Cutthroats of the Coast

Chapter 11 - Peeking Under the Queen's Skirts

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.