The Miniature

Rachel ran under full sail before a good breeze, however, the stranger continued to gain on her. By noon she lay off Rachel’s starboard quarter only four miles or so astern. The strange ship’s lines were now easily discernible. Her hull was black and her masts were sharply canted as great billowing sails drove her along ahead of the wind. She showed no flag.

“She not British built,” declared Captain Taylor. “I take ‘er to be a thing from heathen lands, a Sicilian or a Turk, most like.”

“A pirate fer sure!” followed the mate Andrews.

“Aye, Andrews. Aye.”

“What’re we te do Captain? We’ve every inch of canvas spread even te stu’ns’ls and she’s still closing.”

“Oh, God!” Catherine gasped, as Captain Taylor relayed the information to those waiting below decks.

“Calm child, calm.” James soothed. He looked at Captain Taylor, his eyes dark and intent. “Jonah, you’ll give me a pistol,” he said, “They’ll not take the lass alive!”

“Dadda!” Catherine cried, sagging in her father’s arms.

“Mister Rowland,” interrupted Jonathan. “Maybe Miss Catherine, could pass herself off as a boy. I have another pair of breeches and shirt—and shoes too.”

“By Jove lad,” James said. “You just might have something there—No time to lose. Quick Jon get your clothes—Meg where are you? We’ll have to do something with your hair—” He caught a lock of Catherine’s soft tawny curls in his hand. “Cut it. That’s the only way. Style it like a lad’s”

“Oh, dadda!” Catherine cried.

“No time to be vain lass—Meg are you coming?” he called.

“Ya suh, Marse Ro’land. Here ah is,” Meg moaned, shuffling forward.

Jonathan was back in a moment with his only change of clothes—breeches and shirt that he had been saving for America.

“Shoo,” Meg ordered. “You men folk gets out o’ here while ah makes Miz Catherine into a fine lookin’ boy.”

Jonathan went on deck and took a position at the starboard rail, eyes glued on the black corsair closing upon them. Mister Rowland came up beside him.

“I pray the disguise works. If not—God help me!” he moaned. “I’ll kill her first before—” He turned quickly away without finishing.

Time passed and the gap narrowed by leaps and bounds. The vessel rode about two miles astern and half that distance abeam when suddenly a cloud of smoke erupted from the larboard deck blanketing the corsair’s dark hull for several heart beats. Seconds later came the loud thud of the ship’s cannon and almost simultaneously a tall geyser spouted from the sea a hundred yards beyond Rachel’s bow. Captain Taylor ordered the helmsman to hove to and Rachel came about almost broadside to the strange black-hulled ship. Jonathan could see dark yawning gun ports as the alien ship closed rapidly upon them.

“What sheep is dat?” shouted a man wearing a bright coat positioned on the quarterdeck of the corsair. He steadied himself with one hand on the shrouds, as he called through a speaking trumpet.

“Rachel, merchantman out of Poole bound for home port of Boston in the Americas,” Captain Taylor shouted in reply. “Who the hell are you?”

There was no immediate answer from the black ship.

“El Ca’pa’tan. We are cuming aboard. Have ‘ee sheep’s papers ready, si?”

“We are unarmed and carry only tea and spices—” Taylor called. “You have no right te board us damn ye!”

Again a pause. Then from the other ship’s lower gun deck a row of cannons thrust their sinister snouts through the open ports. Jonathan caught his breath and a loud murmur rose and spread across Rachel’s deck.

“We are cuming aboard senor Ca’pa’tan. Please do not do anything foolish, si!”

Jonathan turned and saw Catherine. Only it wasn’t Catherine. It was a finely handsome young boy. The clothing, a bit large, did well actually, to conceal the telltale curves beneath its rough somber fabric. Even amid the terrible uncertainty of the moment Catherine maintained her smooth graceful movements as she followed like a shadow in her father’s wake. She flashed Jonathan an anxious look. Jonathan hurried to intercept them.

“Stay close to her Jon,” Mister Rowland said. “Try to keep Catherine in the background.” Jonathan nodded.

“Here Miss Catherine,” he said, placing his hat solidly on her head.

The dozen or so men who clambered aboard Rachel were swarthy of feature, with thick dark hair almost jet-black. Some sported mustaches that varied in thickness and length, and almost all bore a gold ring in one or both ear lobes. All in all they were an ugly and fearsome group. Each was armed with broad-bladed cutlasses and carried either pistol or musket. They spoke in heathen gibberish that Jonathan could not in the least understand. Two of the pirates, one a big man with thick lips, confronted Captain Taylor. The big man took the ship’s papers and carefully examined them.

“You have women aboard, si?” the pirate asked.

“No!” Captain Taylor said. “No women aboard.”

The big pirate, apparently their captain, was obviously disappointed. He shouted to the others and they spread out across Rachel. Some entered the saloon into the galley, others kicked off hatch covers to drop out of sight below decks, while still others herded the crew and passengers together on deck.

One of the pirates suddenly spied Major Barclay, clad in his bright red tunic. He yelled some epithet and jabbed Barclay with the muzzle of his musket propelling him out of the crowd toward the pirate captain. The latter, hands on hips strutted around the British officer looking him up and down. Finally he stepped close and tapped Barclay’s chest with a stout finger.

“You soldier, huh?”

“Ye—” Barclay cleared his throat. “Yes, I’m a soldier, an officer in the Thirty-sixth regiment afoot—”

“Ha! You sheep’s turd!”

“Whaat!” Barclay uttered, mouth agape.

“You sheep’s turd!” the pirate shouted and grasped Barclay’s collar and began to shake the man so that his face became a blur. He suddenly released Barclay and flung him backward. Someone cuffed him on the back of the head and Barclay collapsed in a heap. The pirate captain kicked Barclay several times, his lips twisted in a cruel sneer. Finally Barclay was dragged moaning to the monkey rail where he was securely bound. They took his rings and emptied his pockets and lastly the fine boots he wore were jerked from his feet.

A terrified Mister Byron, face ashen, catapulted onto deck. His fine clothing was torn and in disarray, the pockets turned inside out. He rushed to Captain Taylor and clung to the man’s arm as he sought to hide behind the Captain’s stocky contour. Byron was pursued by two jabbering pirates who caught and dragged the whimpering merchant away from Captain Taylor where they proceeded to tear open their captive’s waistcoat and shirt. One of the men tore loose a bulky money belt from about Byron’s waist and gleefully held it aloft. Byron sank to his knees sobs racking his flaccid bulk.

Within moments, Phillip, in drunken lethargy, a pirate on each arm, was muscled onto deck. He was half carried, half dragged to where the others stood. A groan escaped him as he was dropped in a heap. Catherine caught her breath and started forward, but Jonathan held her arm. “No!” he hissed.