At first he thought that someone had dropped a bundle of clothes on the planks and had left them where they fell. He took a step closer, sucked in his breath, whispered, “Goddamn my eyes…”
Two skeletons, still bearing the remnants of their clothes, shoes still slipped over bony feet, lay across one another. A sword through one, a dagger through the other. Quigley might have retched at the sight, but the bones had been so long exposed that they were picked clean and bleached white and had more or less collapsed into a heap, largely undisturbed, so that one could see clearly how the pair had fallen, taking each other to hell.
Quigley smiled, amused by the folly of such men. What had they gained? Around him the rest of the boat crew climbed up and spread out on the dock and gazed at the strange and morbid sight.
Patrick Quigley, having seen as much of the skeletons as he wished to see, stepped back and looked up the road to the big house on the hill. It was impressive, even from a distance, but he could see the signs of neglect: the charred roof, the wild grass sprouting around the stockade fence that was fallen down in places. Such a fine house. What a waste that it should be abandoned thus.
And then he felt the stirring of an idea, and he looked around, as if he might see whether the others were thinking as he was. He had fifty armed and loyal men with him. Not a terrific force, but stronger than any the island could muster, as far as he could see.
How hard would it be to take St. Mary’s for his own? Who was there to resist him?
He had thought to sail the pirate wind, take some rich prize in the Red Sea, head for home a wealthy man. But what were the chances of that? He’d be damned lucky even to find a treasure ship, and even if he did, there was every chance that he would end up like old Thomas Tew, holding in his bowels with his hands.
But here, here he could set up as a middleman of sorts, buy and sell from the Roundsmen and the legitimate merchantmen who plied those waters. That was real wealth, and it did not depend upon luck or exposing oneself to flying shot.
He had an image of himself in that big house, looking down on the harbor just as he was now looking up. Native girls in attendance-he had heard of their legendary compliance. Suddenly the thought of returning to Newport, bitter cold, windswept, wintry Newport and his scrawny shrew of a wife and unpleasant children seemed unthinkable.
Unthinkable, certainly, in light of the realization that he had only to march his armed band inland and take the island. Then he could set up as the lead merchant there. A governor of sorts.
Governor? No, lord of the manor. Quigley smiled to himself. Lord, hell. He would be king of St. Mary’s.
Why had no one else ever thought of this?
Acknowledgments
Thanks, as is always the case, are due many people. Thank you to Barry Clifford, Ken Kinkor, and especially Paul Perry for the information on St. Mary’s on Madagascar’s coast, a happy coincidence that they were researching the place-and going there-at the same time I was writing about it! Thanks as ever to Nat and Judith for all their help and support, and to Nancy Becker for the swordplay. And with deep appreciation I extend my thank-you to David Semanki at Harper-Collins and to Hugh Van Dusen, one of the last of the Renaissance men.
JAMES L. NELSON has served as a seaman, rigger, boatswain, and officer on a number of sailing vessels. He is the author of By Force of Arms, The Maddest Idea, The Continental Risque, Lords of the Ocean, and All the Brave Fellows-the five books of his Revolution at Sea saga, as well as The Guardship and The Blackbirder, the first two books of the Brethren of the Coast trilogy. He is also the author of Glory in the Name: A Novel of the Confederate Navy. He lives with his wife and children in Harpswell, Maine. His website is found at www.jameslnelson.com.
