CHAPTER 1

It had been an unusually long winter - everyone agreed it had outstayed its welcome - but at long last spring had arrived and seemed full of promise while winter was in full retreat. The days still dawned cool and crisp with chill breezes; but they now gave way to mild days and warm evenings. The first birds were beginning to murmur and twitter in tree and bush as though calling the world back to life, and everywhere men paused as though hearing them for the very first time. All over England and Scotland new life seemed to rush up out of the ground and fill the air with a feeling of newness and adventure. The wind smelled of lavender and honeysuckle and the sea. The sun seemed more golden, and danced far more cheerfully on wave top and windowpane. There was not a man on the whole Isle not infected by the warm joy of spring; except one.

           He was chained to the rough stone wall in a cell in the prison of Plymouth, and was sentenced to hang at dawn. He was a short and slender, with a mass of curly black hair that covered his ears and fell halfway down the back of his neck. His skin was swarthy; his eyes were usually clear and brown, but at the moment they seemed dull and downcast. He was good looking – handsome even - were it not for his nose, which was two sizes too large for his face. His teeth were somewhat crooked but very white, and gave him an infectious, snaggletooth grin, when he grinned – which he was not doing just now.   

           The great bell had just struck the hour of three in the morning, and so he knew the hour of his execution was not far away. He sat slumped against a damp, greasy stone wall, chained hand and foot, and with his chin drooped upon his chest. He stirred absently at a plate of unappetizing food with the toe of his boot and sighed.

           “I would give all the tea in China for my hat right now. Indeed I would.” He tilted his head back against the stones and counted the hours, the minutes, the seconds till dawn.

He heard a slight noise from outside his cell and glanced up absently. It was a faint thud followed by a louder thud and an odd scraping sound. He looked hard at the cell door with his head tilted sideways, and heard the sharp jangling of keys and a distinct clack as the lock of his cell was thrown.

           The door was suddenly pushed open and a torch was thrust through the opening. The prisoner was momentarily blinded by the sudden flash, and winced away from it, shielding his eyes as best he could with his shackled hands. From somewhere behind the torch a voice spoke; the thick brogue and thoroughly rolled R’s boldly proclaimed the speaker’s native home was Scotland.

           “Is that you, Ruben laddie? Why laddie, so it is! Whatever are you doing in this horrible dungeon? I must admit, it is exactly the kind of place I always expected you would end up in, but I never thought you would be fool enough to let them catch you! Nor did I think you would end up hanging so soon. Phew! It smells of stale straw and dead rats in here.”

           The prisoner grinned widely as he answered. “O dear heaven above, please tell me that’s not The MacGregor’s voice I hear.”

           “Why laddie you’re in luck, for it is my own lovely bass you hear.” 

           “Then tell me,” the prisoner said, imitating the Scotsman’s heavy accent, “have you come to

gloat over me, or do you intend to hang me yourself? Surely you would not rob the hangman of his boots.”

           “Ruben laddie, I’m surprised at you. There’s little love lost between hangmen and myself, I’ll admit, but I’ve no wish to steal his trade. I will steal his prisoner though. I’ve come neither to gloat nor to hang, I’ve come to make you a part of my crew. I’m fitting out for a venture, and I wish you to join me.”

           “Oh, not that. Anything but that!”

           “Laddie, this is no time to joke.”

           “Tis no joke, MacGregor,” said the prisoner, still imitating the others accent. “I have made up my mind. Leave me here and let them hang me. It will be much quicker and less painful for all of us, but especially for me. A short fall, a sharp snap, and I will have nothing to worry about ever again.”

           “I’m not asking you to join up Ruben. I’m pressing you into service.” The MacGregor spoke to someone hidden behind the glare of the torch. “William, loose his chains and bring him. If he tries to escape, lull him to sleep with your pistol butts. And watch him double sharp, Will, for he will try to escape. Yes he will.”

           William – who was short and thick and blond - sorted through the large bunch of keys he had taken from the guard until he found the right one. Ruben was quickly loosed, and just as quickly dragged out of his cell into the corridor of the prison, and into the midst of a small band of well-armed men. There were about fifteen of them, and they were a rough and ready lot of tars. There were eye patches and peg legs, missing teeth and missing hands, gold rings and gold earrings, cutlasses, pistols, carbines, hatchets, and more than a few torches. They were dressed in duck trousers, striped shirts, and wore bandanas and tricorn hats on their heads. Most were barefoot. They looked exactly like what they were: seagoing rascals of the hardest kind. 

In the middle of this group stood The MacGregor.  It did not take a second look to see that he could handle this lot, for he stood a mere inch under seven feet tall, and was heroically proportioned. He weighed not an ounce under 320 pounds, and there was hardly an ounce of fat anywhere on his massive frame. His green eyes danced merrily in a face that was covered by a thick red beard which bristled fiercely, and merged with his curly red hair: which made him look something like a huge, shaggy lion in the flickering torch light. He wore gold rings on several of his fingers, and in both ears; the left earing tapping a long, white scar that ran from his cheekbone to his neck. On his belt hung an enormous highland broadsword and matching dirk, and thrust through his belt were no fewer than six pistols.

           “Why laddie,” he roared when Ruben was first brought forth, “you look terrible. Have they been treating you poorly lad, hmm? Not feeding you, perhaps?”

           “MacGregor! I’m ashamed of what you imply. The noble turnkeys of Plymouth mistreat a convicted felon sentenced to hang? Not twelve hours ago they feasted me upon my last meal of bread and water. I have never been so well treated in all my life, save perhaps want of sunlight. I have not had a glimpse of him this week past, and I would dearly love to stand once more in his warmth.”

           “Why laddie, that is why we are here. We heard that your last request was to walk in the sunlight, and we have come to grant it. You shall have more than enough of him where we are going, and good sea air to boot.” The MacGregor turned to his men. “Well lads, we’d best make a start. Up these stairs, around the corridor, out the postern, and into the street. Go softly lads. We don’t want to raise the alarm. It will be several hours yet before we can make sail.”

           As they started off, William took a firm hold on Rubens shoulder, drew a pistol from his belt, and with a stern look at Ruben, reversed it.

           “Ah, so you’re to be my nanny then,” said Ruben with a grin. William did not answer. “Then tell me a story nanny dear, the one about what happened to the guard outside my cell. Not that I was fond of him or wish to see him again, but I do wonder where he has got to.” Ruben glanced around curiously. “He was quite conscientious, and not at all the type to desert his post.”

           William glared at Ruben and thrust the butt of his pistol under Ruben’s nose. “Careful boy, or I’ll lull you to sleep as the Chief said.”

           “You’d not strike your gunner would you, Willie?”

           “How did you know that?”

           “What? That I’m to be your gunner? It’s as simple as two and two ‘boy’. Thrice before I’ve sailed with the MacGregor, and all three times I’ve been his gunner. I have made five other voyages, and for all of that, I know nothing whatsoever of ships or sailing. However, I do know all there is to know, and more, about the great guns. Yes, I’m to be your gunner, and if The MacGregor thought I was worth the risk of breaking out of prison, then I suppose he must be fitting out for another of his piratical rampages.”

           The little group had reached the door to the street and paused, waiting as two of the men went out as scouts. The MacGregor turned to Ruben.

           “Privateering laddie, tis a privateering rampage; that one word makes all the difference.”

           “Tis true. For some it may,” replied Ruben. “As a pirate the English would hang us, but since we are English privateers, the French will hang us. Except for myself. For, you see, the English will still wish to hang me. I have the uncomfortable feeling that hanging me is one joy the English wish to relish without the assistance of the French.”

           William spat next to Ruben’s boot. “No matter who does it, you seem the type to swing in the end, prison rat.”

           “MacGregor, who is this vile person you have guarding me? He has all the gentle manners of a grave robber,” said Ruben, scowling at his guard.

           “Will’s second mate aboard my new ship, laddie.”

           “You used to have better taste in officers. Too bad it has deserted you in your old age.”

           The MacGregor shook his head and turned to his returning scouts.

           “All clear to the street Cap’n,” one of the scouts whispered with a sloppy salute, “not a guard or soldier in sight.”

           “All right, lads,” The MacGregor whispered to his scouts. “Now spy out a safe route to the ship.”

           Ruben interrupted suddenly and not too quietly, “That’s all very good I suppose, but we’re not going to the ship. We’re going to my lodgings.”

           William, looking disgusted, raised one of his pistols, but was stopped by The MacGregor.

           “Why in heavens name, laddie, would we do that?” The MacGregor asked.

“MacGregor laddie,” Ruben replied, once more imitating The MacGregor’s accent, “What good is a gunner without guns? And besides,” here Ruben leaned close to The MacGregor and whispered, “You’d not want me to leave Eloise behind, would you? She is dying for a sight of you.”

           The MacGregor covered his eyes with his massive left hand and sighed. “Laddie, one of these days, as surely as a ship sails on water and not dry land, I will have to kill you myself. Until then, though, we had best collect your things and get aboard. Lead the way to your lodgings laddie.”

           The band started off at once, led by Ruben and William. The MacGregor hung back for a moment shaking his head. He already seemed to have second thoughts about his gunner. He rubbed the scar on his cheek, sighed, and followed his men.