How one should impart the news that needed to be related to Mr Butcher, I am not sure.  I am sorry, sir, but your leg had to come off.  The other one?  Was there another leg?  At least you will save on shoes.   I was resolutely hoping that the poor man would succumb to his wounds.  It was not a very Christian feeling to nurture, especially with my father being a bishop.  There was still hope for me the longer that Butcher remained comatose.  The thought of having to explain to Captain Morgan that one of his senior officers had been foreshortened unnecessarily, brought on the same stomach cramps that I had experienced after drinking the Captain’s draught. 

I believed that there were no witnesses to my incompetence apart from Mandrake and French Bob.  I had nothing to fear from the latter since he was a drivelling idiot and hated Butcher as much as I did.  He could not speak, and sure as damnation could not write.  

It was altogether another matter with Mandrake.  What had he seen in the orlop?   Even through the devilish fumes of drink, I had thought that Mandrake had seen all, yet he had done nothing to stay my cutting.  Was it possible that he had been as insensible as the rest, despite appearances to the contrary?  He had stood beside us at the table, white faced and impassive, but had not assisted in any way.  I had a vague recollection that French Bob had to move him so that he could tie down Butcher.  Mandrake had said nothing to me since but I knew he was as sly as the cloven-hoofed one.  I could not help but remember that the Purser knew that I had been delving around in the hold in the midst of his beef barrels.  Was this the reason for his silence?  What did he want from me? 

Whatever the reality of the events in the orlop, until such time as a witness rendered me undone, the crew considered me a hero.  MacPhail’s predisposition to drunkenness was a familiar vice that was affectionately tolerated, even though he had passed out in the middle of battle.  However, my talent for sinking liquor yet remaining upright, combined with the performance of an urgent surgery proved irresistible to the superstitious folk of the lower deck.  In an instant, my reputation had ascended like an angel.  Gone were the calls of, “There goes the Captain’s moll!”  Now men looked at me with respect and made a place at their mess table should I come amongst them. 

Morgan had seen fit to unchain me from my desk and had given up a sleeping berth in the Captain’s cabin.  These quarters were a suite of rooms that included the day cabin where I worked, two sleeping berths on opposite sides of the day cabin and two quarter galleries that adjoined the stern gallery.  It was in the quarter gallery that MacPhail usually administered Morgan’s morning draught via a clyster, whilst the Captain spread his legs apart and rested his hands against the frame of the gallery window.  I had been most discomforted to discover the method by which the Captain took his medicine.  I had drunk an entire bottle of a purgative! 

It was in this position that I found Morgan and MacPhail the morning following the battle.    The Dutchman had required a prize crew to be quickly assembled and the cargo to be itemised.  Morgan had overseen this himself, leaving The Betsy in Jones’ hands.  He had only just come aboard, returning to his command, leaving the Dutchman to Mr Ramsbottom, a young Master’s Mate from Yorkshire. 

“You’ve done well, West,” Morgan grunted as MacPhail depressed the plunger of his great syringe.  “By the saints, MacPhail, have you used double?  Where was I?  Yes… Christ!… Yes… You’ve done very well.  I see no reason for further use of the irons.  You may have the freedom of the ship again.  You may also attend MacPhail on his morning rounds to assist him with his patients... God!” 

“You would do well to squat, sir,” MacPhail cut in. 

“I know that you damned Scotch sheep-shagger!” 

“Well then?” 

“God’s wounds!  Satisfied, MacPhail?” 

“Aye, sir!  I can see much more clearly now.” 

“I’m so very glad!  What is it you want, West?  Oh yes!  Assist MacPhail with his rounds and return to me so that may continue your work on The Betsy’s papers.  We have - Sweet God above! - more to do.  What is it you put in that stuff?  The prize also needs to be properly - Shit-in-a-bottle! - appraised.”  

“Appraised, sir?”  I asked, wincing and turning away from the two men. 

“Aye, appraised.  You’ll need to go through -  Madre de Dios! - her papers and verify all is above board.” 

“Her papers, sir?  But they will be in Dutch.  I do not speak Dutch.” 

“O for a Cambridge scholar!  I do not think you will be - Christ, Macphail, you son of a fishmonger’s daughter, what are you doing!” 

“I am sorry, sir, but your stool is impacted.  I must loosen it,”  MacPhail muttered whilst reaching for an open flask of olive oil that stood by his feet.  “You know how battle affects your bowels, sir.” 

“Well, just get on with it.  I find it difficult to think straight when you have half your hand up my arse!”  Morgan complained.  He groaned most grievously then let out a long sigh as MacPhail went about his business.  “That’s better!  Now, West, I do not think you’ll be - Aahh! - troubled by your lack of Dutch.  Just make sure the papers are in order for me will you?   You’ll find there is a packet of documents at your desk that are waiting for you.  I would like you to give this your most urgent attention.  There’s a good fellow.” 

With that I was dismissed.  MacPhail packed his things and wiped his hands on his coat whilst Morgan took to the quarter gallery and shut the door.  Taking a seat at my desk at the other end of the cabin, I tried to ignore the sounds of the Captain reliving yesterday’s bombardment with cries of, “Have at them!” and, “Fire on the uproll!” 

There was not a packet of documents on the desk but a pile.  A large sailcloth wrapped parcel, strapped up with lead weights occupied the centre of the desk.  These would have helped it sink had the enemy crew been sharper about their business.   Around it were scattered a number of much smaller, similarly wrapped packets no larger than a letter.  Some of them sported ugly looking bloodstains. 

From the quarter gallery Morgan shouted, “The commissions will need wrapping in fresh sailcloth, West!"  After a moment I could swear he yelled, " Away go the boats!” 

Commissions?  I realised the smaller packets must have been individual officer’s commissions from the Dutch Stadholder.  Officers tended to carry these upon them in battle in case of capture so they could prove their rank when they gave their parole.  Out of pure curiosity, I opened one of these first, using a sharp little knife to slice through the oiled sailcloth.  After removing the parchment within, I laid it out flat on my desk and gasped with horror. 

Beneath an all too familiar royal seal I read: 

Charles the Second, by the grace of God King of England, Scotland, France and Ireland, Defender of the Faith &c.  

To Lieut. W  Sansum, hereby appointed Lieutenant of His Majesty's Ship, The Resolve.

By Virtue of the Power and Authority to us given We do hereby constitute and appoint you Lieutenant of His Majesty's Ship, the Resolve, willing and requiring you forthwith to go on board and take upon you the Charge and Command of Lieutenant in her accordingly… 

An English commission?  Why would the Dutch be carrying an English commission?  Had they taken an English vessel prior to our engagement?  I opened another packet. 

And another. 

Within a short space of time I had opened them all.  Wisps of sailcloth lay about my desk amongst the papers, evidence of my frantic cutting.  One commission after another were soon followed by letters detailing individuals to take up other posts on The Resolve.   There were no similar Dutch documents accompanying this sad little pile.  This was all that was left of the crew of The Resolve.    Morgan had attacked an English ship and slaughtered the crew.  The proof lay before me.  He would hang for this. 

A shadow fell across the desk.  I looked up to find Morgan standing there looking at me.  He had dressed in one of his loose, Moorish robes that he customarily wore after MacPhail’s visits. 

“Aye, Matthew,” he said softly, “Englishmen.” 

It was all I could do to look at him.  My eyes filled with hot tears and I could swear that if I had been armed I would have tried to kill him. 

“Why?”  I grimaced. 

“Because I needed what they were carrying.”  

“What could be so important that you needed to murder every last man aboard that ship!” 

“’Twas not a ship, Matthew.  ‘Twas a snow.  You have been at sea long enough to know that these differences are important.” 

If my eyes could have stabbed him then he would have fallen to the deck with blood pouring from a hundred wounds.  I was no fool though - when sober.  There was no way I could take Morgan on in single combat and win.  My helplessness burned within me like a hot coal of shame. 

“Damn your pedantry, Morgan!”  I stormed.  “Well then, what could have been so important that you needed to damn your immortal soul with the stain of murder?” 

Morgan looked at me with an amused look on his face.  His half-smile and cocksure manner reminded of a cat languidly playing with a trapped mouse.  Mouse-me ran hither and thither while he bared his claws. 

“Gold, Matthew.  They carried gold.  Is it not what every man wants?” 

“Not tainted by blood!” 

“Have you asked them?  What do you think Mr Jones has been doing all this time?  Or Mr Mandrake, who assisted you so ably with Mr Butcher’s surgery?”  At this he looked at me most significantly and my heart quailed.  “Men want gold, Matthew, so that they might better themselves.  Do you think those men aboard The Resolve would think any differently had they known who we were?” 

“They were not pirates!” 

“And neither are we.  We are privateersmen.  Yet they would have been paid a bounty for our heads.” 

“We?  Do not include me in your devilry!   I did not slay those men!” 

His smirk grew even wider.  I realised that there was no hope of escape for this mouse.  “Yes, but I am afraid that no court would accept that defence. You serve on this ship and you are guilty of all her crimes by association.  You, an Oxford man, should at the very least know the law on that!” 

“But you say you are not a pirate.  What are you then?” 

“I am a speculator.  It is my solemn duty to return a profit for this trip to The Betsy’s owners.  Does it matter whether I have slain Englishmen or Dutchmen in pursuit of that profit?  What makes it lawful and acceptable to God for me to kill Dutchmen simply because His Majesty decrees it?  The killing of either would be an affront to God’s Holy Word and if that is the case then I am damned anyway.  I have given up killing for the King, Matthew.  I will not enrich him one shilling more and have him hide his guilt behind some decree or Act of Parliament.  Now, I kill for myself.  The riches of the sea will pour forth for those who are prepared to reap them.  If I am going to Hell, then I will at least enjoy my life in this mortal realm first!” 

Morgan strode down the cabin and gazed out of the stern windows that ran from one side of the cabin to the other in one magnificent sweep.  I was of a mind to take up a cutlass from one of the racks by the door and run him through.  I glanced at the worn hilt of one nearest to me and weighed up my chances.  Natural cowardice won the day and I returned my attention to Morgan. 

“You see, Matthew,” he said without turning round, “I need you.  I need an educated man to assist in the labours ahead.  Sure, I had planned this without knowledge of you but now that you are here I am more certain of success.” 

“What are you talking about?”  My heart fell.  I could feel the pit opening beneath my feet again.  Many is the time that I have felt a hot breath of sulphur as mischance and poor judgement conspire to drag me further away from the light. 

“You know we are sailing to Tangier.” 

I nodded. 

“It was not by chance that we came upon the snow.  It was planned.”  Morgan turned around and walked back.  

His robe fell open and I could see his sleekly, muscled body was naked within.  Stopping before me, he reached down and cupped my chin in one calloused hand, dragging my gaze away from his arousal and directing it up.  Cold eyes looked down.  I felt helpless under that merciless stare.  I wanted to run from the cabin but it was if Morgan had pierced me to my chair with the power of his will alone.  

“We will take the captured snow into the harbour at Tangier.”  He slowly caressed my face, then let his fingers drag through my hair, pulling hard, yanking my head back.  His voice was husky with sinful desire, “You will go ashore with Mr Mandrake and Mr Jones.”  One hand slipped inside my shirt and slid down my chest, one calloused finger circling my right nipple.  He bent low and let his mouth brush my ear. “And we will rob the Governor of all the gold in the Treasury.”  At this, his hot tongue flickered at my ear like that of a serpent.  

I was damned.

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