Bill Hammond

The master of the schooner Mary Beth, out of New York, was suspicious the instant he noticed the full press of sail sweeping toward him from the north coast of Cuba. That the two-masted brig was flying Spanish colors mattered not at all. Cuba was Spain’s principal colony in the West Indies, and the only beef Spain had with the United States these days involved shipping rights on the Mississippi River. Nonetheless, Tobias Taylor knew that for the past year Spain had again been an ally of France, the residue of what two decades earlier had been a powerful military alliance between the two Bourbon kings. And France, he also knew, was no longer a friend of the United States. That brig, Taylor was convinced, was flying the red and gold of Spain as a ruse de guerre.

The likelihood of encountering such a vessel was why he had shaped a course to Jamaica around the western tip of Cuba. Pirates and privateers were known to prowl the Windward Passage, a fifty-mile stretch of water separating the eastern shore of Cuba from the western shore of Saint-Domingue. These cutthroats and marauders operated with the tacit approval--if not the outright support--of the colonial governor of the French West Indies. And the colonial governor of the French West Indies took his orders from the National Directory in Paris.

The brig was closing too quickly for Taylor to consider flight. Besides, where in these waters would he go? He glanced up at the ensign fluttering abaft the schooner’s mainmast. She was flying the Stars and Stripes, and why not? She could hardly be mistaken for anything other than an American merchantman. The unique design of a Baltimore-built schooner was familiar to anyone engaged in international commerce.

Taylor scoured the horizons with a long glass, hoping against hope to find a Royal Navy vessel out on patrol from the British base at Fort Montego. But the sea was empty save for the brig, now closing fast and less than two miles away.

“Mr. Pate!” he shouted to his mate. “Heave to and run out the guns!”

Billy Pate hesitated before giving the order. Mary Beth was a merchant vessel, and like many American merchant vessels she was armed: three guns on her starboard side, another three to larboard. But these were 3-pounders, popguns compared with the long 9s the brig likely carried, six per side. Fighting off a small pirate barque was one thing; challenging what amounted to a brig of war was another. Not only was Mary Beth seriously outclassed in weight of broadside, but her crew of fourteen, master and mate included, would be no match for the much larger crew on the brig should she grapple and board the schooner.

“Mr. Pate!” Taylor cried again, his voice laced with frustration and anger. The redoubtable privateer captain he had been during the war with England would not permit him to give up the ship without a fight. “Obey my order, damn your eyes!”

Reluctantly, Pate complied. With her sails set to counteract each other, Mary Beth drifted to a standstill as her crew, freed from their sailing duties, loaded and ran out her guns. Presenting her puny broadside to the oncoming brig, she bobbed up and down on the dazzling blue sea like a tiny cork of defiance.

The brig’s captain dispensed with the formality of demanding surrender. Veering off the wind, he brought his larboard guns to bear and opened fire in rapid sequence. Mary Beth answered, the high-pitched bark of her guns drowned out by the ominous roar of her tormentor’s. Iron balls and grapeshot shrieked into the schooner, smashing through bulwarks, chewing up rigging, butchering anyone caught in their path. A sailor stationed by the foremast was struck full in the chest by a round shot. In a fraction of a second his tanned and sinewy torso was pulverized into splinters of bone and flecks of gore.

“Sweet Jesus, Captain!” Pate implored as the brig swept on by, wore ship, then made ready her starboard guns to deliver another glimpse of hell. “We must strike!”

Realizing the hopelessness of further resistance, Taylor nodded his agreement. He ordered the American ensign hauled down and watched helplessly as the brig backed her topsail and maneuvered into position alongside his schooner. Bare-chested sailors heaved over ropes, the iron claws at their ends banging onto the schooner’s deck. The claws gripped the bulwarks and the two vessels were pulled close together. As the brig’s captain stepped on board Mary Beth, Taylor prayed silently that these pirates would somehow be different from others of his experience.

His prayer went unanswered. Furious at being shot at by these upstart Americans, the pirate captain ordered Taylor sent below under guard. Taylor sat in the dank hold, his back against the hull, teeth clenched and eyes closed, but unable to escape the horror of the screams erupting from up on the weather deck. The screams were followed by the sound of bodies splashing into the sea just a few feet away from where he was sitting, to be followed by more screams and then horrible gurgles as the waiting sharks circled in and struck, drawn by their keen sense of smell to waters made bloody, Taylor suffered no doubts, by jugular veins slashed open with a knife.

When all was quiet and Taylor had fought back the urge to shriek like a madman at the inhumanity of it all, he began to contemplate his own fate. He was to learn that fate some time later when he was seized by guards and strong-armed topside. At the larboard entry port he was dispatched below into a boat in which four pigtailed sailors sat waiting with oars raised before a heavily armed coxswain at the tiller. Once Taylor was secure on the after thwart, his hands were tied loosely behind him.

As he was rowed ashore to what appeared to be a small, deserted island, he tried to determine, based on approximate time elapsed and probable speed, where he was. His best guess was somewhere within one of the southern archipelagos of the Bahamas--the Exumas, perhaps. Wherever he was, he could bet it was far removed from the Old Bahama Channel and other well-traversed sea-lanes.

When the bow of the boat hissed onto the sand, he was summarily dumped overboard. He splashed onto the wet sand and shallow water, then battled himself to his knees and upright to face his captors, to stare them in the eye.

“Au revoir, capitaine,” the coxswain sneered. “Appréciez votre séjour sur cette belle île.” That remark set the four oarsmen to laughing. The American captain was very unlikely indeed to enjoy his sojourn. Before shoving off, the coxswain gently lobbed a dirty canvas bag up onto dry sand.

Taylor’s gaze never left the boat as he slowly twisted his hands free of their binding. Only after the boat had been hauled on board the brig and the brig was making sail in company with Mary Beth did he turn to look about him. What he saw was not encouraging. The island was indeed small, a mere speck of land surrounded by a vast expanse of glittering blue sea. At first blush it appeared bereft of anything to sustain life.

He picked up the canvas bag and pulled apart the opening. Inside he found a half bottle of dark rum wrapped in rags. A further search revealed a small pistol, together with powder and ball to fire one shot.