BY G. CONNOT SALTER

“The grand privateer ship Deane, commanded by Elisha Hinman, esquire, will sail on a cruise against the enemies of the United States of America, by the 20th instant. The Deane mounts thirty carriage guns, and is excellently calculated for attacks, defense and pursuit. This therefore is to invite all those jolly fellows who love their country and want to make their fortunes in one stroke, to repair immediately to the rendezvous at the head of his Excellency Governor Hancock’s Wharf, where they will be received with a hearty welcome by a number of brave fellows there assembled, and treated with that excellent liquor called grog, which is allowed by all true seamen, to be the liquor of life.” – Boston Gazette, November 13, 1780

The night has no moon. By the time we are a mile from our ship, my vision has adjusted. I can see the Terror’s two masts. Black pillars thrusting out of the imperial purple waters.

Smith gnashes his teeth. I turn and slash my hand across my throat. No man onboard the Terror can possibly hear us yet. Still, no one must break the silence until it is too late.

Smith shifts in his seat. I do not need to see his face to imagine the expression. We did not waste time accepting this commission. We have history with the Terror. No one knows better than us why it must be taken.

Still, this is not proper battle, even by privateering standards. No sunshine. No cannon fire. No displaying the Massachusetts letter of marque showing we are privateers and giving the crew a chance to surrender. On land and on the waves, we use what our fathers would call cowardly methods.

The black pillars nearly fill the sky. A watchman with a lantern stands in the bow. I cock my head sideways. Smith hands me a belaying pin. Our mates pull harder on their cloth-covered oars.

My belaying pin hisses across the imperial purple. The watchman slumps over. The black pillars fill my vision as our boat comes alongside the Terror. Our grapnels fly over the bow.

I find fresh belaying pins on the bow. I place one in my breeches. As my last man comes aboard, I see a sailor climbing the stairs to the deck.

Smith grabs the sailor’s arm. He smashes his fist into the sailor’s stomach. The sailor keels over. I grab his lantern as he falls. I do not recognize him. Malcolm has acquired a fresh crew since Smith and I left.

A quick search shows no one else on deck. The sailor must have been replacing the only watchman. Smith signals two men to stay on deck. He walks close behind me as I descend the stairs. The rest of our men follow slowly behind. They do not know the ship as we do.

I step over the final step. It always groaned whenever someone stepped on it. Many times, Malcolm slammed his foot on it when I was swabbing the steps.

Clean that one again, Mr. Johnston. And consider your behavior of late.

I push the memory away and look around. No one in the hallway. On my left is the warped door to the first mate’s cabin—Sheridan was the first mate. He never returned after going with Malcolm one night to the Bilbao taverns. I push that memory away as well. Nothing can distract me.

I stand to one side. Smith and my other men follow my example: gently over the final step. Then into the hallway.

We take each cabin door one by one. Smith and I take the first mate’s cabin. The bald man opens his eyes as we enter. Then he raises his hands without leaving his hammock. Malcolm has not gained a more loyal crew since we left.

I put my pistol by the first mate’s jaw.

“Where is the captain?”

 The first mate shrugs. “Where he can always be found.”

“And the cargo in the hidden compartment?” Smith asks. 

“I know nothing of that.”

“The compartment behind the grog barrels,” I say. “The floorboard with a cross carved into it.”

The first mate swallows. “I am not permitted to see it. The captain is the only one with the key.”

I leave Smith to take care of the first mate.

The smell of sea salt thickens as I get closer to Malcolm’s cabin. He always demanded more swabbing on the floors closest to his cabin. The Royal Navy commended him for his cleanliness and “vigor in achieving the utmost success.” By the night Smith and I deserted, his vigor had lost so many men that no one trusted him with long assignments. It was not hard to tell they would give him this mission—shipping along the coast, recruiting men however he could. Far from the respected towns where word about scandals travels fast.

Malcolm will be more resentful than I remember. More dangerous. I transfer the belaying pin to my hand as I approach the door. I hide it in my shirt sleeve.

I expect the door to be barred. It opens freely.

One lantern on a table illuminates the room. The table is still located in the room’s center.

“So. Johnny the Jackanapes has come home.”

Malcolm moves his face closer to the lantern. His forehead has lost all hair and his beard has exchanged salt and pepper for gray. He wears his purple coat with crimson buttons over a nightshirt. He heard me coming. At least long enough to dress.

His cutlass lies unsheathed on the table. One hand holds his whetstone shaped like a shrunken skull. His other hand lies flat on the table. 

He makes no move for the cutlass as I enter the room. I keep my pistol pointed at his heart as I check the corners. Malcolm’s sea chest is still in the lefthand corner. His hammock is still by the left wall. No one else is here. Malcolm believes he can handle me alone. I stop five paces before the table. Malcolm keeps his eyes on my face instead of the pistol.

“Will you surrender, Captain McKilroy?” I ask.

Malcolm exhales and leans back. “You waited a day before we would arrive in the harbor. Not entirely good form.”

“A tactic I learned well under your auspices. Leave nothing to chance.”

Malcolm’s free hand into a fist. He rests his chin on it and stares into the lantern. “Who informed you in Boston what cargo my ship was carrying?”

I move one step forward. “Give me the key. My men have secured the ship, and your men will not fight for you. Our letter of marque permits our privateering, and we are taking this vessel.”

Malcolm reaches into the coat and takes out his chain. He stands and strides to the chest. The lantern light reflects off the MM branded on the lid.

“A strange thing that fate would be so unkind to you,” Malcolm says as he stoops and inserts the key into the lock. “Many a sailor would never see his old master’s face again, once they separated.”

My hand squeezes the pistol’s grip. “You fool yourself if you think we can talk like friends.”

Malcolm shrugs as he opens the chest. “Have it your way. I remember a fine young boy proud to serve his King and his land, willing to learn from anyone. It is a shame that you will not talk of those days.”

“I do not belong to the Royal Navy. And you are a fool to pretend it still values your services.”

Malcolm pauses before reaching into the chest. He raises the hand holding the whetstone. He stares into its eyes. The lantern light flickers against the forehead. “You recall this? Bought off a Dutchman during your second year onboard. The man swore he’d stolen it from natives who could petrify a man’s skull by burying it underground for a fortnight.”

He turns the whetstone. The resin-filled eyeholes gleam.

I clench the pistol. “Enough with the memorials, Malcolm. Give me the key to the compartment. The hidden one. Now.”

Malcolm shrugs. He tosses the whetstone into the air, catching it again.

“Have it your own way.”

The whetstone sails toward my face. I ducked.

Malcolm’s other arm comes out of the chest and swings at me. A dagger skitters through the air, grazing my shoulder as I stumble. My pistol goes off into the ceiling.

I hit the floor. I know Malcolm will be on top of me by the time I stand. Unless I move.

I roll behind the table. I reverse the pistol and hold it like a club. Malcolm jumps to the table. He takes the cutlass and bears down on me. My pistol-club deflects the blade. I know I will not get a second chance to do that.

I hurl the belaying pin at Malcolm’s knees. He crumples.

I am in motion. I am rising onto the table. I am diving. I am hurling my shoulder into his back. I am aiming my pistol-club at his neck.

He turns as we crumple to the floor. I bring my pistol-club down on his hand. His wrist cracks and he drops the cutlass.

His unbroken hand reaches toward my throat.

My pistol-club finds his face.

I strike again. Again.

“Sir. Captain Johnston!”

I lower the pistol and turn. Smith stands in the doorway. I do not know how long it has been since he arrived.

Smith stares at Malcolm’s head. Little is left of it.

“You found him, sir.”

My chest heaves too much for me to speak. I nod. Smith looks around the room. He walks to the chest and reaches inside. He takes the key from the lock.

“The ship is ours, sir. The crew surrendered with no casualties. Boyle has cleared away the grog barrels.”

My arms grasp the table legs as I rise. “…. Good. Well done, Smith.”

Smith puts my arm around his shoulder. We leave Malcolm’s cabin.

My men have gathered in the grog room. They already know my instructions. Smith will unlock the compartment. My men will find it contains muskets and foundry tools. They will prove to be the supplies stolen from Captain Sixsmith’s contacts in Boston. Smith will search the chest and find a gold watch and book of addresses that Malcolm took when he killed Captain Sixsmith two months ago.

Once we arrive back at our ship, I will prepare my report. Our ship’s owner will not be pleased that I killed a schooner captain, but he will accept it as inevitable. Every privateer assumes casualties. He will use the death to his advantage, talking long and hard about the incident giving him a bad name and making it harder to sell the Terror. I will let him take a little more than his usual half of the goods to avoid a dispute. The next ship taken will more than make up for my loss.

No one will mourn Malcolm. As far away as New Orleans, the sailors have heard stories of Mad Malcolm McKilroy and his brass-handled cat-of-nine-tails for flogging insubordinates. The Royal Navy will make no inquiries.

All these things I remember. It has been five years since the Royal Navy left our shores and I left the privateering trade, and I remember that night like yesterday. Some evenings, when the storm winds beat against the windows of my Falmouth home, I see the two black pillars rising against the sky.

On the stormiest nights, after my wife and children have gone to bed, I sit at our dining room table with a lantern. I roll the whetstone between my palms and remember the days before that night. I remember when I joined the Royal Navy. I remember when Malcolm told me that I was a son to him and he would be my father. I remember the days when we were both proud Englishmen. Days when the sea and the new world were a place for proud Englishmen to spread their king’s graces. All I saw of the king’s navy soured me to that vision. All Malcolm saw made him happier to belong to the men holding the largest lash.

Note: This story is fictional, but the Boston Gazette quotation is genuine. It appears as quoted in American Privateers of the Revolutionary War by Angus Konstam (Bloomsbury Publishing, 2020, pg. 36). I also consulted Rebels of the Sea by Eric Jay Dolin, a resource on how Revolutionary forces commissioned privateers (semi-legitimate pirates) to steal British supplies.