“Five hundred pounds?”
Now that would be a fortune indeed!
“They say that once Captain Black fired a broadside on a fleet of merchant ships at anchor, and that each of their captains was struck with a cannonball. Then he went aboard each ship, and they were so scared out of their wits that he just helped himself to whatever he wanted. It was a fortune intended for the king of England. Of course, Captain Black could have retired, but he didn't. Not him. And every man aboard his ship was so rich they never had to work again.”
“Sounds like poppycock to me.”
Timothy's skinny shoulders rose and fell in a shrug. “Well, you can think what you want, but as for myself, I intend to have a piece of that sort of poppycock.”
As Timothy wandered away, I chewed my lip, wondering.
Is Josiah really such a wanted man? Did he steal a fortune intended for the king? Am I really in the hands of the most infamous pirate in the world?
I asked other people about Josiah too. I asked Caesar as we were drilling on the twelve-pounder cannon; I asked Will Putt as we set the stuns'ls because the
Sweet Jamaica
was now too far ahead. I asked just about everyone I had a chance to ask. I even joined Timothy and his dice-playing scoundrels just to hear the talk. Some said Josiah was a determined man, fearless, the best in battle, the finest swordsman, someone they would willingly follow anywhere. Others told yarns so fantastical, as if Josiah had wings and could fly, that they were more or less a load of bilge in my opinion.
But no one, it seemed—save Basil Higgins, whose lips were duly sealed—knew the things about Josiah's past of which it was better not to speak.
On the twenty-third day of July, 1697, the fleet hove to in a harbor at Perim Island, located in the narrow Bab el-Mandeb at the southern end of the Red Sea. The strait was only twenty miles across, the island a perfect base for monitoring traffic both entering and exiting the Red Sea.
Uninhabited, bare, sandy, strewn with hilly rocks that reared like yellow scars into the azure sky, Perim Island was a dismal affair. The air was baking hot and dry as dust. The occasional wind gust blew sand into our eyes, drying the backs of our throats and stinging our skin. With the raising of the green silk flag on the main halyard of the
Tempest Galley,
all men from the three shipsrepaired to shore for a general council. I sat on the sand next to Timothy, shirt off, ducking my head whenever I caught sight of Gideon Fist.
Aye, Fist had lived. I'd first seen him a few weeks earlier, pacing the deck of the
Defiance,
steps slow and shuffling at first, day by day seeming to gather both strength and speed. My disappointment was acute. I'd beseeched, prayed, cajoled, begged the heavens to let Fist die, to send him to the hell he deserved, but alas, heaven remained unconvinced on that account.
“Men, like many of you, I've been on the Round before,” said Josiah, his voice flat and dull in the smothering heat. “It's a well-known fact that each year the pilgrim fleet coordinates their departure from Mecca with the monsoon seasons. And once they set sail for India, they will have no choice but to sail past us. That, my men, is the moment for which we have been waiting, for which we have sailed thousands of miles to attend. And we must be ready.”
While Josiah was talking, Fist had moved to stand beside him—two pirate captains, side by side. If Josiah knew Fist was there, he made no show of it.
“Weapons must be kept sharp and clean,” Josiah was saying. “Ammunition dry. Every man ready for action at a moment's notice. We must employ ourselves making grenadoes and stink pots and preparing the cannon. Decks must be kept clear for ease in fighting, grappling hooks at the ready.…”
Slowly, Fist swiveled his head and turned his treacherous gaze directly on me. He neither blinked nor twitched, and it was almost as if I could hear his thoughts—rank thoughts reeking like the
Now that would be a fortune indeed!
“They say that once Captain Black fired a broadside on a fleet of merchant ships at anchor, and that each of their captains was struck with a cannonball. Then he went aboard each ship, and they were so scared out of their wits that he just helped himself to whatever he wanted. It was a fortune intended for the king of England. Of course, Captain Black could have retired, but he didn't. Not him. And every man aboard his ship was so rich they never had to work again.”
“Sounds like poppycock to me.”
Timothy's skinny shoulders rose and fell in a shrug. “Well, you can think what you want, but as for myself, I intend to have a piece of that sort of poppycock.”
As Timothy wandered away, I chewed my lip, wondering.
Is Josiah really such a wanted man? Did he steal a fortune intended for the king? Am I really in the hands of the most infamous pirate in the world?
I asked other people about Josiah too. I asked Caesar as we were drilling on the twelve-pounder cannon; I asked Will Putt as we set the stuns'ls because the
Sweet Jamaica
was now too far ahead. I asked just about everyone I had a chance to ask. I even joined Timothy and his dice-playing scoundrels just to hear the talk. Some said Josiah was a determined man, fearless, the best in battle, the finest swordsman, someone they would willingly follow anywhere. Others told yarns so fantastical, as if Josiah had wings and could fly, that they were more or less a load of bilge in my opinion.
But no one, it seemed—save Basil Higgins, whose lips were duly sealed—knew the things about Josiah's past of which it was better not to speak.
On the twenty-third day of July, 1697, the fleet hove to in a harbor at Perim Island, located in the narrow Bab el-Mandeb at the southern end of the Red Sea. The strait was only twenty miles across, the island a perfect base for monitoring traffic both entering and exiting the Red Sea.
Uninhabited, bare, sandy, strewn with hilly rocks that reared like yellow scars into the azure sky, Perim Island was a dismal affair. The air was baking hot and dry as dust. The occasional wind gust blew sand into our eyes, drying the backs of our throats and stinging our skin. With the raising of the green silk flag on the main halyard of the
Tempest Galley,
all men from the three shipsrepaired to shore for a general council. I sat on the sand next to Timothy, shirt off, ducking my head whenever I caught sight of Gideon Fist.
Aye, Fist had lived. I'd first seen him a few weeks earlier, pacing the deck of the
Defiance,
steps slow and shuffling at first, day by day seeming to gather both strength and speed. My disappointment was acute. I'd beseeched, prayed, cajoled, begged the heavens to let Fist die, to send him to the hell he deserved, but alas, heaven remained unconvinced on that account.
“Men, like many of you, I've been on the Round before,” said Josiah, his voice flat and dull in the smothering heat. “It's a well-known fact that each year the pilgrim fleet coordinates their departure from Mecca with the monsoon seasons. And once they set sail for India, they will have no choice but to sail past us. That, my men, is the moment for which we have been waiting, for which we have sailed thousands of miles to attend. And we must be ready.”
While Josiah was talking, Fist had moved to stand beside him—two pirate captains, side by side. If Josiah knew Fist was there, he made no show of it.
“Weapons must be kept sharp and clean,” Josiah was saying. “Ammunition dry. Every man ready for action at a moment's notice. We must employ ourselves making grenadoes and stink pots and preparing the cannon. Decks must be kept clear for ease in fighting, grappling hooks at the ready.…”
Slowly, Fist swiveled his head and turned his treacherous gaze directly on me. He neither blinked nor twitched, and it was almost as if I could hear his thoughts—rank thoughts reeking like the
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