Voyage of Plunder (17 page)

e Lost the
Surat Merchant
and her cargo as well. For she had burned, an inferno, flames snapping taller than the highest mast, until she sank from sight, a steaming hiss of bubbles.

With the death of Fist, the men of the
Defiance
had quickly regrouped and voted their quartermaster as captain. Josiah continued as commander of the fleet. The men of the
Defiance
and the
Sweet Jamaica
were getting desperate, however, for since they had not participated in the capture of the first merchant ship, they had as yet received no prize.

After a half day spent licking their wounds, the three pirate ships chased down
and successfully plundered two more ships of the pilgrim fleet, taking more than ten days to do so. Fortunately neither of the ships was filled with soldiers, as the
Surat Merchant
had been. Instead, like the
Jedda,
they were filled with wealthy passengers and enough booty to make every pirate giddy with dreams of the easy life.

All this I learned later, for I was incapacitated in Josiah's cabin, shivering with fever, frozen to my marrow though the air dripped with heat and moisture. My left hand and arm swelled, turning an angry red. Foul liquid seeped from the wounds.

I vaguely remember an Indian woman coming into the cabin. Stooped, wrinkled, and brown. Silks swishing. Brushing away the flies from around my face. I remember the smell of heated herbs, her making me drink something bitter, hot bandages upon my wounds, steaming hot, but still a relief—blessed relief. I loosened my tongue enough to thank her. Told Josiah to give her half my share, that she was a good woman. At least that's what I think I said, for I mumbled, tongue thick as paste, and could scarce remember who I was from one moment to the next.

I don't know how many days passed before I finally awakened, my head clear.

I was alone in Josiah's cabin. It was daytime and, judging from the sounds and the heel of the ship, the
Tempest Galley
was under sail, moving fast.

My left hand and upper arm were swathed in bandages. Another bandage wrapped around my head, covering the gash on my forehead. I tossed aside the thin covering and sat up. Immediately the room spun in a dizzy whirl, and I fell back heavily on the bed, realizing at the same time that my body was dressed in nothing but a silk banyan.

Slowly, Daniel, slowly,
I told myself.

I sat up again, gritting my teeth. Feet dangling, head pounding, I hesitated only a moment before unwrapping the bandage covering my hand, dreading what I would find.

A cry escaped my mouth.
My God! I'm mutilated!
My little finger and the finger next to it had been sliced off down to the base knuckle. Only two fingers and a thumb were left. The wounds were pink, slightly swollen, crusted over. I sat for a while staring at my hand, horrified, flies buzzing around me. Finally, carefully, I moved my hand, biting my lip against the pain. I made a fist, flexed the remaining fingers, open, closed.
It's ugly, but it moves. It works.

Surprising myself, I smiled, thinking,
It's better than being dead.

And with that thought, my stomach growled, and I realized I was ravenously hungry.

I rewrapped the bandage and stood, hugging the walls, the furniture. Out I staggered onto the upper deck, the sun piercing the backs of my eyes like a hot iron. I blinked, only then becoming aware that everyone was staring at me. Josiah climbed down the fo'c'sle companionway and strode across the upper deck toward me. He was smiling, his eyes bright. “Daniel! You're up!”

I fought the urge to embrace him. Instead, I said in a voice cracked with disuse, “I'm hungry.”

“Is that all you have to say after two weeks of lying about like a prince and doing nothing? Cook! A bit of service here, if you please! Prince Daniel desires some food lest he wither and perish. And some fresh clothes too, you lazy lot of scoundrels! Look lively now!”

Aye, Captain!” Abe hollered from where he stood beside the giant pots, located in the open area beneath the fo'c'sle deck. “A feast of all feasts coming right up! A prince's delight! We'll have that boy climbing the shrouds faster than you can whistle!”

And to my surprise, Caesar sprang to his feet and returned momentarily with my clothes, freshly washed and folded and
smelling somewhat clean—comparatively speaking, of course. “Josiah say you save my life, Fat Boy.” Caesar grinned, handing me my clothing. “Caesar say thank you.”

I stammered out my thanks, confused and embarrassed by the royal treatment.

Each limb trembled as though I was a babe just learning to walk. My heart raced and skittered. My head started to throb. I needed to go back and rest.

Josiah must have read my thoughts, for he ushered me into his cabin and helped me dress.
Like a father with a young child,
I thought.

By the time I was clothed, Abe entered and set a bowl of food on the table. “Careful you don't burn your mouth now. It's hotter than Hades. Don't overeat either—you've been sick, you know. We've all been praying for your recovery. Much as pirates pray, that is, and much as the good Lord is willing to listen to hell-bound rascals such as us.”

“Thanks,” I said, seating myself at the table. Abe left the cabin, closing the door behind him.

The stew was delicious—a spicy mixture of fish, eggs, chicken, olives, garlic, oil, palm hearts, and turtle meat. But after just a few mouthfuls, I was already full, disappointingly full. I took one last bite and pushed the bowl away. Only then did I realize that Josiah sat opposite me, smoking his long pipe, watching me.

With a creak of rigging and timbers, the ship increased her heel. My bowl of stew and the goblet slid across the table, the bowl stopped from falling over the edge by the table runners, the goblet stopped when Josiah wrapped his long fingers around it.

“Tell me what this is,” he said, his voice sounding like I'd always remembered it, silken. He slid my leather crossbelt, underside up, across the table toward me.

I swallowed my food with a gulp. Quick as a wink, I snatched
up the belt, slipped it over my shoulder, and buckled it across my chest. “Nothing. Just my crossbelt.”

For a while Josiah was silent, seemingly content just to watch me. I grew uncomfortable under his gaze.
Did he guess? Does he know it's a map? Does he know I hoard a treasure that I refuse to share? A treasure that I plan for good, not ill?

The corners of Josiah's mouth hinted of a smile. “Anyone knows that the first order of business when torturing someone for information is to check their person thoroughly. But then, Fist always was more brute than brains.”

He knows! Josiah knows it's a map!

He continued, “The men think you killed him.”

“What?” My jaw dropped with surprise.
Me? Kill Fist?

Josiah shrugged. “I saw no reason to tell them otherwise. Let them think you can beat the best of them. It will make you safer in the long run. And now you are no longer a boy in their eyes. You are a man.”

I glanced at my hand, bulky with bandages. I wondered what would happen to me now that I had only eight fingers.

Josiah stood. “Get some rest, Daniel. You're looking pale and none too steady.” He walked to the door.

But there was something burning inside me. Something that had been nagging me upon awakening. “Josiah?”

“Yes?” He turned, hand on the latch.

“Thank you.” When he said nothing, I continued. “Thank you for saving me.”

Josiah blinked as if surprised. “You're welcome.” Again he turned to go.

“Josiah?”

“Yes?”

“Why? Why did you do it? Why did you save me? You have always protected me. Why?”

Josiah paused, seeming to think, searching my eyes all the while. Finally he said, “I can't explain it. Not yet anyway. Perhaps someday I will.”

“Josiah?”

“Yes?”

“Please don't take this the wrong way. But—but I must still see you hang for your crime. It is my duty As a good son. You understand that, don't you? You have saved my life, but the life of my father is still forfeit. Please understand, please. It is what any good son must do.”

Again Josiah blinked. “Get some rest,” was all he said. And he left, closing the door softly behind him.

For the rest of the day I cried miserably.
Wasn't that what I was supposed to say? Am I not a good son? A son who witnessed his father slain for the sake of honor? Where is
my
honor? My father's honor? Am I not a good son?

When darkness came, I finally fell asleep. Yet my sleep was tormented, tossed with unsettled dreams.

Timothy, holding his innards.

Pirates dangling. Jerking. Struggling to breathe. Faces turning purple. Hemp digging deep.

Faith patting my head, her face shrunken and starved, a babe in her arms—a tiny shriveled skeleton.

My father, arms outstretched, palms upward, pleading,
Forgive, Daniel. There has been enough bloodshed.

Forgive…

e were headed back to madagscar, to the island of Saint Mary's.

My plan was simple. While we careened the ships, relaxed in the sun, enjoyed the bounty of the island's foods, I would fetch my treasure, bringing it aboard a little at a time so as not to attract undue attention. I would stow it away in a secret place I had secured, deep in the shot locker. And when we returned to America, I would be free to go my way, as would any pirate who wished to do so, our contract with one another complete.

Whether I would bring Josiah to justice for the murder of my father, I admit I no longer knew, despite what I'd told Josiah. I prayed to God for guidance, but, like so many times before, God was silent on that
account. Josiah had saved my life, yet he had murdered my father. As my father's son, I was duty-bound to seek revenge, to demand justice. Was I not?

I was beginning to realize that revenge was a burden—a terrible, terrible burden that gnawed my insides relentlessly. I wanted to be rid of it, yet how could I forgive the murderer of my father?

Even though it had been a week since my recovery, I had yet to move out of Josiah's cabin. Instead, Josiah strung a hammock in the corner and slept there while I still slept in his bed. I awoke many nights screaming, dreaming of turbaned heads rolling across a deck, of a man staring at me as I ran him through with my cutlass, of blood sprayed through the air like mist, of Fist standing in fire and brimstone, of Josiah dangling from a noose, face blue, neck askew.

“Daniel, my boy! Tis a nightmare. Just a dream!” And he would shake me awake as my cries faded away.

One night, I bolted upright in bed, sweating, heart pounding, the hair on my arm raised in gooseflesh as the echo of my shriek faded throughout the ship.
Dear God!
Now there was nothing but the gentle sloshing of the water on the ship's hull, the familiar creak of timbers, the squawk of a parrot overhead—a pet of one of the pirates.

“Daniel?”

“Aye.”

“Are you all right, my boy?”

The nightmare lingered like a foul stench, wretched and sickening.… “He was cutting them off, one by one. I couldn't stop him. I kept calling for you but you were dead.… He told me you were dead. I—I—” My voice faded away, and I sank back into the mattress, shuddering, remembering.