Cutthroats of the Coast

Chapter 3 - Welsh Rarebit

The sour faced gentleman who had been so free with his cane turned out to be The Betsy's master mariner.  Not only that he was the only man aboard who actually knew how to navigate, which I found somewhat incredible considering the profession of those whose company I now kept.

Solomon Jones brooked no nonsense from the crew, the Captain or any of the other ship's officers.  He was free with his cane ashore and only too happy to invoke a lashing aboard.  It was a miracle that more men did not have their backs opened to the bone whilst strapped to a grating. However, due to the intercession of Morgan himself these sentences were often commuted to a more necessary scraping of the heads.

This was not to say that Morgan was an easy going Captain.  He was not.  He could be unspeakably cruel.

I first witnessed this when we were three days out from Bristol on our voyage to the King's dowry of Tangier. Our hold was full of diverse and necessary items that the men of the Army would find most useful and that the ship's owners believed would fetch a good price.  All was quiet aboard The Betsy.  We had rounded the Lizard and were making good progress; the hands cheerful (yet not a little unwell after their excesses ashore).  The weather was calm and clear with a fresh Westerly wind driving us down into Ushant.  The ship - or brig really - sailed under the blue dome of the sky, canted away from the wind, ropes and spars creaking with the plunging of the bow into the swell.  Only the sound of the sea streaming along her hull provided some sort of relief from this incessant groaning of the vessel.

I had not been troubled by sickness and I had enjoyed the regular administration of ale with fresh tack, as well as a ration of rum that was sufficient enough to keep me content, though hardly sated. My position when I was on watch was within the waist of the ship.  I would perform all sorts of menial tasks that only a landsman of necessity would be granted.  Carrying stores up from the hold; rolling barrels for the cooper; carrying spars for the carpenter; carting ropes and cables for the bosun; sailcloth for the sailmaker; replenishing shot for the gunner;  hauling on a rope when the wind shifted; or simply standing with my back to the windward rail, adding my weight to others of the crew who were stiffening the ship, helping her sail closer to the wind.

The men worked competently enough as far as I knew (now that I had the rather unfortuneate designation of  a landsman - an unskilled sailor).   However, it seemed that this was not competent enough for Jones.  Another poor landsman - I believe his name was Pugh,  a shepherd  who had been put off his land in Wales by the local gentleman - seemed to have caught the master's attention.

"Mr Butcher!"  he called from the quarterdeck to the Bosun, a brawny Scot late of His Majesty's jail at Newgate.  "Mr Butcher, that man is far too slow about his business!"  With that he pointed with his cane at Pugh.  "Start him, I say!"

"Aye, Mr Jones! I shall start him from here until next week,"  Butcher replied with a knuckle to his forehead.

At this the Bosun skipped along the deck at great speed, dodging men and ropes.  Stopping at the surprised Pugh,who visibly quailed before the great brute, he barked, "Get yer arse moving, ye slack wee sheep-shagger!"  With that he grabbed Pugh by the collar of his shirt and threw him against the rail.  From his pocket, Butcher pulled a short section of thick rope, tarred and bound tightly with yarn, and advanced on Pugh.  Raising the rope's end above his head he struck the Welshman across the face.  

"Look lively now when an officer gives an order!"  Butcher roared as he contiued to strike Pugh.

Pugh held his hands up above his head to defend himself and yelled out, "Stop it!  Stop it!  I've done nothing, you mad bugger!  Leave me alone!"  Red faced and humiliated, the little man was shaking with helpless anger, tears streaming from his eyes.

"Call me a bugger, damn ye? You'll be before the Captain for that!"

"Call you a bugger?  I say you're a mean bastard!  And stuff the Captain - he's a bastard too!"  Pugh yelled.

"Mr Butcher!" a voice called from the quarterdeck.  "What is this commotion, sir?  Why is my rest disturbed by the cackling of fowl and the bleating of sheep?"

We all turned aft.  Pugh stopped his huffing and puffing and Butcher stood smartly to attention.  There on the quarterdeck stood a most unique figure.  Barelegged, with only an eastern looking robe to conceal what we had all seen at the Dolphin and Dragon, Morgan strode down to the waist, an odd little green turban upon his head.  I would have taken him for a rather comical figure but something in the man's eyes stayed my mirth.  There was an empty coldness to them.  Morgan was a killer.  It was painted on his soul like a gentleman wore a suit of clothes.

The hands parted to let Morgan through and he stopped at the bosun and Pugh.  Morgan glared at Butcher but he looked at Pugh as a cat might at a mouse.

"What's about, Mr Butcher?  Why's this little Welsh bastard making such a fuss?" he growled.

"Starting him, Captain.  Mr Jones' orders." Butcher replied stiffly.

"Well, he seems to need a further lesson in respect for his officers, does he not?"

"That he does, sir.  I was going to bring him before you."

"And so it seems, you have."

"And I want off this boat!"  Pugh yelled at Morgan.  In the intervening space of moments from his beating to the Captain's appearance, he seemed to have recovered himself and was now resolved to be somewhat foolhardy.  "No-one said anything about getting struck!  You're no better than some stuck up bastard landlord!"

"No, I suppose not," said Morgan, "But then you're on my ship and you're very rude.  I think it's time for you to go."

Morgan grasped the front of Pugh's breeches and hoisted him up against the rail, ignoring the weak, flailing blows that the Welshman rained upon his face and shoulders.  Morgan's odd turban was knocked off in the struggle but his strength was unrelenting and he slowly lifted Pugh higher and higher.

"No!  No!  You can't!"  Pugh screamed.

"I can and I have," Morgan hissed through his teeth, just as he gave Pugh one last shove up, his neck corded with strain.

Screaming, Pugh tumbled back over the rail, disappearing from view.  There was a thump as he struck something on the side of the brig but the splash of him hitting the sea was lost in the general uproar that had followed the sight of Pugh's bare feet going over.

Morgan turned back to the crew, hands on hips, as naked as he had been in the Fish and Lizard.  "Bastard, thieving Welshman's stolen my robe!  Now if that wan't a hanging offense, tell me what is!"

In one moment Morgan had that crew in the palm of his hand.  The jeering, howling pack cheered the dreadful man as he strutted back to his cabin, forgetting what he had just committed against one of their own.  I looked on, aghast, wondering at what my drinking had led me to now.  Why had I ever found ale, wine, brandy or rum to be sweeter than mother's milk?   Why could I not have been as sober as my brother?  Where was this going to lead me?  What had I got myself wrapped up into now?  What was this pack of howling demons planning to do in Tangier?

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