The Intention was not a fast-sailing ship, but Syn was in no haste. It pleased him to think that his following would be slow but relentless. Yes, dead slow if needs be, but always deathly sure. It was this that counteracted his boredom of that ship for the company was not congenial to a man of his parts.
The Captain, a New Englander, was the poorest sort of man, maudlin in his cups, and miserable out of them. Religious, too, according to his lights, which taught him that when anything went wrong and usually by his own incompetence, all he had to say was, “It is the Lord's Will,” and the blame was shifted to the Deity. Certainly his gloom of manner did not cheer the spirits of those beneath his charge.
Officer and men were a mixed set, for, since his original American crew had deserted rather than make the return trip upon such a ship, which they condemned as unseaworthy, and the Captain to perdition, the very sweepings of the slums had been pressed into service. Mostly Portuguese, they quarrelled incessantly amongst themselves, and showed no respect for their officers.
Besides Syn, the other passengers, six in all, were disappointed merchants from Lisbon, who were going out to found a colony. At least, that was what they boasted. But they argued so much about this and that connected with it, and so persistently quarrelled for the post of being the first Governor, that Syn advised them to conquer themselves before attempting to conquer territory. What would have happened had they ever founded that colony will never be known. The obvious conclusion is that their scalps would speedily have adorned the belts of war-like Redskins. Instead their fate was just as terrible, for they were destined to walk the plank.
It was in mid ocean that they fell in with the pirates, and early one morning, under a bright sun shining upon a tranquil sea. The Portuguese passengers had been grumbling at the slowness of the vessel, but the Captain argued that the best navigator could not make pace without a wind. It was then that the topsails of another vessel appeared over the horizon, and Syn, having watched her for some time, remarked dryly that there seemed to be plenty of breeze yonder. The ship was indeed fast overhauling the Intention, and heading, too, in their direction. After the weary weeks on a slow ship, and an empty ocean, this sight of another vessel cheered the company. But even then, speculations as to what she might be became cantankerous. One thought her Spanish, another Dutch, and so on. Doctor Syn settled this argument by the help of his powerful spyglass.
“They fly the English flag,” he said.
“I hoped she was Portuguese,” said one of the passengers.
“There are worse colours than the English,” snapped the Captain.
The vessel came on a spanking pace, throwing white water briskly from her bows.
“They know how to handle her,” said Syn.
Quick to take offence where none was meant, the irritable Captain cried, “How can I handle the Intention? I told the owners she was overdue for careening, but they would not spare me the time. Do you hear a creaking?”
“Aye,” replied Syn. “It is the mainmast. She is sprung.”
“I told you that,” retorted the Captain. “But I think otherwise. It is the barnacles that are so clustered on her keel that they scrape the floor of the Atlantic.”
Syn laughed good-humouredly and said, “No doubt we shall reach our port in time, for the barnacles can carry us.” Meanwhile the other vessel, which was the more plainly seen by all on board with every tack, showed heavy guns from all her hatchtraps.
Asked what she was, the Captain told the Portuguese that she must be one of England's finest fighting ships, and no doubt was carrying some important personage to the Colonies.
“Hardly that, I think,” replied Syn. “She is well handled, true, but not in the manner of the Royal Navy. Her officers alone would tell me that. The men, too, are as rascally as ever I saw on shipboard.”
“But they employ the roughest dogs in the English Navy,” sneered a Portuguese.
“But, sir,” retorted Syn, “there are indeed worse flags to be met at sea, as the Captain said, than the English colours, and, by gad, they're going to run up the blackest.” To the horror of the Portuguese, the English flag, which for all their sneering had lent to them a feeling of security, was being struck, and in its stead up went the dreaded Jolly Roger.
“The Skull and Cross Bones!” cried the Captain.
“Pirates!” cried the passengers.
“Pirates!” re-echoed the crew, with equal fear.
“It seems, gentlemen,” remarked Doctor Syn calmly, “that we are faced with a fight, and by the look of it, our adversaries appear to have advantages.” He turned to the Captain briskly, and said, “I'm sure I speak for the rest of the passengers. We are under your orders, sir, and will fight as you direct. Thank God we have no women or children aboard.”
But his gallant bearing had no effect upon his companions, who were terrified. Indeed, it was the Captain himself who ran to the cords and hauled down the colours.
“We can only treat with them so, and plead for our lives,” he whispered.
“Faith, sir,” cried Syn, “I hardly think they'll consider some of them worth the sparing.”
“They will be short of hands,” said the Captain, trying to raise his own spirit. “For my part I shall not be the last to turn pirate. We only live once.”
“I thought you were religious,” said Syn, “and I hoped to hear you say, 'It is the Lord's Will'. Also I fear your hopes of being recruited are in vain. They do not seem so short of hands.” Indeed, as the black flag had been run up with a cheer, the roughest villains swarmed from hiding all over the decks. A shot was fired, which struck with perfect marksmanship, bringing the sprung mast with a hideous crash upon the deck, killing outright a member of the crew.
Then, on that quiet morning sea, a pandemonium arose. Boats were lowered, and in a few minutes the deck of the Intention was alive with the rascals. They were led by a gigantic negro, gaudily dressed, who cried out that his name was Black Satan and that he was Captain of the good ship Pit of Sulphur. This was true, for Syn, who stood apart from his cringing companions upon the poop-deck, had read this ridiculous name enscrolled around the pirate prow.
“Come down and do homage, you lost souls,” cried Black Satan from the well-deck.
Led by the craven New Englander, the Portuguese obeyed promptly, and knelt before the great negro abjectly, while he kept whistling a naked cutlass over their heads, and progging their flesh with its point.
“I am the Captain of this ship,” faltered the New Englander. “I am the best seaman and can navigate. I will join the Brotherhood.” Captain Satan (for he was indeed the Captain, and notorious too as the only negro who had commanded whites on the high seas) now spat in his prisoner's face.
“You navigate?” he roared. “I never saw such handling of a ship. Take him below, my bullies, and see that he shows you the ship's treasures. And you others, run out the black plank. The funeral plank, my lubbers. We provide it for you as your undertakers. Empty their pockets, then let 'em walk. Tie up their eyes with their own kerchiefs.” Then, amidst the lively cheers of the pirates, a gangway was opened, and a black plank which they had brought for the purpose was run out over the water.
“Spare us,” cried the wretches. “In the name of the saints.”
“Talk not of saints to Satan,” cried the negro. “Along the bridge, you dogs, and down. The bridge that leads to hell.” Blindfolded and pricked with cutlasses, they were hustled one by one along that quaking, springy bridge. Steered by cold steel on either side, most of them reached the end, stepped into air and fell into the sea.
“Swim to the other ship,” cried the Negro, shooting down any who clung to the hull of the Intention.
Those who could swim attempted this, but when half-way across both ships used them as targets for not only pistols, but cannon. By this time the craven Captain was brought back from below, behind a procession of robbers heavily laden with sea-chests, bales, barrels and casks, which were quickly lowered to the boats and carried to the pirate ship. Now, it so happened that amongst those chests was Doctor Syn's, and he watched it being lowered as he leaned over the bulwarks of the poop.
“Careful with that, you dogs,” he cried in Spanish. “It is of the utmost value to me, I assure you. So see to it that I find it safe when I come over with your Captain.” Thinking that he must be a grandee who had saved his life by offering sufficient ransom to Black Satan, the Spaniards in the boat called back, “Si, Se—or.” Now, so engrossed were the others at their hellish work that no one noted Doctor Syn, or, if they did, perhaps they did not relish closer quarters with his long steel. By this time the whimpering captain of the ill-fated Intention was dragged towards the plank.
“But I can navigate,” he pleaded.
“Then navigate yourself along that plank,” snarled the negro.
“I will do anything to please you. I will be your slave in all things only spare my life.”
Prodded without mercy to the end, he turned and made a last appeal.
As he stood there abjectly pleading to a nigger, Doctor Syn's gorge rose, and when a facetious pirate shook the plank and the victim fell on hands and legs astride the plank like a child on a rocking-horse, he drew one of his pistols from his sash and wondered how long he should allow a white man to demean himself before a nigger. A captain of a ship should face death bravely. This was too undignified, and Syn vowed it should not last.
The captain had not been blindfolded, and tears of self-pity and terror rained down his cheeks. Syn took careful aim and fired. The body crumpled and slipped from the plank into the sea.
“And who the devil are you to put him out of his misery without my word of command?” demanded the astonished Satan, seeing Syn for the first time.
“Better not call me a dog,” replied Syn, with a smile. “I once had a dog that killed blackbeetles. As to putting that man out of his misery, I intended no such thing. I shot him because I hate a coward, and especially a white coward who can cringe to a nigger, and more than all a cowardly captain who betrays his ship in the hopes of saving himself. You are a captain, too, you say, though I can hardly think that some of these white men fighting for you would not make a change. The question is, Mr. Satan, if that's your name, are you a cowardly captain? That I intend to prove.” With a bellow of rage Black Satan leapt for the poop companion stairs, swinging his cutlass. What was his astonishment, however, when he found a calm and elegant gentleman waiting for him with a thin blade, which somehow all his lashings could not pass.
“Get down upon that deck, for I have a mind to drive you out upon your plank. You won't? Oh yes, you will. Down with you, nigger.”
