It is quite possible that I have never been more afraid for my immortal soul than in that moment.  I had become accustomed to the rough ways of the sailors I berthed with after I had determined to put aside their crimes to commit my own.  Howsoever, when faced with immediate immolation, my wretched choices of companions and ambitions were thrown into a stark relief by Jones’ actions. 

The look in Jones’ smoke reddened eyes was murderous. Blazing with fury and indignation, they were like great portals to the pit.  There was no sign of mercy in them and not a little madness.  

I began to despair because Jones looked set to blow us all to Hell and no-one appeared stout enough to stop him. 

“Let go!”  Nathaniel piped like an apprentice-boy whose ear was held fast by his master.  “Let go, I tell you!” 

“Squeak once more, little mouse, and they’ll be picking your guts out of the ceiling,” Jones growled softly, tightening his arm around Nathaniel’s neck.  “The rest of you take a step back!”   Jones replaced his cigar in his mouth so that it could reach the fuse easily, and with his spare hand opened his coat.  

What we saw was uncompromising.  I had wondered why Jones had worn his coat buttoned up all night.  Now I knew.  Like a ghastly spider’s web, fuses trailed across his body, sewn to his waistcoat, all leading to overstuffed pouches of sacking.  Every man present knew what the spherical lumps were in each pouch – a powder-filled grenado.  The very same grenados – Jones’ pomegranates – that he had shown me when we had transferred from The Betsy to The Resolve. 

Like cathedral choristers, sailors and soldiers, as one, drew in a sharp breath and placed one foot behind the other cautiously.  It was as if some unseen signal flag had been hoisted marking the precariousness of our present condition.  We all shuffled back a little, boots and bare feet scuffing across the tiles.  Our recent exertions having been of such great effort that the men panted like blown horses now that all was still.  Someone coughed. 

“Bastard!” one voice murmured. 

“Jesu!” sobbed another.  Soldier or sailor, I could not tell. 

“Garbett! Have your men lay down their arms!”  Jones ordered. 

“Be damned I will!”  Garbett objected.  “I’ll not surrender to scum like you!” 

“You’ll surrender or you’ll die.  You’ve already promised that I’m to hang.  What have I to lose by setting this fuse off?  I’ll bring on my sentence early but at least I’ll take you all with me!” 

“Garbett!  For pity’s sake, now is not the time to quibble!”  Nathaniel choked.  

“Lay down my arms?  Then what?  Have your men cut all our throats?” 

“We’ll not kill you!”  Jones barked.  “Of that you can be sure.  We’ll lock you and your men in the vaults but you have my oath on that as an Englishman that you and your men will live.”  He tried most assiduously to look sincere but the effect was somewhat spoilt by his demonic appearance. 

Quite what this oath meant, when given by a man with a Welsh name, we had not the time to wonder. 

“Of course, lock us in to a vault and then throw one of those inside,” Garbett mocked.  “No, I think we’ll just take our chances if you don’t mind.” 

I could see the ember at the end of Jones’ cigar flare to the deepest red.  I realised that he was quite intent on carrying out his threat and my hands, knees and bowels shook with terror.  If something did not steer Jones from his suicidal course then we would all be killed in the next few moments.  I looked at Garbett and could see that he had a pistol primed and cocked in his hand.  From his demeanour, I surmised his determination to put a bullet in Jones before Jones could light the fuse.  

Inspiration struck me like the light of realisation striking the scales from St Paul’s eyes.  

“Wait!”  I wailed in a quavering voice most unlike the stentorian tone I had desired. 

All eyes turned to me.  I had but moments to act. 

“Nathaniel?”  I cried at the poor fellow, whose attention was solely upon the frayed ends of slow match that quivered inches from his nose.  Hearing my voice, he started and his pale eyes flickered away and fell upon me. 

“Nathaniel,” I repeated, “Have you ever known me as a man of passion?  A man of violent action?” 

He gave a short bark of ironic laughter, which I did not appreciate.  “You?  A man of action?  Matthew, it would be very hard to stir you from the bottom of your bottle.” 

A titter of scornful mirth rippled across the room.  There was an audible click as someone in the cellar cocked a carbine.  The sound spurred me to greater haste. 

“Thank you Nathaniel.  Have you ever known me commit a cruel act?”  If he continued to make such mockery of me, he might find out that I was perfectly capable of cruelty. 

His look was long and considered.  Even in distress, he could not stop his cold analysis.  “No Matthew.  You are a fool and a sot but you are no Turk.” 

“Have I ever broken my word?”  Nathaniel was about to arch an eyebrow and say something else unhelpful when I quickly added some form of qualification, “Have I ever broken my word to you?" 

His eyes were drawn back to the fuse.  They then widened and snapped back to me.  I could see in his face that he understood.  Although anxiety was etched upon him, I could also see the beginnings of hope. 

“No, Matthew.  Your word has always been good with me.  As far as I am concerned, your honour is not in doubt.” 

Triumphant, I turned to Garbett.  “I say that you will be unharmed, Captain.  You have my word, not just Jones’.  Have your men leave their carbines but take their pouches, flints and blades into the vault.  Without the flints, your muskets will not fire.  I promise that you will not be harmed.” 

There was a moment when the pendulum of fate could have swung either way.  Would we all be torn apart in a torrent of fire and iron shards?  Sweating faces and fevered eyes twitched to Jones, Garbett and myself in turn, as men strained to maintain some composure.  

“Do it, Garbett!  I’ll not have you condemn us all in this poxed cellar!”  Nathaniel screamed, spittle flying and eyes bulging in anguish. 

For a moment I thought that the Captain would fight, but then his shoulders slumped and I knew that I had prevailed.  Nodding, he waved for his men to back away from the sailors. 

“Move away men, keep your blades drawn and make your firelocks safe.  Remove the flints as Mr West has instructed.”  

There was more shuffling as groups of soldiers separated themselves from the sailors.  They quickly unscrewed the flints from their carbines and pocketed them, whilst others drew swords and kept watch over the handful of sailors. 

“Aye, when all is done, leave your guns upon the table and back into those vaults.”  Garbett pointed to two at the far end of the cellar. 

“Who has the keys, Captain?” I asked. 

“Mr Luke will oblige you.” 

In a short time, with sailors crowding forward like angry sheepdogs, the reluctant, hard-faced soldiery was herded into the vaults along with a whining Mr Luke. Blades drawn, and held on guard, the frustrated men were quickly shuttered behind stout woodwork. 

Before the final portal shut on Garbett, his lip curled in disgust as he snarled, “You condemn yourself, Mr West.  You’ll hang at Execution Dock for your part in this!” 

“Indeed, Captain, that I might,” I said.  Trying to sound brave in front of a seasoned killer, whose drawn blade gleams in his hand only a swift thrust away from my heart, I found a confoundedly tricky thing to do.  Without my flask, my bravado was only an empty sack.  “But I suspect that it will be awhile before I need to make that appointment!” 

At this there was a chorus of half-hearted cheers from my shipmates behind me, some of whom slapped me on the back in a fraternal way.  We pushed the last door shut on Garbett’s anger, throwing the vault into darkness, and I turned the key in the well oiled lock, feeling the reassuring click of the mechanism sliding home. 

I slumped against the door, my body a quiver with the effects of the tension.  The sudden passing of the immediate danger left me shaking and sweating.  I looked about me and saw the other men in a similar state of collapse. 

“Hold this trash, Ramsbottom!”  Jones strode over and practically threw Nathaniel at the young man.  “We’ll not kill him just yet!”  He faced me and grinned.  His was a face that rarely made any expression of warmth and it was most unsightly when it did. “Well, Mr West, you’ve iron in your cods!  I can see why Morgan’s taken to you.” 

From behind a door came the hard sound of someone trying the lock.  Jones turned his attention to the door of the vault.  “Garbett, keep your men quiet or I’ll be forced to throw a couple of my apples in there.  Do you undertstand?” 

There was a muffled affirmation from within and then all fell silent. 

For a moment all was at peace.  The scent of Jones’ cigar wafted through the room, along with the rather more pungent stench of fear sweat and the byre. It seemed that some of us had been more affrighted than others.  I thanked the Lord that it had not been me. 

“To work, lads!”  Jones announced.  “We must hasten – the men outside will be no fools.  If we take too long to be about our business we may find more than a handful left up there.” 

How long does it take to empty a treasury as grand as that of Tangier?  Long enough.

Our task was simple. Remove the top layer of money bags, empty our chests of weapons and draw forth our carpenter’s particular triumph.  Each chest contained yet another, similar smaller container.  We now had four large containers, two of which were partially filled with a fraction of the gold we had taken from The Resolve.  The great proportion of the remaining space was yawning open, begging to be filled with gold from the vaults.  We had calculated that we should be able to triple the haul we had taken from The Resolve.  My palms itched to be about our business now that the moment of peril had passed.  Looking about me, I perceived that my shipmates were of a like mind too.  Smiles split faces like those on an infant.  One fellow was even dancing a hornpipe to a merry tune that only he could hear. 

There was a rustle behind me.  I turned and found that drooling idiot, French Bob, crawling out from beneath the long table.  As he straightened up, his expression was one that surprised me.  Rather than the empty smile that normally dressed his face, it was strangely knowing and severe, like that of a man who has had his pocket picked.  I had thought to help him to his feet and I reached out my hand.  As I did, he flinched, his hand going to his knife, his eyes narrowing with a hostility that I had never seen him with before.  It was as I stepped back, fearful of French Bob’s sudden anger, that his face cleared.  It was as if the sun came out from behind a cloud and erased all semblance of intellect from the boy.  He grinned, skipped a bit, and rolled over one shoulder on the floor like a travelling mummer. 

“Hasten, Matthew!” Jack called to me, interrupting my reverie.  “Pick up your slack arse and help fill these boxes!” 

Ramsbottom had made use of Mr Luke’s ring of keys.  The other men had quickly set about their business and had opened up the other vaults.  Within a short space of time we had started to ferry bags, boxes and chests out to the long table.  The riches of Tangier piled up.  The glint of gold and silver began to reflect the candlelight across the barrel ceiling of the cellars as coin and ingot disappeared into our chests. 

Girlish giggles started to break out among the men.  Ramsbottom thrust a bag of coin down his breeches and capered about like some tumescent prize bull, running up to men and thrusting himself at them in a most lascivious manner.  Even Jones grinned and it appeared to me that his prisoner was more relaxed. Jones’ arm was no longer around the neck of Nathaniel Broadbank.  Instead, it was over his shoulder in a most companiable way. 

And then I was struck by the incongruity.  Why was Nathaniel so happy?  I almost had to rub my eyes to clear them from the smoke.  A minute ago he was wailing from fear of having his brains sprayed around the room.  Was he really laughing now with Jones and Ramsbottom? 

I strained to hear what they were saying.  It was difficult enough with French Bob hooting like a barbary ape in my ear. 

“…nice a piece of stagecraft as ever I saw in London, Mr Broadbank!”  Jones said. 

“Morgan will be well happy that you have come through for the company,” Ramsbottom simpered.  I could swear that his eyes were glistening with admiration.  

“Gentlemen, it was no matter!  Best we keep our voices low, though, you never know what can be heard through doors, or across rooms!”  Nathaniel replied to them both and the treacherous bastard then looked at me in a most significant way.

Realisation flashed through my mind like a cannon shot.  How could I not have seen that Nathaniel was playing both sides?  Of course, we needed a man who would have known how to assault the Treasury.  The weak point in our plan had been getting ourselves away.  It now seemed so obvious.  Nathaniel would provide the means.  After the Governor, he was the ultimate authority in the garrison. I flushed with shame that I had been so easily duped. 

At Oxford he had been a slippery little elver to be sure.  Many a whore had been passed a clipped coin from his hands.  He had always wanted money, and his conversation at the coffee house had been chiefly concerned with it, but this was naked greed.  How could he get away with it? 

Because he could.  Who would ask questions of him?  I suspect that his part in this had been very carefully thought out.  Was Garbett in on it too?  The Governor?  Would a triumvirate of former colonial servants each set themselves up with a deer park and carriage on their return to England? Would this scheme birth not one Marcus Licinius Crassus but three? 

Hell is indeed a place populated by papists, flatterers and actors.  However, at that moment I could have also added grasping, greasy shits employed by His Majesty.  Is there any plague that has ever beset man than that of the clever man of letters whose chief concern it is to mind your business?  

“West!”  Jones’ voice startled me out of my musings.  “Take charge of these chests!  Take Jack and a detail up top and have them loaded on the cart.  Mr Broadbank will see to the escort!  It appears he has become quite sympathetic to our cause!” 

I looked at Jack, who shrugged, then at Nathaniel, who smiled.  I had been duped.  I had been beaten.  I was complicit in the horrible slaughter of honest men.  I had been humiliated and threatened.  Looking at Nathaniel, it occurred to me that a man who would so easily rob his King was quite capable of disposing of his co-conspirators.  

I would not be fooled again.  If I could wager on one certainty it was this.   Nathaniel Broadbank’s tricks were not done with yet.  It was not yet time to fortify my nerve with rum no matter how much I craved it. 

Instead, I would watch.  

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