Yet, for all of the violence, it would seem to dissipate as quickly as it flared up. Men who moments before had been holding blades to each other’s throats would make up in a round of backslapping that looked almost as painful as the fighting but seemed to have the desired effect. The articles stated that any man’s quarrels should be ended on shore by sword or pistol in a duel. Nobody really wanted that, of course. A quarrel was one thing, possibility of death quite another. So fights tended to be over as quickly as they’d begun. Tempers would flare, then die down.

Because of this, genuine grievances on board were few and far between. So it was just my luck to be on the receiving end of one.

I first became aware of it on my second or third day on board because I turned, feeling a penetrating stare upon me, and returned it with a smile. A friendly smile, or so I thought. But one man’s friendly smile is another man’s cocky grin and all it seemed to do was infuriate him even more. Back came a glare.

The next day, as I made my way along the quarter-deck, I was struck by an elbow so hard that I fell to my knees, and when I looked up, expecting to see a grinning face—“gotcha!”—I saw only the smirking face of the same man as he glanced over his shoulder on his way to his station. He was a big man. Not the sort you’d want to be on the wrong side of. Looked like I was on the wrong side of him, though.

Later, I spoke to Friday, a black deck-hand who often had the hammock near mine. Describing the man who had knocked me down, he knew who I was talking about straight away.

“That’ll be Blaney.”

Blaney. That was all I ever heard anybody call him. Unfortunately—by which I mean, unfortunately for me—Blaney hated me. He hated the guts of me.

There was probably a reason. Since we’d never spoken, it couldn’t have been an especially good reason; the important thing was, it existed in Blaney’s head, which at the end of the day was all that mattered. That and the fact that Blaney was big and according to Friday skilled with a sword.

Blaney, you might have guessed by now, was one of the gentlemen I first met the evening that I arrived early for the departure of the Emperor. Now, I know what you’re thinking; he was the one to whom I’d spoken, who was all ready to teach me a lesson or two for my impudence.

Well, no, if you thought that, you’d be wrong. Blaney was one of the other men sitting at the cask playing cards. A simple, brutish man, with what you might call a prominent forehead, thick eyebrows that were permanently bunched together as though he was always confused about something. I hardly noticed him on that night, and thinking about it now, perhaps that was why he was so infuriated; perhaps that’s why the grudge was born: he’d felt ignored by me and that had annoyed him enough to nurture this hatred of me.

“Why might he have taken against me?” I asked, to which Friday could only reply with a shrug and a mumble of “Ignore him.” Then he closed his eyes to indicate our conversation was at an end.

So I did. I ignored him.

This—obviously—infuriated Blaney even more. Blaney didn’t want to be ignored; he wanted to be noticed. He wanted to be feared. My failure to be frightened of Blaney—yes, it stoked his hatred of me.

SIXTEEN

Meantime, there were other things to think about. For example, a rumour going round the crew that the captain was feeling left out of spoils. There had been no raids for two months; we’d not earned so much as a halfpenny and there were rumblings of discontent, most of which were coming from his cabin. It became common knowledge that our captain felt as though he was holding up his end of the bargain but getting little in return.

What bargain, you might ask? Well, as privateers, we provided a presence for Her Majesty; it was as though we were unenlisted soldiers in her war against the Spanish. In return, of course, we were allowed to raid Spanish ships with impunity, which means as much as we bloody well wanted, and for as long as anyone could remember that’s exactly what had happened.

There were fewer and fewer Spanish ships at sea, however. At port, we’d begun to hear rumours that the war might be coming to an end; that a treaty might soon be signed.

Captain Dolzell, though, well, you’d have to give him credit for being able to look ahead of times and see which way the wind was blowing, and what with us being left out of spoils, he decided to take us on a course of action that went outside the remit of our letters of marque.

Trafford, the mate, stood next to Captain Dolzell, who removed his tricorn and wiped sweat from his brow before replacing it and addressing us all.

“This raid will make us rich, lads, your pockets will split. But I’ve got to warn ye, and I would be failing my duty as your captain if I did not, that it is indeed a risky venture.”

Risky. Yes. The risk of capture, punishment and death by the drop of the hangman’s scaffold.

A hanged man’s bowels open, I’d been told. A pirate’s breeches would be tied at the ankles to stop the shit escaping. It was the indignity of that which scared me more than anything. It wasn’t how I wanted Caroline to remember me, dangling from a rope, reeking of shit.

I had not left Bristol in order to become a fugitive from the law, a pirate. If I stayed with the ship and we went through with the captain’s plan, then that is what I would be. We would have the combined forces of the East India Company’s own Marines plus Her Majesty’s Navy after us.

No, I hadn’t joined up as a privateer in order to become a pirate, but all the same if I was ever going home, I couldn’t do it penniless. I had this idea that if I returned with riches I could pay the price on my head; that my enemies might be appeased.

But no, I hadn’t joined up to be a pirate. The money I earned would be earned legally.

Please cease your sniggering. I know how quaint I sound now, but back then, I still had fervour in my belly and dreams in my head. So when the captain made his offer, saying he knew not all on board would want a part of any badness, and that anybody not wanting a part should say now, or forever hold their peace, so that he could organize passage off the ship, I went to step forward.

Friday stopped me with a surreptitious hand. Not looking at me. Just stopping me from moving forward and staring straight ahead. From the side of his mouth he said, “Wait,” and I didn’t have to wait long to find out why. Five of the crew had shuffled up the deck, good men who wanted no part of any piracy. At a word from the captain the first mate had these five good men thrown overboard.

I decided there and then to keep my trap shut and instead determined that I would follow the captain, but only up to a point. I’d follow him, reap my share of the money we made, then jump ship. After I’d jumped ship, I’d join up with other privateers—after all, I was by then an experienced jack-tar—and deny all knowledge of ever having been on the Emperor when this terrible crime was committed.

As plans go, it wasn’t especially sophisticated. It had its flaws, I had to admit, but yet again I found myself stuck between a rock and a hard place with neither of my options being particularly appealing.

As the appeals of the men thrown overboard receded behind us, the captain went on to outline his plans for piracy. He didn’t go so far as suggesting we attack the Royal Navy, that would have been suicide; instead he knew of a target to be found in the West Indies. So there, in January 1713, was where the Emperor headed.