The Privateersman (A Poor Man at the Gate Series Book 1) by Andrew Wareham

families what
crews ‘em theyselves, and no work on shore. So, either they goes onto a ship
for America, or the navy gets they, and the war being what it is, there ain’t
many ships for America now, and no bugger in his right mind deserts a
merchantman to be caught by the navy. What there is though, and in plenty, is
freemen, mostly ‘alf and ‘alf, like, what ‘ad a black lady for mum and a white
bloke for dad; they ain’t got no land nor no trade so there ain’t nothing for
them except get took by the navy, which is what ‘appens to most of they in the
end – they gets ‘ungry and volunteers or gets drunk and meets the press gang,
one or t’other. So it be easy enough, Captain, to find a couple of dozen young
men what would join us for five guineas cash in hand and a promise of ‘alf a
share, especially if you was to give ‘em Bible oath that you’d pay ‘em off in
Antigua in a twelvemonth at most, not dump ‘em on shore in England or New York
or some place.”
    The word was circulated and Star was besieged –
there had to be a hundred at least of young men of various colours unable to
find anything other than occasional casual labour and not seeing five guineas
in cash from one year’s end to the next. Many of them brought their own
cutlasses along in token of their willingness to fight. All were ragged, none
seemed over-fed; they lined up quietly and hopefully, trying to catch an
officer’s eye, wanting to seem keen and enthusiastic, not daring to create a
stir and be labelled ‘troublemaker’.
    “How do we choose?” Smith asked.
    Blaine shrugged and wandered off to his cabin, to
his bottle.
    In the end they simply selected the biggest – it
seemed obviously fair and liable to cause least trouble among those rejected –
they knew there was a reason for the choice made, that it was not whim or favouritism.
They took twenty-four, having found that many hammocks tucked away in the
purser’s stores – not that they had a purser, as such, the cook doubling for
one. Small boys hanging around the dock – there were always dozens of them
scrounging for the odd penny or crust – were sent to find mothers and sisters
to collect the men’s down payment of five guineas – it might have been a little
too trusting to have sent them off, coins in hand, with instructions to return
first thing in the morning, though most of them would have turned up, they
thought.
    Tom was called to audience with Blaine and Smith
later in the day.
    “We need a petty officer, as it were, Andrews,”
Blaine announced. “These new boarders will have to be kept under control
somehow. They ain’t seamen, and we haven’t got the wherewithal to train them –
no men, no time – so they can’t be watched – best they should be held together,
as waisters, like marines, you might say. You to lead them, showing them how to
handle their cutlasses properly the while.”
    Blaine broke off, poured himself a water-glass of
gin, almost making eye-contact with Tom as he raised it to his lips.
    “Thing is, you see, Andrews, what we have in mind,
is for these people to lead, as it were, to be in the front of any boardings,
our original boarders to back them up, following on behind, you might say.”
    “So, if there should be any dying, they can do it,
sir?”
    Smith winced at such deplorable lack of tact – there
was no need to say such things aloud, he believed.
    “Quite, Andrews. No need to waste seamen, after all,
we haven’t got so many to spare.”
    Tom shrugged – they were volunteers, freemen, had
begged, in fact, for the opportunity.
    “And you want me to lead them sir, to be your petty
officer?”
    “Yes, Andrews, exactly. Four shares?”
    It was more than fair – the going rate for a leading
hand was three shares, he had been told.
    “Thank you, sir. When do we sail?”
    They left harbour on an afternoon’s tide, very
publicly in view and heading ostentatiously south down the island chain; with
darkness, they turned