“Son los piratas del río.”
Morgan shook his head, still not understanding.
“Thieves,” replied Ochoa with a hushed voice. “River thieves.” At the mention of this word, the Spaniard’s dark eyes became still and cold, deadly as an iceberg floating underwater. Morgan had always heard tales about ships entering the Thames being attacked by river pirates. They were called scuffle hunters. He had always assumed it was just talk from some of the old sailors as he had never heard of any packet ships being attacked. Still, there were many stories of robberies and murder on the banks of the Thames, and the serious threat of river piracy had led to the formation of the Marine Police years earlier.
Morgan could hear the sound of oars breaking the water’s surface, but he couldn’t see anything through the shifting fog. A shiver went down his spine. They were about to be attacked. He held the knife that Ochoa had given him. It felt awkward in his hands. He wasn’t certain if he could use it against another man. A wave of panic swept over him, just like when he first came on the ship years ago as a cabin boy. He found himself looking at Mr. Brown with his black hat. He seemed alert, but strangely relaxed. The second mate caught his glance, and Morgan looked away. Just then, a distinctly English voice broke through the gloom.
“Stand by to be boarded or we’ll bring ar guns to bear on ye.”
The fog was so thick Morgan hadn’t noticed that Mr. Toothacher had mounted two four pounders on the quarterdeck. Some of the old-timers from the river rammed them full of grapeshot and langrage. As soon as they heard the voice, Toothacher began shouting.
“Fire when ready!”
With that there were two loud explosions, one after another, but the pirates had planned this well. There were no cries for mercy, no screams of pain, only a deathly silence followed the roar of the cannons. Toothacher looked surprised and puzzled as he stared out into the gray, foggy mist off the side of the boat. Morgan clutched the knife’s handle more tightly and held it in front of his chest. Only the Spaniard seemed to know what was going on. He motioned to Icelander and grabbed Morgan, pointing toward the stern of the boat. Then he yelled out, “Es un truco! Llegan del otro lado a estribor!”
Some of the sailors understood a few words of Spanish so at least they had turned toward the starboard side of the ship where the Spaniard had warned them of danger. There was a loud bump and a thud. The next moment the Hudson was grappled and boarded. Morgan watched in horror as the first of the scuffle hunters surfaced over the bulwarks. A dozen men armed with knives, cutlasses, and pistols emerged over the sides of the ship, calling for the Hudson crew to surrender. One or two had pistols, and they opened fire. Morgan watched as Mr. Toothacher grimaced in pain as he reached for his shoulder. More shots rang out. The scrape of metal against metal could be heard above the shouting. Morgan could see that two more of the Hudson’s sailors had been hit. Captain Champlin, his wavy, silvery black hair all askew, fired one pistol and then the other.
Morgan was about to join the fray when the Spaniard and Icelander pulled him along, running to the stern of the ship to begin lowering the jolly boat over the transom.
“Where are we going?” Morgan shouted. “We can’t leave the ship.”
“Don’t worry,” Icelander told him. “Ochoa has a plan.”
Morgan quickly looked at the Spaniard, whose face was burning with intensity and hatred. He took one last look back. He spotted a short, stout man with a pea jacket and a black hat in amidst men with belts and scabbards. He wasn’t sure because of the foggy mist, but it looked like it was Mr. Brown. Instead of fighting, the second mate was talking to one of their attackers. Morgan watched astonished as Mr. Brown motioned to another group of these river thieves with his long arms. Morgan looked over to where he had appeared to signal. He saw Hiram amidships just forward of the quarterdeck. Without thinking, he yelled at him to watch out.
Hiram looked over to the port side of the ship where Morgan was pointing. Two men were running toward him with knives in their hands. He reached into one of the quarter boats on the starboard side and pulled out one of the oars. He grabbed the long wooden oar, holding it with both hands in the center, striking one pirate in the jaw with a left hand jab of the blade, and then with a lunge, jammed the handle side into the other man’s stomach.
Pausing only for a second to observe the pain he had inflicted, Hiram ran back to the stern of the ship. He followed Morgan over the stern rail into the jolly boat, as Icelander and the Spaniard began rowing away, disappearing almost immediately into the fog. Morgan still had no idea what the plan was or what they were doing. Ochoa signaled the other three to be silent although the noisy chaos of fighting above them muffled any noise their oars could have made.