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CHAPTER ONE

Stripped to his shirt in the sullen heat of the Caribbean day, Captain Josiah Markham, of Portsmouth, New Hampshire, watched the long, dark hull of the slave barque slide easily in the harbor of Charlotte Amalie. The slaver was a nimble vessel, with sleek lines and finely raked masts; and although she was flying Dutch colors, Josiah marked the craft as almost certainly American-built— Dutch shipwrights preferred round North Sea butter-tubs to anything with such sleek lines. The blackbirder, its crew aloft and furling canvas, cruised slowly by in the slack wind, then, with a splash and a hollow roar, dropped its anchor. Josiah gagged and reached for his handkerchief. The barque was moored upwind; there were probably several hundred unwashed souls aboard, mixed with a few corpses. The stench was not improved by the heat of the day.

“Phew!” said Josiah, waving his handkerchief to stir the slack breeze. He soon decided he had enough of the foul air. He called to his coxswain, Barlow, to have his gig’s crew ready as soon as he returned on deck. He would visit his brother’s ship. It was moored upwind of the slaver.

Josiah descended to his cabin, made an entry in his journal, put on his ill-fitting blue coat and straw hat, and returned on deck. Barlow was still getting the oarsmen into his gig. Josiah ignored him, standing on the flush deck, hands clasped firmly behind his back. Pound, his red-haired first officer, walked up to him and cleared his throat loudly. Tactful, this Pound.

“Yes, Mr. Pound?”

“You are going ashore, sir?”

“I’m going to my brother’s ship. I’ll be back by tonight. In the meantime, send my compliments to Mr. Nyborg and see if you can persuade him to move that blackbirder. I won’t have my crews taken sick with some West African fever.”

“Aye aye, Cap’n. Gladly.”

Josiah turned at the sound of Barlow’s footsteps.

“Gig’s ready, Cap’n.”

“Excellent. Let’s be on our way.”

Barlow, careful of protocol, descended first into the gig; Josiah jumped cleanly into the sternsheets, sat down, and adjusted his straw hat.

“Out oars! Give way all!” Barlow bellowed, and after a few false starts occasioned by a crewman who, Josiah suspected, was tipsy, the gig began to slide smoothly and swiftly over the blue, transparent water of the bay. They passed across the stern of the slave barque, Josiah raising his handkerchief to his nose again— that stench was revolting; it was a sin to confine men like that. The master of the slaver, a rounded wine-cask of a man, was taking the air on the weather poop and tipped his hat as Josiah slid by. Josiah bowed. The slaver was Nubian Pride, and although her home port was alleged to be Willemstad— Curaçao was the headquarters of many a slaver— she was almost certainly American-built. Such a sleek ship would make a fine privateer.

Upwind of the barque, Josiah recovered his breath as Barlow steered the gig for the loading port of Alexander Pope, his brother’s ship. Pope was ship-rigged and New England-built, with masts taller and waist more slender than was currently the European fashion. Originally a smuggler, she was built for speed, and with her new armament of sixteen twelve-pound cannon and two long nine-pounder chasers on her fo’c’sle, she became dangerous as well as swift. The seaman in the bows of the gig hooked the boat onto Pope’s main chains, and Josiah scrambled up the side of the ship to the entry port. He rarely worried about getting his feet wet while executing such mundane tasks.

A startled young man, thin and horse-faced, jumped up from a hammock chair set under an awning abaft the mainmast, and hastened to the entry port to meet him.

“Captain Markham, sir!” he exclaimed. “I didn’t see you!”

“Evidently not, Stanhope.”

Stanhope was his brother’s third officer. He had only been taken aboard to compliment his father in Portsmouth, a shipbuilding friend of the family to whom a few favors were owed. The man was three parts a fool and nearsighted besides.

“I’ve come to see my brother. Is he aboard?” Josiah said gruffly, hands behind his back.

“Aye, sir. I’ll tell him you’ve arrived.”

“I’ll tell him myself,” Josiah said. “See to my gig’s crew. Mind they don’t touch liquor.”

“Ah—” Stanhope hesitated, on the verge of speech, but Josiah brushed past him and ducked down the hatchway beneath the poop overhang. He walked down a short, cramped hallway and knocked on the door of his brother’s day cabin.

“What d’ye want, damn you?”

It was assuredly his brother’s voice; and what’s more, the oath was followed by what was definitely a female giggle. Josiah scowled.

“It’s me, Malachi,” he said. “I came for a visit. If you’re, ah, occupied, I’ll come another time.”

“By the nailed Christ! I thought it was Stanhope with another of his blasted requests for me to do his job for him. One moment.”

Josiah waited patiently in the ill-lit corridor, his hands behind his back. It was his habitual pose, acquired after years of serving under his father at sea. He’d been beaten for keeping his hands in his pockets; lacking else to do with them, he’d clasped them firmly behind his back in a posture that no tyrannous, pious old Yankee hypocrite could criticize.

The door was flung open from the inside, and Josiah unclasped his hands, took off his hat with his left, and extended the right. Malachi, his younger brother, shook the hand.

“Have ye dined?” Malachi asked. He thrust his head out the narrow door. “I’ll call for vittles. Shaw!” The last word was a hoarse bellow. “Shaw, blast your eyes!”

Josiah’s frown, which had grown deeper with each oath from his impious brother, turned into a positive scowl when he saw the other occupant of the cabin. She was a young black girl in her teens. Her upturned nose and tea-colored skin bespoke some European ancestry. She was dressed prettily in a cream-colored dress that almost reached her bare and dainty feet, and wore long earrings of polished silver. She smiled. Smiled. Intolerable.

“Josiah,” said Malachi, “may I present Roxana. Roxana, my brother.” Roxana curtsied gracefully. Josiah bowed stiffly, supremely uncomfortable.

Malachi spoke to the girl in some incomprehensible, gobbling language; she answered in the same tongue, curtsied to Josiah once again, and received his bow. Then she opened the partition into Malachi’s sleeping cabin and closed it behind her.

“What were you speaking?” Josiah asked; he hadn’t understood a word.

“Dutch, mostly,” Malachi said. “With a lot of Arabic and a little Danish. It’s what they speak in her village in Santa Cruz.” He had a gift for languages and mimicry; he could communicate successfully with most of the inhabitants of the Caribbean, be they French, English, Spanish, Dutch, or Danish— he could even communicate, with reasonable success, with some few of the native Indians.

“She’s from Santa Cruz?” Josiah asked.

“Aye,” Malachi said carelessly. “Would you like a pipe? I've some decent local tobacco.”

Both brothers had been constructed on very much the same lines. They were agile and slender, burned very brown from the sun as were all sailors; they both had brown hair, but there were obvious differences between them. Josiah was the taller by an inch; his face was built sturdily, constructed in planes as if with an adze— his nose was beaklike, his mouth stern, his brows were level above hazel eyes. His hair was parted neatly in the middle and braided into a short queue behind. Possessed of a profound conviction that clothes were mere ornaments and vanities, he was heedless of apparel: his blue coat hung on him like a sack, his tattered straw hat had lost its black ribbon, and his white shirt had been mended in several conspicuous places.

Malachi was a more dynamic variation on the same theme; he was more agile, with a heedless, feline grace to his movements. His clothes, though chosen with no great taste, complemented his natural agility and were worn with an unconscious style that was often striking— the black silk handkerchief knotted around his neck, for example, setting off the gold earring. His face was more mobile, expressive, than that of Josiah; his eyes were the color of the green sea and his queue was braided with silk and hung to the small of his back. His full mouth was surrounded by a surprising, reddish growth of beard.

Josiah disapproved of beards.

Shaw, Malachi’s servant, appeared in the doorway. He was breathing hard, probably having run from the fo’c’sle. Shaw’s hair was the color of flame, and, as he was clerk as well as steward, his fingers were stained with ink.

“Did ye call me, Captain?” he puffed.

“I did,” said Malachi. “Bring me a bottle of the good port, and dinner for the two of us.” He pulled out a chair from the table for his brother and threw himself down on the settee beneath the glazed, stern windows, one bare foot up beside him.

“You just ate, sir,” said Shaw guilelessly.

“Do as I say!”

“Aye aye, Cap’n.” Shaw, still panting, disappeared.

Josiah sat down on the chair his brother had given him. Malachi filled a pipe and offered it to him.

“No, thankee,” Josiah said. “I no longer smoke. It’s an extravagant waste of money, to say nothing of the soot it deposits in your lungs.”

“And Reverend Gill disapproves, eh?” asked Malachi.

“That he does.”

The Reverend Gill was a preacher Josiah had taken aboard his ship for the spiritual well-being of his crew; the man was young and zealous, just out of Yale, with vigorous notions about preaching in pothouses and brothels, the very abodes of the devil. Presumably, as ship’s chaplain, he was given plenty of opportunity to do so.

Josiah glanced around his brother’s day cabin. It was small and neat, as ships’ cabins of necessity had to be; the furniture consisted solely of the settee, running the length of the cabin, built beneath the stern windows, a battered table, six equally battered chairs, and a wardrobe that held Malachi’s sou’wester and boots. His everyday blue coat, sword, and three-cornered hat hung from a peg. Above the table, swaying very slightly with the motion of the ship, hung a great brazen lantern. Very much like a ship’s cabin anywhere, save that it had been defiled.

“Must you bring your whores on board?” Josiah demanded. “It sets a bad example for the rest of your crew.”

Malachi was unruffled. His limber hands massaged the sole of his foot. “How else was I to get her from Santa Cruz?” he asked.

“D’you mean to say you brought her from Santa Cruz on this very ship?” Josiah cried in horror. “A whore, in this cabin, for the entire voyage!”

“ ’Twas less than a day’s voyage, Jo,” Malachi said. “And she’s not a whore; she’s a concubine of sorts. It’s legal here, or at least tolerated. I paid her father ten guineas when I rode up to her village, and took her back with me. We’re fond of one another.

“We've been living here this season,” Malachi said, scratching his beard. “I've managed to keep her out of your way till now. I've always had warning of your visits.”

“I call a whore a whore and a sinner a sinner,” Josiah said. Malachi grinned back. Josiah did not know whether he was more horrified at the blatancy of the hussy or at the extravagant ten guineas paid for her.

“I know you do; that's why I told her to leave the cabin. She can speak English as well as we, and I don't want her insulted.”

“It is her behavior that is an insult.”

“It is perfectly proper in these surroundings,” said Malachi. “And I'll treat her well; when I go to war, she'll be left behind a hundred golden guineas the richer. She'll be able to live respectably, if that's what she wants.”

Josiah was speechless. A hundred guineas! Malachi grinned again; he'd been unable to resist that last goading shot, knowing his brother's parsimony.

“And your men?” Josiah demanded. “Their moral guidance? What of them— do they live with their strumpets as well?”

“Here or ashore, aye,” Malachi said. “I think it’s bad enough that we must take the men to sea in these narrow hulls, but we need not force them to live unnaturally when in port. I know your opinion differs.”

“I cannot prevent what the men do ashore,” Josiah said, “but whoring and drunkenness I can forbid on my vessel, and do. The men are poxy enough, I’ll be bound, without my encouraging syphilis among ’em— and mercury is expensive. And you speak of natural— the only natural life for a man is marriage and children.”

Josiah fit his own definition of natural; he had married a New Hampshire girl, and had fathered two children, with a third on the way. Malachi knew that Josiah kept a daily journal, which he would send to his wife— as soon as a safe method of delivery presented itself— in place of daily letters, which would probably never reach her.

“Why, I’ll marry a girl to any Jack of my crew that asks,” Malachi said. “Perhaps, now that we’re privateers, a military-style marriage, where the couple jump over th’ sword— d’ye know it?—

Leap, rogue, and jump, whore,

Be man and wife forevermore.

With a marriage oath like that, you didn’t need a parson.

“How many bastards have you spawned?” Josiah demanded.

“Three that I know of. They’re provided for. When they’re old enough I’ll take ’em to sea, though they’d do better in a French or Spanish ship. No Yankee will take orders from a mulatto, but the Frogs and Dagoes will.”

Josiah sniffed. His brother was only twenty-three and had spent half his life before the mast; his bad habits were those of sailors everywhere— Josiah could hope that the life of the quarterback might yet refine them away. From the advanced age of twenty-six he could afford to be generous; he did not blame Malachi overmuch for his faults. He had a better idea where to lay the blame.

Their father, Adaiah, had hated the boy, for what reason it was difficult to say. Malachi’s back was scarred with the old man’s drunken beatings, and his soul scarred as well. Even now, five years after Adaiah had been hacked to bits by pirates off Taipei, Malachi could only rarely let slip an opportunity to outrage Adaiah’s ghost: whoring, blaspheming, drunkenness, laziness, insolence, sharpness, walking with hands in pockets, and more— the old man’s oft-repeated list of Malachi’s faults was quite long. Josiah devoutly hoped Malachi would moderate with age, as Adaiah’s tyrannous memory began to fade. With the years, Josiah prayed, Malachi might become less Adaiah’s creation and more his own man, perhaps even accept the Lord...

Malachi, for his own part, was only rarely offended by Josiah’s insensitive questions or his intolerance. Josiah was a blunt man and spoke the honest language of the King James Bible with a Calvinist probity: and what’s more he’d been raised by their pious, harsh father almost from the cradle. It was to Josiah’s credit that he had not adopted their father’s hypocrisy along with his severe opinions. Josiah at least practiced what he preached.

Shaw returned, bent over a tray with several dishes and a black bottle; Malachi, bounding from the settee, joined Josiah at the table. Shaw put a dish before each and served out portions of cold beef, pickled onions, fresh local fruit, yams, and a pepperpot. Malachi drew the cork from the bottle and, not bothering to let the wine breathe, poured it out.

“Nyborg sent us a case of twelve-year-old port,” he said. “He confiscated it from some smuggler or other. I know port’s supposed to be for after meals, but it’s damn good stuff, Jo, and my of claret and hock have suffered from the heat.”

Nyborg was the local head of customs and a man of great influence with the Danish administration of St. Thomas. Denmark had not declared its opinion as to the war between the American colonies and Great Britain; yet Nyborg, in flagrant violation of the neutrality laws which Denmark professed to respect, had sold the Markham brothers Danish guns, powder, and shot— and the majority of the guns were twelve-pounders, as well, and Danish twelve-pounders were larger than their British equivalents. Twelve-pound guns, which both Pope and Piscataqua carried on their broadsides, were almost unheard-of in a privateer. They would outgun many British sloops-of-war.

“We’re supposed to decant port,” he said, “but Roxana’s been using the decanter as a chamberpot, and somehow I haven’t—”

“That’s all right,” said Josiah hastily.

“Port is not good at sea,” Malachi said. “The motion of the ship is unkind to it. We’ll have to drink the case before we leave— port’s only for port, eh?” He knew that Josiah would limit himself to two cupfuls, and then the rest would be his. His and Roxana’s.

He bowed his head while Josiah prayed, not out of devotion, but out of respect for his brother. Though he had eaten an hour before, he didn’t mind two dinners in a row, out of courtesy to Josiah if nothing else. He could eat all day and never gain an ounce of fat.

“I’ll give it another week,” he said, after Josiah’s amen. “Then I’m off. I won’t miss the spring convoys even if it means I might be found a pirate.”

“Jehu is expected any day,” said Josiah.

“I’ll forge a letter of marque if I must,” Malachi said. “We’ve been outfitting right under the noses of the British and Tortola’s less than thirty miles away. It’s only a matter of time before they send a cruiser to demand our ejection. How Mr. Nyborg will react to that I can’t predict.”

“We have paid Nyborg well,” Josiah growled. “If he betrays us—”

He left the thought unfinished; they both knew they could do nothing. Denmark was neutral in the struggle between Britain and her rebellious colonies; that Nyborg had been bribed in order to allow two American privateers to outfit right under the nose of Government Hill did not disguise the fact that it was against the law and custom of war. Officially, Piscataqua and Alexander Pope were merchant vessels, owned by subjects of His Britannic Majesty, and were busily buying cannon, powder, and shot, raising very large crews, and holding gun and cutlass drill only to protect themselves against possible attack by American rebels. The truth, in this March of 1776, was something quite different.

It was not yet known whether the British had made up their minds to treat American privateers as pirates; they were certainly under no obligation not to. Pirates could be hanged, on the spot if necessary; privateers operated at the behest of their legally constituted governments, which issued them privateering commissions or letters of marque in order to prove their legitimacy. Whether the British would treat an American letter of marque with the respect due that of a government not in rebellion was problematical, but the Markham & Sons expeditions preferred to sail under a cloak of legal authority if they could.

Yet time was running out. The month of April saw most of the merchant shipping in the Caribbean moving to rendezvous points such as Jamaica or Antigua, where they could assemble into West Indies convoys and sail to England before the hurricane season began in summer. They were vulnerable to cruising privateers as they made their way from the myriad Caribbean islands to their assembly points, and Josiah and Malachi wanted to be on hand. Moreover, it was usually possible to rake in a few prizes after the convoys were already assembled— merchantmen were notoriously lax in keeping convoy discipline, and the escorts, often slower than the ships they presumed to chase, could not be everywhere.

And there was further need for haste. Their Danish base was a short distance from Tortola and the other British Virgin Islands; British commerce was in and out of Charlotte Amalie almost weekly, and it would be a miracle if the British authorities were not aware of their presence. The British were notoriously short of ships, however, and there were no men-of-war stationed at Tortola. Yet a fast frigate, armed with a demand from His Britannic Majesty’s government to eject the privateers forthwith, could be sent from Antigua in a matter of days. The Danish administration would be fully within their rights if they refused such a demand; but Denmark was very far away, and the British Leeward Islands Squadron very near, and the Danes would refuse such a demand at their peril. Charlotte Amalie could be harassed, blockaded, or even taken.

The Markhams’ elder brother, Jehu, had remained in America to obtain privateering commissions for them all; Josiah had been sent ahead to meet Malachi in the Indies, where Malachi had already chosen Charlotte Amalie as the place to outfit his ship. It had been two months since Josiah had first dropped anchor, but nothing had been heard from Jehu.

“How would a letter of marque begin, Jo, d’ye know?” Malachi asked, still thinking about the possibility of forging one. “ ‘In Marine Committee, Philadelphia,’ and a date?”

“I suppose we can find a model somewhere,” Josiah said. “Nyborg might find an old one.” He smiled grimly. “Do you think we can turn privateer for th’ British? Would it pay?”

“The pickings would be slim, Jo.”

“Aye. That they would, youngster.”

Malachi, hearing the word “youngster,” knew that the port was having its effects on his steadfast brother. He poured Josiah a second cup and turned the conversation to technical matters.

“I think you can get more speed out of Piscataqua, Jo,” he said, “at least if the wind is within two or three points of your stern. Hoist you a gaffsail on the mainmast, on the other side from your mainsail, and sail wing-and-wing.”

“The ship is unhandy enough as it is.” No ship would ever be handy enough for Josiah.

“Yet it could be done, if speed was all that was necessary. Fix a preventer backstay if the mast isn’t secure enough. The gaffsail can be lowered easily enough if you need to maneuver.”

“ ’Twill keep the foresail from drawing.”

“If your gaffsail is as big as your mainsail, it won’t matter; speed’s the important thing. Have another cup, Jo.”

“Nay, Malachi. Two is enough.”

“Doesn’t the port suit you?”

“I like it well enough, yet it will not do well to return to my vessel tipsy, if I’ve forbade my sailors liquor.”

Malachi shook his head. “That’s bad policy, Jo. Your men will drink on the sly. The reason for a liquor ration is to keep the drinking within limits.”

Josiah shook his head. “Liquor is money. We’ve got to keep our enterprise within bounds.”

“You were foolish enough with your money when you were buying Herr Nyborg’s twelve-pounders. And you pay Reverend Gill as if he were an officer, and tithe to him besides, and even let him draw an officer’s share of prize money!”

“That’s my own business, Mai,” Josiah said. “And as for Nyborg and his greasy ways, I agreed that I paid him too much. He sold you the new iron guns, and I was left with the old bronzes. Damn him, two of those bronzes are a century old if they’re a day, and likely to bust at first fire!”

Oho, Malachi thought. Josiah was feeling his liquor, as that “damn” attested. Josiah used the word as his father had, after serious consideration and with the trust and expectation that it genuinely called down the wrath of an angry Jehovah upon whatever pitiful wretch had been so singled out for perdition. That Josiah saw fit to damn Nyborg was, in an odd way, a compliment to the Dane’s villainy.

There was a pounding overhead, the sound of feet running on the poop. A clatter on the poop ladder was succeeded by shoes clacking down the narrow passage to the day-cabin’s door. There was a hasty knock.

“Beg pardon, Captain,” called Stanhope’s high-pitched voice.

“Come in, Mr. Stanhope.”

The partition slid open, and Stanhope’s horsy face, long nose above underslung chin, thrust inside.

“Beg pardon again, Captain,” he said, “but Governor Wentworth’s coming into port, and she’s got a prize!”

Malachi was on his feet in an instant, calling for Roxana to bring him his stockings; he seized his coat and hat from the peg and told the blinking Stanhope, “My compliments to McVie the bosun and tell him to call all hands. Quickly now!”

“Yes, Captain,” Stanhope vanished from the day cabin, leaving the partition door open behind him. Malachi swore.

“That lubber hasn’t even learned to say ‘aye aye,’” he spat. “Roxana! My silk stockings!”

Josiah, impatient, forgot to resent the presence of Roxana as she, all giggles, helped the cursing Malachi to draw on his stockings. Governor Wentworth was their brother Jehu’s Yankee snow, and she was with a prize. A prize! Three-eighths of the value of the captured vessel would go to the Markham & Sons Corporation, in which the three brothers were all equal partners; one-eighth to Jehu as captain of the privateer, the rest to officers and crew.

The principles of Yankee commerce— the backbone of New England— were reflected in those portions. The backers were rewarded for their risk, the captain for his enterprise, the officers for their loyalty, and the men for doing their duty. With such incentives, Josiah was certain that British merchant shipping would be swept from the seas within a few years; and the Markham brothers, their industry and risks rewarded, would be rich men. Praise the Lord, for success would show His favor!

Malachi hopped into his shoes, crushing the heels, and clattered down the hallway to the maindeck, his brother treading heavily after.

“Request permission to mount the quarterdeck—” Josiah began. Malachi possessed certain formal eccentricities regarding a captain’s privileges.

“Yes, for Christ’s sake!” Josiah forgot to wince at the blasphemy.

Malachi dashed up the poop ladder, was handed a telescope by the pop-eyed Stanhope, and trained the glass on the vessels weathering Hassel Island. Josiah followed, seizing a telescope from the rack on the taffrail, and had it trained by the time Malachi gave his low whistle.

“Not one prize, but two!” Malachi shouted. “Are you blind, Stanhope? And one’s a British cutter, by the nailed Christ!”

“Sorry, sir,” said Stanhope. “The cutter was masked by the brig.”

Governor Wentworth, a sweet-hulled snow built for smuggling a mere four years before, was being preceded into port by two vessels: one a round-bottomed merchant brig, the other a swift-looking little vessel with a single great mainmast and a running bowsprit, armed with eight or ten guns. Both craft were flying a British ensign below the American Rattlesnake Flag!

“Jumping Jupiter!” cried Josiah, who took care to swear only by pagan gods. Malachi handed the telescope to Stanhope. He ran to the break in the poop and looked down at his men. Only about a third were aboard, the rest on liberty ashore. They did not have to be called; they mobbed the waist of the ship, peering eagerly in the direction of the prizes. “Man the shrouds!” Malachi bellowed. “Man the shrouds, you lot of Yankee bullocks!”

His adjective was not entirely appropriate, since only about half his crew were his hard core of Yankee seamen, those he had brought with him when he’d last left New England two years ago, before the outbreak of war, and the others brought by Josiah two months before. The rest were a mixed bag he’d taken on in Caribbean ports in order to build his crew to fighting strength: they were Spaniards, Portuguese, Dutchmen, Danes, Swedes, a few Englishmen who did not seem to mind fighting their own countrymen. About one in five were black, though they were hard to tell at first glance from the others, so burned were the whites by the hard Indies sun— they were only distinguishable as Europeans by their weekly bath under the deck-pump, where they revealed their corpse-pale buttocks.

Racing, cheering, they ran for the shrouds, and their women— thirty of them at the moment, wives, lovers, and whores, black and white and every cinnamon shade between—came running up through the hatches. The women were normally confined below decks, where they would not offend the sensibilities— or inflame the lusts— of the officers. Laughing and proud, a few women actually ran up the shrouds with the men; and the rest, some clad only in dirty petticoats, ganged together in the waist, peering and laughing at the prizes coming into harbor.

“Three cheers for each prize as she passes!” Malachi shouted to his men. “And three cheers and a tiger for Governor Wentworth!”

They roared as the prizes passed, waving their arms and hats; the hats flew into the air as Governor Wentworth sailed nonchalantly by, her sixteen guns run out, firing the salute to the Danish flag. Through his telescope Malachi could see his brother Jehu standing on his poop, dressed in an elegant cutaway coat, a tall three-cornered hat on his head, his sword at his side.

It was the sword, Malachi had heard, that had cut the pistol from Lieutenant Dudingstone’s hand, aboard the Gaspee four years ago, on that dark night in the New Providence channel. Malachi hadn’t seen his brother since before the Gaspee incident, not since the news of their father’s death had reached them. He wondered how the precise, cold, and rather foppish man he’d met five years ago could have turned into such a dashing— and treasonous— smuggler.

“He’s changed her name!” Josiah exclaimed. “Look you, Yankee Venger! I like it.”

The snow had originally been named after Benning Wentworth, the legendary Royal Governor of New Hampshire; but however legendary— and legendarily corrupt— Wentworth was, his name was hardly suitable for gracing the stern of an American privateer in service of the rebellion, particularly as the current Governor Wentworth was a staunch Loyalist. Malachi turned to his crew.

“Mr. McVie!” he called. The Bosun, legs astraddle the mizzen crosstrees, answered.

“A double rum ration for all hands, to celebrate!” Malachi bellowed. More cheers, and more flung hats, many of which ended in the drink. Malachi frowned at the improvidence of his crew, who would have to buy more hats. He was generous with his own money, as generous as any foremast man, but for all his personal liberality— particularly regarding Roxana, where he pursued a minor infatuation and bought off his conscience at the same time— he was also a captain and shipowner, and not a man to waste the Corporation’s money. He knew that it took money to make money, and had spent the Corporation’s funds lavishly equipping his privateer, particularly in the matter of the extravagant broadside of twelve-pounders, but he fully expected to realize a more substantial profit because of his expenditures. Yet the hands’ throwing their hats away annoyed him, until he reflected that it would be he who would sell them new hats from the slop chest, and such spendthrift behavior was bound to have its silver lining.

“Mr. McVie!” he called again.

“Aye aye, Cap’n.”

“Herd those women below decks.”

“Aye aye, Cap’n.”

Malachi turned to his brother. “Josiah, shall we use your gig?” he asked.

“Aye,” Josiah said, and then muttered, “If the crew is not falling-down drunk.”

The crew of Josiah’s gig were plucked from the long line of seamen waiting for their rum, fortunately before any of them had filled their cups, and sent jumping into the gig that still lay warped to the main chains. Malachi and Josiah descended more leisurely, jumping into the gig’s stern with practiced ease, Malachi carrying two bottles of port beneath his coat. A bottle for each prize.

Yankee Venger, formerly the Wentworth, had barely anchored alongside her captives and put off its local pilot, before the gig hooked onto her chains. Josiah, mindful that protocol dictated the senior leave the boat first, scrambled up the ship’s side and was helped in by Jehu’s first officer, Ellyat, a deacon’s son with a well-filled red waistcoat and a round, beaming face. “Welcome aboard, sir,” he said. “You were expected.”

“Well met, Josiah,” said his elder brother, Jehu. They clasped hands and Josiah grinned.

“Congratulations, Jay,” Josiah said. “You’ve struck the first blow. May many more follow!”

Malachi then followed Josiah on deck, having at first had difficulties managing the entry port one-handed, his left hand wrapped firmly around the necks of the two bottles.

“Jehu, hurray!” he called, embracing his oldest brother, pounding his back with his free hand. “You’ve beaten me to it, curse you!”

“damme,” Jehu said. “I’m bein’ hugged to death by a Cossack. Whence came that beard?”

“D’ye like it?” Malachi asked. “I’ve never been able to shave comfortably at sea. Now that I’m a captain, I’ve decided to set my own fashion and let the whiskers grow.”

“It’s laziness,” said Josiah.

“Most uncivilized, truly,” said Jehu. His speech was English through and through, but it was not entirely affected. He’d been sent to England as a child to be educated properly as the heir to the Markham business and to become a gentleman. The plan had succeeded beyond Adaiah’s expectations— or his liking— and Jehu had acquired along the way an M.A. from Brasenose College, Oxford, the eccentric speech habits of a country gentleman, and the daughter of a baronet for a wife.

“Yet, surely in a state of nature man walked about unshaven,” observed Jehu, “and as such the beard may be an admirable thing, as a means of bringing one closer to the ineluctable grace, the unity of thought and action possessed by our common ancestors. However, the shaving of the whiskers is undoubtedly a token of a man’s removal from the beasts, and as such a sign of progress and civilization.”

“Balls,” said Malachi. “I brought you some admirable port; shall we drink it?”

“Yep, you ain’t civilized,” Jehu decided. “Gentlemen, meet my officers: this is Ellyat, my first; Porter, my second; Konrad, my third. Mr. Hook, the bosun. Now let’s go below; we have much to discuss. Mr. Porter, it’s your watch, I believe.”

Merchant ships, carrying a crew of less than thirty men, made do with three or four officers: a captain or master, a chief mate, a second mate, and perhaps a third mate or a bosun, plus specialists like sailmakers, carpenters, and cooks. Privateers, carrying over a hundred men, needed more officers. Naval vessels would have called the extra officers “lieutenants,” and many privateers followed their example, but the Markhams felt that “lieutenant” was too military-sounding a rank for the irregular brand of sea war which they intended to practice, and so simply numbered them— first officer, second officer, and so on. Their duties were substantially those of their naval counterparts, as were those of the ”petty” officers— bosun, carpenter, sail-maker, gunner, and so forth— which were filled by capable specialists, each of which had assistants— bosun’s mates, carpenter’s mates, et cetera— just as they had in a regular man-of-war.

In the merchant service a captain and master were one and the same man; while in the Royal Navy, the offices of captain and sailing master were held by two different men. The Markhams followed the usual merchant form, except for Malachi, who had created the office of master aboard his own vessel in order to find a place for a unique, capable individual whose talents had become available.

Jehu Markham, holding his sword carefully at his side as he negotiated the narrow corridor to his day cabin, led the way below. It was a smaller copy of Malachi’s cabin aboard Pope, with a somewhat narrower bank of glazed windows, now open in the heat, a couch or settee built beneath the row of sternward-looking windows, a polished table and chairs set upon a fine Turkish carpet. His furnishings, together with an oil painting (Yankee Venger, in the days in which she’d been Governor Wentworth, clawing her way around the New England cape), had been chosen with a mature, consistent, and on the whole conservative taste.

If Josiah’s appearance was rude, and Malachi’s colorful, then Jehu’s was elegant. He echoed his brothers in being slim and agile, and his aquiline nose was a cross between Josiah’s beak and Malachi’s tiller. His reserved face was quite handsome in its way; his cutaway coat was tailored to his very body; his jabot was of silk and ruffled gently to a maroon waistcoat; his queue was tied with an elaborate black bow. His hat was decorated with lace and a red-and-white cockade. The slim, rather dainty sword by his side possessed a hilt that was sprinkled with fine gold work and seed pearls. Below his silk stockings, his shoe buckles flashed silver.

Nevertheless, he was not a self-indulgent man. His Portsmouth and London lodgings were modest, as was his day cabin; he owned only a few clothes and kept but a single servant. He merely demanded that the few things that daily surrounded him be the best available— and that included the servant.

“Sit yourselves,” he drawled, offering chairs. Malachi kicked off his shoes and sat with one leg under him; Josiah, glaring at Malachi, sat square. Jehu called to his servant for a decanter and asked if they had eaten. “Aye, we have,” Josiah said, much to Malachi’s apparent regret.

“First, to business,” Jehu proclaimed. With an elegant gesture he swept open his cupboard, flourished a small box, brought it to the table, and sat down. Malachi watched him narrowly: his every move seemed calculated, very precise in its effect— was this what English schooling did for a man? Jehu opened the box with a key and drew out several rolled documents.

“Privateering commissions,” he said. “They are not, alas, from the Continental Congress. That august body has not yet made up its mind whether privateering is to be recognized; it is thought futile to challenge the superiority of the British at sea.”

Malachi snorted his disgust, and Josiah’s habitual frown deepened.

“Just so,” said Jehu, in apparent agreement. “I’ve managed to obtain privateering commissions from the Commonwealth of Massachusetts; they are quite legal as far as American law goes and must serve our purpose. Congress may well have regained its sanity by now, but I decided that it was best not to miss the spring convoys.”

“You were right,” said Josiah.

“I have brought ten commissions. They cost us a bond of three thousand guineas for the lot. Three are for us, and one is for Ellyat, who shall command the British cutter under our colors. The rest we will divide evenly between us, for any captures we may decide to outfit. Is that agreeable?”

The others nodded.

“Good. They are dated, as you will observe, but the name of the vessel and her master has been left blank. The noble Commonwealth of Massachusetts, with enemy troops in actual occupation of Boston, was most obligin’ about these matters.”

Jehu’s servant came into the room with a decanter, goblets, and cheese; he drew the corks from the necks of the bottles and decanted one of them. The servant, St. Croix, was a quiet Frenchman, a handsome, graceful man who had once been a dancing instructor, and whose actual instruction to the daughters of his previous employer had proved far more comprehensive than that demanded by his profession, so much so that he was forced to leave France and seek employment elsewhere.

“I have reached my limit in wine today,” said Josiah. “But as it’s a special occasion, I’ll be happy to drink to your continued success, Jay.”

“Thank you, Jo,” Jehu said. St. Croix poured for them all, and they raised their cups. “To success!”

“Damme if I ain’t forgotten the most important gossip!” Jehu said. “The British have evacuated Boston and are en route to God knows where, Halifax probably.”

“Christ!” Malachi said, pounding his goblet down on the table.

“The Lord will draw his own conclusions concerning your blasphemy,” Jehu told him, “but I’ll thank you to spare the finish of my cabin furniture.” Jehu smiled and returned to his subject. “The inestimable Washington fortified Dorchester Heights and compelled the enemy to put to sea. When I left New England they were still in Boston Bay, awaitin’ a favorable wind.”

“You should have cut a few out,” Malachi said.

“I was in haste to meet thee,” Jehu said, “else I would have. Though what I would have done with a prize full of British lobsterbacks I can’t make out.”

“The loot, the loot, Jay!” Malachi said. “They must have taken half of Boston with ’em!”

“I believe they did,” said Jehu. “This wine ain’t bad, Mal, but it’s been disturbed. Port should lie for at least a fortnight afore drinkin’.” He rested his glass on the table. “What other news? Oh, aye— Manley the superb took two prizes off Nantucket and drove off an enemy cruiser that tried to take them back. Washington’s appointed Manley his commodore.”

“What need has America of commodores?” Josiah demanded. “Privateersmen are all she needs— give us profit and we will take any reasonable risk.”

“Quite right you are, Jo,” Jehu said. “What is the point of rebellion if there is to be no profit accrued by the rebels? And why should the British attempt to suppress the rebellion, if not to maintain their profitable monopolies? Privateers are perfect knights in service to a free market and to the principles of enterprise: we fight for our own enrichment, which is more than the poor Navy fo’c’sle hand can do, and as businessmen we will not be drawn into any foolish battle that entails undue risk. The English have thousands of merchant vessels on the high seas; their commerce exceeds that of all nations. All are ripe for the plucking. The Royal Navy is in a lamentable state, and our vessels can outsail theirs in any case. By sweepin’ the seas, we’ll gather profit to ourselves and make the war sufficiently unprofitable for our foes that they must give it up. And once the restrictive monopolies are removed, all the world is open to Yankee commerce: more profit! Gentlemen, another toast: To profit!”

They echoed the toast and drank.

“I must disagree, Jay, but only in part,” Josiah said. “The Reverend Gill says that profit is a sign of favor from the Lord; and it is only granted to those whom He favors and who do His work.”

“I suspect Job might have cause to debate your point,” said Jehu. “Nevertheless, I shall concede your thesis, as thou art a man on more intimate terms with the Lord than I.” Josiah looked at his older brother sharply, uncertain if Jehu was mocking him. It was hard to tell; Jehu’s public pose was cool and inscrutable. Malachi poured Josiah another gobletful of wine.

“Tell us, Jay,” Malachi said, “how came you by the prizes?”

“The brig, she’s a tub,” Jehu said. “Loaded to the gunnels with molasses, cotton, and arrowroot. I came up with her off the Bahamas, and she struck after I fired a shot across her bows. We’ll appoint an agent to sell her here with her cargo.

“The other is the Ferret cutter of ten guns. She came up with us off the Turks. I don’t know what her commander had in mind— to warn us about Yankee privateers, I’ll warrant— but he was foolish enough to believe me when I hoisted the Union flag and hove-to along with my prize. When he came close, I hoisted our true colors and ran out the weather broadside. We gave him a peppering at pistol-shot range, her captain and master were both killed as they stood at the tiller, and she fell off to leeward and came aboard us. I gave ’em another broadside and then sent the men over her decks. She was finally struck to us by a master’s mate; she had no other officer unhurt. The man in charge of her was Lieutenant Lord Sidney d’Arcy— the fellow had his head smashed by a grape shot, and it can’t have affected his thinking much.”

Malachi grinned. “I would have shown ’em my heels but for the prize,” Jehu continued, “which I didn’t wish to lose. Or Konrad and the prize crew in her. We’ll appoint Ellyat as captain of her and find her a crew; she’ll make a fine addition to our fleet, eh?”

“Aye,” said Josiah. “Let us thank God for her.”

“There are two more pieces of news before we can make plans for our future,” Jehu said. “First, I found papers aboard Ferret that Lord Sidney, God rest him, had no chance to destroy, instructing him to sail for Jamaica to escort a convoy that will be leaving there nine days hence, on the sixth.”

“Bravo!” shouted Malachi. He stood and drained his cup at a swallow. “Put me on Ferret, Jay, and I’ll hand you a fine victory; they’ll not be expecting their own escort to hoist the Rattlesnake and blow ’em to kingdom come. And you can aid the deception. We’ll make you out to be prize to Ferret and not the other way around—we’ll double the true escort and sweep his decks! What do you say, shall we make a prize of a fine frigate of thirty-two guns? Who’ll stop us then?” He threw up his arms. “Hurrah!”

“Sit down, Mal, you ain’t heard my full story, and I can’t talk with you jumping about,” Jehu said. Malachi sat down with a satisfied thump and poured himself more wine.

“The convoy will be short an escort,” Jehu said, “and we’ll have easy enough pickings without any necessity for deception. I see no need to risk ourselves by runnin’ up under the broadside of an enemy and hopin’ he don’t recognize us.”

“The glory—” Malachi began.

“There ain’t no profit in glory,” Jehu said. “We aren’t naval officers; we take a fair risk for a fair profit, just like any sensible patriot.”

“Where the hell did you learn to say ‘ain’t’ like that?” Malachi demanded. “Not in any American school, by the nailed Christ.”

“In England one learns that there are two classes of people who say ‘ain’t,’” Jehu said. “There are the ignorant, who say it because they know no better; and there are gentlemen, who say it because they know precisely what they intend. I reside in the latter category.”

“Piss on your categories,” said Malachi.

“I haven’t finished deliverin’ the news,” Jehu continued, unruffled. “As I came into harbor from the west I saw another ship making for Charlotte Amalie, about eight or ten miles to the east. She was roundin’ Dog Island when I came into port, so she was hull-down, but from those heavy spars and those sails cut to a T, I’m willing to swear she’s a British man-o’-war from Road Town. She may intend a social visit, but I don’t think so— lay me on my beam ends if by tomorrow we ain’t blockaded!”

Malachi was on his feet again, this time with an oath that even the free-thinking Jehu was hard put to hear without wincing. “We’ll fight her!” he snarled. “We’ve got four craft to the enemy’s one, and unless she’s got two gundecks she’ll strike to us, or my name isn’t Malachi Markham!”

“Be still,” Jehu said. “I intend nothing of the sort.” He nodded. “We could beat her, that’s true. But it would be a hard fight, and any privateer damaged would be one less to cruise off Hispaniola for the Jamaica Convoy.”

“That’s not how you fight a war,” Malachi said in disgust. “You fight a war by taking the foe by the neck and pounding him till he’s no longer able to stand. That’s the way to beat John Bull, aye, and you kick him once he’s down until he can do nothing but beg to kiss our arse.”

Jehu stood, avoiding the deck beams, and folded his arms calmly on his chest. He was staring down his long nose at his youngest brother. “I remind you,” he said coldly, ”that our purpose is not to make him kiss anything, but to relieve him of his purse, with as little cost to ourselves as possible. We fight when we must, but our chief motive is to profit with as little risk as is practicable. You may find this cowardly— I do not care if you do or nay, but I remind you that it is I who have run the risks of battle thus far, not you, and that I’ve proved a success. My courage has been sufficiently proven to myself. My purpose is not to fight a war, but to prosecute it, and do so successfully. So should yours be.”

Malachi stood stunned. He shifted uncomfortably from one stockinged foot to the other, blinked in the rippling, reflected sunlight that splashed up through the stern windows. “By God, Jay,” he said, turning uneasily from Jehu’s challenging gaze, “I never meant to call you coward! I wanted merely— well, damn it all!” he said, sitting down again with one leg under him, battering his thigh with a frustrated fist. “You’ve had your chance, both of you, and I have not. My ship and crew are ready. And if some high and mighty Britisher comes down, I don’t want to run away like some whipped dog.”

Josiah looked at him calmly. “I pray you will not die like our father,” he said. “Cut off and surrounded by a hundred boats, an’ him refusing to run because they were Chinee.” His voice was quiet and reflective, far removed from his usual growl.

“Death comes in all colors, I would have told him,” Josiah went on, “and most of them unexpected. They come in British colors, too, Mai. We run so that we can fight another time, when we’re stronger.”

“By God, you know it best,” Malachi said. “You were both in the last war, and I was not. I’m sorry I spoke unwisely.”

“Good,” Jehu said. “You’ve had more wine than was good for you, and it was the wine that spoke.” He flung out his coat-tails behind him and sat down again.

“You know Nyborg better than I,” Jehu said. “Is he likely to allow us to stay in port once an English frigate demands our drumming out?”

“Nyborg will do what it pays him to do,” Josiah said.

“He’s been amenable to ... to persuasion, but he’s had little but merchant protests so far. He would not wish to risk the British seizing the island or harassing Danish ships. They could do it easily enough; there’s naught here to defend it.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Jehu said, shrugging. “We’ll have to be out in any case, quite soon, or else miss the Jamaica convoy. The frigate will enter harbor and demand our ejection, probably late this afternoon, and afterwards— tonight or tomorrow— place us under blockade. But she’ll have to lie outside the three-mile limit, at least after the twenty-four-hour rule allows us to leave.” The twenty-four-hour rule, designed to prevent hostile ships from battling off neutral ports, forbade the vessels of a belligerent power from exiting a neutral port less than twenty-four hours after a ship of an enemy nation.

“She’ll be expecting us,” Josiah said.

“Aye,” Malachi echoed. “It may be a fight whether you wish it or no.”

“Do you think she’ll lurk off the West Gregerie Channel after nightfall?” Jehu asked. “No, I think not; she’ll be off Long Point, or between Long Point and Flamingo Point.”

Malachi settled back in his chair, a satisfied smile on his face. “I’ve spent four years working out and into St. Thomas in every weather,” he said. “I know the Gregerie Channel well enough; she draws five fathoms at low tide, plenty enough for us. The frigate won’t expect us to use that exit at night; it’s tricky between Hassel Island and the mainland. We must hope for a favorable wind, though, or else we’ll have to warp ’em through. I’ll lead you out in Pope, and I’ll hang in the chains myself, throwing the lead to bring us out safe and sound.”

Jehu nodded, satisfied. “Well enough,” he said. “Though I foresee another problem. We cannot return to St. Thomas after this adventure. That frigate may well be based at Road Town, and though I hold no fear for our safety, she may liberate some of our prizes. We’ll have to choose another base. We can’t use a French one, alas; the French have signed a treaty with the British that neither will harbor privateers hostile to the other as long as they’re at peace.”

“A Spanish port, obviously,” said Josiah. “Santo Domingo: there are privateers a-plenty there, and their agents, in every war.”

The laws of every European nation but one— and presumably those of the rebellious colonies whenever the Continental Congress got around to writing them— demanded that the prizes taken by a privateer be taken to a home port, where their legal title would be awarded to the capturing owners by a duly constituted Prize or Admiralty Court.

The sole exception was the law of Spain. Spain cheerfully would accept before its Prize Courts the privateers and prizes of any belligerent nation; the French could sell English captures there, and English the French— the Spanish Crown profited, either way, absorbing a commission of ten percent of the value of the captured ship, plus whatever else they could squeeze in the way of gratuities. Spain had not yet declared whether they would treat the rebellious colonials with the same equanimity they treated more legitimate European governments, but Spain had lost Florida and other possessions to the British after the last war and would likely jump at the chance to humiliate their old adversary.

“Santo Domingo?” Jehu asked. “My suggestion would be San Juan. It’s a little more off the track, that’s true, but the market for prizes will be that much larger. Also, Markham & Sons don’t have an agent in Santo Domingo, but we have a man acting for us in Porto Rico— Pérez is the name, ain’t it?”

“Pérez of the House of Pérez,” Malachi said. “His company is powerful, and he may persuade the Captain-General to let us stay. But San Juan’s still close to Road Town and that frigate. Less than fifty miles as the crow flies.”

“Frigates ain’t crows,” said Jehu. “The British have a divided command here: the Leeward Islands Station at Antigua and the Jamaica Station at Port Royal. That frigate will be assigned to the Leeward Islands and can’t operate off Porto Rico without Kingston’s permission. We’re safe enough.”

“The British command structure gives us a fine advantage, then,” Malachi said merrily. “We’ll cruise off Hispaniola till it grows hot for us, then shift to the Leeward Islands and harass a different flag officer altogether. They’ll never be able to overcome their division of responsibility.”

“We have two more schooners outfitting in Portsmouth,” said Jehu, “the old Hannah and the John Dryden, which I’ve renamed Yankee Corsair. I’ve laid down three more schooners in Stanhope’s yards. We have six whaleboats, armed with swivels, carrying thirty men apiece — with luck they should be cutting out British ships from Boston Bay even as we speak. I’ve sent our three largest craft to Spain to equip there on the quiet— Bilbao should be hospitable to Kestrel, Curlew, and Hardy. That enterprise is under Captain McDonnel.”

“A good man,” said Josiah.

“Good enough, if he don’t turn to drink again,” Jehu said. “I think one of us should sail for Bilbao when the convoy season ends and keep a weather eye on matters.” He sipped his wine.

“A sweet business, this,” Jehu said. “Three chances for profit, New England, the Channel, and the Caribbean, and almost no risk. The British have less than a hundred ships in their Navy: the fleet was cut to the bone years ago, and the ships they have laid up are probably full of dry rot. If only we could find enough guns! I had to mortgage our souls to half the banks in New England to acquire those nine-pounder guns for Yankee Venger; and Hannah and Dryden are just carrying signal guns, swivels, and a few old four-pounders. But even so it’s clear sailin’ for us. Even if America loses this war, we’ll all be rich men by the end of it!”

“Praise God, amen,” agreed Josiah.

St. Croix quietly refilled their wine glasses. The fitful breeze whistled briefly through the stern windows.

“What is your daily routine?” Jehu asked. “If we’re to escape tomorrow night, we won’t want to vary it, in case there are British spies on the island.”

“We require that the hands sleep aboard,” Josiah said. “In the morning they wash the decks, stow their hammocks, and we give ’em four hours of gun drill. After dinner, two more hours of gun or musketry drill, and then they’re given liberty ashore till sunset.”

“How many won’t appear until morning?” Jehu asked sharply.

“Between six and a dozen on Piscataqua,” said Josiah.

“The same on Pope,” said Malachi.

“And your crews altogether?”

“One hundred sixty,” said Josiah.

“Two hundred twelve.”

It would take less than a score of men to sail each Yankee craft: the rest were to fight them.

“Then some will have to miss the ship tomorrow night,” Jehu said. “I don’t want any news reaching the town tomorrow that we’ll be sailing, so you can’t tell the hands. Don’t even tell your officers. But sign on a score of new hands; we’ll each of us do so, and we’ll say they’re for Ferret.”

His brothers nodded. The instructions made sense; both the buildings of Government House and the warehouses of the Royal Danish West India Company overlooked the port. There were probably British agents at both. Too much was at stake to risk word running free of their departure time.

“My ship also needs a surgeon,” Malachi said. “We have a carpenter’s mate who says he can hack off arms and legs with the best, but I’d feel more comfortable if I could find a man who’d had more practice. I’ll advertise ashore.

“I’ll also arrange it so that we take on fresh water after sunset tomorrow,” Malachi continued. “We’ll slip out of port as soon as the tide turns, just before midnight. I’ll carry a red light on my stern. If I hoist another red light beside it, that’s your signal to heave to: that will mean I’ve run into shoal water and I’ll have to work my way out. If I hoist three light, you must run. That will mean the frigate’s waiting for us. We can’t fight a frigate in the Gregerie Channel; she’d rake us to bits as we came out. Once we round Mosquito Point, we’ll have to stand into Perseverence Bay to avoid the Flat Cays— there’s no light on ’em, so we’ll have to look sharp. Once into the Bay it’s plain sailing.”

Jehu nodded. “Josiah, your schooner is nimble; you will follow Malachi. I shall follow you, and Ellyat in the cutter will follow me. You will repeat Malachi’s signals to me, and I’ll repeat them to Ellyat.”

Josiah settled back in his chair and smiled his slow, rare smile. “We’ll slip out easy as hasty pudding,” he said.

Their talk shifted to technical subjects, particularly the system of signals that Josiah and Malachi had worked out between them, enabling the ships of the Markham flotilla to spread out over miles of ocean, and then, by the proper use of signals, know to be able to concentrate on any target available to them. Josiah and Malachi knew the signals by heart, without the need for signal books: Jehu copied them into a log, making suggestions for additional signals as the innovations occurred to him.

“We’ll meet tomorrow on this,” Josiah suggested. “We’ll bring our officers and our signal books; that will serve as an excuse to keep them from going ashore.”

There was a respectful knock on the cabin door. “Beg pardon, Captain,” said the voice of Porter, the second officer. “The frigate’s entering port. You asked me to keep you informed.”

“Thank you, Mr. Porter,” said Jehu. “We’ll be up directly.”

Jehu took his hat from its peg, placed it firmly on his head, and led his brothers to the poop. Jehu took a telescope from the rack and trained it over the taffrail at the British frigate.

“A thirty-two!” he said. “D’you still want to fight her, Malachi? There’ll be twenty-eight twelve-pounders on her gundeck— probably more— and four long nines.”

“That would be thirty-two more guns to loot off her and put in our own vessels,” Malachi said, unimpressed. “I’d fight her in a rowboat if I had to. You said, after all, that we were short of guns.”

He plucked a telescope from the rack and trained it.

“She’s tackin’ into the bay!” Jehu called. “In this light wind, that calls for fine handling— I know, for I did it myself. I expect she has a capable captain.”

“Or a capable pilot,” said Josiah, refusing to credit the British with more skill than necessary.

The frigate, under topsails, topgallants, and royals, its yards braced around to catch the faint wind, made a fine sight as she beat into harbor— the winged, transparent sails, the brown hull with its red stripe along her gunports, the crimson and gilt of her beak that stood out from the striking blue of the water. A picture of elegance, grace, and controlled power.

The frigate sailed past the Americans to her assigned mooring place beneath Government House; smoke rolled from her lee gunports as she began a measured salute to the Danish flag. The Danish guns replied, saluting the White Ensign. Those guns had made no reply to Jehu’s salute, since the Danes did not recognize the American flag— Malachi, with an oath, swore that fact would change soon enough.

The British officers and men were paying no attention to the salute awarded them. They crowded the quarterdeck and mizzen shrouds, peering at Yankee Venger and her prizes. The American officers peered frankly back, proud of Ferret, the beaten British cutter, with the Rattlesnake flag flying over the White Ensign, and proud of the stir the sight was causing on the enemy quarterdeck.

The Americans, much as they might have hoped for it, were given no chance for a sight of inept British seamanship: sails were furled swiftly and easily, the anchors let go, and boats put into the water.

“Melampe, thirty-two,” Jehu said, his eye to his glass. “The captain has a fine tailor.” He returned the glass to the rack and glanced at Josiah with amused eyes, taking in the shabby hat, battered coat, and drooping stockings. He folded his arms with elaborate casualness. “Doubtless they thought you were my cook,” he said.

Malachi leaned on the rail and gazed at Jehu frankly. His brother was proving to be a puzzle. Dressed superbly but not elaborately, he disdained so much as to perspire in his heavy coat and hat. Most sailors wore their hair unpowdered because it was convenient; Jehu wore it unpowdered because he was in the forefront of that particular radical fashion. Handsome, autocratic, Jehu’s every motion was studied, quite artificial, much as if he were an actor playing a part. What was beneath? Malachi had met Jehu only thrice in his life and could not say. They had been raised apart.

Jehu also had a wife that Malachi had never met. Good lord, what must that marriage be like! Jehu was a man who spurned passion, this much was obvious, who lived within boundaries of moderation that he’d set for himself— if his wife was a woman who shared his views, how cold their bed must be! Yet perhaps he unbent, then, and allowed his ardor full play . . .

Still, Jehu had succeeded at what Malachi had only craved: he had beaten two English men-of-war. The drubbing he’d given Ferret, even if it was as easily performed as he’d made out, must have taken nerves of iron: to heave to and feign submission while an enemy approaches, to watch that curl of foam at the bows of the approaching cutter as it came closer and closer, never knowing if she was to run out her broadside and pass astern, raking Yankee Venger with a vicious broadside that could have crushed her untried crew and left her dismasted and helpless... Malachi knew that he could never take a chance like that; he himself would have fought openly. Though deception was not beyond him, and he thoroughly intended to practice it throughout the war, that brand of passivity, the calm waiting for an enemy to descend, was foreign to him.

Jehu’s other battle had been even more surprising. It had been in June of 1772, almost three years before the war had broken out, when the smuggling schooner Hannah under Jehu’s command had been chased up the channel toward Providence, Rhode Island, by the eight-gun British revenue schooner Gaspee, commanded by Lieutenant Dudingstone. What followed was technically an act of piracy not covered by the laws of war, and therefore a hanging offense; Jehu had never spoken of it, and Malachi had only heard the tale from Josiah weeks before, when Piscataqua had joined him in St. Thomas.

The meat of the story, which Josiah himself had only heard from the boatswain of the smuggler, was this: Jehu, who knew the Providence channel well, had contrived to lead Gaspee onto a mud-bank, where the British vessel stuck fast. Jehu had then acquired some boats, filled them with his own crew and the local Patriot element, armed the enterprise, and set off downstream on the ebb tide. The attack was a surprise, and the only casualty was Lieutenant Dudingstone himself. Jehu, with his elegant sword, had cut a pistol from Dudingstone’s hand when the Britisher had tried to shoot an American seaman. Dudingstone and his crew were put ashore, and Gaspee burned on the mudbank; Jehu and his schooner slipped prudently past the cindered wreck the next day, to put ashore his smuggled goods in a haven on the Connecticut coast.

Jehu was a puzzle. Outwardly so formal and correct, he had to possess an audacious streak somewhere, but Malachi had never seen it. Perhaps it did not exist. Or perhaps, when Jehu had led his men aboard Gaspee, he had thought nothing but abstract thoughts concerning the economic dangers to the restriction of free trade ...

He wondered at Jehu’s English schooling. Jehu, the American son of a tradesman, at school with the British sons of the gentry and nobility— it couldn’t have been easy. Perhaps he had learned to put a distance between himself and others there, to distinguish himself by his costume and cold intelligence, to play the American among the English and the Englishman among the Americans...

“Look how our partner’s rapt,” said Jehu, raising a delicate eyebrow.

Malachi blinked, startled, but he managed to find his way to Macbeth in time. “Give me your favor,” he said, “my dull brain was wrought with things forgotten.”

“Hah! Capital!” said Jehu, his face breaking into the nearest thing to a grin Malachi had seen yet. “You know the play? I’m surprised!”

“I’m not unlettered, Jay,” said Malachi.

“Mal,” began Jehu, in all eagerness, “d’you know the stanza in Rape of the Lock, wherein the admirable Pope—”

No, Malachi did not know it, but he’d be damned if he would admit it. They embarked on an animated discussion, complicated by Malachi’s maneuvering his way off shoal water to more familiar waters.

Josiah listened with half an ear while he watched Melampe at anchor through his glass. The English were sending three boats ashore, one a large gig that obviously belonged to the captain, with every man in it dressed alike in striped shirts and tarred hats. The launches pulling along parallel were probably filled with parties detailed to buy fresh vegetables and meat.

They rowed smartly, far more smartly than Josiah’s crew. They were good men, well-trained, with rather more discipline than any privateer captain could hope to enforce. The Royal Navy seaman was stuck on board ship for the duration of the conflict; but a privateersman, if he didn’t like his berth, could leave at the end of a voyage and sign onto another vessel, and that limited the ferocity of the officers. Still, Josiah did what he could to prepare his crew for a fight. Perhaps the sight of that British discipline would increase his men’s tolerance for hard work.

Josiah was rarely satisfied with any man’s performance, including his own.

“There’s a boat coming, Captain,” said Porter to Jehu. “From that blackbirder over there.”

Jehu interrupted his discussion to say, “Challenge him properly, Mr. Porter,” before returning to pentameter couplets.

“ ’Tis the master of the Nubian Pride,” Porter dutifully reported, after his shouted challenge and the shouted answer had echoed across the harbor, perfectly audible to anyone within two hundred yards. “He wishes to speak with you.”

“Welcome him aboard, Mr. Porter.”

“Aye aye, Captain.”

The master of the slaver was a portly, middle-aged man, with a fringe of lank blond hair surrounding a bald, rufous scalp. His well-filled, black waistcoat bore Dutch embroidery; his thumbs seemed perpetually fixed inside his belt.

“Johann Ruitenbeek,” he said, in the purest American accent. “Of Manhattan City, and the Nubian Pride.”

“I am Captain Jehu Markham, of this vessel,” Jehu said, inclining his trunk forward and back in a barely civil bow. “On my right, Captain Josiah Markham; on my left, Captain Malachi Markham. Porter, my second officer, you have just met, I believe.”

“Honored, sirs,” said Ruitenbeek. “It is a pleasure to encounter Americans after months at sea with a lot of sour Dutchmen. I see that success has crowned your endeavors?” He inclined his red pate in the direction of Ferret.

“New Hampshire has no reason to be ashamed of us,” said Josiah.

“Well, the sight of the cutter set me to considerin’,” said Captain Ruitenbeek. “I was in Portsmouth— England, not New Hampshire, o’ course—when the fightin’ broke out, and was off to the African coast afore I could see how events lay in America. Now I’ve just come in with my load of niggers— ’twas a good voyage, only one out o’ seven died— and will unload ’em here for sale in the islands hereabouts.

“I’ll get my pay, in good gold and silver, today or tomorrow, and it strikes me that privateerin’ may not be a bad course. Slave trading’s good work, at least as far as pay goes, but every trip into the Bight of Benin I begin to wonder whether it’ll be my turn for the fever to carry me off— I’ve had it twice, and th’ former captain died of it, that’s how I became master of the ship...”

“How may we assist you?” Jehu asked, losing patience. He folded his arms.

Ruitenbeek scratched his nose busily. Jehu’s glance abruptly shifted to the main crosstrees.

“Nubian Pride is a fine, fast barque,” Ruitenbeek said. “She was built fast; we got to cross the seas in a hurry if there are to be any of the blacks left alive by the time we reach the Indies. She’ll make a fine privateer, but she’s under-armed. I’ve got six four-pounders on her. Popguns, but good enough for my purpose till now. Niggers ain’t got no sloops-of-war, if you comprehend my meaning.”

Jehu’s frozen features were beginning to show signs of exasperation.

“Now that you’ve got that Britisher as a prize,” Ruitenbeek said, finally arriving at his point, “I thought perhaps her ordnance would be for sale. I’d pay good prices.”

“Regrettably, Captain Ruitenbeek, Ferret will be added to our company,” Jehu said.

“Ah,” said Ruitenbeek. “Ah.” He rocked back and forth on his heels, his bald head bobbing. He did not appear in the least disappointed.

“I was thinking, perhaps,” he started, and then fell silent, apparently contemplating a sea gull hovering off the stern quarter.

“Thinking, perhaps?” Jehu prompted. Malachi snickered.

“You’ve a fine flotilla, this,” said Ruitenbeek. “Four vessels. Good vessels, by all appearances. All but one Yankee-built. Could you perhaps see your way to lettin’ me cruise in concert with you? For a split of the proceeds?”

“Alas,” said Jehu, “you appear to be under a misapprehension. We are not privateers, sir. We are merchants awaiting cargo.”

“Ah. Ah.” Ruitenbeek rocked back and forth again, his hands merrily clasped behind his back. “Misapprehension, ah.” He scratched his head. “Well, gentlemen, I bid you good day,” he said, and began to edge his way from the poop.

“A moment, Captain,” said Josiah firmly. Ruitenbeek hesitated, a crooked grin spreading over his round features. “I am anchored downwind of you,” Josiah said, “and I would be much obliged if you’d shift your vessel. I don’t want any of my hands coming down with some foul African fever; and the reek off your vessel would sicken the milk of a Dutch cow.”

“Ah. Ah. Beg pardon, Captain,” Ruitenbeek grinned, “but there is some, ah, disagreement over my mooring even now. No sooner had I made fast to my buoy than some half-nigger named Nyborg came aboard and assigned me to a new station, so close to shore I’d be aground at low tide. I won’t have that; it might damage the ship.” He nodded again. “Good day, gentlemen. I hope our problems will be resolved in satisfactory fashion.”

“Good afternoon, sir,” Jehu said, and inclined his body forward and back again, the most frozen bow Malachi had ever seen. The portly Dutchman climbed back into his boat, assisted by the able Porter.

“Damned British spy,” Malachi growled. “If I catch him aboard my ship, I’ll hang the bastard.”

Josiah spat to leeward. “Blackbirders,” he said with disgust. “Scum of the earth, or so Reverend Gill says. Still,” he reflected, cocking an eye, at the receding boat, “it’s a profitable trade, so the Lord’s work must be getting done somehow. I expect the practice, however odious, must be bringing heathen souls to Christ.”

“Slavery is a vile system,” Jehu said, “on two counts: on what it does to the master, and what it does to the slave. If a man owns other men, or women, he will be tempted to treat them as if they had no more sensibility than a goat, or a pig, and thereby coarsen himself. And a slave, even if he shows industry and talent, will still remain a slave, advancement denied him even if there be merit in the case. It is a simple waste.”

“Malachi keeps a black wench,” said Josiah, returning to his habitual scowl.

“Does he?” asked Jehu, turning a curious eye to the grinning Malachi. “I have opposed miscegenation myself, at least until the status of blacks be elevated. How is it possible to love a woman who is not one’s equal?”

“What has love to do with it?” demanded Josiah. “It’s lust— base lust!”

“There is affection,” Malachi said equably. “And therefore you may content yourselves. Jehu may reflect that I am helping to elevate Roxana’s status; and Josiah may content himself that I am doing nothing more than King Solomon did four hundredfold. Or was it six hundredfold? As for myself, I am satisfied.”

“One or six hundred times, the status of sin is the same,” said Josiah.

“I see you renamed the Wentworth, Jay,” Malachi said, to change the subject. Josiah, on the subject of sin, had a tendency to become eloquent to the point of tedium..

“Howevermuch I respect the Wentworth family,” said Jehu, “I do not think the name suitable for an American privateer. What of Alexander Pope—will you rename her?”

“I haven’t thought about it,” Malachi said. “May not the author of satiric broadsides throw iron broadsides as well?”

“True enough,” allowed Jehu.

“And it was you, Jay, that named her,” Malachi said, “and if you don’t object, I think it’s a good idea to rechristen her. If it’s not too great a vanity, I’ll give her a name reflecting on her master. You named the ship yourself, Jay, when I first came aboard. I’ll call her Cossack!”

“Let us drink, gentlemen, to her new name,” Jehu said. He led them below once more, and St. Croix decanted Malachi’s second bottle.

“To Cossack, and to her brave Captain,” Jehu said, “may their success resound to the credit of our young nation.” They drank. “I have some cheese you may favor,” Jehu said. “I’ll call for it and some brandy.”

St. Croix appeared with the cheese and a squat brandy bottle. The wine and cheese were swiftly disposed of, and the brandy begun. At sundown they took a tour of the deck to see Melampe weigh anchor and slip gracefully out of port; with the wind on her quarter, her exit was rapid, and soon they could see little but her mostly bare yards, heeled over slightly in the light breeze above the great White Ensign on her poop.

“She’s nimble in light winds,” Josiah said. “We’d do well to remember that.”

They returned to Jehu’s cabin, this time for a meal. The efficient Ellyat had sent parties ashore to purchase fresh food. There was roast beef and fowl, a pepperpot, yams, more of Jehu’s prize cheese cooked by St. Croix and served with claret. They returned to the brandy afterwards, and a bottle of Danish schnapps was procured.

“Beg pardon, sirs,” said Ellyat, the First Officer, after a respectful knock. “Mr. Nyborg, the Chief Customs Inspector, is requesting to see you.”

“B-by all means,” said Jehu. His slight stammer and the brightness in his hazel eyes were the. only betrayal of the quantities he’d drunk. The others were not so lucky. Josiah had not spoken for the last half hour, even in condemnation of Malachi’s frequent toasts, all of which were obscene, blasphemous, and increasingly unlikely.

Nyborg entered and bowed to the three captains at their table. He was at least technically a Dane, and bore a Danish name, but he looked Mediterranean. He was short and slight, with dark skin and curling black hair, the latter only partially concealed by his white, formal wig. He was dressed in a rich, elaborate uniform with quantities of gold lace and several decorations— not in the best of taste.

“Do I have the honor of addressing Captain Jehu Markham, of Portsmouth, New Hampshire?” he asked, speaking clipped, formal English.

“You do, sir,” said Jehu. “Pray sit down, and j-join our company.”

“I am afraid that is impossible, sir. I am here on a regrettable duty.”

”Ahem,” interrupted Malachi, and cleared his throat. He bowed in the direction of Nyborg, and began:

-- A dashing good fellow, Nybore,

When addressed by the British, he swore,

He’d seen no privateer

Warping up to his pier,

And such persons he’d greatly deplore.

Nyborg smiled a thin, civil smile. Malachi bowed again. “It needs work,” he apologized.

“Captain Markham,” said Nyborg, addresssing Jehu, “I was favored this afternoon by a visit from the Honourable Cecil Trowbridge, Captain of His Britannic Majesty’s frigate Melampe. He and his admiral are displeased with thy presence here. Although I endeavored to remind Captain Tr/owbridge of Denmark’s neutrality, he was most adamant. I am afraid, sir, that I was faced with a case of the laws of hospitality clearly conflicting with the laws of expedience.” He had the decency to look embarrassed. “I am sure I do not have to remind you, sirs, of Denmark’s regrettable lack of strength in the Indies. I must officially inform you, sir, that this vessel, and your prize Ferret, may only enjoy the hospitality of this port for seven more days, counting from this minute.”

“I understand, sir,” said Jehu. “I regret that the honorable Danish administration has seen fit to bow to British pressure in this matter.”

“So do I, sir,” said Nyborg. “By flying American colors this afternoon, Yankee Venger and Ferret declared themselves as vessels belonging to a belligerent power. I regret that I have no choice in this action. I was able to struggle for an extension of the deadline— the British demanded forty-eight hours— on humanitarian grounds, on account of the storm, sir, in which your ship took damage.”

A slight smile fluttered at the corners of Jehu’s lips. “I understand perfectly, Mr. Nyborg,” he said. “I thank you on behalf of my, er, crew.”

“Thy vessel, Captain Markham,” said Nyborg, with a formal bow in Josiah’s direction, “the schooner Piscataqua—” Nyborg’s enunciation of the strange word was careful and perfect. “and the ship Alexander Pope may remain in harbor, their status being, ah,” he licked his lips while searching for the word, “ambiguous.”

“Will ye sit down and join our party, now that your official duties have been fulfilled?” Malachi offered.

“Alas, I may not,” said Nyborg, his fine teeth flashing in a white grin. “Social obligations require my presence elsewhere: Mr. Glasgow-Rodrigues is having a ball tonight. Already I am late: you see that I am dressed for the event.”

“Ah,” said Jehu. “I wondered th-that you would garb yourself in such ... in such vogue, purposing to visit only the h-humble cabin of a Yankee privateer. I shall no longer delay you. Your servant, sir.”

“Servant, sir,” said Nyborg, bowed again, and backed from the cabin. Mr. Ellyat, who had remained tactfully behind Nyborg’s starboard shoulder for the duration of the interview, nodded to the three captains and closed the door behind him.

“Did you notice that he didn’t mention your brig, Jay?” Malachi grinned. “He’d like to see it sold here.”

“I think we shall let him,” Jehu said. “I believe Herr Nyborg is a good man in a crisis.”

The brandy bottle was soon empty and thrown most amusingly out of one of the open stern windows; they were forced to concentrate fully upon the fiery Danish schnapps.

Sometime after dark, Josiah and Malachi heaved themselves upwards, assembled their gear, and made their vague way to Josiah’s gig, where it still rested against the ship’s side. The gig’s crew, by this time scarcely in better condition than their Captain, twisted only one ankle among them in getting into the craft; Josiah ponderously crashed into the stern, and Malachi leaped lightfooted down beside him in his stockings, carrying his shoes in his coat pockets. The gig’s crew missed stroke the first four or five times, but eventually got the hang of it and made for Alexander Pope— or, as she had been renamed, Cossack.

Malachi’s good spirits were much increased by the thought of Roxana awaiting him in his sleeping cabin. It would be their last night together, and he intended to make the most of it. Roxana was a sweet girl, an intelligent girl, a lusty and most ardent girl— with the hundred guineas Malachi would give her tomorrow, she would never again have to take risks. Malachi hoped that she would visit his cabin again, once she was rich enough to have a choice.

“Take good care of your Captain now,” he admonished the gig’s crew as they tossed oars and slid up to Cossack’s entry port. Josiah, his chin sunk on his breast, was fast asleep.

“Aye aye, sir, don’t you worry,” Barlow assured him. “Bein’ an abstainer, I’m sure it affects him worse’n others. But we’ll get him to his cabin all right.”

Malachi made the entry port on his third try, soaking his good silk stockings and losing only one shoe. He was assisted aboard, on his successful attempt, by his Second Officer, John Maddox, a black-browed and sensible sailor.

“Welcome aboard, Captain,” Maddox said. “Only four men have not reported aboard tonight.”

“Very well,” said Malachi, limping to his cabin. “There will be no liberty tomorrow. Rig the boarding nets, run out a couple of guns, and load with grape. The Honourable Cecil Trowbridge may be feeling audacious tonight.”

“Aye aye, sir,” Maddox said. “I’ll see it done. Good night, Captain.”

“Good night, Mr. Maddox,” said Malachi. He made his way down the ill-lit corridor to his cabin and entered, banging his head on the deckhead-beam for the first time in two years. He rid himself of his wet clothes and joined Roxana in the narrow bed. His ardor was plain, and Roxana turned to him as he cupped her willing breasts, but no sooner did he rest his head upon her warm and comfortable shoulder than he was overcome by swift, obliterating sleep.

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Framed