The Treasury at Tangier was reputed to be one of the most assiduously protected places in Christian Europe, though the truth of the matter differed greatly.  In every direction could be found mortal enemies of the Crown, hostile to the English presence in North Africa. This was entirely due to the Portuguese King’s malicious delight in shedding himself of a troublesome problem when he gave over Tangier to His Majesty as part of Catherine of Braganza’s dowry. To the north, Catholic Spain glowered; to the east and west, the Ottoman Sultans or Barbary Corsairs ravaged the coast in their xebecs; and to the south the new Sheikh of Morocco, Moulay Ismail, and his Berber hordes massed in the desert, determined to drive the infidel English from his shores. Each year, treasure drained like a great golden river from London, flowing south to Tangier.  Soldiers, ships, stores, cannon, and horse - with all the accoutrements and dependents that necessarily followed - went with it, paid for in thousands of pieces-of-eight. By the time of our arrival, almost three thousand of King Charles’ own soldiers kept sentry in the colony’s bastions and fortresses.  Unknown to many, these were in a most parlous condition.  Tangier was Queen Catherine’s pox on Charles’ kingdom.  It was an ulcerous drain on Royal coffers that bled men and treasure. 

 We intended to bleed it a little more. 

Aboard The Resolve we had approached the outer roads of the harbour with trepidation, not knowing how we would be received.  Since war had broken out in May with the clog-hoppers, we assumed that the garrison would be taking great care over its watch-keeping.  Yet this guard showed naught but laconic diffidence to our salute of a single gun and dipping ensign when the snow sailed past the mole.  This latter appeared to be only half built, bedecked as it was in clouds of languid labourers who lay about listlessly under the heat of the morning sun. 

From the quarterdeck of the snow, I watched the crew about their business.  There was the usual tearing haste for men to get ready to stand still before Jones ordered the anchor dropped.  Ramsbottom stood alone on the windward side of the deck in his guise of captain.   Aloof and alone, to all observers he appeared to be the picture of calm authority.  

Unlike the pilot. 

He had joined the snow outside the harbour to guide us in.  A cheerful Portuguese, he had remained with the port after Tangier had passed into English hands ten years since. Why he had not been sewn into a hammock with a couple of cannonballs at his feet and dropped over the side long ago, I do not know.  In a very short space of time, we had perceived that Da Silva was a most vexing man who was probably blessed with few friends.  With an infuriatingly cheerful disposition, he kept up a steady chatter of inanity, and sharp-edged criticism, that had Solomon Jones, Jack Frith and myself gritting our teeth against the next comment. 

“Hard down there, you slow-arsing buggerer!  Port your helm, batardo! Do you want us encalhado for all the English heretics to see?  If you make Da Silva look a fool, ele vai te matar, whoreson!” he ordered intemperately, red-faced with the effort of screaming at Jones who stood a bare arm’s length from him. Then with the speed of a passing squall, the choler faded from his face and neck and the little, sweaty man smiled, tipping his hat to a gentleman at leisure on the mole.  

“Bom dia, Senhor Luke!  The mole?  It is good today, yes?”  he called across the water at the solitary figure standing at the head of the great wharf, who was watching the snow inching into the harbour. 

“Most excellent, pilot!”  a faint voice was heard. 

The Portuguese nodded, waved and called back, “Piss on you, heretic!” 

“What?” 

“Peace be to you, Senhor Luke!” 

Jones growled ominously and I could see that his scarred hands were twisting his cane in frustration.   Dressed in a plain blue coat, faded from the washing that was needed to remove a blood stain, Jones was attempting to impersonate a naval master mariner. His performance was far from assured.  He was like a seething pot that was about to boil over.  How he mastered himself, I do not perceive, for he was always easy to anger and quick to strike.  The heat did not help.  The rest of us sweated in an oven-like atmosphere as we endured our slow progress across the harbour, tar dripping from the rigging, spotting our scoured deck. 

Da Silva guided The Resolve to our mooring, alternately yelling at our crew or pointing out the sights of Tangier.  The decaying Watergate, the great earthworks around TangierCastle, the second fortress of YorkCastle, Whitby, Whitehall and the Marketplace were all introduced to us through Da Silva’s continuous chatter. 

“Look there, English, at the castelo!”  Da Silva said to Ramsbottom, as he pointed at a great fortress that loomed over the town beneath it.  “It is a most commodious palace, Senhor.   I am honoured to wait upon Governor Cholmeley there.  Mrs Da Silva and I are often in attendance at the Governor’s residência.   His Excellency keeps a prodigious table and is an excellent host, for a heretic.  You really must make sure that you sit at table with the God-poxed officers of the garrison if His Excellency invites you.  You will not have a better dish of goat on this shore.”  Da Silva rambled on a little about the spices needed to make goat meat palatable; how it brought upon his wife’s wind; the general care of goats in an arid clime; and how the “gluttonous, fucking imps” would eat “the fucking fingers from my fucking hand” rather than the carrots his wife and daughters had toiled to grow in their kitchen garden. 

“I am going to cut the bastard’s throat if he doesn’t shut his fucking hole!” Jack Frith muttered under his breath so that only I could hear him. 

“Fair sailing, Jack, we’re almost done,” I said. 

“Fair sailing be damned.  That bloated bag of shit is going to talk for another bell! And we’ve got to stand here and listen to him.” 

In truth, it was not long before the pilot had The Resolve in place a cable’s length from shore.  At his command, after a curt nod from Ramsbottom, Da Silva ordered the anchor lowered.  The great iron hook dropped down into the murky waters of the harbour, the flukes catching a dead dog that was floating close by and pulling it down into the deep.  So with a noxious exhalation from the beast’s purulent flesh, we completed our entrance to Tangier. 

As soon as the anchor began its descent, Jones cried out, “As nice a piece of pilot work as any I have seen, Senhor!”  With his hand on Da Silva’s shoulder, Jones propelled the little man across the deck and almost threw him over the side in his haste to return him to the pilot boat.  As he turned back to face us, a wicked grin twisted his usual, sour expression. 

“Now, West, it is time for you to perform your part in this little drama.” 

*** 

Much later, Ramsbottom, Jones, and I made our way uphill through the tangled mass of Tangier’s dusty, filth encrusted streets to Governor Cholmeley’s residence.  We had left Jack Frith with the jolly boat, which he and the boat crew had dragged onto the hard packed mud of the harbour-side.  

It is the way of the Navy that a visiting captain should pay his respects to the Governor, or Admiral, of any port he puts into.  Mr Ramsbottom was intending to do just that, with Jones accompanying him to make sure that he did not make a hash of it.  My part in our great play was also clear to me.  Whilst I had made sense of The Resolve’s papers, I had uncovered the very documents that Morgan had set upon the poor snow for.  These letters of introduction, and sealed orders, I carried with me in a leather satchel that I wore over a dead man’s black coat. 

I had dwelt on my part with no small sense of dread.  Even today, as I write this memoir in evening of my years, I shudder with the memory of those days and my naivety. Was I bewitched by Morgan?  I was certainly revolted by his murderous ways.  I knew what he was and what he intended and with all honesty I was horrified.  We were going to strike at the heart of the King’s authority.  I could have run to the nearest soldier - which would not have been hard since almost every man that we saw wore the red coat of England - and confessed our intended sins.  I would have run but for one small spark that smouldered in my chest.  What would my father think of this?  What would the sanctimonious bastard think of his beloved son running with a pirate crew about to commit the crime of the century?  My misgivings evaporated like morning mist and a childish delight blossomed within me at the thought of the mischief we were about to unleash. 

We did not tarry in the town, though I looked longingly at a wine shop as we walked on.  I made do with a sly nip from my flask every now and again.  After a sweaty journey up the steep streets, we finally passed beneath the arch of TangierCastle and headed towards the Great Hall.  The Castle was a prodigious edifice dominated by the PeterboroughTower, which was the highest point in the whole town.  The whole was constructed on massive bastions, on which there were also great ramparts where a score of cannon were emplaced, creating an enfilade beyond the walls.  As we made our way to the Hall, the sheer strength of the defences in the guise of other towers, star forts and walls was oppressing to our spirits. 

Ramsbottom’s shoulders sagged and his face was as pale as milk.  “Oh my God!”  he gasped just as a troop of heavy cavalry trotted by, harness jingling, sabres slapping time against the haunches of the horses, forcing us to scatter out of their way. 

“Shut up, boy!”  Jones snarled.  I thought he was about to strike the young man but it seemed he was merely intending to swing his cane like a gentleman promenading before the whores of Haymarket.  “Remember, you are a ship’s captain!  You are God Almighty on your own deck, sir!  You have nothing to piss your breeches about here!  Remember the debts that your father owes Morgan!” 

“Fuck my father’s debts, t’old bummerskite were never in a muck sweat over brass so why should I be!” the boy almost yowled as his voice slipped into his North Country dialect in his panic. 

Ramsbottom looked as if he was going to bolt after the troop.  The sweat that soaked his neckcloth was sure to owe more to his fear than the fierce heat of the sun.  Looking around at the uncouth soldiery manning the walls, caparisoned as they were in grenadiers caps, armed with firelocks, engaged in the slow walk of sentries, I was tempted to find the nearest whorehouse and hide.  Yet Ramsbottom steadied me.  I considered myself to be better than that foolish boy.  Whilst Jones hissed his displeasure at Ramsbottom’s craven behaviour, I took a draught from my bottle.  It was almost empty, as it would have been had someone been drinking from it steadily.  I was puzzled by this but drank the last of the rum.  The warmth of its immediate courage steadied me and I began to feel better. 

Jones continued to argue with the boy, “What the goddamned Hell are you jabbering about, ye thick Yorkshire catch-fart!  You’ll do as you’re told or it’s back to life in service and your da in a debtor’s prison!  Now be a man!” 

“Come on, Ramshbottom!”  I said, happier with rum inside my guts spreading its rash fingers deep within me.  “Let’sh twist the nose of Old Rowley!  See if the King’ll even notish ush.” I smiled at them both and bowed. “It’sh a shunny day and we’ve nothing better to do!” 

Both men looked at me as I began to whistle.  Rum is a most delightful beverage.  It steadies a man and inclines one to look on one’s fellows more beneficently.  I did not see before me a sour, cruel master mariner, or a whining gobshite.  I saw fellow travellers on this path that leads to eternal darkness.  I offered one arm to Jones and the other to Ramsbottom. 

“Wherezh Charlie Boy?”  I said with sudden ferocity.  “I have a shong he should hear.  It wazh v’ry p’plar in Oxford a few yearzh back! 

We have a pretty witty king,

And whozhe word no man reliezh on,

He never shaid a foolish thing,

And never did a wizhe one.” 

I believe I may even have danced a step or two. 

A gentleman in a long, scarlet coat, embroidered with gold facings, wearing a full periwig upon his scarlet face strode past us.  Without breaking step he addressed himself to us most severely, “Gentleman, your friend is making a fool of himself.  You must needs remove him from the courtyard before word gets to Governor Cholmeley!”  He proceeded on his way as Jones called after him. 

“Thank you, sir!  We shall.  It is the sun.  It has afflicted him most grievously!”  Jones looked at me with an open mouth instead of his habitual sneer and seized my arm in his iron grip. “How much have you drunk?” he asked quietly. 

“Jusht en’uf!”  I hiccoughed. 

“He’ll get us all killed!”  Ramsbottom said, grabbing my other arm, attempting to steady me but stumbling himself. 

“Then we’d better get him out of sight!” 

“Where?  We’ll be expected?  We haven’t time.  We made our signal over an hour ago?” 

“I know him.”  I interrupted, pointing at another gentleman approaching us from the direction of what must have been the Great Hall.  Clad in a black coat like mine, his face hidden by a wide straw hat shading it, there was no mistaking the gait of the lanky fellow.  A man’s walk just as surely reveals his identity as the visage he presents to his looking glass. 

Jones and Ramsbottom turned slowly to face the gentleman in black.  If it was possible for more blood to drain from Ramsbottom’s face, I was not sure, but I suspect that MacPhail would have loved to find out.  I giggled. So would I. 

“Matthew?  Matthew West?  What on Earth are you doing here?” the stranger said. 

--- 

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