PIRATE: Privateer (21 page)

It was on the eighth day of his search for recruits that Jezreel left the ship soon after daybreak aware that Hector was growing increasingly fretful. Mr Reeve, the Governor’s secretary,
had written out his privateer’s commission, though he had been worryingly vague about its terms. He had also provided an order which allowed Bartaboa and the Reverend Watson to draw on the
Navy stores for gunpowder and shot, provisions, cordage and spare spars. All was ready and loaded. The pink only lacked crew.

The morning was hot and sultry and there was a heaviness in the air which warned of a thunderstorm later in the day. Jezreel paused in front of a vintner’s shop window in the High Street,
taking advantage of his reflection in the glass to adjust his neckcloth to sit more loosely. Through the thick, distorting glass panes he could see bottles of Rhenish wine, Madeira, sherry, port,
Canary and half a dozen types of brandy. There was a slightly different atmosphere in the town that day. The gangs of street children were more agitated than usual. They were darting here and there
and seemed readier to fight and scuffle, quicker with their taunts and quarrels. They reminded Jezreel of terrier puppies with their nasty high-pitched yapping and needle-sharp teeth.

Reaching the central market, he noted that the shoppers also appeared to be on edge. They were hurrying as if they wanted to complete their purchases as quickly as possible. He watched a woman
whom he guessed was the housekeeper for one of the wealthy merchant-planters as she bought two parrots at a poultry stall. Doubtless she would wring the birds’ necks, pluck and prepare them
as a meal for her master’s family. She paid as if the coins in her purse were hot to the touch and did not even pause to double check the change. A little farther on a widow who he knew ran a
boarding house was haggling over the price of yams. The widow always bargained, but it seemed to Jezreel that today she negotiated more briskly than usual. He was about to saunter off towards the
waterfront, hoping to encounter another out-of-work sailor, when he heard the distant beat of a drum. It came from the direction of the parade ground at the farthest end of the High Street. Here
the military engineers had built a fort and palisade across the neck of the sand spit on which Port Royal was built.

For a brief moment Jezreel thought that the French had landed and the drumbeat was a call to arms. Then he recognized the regular steady tapping. It was the sound he had heard so often at
fairgrounds in the days when he gave exhibition fights with backsword or fists against all comers. It was a drummer announcing an event.

‘What’s going on?’ he asked a passer-by.

The man, a butcher’s assistant judging by the streaks of dried gore on the front of his apron, stared at him in surprise. ‘It’s the tune for the hempen jig. You’d better
hurry if you want a good view,’ he answered cheerfully.

‘Who’s to be hanged?’ Living quietly aboard the
Speedy Return
he and his friends had been cut off from the town gossip.

‘Two brace of pirates,’ said the man with some relish. ‘Haven’t had such a good show since the Navy took to stringing them up while still out at sea. It’s not the
same if they are already dangling at the yard arm when brought into port. All the fun is gone.’

The man rushed off, and Jezreel followed at a more deliberate pace. He knew now why the street urchins had reminded him of terrier puppies. Terriers were bred for rat fights in front of howling
audiences.

The tapping of the drum grew louder as Jezreel approached the parade ground. He joined the steady stream of townsfolk all heading in the same direction. He saw tradesmen, clerks, apprentices,
shopkeepers, sailors, potmen, off-duty soldiers, idlers and storemen. Men far outnumbered women. Nevertheless there were a number of Port Royal’s sluts. They were tying on their sun hats as
they headed for the entertainment. The more fashionable among them hoisted gaily coloured parasols. Everyone was in a holiday mood, exchanging greetings and swapping jokes.

When he had first arrived in London as a prize-fighter, Jezreel had attended a public execution. It had been a mass hanging, five men convicted of crimes ranging from murder to repeated larceny.
He had gone with a couple of toughs from the prize ring, and on the way they had stopped off for several glasses of gin. By the time they had reached the Tyburn gallows, the five condemned men were
already standing on the back of an open cart, which was drawn up under a triangle of heavy beams supported on thick upright posts. The men had nooses around their necks, the end of each rope
fastened to a stout bar above their heads. As Jezreel and his companions jostled to get a good view, the prison official gave an order, and the carter had whipped up his horse. The cart moved away,
leaving the victims dangling. Jezreel could still picture them kicking and struggling, hear the awful gurgling sounds as they fought for breath, and see the dark urine stains spreading on their
breeches.

So he was puzzled on arriving at the parade ground of Port Royal to find that a wooden stage had been erected instead of a gallows. It was as though the crowd had come to watch the performance
of a play. Only when he studied the structure more closely did he see that the platform was not deep enough to be a stage, and what he had taken to be the rail for the front curtain was in fact a
heavy timber bar.

The crowd was growing thicker, forming a close-packed mass which could advance no farther. With his great height Jezreel was able to see over their heads. A line of soldiers sweating in their
heavy red coats was holding back the spectators from coming too close to the stage. Off to one side the drummer was still tapping away steadily. Occasionally he allowed himself a rapid tattoo.
After perhaps ten minutes a low cheer went up, and the onlookers parted enough to allow a small group of men to walk towards the wooden scaffold. Jezreel recognized the provost marshal. He led the
way, followed by four men with their arms bound in front of them. They were bare-headed and dressed in dirty canvas breeches and loose shirts. One of them wore a moth-eaten officer’s jacket,
flapping open as the buttons were missing. They all had halters around their necks, the loose ends of the ropes looped around their shoulders. On each side of the prisoners walked guards carrying
staves.

‘Bloody villains!’ shouted someone in the crowd. There was some half-hearted hissing and booing. An urchin darted out of the crowd and flung a stone at one of the prisoners. A guard
dealt the boy a sharp blow with the butt end of his stave. The crowd laughed.

Several paces behind the little group walked a priest. For a moment Jezreel was startled to think that it was the Reverend Simeon Watson. The man wore the same black clothes and low-crowned hat.
The white collar tabs were bright on his chest. But this priest was shorter and not so thin and spindly. Also he had chosen to wear a short wig under his hat. He held a Bible in one hand, and was
fanning himself with a palm leaf fan with the other.

The little group reached the stage and halted. There was a brisk final tattoo by the drummer. The crowd fell silent except for some rude noises from a group of urchins who were pretending to be
choking. The marshal faced the crowd and read out from a document in his hand. Jezreel was too far away but he presumed it was the sentence of death passed by Chief Justice Barnard.

‘If Sir Henry could see this, he’d be turning in his grave,’ said an old man on Jezreel’s left. He was addressing his equally ancient companion. By the look of them they
had both been at sea for most of their working lives.

‘Balderdash! You forget Morgan turned his coat and hanged his former crew mates,’ retorted the second man. Both men spoke in the querulous tones of those who habitually disagreed and
bickered with one another as a way of passing time.

‘Why are the men to hang?’ Jezreel asked, though he had an uncomfortable feeling he already knew the answer.

‘Did for a Navy tarpauling, the wantwits.’

Now that it was confirmed that the condemned men were from the previous crew of the
Speedy Return
, Jezreel was in two minds whether to stay or not. Then he decided that among the
spectators might be men whom he could recruit. So he watched the four prisoners climb up a short ladder and on to the stage. From their unsteady walk, he guessed that some kind soul had filled them
up with strong drink. He presumed the one who wore a shabby officer’s coat was the smuggler captain whom Bartaboa despised. There was little remarkable about the others. They looked to be in
their twenties, unshaven and unwashed and they had the crushed look of men who were accustomed to a harsh life. Accompanying them and the priest on to the platform were two sombrely clad bruisers
with grim, set expressions. They had to be the hangman and his assistant. The latter was holding a grubby canvas bag.

The prisoners shuffled together into a little group and faced the priest. He read from the Bible, then offered up a prayer. Now Jezreel saw why the men had their arms bound in front of them. It
allowed them to clasp their hands during the prayer. The priest, his duty done, left the platform and carefully made his way back down the ladder. On the stage the hangman’s assistant delved
into his bag and pulled out some soiled white cloths which proved to be hoods. The hangman placed them over the heads of the prisoners, one by one. Then, with the help of his assistant, he took
each of the condemned men by the elbow and manoeuvred him until all four of the prisoners were standing in a line at the edge of the stage. They faced the crowd, nooses around their necks. It took
another ten minutes for the free end of each halter to be uncoiled, tossed over the bar above the men’s heads, made taut, and then fastened to the rear of the stage. When all was ready, the
hangman and his assistant climbed down the ladder. Now the condemned men were by themselves. They stood awkwardly, still fuddled with drink but just sober enough to try to keep their balance. They
knew that the slightest misstep would mean a premature death. Jezreel found himself wondering that they would wish so desperately to prolong their lives even at this final moment.

The crowd had fallen silent. There was a collective intake of breath, a quivering eagerness to witness the climax of the event. Then the shocking thump of a hammer blow made Jezreel jump. Then
another blow. Jezreel rose on tiptoe, straining to see what was making the noise. At the base of the scaffold the hangman and his assistant were wielding mallets, knocking away the props which held
up the front of the stage. Another double thump, and this time the right-hand edge of the platform suddenly sagged a foot or more. But the opposite end held firm. The prisoner farthest to the right
toppled sideways but he was held up from falling by the noose around his neck. It tightened, but not fatally. The wretched man spun slightly, held up by his halter. The crowd let out a cross
between a great sigh and a groan.

‘Whoreson carpenters couldn’t make a tight coffin for their own mothers,’ grumbled one of the old men next to Jezreel.

Three or four more mallet blows boomed as the hangman and his assistant hurried to finish the job.

Abruptly the entire front edge of the stage collapsed. This time all four of the prisoners were left dangling, their legs kicking frantically as the nooses tightened around their necks.

Jezreel felt a nudge on his ribs and looked down. One of the old men was trying to attract his attention, his eyes shining with excitement. ‘Anyone on the heels?’ he demanded.

When Jezreel hesitated, not knowing what was meant, the old man prodded him again sharply. ‘Take a look and tell me,’ he said. ‘If there’s someone pulling down to the
captain’s legs, I’m three pesos to the better.’

‘But only if it’s the captain, not the others,’ added his companion. ‘That’s our wager.’

Disgusted, Jezreel turned aside and began to push his way through the crowd. He had not gone far when there was a terrific clap of thunder. While the execution had been taking place, no one had
paid attention to the dark storm cloud boiling up over the baking land. Now the thunderhead rolled in over the town with peal after peal of thunder followed moments later by the sudden onrush of
torrential tropical rain. The crowd scattered, running for shelter. Raindrops bounced off the brick surface of the parade ground. A Port Royal bawd ran past Jezreel, her parasol useless as an
umbrella, sodden clothes sticking to her body, revealing sagging breasts and bloated thighs. There was a glimpse of the parson scurrying for cover, one hand clamping his black hat more firmly on
his head, the other holding his Bible, now wrapped in the palm leaf fan.

Jezreel let the crowd disperse. He ignored the sluicing downpour and waited on the parade ground until he was almost alone. Across the now-deserted square most of the soldiers had vanished. Half
a dozen of them had taken shelter under what remained of the dripping execution stage. They were peering out from behind the legs of the hanged men, now motionless and twisting slowly in the air.
Among them was the drummer. He had stretched an oilcloth cover over his drum skin and was drinking from a rum bottle. In front of the scaffold, exposed to the rain, waited a bedraggled group of
half a dozen men. They were chained at their ankles and wrists. Beside them was a two-wheel cart. As Jezreel watched, the rain eased as suddenly as it had begun, and one of the soldiers emerged
from his shelter. He mounted the scaffold and went to the rear of the stage. There he untied the ropes and, one after another, the hanged men dropped to the ground like ripe fruit. The waiting gang
of prisoners gathered up the corpses and stacked them on the cart after another soldier had carefully removed and coiled the ropes that had hanged them.

‘Ready to use again,’ croaked a voice. Jezreel glanced round to see that the two old men had reappeared like ghouls.

The prisoners began to wheel the loaded cart away.

‘Where are they to be buried?’ enquired Jezreel.

‘Buried!’ The old man gave a toothless grin. ‘They’ll be kept in the yard at Marshalsea until nightfall and then taken out to Deadman’s Cay. There they’ll be
hung up until they rot, like game.’ He gave a phlegmy laugh.