Pirates: the Midnight Passage

By James R. Hannibal

Prologue

September 21st, 1715

Port Royal, Jamaica

Augustus Gray grinned through a sparse thicket of brown and

rotting teeth. “Think of it lad,” he said, brandishing an

ancient map of rolled parchment, “more than ninety thousand gold

doubloons… untold numbers of Peruvian emeralds, too.”

Gray’s visitor leaned back on his stool, recoiling from the

old buccaneer’s foul breath, tainted with rum and tobacco. He

drew his long leather sea coat tight about his shoulders. It was

well past midnight and a crisp breeze blew in through the open

window, toying with the flames of the oil lamps. The shadows of

the two men sparred upon the tan plaster walls.

The walls.

More than anything else about the unseemly old man and his

apartment, it was the smooth, thickly laid plaster that

unsettled Gray’s guest. There were few structures in town

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besides the Governor’s mansion that could boast such work.

Gray’s apartment was unusually well appointed, with a

herringbone brick floor and ample furnishings, including a tall,

four-poster mahogany bed that sat in one corner. The bed’s heavy

curtains were drawn shut, but the little wood that showed was

intricately carved and unmolested by scratches or nicks.

Old Gus had either done quite well as a buccaneer, or he’d

had a recent influx of income. The visitor lifted his leather

tricorn hat and thoughtfully ran his fingers through a thick mop

of dark brown hair. “Then why not go after the gold yourself?”

“I’ve led a buccaneer’s life and suffered a buccaneer’s

wounds,” said Gray. He hoisted the wooden peg that served as his

left leg below the knee up onto the stool between them. “I’m in

no shape to be chasing after ghosts in forgotten caves. At my

age I’ll settle for the gold the map brings. Give me one hundred

doubloons and it’s yours.”

The visitor snorted. “And what makes you think that I’d be

carrying such a small fortune in gold?”

Gray offered a conspiratory wink. “I know exactly who you

are, Captain Thatcher. You wouldn’t have risked your neck by

coming to find me in Port Royal if you didn’t already know about

the map, and I’d have never shown it to you if I didn’t know

your reputation and think you trustworthy enough.” He raised one

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bushy eyebrow. “So why don’t we dispense with all the pretense

and get down to business?”

Thatcher was tired of the game as well. He had tarried too

long, listening to the old man’s tale, and had already been ill

at ease. Now that he realized his visit might not be as secret

as he intended, he felt compelled to run, to get out of Port

Royal before the Fates overtook him and he found himself at the

end of a noose. “Fine,” he said, reaching into his satchel and

withdrawing a burlap bag, “here is your price.” He dropped it

onto the table with a heavy chunk and it fell to one side,

spilling its coins.

The gleam of the gold in the lamplight danced in Gray’s

eyes. He snatched up a coin with surprising speed, but Thatcher

seized his wrist. The captain’s eyes narrowed. “A moment, sir.

I’m curious to know what it is about me that strikes you as

trustworthy.”

Old Gus let the coin fall back to the pile and slowly

withdrew his hand, his rickety smile never fading. He laid the

map down on the table, tantalizingly close to Thatcher’s grasp.

“You’ve got the hopefulness of youth about you, boy,” he said,

spreading his hands, “and I see no treachery in those green eyes

of yours.” He leaned back in his chair and folded his hands

together in the shadow of his lap. “More importantly, though,

you came to me unarmed.”

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The old pirate whipped two pistols from his belt and

leveled them at Thatcher. “I’m sorry lad,” he said, leaning

forward, “but an old man’s got to make a living. If it’s any

consolation, I like you better than the last one.”

A flash of fire exploded from each barrel, but Thatcher was

ready for the attack. In one deft movement he leapt to his right

and flung a dagger that he kept concealed in his sleeve. The

pirate’s shots both missed wide and he fell back in his chair

with Thatcher’s blade embedded in his heart. His pistols

clattered to the floor.

There was no time to waste. Thatcher got up and swept the

gold off the table and back into his satchel. Then he carefully

picked up the map “I don’t suppose you’ll be needing this

anymore,” he said, but Old Gus made no response; the life had

already fled from his body. Thatcher bent down and withdrew his

dagger from his chest. “You foolish old cut-throat,” he

whispered as he wiped the blade clean on the pirate’s shirt. “I

would have gladly paid you. Now you’ve become the victim of your

own treachery.”

Thatcher could hear the distant shouts of British soldiers

in the town, alerted by the pistols’ report. He moved to douse

the lamps, but an iron grip on the sleeve of his coat held him

fast. He turned back to Gray, raising his dagger again. The old

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pirate showed no other signs of life; already, the ghostly

pallor of death had washed his features a sickly gray.

Thatcher tried to shake his coat free of the corpse’s grip,

but he could not. He rolled his eyes. He had seen plenty of

death, and knew too well the oddities of rigor mortis. A dead

man’s grip was like a vise, though they usually grasped

something that had already been in their hand. He lowered his

blade to Gray’s fingers and prepared to cut himself free.

Then, though the pirate’s chest showed no signs of rising

and falling under his blood-drenched shirt, a thin rasp emanated

from his lips. The words sent an icy chill down Thatcher’s

spine. “Beware of Quetzalcoatl.”

The white hand fell free of its own accord and a cold gust

blew in through the window, snuffing out the lamps and leaving

Thatcher and the corpse in darkness.

Part One

Betrayal

Chapter 1

August 30th, 1715

Three Weeks earlier

Thatcher reclined against the stone rail of the footbridge

at the edge of the Governor of Jamaica’s estate. The night was

clear and bright. A thousand stars danced among the dark leaves

of the two great mangrove trees that joined above his head. The

aristocrats could say what they wished about Port Royal: the

town was dirty and smelly, the townspeople even more so. But

Port Royal had a magic all its own, and here, on this bridge,

Thatcher had found its nexus.

The Governor’s house had been built on a hill above the

port, near the source of the freshwater brook that gave rise to

the town. To be sure, the port below had its own distinctive and

altogether unpleasant smell, but here, above it all, there was

naught but the light salt scent of the ocean breeze and a hint

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of orange from His Excellency’s grove. The babbling brook that

ran between the stone foundations of the bridge drowned all

other sounds to muted echoes.

If he strained to listen, Thatcher could just hear the

shouts of revelry and drunken brawls from the taverns of the

town, which numbered four. Each catered to a different class of

clientele – the privateer crews, the dockworkers, the British

soldiers, the ship officers and the dock merchants – none of

them of high enough breeding to be considered worthy of

tonight’s gathering at the mansion, the celebration of

Pendleton’s fifty-first birthday.

Thatcher could hear that revelry as well, wafting across

the Governor’s small garden like the echo of voices in a dream.

He could be in there with them, if he desired it. The Caribbean

was not so well stocked with idle aristocracy as London. There

were only the high officers of the fort, the bankers, and the

Governor’s tiny administration. When Pendleton wanted to

entertain in high fashion, need drove him to invite the captains

of the ships that frequented his port. Thus, Thatcher had been

afforded a place among Port Royal’s elite society, albeit a

tenuous one. He did not prefer it. He had not been raised to

such a life. He preferred this quiet bridge, this place in-

between.

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Through the tall, arched windows of His Excellency’s

ballroom, he watched the celebration. Out here, all was gray and

deep blue and silver, but inside, the hall was brightly lit. Red

and green and gold flashed by the glass, the bright, gaudy

uniforms of the Redcoat officers, the deep greens of the

banker’s jackets, the shimmering dresses of their wives and

daughters.

Thatcher spied Henry Jennings, his closest friend and ally

among the ship captains of the port. Now there was a man born

for courtly ritual. The son of one of the King’s favorites,

Jennings became accustomed to the life of the nobility at an

early age, and he bore it well. Thatcher followed the ease and

grace with which his friend moved about the room, weaving his

way through the little groups of party guests like a tang

through the coral, at one with his environment. Thatcher could

not help but envy him.

“If I were not utterly averse to the notion, I should say

that you fancied him.” The lilting voice caught Thatcher off his

guard. He abruptly turned to find the Lady Katherine Rachel

Pendleton standing much too close for his comfort.

“Beg pardon, madam?” he said, unable to muster anything

more eloquent. He found her stealth unnerving. How could he have

missed the young lady’s approach?

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“Jennings,” she said in a matter of fact tone. “Those

emerald eyes of yours have followed him ‘round the hall for the

last few moments like a hawk follows a field mouse. If only they

followed me the same way.”

Thatcher bowed his head, hoping the darkness beneath the

trees would hide the rush of blood to his cheeks. “My lady both

flatters me and insults me in one breath. I am only a sailor,

and I fear that I do not have the wit to bandy words with you.”

Kate laid her hands on her slender hips and cocked her

head, sending her tightly wound red locks bouncing to one side.

“Oh come now, don’t be absurd. You have more wit about you than

any man of this island and you know it.”

“Ah, but you are unquestionably no man of this island,

madam.” Thatcher did not know why he let Kate draw him in. Or

perhaps he did know. Either way, she would one day get him

hanged. Of that, he was certain. Whether for honest caring or

wicked sport, he could not yet tell. She was enchanting, and

brazen, and wholly unfathomable.

At their first meeting she had kissed him full on the mouth

without provocation, shocking both him and her father. From that

point forward, the young Miss Pendleton continued to pursue her

infatuation with him, and Thatcher continued to dodge, though

not as efficiently as he might. Thanks to Kate, he rode ever on

a precipice, in constant danger of falling out of the Governor

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of Jamaica’s good graces. And a privateer captain’s livelihood

and status with the Crown depended heavily upon those graces.

She took a step toward him. He took a step back in kind.

She giggled. “You need not fear me, James…”

“Please, my lady, call me Captain Thatcher. Your father has

made it plain that there should be no familiarity between us.”

The smile fell from her lips. “I am not bound by my

father’s every command and neither are you.”

“He makes those commands only because he cares for you.”

“Hardly,” Kate huffed, turning and resting her arms on the

rail. In the starlight, Thatcher could just make out the

freckles on her bare white shoulders. Other women of her station

covered such marks with powder, but she wore them proudly, to

the chagrin of her father. “Richard Pendleton cares only for

those things that line his pockets with coin,” she said, and

then suddenly smiled at the dark water below. “And I do quite

the opposite.”

Thatcher sensed her mood growing devilish. Now was the time

to fly. “Nevertheless, madam, I think the night air is getting

to you. It would be best for us to rejoin the other guests.

Although, for the sake of appearance, perhaps we should not

rejoin them together.” He bowed slightly. “Good evening, Miss

Pendleton.”

Chapter 2

Thatcher fled into the glaring light of Pendleton’s

ballroom. He searched for Jennings, but caught instead the eye

of the Governor himself, the very last person he wished to catch

him entering from the garden, through the very same door that

Kate would use any moment now.

Pendleton raised a glass of champagne and beamed at

Thatcher as if they were old friends, an air His Excellency took

only when he desired something. He bowed to his other guests and

started walking over, leading with his rotund belly. Thatcher

had not made it deep enough into the hall. To his left and

right, the small knots of party guests were too thin. There was

no escape.

“James, my boy,” exclaimed Pendleton, “I was afraid that

you had not come.”

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Thatcher returned the Governor’s enthusiasm with an equally

false smile. “I would not have missed it, Your Excellency…” A

demure cough from the garden interrupted Thatcher’s words and

his eyes widened. He realized that the Governor was still facing

the door. In an awkward maneuver, he began to shuffle sideways

in an arc, forcing the Governor to pivot. “I… uh… was just

enjoying your garden, sir. You know how I love the scent of your

orange trees.”

Cued by the mention of his garden, Pendleton started to

look back toward the door, where Kate was just now making her

entrance. Desperately, Thatcher grabbed the elder man’s

shoulders to keep him from turning further. The maneuver had the

desired effect, of a sort. Pendleton immediately turned his gaze

back on Thatcher, only now it had become a glare.

Not knowing how else to account for manhandling His

Excellency’s shoulders, Thatcher pulled him into a hug, clapping

his back with enthusiasm. “Happy Birthday, sir!” he said. He

locked eyes with Kate. She stifled a laugh and then melted into

the flow of guests.

Thatcher immediately released her confused father and

bowed. “Well, Your Excellency. I am sure that you have other,

much more important guests to attend to. I will not keep you.”

Pendleton straightened his dress coat and his artificial

smile returned. “Oh no, James. My guests can wait.” He guided

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Thatcher to a long couch at the edge of the floor and motioned

for him to sit. “Do not forget that I am an old seadog myself.

It would delight me on my birthday to trade a little gossip of

the isles with one of the most esteemed captains of my port.

Have you heard any interesting tales of late, or gained any of

your own to tell?”

Thatcher chose his words carefully. He sensed intrigue in

the Governor’s inquiry and he was not as skilled as Jennings at

courtly games. He could not read Pendleton’s face nor find the

intent behind his words. At times, His Excellency was as

unfathomable as his daughter. “I am afraid there is little to

tell since our last meeting. The waters north have been fairly

quiet since my encounter with de Sangre.”

Pendleton waved a pudgy hand as if brushing aside his

request. “Of course, my boy, of course; although, I still wonder

if I have gotten the full story of that victory from you. It

seems a wonder that so great a target as de Sangre yielded so

small a prize.” Pendleton let the thinly veiled accusation hang

in the air between them, but before Thatcher could respond, he

continued. “In any case, I have a story of my own to share.”

“Pray tell,” said Thatcher, offering the obligatory words

of courteous anticipation.

Pendleton leaned in closer, shifting his eyes to glance at

the other guests, and Thatcher almost believed that the Governor

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meant to share a real secret with him. “Do you remember the

storm that the Nightingale reported near Maysi Point?”

Thatcher nodded. “I do. It was not one week ago.”

“Indeed. And I hear that it gained strength.” Pendleton’s

eyes shifted around the room again and he leaned closer still.

“I am told that it grew into a monster that enveloped a flotilla

sailing out of Havana. The entire fleet sank off the coast of

Florida, near Palma de Ayz.”

Now Pendleton had Thatcher’s full attention. He’d had one

overarching ambition since he came to the Caribbean, one prize

that he sought. But such an expedition needed proper financing,

and an opportunity like this could provide him with the funding

he required. “How many galleons?” he asked slowly.

Pendleton leaned back on the couch and shrugged. “I don’t

know. The flotillas have been smaller these last few years.

Four, maybe five treasure ships?”

“That’s forty tons of silver. Perhaps some gold as well.”

The Governor nodded. “Yes. It’s a shame that all that

wealth should sit at the bottom of the ocean, and in such

shallow water too.”

“And from where did you hear this glittering rumor, sir?”

To that, Pendleton gave his most surprising answer of all.

“Why, from Captain Jennings.”

Hannibal/Pirates/17

Thatcher did not believe it. Henry would surely have told

him before he told the Governor. Yet, at that moment, Pendleton

raised his glass and caught Henry’s eye across the floor.

Thatcher’s friend gave them both a grave nod before another

guest engaged him and his aristocratic smile returned.

Dumfounded, Thatcher lost all sense of subtlety. “Am I to

understand that you want Jennings and I to go after this lost

treasure?”

“Oh, my!” exclaimed Pendleton, though he kept his voice

low. “No, James. You mistake my meaning entirely. Surely the

Spanish have already set up a camp and begun to salvage their

treasure, and thanks to the Queen’s Folly, the British

privateers are no longer permitted to engage Philip’s troops on

land.”

By “the Queen’s Folly,” the governor meant the late Queen

Anne’s part in the Treaty of Utrecht two years before. This

treaty of several nations was designed to preserve the power of

the royal houses of Europe, but it did little for their nations.

It gained almost nothing for Great Britain except a few parcels

of land and a slave-trading contract that no reputable company

in the kingdom would touch. In exchange, the treaty put severe

limitations on the British privateers, particularly in regard to

the Spanish. It also prohibited Spanish attacks on British

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shipping, but the capitáns had increased their attacks instead,

without consequence.

The Governor set his cane to the floor and hoisted himself

to his feet. “I was merely enjoying a moment of high seas gossip

with a worthy captain. I would never send you on an errand that

might embarrass the Crown. Although, I should think that if

treasure were gained from such an endeavor, the King would

welcome his portion and remember well the man that brought it to

him.”

At least this time, Thatcher saw plainly the message amidst

the Governor’s words. Despite His Excellency’s theatrical

protest, he expected Thatcher and Jennings to sail to Palma de

Ayz and seize as much Spanish treasure as possible.

Thatcher stood and bowed. “Your Excellency.”

Pendleton started toward his guests, but then paused and

turned back, leaning close to Thatcher once again. “One more

thing, James,” he said.

“Yes, Your Excellency?”

“If I ever catch you alone in my garden with Kate again, I

shall have you hanged.”

Chapter 3

The cobblestone streets of upper Port Royal had quieted

much since Thatcher stood on the stone bridge with Kate. Still,

as he approached Madigan’s Inn, he heard the distinctive crack

of bare knuckles striking a jaw bone.

Before Thatcher could open the broad wooden door, it opened

for him. A man came reeling out, backwards, followed by another

with his fist already cocked back. Thatcher caught the first man

under the arms.

“Thank ye, Cap’n,” said the second man. “I wasn’t quite

finished with this codfish yet.” He let fly with his fist,

catching the drunkard under his chin with a blow so powerful

that it lifted him out of Thatcher’s arms. He fell to the

cobblestones, asleep.

Hannibal/Pirates/20

Thomas Bane dusted off his hands and glared down at his

opponent. “That’ll teach you, you festering bilge rat.”

Thatcher’s quartermaster was older than him by a good decade. He

was also much shorter, but he was built like an ox and just as

strong.

The captain suppressed a grin and gave a dramatic sigh. “I

thought we discussed this, Mr. Bane. We are to leave the

discipline to the Redcoats when we are on shore.”

“It couldn’t be helped, Cap’n,” Bane replied with a shrug

of innocence. “He made unwanted advances toward Maddy’s wife and

there were no soldiers to be found. Someone had to teach him

some proper manners. Though, in the application of my lesson, I

might have broken a few of Maddy’s glasses.”

“Blast it, Tom!” came an angry shout from the tavern.

Bane winced. “And perhaps a table too.”

Thatcher sighed again, this time for real. “I’ll pay for

it, Tom.”

The short man clapped Thatcher on the back as they made

their way into the tavern. “You’re a gem, Cap’n. You truly are.”

Then he stopped short. “Wait a moment. I didn’t expect to see

you ‘til morning. What brings you to Madigan’s at this late

hour?”

Hannibal/Pirates/21

“Gather the officers and find what crew you can. Sober them

up. I want to sail tomorrow night and we’ll need all hands if

the Lady Rogue is to be ready.”

“The objective?”

Thatcher bent close to his quartermaster’s ear. “Lost

treasure, not a King’s ransom, but enough to help us go after

that other prize we’ve often discussed.” He glanced around to

make sure that no one was watching them. “Keep all of that under

your hat. This treasure won’t remain secret for long. We need to

be the first out of the gate if we want it to remain lost until

we get there.”

Bane nodded and walked out into the street, leaving

Thatcher inside with the angry barman. He quickly settled the

bill for Bane’s brawl, finding that his friend had also failed

to pay for his beer, and then made his way to a dark corner of

the room. There, he found Henry Jennings waiting in the shadows

at a small square table.

“You make a grand entrance, old boy,” said Jennings. His

tone was lighthearted, his usual manner, but his words were

quietly spoken.

“Mere coincidence,” replied Thatcher, keeping his voice low

as well. “It would be better to say that my quartermaster makes

a grand exit.”

Hannibal/Pirates/22

“In any case, I hope that you have not drawn undue

attention to yourself. Did anyone follow you?”

“No. And you?”

Jennings confidently shook his head.

“Then down to business.” Thatcher sat down across from his

friend. “First, I should like to know why you went to Pendleton

with news of the sunken galleons before you came to me. Have I

done something to offend?”

Confusion clouded Jennings face. “The Governor told me that

it was you who brought the news to him.” He gazed down into his

ale, processing this new information. “Why should he lie to us

about his source?”

“A host of reasons comes to mind. Pendleton is devious.

Whatever the reason, though, this means that someone else in

Jamaica knows about the wreck.”

Jennings nodded thoughtfully. “All the more reason to make

haste, then.” His eyes flicked up to meet Thatcher’s. “The

Bathsheba can be ready tomorrow night, with twenty-six

fighters.”

The young aristocrat had come straight to the most

important calculation in the arithmetic of privateers. The more

crew that could be carried to a fight, the easier the victory.

But ease came at a price. Caribbean ships could be at sea for a

week to reach an objective, even more when trolling for Spanish

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warships. More crew meant more food and water, and less space

for captured cargo. More crew also meant a wider dispersion of

the prize, a smaller share for all. The trick was to find the

number that assured a victory with the least loss and the

greatest return.

By declaring the number of his fighters, Jennings had also

hit upon a problem that had occupied the bulk of Thatcher’s

thoughts since he left the Governor’s mansion. They would not be

targeting a Spanish warship that prayed on British shipping, or

even a well-armed galleon. If the Spanish had already begun the

salvage, there would be only foot soldiers and divers at Palma

de Ayz, none of them seeking a fight. The privateers had two

options: to run the Spanish off, stealing what they had already

recovered before they returned with reinforcements, or to kill

them all and take the time to dive the wreck themselves.

Thatcher had no stomach for cold-blooded murder. “The Lady

Rogue will carry twenty crewmen, including the officers, but we

must do this without bloodshed, or not at all.”

“Impossible. Spanish troops will not lightly abandon

Philip’s treasure. They will fight bitterly if they feel they

can successfully defend it.”

“Then we must make them believe that there is no hope of

surviving the encounter,” said Thatcher, getting up to leave. He

shook his friend’s hand firmly. “I will see you on the docks

Hannibal/Pirates/24

tomorrow night. Stock your ship with at least thirty melons,

more if you can find them.”

“Melons?”

“Yes. Melons. I have a plan.”

Chapter 4

It took four days for the two sloops to reach Palma de Ayz.

They could have made it in three, but they would have come upon

the Spaniards in daylight, and that did not suit Thatcher’s plan

at all. In Caribbean terms, this was a long trip, particularly

on single-decked, square-sailed sloops like the Lady Rogue and

the Bathsheba. After two days of salted pork and fish, the men

eyed the barrels of sweet melons with ravenous eyes, but

Thatcher and Jennings would not permit them so much as a taste.

Near dawn on the fourth day, in order to set the hour of

their arrival correctly, Thatcher commanded both ships to

shelter in the crux of an atoll near Cape Sable. The C-shaped

ridge surrounding the bay stifled the breeze and left the pale

blue water utterly still. The calm was maddening. The late

summer sun beat down on the crowded decks as it crawled across

Hannibal/Pirates/26

the sky, and the pitch between the slats became sticky beneath

their feet. The men grew restless. Mere hours away lay uncounted

treasures from an entire flotilla, and every hour wasted was

another hour in which the Spanish might finish their salvage and

escape with it all.

To keep the men busy, Thatcher ordered them to install

spikes along one rail of each ship, spaced at odd intervals, but

none closer to another than the width of a man’s shoulders. It

was an easy task, and too short. Once it was complete, the men

fell quickly back into the doldrums.

“Shouldn’t we move on now, Captain,” asked Peter Thorne,

the boatswain of the Lady Rogue. “The sun has already begun its

descent. By the time we reach the Spanish camp, it will have

already set.”

Thatcher regarded his boatswain with an angry scowl. Thorne

had questioned his plan too loudly. A privateer captain

preserved his command by instilling a combination of fear and

love in his crew. Thatcher favored the latter, but he could not

allow one of his officers to question his authority at this most

fragile stage of the mission. He would have to make an example

of him. “Don’t be a fool, Mr. Thorne,” he snapped, and then

lifted a hand to point at the southeastern horizon beyond the

mouth of the cove. “What do you see there?”

Hannibal/Pirates/27

Thorne cringed, embarrassed by the reprimand. He followed

Thatcher’s gesture and then bowed his head. “That would be the

moon, Captain,” he said quietly.

“Aye, the moon.” Thatcher kept his tone short and stern.

“It is full and it will not set ere midnight. Our plan depends

on darkness, Mr. Thorne, complete darkness that a full moon will

spoil.” He waved his hand dismissively. “Go and find something

else to occupy your brain and leave command of the ship to me.”

Thorne skulked away to the bow while the crewmen looked

away, pretending not to have heard what they could not, and

would not have missed. Thatcher hated to treat one of his

officers so, but the boatswain had left him no choice.

Two hours after midnight they came within sight of the

Florida coast. A crewman clinging to the main mast shroud of the

Bathsheba spied the camp first, a line of fires along the beach.

Thatcher ordered all the lights doused on both ships and all

voices silenced. Then he left the Bathsheba behind and took the

Lady Rogue closer to get a better look.

“I’d say a hundred men, maybe a hundred twenty, Cap’n,”

said Bane, peering through his spyglass. He handed it to

Thatcher. “If this doesn’t work, our forty-six will be hard

pressed to win the fight.”

Thatcher scanned the beach with the glass. There were

twelve troop tents, set in two rows leading back from the sand,

Hannibal/Pirates/28

but thanks to the heat of the late summer night, the sides were

all rolled up, exposing the Spaniards, sleeping on their cots.

There were guards posted by the fire, but they slept as well,

lying flat on the beach. The Spanish navy was famous for its

discipline; the Spanish army, equally famous for the lack of it.

Thatcher lowered the spyglass. “It’ll work, Tom. It must.”

He glanced over his shoulder and nodded astern to Thorne,

who used a blackened lantern to signal the Bathsheba to come

forward. The boatswain was careful to keep the light from the

lantern’s port pointed out to sea.

As he waited for the Bathsheba to pull up alongside the

Lady Rogue, Thatcher thought he glimpsed a shadow on the

horizon, less a shape than an absence of the stars that should

have been there. He blinked and squinted in the dark, but the

thing seemed to fade away. The privateers had kept close watch

for Spanish warships protecting the salvage, but the Spanish had

few ships to spare after the loss of the treasure fleet, and any

vessels here would run with lanterns hung from their bows and

masts. He decided it must be a mirage, a common sight when

staring at the horizon at any hour.

Thatcher turned his attention back to preparing for the

raid. He commanded the men of both ships to force melons down

onto the spikes that they had set into the rails. Then came the

hats. Whether a wool cap, straw tricorn, or scarf, to a man,

Hannibal/Pirates/29

every privateer sailor wore some sort of head covering. And to a

man, every sailor on both ships donated his to a melon.

Additionally, alongside each fruit, the sailors placed spare

muskets, even broomsticks, anything that might give the

appearance of a weapon.

“My pots are ready, Cap’n,” said Shepherd, Thatcher’s

master gunner.

Thatcher had ordered the tall, rugged Welshman to set pitch

pots along the rail opposite the melons and join them with

fuses. “They’ll burn bright?” he asked.

“She’ll light up like a funeral pyre,” replied Shepherd

grimly. He hesitated and then stepped closer. “I’m not

questioning your plan, Cap’n,” he said quietly, “but I’d sorely

like to be on that beach with you, rather than back here on the

ship when the fighting starts. My cannons won’t be any use at

all. Even if I could fire them on my own, the fight will be at

close quarters from start to bloody finish.”

Thatcher patted him on the shoulder. “Your objection is

noted, Mr. Shepherd. Now see to those pots once more and double-

check your fuses.”

The Lady Rogue and the Bathsheba sailed silently into the

shallows, close enough that an alert guard might have spied

their sails if he squinted hard enough. From this point, they

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had to move quickly for fear that a lucky Spaniard might spoil

the plan.

Thatcher and Jennings anchored the ships broadside to the

beach twenty yards apart, with the well-dressed melons facing

the Spanish camp. Then all hands save for the two master gunners

piled into shore boats and rowed stealthily up to the beach. The

men bore themselves with perfect discipline. Not a word was

spoken. Their lives depended on silence.

The two captains lined up their troops at the water’s edge,

two rows deep. Each man carried a torch in one hand and a pistol

or cutlass in the other. When all was ready, Thatcher nodded and

the torches were lit. Then he raised his cutlass high and

slashed it down through the air.

All at once, the two ships lit up with flame and the

privateers shouted and screamed. The pistoliers fired a

sequenced volley. With a long series of earsplitting cracks they

shot their rounds harmlessly into the air. Thatcher thrust his

cutlass forward and shouted, “Charge!”

He could only imagine how the scene appeared to the sleepy

soldiers. His plan depended on tricks of light and shadow. He

and Jennings had brought the Lady Rogue and the Bathsheba far

closer than any raiding ship ever dared come to land. Usually an

attacking vessel would stand off at the range of its cannon and

fire long volleys into a camp or fort, staying well out of the

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range of musket fire. With the two sloops so much closer to

shore, lit by the fire of the pitch pots, they would appear

enormous to the dazed Spaniards.

So, too, would Thatcher’s small army. The melons on the

rails, wearing their caps and silhouetted against the fire of

the pitch pots, would appear to be gun crews and reserves. And

thanks to the shadows thrown by the torches, the two rows of his

shore party coming in from the water would appear to have much

greater numbers than they actually did.

The guards by the fires were the first to wake. They

screamed with fright and scrambled toward the camp, leaving

their muskets behind. That small spark began the rippling

psychological effect that Thatcher desired. As each man jumped

up or fell out of his cot, his face twisted in terror. He saw

his comrades bolting for their lives and joined them. In short

order, the privateers had the entire Spanish camp fleeing before

them, headed for the shelter of the forest.

Thatcher raised his cutlass, signaling for another volley

of pistol fire to keep the Spanish on the run. The men had

strict orders to fire into the air, but to his right, he saw

Thorne taking a bead on the nearest soldier. In mid-stride, he

wheeled his sword downward, catching the boatswain on the wrist

with the flat of it like a schoolteacher catches a disobedient

child across the hand. Thorne yelped and his shot went low,

Hannibal/Pirates/32

kicking up sand at the Spaniard’s heels. He shot an evil glare

at his captain.

The privateers kept up the chase a short distance into the

forest, making sure their quarry would keep running. Then the

entire crew fell back to the beach. They had precious little

time before the Spanish officers figured out what had happened

and regrouped for a counter attack.

Near the center of the camp were three tents with their

sides pulled down. These would be the armory, the food stores,

and, most importantly, the treasure tent. In that last tent lay

their prize, everything the Spanish had recovered so far.

Thatcher could only hope that the salvage had progressed well,

there would be no time to dive for more. He cautiously pulled

back the flap.

A bayonet stabbed out of the dark, narrowly missing

Thatcher’s nose as he jerked his head back in surprise. A

screaming Spaniard came charging from the tent. Thatcher

stumbled backwards, swinging his cutlass back and forth to fend

off the long spike.

The Spaniard did not get far. Bane stepped in from the side

and leveled the man with a right cross to the temple.

“Thank you, Mr. Bane,” breathed Thatcher, trying to recover

from the shock of the attack.

Hannibal/Pirates/33

The quartermaster smiled down at the unconscious soldier.

“I like this one, Cap’n. He has more spine than the others.”

“Or less brains.” Thatcher eyed the stricken man. By his

uniform, he was an officer, not a foot soldier. He probably came

from wealth, as evidenced by a gold chain around his neck and a

silver ring on his finger, set with a blue stone.

“Shall I relieve him of his bobbles?” asked Bane.

Thatcher shook his head. “No, Mr. Bane. Tie him up, but

leave him his treasures. He earned them.” The captain stepped

forward into the dark of the tent with his cutlass raised, wary

of another attack. There were no other Spaniards. Instead, he

found row after row of stacked barrels. He removed the top of

the nearest one. It was filled with silver coins.

Chapter 5

The sun was high and the sky blue when Thatcher and

Jennings sailed into Port Royal harbor, but the docks were

unusually quiet. They should have been bustling with noise and

activity, the songs of the fishmongers and the tavern callers,

the scurrying of dock boys and cabin boys, the steady hum of

pork, pearls, and pistols changing hands by the barrel. Instead,

only a silent troop of Redcoats waited for the Bathsheba and the

Lady Rogue to put in.

“James Thatcher, you are under arrest,” announced the

lieutenant at the head of the troop. “Step down to the dock

slowly and quietly if you hope to keep your head on your

shoulders… at least for the night.”

Thatcher held his ground on the gangplank of the Lady

Rogue. He did not know the man, although that was not unusual.

Hannibal/Pirates/35

The flow of British regulars in and out of Port Royal was nearly

as constant as the tides. In general, those banished here were

not the finest of His Majesty’s soldiers, and they had a

tendency to seek more gainful and less regimented employment at

their earliest convenience.

Thatcher did not like the look of this new lieutenant, or

the bent of his words. Nonetheless, he kept an even keel. “I

didn’t lay a hand on the Governor’s daughter,” he replied

lightly. “And in all fairness, I’ve done my utmost to escape the

woman but she is uncommonly persistent.”

The lieutenant was not amused. “Do not besmirch the Lady

Katherine’s good name with your frivolous words, sir. It seems

that you do not fully grasp the severity of your predicament.”

“Nor do you,” interrupted Thatcher, turning serious.

“Captain Jennings and I do not have time for this foolishness.

We’ve two boatloads of hungry privateers and you now stand

between them and the taverns. As for Captain Jennings and I, we

are busy here, and will be so for some time.” He thrust his chin

curtly in the direction of the Governor’s mansion. “Go and tell

His Excellency that we have returned from a hunting expedition

to Palma de Ayz, and we’ve brought the Crown’s tribute in

accordance with our Letters of Marque.”

“Neither His Excellency nor the Crown wants any part in the

blood money from your expedition.” The lieutenant spat out the

Hannibal/Pirates/36

word as if it was a curse. “Your plunder will be returned to its

rightful owner, King Philip of Spain.”

Thatcher could not hide his shock at those words, and the

young officer grinned maliciously at his reaction. “Yes,” he

said. “The news of your raid has outpaced your sails. You and

three hundred cutthroats slaughtered more than a hundred

Spaniards. Your Letters of Marque are void under the terms of

the Treaty of Utrecht.”

Jennings became outraged. “Lies!” he shouted from the

quarterdeck of the Bathsheba. “We sailed with less than fifty

men, and we didn’t harm a hair on a single Spanish head! The

cowards fled without a fight.”

One implication of the lieutenant’s words vexed Thatcher

even more than the report of dead Spaniards. Such lies could

easily be accounted for by Spanish propaganda, and were even

expected, but not yet. The Lady Rogue and the Bathsheba were

fast sloops and had run south before a good wind. It took less

than three days to make Port Royal after the raid. There was no

way that any news of it could have reached Pendleton yet. “Who

told His Excellency these lies?” he asked.

“How the news of your villainy came to the Governor is

neither my concern nor yours,” replied the lieutenant coldly. He

raised his musket to point at Thatcher’s head. “The fact remains

that you are under arrest for the most heinous piracy. You and

Hannibal/Pirates/37

your officers will be hanged on the morrow, your crew on the

morrow next. Now, come quietly.”

The first shot came from the Bathsheba. Not from Jennings,

but from one of his crew. The lieutenant collapsed, struck down

by a musket ball to his head. In the throes of violent death, he

managed to pull his own trigger as well, and Thatcher’s hat

would ever after bear the mark of the near miss to his head.

The Redcoats had not been prepared for a fight. Their

return volley did little damage, wounding just one of Thatcher’s

men. The privateers, however, were much more effective. Eleven

of the regulars fell to the dock in agony before Thatcher and

Jennings could get control. The rest took flight, shouting for

the cannons on the hill, but the guns of Fort James remained

silent.

Jennings and Thatcher fled to Nassau with little to feed

their men but fish and rotting melons. Only the promise of the

sailors’ shares kept them in order. The full count was four

hundred fifty thousand silver pieces of eight, minted at the

Spanish mines, the largest take that any of them had ever seen.

The Crown held claim to twenty percent, ninety thousand, and

Jennings and Thatcher still intended to deliver it somehow. Of

the remainder, the two captains would take ten shares each, and

their officers, three or four shares each, depending on their

Hannibal/Pirates/38

station. That left more than four thousand pieces of eight for

each crewman. A prize like that was worth a little starvation.

As they passed through the Windward Passage for the second

time in just two days, Thatcher sat alone in the dark of his

cabin, pondering his misfortune. He slammed his fist down on his

map desk. How could he have been so blind? Pendleton had never

favored him before. Why else would he have offered him this raid

except as part of a trap? He and Jennings had fallen in

headfirst. Worse, they had sailed right into a second trap when

they met the troops on the dock. Pendleton had sent only thirty

men, commanded by the least experienced officer on the island,

to arrest nearly fifty hardened privateers. That confrontation

could not have ended any other way.

One question remained, though: Why go to all that trouble,

forsaking a substantial payoff? What was Pendleton up to?