Devil’s Bargain

We’re sixty nautical miles from home when disaster strikes.

            “Pirates!” the topman cries out.

            A warning given altogether too late, I fear, for as they slip out of the fog their big guns already are belching fire and heavy round shot into our hull and rigging.

            At the time of the attack early on this morning in June 1631, I’m still in my quarters below decks. This lightly armed, sixty-ton merchantman under my command is making the usually uneventful voyage between Cornwall and Ireland through crowded St. George’s Channel. Since dozens of other sailing ships are doing the same thing, our lookout eighty feet above the deck has little reason to fear the vessel approaching through the mist—until it sweeps swiftly down upon us, eighteen-pounders blazing, augmented by carronades and smaller pieces.

            At the sound of the alarm, I race from my cabin up to the quarterdeck, where all is thick plumes of gun smoke, confusion, and horror. I arrive in time to witness falling yards and shattered masts. The pirates strike the Union Jack and run up the red half-moon of the Turks. Barbary pirates, by God! Legendary figures, nightmares beyond our experience, for they seldom venture this far north. Yet here they are, the ferocious Salé Rovers of Morocco, bare-chested men with long dark curly hair and beards, brandishing scimitars and screaming oaths and curses from the decks of their heavily armed ship.

            Through the smoke on the water, a second vessel emerges. My spirits lift for an instant, only to be dashed again when I realize it’s another pirate ship, a galley rowed by dozens of slaves. As the pirate captain watches from the poop deck under a red and gold canopy, his crew uses grappling hooks to catch our rigging and board us. They leap and swing, surging to our decks, screaming threats of bloody slaughter.

            Blinded by flashes of gunpowder, choked by smoke from pistols fired at close range, hopelessly out-manned and out-gunned, my tiny crew of ten nevertheless fights on, knowing worse fates than death may await us. In the scorched air and din of the fighting, a rover comes at me, swinging his sword so hard that I am forced backward until I can go no further, whereupon I step into him and deliver a fatal thrust.

            As I struggle to pull my sword from his chest, some other buccaneer stuns me with a blow to the back of my skull and I crumple to the deck. Soon we are overwhelmed and, with a sword at my throat, I surrender. The four of us who remain alive are dragged into the hold, where the only light is a dusty beam spilling through a grating, and we are shackled to the planking.

            “Anyone hurt badly?” I ask.

            “No,” says Voss, the second mate. “What do you reckon they’ll do with us, Captain?”

            “I don’t know, Artemis,” I reply, though we’re both aware that the pirates want captives to hold for ransom, sell as slaves, or use as oarsmen on their galleys. We all know yet hope for a miracle. It is with a heavy heart that I wait to learn our fate, for I am responsible for the welfare of all aboard, and our cargo of English cloth goods. I reproach myself for not being more vigilant, but who ever heard of Barbary pirates operating near Ireland?

            Then my true concerns take creeping possession of me. What of my wife Paulette and dear children, John and Josephine? Will I ever see them or our little farm in Cornwall again? Will I even set foot in England again? I worry until presently there is a great rattling of chains, and the hatch is cautiously opened.

            “What do you want?” I cry as strong hands pluck me out of the shadows and frog march me to the door of what, up to now, has been my own cabin. I adjust my plain neck cloth, shoot my cuffs, and straighten my coat. I put on a sober expression, and try to carry myself with all the dignity and honor I can muster.

            “Ah, the gallant ship’s master, I believe,” says the bearded ruffian at my desk.

            That my captor rises like a gentleman is a good sign, I fancy, hoping he is the kind who treats fellow officers collegially rather than hanging them from a yardarm. “Captain Edward Fawlett, sir,” I say, and bid him a polite but aloof good morning.

            “And I am Murat Reis,” he says, with a bow that I return.

            His manner is elegant, his English flawless, his attire exotic:  a turban, ruffled shirt with wide puffy sleeves, waist sash over pantaloons, and hose tucked into his boots.

            “Sit down,” he says, and pours me a cup of my own tea.

            Assuming he means to interrogate me to determine our ransom value, I try to appeal on behalf of my crew. But he cuts me off.

            “You are in possession of information of great value to me.” He smiles with half-mad eyes. You know what I want, they say. We both know that you know. But I will tell him nothing of my family.

             “Perhaps you will be more forthcoming if I tell you something of myself, eh? You and I may be more alike than you think. I was born a Dutchman and, like you, went to sea. By the time I was sixteen, I was a rated seaman. Over time, I became a privateer. Then I was captured by Suleiman Reis. Given the choice of joining the galley slaves at their oars or converting to Islam, I converted, eventually becoming Suleiman’s helmsman. When he no longer went to sea, I replaced him and took many prizes. I’m now the richest pirate in the world.”

            He pauses to sip his tea with elaborate ceremony. “Your turn.” When I make no reply, Murat Reis says, “Surely, my dear Captain, you know my goodwill depends on your answer.”

            “Do you mean to hold me for ransom then?”

            “Perhaps we may strike a bargain instead.”

            He might not make me sign a red book with my own blood, but this will be a devil’s own bargain, make no mistake.

            “As a ship master who sails along the southwest Irish coast on a regular basis, you possess intimate knowledge of the harbors and coves in these waters. That is intelligence I need,” the pirate commander says.

            “Intelligence which would doom others to servitude or death?” 

            “What’s that to you, when I could burn you with slow matches, or hoist you by your testicles? Tell me what I need and save yourself, Fawlett.”

            Truly fearsome threats, but I remain silent.

             “Kemal,” the pirate commander shouts.

            A dour giant appears. On Murat Reis’s orders, he and another strip me of my coat and shirt, and escort me from my ship over to the galley, where the foulest stench imaginable arises. I’m instantly nauseous. Shackles bite into my wrists as I’m chained to an oar, no longer a ship’s master, only a galley slave. They pack us in two lines, six to a plank. The hopeless faces of these poor devils around me break my heart. All are without hats. Some are stark naked, while others wear only rags. Their bodies are seared and blistered by the sun. A bosun walks back and forth above us, ready to flog those who don’t exhibit sufficient effort. Now that I know what it’s like to be chained together with these other poor souls, who must live in their own filth day and night until they are finally pitched into the sea, I pity them from the bottom of my heart.

            But wait. Is that an order to stand ready? On the bosun’s command, we begin rowing. As I strain at the gigantic oar that helps propel us into the fog, I glance over shoulder and see my ship disappearing. I tell myself this is a scare tactic, not pray God my final sentence. Has the Salé Rovers’ leader decided not to give me another chance to choose my fate? Am I condemned forever to be a member of this slave crew? My chest tightens and my mouth goes dry as the lash licks my back with its tongues of fire.

*

            An hour later, my ship again comes into view.

            “For God’s sake,” I yell, “unshackle me.”

            “Silence, infidel,” roars the boatswain.

            But a few minutes later, I’m taken back to my cabin.

            “Ah, Captain Fawlett. Now will you give me the information I need? Or refuse and become a galley slave for the rest of your life? It’s up to you. But take it from one who has been there, the life of a galley slave is not for you.”

            “What of my crew?”

            “Do as I ask, and I assure you none of you has to row.”

            “If I do, will you release them?”

            “Don’t press your luck trying to play the hero, Captain. You’ll find it seldom lives up to its reputation.”

            It’s a monstrous choice, yet I see no other way. “How do I know you’ll keep your word?”

            “I always keep my word. I’m a businessman. My word is my bond. If you give me what I want, your men will never row.”

            I agree to his terms.   

            Before returning to his own ship, Murat Reis informs me that, in addition to utilizing my knowledge of the harbors and coves, he requires me to safely navigate up the River Brandon to Kinsale, the most prosperous port on the south coast of Ireland. While Kinsale has some defenses, he plans to rely on surprise, take civilians, and escape before the Royal Navy can respond. Saying he will consult with me as needed, he departs for the comforts of his harem.

            I pilot our three-ship convoy through the treacherous Irish waters off the Waterford coast. We cruise with my merchantman in the lead, then Murat Reis, and finally the slave galley. The giant Kemal, who commands the prize crew, keeps my men locked up, but allows me to roam the deck after I give my word not to escape, another damning transaction.  

*

            We’re nearing the coast on Sunday when the pirates take a small twelve-ton fishing boat. An hour later, Murat Reis summons me to his aft cabin under the red and gold canopy and introduces the fisherman, a weather-beaten salt with cracked boots and a big belly named James Hackett, of Dungarvan.

            “Captain Hackett is an Irish Catholic,” Murat Reis says, “whereas you are—?”

            “Church of England, sir,” I say.

            “Yet instead of attending mass this morning, Captain Hackett set sail with five other men. What do you make of that, Captain Fawlett? Is Captain Hackett a man lacking faith?”

            While I am disposed to be cordial to my fellow captive, for we face the same terrible fate, I don’t know what to say. But Hackett does. And how to deliver it with easy Irish charm:

            “Well, your lordship, perhaps our savior would understand a fisherman’s needs, his right-hand man, Saint Peter, having been one.”

            Murat Reis greets this glib nonsense with guttural laughter. “According to Hackett here, Kinsale is too well-defended to attack, having both a fortress and the Royal Navy nearby.”

            I am momentarily carried away by hope. “Does that mean there will be no attack?”

            “On the contrary,” the pirate says. “The captain has come up with an alternative target.”

            “Forty miles east of here,” Hackett says, “lies the prosperous and undefended town of Baltimore.”

            “And what of the British Navy?” Murat Reis asks.

            “Too far away to matter.”

            What Hackett says is true. I know, for I am well acquainted with the village. But I’m confounded about why the Irishman is going beyond the pirate’s original demands by offering additional information that not only will aid the enemy’s escape but condemn even more of Hackett’s own people. Then I recall that Baltimore’s fishing industry has been licensed to English settlers. By directing the pirate toward Baltimore instead of Kinsale, Hackett is betraying not his own people but mine. My initial sympathy for the fisherman evaporates like morning fog.

            “So, Fawlett, shall I sack Kinsale or Baltimore?”

            I cannot answer Murat Reis, who is looking directly at me, for suddenly I’m drowning in waves of guilt.

            Presently, my captor announces, “Since you cannot help me to choose, I’ll take Hackett’s advice. Baltimore it is.”

            Never during this voyage have my spirits been so low as today, with the sea stretching away, gray and bleak, to the horizon. I wonder if Hackett has been offered the same deal as me. But I cannot ask him, for after the meeting with Murat Reis, we are kept apart. But it seems likely, so how can I presume to judge my fellow captive?

*

            At ten o’clock the following night, Murat Reis anchors in an inlet east of the mouth of Baltimore Harbor. He takes thirteen men, including Hackett and me, on a reconnaissance mission. Hackett is to pilot us along the shore. Murat Reis tells his men to muffle their oars and remain mute. Following this order, all we hear is the hiss and wash of breaking sea. Once we land, Hackett shows the way to the lower part of town and where he claims the most able men live.

            By midnight, we’re finished and back aboard ship, knowing that Baltimore is defenseless.

Two hours later, while residents sleep in their low un-mortared stone dwellings, another party of pirates sets out, 230 strong. We’re with them again. When I ask why bring me if I’m not going to participate, Murat Reis says, “Oh, but you are, Captain. Never doubt that.”

            I wonder what he means.

The wind hums, the sea churns and roars, spray flies in the moonlight, and gulls haunt the outlying rocks. Despite being thrown about by the strong running tide, our boats reach the shingle beach at the Cove. Murat Reis keeps Hackett and me always at his side, while dividing his men before heading for the main settlement. Leaving sixty behind to protect the narrow path from the beach, we slip quietly through the lower part of the village and spread out among the two dozen cottages on the shoreline.

            At Murat Reis’ signal, the Salé Rovers launch the attack, screaming loudly and breaking down the doors with iron bars. Caught completely by surprise, the disoriented villagers are easily herded out of their homes and down to the boats. As they go, Kemal hands torches to Hackett and me, pointing to the thatched roofs. Now I understand why we’re here—to share the guilt of burning this hapless village.

            When we do not immediately set about lighting the straw and sedge, Murat Reis says, “Do this, and I promise that before we leave Irish waters, I’ll return both of you to shore.”

            I realize then that manipulating us is part of enhancing this loathsome pirate’s pleasure in plunder. The attack is a game, a diversion, albeit a profitable one, and we are pieces on the board to be moved around as he pleases. What other choice do we have but to obey? As I smell the smoke of our first blaze, I see in Hackett’s face not regret but ferocious exaltation. Staggered by his disloyalty, I imagine my own home back in Cornwall and feel as if I am burning up my own future along with these villagers’.

            Hackett leads Murat Reis, his remaining men, and me to the top of the hill, where the pirates break into forty more homes, which we torch. By this time, the lower village is a bright mass of red and yellow flames. But up here, most of the inhabitants have escaped into the night or gone within the stone walls of the 500-year-old castle overlooking the harbor. I am elated; some will survive. Suddenly we hear a musket shot and pounding drums. Fearing military forces are arriving, Murat Reis breaks off the attack and quickly returns to the beach. We slip away from the shore, leaving the fiery glow of the conflagration behind.

As we swerve past a reef, I think of the terrible weight Hackett and I now both bear and am seized by a fit of deadly shuddering.

            “What’s the matter Englishman?” Hackett grins. “Don’t like what you see? Just don’t pretend you didn’t have a hand in it.”

            I bite my lip with vexation, for he is right about me—I have been tried and found wanting.

            “Aside from the harm we’ve done, Hackett, my only regret is consorting with such a pilchard-stinking sea rat as you.”

            He laughs.

*

            Though I try repeatedly to achieve my crew’s release, Murat Reis will not be moved.            “You have nothing but your rowing ability left to bargain with, Captain,” the pirate admiral says with a smile. “Would you care to trade places with your second mate, or one of the others?”

            I cannot bear the thought, so Voss and the rest of my crew are doomed. I have failed them utterly, and I tell them so before our flotilla clears Irish waters when Murat Reis will return Hackett and me to shore, as promised, along with two elderly captives he considers of no use. Voss and my other men, though glum, congratulate me on my good fortune and beg me to work for their eventual release. This I pledge to do tirelessly. Although Hackett makes a similar pledge, I know the scoundrel has no such compunction.

            Once on land, it comes to me that though I’ve held out hope against hope that the pirate would keep his word, I am surprised and beyond relieved that he has. Why has he? Perhaps just to see the expression on our faces. What a profoundly bored and jaded man is this Murat Reis.

Not long after our release, Hackett and I are taken by the Irish authorities for questioning and then held for trial.

             While imprisoned and awaiting our day in court, I learn that attempts to rescue the stolen villagers proved comically inept. The master of a merchant ship anchored ten miles away simply refused aid. And the captain of the war ship Fifth Whelp delayed for four days because he lacked provisions. Oddly, I am not distressed to hear that feelings are running high against us among the coastal people after hearing the testimony of the two freed elderly captives that Hackett “led the raiders, his head held high, as he and Fawlett burned Baltimore.”

            Nor am I surprised when the Lord Justices of Ireland find that Hackett “expressed much disloyalty” in guiding the pirates to Baltimore when he might have led them elsewhere and done less harm. He is found “an enemy” to his country and sentenced to be hanged on a high cliff facing the sea path he showed to the pirates. But I am shocked when released after the court finds that I cooperated with the Salé Rovers only under duress.

*

            Leaving the sea forever, I return to my home in Cornwall and keep my word to try to free the captives. But in this, too, I fail. Despite countless letters and earnest pleadings before the most influential listeners, not a one of them has ever seen the British Isles again. Aside from this activity, I try to forget what I’ve done. By day, life is almost bearable, thanks to Paulette, John, and Josephine. They tell me over and over how right the Irish were to let me go. That the sack of the town wasn’t my fault. That I must forgive myself and move on with my life. I listen to them and nod, pretending to be swayed by their hopes and good wishes. But then I look inside myself and see nothing but darkness, and regret that an entire village was destroyed and enslaved because of me.

            By day, I ask myself who, in my circumstances, wouldn’t have made the same choice?

            But by night, every night, ghostly villagers appear to me—a wife and seven sons, a pregnant woman with two children, a man killed trying to protect his wife, all being dragged from their beds by pirates, who set their homes ablaze, and imprison them below decks.

And I know in my heart that with my blackened soul I should be hanging next to James Hackett.

© 2024 Rick Neumayer

In the summer of 1631, the defenseless southern Irish fishing village of Baltimore was sacked by Barbary pirates commanded by the notorious Murat Reis the Younger, aka Jan Janszoon van Haarlem, my late wife’s 11th great-grandfather. This historical fictional version is based on a variety of well-known sources.

“Devil’s Bargain” will appear in the forthcoming THREE FOGGY MORNINGS: Stories by Rick Neumayer. If you like this one, I’d love to hear from you.