privateers were solid enough; such chicanery inevitably meant death and confiscation of the share. But at the same time, he would be obliged to kill several highly placed members of the town. That would be easy enough, but he might have a bad time of it later, if Sir James did not survive unscathed.

If Sir James were worth his salt, he would have long since escaped to safety. Hunter would have to trust to that, he decided. And in the meantime, he would have to kill those who had crossed him.

Shortly before dawn, he ordered all his men into the Blue Hills north of Jamaica, telling them to remain there for two days.

Then, alone, he returned to the town.