Featured Article » Fiction

A Pirate's Ken

Written by Iver P. Cooper

The lookout squinted. In the east, a horizon-hugging bank of clouds glowed red, heralding the imminent sunrise. In the west, the sky was a deep azure, with only a few stars still glimmering. Below his perch was a dark skeleton of masts and spars.

He turned to the north. He saw naught but water and air, but he knew that somewhere beyond the horizon lay the shimmering sands of the Costa de la Luz, the Coast of Light.

At the periphery of his vision, a flash of white caught his eye. It was gone before he could snap his head around. A phantasm? A wave breaking? He wasn't sure. There it was again!

"A sail, a sail!" he cried. "East northeast. Hull down." Whether the sighting meant profit, or peril, or a measure of each, he knew not.

By now, the lookout had a sense of its movement. "Heading west north west."

On the deck far below, Captain Jan Janszoon smiled. "It appears that this cruise won't be boring, after all." He pulled out a spyglass—it had been taken off a Venetian prize, and was worth its weight in gold—and made his own observations.

The mystery ship was maintaining its westward course, edging closer to Janszoon. It didn't turn, either to flee, or to reach Janszoon more quickly. Clearly, it hadn't detected their presence. No surprise, that; Janszoon's vessel had furled its sails at the first hint of dawn.

Janszoon studied the visitor. "Merchanter," he announced at last. "A big one." The men whooped.

"Set sail, just the lower courses for the nonce." That would make it harder for the prey to spot them, but they would also make less speed. "Vargas, we head north." The helmsman nodded. That would give them fast legs, and, given their windward position, it would be difficult for their prey to escape to the west. "Oh, and Pieter, raise the Spanish flag. Who knows? They might be idiots and come ask us for news."

Time passed; the ships converged. The merchanter seemed to sail well, close-hauled, which implied she had a full load. More good news.

At last, with the range down to perhaps ten miles, Janszoon saw a reaction. The trader put on every scrap of canvas it had, even its studding sails. Plainly, it didn't think he was a countryman, come for a friendly chat. What a pity.

Putting on that much sail was dangerous, too. The strong southwesterly wind of the Gulf of Cadiz, the
vendavale, could knock down a crowded mast.

Clearly, the merchant hoped he could escape to the open sea. Janszoon would not allow it. "Make fighting sail," he commanded. "And lay us four points to starboard." That wasn't the quite the shortest interception course, but it would make it more difficult for the prey to clap on the wind and get on Janszoon's weather side, where it might more readily give him the slip.

Soon they were close enough to hail it. "From whence came ye, and where are you bound?"

"From Venice, bound for Cadiz. And you?"

Janszoon was delighted by the answer. The target was clearly a Spaniard. "From the Sea, and bound for Hell!" he shouted. "Pieter, show them who we are."

Pieter grinned. He knew the drill. The false flag came down, and two new ones went up. The first was the standard of the Prince of Orange, the leader of the Dutch people in the fight against the Spanish. The second would give them even greater pause.

The feared emblem of the Sallee Rovers, a gold man-in-the-moon on a red background, soon fluttered above the head of Jan Janszoon . . . Murad Reis, the infamous Renegado. On the deck of his xebec, his corsairs ran out their cannon and raised their muskets, ready to do battle if the merchant refused to yield.

Janszoon was Haarlem born and, like many of his fellows, had taken to the sea at an early age. He disdained the merchant life from the beginning, choosing to serve on one privateer or another, and thus mixing patriotism with profit. In 1618, while enjoying some R&R at Lanzarote, in the Canaries, he was snagged by Algerian raiders. Learning of his experience, the captain, Suleyman Reis, gave him the choice of being sold on the slave block or turning pirate and serving as one of his officers. To Janszoon, it wasn't a hard choice at all.

Shortly thereafter, Janszoon converted to Islam. Whether the conversion was genuine or merely to improve his employment prospects, only he knew. Janszoon also married a Mudejar, that is, one whose family was one of those evicted from Moorish Spain. From Cartagena, to be precise. She had good connections, not only in Algeria, but also in Morocco. Janszoon was a conscientious man, in his own way, and despite the new marriage continued to send money to his first wife, back in Haarlem.

The premier Moroccan pirate base was Sallee, on the Atlantic coast, only fifty miles from the Straits of Gibraltar. It wasn't long before Janszoon decided that his job opportunities were better there. They were. Soon after his arrival, the Sallentines declared independence, and established a council of corsair captains to govern themselves. Janszoon had the traits most valued by the corsairs—intelligence, daring, and luck—and found himself elected their first Admiral. The sultan of Morocco laid siege to Sallee, was repulsed, and then "confirmed" Janszoon's appointment. Janszoon shuttled back and forth between Sallee and Algiers, navigating the treacherous politics of both cities. He had returned to Sallee fairly recently, and had decided to lead a corsair sweep—as much to maintain his reputation as for the actual revenue involved.

The warships of the Sallee Rovers were small, because a bar in the harbor forced deep draft vessels to unload if they wanted to enter. However, size wasn't everything. A rover was packed with cannons and experienced fighters, and its hull was carefully maintained to maximize its speed. The Spanish ship had cannon, true, but it was debatable whether its crew even knew how to fire them. And most of its hull space was taken up by cargo.

Would the Spaniard flee, fight, or simply surrender? Further flight to the northwest was clearly hopeless; he would have to swing wide to avoid the Taraf al-Gharb, the Cape of the West. What the English called "Trafalgar."

The bow of the Spanish merchantman started to swing away. Ah, they meant to head north, beach themselves on the coast, and hide in the pine forests beyond. Janszoon gave a hand signal. Shots rang out, and the Spanish helmsman crumpled. A few moments later, the merchantman struck. The battle was over.

****

The pile of loot on the main deck grew as the corsairs emptied barrels and chests from the hapless merchant ship and stripped valuables off its crew and passengers. This public collection was necessary, for every pirate risked life and liberty, not for a mere wage, but for a share of the spoils. The corsairs had to be sure that they were each getting a fair share. Ten percent of the loot went to the government, to support the maintenance of the defenses; forty-five percent to the outfitter, as reimbursement; and the remainder to the officers and crew. Each officer received three shares, each cannoneer two, and common seamen one apiece.

Of course, the real loot were the crew and passengers of the Spanish ship. They would be sold on the slave market, and the proceeds divided according to the pirate rule. The rich or well-connected captives would be ransomed, and the poor ones would spend the rest of their miserable lives in servitude.

Janszoon's eyes were drawn to one of the treasures, a figurine which had been carefully packed in a padlocked chest. Clearly, it was considered to be of great value. It puzzled Janszoon greatly. It reminded him a little of some of the statuettes of the African tribes, because of the exaggerated feminine endowments. But it was clearly a depiction of a Caucasian, and the workmanship was much finer than that of any African artifact he had ever come across. ...