Rain.
I should have expected it. It was March. What else can you expect in Halifax in March? Rain or snow. And more rain or snow. That is what I should have expected. I saw the clouds. Oh, well, c’est la vie. I got wet.
Was it worth it? I certainly think it was worth it. Whether you think so, well, it is your prerogative what you think. Me, I got wet that rainy day in Halifax in order to get to the jail before the authorities hanged the man whose story came to involve me in more ways than I ever imagined. If I had run back to my rooming house, to get my rain slicker, I might not have had the chance to interview him. Where pirates are concerned the authorities could sometimes act very quickly. I was only recently appraised of his capture and jailing while enjoying a pint with my friends, Stacy and Stuart. In spite of the clouds, I didn’t think they threatened rain when I left my rooming house.
The pirate was facing a hanging at the harbor entrance. That is what Stuart told me. When Stuart mentioned the condemned man’s name I immediately excused myself. There was just no way I was going to miss interviewing Captain William Bartleby, the notorious pirate. He apparently plundered and sank seven English merchantmen in the Caribbean, in one year alone. He was the most feared pirate on the Seven Seas, so the stories went. I wanted to hear the man’s story for myself because I am a writer, and pirates interested me.
So, I slurped down the rest of my pint; I wasn’t going to waste a good pint of bitters, and rushed off into the rain, without an umbrella, without my rain slicker, to the jail to interview the man whose story I am about to tell you. However, before I do, let me fill you in on what happened when I got to the jail. That part is also of interest. I mean, it isn’t easy getting into jail when you haven’t done anything except write articles for the Morning Post.
The last time I tried to interview a pirate I was told to, ‘piss off’.
This was by the pirate.
He was hanged that very afternoon.
I watched him swing. I didn’t feel any sympathy for him. Maybe he shouldn’t have told me to piss off. I guess I am sensitive that way. It runs in the family. My mother didn’t like it when my father said it, either.
Anyway, when I got to the jail, quite dripping wet; my boots muddy, the guards laughed at me when I tried to explain that I had come to interview William Bartleby, the famous pirate.
‘Whadda ya wan a inerfew dat pirate fer? He don deserve a inerfew. He’s a bloody pirate, fer Chrys sake,’ said the one guard, a short, pudgy man, with a bulbous nose and fat lips.
The other guard looked nervously about. Then he looked at his colleague and told him that he had better watch his blaspheming or he could end up in trouble.
The blasphemer didn’t seem to care too much about his blaspheming, shrugging his shoulders.
I repeated my request to be allowed to interview Captain Bartleby.
The guards looked at me with smirks on their faces.
I had to ask them once more, this time with the price of two pints of ale in my hand.
The blasphemer looked around, to see if anyone was watching. When he ascertained no one was, he took the coin and smiled at his partner.
The two guards stood aside and let me enter the building. I noticed that they were already licking their lips, as they looked forward to the pints after work.
Inside the jail, as I well knew from previous visits, was the entrance lobby, on the left of which stood a table; behind which sat, Corporal McFee.
The corporal eyed me as I stepped into the lobby. His face was in it’s usual ugly scowl mode. Sometimes I wondered if perhaps Corporal McFee had been hit with an ugly stick and his face was permanently disfigured into a scowl. I can’t remember ever not seeing his face screwed up thusly.
‘You here to interview the pirate?’ he sneered.
‘I’m not here to interview you, McFee,’ I replied.
‘It’s going to cost you. Pirate stories don’t come cheap,’ he said.
‘This is a public gaol. How can you continue to get away with charging newspaper reporters to interview prisoners?’ I glared at McFee, who remained unmoved, as usual. And, just as per usual, I never knew when to shut up, when it came to dealing with Corporal McFee. ‘It is one of the ways prisoners have an opportunity to be heard by the community,’ I told him.
Corporal McFee laughed. ‘Pirates don’t need to be heard. They’re the scum of the sea. This one is the collective scum of all the seas. He don’t deserve an interview.’
I am sure my shoulders must have sagged, as I felt in my pocket for the few coins I had with me. McFee’s prices were always considerably higher than any of the other officials in the jail. It was just my luck to find him on duty that day.
I didn’t want to argue with the man and paid him with the thropence I had been saving for an other occasion. I sighed as I gave them to him, but it had no effect. McFee could have cared less what my plans for the coins were. He greedily put the coins into his purse and jingled it in front of me. Obviously he had already been carrying on a steady trade that day in his favorite hobby, coin collecting.
McFee sneered at me and called a guard. He told the man to take me to the pirate’s cell.
On the way the guard also tried to extract a coin from me, however I managed to deflect him by telling the guard I had no more coins left; the corporal and the entrance guards having taken the lot. The guard accepted my answer without an argument. He just sighed. He probably had come to accept the fact that most of the fleecing was done up front. He being a guard inside the jail, was on the bottom of the receiving line. It was a grim situation for a mere jail guard in Halifax in this, so called, ‘enlightened century’, I mused, as I followed him down the stairs.
A bit of extortion was necessary just to make ends meet, in those days. The guard probably had a missus and some kids, I reckoned. However, I didn’t know him. I didn’t care. Jail guards are not my favorite people. Whether he made any extra money or not, was not my concern. All that I was concerned with, regarding the guard, was that he not get any of my money. I had paid enough. The skinflint who owned the paper wouldn’t reimburse me anyway. Sometimes a writer has to pay for his research, it is the way it is. There is no free lunch. I just wanted to avoid paying more than I had to.
So, anyway, the guard took me down into the lowest level of the jail; into what one would call, the dungeon; a dank, dark, cold place. I never liked going down there. It gave me the creeps. I prayed I would never end up down there. It was not a fit place for a human being.
Whether anyone was ever tortured there, that I couldn’t say. However, judging from the appearance of the place, and the faces of some of the jailers, I would say there was a distinct possibility.
So, I asked the guard, point blank, whether anyone had been tortured down there.
He just grunted, like they all did when I asked any of the guards about it. I guess the authorities didn’t want people to know about it and just pretended it didn’t happen. That was my suspicion.
When we arrived at the pirate’s cell I was quite surprised to see him standing, waiting for my arrival. (He must have heard our footsteps). All of the other pirates I had interviewed had remained lying down on the cot against the far wall. The gentlemanly courtesy, of standing to greet a guest, was lost on most pirates.
I was further surprised by his appearance. Instead of a greasy, long haired, ear ringed, peg-legged, and hook handed pirate captain, with an eye patch, I found a tall, handsome, well groomed, bearded gentleman with both of his legs and hands intact; one of which was extended through the bars of his cage to welcome me.
‘Company at last,’ he said, a big grin on his face.
The guard told the pirate to stick his hand back into the cell or he would chop it off with his short sword.
The pirate told the guard what to do with his short sword in a most peculiar and quite humorous fashion.
Even the guard found it funny and repeated the phrase. Then he said that he would have to try it on Corporal McFee.
I warned the guard he had better not, if he knew what was good for him.
The guard just shrugged his shoulders and sauntered off, repeating the pirate’s suggestion regarding what could be done with the short sword. The joke warmed me to William Bartleby right away. I like a pirate with a sense of humor.
‘Peter Mann,’ I said, extending my hand.
The pirate took my hand and we exchanged a warm handshake. ‘Call me, Bill,’ he said.
The pirate’s hand was strong, and somewhat larger than my own. I had the distinct feeling that if he had wanted to, he could have crushed every bone of my right hand with an effortless squeeze. I got the impression that William Bartleby was incredibly strong. He certainly was stronger than this quill pusher, there was no doubt about that.
I have only shaken the hand of one other pirate, and I remember his hand being small, wet, and lacking any conviction or strength. Perhaps the fact he was about to be hanged, might have had something to do with it. But, to my way of thinking, there is no excuse for a limp, wet handed handshake. Well, actually it was to my father’s way of thinking. He drilled the idea into me. I guess it stuck. My dad had been a sergeant in the Royal Marines. ‘A firm handshake is the mark of a man,’ he had said on more than one occasion. Bill’s handshake would have impressed my old man.
‘You’re all wet,’ is the next thing he said to me.
‘Yes, its raining,’ I replied, for want of something better to say.
‘Why didn’t you wear your rain slicker?’ he asked puzzled, like an old friend wondering if you’re daft or not.
I explained that I had gone for a pint with friends, not far from where I lived. I told him I had planned to stay drinking with my friends and had not really thought about rain, when I had stepped out.
‘You’re mad to go out without a rain slicker in Halifax in March,’ he said.
‘The winter’s nearly over,’ I countered.
‘It’s only March,’ he replied.
‘It didn’t rain yesterday,’ I said.
‘It was a fluke,’ laughed the pirate as he stepped over to his cot. ‘It was a bloody fluke. You know it always rains or snows here at this time of year.’
I nodded my head. ‘Yeah, I know. I guess I was just being optimistic. I don’t like winter and want it to go away. When it didn’t rain yesterday, I was hoping spring was here. So, I went out in this sweater and these corduroy trousers with my heavy hose. As you can see, my hat is large enough to keep most of the rain off.’
Bill looked at my hat and laughed. ‘You call that a hat?’
I looked at my hat and shrugged my shoulders.
‘I had a hat with a brim which was much better than an umbrella. It totally protected me, like a roof. It was red velvet, with a gold braid and a magnificent peacock feather from Madagascar. I plucked it out of the bird myself.’ Bill smiled, a glint in his eye. ‘He was most indignant for my removing it,’ he chuckled. ‘His indignation did not last long. We ate him shortly there after. Tough old bird, though. Cookie did his best to cook the cock, but it was to no avail. We should have grabbed the hen. I understand a peahen is probably much more tender’. William looked at me and grinned lasciviously. ‘Like all things female, eh, Peter?’ he said, scratching his groin. ‘Eh, Peter, tender like all females.’
William stared into space for a moment and sighed. ‘I miss my little senorita in Hispaniola. Now there is a tender little woman for you. Skin like creamy chocolate. Hair like black coal, with eyes to match, except that hers are on fire.’
I watched as Bill paused to reflect upon his lady in New Spain. It gave me a chance to look the man over.
William Bartleby was tall, well over six feet, and lanky. His hair was cut short and his face was probably clean shaven, except there in jail, he already had a week’s growth, or so. His hair was blond. He was wearing green velvet breeches, with torn, dirty hose and black shoes. His white shirt was torn and dirty. It looked like he had been manhandled by the guards. I commented on my observation and he told me that his shirt was torn when he tried to resist a soldier in Lunenburg.
I asked him if he had any objection to me interviewing him. He replied that he would be honored. So, I looked around for something to sit on. I noticed one of the cell doors, several cells down the corridor, was open. I stepped over to it and peered into the little room. Lucky for me, there was a small, three legged stool inside. I picked it up and carried it back to the captain’s cell and set it down beside the bars. Then I plunked myself on the stool and faced the pirate on the cot.
‘So, who in the blue blazes are you, anyway, Peter Mann? Do I know you? Do you know me? What brings you here? Are you here to gawk at a condemned man? You’re not a priest in disguise are you? I mean if you are. . . by Gawd I will tell you to piss off right now’. Bill rolled onto his side and regarded me intensely. ‘You’re not one of those new protestant lay preachers, are you? I know some of them dress differently than most men of the cloth. Why didn’t you bring your rain slicker? Doesn’t it bother you to be wet like that?
William’s questions came lightning fast. He shot them out at me like gun fire.
I told him that I was a writer for the Morning Post and that I was interested in pirates and their stories, and so was the newspaper, I lied.
Bill eyed me suspiciously.
I further told him about my plans for a book about pirates and told Bill some names of pirates whom I had interviewed, before they were hanged; Bony Jane, John Racker, and Bartholomew Robson.
Bill knew one of the pirates personally. He was sad to hear the woman had been hanged. Then he asked me again why I didn’t go home to pick up my rain slicker; reminding me I could catch my death, being wet like that in a cold, dank place like the dungeon.
I told Bill that I had come in a hurry, fearing that he would be hanged before I had a chance to see him.
Bill laughed when I expressed fear he would be hanged right away.
‘They haven’t hung me, so far. Why, they’ve had me for near a month. Held me in Lunenburg up till a few days ago, when they finally brought me here.’ Bill looked about his cell. ‘Definitely this place is far worse. I didn’t mind the Lunenburg cell.’ He smiled broadly and chuckled, ‘they’re not about to hang me yet. Chances are they will take me back to London and try me there. They sent word of my capture to London two days after I arrived in gaol. Even though Halifax is a busy port, and my body hanging from the gibbet is a good warning to lots of sailors, you have to remember, I am not an ordinary privateer. I am Captain William Bartleby. I am not some smuck pirate. The King will be very interested in seeing me personally hanging from a gibbet at Wapping. They only brought me here three days ago, as I said. That is why I look as good as I do. If I am any judge of character, I fully expect to be maltreated by the scum in this gaol.’ He gestured in the direction where the guards were. ‘But, they can’t kill me here. So, until they arrange for my transfer, I think I will be dependent on this gaol’s hospitality, meagre as it is. So, I fully expect to live for some weeks, or possibly months here in Halifax.’
I was glad to hear the news of his having to accept Halifax's hospitality for a while. It gave me the opportunity of doing a thorough job interviewing an important pirate. I could go home and fetch my notebook, quills and ink. The opportunity of a lifetime presented itself to me. The opportunity to interview so important a pirate as William Bartleby, was something not to be missed. I told him that, seeing as how he was not going to be hanged until he was brought to London, I would have time to go home, get dried off, put on my rain gear and bring my notebook etcetera. I also told him I would bring some food and wine.
Bill was pleased to hear that I was interested in his story, and that I would see to his needs in a better fashion than he could expect from the jail. We shook hands and I hurried out of the place to fetch my stuff.
On the way out Corporal McFee reminded me that it would cost money to get back in.
I told him he should be the one behind bars.
McFee didn’t like that and he shouted behind my back that the price of entry had just doubled.
When I got home I was drenched and cold. I immediately got out of my wet clothes and dried off with my big, warm towel. However, since I had been drenched, I was still cold inside. Fortunately Missus Findlay had hot water on the stove in the kitchen. She made me a hot cocoa with cream and sugar. This was not only very warming, but also very delicious. Missus Findlay was always so nice to me; like a mother, really. I was grateful for her and never complained about the room and board she charged, it being slightly higher than elsewhere.
When I was sufficiently warmed up I obtained a loaf of rye bread, a hunk of cheese, some green onions, and a bottle of wine, to take to the pirate. I gathered up enough food and wine to enable me to spend as many hours with the pirate, as time would allow. I was so convinced that the pirate’s tale would be of great interest, that I was certain I would get hungry at some point in his telling. Perhaps there might be enough in his tale alone, to form the contents of a book, I thought. A man of William Bartleby’s stature doesn’t get there without an interesting story line unfolding along the way. In my opinion, at the time, his story would make a good book.
Anyway, I gathered up everything into my leather bag. I also remembered to take some coins from my stash behind my book case. I quickly left the rooming house and hurried in the direction of the jail.
The streets were muddy from the rain. As horses clopped past, I had to be careful not to be splashed by their hooves pounding into a puddle, or from the wheels of the conveyance which followed. There was no sense in getting my dry clothes wet and muddy. I didn’t have many changes of clothing. Missus Findlay only did laundry once a week. And it cost extra.
When I returned to the jail, I was nice and dry under my umbrella and rain slicker.
The guards were surprised to see me.
‘Whada ya wan, dis time?’ asked the blasphemer.
I told him I had come to interview Captain Bartleby.
The guards looked at each other and burst out laughing.
The other guard told me that Corporal McFee had ordered no more visitations for the rest of the day. If I wanted to talk with the pirate, I would have to come back tomorrow.
I wasn’t surprised to hear the news. McFee had done it before. He was probably up to something with the prisoners, which he didn’t want visitors to see. I wouldn’t be surprised. People of his race seemed to be like that, it seemed. I had met some others like him, and they were schemers and thieves, as well. I get the distinct impression it is in their blood. Needless to say, I did not leave the food in hope that it would get past the guards, or Corporal McFee.
So, I had to go back to my lodgings and give up on William Bartleby that day. It was unfortunate because the following day would be Sunday and everything would be closed, including the jail. The day after would be Monday and I had to work most of the day. Whether I would have much time after work depended on the discretion of the jailer in charge.
Whether I could interview the pirate during the work day entirely depended on the editor. To get his permission always took some doing. He hated pirates. Although, I did feel somewhat confident that a pirate like William Bartleby would attract Mister Burnett’s attention.
I was wrong.
When I approached Mister Burnett with the idea of giving me time to interview William Bartleby he said he wasn’t interested. He felt the paper had been giving too many columns to pirate’s tales and that the press was giving the pirates much too much attention. Since we only printed two pages per day, there were too many other things which needed to be printed, like advertisements and announcements.
I reminded him that people liked reading about pirates. Whenever there was a pirate to be hanged, the paper’s stories about him were eagerly read.
Mister Burnett shrugged his shoulders and told me that if I was interested in the pirate, I had to interview him on my own time, not the newspaper’s. Then he sent me off to interview some old ladies who were planning to hold a bake sale.
Being a junior reporter had it’s drawbacks. I just prayed Mister Burnett didn’t assign William Bartleby to another reporter.
After I finished work, that Monday, I ran home and gathered up another load of food and the bottle of wine, along with my notebook, quills, and ink.
It was five o’clock when I again stood before the guards. There were two other guards standing in front of their guard houses, this time. When I requested entrance into the jail I was surprised to be let in right away, without charge.
‘You look surprised,’ sneered Corporal McFee, as I stepped into the lobby.
‘I didn’t expect to get in so easily,’ I told him.
McFee laughed. ‘I have issued orders that the guards are, under no circumstances, to extort money from prisoners and visitors.’
I stared at McFee and raised an eyebrow.
McFee laughed. ‘That way, any extortion that goes on in this gaol, is under my direct supervision and control.’ McFee laughed louder, and jingled the bag of money on his desk. Then he leaned forward and eyed me coldly. ‘If you breathe one word of this in the newspaper, I promise you this, you would live just long enough to regret it.’
I stared at McFee for a moment, but realizing it wouldn’t do me any good to argue. I asked him how much a visit with the pirate was going to cost me.
The price had gone up, but I had come prepared. The money which I would have had to pay the guards, plus McFee’s charges, was now incorporated into one fee, the equivalent of five pints of ale. I handed McFee the coins he wanted and walked off with a guard who looked a whole lot like a bull mastiff.
When I arrived in the dungeon, Captain Bartleby was standing, as before. He smiled when he was able to see my face in the light of the torch the dog faced guard was holding.
‘Back, at last. It is good to see you, Peter. I was wondering if you would come back to see me. The guards here aren’t exactly company for a learned man, like myself. They haven’t got much to grunt about, do they?’ Bill directed his voice towards the guard, who was lighting the torch which hung on the wall. He continued in a sweet voice, ‘you canine visaged cretin, your cranium couldn’t contain a grain of rice, could it?’
The guard grunted, not understanding what the pirate was talking about. He shuffled off, back to the guard station, leaving me alone with the pirate.
First thing we did was exchange a warm handshake and pleasantries about seeing each other, and that sort of social stuff. Then I handed him the food, for which he was immensely grateful. Since it was time to eat, I found the three legged stool, and then he and I shared the food and wine, as he began his tale; the one I am about to tell you.
I am writing this tale in the first person, in order to attempt to convey to you as close as possible, what Captain William Bartleby told me, and what I experienced since meeting him on that fateful day in March, 1775.


Chapter Two

‘I began life as a baby,’ laughed Captain Bartleby.
I looked at him and saw the merriment in his eyes. ‘Doesn’t everyone?’ I replied.
‘Of course, that is the point,’ he said. ‘We all start out the same way. What makes me so different from you, for example?’
‘I wasn’t born in London,’ I replied.
‘Neither was I,’ he retorted. ‘I was born in Liverpool. I was born into poverty November 21, 1736. My mum had eight kids. I was the oldest. My father was a chimney sweep. They did the best they could, but life was hard. What more can I say about that? The one thing which saved us was the fact that my mum could read. She taught us kids to read and to write. If it wasn’t for her, there would not have been books in the house, besides the Bible.’
William bit off a piece of bread and chewed it thoughtfully for a moment, as I wrote in my shorthand what he had said to me. When I lifted my head, signifying I was done, he continued.
‘When I was eight, things changed for me and determined the course of the rest of my life. My vocation was thrust upon me, out of the blue, when I wasn’t expecting it. My father is the one who informed me. He simply told me, one day, while we were having our meagre dinner of leek soup, with bits of pork scrapings, and my mother’s rye bread. ‘Son, he said, ‘you are old enough to go out and work. I’ve found you a place with the merchant Stevenson, in Manchester. He needs a boy to help around his shop. We leave in the morning.’
That is all he said.
Next morning I had to say good bye to my mum and my brothers and sisters. I was very shook up. Imagine, being torn from your family at eight years of age.
Anyway, we left the next morning, and before I knew it, I was in a strange city and in the employ of Mister Stevenson, who turned out to be a kind, but stern master. He was a seller of spices, rich cloth, unusual trinkets, jewels, jewelry, gold, silver, and all sorts of other exotic things; food stuffs I had never seen before. How my father ever managed to get me into the employment of Mister Stevenson, is something he never told me. To this day I don’t know. Perhaps he cleaned his chimney one time. It is one of the mysteries in my life.’
At this point I remember the pirate drank a long sip of wine and sat still for a while, pondering his past. I was writing like mad. My fingers were becoming quite stained from ink, already. I tend to do that, whenever I am writing. I get ink all over my hands it seems. I wish there was some other sort of dispenser of ink than a quill. Perhaps ink should be put in a tube, or something. I don’t know. I’m sure someone will invent something, eventually.
When Captain Bartleby had thought for a while, he continued his story.
‘My work at Mister Stevenson’s shop consisted, at first, of sweeping floors, dusting, helping people carry things out of the shop to their carriages, cleaning windows, unloading packing crates. . . That was always exciting. I loved it when new packing crates came in, which was usually after Mister Stevenson had been away for two months or more. He usually traveled in the winter months. He didn’t like to stay in Manchester during the winter. It was too cold for his tastes, he always told me.
Missus Stevenson was a cruel witch of a woman who used to beat me with a belt for missing spots on the windows, when I cleaned them, or for forgetting some little thing, or other. I tried to tell Mister Stevenson about it, but he never believed that his wife was capable of such behavior. She was so sweet and loving to her own son; a spoiled, vindictive little demon, who got me into lots of trouble with his mother. One time she shut me up under the stairs for a week, with only bread and water. I still have scars from where she beat me. The ill treatment was probably good for me because it certainly toughened me up and prepared me for what eventually came my way, thanks to my father sending me to Mister Stevenson. I’ve forgiven him long ago, but it sure cost me a lot of blood.’
I cringed at the thought of little William being beaten blue by a cruel matron. Compared to what Bill had experienced as a child, my childhood was a heavenly affair. I commented on this and he just sighed and nodded his head as he replied that I was fortunate, and should always thank God for having been given good and loving parents, who could afford to keep me. I agreed with him as we both reflected for a moment on our parents. Mine were dead. He had no idea where his parents where.
It was at this point I calculated his age, which turned out to be thirty eight; a full thirteen years, and a whole lifetime older than me. I reflected on that and he smiled. ‘Aye a whole lifetime. . .’ He said. Then suddenly he asked me if I had ever killed a man.
Of course I had never killed a man, at that point in my life. It had never even crossed my mind, to kill somebody.
When he heard my answer, he nodded. ‘Indeed, we’re a whole lifetime apart, you and me. I have no idea how many men I have killed. Probably a couple of dozen, at least. And then a few hundred more, I suppose, during raids on the ships of England.’
I asked him why he had such a hatred for England.
His eyes became fire as he stared at me, lifting his shirt.
‘Because of these.’ He said it with such vehemence that it surprised me, however, looking at the numerous scars on his body, I could understand why he would be angry. The scars of lashings are never a pretty sight. He had quite a number of them.
I asked him how long he had been in the employ of Mister Stevenson.
‘Until I was twelve. That is when my circumstances changed again, in a drastic fashion. Those circumstances resulted in the scars on my back.
You see, as I grew older, I began to grow a very good relationship with Mister Stevenson. When he was home, I was not beaten by his witch. Mister Stevenson liked me.
When I was eleven, he took me along on one of his winter trips, on board his merchantman, which he and his partner, Mister Thurgood, owned. The ship was called, ‘Venture’. It was on this trip that I learned how Mister Stevenson acquired the things he sold in his shop. Mister Stevenson was a pirate during the winter months; in the Caribbean or Mediterranean Seas. He plundered indiscriminately, any merchantmen that he could find. When he and his men were lucky, the take was very lucrative. Mister Stevenson and Thurgood had a knack for picking the right ships.’
I asked Bill how Mister Stevenson managed to get away with piracy for so long.
‘He changed the name of his ship each time, when he was out at sea; out of sight of anyone. It was then that he hoisted the Jolly Roger. I learned a lot from him. Of course, at the time, I was not really interested in becoming a pirate. I was just a little kid. I was only eleven, for goodness sake.’
I noted the pirate’s lack of blasphemy. That was unusual in a pirate, I thought. But, then, what do I know. I have only interviewed ten pirates in total. One out of ten who doesn’t blaspheme, in my limited experience, is not enough to establish a statistic. When I commented on it he replied that it is a sin to take the Lord’s name in vain and simply left it at that. It was a given as far as he was concerned.
‘So, anyway,’ he continued, ‘there I was, eleven years old, on a pirate ship, floating about in the Caribbean. I had no idea that is what I would be doing, when we set out. Unfortunately, Misters Stevenson and Thurgood had no idea that they would run into an English man o’ war during that particular winter’s trip. We were lucky the man o’ war didn’t sink us. We were in shark infested waters at the time. The English navy captured us and took us, and our cargo, on board. Then they scuttled Mister Stevenson’s ship.
We were all put in shackles in the forecastle. They whipped a few of us during the trip to England. They hung five pirates in front of the ship’s company and us. The captain figured that England would understand that a few pirates would have been killed in the process of capture. The bodies were used for shark trolling. The navy officers found that to be a marvelous sport. One of Mister Thurgood’s sons was left to hang in a fore yard arm, as a trophy. I noticed that it made Mister Thurgood very sad every time he was allowed up on deck for air and exercise, under the watchful eyes of the Royal Marines.’
I commented on the fact that my father had been a Royal Marine.
Bartleby frowned and said he was sorry to hear it, but that he wouldn’t hold it against me as he continued with his story.
‘When we got back to London, we were all tried for piracy. Everyone was hung but me. The judge took pity on me because of my circumstances and age.
So, I was sentenced to impressment into the Royal Navy and was assigned to the ship from hell on my twelfth birthday. His Majesty’s Ship, Pluto, under the command of Captain Jamison. That was my first ship. It was just my luck that the captain was a tyrant. How he ever came to represent the British Navy was beyond me. I was later to find that he was a saint compared to Diablo himself, Captain Blight, under whom I served for two years, prior to becoming a pirate at the tender age of nineteen.’
At this point Bill took a long drink from the bottle. It was obvious to me that his experience in the navy had been a very unpleasant time.
‘I hated the navy,’ is how he put it.
I can’t say I blamed him, judging from the scars. They were an ugly map of roads and canals; a testament to state inflicted inhumanity. He saw me wince when I looked at them.
‘You never seen anything like it, have you?’ he said.
‘I have seen a pirate flogged, but I’ve never seen the end results,’ I answered. ‘I think flogging is barbarous,’ I added.
‘Aye, barbarous,’ he spat. ‘Here we are in the 18th Century and we still flog people like the ancient Romans did. We think we are so civilized.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘We are not as civilized as we think. People are still being burned at the stake, in some remote corners. Maybe, as we speak, some poor woman is being burned for having special knowledge about herbs and mushrooms. Maybe she has a black cat.’
Bill began to pace.
‘I knew a young woman, when I was about twenty four or five. She was beautiful. Long blond hair, down to her waist. Big blue eyes, with the voice of an angel. She lived in Scotland; in Edinburgh.
Anyway, she was so like an angel in every way. Her mother had taught her about the healing arts. Eventually this angel became very good at healing and lots of people came to her and received benefit from their visits.
Karen eventually drew the attention of certain clergy members, who were friends with the heads of the medical establishment. Eventually they trumped up charges of witchcraft against Karen and had her stripped naked. Then they horribly tortured her with thumb and toe screws!’ Bill stared at me; his voice breaking. ‘Those twisted bastards tortured her on three separate occasions. Of course she confessed to every leading question they put to her. Wouldn’t you, under the circumstances? Think of it. The last digits of your toes and fingers would be crushed under the pressure of those diabolical devices. She couldn’t use her hands properly anymore, after the first time. They let her alone for a month and then did it again. After the second time she couldn’t walk anymore. When they were done a third time, some months later, she was completely crippled.’
Bill’s eyes were wild, like a hunted animal, as he grabbed for the bottle and took a long drink before continuing with his story.
‘A couple of more months went by, in which she lived in extreme pain, and suffered horribly. They finally came to get her and burned her alive. They burned that lovely girl, one afternoon, on the commons outside of the city.’
I noticed, in the dim light of the torch, that the pirate had tears in his eyes and his voice wavered, as he continued the story. Hardened as he might have become, as a pirate, he was obviously a sympathetic man. The witch burning incident had affected him in a powerful way. He had to pause for some time to collect himself and then he came over and took an other long sip from the bottle. I watched him as he went back to sit on the edge of the cot, his head in his hands. I believe that moment was probably the saddest in the pirate’s tale.
It took Bill quite a while before he spoke again.
I have a way of doing that. I bring things out of people. I guess that is why I am a journalist. People tell me things. Sometimes the things they tell me dredge up all sorts of sordid memories. It is not the first time I have seen someone shook up over something they were telling me.
When Bill was sufficiently recovered, I had caught up with the writing, so it worked out very well, his pausing like that. Were I was concerned; as the person who had to write it all down, that is, when a story teller pauses to reflect, or whatever, that is something which we quill pushers appreciate. It is not easy writing everything down as people speak. Especially because we have to keep dipping our quills in an ink bottle. And, we have to keep those feathers sharpened. It is such a nuisance. Someone really ought to invent some sort of a tube filled with ink, with a metal nib, which stays sharp. I can’t imagine why someone hasn’t done it yet. I for one would buy such a pen.
‘Have you ever seen anyone burned alive, Peter?’ he said, just like that; startling me.
Of course I had to answer in the negative, and I am glad for that.
‘She couldn’t stop screaming. That is probably what I remember the most. Her screaming and screaming, as the flames first burned the skin off her legs and began to work on the bones. She was tied with chains to the stake, so that she could barely move. Even so, she writhed against the constraints of the chains, as she screamed and screamed; her face contorted into a horrible mask of excruciating pain; shrieking at the top of her lungs, until she couldn’t scream anymore on account of the smoke and the flames. The last I saw of her, before the pyre went up with an explosion of flame, when her fats dripped into the fire, was of her screaming, contorted face looking at me. It is something I shall never forget. It is the most horrific thing I have ever seen.’
The image Bill had related was horrific. The thought burned into my mind and stayed for a long while. After what seemed several minutes of quiet, during which I wrote like mad, trying to capture the words, I asked, ‘was this girl related to you?’
‘No. I just knew her. She healed some wounds I had obtained in a skirmish with a naval officer, at a pub in Edinburgh. I never trusted physicians. I’ve always gone to healing women when ever I have had cuts and whatever. Karen’s sister, who healed me when I was very sick for a few weeks, some time later, was also burned at the stake. She apparently caused the flame of a candle to move. The fact that she did have a black cat exacerbated the charges. Fortunately I was not in Edinburgh when they burned her. I heard about it some years later. It is a great tragedy of our times.’
William stepped over to the bars and reached for the wine bottle. It was at this point that a guard came stomping into the cell block.
‘Pull your hand back into the cell!’ he demanded. ‘Or I will chop your hand off with this short sword.’ He pulled the sword from it’s scabbard and wielded it menacingly.
Bill laughed. ‘You guards and your short swords. You think those are swords? They’re merely table cutlery, compared to the sword I wielded.’ Bill looked at the guard and gestured as if he was holding a big sword in his hand. ‘Now, that was a sword. It could slice a man in half from head to groin. D’you ever see a man sliced thusly?’ Bill stared menacingly at the guard, who faltered in his bravado.
‘Corporal McFee said it is time for you to leave,’ said the guard, returning the little sword to it’s scabbard.
‘What do you mean, it is time to leave? I just got here,’ I replied.
‘Corporal’s orders.’ The guard crossed his arms over his chest.
‘I paid good money to come here,’ I pleaded.
The guard just stood there and waited; his arms crossed over his chest.
I could see there was no dissuading the grunt, so I made sure all of the food was inside the pirate’s cell. The only thing we couldn’t get through the bars of the cage was the wine bottle. So Captain Bartleby made a point of drinking most of it down, before the guard grabbed the bottle from his hand.
I knew there was no way I could have stopped the burly guard. He was built like a rhinoceros. His nose was upturned, which gave him a piggish look. The guard was definitely not one of his mother’s most beautiful creations. I felt sorry for the poor brute. Life for the good looking was definitely easier, it seemed. Except for Captain Bartleby, of course. He was handsome, of that there was no doubt. But life had taken a turn for the worse, as far as he was concerned. There he was, in prison; facing a hanging in front of the King.
The guard prodded me to leave.
I bid good bye to William Bartleby and accompanied the grunt back to the lobby, where Corporal McFee had several other guests assembled.
‘Why do I have to leave?’ I asked. ‘I’ve only been here an hour,’ I added. ‘I paid you the price of five pints.’
‘Five pints? He charged me the equivalent of seven pints,’ said a man to my right.
‘You were here since two o’clock, Murphy, so quit your complaining,’ McFee shot back.
Then, just to get under McFee’s skin, I added, ‘and besides, why do we have to pay you money to visit in a public gaol?’
The other people obviously felt the same way and immediately asked the same question.
McFee was obviously taken off guard, but he covered himself admirably, I have to give the old bastard that. He was no mean pin head. His reply was that the money the state spent on the prison was not enough to ensure that the prisoners were adequately fed, clothed and given blankets. ‘The moneys graciously given and thankfully received are well used, believe me,’ he said in his oily voice.
I’d heard it all before, of course. McFee knew it because he kept eyeing me to see if I would say anything. But, I wanted to get home and review my notes, so I just let it go and waited patiently for McFee to finish his lies before he let us out.
When I stepped outside the jail it was drizzling. The temperature had dropped considerably. I felt chilled immediately and rushed home, like any poor creature would do, seeking warmth. Heat. Comfort.
Images of the screaming girl haunted my thoughts as I hurried through the rainy mist, a righteous indignation burning in the pit of my stomach as the screaming became louder, and the contorted face of the burning girl began to etch itself into my brain. As I rushed towards my rooming house, I began to wish I had not heard that story. Perhaps interviewing the pirate might prove to be too harrowing for me? Maybe the tale of the girl was not the worst of stories to come? Maybe William Bartleby had more horrific tales to tell? Little did I suspect that I would eventually experience pirate horror first hand.
I resolved to harden myself, as best I could. If I was going to continue to interview a famous pirate, who has lived ten times the lives I had lived, I had better brace myself. Certainly the story of the burning girl is a tragedy. It is one of the tragedies of our times, and of those past. It is up to us journalists to report the tragedies and draw the peoples’ attention to them, so that they may be appraised of the situations and protect themselves accordingly, by forming opinions and resolutions to not step on the same paths to perdition. It is the great and noble mandate of journalists and indeed, the newspaper. Hence, I vowed to write dispassionately about the burning girl and not let it bother me any more.
However, try as I might, even now, years later, as I reflect on this Pirate’s Tale, the story of the burning girl still haunts me to this day. I guess the idea of burning girls is so repugnant to me, the thought is difficult to erase.
Anyway, when I got home, around seven that evening, Missus Findlay had a pot of hot water on the stove. She fixed me a cup of hot cocoa, which I took up stairs to my room. Fortunately Missus Findlay had put some coal into the little stove, so my room was toasty warm when I stepped in. Missus Findlay looked after me so well. She was worth every shilling I paid her. Missus Findlay was a lot like my mother. I had a great appreciation for that woman.
After I had drunk the hot cocoa I felt a whole lot better and changed into my pajamas and dressing gown. I lit a candle on the table beside my bed, and began to transcribe the notes I had made, all the while wondering what the pirate would tell me the next time I saw him.


Chapter Three

Next morning I woke up early.
For some reason I woke up fresh and ready for action at six a.m. Normally I sleep until seven. I don’t have to be at the office until eight. When it is dreary outside one feels normally less inclined to get up early. However, I woke up with a fire and energy which was raring to go. I couldn’t wait to return to the jail and continue my interview with the pirate.
As I ate a quick breakfast of oatmeal and hemp porridge I thought about telling Mister Burnett about yesterday’s interview. Persistence is what gets a junior reporter into the upper ranks of journalism, I reasoned. I vowed to be persistent and approach Mister Burnett again.
When I did, later that morning, Mister Burnett again expressed his disinterest. This time he was a little less emphatic about it, though. I remember sensing a hesitation when I told him the story of the burning girl. However, he shrugged his shoulders and said that stories like that were sensationalistic and were not in the best interests of the general public’s Christian sensibilities.
I reminded him that the burning was done by Christians, but that just made him angry. So I left it alone and accepted his assignment to cover the Tuesday cattle market.
Whoopee! The cattle market. He gave me the cattle market to cover, instead of paying me to spend days with William Bartleby, whose tale could be the story of the year. Sometimes I think Mister Burnett had no vision. But, it was his newspaper, and he paid my wages, I had to do what he assigned, or seek employment elsewhere.
The cattle market that day was not much different from cattle markets any other day. Farmers sold; bulls, cats, chickens, cows, dogs, ducks, geese, horses, oxen, pigs, and sheep. Everywhere one went there was the smell of excrement and urine. I found going to the cattle market always a smelly affair. It was not my favorite assignment. I remember that day a farmer selling a prize cow, with a massive udder, for over a hundred florins. The udder is what impressed me. The poor cow was in great discomfort because nobody would milk her. She was so full, the veins of the udder were sticking out and milk was leaking from her teats. She mooed so plaintively it was quite sad, actually.
Anyway, just as I did on Monday, I rushed home and changed my clothes, grabbed some food and a bottle of wine, and rushed off to the jail.
When I got there I found the guards standing in front of one of the guard houses, talking.
‘Hey, aren’t you supposed to be standing at your posts?’ I asked them, deliberately trying to be a smart ass.
The two guards looked at me as if I was something odiferous one of them had picked up on the bottom of his boot.
I detested their insolence. They were only a few years older than me. The guard on the left, a grunt named Kurt, managed to growl an answer to the effect that Corporal McFee was not on duty that day, so that it didn’t matter if they were having a talk. Nobody was escaping from the prison through the front door, he added.
When I reminded him that people, who shouldn’t get in, might sneak into the prison through the front door; to help someone escape, they laughed and dismissed me, as if one of them had tossed something detestable into the street.
I vowed, then and there, that I would give those two guards bad press, if I actually did write a book on the pirate. I am sure Kurt and his partner, the grunt with the elephantine ears, will not appreciate my words. It certainly will not impress any girls, that’s for sure. If they read my words, those two morons will never get a date in Halifax again.
I picked up my dignity and stepped into the lobby.
Instead of Corporal McFee sneering at me there was a new face sitting behind the desk. This face had a smile on it. Behind the smiling man stood two guards, one on each side. They were also smiling. I found it quite peculiar.
When I requested to be allowed to interview William Bartleby the men cleared their throats and looked everywhere but at me. When I repeated the request they stared at me and jingled coins in their purses. I just played dumb and asked again to be allowed to interview the pirate.
This time the man at the desk spoke about the need for donations to feed the prisoners. He waxed quite eloquent regarding the prices of commodities and the impending shortages. He spoke about the price of grain having gone up and that chickens and beef were in short supply.
When I told him I had been to the cattle market and did not see a short supply of either creature, he reminded me that they were collecting to cover future shortages; that he and his two colleagues, just like Corporal McFee had always done, collected fees to make certain the prisoners would never do without.
I laughed and threw some coins on the table. I reminded them that I had no delusions as to where the money was going. Then I asked them where McFee was; receiving an answer which surprised me, and shocked me at the same time. Apparently Corporal McFee had been run through with a sword outside the Hanover Boar Public House. A friend of a prisoner, who McFee had mistreated, had done the deed. The swordsman was brought in, that afternoon.
At that point in this history, McFee, unfortunately, was expected to live.
The man who did the deed probably would not. That was my guess. Attempted murder of a public official, like Corporal McFee, would bring a hanging for sure. Even if McFee deserved it, the law was not about justice.
When I arrived at Bill’s cell I found him waiting, as usual, with his hand outstretched. This time the guard didn’t say anything and lit the torch on the wall. The tiny window, high up in Bartleby’s cell, did not provide much light, it being quite dreary outside.
After Bill and I had exchanged pleasantries, I handed him the food. The first thing he did was eat a piece of bread. He was quite ravenous.
‘Isn’t the food up to your usual standards here?’ I asked him.
Bill grunted and smiled. I could tell that meant, the food in jail was not very good, or plentiful. It was pretty much what I expected. Jails are not inns.
When Bill had eaten some bread and a piece of the roast beef I had brought, he began to feel more like talking. He drank some wine and went to sit on his cot.
I had sat down on my little stool, which the guards had left where I last used it. Since there was no one else in the lowest level of the jail, they didn’t need it for anyone else. I took out my writing stuff and Bill cleared his throat.
‘I have no idea how long they’ll let me be here today, so we had better get started as soon as possible,’ I told him.
Bill nodded. ‘One of the gaolers told me he figured the ship advising of my capture should be nearing England by now. I think its a bit fast, to my way of reckoning. At this time of year, it is not easy sailing. The Atlantic gets rough in March.’ Bill smiled. ‘I think we will have lots of time to talk over the coming weeks.’
I looked at Bill for a moment and frowned. ‘I don’t know if my money will hold out that long. I need to get as much information as I can. My visits here are already beginning to cost me.’
Bill smiled. ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘I don’t think you need to worry about that.’
‘Oh? Do you propose to talk to Mister Burnett and have him raise my salary?’
‘Trust me, Peter. If you are sincere about wanting to tell my tale, money will not be an object for long.’
‘Do you think Mister Burnett is going to give me a raise?’
Bill didn’t answer. He winked at me and gestured that he was ready to begin his tale.
I wondered about his cryptic words, regarding money, as I opened my note book and took the writing implements from my bag.
When I was ready he began to talk.
‘As I told you, I was impressed into the Royal Navy at the age of twelve. It was my birthday, when I was walked up the gangplank of Her Majesty’s Ship, Pluto and met Captain Jamison. He was a tall, lanky man, with a gaunt face and cold blue eyes, which stared a hole right through me. I was just twelve years old. You can imagine that he scared the bejeebies out of me. I visibly trembled when I was brought before him.
‘What are you trembling for, boy?’ he demanded in a stern voice.
I nearly peed in my breeches. I told him that he presented a frightening demeanor to a young boy.
The captain said that it was good, that I was frightened. He said that way I would do as I was told.
I assured him I would obey his orders. I was twelve years old for heaven’s sake.
At first my tasks, on board the Pluto, were helping in the officer’s quarters. I had to sweep floors, and polish brass, and that sort of thing. Sometimes I had to help with serving dinner. I liked that best because I got to eat some of the leftovers. The officers always ate better than the rest of the men on board. I was what you would call, the cabin boy.
However, for one of the officers, Second Lieutenant Wolfman, I was more than a cabin boy.’ Bill stared at me and grimaced. ‘I know this is unpalatable to say, but if I am to get my story out I must tell it like it was.’
I asked him what he meant, being naive in those matters.
He continued in an uneasy voice. ‘Well, you see, being a twelve year old cabin boy on a navy ship, which is out at sea for months at a time, some men, who have trouble controlling their animal urges, seek out certain comforts which ought to be enjoyed with women, not with those of the same sex; especially not this twelve year old boy. But, I learned fast, and understood what the second lieutenant was up to.
The first few times that he tried to corner me, I managed to get away. Then, I had to go out of my way to avoid him. I tried telling the captain about it, but he just laughed uneasily, and told me to keep my mouth shut. I remember his words were something like, ‘Such behavior is not becoming of a British Navy Officer, and would most certainly not be practiced by such a gentleman.’ What I was misconstruing, according to the captain, were merely the second lieutenant's attempts at being friendly. ‘He means nothing by it,’ were his words.
Some time later, after my third month on board, Second Lieutenant Wolfman found me alone in the sail room, taking an inventory for Petty Officer Pettigrew. I didn’t even have time to yell or anything. The second lieutenant clasped his hand on my mouth, and being as how he was much bigger and stronger than me, proceeded to bugger me, right there in the sail room. There was nothing I could do except to vow that I would get my revenge.
When he was done, he stumbled off and left me with a severe pain in my rectum. It was awful. I could barely walk afterwards, I was in so much pain. Anyway, I finished the inventory as best I could and managed to find my way back to Petty Officer Pettigrew. When he asked me why I was walking strangely, I told him the story of what had happened.
The petty officer was quite flabbergasted and he promised to talk with Captain Jamison. However, it was to no avail. The captain told Pettigrew that I was trying to stir up trouble for the second lieutenant because I had something against him. If I brought it up again, he would have me flogged for trying to stir up trouble for a British officer and a gentleman.
Some days later, Second Lieutenant Wolfman cornered me in the galley store room. He scolded me for telling Pettigrew and laid a beating on me, leving me with welts all over my body. He literally beat me black and blue. Then he buggered me again and left me lying in a heap, in the galley store room.
Cookie found me there an hour later, when he returned from his card game in the officers’ mess. When he asked me what had happened I told him about Wolfman. Cookie told me that Wolfman and the captain were peculiar friends and that I should be careful about reporting it.
However, when the captain saw me, later that day, he asked me what had happened to me. I told him the truth about Wolfman. This was in front of Wolfman and the first mate. The captain became very angry with me and accused me of trying to stir up trouble for a ship’s officer and ordered me to be flogged ten strokes. Ten strokes! Imagine, I was twelve years old!
So, the captain ordered me on deck and in front of the ship’s company had me stripped bare and tied face down on the webbing of the midship hatch. Then he ordered me lashed ten strokes with a cat of nine tails. That is the equivalent of ninety strokes! I was twelve years old for God’s sake. My back, buttocks and legs were cut and bleeding. Then, to make the pain worse, they washed the blood off with buckets of sea water. It was then and there that I decided to kill both the second lieutenant and the captain.
It took me months to heal. Everyday, for weeks, my back hurt like hell. I could barely move and yet they made me perform my chores. The one saving grace was that Wolfman left me alone and gave me time to plan my revenge. Wolfman did not know what he was up against, I assured myself.
As time went on, I eventually had my thirteenth birthday on board ship, off the coast of Jamaica. I had grown wise in the ways of the ship and did my utmost to keep the suspicions of the captain and the second lieutenant off me. After my lashing, I think the captain must have spoken with Wolfman because he never bothered me again. However, I did not forget what he had done to me.
One day, when I was serving in the galley, I managed to steal one of cookie’s knives. It was a real sharp one, about twelve inches long. I hid it in my trousers and slipped out of the galley, unobserved. Since a day before I had pretended to have a stiff leg, my walking out with a stiff leg did not draw attention from cookie. Since it wasn’t one of his best knives, Cookie wouldn’t miss it, I thought.
Once I had the knife, I carefully hid it under the tarp which covered the yawl, sitting in the centre of the main deck, between the fore and main masts.
Some days later, when I learned that the second lieutenant had drawn the two a.m. watch, my plan was ready to put into effect.
That night, I went to my hammock, as usual, but I worked at staying awake, going over the plan in my head. I went over it and over it. Eventually, I carefully climbed out of my hammock and quietly snuck up on deck. It wasn’t two o’clock yet. I couldn’t see Wolfman from my observation spot behind the fore hatch.
When I saw that the coast was clear, I climbed under the tarp of the yawl and found my knife.
Then I waited.
When two bells sounded, I was ready. Eventually Wolfman would walk by the yawl on his watch. Then I would have him, I thought. After he had passed I would climb out of the boat and sneak up behind him.
When Wolfman was standing by the forerail, admiring the bow waves, I snuck up behind him. I jumped up on a coil of rope, next to which he was standing, and managed to slice the bastard right across the throat. He tried to yell, but since I had sliced his trachea, he couldn’t make any sounds. Then I jammed the knife as hard as I could, right through his left kidney. Wolfman began to thrash around, but I knew he couldn’t do anything and would be dead in minutes. I watched him collapse in a bloody pool on the deck. Fortunately I wasn’t too badly spattered, and managed to wash the blood off, before returning to my hammock.
They found him stiff as a post, when the watch changed at six am. The knife was still sticking in his kidney. The disgusting child molester had soiled his trousers. It was a most sorry sight when the captain came out of his cabin and stood over the body. I heard about it from some sailors who had been summoned on deck. Captain Jamison, ruling out suicide, vowed to find the perpetrator. When he made his vow, I was still happily sleeping in my cozy hammock. He had no idea that a thirteen year old kid could do such a thing.
I didn’t either.
The captain’s suspicions lay with the second mate, who had some peculiar traits, as well. However, since the knife clearly came from the galley, it being a kitchen knife, and not a sailor’s knife, the captain charged Cookie with the death of the second lieutenant.
Cookie, of course, protested his innocence, but it was to no avail. The knife was a kitchen knife so it had to be Cookie, in the captain’s opinion. It could not possibly have been an officer.
‘Officers don’t murder other officers. That just isn’t done in the Royal Navy,’ pontificated the captain as he sentenced Cookie to his fate.
So, a couple of marines strung old Cookie up from a fore yardarm and then, when he was good and dead, they tossed his body into the sea. Justice came swiftly in the navy. There was no denying that. It helped keep the sailors in line. The officers were scared to death of the sailors and did what ever it took to, ‘keep order’. It was a lot like it was in the old Roman Empire, where the Romans were scared to death of their slaves; cruel punishments being regularly inflicted to terrorize the slaves into submission. The legal system favored the wealthy then, just as now.
When the captain showed up dead, one morning, a few weeks later, then the officers really exhibited some bizarre behavior. I mean, I had never expected they would react the way they did. It became a dark chapter in the logbook of H.M.S. Pluto.’
I asked Bill if he had killed the captain, as well.
He paused for a moment and smiled slyly. ‘For having me flogged. That’s why I killed him. Any man who flogs a twelve year old kid, doesn’t deserve to live.’ He drank some wine and then returned to the cot and lay down. He put his hands behind his head and continued his tale.
‘I did it during the night. Unbeknownst to the captain, I had stolen one of the extra keys to his cabin, which he kept in a key cabinet, on the wall by his bunk. I stole it when he was trying to have a bowel movement. He had three keys to the Great Cabin. One he always carried on a key chain, with some other keys. He rarely looked at the keys in the cabinet. Anyway, one night I simply snuck into his cabin and slit his throat wide open. Then, for good measure, I stabbed him through the heart. I made sure he was dead, before leaving the cabin.
When they found him the next morning, the knife was no where to be found; I had thrown it overboard, through the window of the captain’s cabin. I left the window open to make it look like the culprit might have come through there. Then, I carefully closed the cabin door and locked it. I threw the key overboard, as well. Returning to my hammock, one of my bunk mates opened his eyes and asked where I was. I told him I had gone to the head and quickly went back to sleep.
The officers didn’t find the captain until a couple of days later. No one had bothered crashing in the door of the Great Cabin. They just assumed the old man was ill and confined to his bunk. He was confined to his bunk alright, but not because of illness. He was confined because of rigor mortis.’
Bill laughed uproariously and repeated the phrase, ‘he was confined to his bunk because of rigor mortis.’ Bill seemed to find that particularly funny.
‘D’you ever see a dead body, Peter? Did you ever see a body where rigor mortis has set in?’
I told him that I had seen a dead body, once. It was the body of a man who had been eaten by a bear. I had to report on it for the newspaper. It was very gruesome. I don’t suppose a stabbed body is quite so bad as one which has been chewed by a bear.
‘Aye, bears,’ he said, ‘Not being a landlubber, I haven’t had any experience with bears, except to see one baited in Belgium. Bears are dangerous animals, alright. I wouldn’t want to be caught by one.’
I gave Bill a few more details concerning the bear story, which made him shiver; the results of the bear attack having been quite horrible; the man’s head was never found.
‘Have you ever seen a white shark?’ asked Bill, suddenly. ‘Now there is a dangerous animal for you. I’ve seen a white shark bite a man in half. Bit him clean through the middle, he did. An amazing sight.’ Bill grimaced. ‘I avoid sharks.’
‘You have seen a lot of death, by the sounds of it,’ I said.
‘Not so much. However, having served in the Royal Navy, and having been a pirate for twenty years, I have seen more death than you; some of it more brutal than your bear story. Ever see anyone blown to pieces?’
Bill shook his head sadly. He got up from the cot and walked over for a sip of wine. When he had drunk his fill he handed the bottle to me. I took a sip and set the bottle on the ground, where he could easily grab it again.
‘I am getting ahead of myself,’ said Bill, when he had returned to the cot. ‘I was never even suspected of the murder of Captain Jamison. The navy did suspect the second mate, however, on the testimony of the first mate and several other sailors who swore that the second mate had something queer going on between the captain and Second Lieutenant Wolfman. The fact that Wolfman was dead, and now Captain Jamison, made it abundantly clear to the court that the second mate had to be guilty. So, in spite of the many protestations of innocence, on the part of the second mate, they hung him. The law is such a strange thing. There is no justice in hanging an innocent man. However, I am glad it wasn’t me they hung.’
I asked Bill if he wasn’t concerned to admit those murders to me, considering I was a journalist. He figured it didn’t matter, because he was a dead man anyway, and he wanted his story told. The fact that I expressed an interest, by returning to visit him, indicated I was serious, so he figured I was his only chance. His full story would not come out in court. He would only be asked specific questions there, mostly requiring only yes or no answers. Bill figured that his story was worth more than that. I guess I was the lucky reporter.
‘So, anyway, there I was, still on the Pluto, now under a new master. This time he was a fair, and approachable man. Captain van Rhyn was the epitome of a navy officer and a gentleman. He treated the sailors fairly and with respect. I never saw him issue orders for cruel punishment, not like Captain Jamison, who had two sailors keel hauled during the time I served with him. Keel hauling is a horror you don’t wish on your most hated enemies. D’you know what that is, Peter?’
I had heard the term once before, but was not entirely certain.
‘Keel hauling is a punishment Jamison inflicted on poor Ted Norton and Jake Pillard. It was when we were off the coast of Cuba, searching for pirates. Ted and Jake had the balls to sneak overboard and cavort in Havana, when we were at anchor in the harbor. Jamison had canceled all shore leave. The captain assumed Jake and Ted had spoken with people who could have given information to pirates. It was all nonsense, of course. Jake and Ted only went into the city to cavort with a couple of girls they knew there. If I had been older, like them, I probably would have gone, as well. Cavorting with women sure beats the heck out of being cooped up with three hundred men in a smelly wooden ship.
Jake and Ted’s hands, and feet were bound. Then a long rope, which had been run out under the ship from bow to stern was tied to Jake’s feet. Sailors were made to throw him off the bow and he was dragged under the water from bow to stern, his yielding flesh subjected to thousands of razor cuts from the barnacles. When they hauled him back up, he was bleeding from head to foot, and barely alive. The ship’s doctor immediately attended to the poor bastard. It is a wonder he lived.
Ted was not so lucky. When they hauled him up, there were only pieces left. Jake’s blood must have attracted the sharks. They must have found the poor wretch a tasty treat. Ted was a good man. His only sin was, he wanted to see his girl friend in Havana.
It was another good reason to kill Jamison. Jamison was one of those despicable human beings who deserved killing. ‘Vengeance is mine sayeth the Lord’. It says that in the Bible. ‘Vengeance is mine.’ Of course God can’t do it alone. He needs agents to carry out his vengeance. I was such an agent. Jamison was diabolical. I am convinced he was in league with the dark forces.
Do you believe in the dark forces, Peter?’ Bill stared at me from the cot. The whites of his eyes stood out in the dim light. ‘Do you believe in Diablo? Do you believe in Beelzebub and the Devil? What about Lucifer and Satan? Do you think they are real, Peter? Or are they just some myths an ancient writer thought to include in the Bible, to scare us silly?’
The questions surprised me, coming from a pirate. They made me pause as I thought about his questions and came to the conclusion that I wasn’t sure whether I believed in the Devil or not. Did believing in God preclude believing in the Devil? Is it possible for God to exist, but the Devil to be a fabrication? Maybe it was all a fabrication of the priests to keep us in line with our heads bowed down. I had a feeling about God existing, but the dark forces. . .I suppose it made sense, considering the inhuman cruelties which Bill had spoken of earlier.
Or perhaps the so called dark forces were merely the manifestations of the depths of depravity humans can fall into. After all we have free choice. There wouldn’t be much of a choice if there was not a dark side and a light side. If it was all light, then there would be no choice. The choice is necessary to sort us out. It is how God could see what we’re made of. If we choose the good, then we get in, if we choose the dark, then we don’t get in. Something like that, that is what I believed in, at the time. I never could quite buy the traditional Christian line. However, I didn’t let too many people know that. There were always people around who did not like people believing differently than they.
William liked what I had to say and remained quite serious. He replied that he believed Lucifer and Satan were real. ‘They’re just as real as the Creator is real,’ he said. ‘But, I don’t believe any of the traditional Christian messages concerning them. The Bible, which the church uses, is a political document which that vile, disgusting monarch, King James had commissioned so as to legitimize the concept of divinely appointed kings. It is a giant lie. God only appointed one king, ever. And He alone is my sovereign. Hence, I serve no man. Read Matthew twenty three. You will see what Jesus said about who your master is.’
Bill came over to the bars and reached for the wine bottle. He took a long sip and smacked his lips. ‘Hmmmm, that is good wine,’ he said. ‘It sure beats the slop they serve in here.’
‘They serve wine in here?’ I asked naively.
‘No, not wine. Some sort of flavored water. I’m not sure what’s in it. Maybe it’s rust. Whatever it is, it is not pure water, that’s for sure, and tastes even worse. This wine is a nice change from what I’ve been drinking.’ Bill took another long sip and shook the bottle, to feel how much was left. Then he handed the bottle to me. ‘There is still some wine left, do you want it?’
I turned it down and let him have it. I figured he probably needed it more than I did.
Bill took a deep breath and then continued his narrative.
‘Anyway, getting back to Captain van Rhyn. Now there was a captain for you. A real officer and a gentleman. I learned a lot from him. How to treat people; to be a leader and have people respect you and follow your orders willingly. I sailed with him until I was sixteen years old. Unfortunately he was shot through the eye in a skirmish with a French ship. Unfortunately the bullet lodged in his brain and he died a few days later. There really was nothing the doctor could have done for him. It was a great loss to us sailors on the Pluto. We all liked the old man and gave him a real hero’s send off.’
Bill paused and thought for a moment.
When he continued, his voice was a bit softer. I think he missed Captain van Rhyn.
‘He was a real officer and a gentleman. A great loss for the navy.
The man who replaced Captain van Rhyn was something none of us had ever experienced before. I think this new captain was Lucifer himself. Captain Blight was the name Lucifer had chosen to call himself. Ezekiel Malachai Blight. He was appropriately named because he was a blight; a blight in the navy, a blight amongst men. Captain Blight was the most cruelly malevolent monster disguised as a human being that I have ever come across, except for Golden Jim, but I’ll tell you about him later. We’re talking about Captain Blight. He made Captain Jamison appear like a country parson by comparison. I knew right from the beginning that I would have to kill him too.
Right from the beginning we knew that a very dark power was now reigning from the quarterdeck. We were only a few days out of London, bound for Kingston, when a minor skirmish broke out amongst some deck hands. One of the men had taken the other man’s favorite sponge. They were merely squabbling over the sponge when one of them pushed the other man, who tripped over a pail of soapy water, spilling the soapy water all over the deck. When one of the officers stepped down to quell the argument, he slipped on the soapy water and fell. The captain saw the entire episode from the bridge and immediately ordered the two sailors clapped in irons and tied to the foremast, one on each side, facing each other. Their shirts were ordered stripped off.
So they were left on bread and water for two weeks, through two storms and a merciless sun.
The rest of the sailors were made to scrub the deck non stop for the rest of the day with the water that had spilled. Eventually, there was no water and the sailors were merely dry cleaning the decks.
Fortunately for me, I worked in the galley by this time, and attended to the officers’ mess. I only heard about the scrubbing incident and daily saw the effect the punishment was having on the two sailors. After two weeks their backs were blistered from the sun and the wind. When the sailors were finally released, they couldn’t walk and had to be helped to their hammocks. The lesson was not lost on the rest of the sailors. No body raised their voices any more. Fights were avoided, at all costs.
The next time Blight showed his evil hand was when a sailor was caught stealing a bottle of rum from the galley stores. Unfortunately I didn’t catch the thief, or I would have let him go, however, our new boatswain caught him. This officer saw Blight as a hero, and was anxious to be noticed by the captain. He turned the thief in. It was a fatal decision for the boatswain, as far as I was concerned because I happened to like the thief. I totally understood why he tried to steal the rum. Life was not easy onboard a Royal Navy ship in the 18th Century. Liam Clancy was not a bad man. He and his mess mates liked to drink a bit more rum, to make life tolerable on board ship.
Anyway, after what amounted to a kangaroo court, Captain Blight ordered that Liam be forced to drink rum until he nearly burst, and then to be lashed three hundred strokes. Three hundred strokes for stealing a bottle of rum! Three hundred strokes with that horrible, flesh ripping instrument. It was madness.
At this point, dear reader, I just want to further acquaint you with the instrument known as, the cat of nine tails, just so you understand exactly what the implications were for poor Liam Clancy. In the Royal Navy, and other navies as well, the instrument was sometimes made by the sailor to be punished with said instrument, and in those cases, it consisted of a three foot piece of unraveled hemp rope, making nine strands at the ends of which the hapless sailor would tie a knot. The other end would be wrapped with felt, to make a good handle.
Some ships had permanent cats made of leather. These were the most lethal instruments, especially if the knotted strands were left to soak in salt water for a day and then dried in the sun, making the strands like razor blades, imbedded with salt. Needless to say, you can well imagine what that would do to a man’s back when administered by an unfeeling brute.
Liam was strapped to a chair, on deck, in front of the entire crew. Then a funnel was forced into his mouth and rum poured down his throat. Two full bottles of rum were poured down poor Liam’s gullet. All the while Captain Blight harangued the crew with a monologue regarding Divine Vengeance being administered to a wrong doer, ‘a despicable, vile thief, who would taste the Lord’s wrath’, and so on.
When the rum had been administered, two marines tied the poor chap tightly around the mainmast, making sure to stretch him good and tight, we could see the man was already extremely drunk because he kept sinking in the knees. Or, perhaps it was lack of courage. Facing three hundred strokes of the cat, which by the way, the captain had ordered to be soaked in salt water from the time he came on board, was something any man would falter at receiving. Because the cat, having been soaked in salt water, and left to harden in the sun, as I said, had hard, salt encrusted strands which cut like razor blades. How any man could possibly wield such a thing against the flesh of an other is something I can never understand.
The sergeant at arms was the first to administer the lethal instrument. After fifty strokes Liam’s back was raw meat and the knobs of his backbones were exposed. He had long passed out and the sergeant at arms was tired. When he looked up at the captain, the captain signaled that the punishment was three hundred strokes.
Several friends of the man pleaded with the captain for clemency, but the captain was hardened and signaled for the whipping to continue.
The next seventy strokes were administered by a marine corporal, another one of those people who takes pleasure in an other’s pain.
After about thirty strokes, there was nowhere else on the man’s back to whip, it having been reduced to a bleeding, pulverized mess of chopped meat. The corporal indicated this to the captain.
So, what did that inhuman creature do? He ordered Liam’s trousers pulled off and his legs and buttocks whipped. Just like what happened to me, when I was twelve, except that I only got ten strokes altogether, but they did cover my whole backside, including my legs and buttocks.’
Bill took a drink and then continued his story.
‘By the time Liam had received the three hundred strokes, his shoes were slopping full of blood. He had long ago passed on to His Maker and could have cared less. I bet he was dead by the two hundredth stroke. The entire ordeal made me sick to my stomach and strengthened my resolve to visit the Lord’s vengeance on Blight, at the earliest opportunity.
And, if I had an opportunity, I vowed I would do the marine, as well. I could tell he was enjoying the beating.
The sergeant at arms was just doing his duty, so I wouldn’t bother with him. His heart was not into it, you could tell that. He actually was a fairly decent fellow; a career navy man.’
Bill collected his thoughts for a moment and then continued with his story.
‘I hatched my plan after listening to some of my sailor friends talk about Saint-Dominigue and the practice of voodoo. They talked about drugs and poisons which were available in Saint-Dominigue and nowhere else, as far as they knew, although one did admit to some interesting experiences with the bark off an African tree which had been given to him by a Bantu.’
Bill smiled wickedly, a glint in his eye, as he related how he resolved to poison Lucifer. However, the immediate problem he had was that he was not in Saint-Dominigue, and had no access to voodoo poison.
‘Since I looked after the officers’ mess’, he chuckled, ‘I got to know the doctor, who was an intelligent, well educated man. I liked the way he talked, and over time became quite friendly with him. He even invited me into his cabin, from time to time, to talk about all kinds of things. He lent me books to read, and over the period of a year, or more, the doctor and I became good friends.
One night I engaged him in a discussion regarding the voodoo poison I had heard the men talk about. The doctor, whose name was Matthew McTavish, had a great interest in native medicines, which included strange drugs and poisons. He quite casually mentioned that he had poisons with him, in his medicine chest, which were quite lethal if administered in high enough doses. He showed them to me and explained the dosages for various poisons he had. In small amounts, the drugs were useful in treating various maladies, however, in bigger doses, he had poisons which would kill a man, most assuredly. They would surely kill Lucifer himself, I figured.
As it turned out, the doctor was no great appreciator of Captain Blight, either. He also found the captain to be a vile, and evil man. His treatment of the crew, and even his attitude regarding the officers, was not in keeping with the traditions of the Royal Navy, he felt.
However, I had learned at an early age, because of my involvement with Mister Stevenson’s spoiled brat, not to trust too easily and keep one’s plans to oneself. This I did. I had no plan to involve Doctor McTavish in my plot to murder Captain Blight. Because I believe some people deserve killing, I had no qualms about doing the old man in by myself. I always focused on the fact that I was doing the Lord’s work.
One night, when I was visiting the doctor, I had brought a small bottle of rum with me, which we drank fairly quickly, there not being but half a pint. Then, when the doctor had to go to the head, I took some of the poisons from his medicine chest and poured them into the empty rum bottle. Because the bottle was dark, you couldn’t see any liquid in it, but the doctor had seen me empty it into our cups. When he returned from the head I was sitting where I was before, and the supposedly empty rum bottle, sat on the table in the same location. The doctor suspected nothing when I told him I had to go, and in getting up, taking my rum bottle with me’.
Bill smiled and gestured with his right hand, it was time for a drink. He got off the cot . I handed the bottle to him and he took another long drink. He dried his mouth on his sleeve and remained standing beside the bars of his cage.
‘As I told you, I worked in the officer’s mess, so it was relatively easy to pour the poisons into the captain’s drink, and here and there in his food. I had no idea how fast the mixture of poisons would react. I hoped they would not act too quickly. Having a man die over dinner is not a very polite thing to have happen in the company of gentlemen, as some of these officers were. They weren’t all bad.
Blight was the monster and the boatswain was a monster in the making. However, to be fair, most of the officers were actually gentlemen, who did not really agree with Blight, either. I often overheard them arguing with Blight over the treatment of the crew. Blight was not liked by his officers, or his crew. He was setting himself up for a mutiny. However, I saved him from that disgrace. I saved everyone a lot of trouble.
Dinner began with a prayer from the vicar. He had taken a verse from an old prayer book. I remember it had something to do with salvation from the wrath of the Norsemen. I thought it quite appropriate because I am sure that I have Norse in me.
Anyway, my wrath was about to strike the captain. However, much to my surprise, he ate the entire meal, and drank his glass of wine without noticing a thing. He even commented that the wine tasted really good. After dinner he told me to compliment the cook on a job well done. My eyes must have been quite bugged out as I watched the old bastard light up a Cuban cigar.
However, as I began clearing the dishes from the table, I noticed that the captain’s speech was changing. It was the first indication that something was beginning to work. When I had cleared the table, and the officers were enjoying their brandies and cigars, I noticed that the captain had gotten up. He wandered around the cabin, looking at things, as if he had never seen them before. Eventually he began to examine things very closely, much like a very young child might do. As he examined things, he muttered about something.
When any of the officers asked the captain what he was saying, the old tyrant yelled at them, and complained that nobody ever listened to him. It was most peculiar.
Then all of a sudden the captain flew into a rage and ordered everyone out of the cabin. He even grabbed a pistol and discharged it; the bullet barely missing the first mate and lodging in the lintel of the door.
Since I saw it all developing, I was out of the door before anyone else.
The first mate managed to swing the door shut before another shot was fired from the captain’s other pistol. No one had any idea he kept them loaded. The first mate had the good sense to hold the door closed as we listened to the captain raging inside the cabin. We could hear things crashing and the captain yelling and screaming. No one, not even the doctor, had any idea what was wrong.
Then, all of a sudden, there was dead silence. Not a sound could be heard from behind the door. The Great Cabin was still as a tomb.
The officers, who were all gathered in the gang way, whispered to each other. They were trying to encourage one of them to enter the cabin and see what the captain had done. When no one volunteered, I said I would go.
I carefully opened the door and peered inside.
The cabin was a mess. The table had been upturned. Maps were thrown about. The captain’s closet was emptied and his clothes were scattered hither and thither. In the middle of it all stood the captain, still as a post. He was staring straight up, but obviously not seeing, because he did not move when I entered the cabin.
I said, “how you feeling, Captain Blight?”
Captain Blight remained still. Not even his eyes were moving, although they were wide open and staring. When I touched him, he did not react. When I touched his hand, it was cold as ice. I remember shivering after I touched him.
When the officers had entered the cabin, the doctor had them lay the captain on his bunk. Then he examined the old bastard and pronounced him dead. The captain was dead as a plank. The doctor looked at me, but I kept a straight face and acted as if I was as ignorant of the event as anyone else there. Then the doctor pronounced that the captain had suffered a heart attack and severe stroke. Everyone heaved a sigh of relief. Mine was probably the loudest.’
Bill laughed and got up from the cot. He came over to the bars and looked down at what I was writing as he continued. ‘The old man died of a heart attack! No one suspected it was poison. I got away with ridding the earth of Lucifer himself. Not one of his minions suspected me. Not even the boatswain, who fell overboard a week later, under unusual circumstances.’ Bill laughed even louder. ‘It was a complete mystery how the boatswain went missing.’ Bill looked at me with a mischievous countenance. ‘But, these things happen at sea,’ he chuckled.
‘Oh, yes,’ he continued, ‘I forgot to tell you. The captain was buried at sea with full military honours. The event was duly recorded in the log book by the first mate and signed by the doctor. Case closed.
As for the boatswain, he was just one of those accidents that happen when a knot is not tied properly and a block comes swinging from a yardarm. It is most unfortunate but these things happen on a ship. Some people die on a navy ship, that’s life. Some deserve it.’
Bill smiled and watched as I wrote down the last of the words he had just spoken. ‘You can actually understand what all of those scribbles mean?’
I told him it was my own personal shorthand. If he looked closely he could make out words.
As he was examining my notes, a guard came into the cell block, carrying a torch. He had come to inform me that visiting time was over.
I was glad the guard had come. I looked at Bill and thanked him for the day’s story. I told him it held me spell bound and that his stories would most certainly be included in a book, if his tale was to come to such. We shook hands and then I followed the guard, leaving the food behind, but taking the empty wine bottle with me.
I was glad to leave. Although I am fascinated by pirates, some of the stories they told made me quite ill. Bill’s stories were certainly up there with the best of them, albeit, his stories were better told, by a more eloquent speaker. Most pirates I met, so far, had been fairly illiterate, poor speakers of the King’s English.
When I left the jail I decided to stop at the Hanover Boar Pub, just to see the place where McFee was run through. I thought perhaps I might find someone who saw the incident. Besides, even if I met no one, I needed a toddy and some roast pork. The dungeon had given me the chills. Captain Bartleby’s stories of murder did not help matters. The casual manner in which he told of such horrific cruelties, and the way he sought revenge for them, made me realize that I was interviewing a cold blooded killer. However, I had to agree, Bill killed people who were not good people. Killing them was probably a good thing, I suppose. However, for a person to take that upon themselves. . .?
I pondered those questions as I entered the pub and sat down at an empty table. I ordered a hot rum toddy.
Moments later, my friends, Stacy and Stuart, walked through the door. They sauntered to my table with big grins on their faces. We shook hands and began talking almost at once, each of us excited to share the day’s news.
Stacy began with an accounting of his day on the MacGain farm, which, at that time of the year, consisted of repairing equipment, in readiness for the planting season to come. He complained about the poor work ethic of his assistant, some man named Sam. Apparently Stacy could work circles around Sam, but because Sam was the son of Mister MacGain’s sister, Stacy had to tolerate him. The situation did not sit well with Stacy and he made no bones about letting me know about it, even though I did not have the slightest interest in the state of affairs at the MacGain potato farm.
Stuart described his day at the ship building yards, where he worked as an assistant ship designer. His day was pleasantly spent working on the design for a new type of schooner to be built in Lunenburg. Apparently it was to have a racing deck and three masts with fore and aft rigging, carrying a massive amount of sail for the size of ship, it being only 112 feet in length.
Sailing was not something I had much interest in either.
Eventually we got around to me when Stuart asked if I had managed to get an interview with the pirate, enabling me to fill my friends’ ears with the stories Bill was telling me.
By the time I began on my second pint, I asked my friends whether they knew anything about Corporal McFee’s sword fight., which, as it so happened, was witnessed by both friends, Stacy quickly filling me in on the details.
‘It was a magnificent fight,’ began Stacy. ‘McFee had come in for a pint with two other men.’
‘Judging from their clothes,’ interjected Stuart, ‘they were government officials. They probably had something to do with the prison system.’
‘Anyway,’ continued Stacy, eager to tell the story, ‘after they had sat down and were served their drinks, a tall man approached McFee’s table, pretending to be drunk. I had never seen him before.’
‘Neither had I,’ commented Stuart. ‘I noticed he was wearing a sword at his side.’
‘Anyway,’ interjected Stacy, glaring at Stuart; not wanting to be interrupted. ‘The tall man approached McFee’s table and bumped McFee, just as he was about to take a drink, causing some of McFee’s drink to spill .’ Stacy’s eyes sparkled as he became more animated telling his story. ‘McFee took great offense over that and stood up, demanding an apology from the drunk.’ Stacy grinned, ‘So, what do you suppose McFee done?’
I shrugged my shoulders, ‘I don’t know, what did he do?’ I asked.
Stacy laughed as he revealed what the drunk had told McFee, ‘To piss off!’
Stuart , who was equally anxious to contribute to the story, continued the telling. ‘So, McFee drew his sword and challenged the drunk to a fight.’
Stacy glared at Stuart.
Stuart cleared his throat and took a drink from his pewter stein, as Stacy went on with the story.
‘The drunk agreed and went outside with McFee, where he thoroughly out fought the corporal. The tall man was only pretending to be drunk to lure McFee into the fight.’ Stacy burst out laughing. ‘The drunk had us all fooled!’
Stuart finished the tale, a big grin on his face. ‘McFee, thinking he was dealing with a drunk, found himself run through.’
At the time of my friends’ telling, dear reader, it was doubtful if McFee would live. There is no doubt now, when I am writing this book. McFee died from his wound, two weeks later. It was not much of a loss, to my way of thinking. I never liked Corporal McFee.
Anyway, after drinking a pint more than I should have, I stumbled home. The air was chilly and damp, making the boards of the sidewalk slippery. When I crossed the street, mud stuck to the bottom of my boots. Halifax would eventually get cobblestones, like London, for example. However, in 1775, Halifax was but a small town and had mud streets.
When I returned to my rooming house my bladder was so full that I had no choice. I had to pass water against the oak tree in the front yard. I felt like a horse as my urine came out in buckets. I had no idea a human bladder could hold so much liquid. When the water eventually stopped, I managed to find my way into the house without making too much noise. I didn’t want to wake Missus Findlay. She didn’t like it when I came in late. But, at that point, I really didn’t care what she thought. She could go take a flying leap, for all I cared.
Even though I was trying to be careful, it inevitably happened, I knocked something over, or I banged a wall. This time I tripped over a fold in the rug and fell against a candle stand, knocking it over.
The clatter woke, not only Missus Findlay, but old Mister Morgan, and Betsy the maid, as well. They were not pleased about being woken up and let me know this in no uncertain terms.
I apologized profusely of course, knowing I would not hear the end of it, for some days to come. I climbed into bed and fell into a deep but troubled sleep, full of whippings and murder; not the sort of subject matter to instill comfort and rest.
It’s the price one pays for being a pirate reporter.