Rough Passage to London(66)

Morgan took careful measure of the situation. With his two ship’s officers, Icelander, Spaniard, Lowery, and Scuttles down below, he guessed that they now faced the remaining four mutinous sailors, all armed with knives they’d taken from the others. Certainly they had the mutineers outnumbered, but there were hostages to consider. He knew the only big advantage he had were the two pistols he carried.

With Icelander and the Spaniard at his side, Morgan slowly advanced to the foredeck. He’d left Nyles to steer the ship and to guard the helm. Pratt was below with the two prisoners. He noticed that the foredeck lantern had been snuffed out. There was an eerie quiet on the slow-moving ship, the only sound, the creaking masts. He strained his ears for any suspicious noises like a footstep or a human voice. The night was so dark it was hard to see anything but the bare outline of the shrouds immediately ahead of him. Ochoa held the flickering lantern in one hand and his throwing knife in the other. Icelander had a large axe that was normally used to cut down tangled rigging and splintered masts. As they came closer to the foredeck, Morgan could hear the faint lapping of the water as the waves splashed against the starboard side.

As the trio crept forward, a large shadowy object suddenly fell from the sky to the deck, landing with a solid heavy thud just several feet from where Morgan was standing. He jumped back, frightened out of his wits, the air sucked out of his lungs, leaving him too shocked to react. It was so dark that he couldn’t see what it was, but Ochoa lunged toward it, lantern in one hand, the knife in the other. The Spaniard reached into the darkness, grabbed something, and yanked it up into the flickering light, revealing the head of an unconscious man, his eyes blank. A pool of blood was spilling onto the deck. Ochoa turned him over and saw the handle of a long sheath knife protruding from the man’s stomach. Morgan could see that it was one of the new recruits who had fallen from the yards onto the deck. It looked as if he’d impaled himself on his own knife.

Morgan was rattled by the sight of the dead man and the blood pooling on the deck. His gaze remained locked on the man’s lifeless eyes and the knife handle sticking up out of the bloodstained shirt for what seemed like a long time. A death on his own ship! Events were quickly spiraling out of control. Just then, they heard a thudding of feet on the deck. With a banshee-like yell, the rebels charged the three men amidships. All three stood their ground. Morgan extended his arms out in preparation to fire. Just when it seemed likely that there would be a bloody clash, the three rebels stopped within twelve feet of Morgan. A glimmer of shiny metal by their fists alerted him that they had their knives drawn. In the dim yellow flame from the lantern, he couldn’t see them well, but he could tell from the faint flash of their teeth, and the wide stance of their feet, that they were poised for action.

“Show your face,” Morgan cried out.

“Go ahead and fire, Captain, or maybe yer scared,” shouted the bushy-headed sailor, who from his manner and the way he spoke was clearly their leader.

“What are your intentions?”

“What do ye think, Cap’n? We aim to take yer ship. A dozen of your sailors are all tied up in the foc’sle. They can’t ’elp ye.”

The words spilled out from the darkness, slowly and steadily, hauled out of a deep inner well of bitterness and hatred.

Morgan responded, his voice projecting more confidence than he felt. “Two of your men are now in manacles locked up down below. One of your number is already dead with a knife in his belly. That leaves only the three of you scoundrels left, and with my two shots, there soon will just be one of you. What will it be, men?”

Icelander and Ochoa stood with their weapons hoisted over their heads. Morgan’s palms were sweaty. He could tell that this news had changed things. He could just make out the visibly startled face of the ringleader, but then the man quickly regained his composure. A fight was about to begin when out of the gloom of the foredeck, one of the rebel sailors appeared with a knife to Whipple’s throat, the blade flashing in the lantern’s flickering light, the man’s largely bald head and long, drooping moustache barely visible.

“Stop where you are, Captain! Unless ye want this old sailor to die,” said the bald man, whom the ringleader called Enochs. “I’ll kill ’im without a thought. I’se done it before, you can be sure of that.”

Their leader, the bushy-haired mutineer, now spoke up.

“This old tar ’ere will die like a pig unless ye ’ave yer men ready and lower the quarter boat on the starboard side. We’ll kill ’im, don’t y’doubt it.”