My Pirate Top Ten

Writing my top ten pirates for Twitter, was tougher than I thought. Condensing heroic action, dastardly deeds, nuances of character and individuality into 140 characters, seemed nigh impossible (that’s a novel-writer for you).

I’m pleased with the result - I hope it brings lesser known rogues a little more limelight. But, I feel like I’m selling them short, so what better way to compensate than with a complementary blog post?

It’s not a great deal longer. But fills them out a bit more. If that’s not enough, here’s some further reading.

I could not have enjoyed or fulfilled this task without the help of Benerson Little’s ‘How History’s Greatest Pirates Pillaged, Plundered, and Got Away With It’ (62 characters plus spaces just in that title!). If you have any interest in pirates, I highly recommend it as a great read. AND it’s got pictures! I’m a sucker for grown-up books with pictures. 

Also, I still can’t resist dipping into Diana and Michael Preston’s book, ‘A Pirate of Exquisite Mind’ which details the incredible life of William Dampier. Richard Sanders’ chronicle of Bartholomew Roberts, ‘If a Pirate I must Be…’ totally sold me on his tactical excellence, discipline and focus. Both these books make excellent reading for anyone curious to dig deeper into pirate history.  

1/10 Bartholomew Roberts. Top tactician, teetotal and probably gay. Not a stereotypical cutthroat. He gets top slot for achieving the highest lifetime haul with the lowest bodycount. There is a slave ship atrocity attributed to his crew, but there’s no evidence he gave direct orders for this to take place, and is thought to be out of character. Often, he rubbed his crew up the wrong way by being so strict. Died rather ignominiously when his crew got too drunk to fight off an attack. Must be pretty hot stuff - he's now a character in Assassin's Creed!

2/10 Grace O’Malley. Ann Bonny and Mary Read get the girl-pirate press but this awesome 16th C Celtic tiger headed a pirating dynasty. There are tales of her giving birth one moment then bounding back on deck to lead her crew the next. Utterly loyal to her clan and crew, so fearsome, her reputation spread as far as Portugal, she was powerful and illustrious to earn an audience with Queen Elizabeth I in 1593. Sorry, there's no picture. Most of the ones I found were very focussed on her cleavage.    

3/10 Henry Morgan. Thanks to the rum, arguably the most famous pirate in history. Utterly bloodthirsty and a masterly military leader, he led campaign after campaign laying siege to the Spanish Main. Conniving for political gain he gained influence first with Governor Modyford of Jamaica. Then, at Modyford’s dismissal and his own arrest, he so gained favour in London by advising Charles II, that instead of standing trial he was knighted and sent back to Jamaica as Lieutenant Governor! 

4/10 Cheng I Sao. Power hungry and predatory, she is the inspiration for my own pirate queen, Kagerou. Her 1000 vessel fleet and 40,000 pirates were ‘stinging wasps of the ocean’.Proving her mettle by working her way up from prostitute to pirate’s wife, she came into her element at the death of her husband, impressing utter control over the fleet and exercising a nautical organised crime racket, complete with protection passes in order to pass safely through ‘her’ waters. Canny to the last, she knew when to quit and negotiated a comfortable retirement with the Chinese government.   

5/10 Blackbeard (Edward Teach)’s flamboyant fearsome appearance earns him almost mythic status along with his buried treasure and heroic demise fighting to the death against pirate-hunter, Captain Maynard. That ‘extravagant’ beard was entwined with ribbons and stuck beneath his hat lighted slow-matches flickered at each side of his face. A big drinker and indiscriminately violent, niceties of politics never distracted him from his prey. 

6/10 Diego the Mulatto. His origins obscured in myth, this slave’s son’s skills in sailing and schmoozing were legendary. His race stood as an obstacle against him achieving many a respectable office, so life at sea gave him the chance to excel. Within a few years he found himself commanding two ships of Dutch privateers. A true gentleman of fortune he spared the life of a Mexican Governor’s wife (stories abound that they became lovers) and her retinue and gained a reputation of being mean but merciful. 

7/10 Jean Lafitte, seems the consummate pirate of the Caribbean. A smooth talking New Orleans gentleman on one hand, a villainous slave trafficker on the other. Wars breaking out against England and Spain gave him ships for the taking but soon pushed his luck too far and New Orleans Governor, Claiborne put a $500 price on his head. Yet, he pledged his forces to aid America’s battle against the English and his heroism won pardons for his crimes. He went on to become a spy for the Spanish and died after a ferocious battle with two heavily armed pirate-hunters. 

8/10 William Dampier: Another unlikely candidate, incidental pirate, Dampier was more likely to be scribbling down his notes on aboriginal people, animal migration patterns and tides than wielding a cutlass. ’Wilfully deluded’ as to the real goings on of his crew he still deserves more credit as the unsung nautical and naturalist hero of his age. Darwin referred to Dampier’s notes on species in the Galapagos. 

9/10 Captain Kidd: the accidental pirate. I feel for this man, driven to manslaughter by means of a bucket and royally shafted by his powerful sponsors who used him as a convenient scapegoat. As William Kidd wrote bitterly of his betrayal, he was ‘the tool of ambition and avarice’. And the patsy for plunder. The single piece of evidence that will save him, a French pass, vanishes before his trial.

10/10 John Gow. All pose, no plunder. Beloved by Orcadians, folktales of his life and loves abound.  Yet, disappointingly, Gow’s haul amounted to fish and various comestibles and he could easily have set up Gow’s Grocery. Instead he decided to head home to Orkney and pillage properties along the coastline where he managed to load up on shoe buckles and .… spoons. He was clearly in over his head. He made a bumbling attempt to negotiate with a former school friend, was tricked into being captured and arrested. Refusing to enter a plea he was then tortured till he did so. Some of his personal belongings can be viewed at Stromness Museum. Including a spoon, or two. 

The Fundamentals of Fiddling Plus Chapter Two

I thought, with great optimisim, that I'd have Kin's Destiny up on Amazon by the first week of January. However, the urge not merely to check and re-check, but to tweak several bits, was too strong to ignore.

I don't think it's a bad thing. I think it's proof that I grown up a bit beyond that childlike desire to immediately shout, "Look at this! Look what I've done!"

Perhaps it's because I know, having sold copies of Book 1, that Book 2 had better be up to scratch. People shelling out their cash deserve that, at least.

January, it had better be before the end of January!

Meanwhile, as I'm formatting my way into a frenzy so the file uploads without a hitch and translates into a easy-on-the-eye ebook, here's Chapter 2.

 1744 South China Sea

Béatrice ran her fingers over the sealed bamboo tubes where the manuscripts lay, as if her fingertips could summon the words from their hiding place. Yet, there was no need. She had painstakingly scratched onto the parchment every word of the Pirate Queen’s story so that each letter was similarly etched upon her memory. Her fingers were still stiff from the spasms of agony she had suffered as she’d completed the relentless task. If all were lost or destroyed, she could, feasibly, rewrite the entire document. Apart from the maps. That was a different matter. She had only seen the maps while Kagerou had examined the manuscripts for a final time before secreting them in their bamboo keepers. They were maps, Béatrice assumed, of the oceans that lay between Béatrice and her quarry. Béatrice had watched as Kagerou had set them aside, leaving one map spread out on the table. Béatrice’s eyes strained to read it, a single island, it seemed, without numbers or latitudes. There were only columns of tiny, spidery notes.

“This chart will be your reward for finding my daughter,” Kagerou said, suddenly turning her gaze upon Béatrice who still craned her neck to get a better view and blushed at her curiosity being discovered.

“You know to what they lead. She may wish to take her share ... but I very much doubt it.” Béatrice saw the heaviness of grief flicker across Kagerou’s features before she busied herself, gathering the papers including the single mysterious map, rolling them into two tight tubes. She barked something into the darkness and a man appeared with a small box containing a block of sealing wax. The melting wax  dropped slowly, like clotting blood, onto the ends of the bamboo vessels and so sealed their lids to keep out salt air, moisture and prying eyes.

“Do not let these out of your sight. I put these in your charge, over and above anything -– or anyone,” ordered Kagerou.

Béatrice’s experiences of life at sea so far could hardly be said to be encouraging. Losing her father to illness at the mission in Canton had been woeful enough before facing the suffocating custody of her aunt and uncle until a suitable husband could be found in France. Yet before they had left the South China Sea more trouble had followed, and as slight as her affection for her relatives had been, she nevertheless grieved their passing -– her uncle killed at the hands of mutineers, her aunt dying in the captivity of Chinese Ladrones.

Now aboard a ship sailing west under the auspices of the very same pirate who had been instrumental in the death of her aunt, Béatrice woke each morning to remind herself that this was no dream. She was no longer a child hanging onto her father’s words, waiting to be told what to do. She now dictated her own future. Occasionally the realisation of this would strike her with fear, other times she felt that she was truly blessed. But never a day went by when she didn’t think how her father would have enjoyed sharing this adventure.

Béatrice was cautious. Allowing herself to enjoy the unaccustomed pleasure of such freedom, still felt risky. Though any one of the crew would do her bidding, still she feared to trust them and found herself deferring to Cheng. By nature Béatrice was inclined to appreciate the mental calculations and analysis that a voyage required, and to satisfy this thirst for knowledge, she thrust herself into Cheng’s realm all the more. To her delight he bore her endless questioning in good humour. She occasionally suspected, as she occasionally caught his lingering gaze in the tail of her eye, that he might even have a lurking affection for her.

Though she did not participate in the tasks and exertions on board ship, she nevertheless paid close attention to everything that went on, where every man stationed himself, which operations were necessary to achieve movement in the various conditions of wind and tide that they met. Standing at the helm beside Cheng, anticipating what orders he might call out to the crew, she gradually began to feel mistress of the vessel.

By night, with a sense of privacy lent by the cloaking darkness, she felt more at liberty, and she took to lying on the quarterdeck to observe the stars, as she had on her first voyage out to China with her father. Béatrice lay with her back to deck and let the riot of sparkling constellations dazzle her, savouring the excitement she kept bridled during daylight hours. She also indulged in silent conversations with her father, and as often as she reminded herself that these were imaginary, she was equally certain she could hear his voice between the soughing wind and the snapping sails.

But no sooner had she began to feel more at ease than Béatrice felt her joy begin to tarnish. From the outset, Béatrice had been a little in awe of Cheng, a little distracted by his arrogant swagger and handsome face. And as she had given -– or rather offered -– her orders and asked for his advice he had always been as solicitous, respectful and charming to her, as he was curt and impatient with his crew. Yet, with several dozen leagues between their vessel and his former commander, Kagerou, both his manners and his presence began to decline.

One afternoon, she enquired as to his whereabouts and was informed that he was in a meeting. She was not invited to join it. To her annoyance, and growing anxiety, it was several days after this before she finally met him face to face. When she did trot over to him and ask what business was keeping him so engaged he looked back at her boldly with a snappish retort. Did she not regard him sufficiently competent to plot a course for the voyage without being constantly at her beck and call?

Béatrice began to wake each morning feeling sick with worry, and thus she began to fret that she was coming down with a sickness. This in turn aggravated her queasy stomach. She quit her nighttime vigils of the planets and took to her bed, falling into restless slumber which unsettled her with fervid visions of the risen dead crewing her ship, and Cheng sailing her not to the Indies, but to hell. When at last one night brought a gentler dream, her eyes moistened with tears of relief as she felt her father’s gentle hand take hers, and she saw his face animated, anxious as he pointed to something far away. Look as she might, she could not find what he wished her to see, and she woke with a jolt, her face wet. 

As her mind scrambled to make sense of her dream the brooding self-pity that she had clung to was swept away by a chilling certainty that made her shiver. Like a rap on the head, she suddenly knew what she had been too complacent to realise before. But she had to check and make sure. Feeling small and vulnerable she pulled on her clothes, wrapped a large kerchief over her head, concealing most of her face, and silently stole from her berth onto the deck. The celestial theatre of light and its mistress, the moon, were shrouded in wreathes of smoky cloud, but Béatrice could still see enough to confirm her fears. For her father had taught her the rudiments of celestial navigation, and as she had suspected, the ship was not following the course she had plotted with Cheng at all.

When Days are Numbered: Chapter One of Book Two

Ta da!

Book two is imminent.

Look - over there, on the left - there's the cover!

Okay, so the text isn't ready yet. That's because although I've edited the hell out of it, have to force myself to stop tinkering (or why did I send it to my proof reader already?), it's the numbers bit. The bit I hate, the bit that my brain just isn't attuned to dealing with. 

Numbering chapters, checking those timelines (there are are three!) ... The thing about a story series is tying up threads at all ends ... and not accidentally changing the colour of a thread halfway through. This book has been a real challenge, what with the leaps in time, the multiple nationalities and their speech, I've had my research cut out. And an extensive acknowledgement page to write. It truly has been all hands on deck. 

The good news is that my proof reader doesn't think she can bear to wait another two years for the next instalment, so I'd better get cracking.

In the mean time, here's the first chapter of Kin's Destiny. Enjoy.

Sainte Domingue Interior, Hispaniola, 1690 

A dark, decaying veil of moist black air hangs within the single-roomed building. Vincent hovers at the doorway muttering secret words, scattering dark clumps of rough sea-salt, grains clinging stickily to his fingers. Then, his first precaution against evil taken, into the room he goes, stepping softly. 

In the thick, stagnant atmosphere, his candle barely flickers. He strews the dirt floor with sweet smelling leaves which will, in a matter of hours, become noisome debris. Cleansing his hands with a halved lime, the sharp tingle of zest hits his nose and palate. The fragrance sings its note of purity against the dirge of filth. Only now dare he commence his regimen of care.

Suspended from invisible cords, the hammocks contain two pale, bloated chrysalids which show no sign of breath. Only Vincent may get close enough to see the moisture which condenses on their cool skin.

Each day, since they were dragged in ropes and chains from their graves and administered toxic unguent, Vincent visits these exotic specimens. He is sensitive to the balance between life and death. One mistake, a single omission, and they will cross the threshold and the power of the spirits will conquer his hold over them. The spirits are hungry, like wild creatures starving for the sustenance of living things. He is an old bokor, practised in the art of zombi-making, but these days time seems to telescope. He wakes believing he is still a young man. Sometimes he wakes thinking he is back in Guinea. It is Yvette who gently reminds him of what he has to do. He rewards her with disdain, but he is grateful.

His long fingers dig into the recesses of his goat-skin bag, feeling for a small cracked pot and its lethal contents. He mutters and hums as he gently dabs and smears a tiny dot of the thick ointment by way of a flattened wooden paddle onto the sunken bellies of the two young men. Then two further dots are smeared at their temples. In a single movement he returns the pot and stick to the skin bag and withdraws a bundle of leaves bound with human hair. He lights the bundle and they crackle alight, their herb scent overpowered by the acrid stink of burned hair.

Vincent chants incantations until the leaves extinguish themselves, then he slowly backs out of the room, as if retreating from a slumbering beast that might at any moment awaken and tear out his throat. He pauses, reassured that the two zombis are subdued for another cycle of the moon and sun, before he gently closes and then locks the door.

Yvette sits at some distance, braiding the hair of a younger concubine, watching askance as Vincent emerges from the shack. She feels herself release a sigh of relief. Not that she would ever let Vincent suspect that she feared for him. Implying that she no longer believed in his power would enrage him and she would be cast out or killed for such a betrayal. Yet, deep within her, she nurses a foreboding that drags heavily upon her like a restless child ready to be born. No good will come of this. 

The dereliction of a bokor’s duties to the loa risks Bizango justice being overturned, destroying the witch doctor and all else in its wake. It will be up to her to safeguard the sacred objects and ensure the young men meet with a good death. All this besides her promise to the Taino-Maroons who live like phantoms up in the hills. Yvette knows she can’t do this alone. She must trust that her chosen path leads her to those who will help.