Morgan on the Spanish Main

The "Mourning Dove" sailed bravely ahead of the gale, her canvas stripped to the main staysails and the spritsail to keep her before the wind. She labored up the rise of one mountainous wave to plunge heavily into the trough with a sickening screech as her timber bones flexed inside her oak planked skin. The loose ends of cables and sheets whipped against the masts and yards as the wind shrieked through the tattered rigging, the combined sounds the screams of a strong ship in her death throes. No man stood on the deck save two helmsmen and one mate, all tied to the mizzen with lines around their waists, and all three barely able to see the compass floating in the binnacle for the sheets of rain and spray that coursed the length of the ship. The rest of the crew huddled in the leaking foc'sle while the officers and passengers clung to life in the aft cabins of the vessel. Suddenly, with the sound of a musket blast, the fore-top mast was carried away, and as the main top stay grew taught, that mast too was consigned to the sea.

How the brave ship survived that night, no one of the crew could say, or would say. Each had prayed, repented, and promised his vision of the Allmighty that if allowed to live, he would begin life again in a more penitant manner, but none wished to display this weakness before his shipmates. She did survive, all the same, and daybreak found her floating on a calm sea, and the morning watch slowly making repairs. Thankfully, the spare spars had remained lashed to the channels, and new masts would be fashioned from these. The second watch was turned out shortly after breakfast, and clambered over the rigging. The Mourning Dove would win no race on this voyage, but she would make safe harbour on Tortola, and take time for permanent repairs there.

Morgan McGreggor had spent the hellish night huddled with Penelope in their small cabin. In her nineteen short years, Morgan had not experienced such fear as on that night, nor such excitement. While she knew the probable outcome of the storm, and had resigned herself to ending life as the virgin daughter of a Tortola sugar planter, she found she was alive with the storm, as if she could hear the laughter of nature at the pitiful ship that dared to challenge this, her most intimate of domains. She had heard the Captain say at dinner one night that the sea is a fine but dangerous mistress, and when one becomes lulled with her charms, she often strikes out in rage at this indifference to her. Last night, Morgan had heard the sea's song of rage, became one with it, and despite her terror, admired the sea for her strength.

Morgan was the daughter of a moderately successful businessman in Greencastle, and a beautiful, auburn haired maid from Dublin. Morgan knew her mother only from the description given her by her father, for Brenna McGreggor had given up her life to give life to her daughter; Brenna died of childbed fever a few days after Morgan's birth. John Morgan had often described his beautiful wife to Morgan, always saying that Brenna had been reborn in her, and indeed, Morgan wore the same shining, auburn tresses. Morgan had also matured with the same slender, feminine body John had loved, although he was too proper to reveal this to his daughter. With soft curves at hips and bosom that spoke of ripe womanhood and promised embraces of passion, Morgan would have been a prize indeed for any man fortunate enough to win her favor.

Penelope was a large breasted, full hipped woman of forty-odd years who had been employed as first a wet nurse for Morgan, and then as her permanent nanny. Penelope had been there when Morgan took her first steps, when she wept at the loss of her puppy, and when Morgan had become a woman. Penelope taught Morgan the ways of a proper lady, but unfortunately, had a taste for the grape, and in her less sober moments, also taught Morgan the ways of men and women in a manner not to be confused with the somber bed manners prevalent in 1666 England. Morgan did not ask the source of Penelope's knowledge, for a lady would not ask such a thing, but she was intrigued with the mental pictures painted by Penelope's wine-freed words and gestures.

Morgan's father had a penchant for investments considered by others of his profession to be less than adviseable and when offerred a small plantation on Tortola, he quickly purchased the property. John.left England in 1667, bound for the Virgin Islands of the New World. His fortune would be found in sugar and rum, and he left Morgan in the able care of Penelope with a promise to send for them as soon as the plantation was established. His plan was not to be realized. The letter she received in May of 1669 informed Morgan of her father's death, and her subsequent inheiritance of the plantation. With nothing to hold her longer to England, she made arrangements to sail in September. Penelope would accompany her as guardian and companion.

The Mourning Dove was a three-masted English merchant ship of thirteen-hundred tons burthen, and carried a cargo of supplies and trade goods for the planters of this latest British conquest in the New World. The weather had been good, both for sailing and for Morgan's daily walk around the deck. Penelope had been stricken from the first wave with an unsettled stomach, and spent the days in their small cabin, but she always admonished Morgan to cover her bosom with a handkerchief before venturing on deck.

"Morgan, my child, no man wants a woman with a freckled chest. They want a woman with a white bosom, pure as the snow in the mountains. Take care to cover yourself, dear."

The voyage had been enjoyable as Morgan watched dolphins race the Mourning Dove, riding her bow wave in obvious pleasure, and on one day, whales surfaced on the port side and kept pace for most of the morning. Morgan inhaled the sights, the sounds, and the smell of the sea as if breathing for the first time, and spent hours just watching the even swell of the surface. Then, ten days out of Tortola, the storm front was seen approaching, the Captain lowered sail in preparation, and the hellish night began.

When Morgan walked up the companionway into the sun, the ship was as busy with activity, both on deck and aloft, at least as busy as the weather-worn sailors could manage. Sailors above rove new rigging to replace that swept away by the fierce winds and hoisted spars to the mastheads and lashed them into place, while others on deck opened lockers and retrieved the massive sheets of snow-white cotton canvas in preparation for getting underway. By noon, the temporary rigging was in place, the mains hoisted to the jacks, and sailors were busily lashing them to the irons. In a few hours, the Mourning Dove would fly again.

The cry came from the main top.

"Sail Ho, off the port beam."

The mate on deck fetched the long brass telescope and trained it on the tiny speck of white that stood above the horizon. Morgan strained to see the colors, but the distance was too far without the aid of the glass. Still, she stayed at the rail, watching the white dot rapidly grow larger. Suddenly, the mate lowered the glass, turned, and walked quickly to the companionway. He was gone for only a minute and then reappeared, trailing the Captain. The Captain motioned for the glass, stared at the sail for a few minutes and then asked the mate to call all hands.

"The sail to port is a brig flying the black flag of a pirate. We can not outrun her with our temporary rigging, but we are more heavily armed, and can send her to the bottom if our resolve is firm and our aim is true". Then to the First Mate, "Mr. Lewis, get enough sail aloft to allow us to maneuver, then loose the gun tackles and prepare to fire."

Sails billowed in the breeze, then were hauled to trim and cleated to the rails. The Mourning Dove began to gain speed, although the now visible brig was rapidly coming abeam. The Captain asked Morgan to go below, and followed her to the cabin.

"Miss McGreggor, our chances of succeding in this battle are only fair, as the crew is exhausted from the storm and from re-rigging the ship, and I must ask you to lock your cabin door and remain there until the fight is over". He pulled the two flintlocks from his belt and placed them on the bed. "I will do everything in my power to keep you from harm, but should we fail to defeat the brig, use these pistols to end the life of your servant and yourself. These heathens show no respect for women, and death will be more bearable than the fate that would surely be yours at their hands. May God bless you, and give us the strength to protect you".

As the cabin door closed behind him, Morgan pushed home the bolt, and then sat beside Penelope. She thought it strange that, although she was afraid, she was not shaking. Rather, her senses seemed to be honed to razor keenness, and her mind was filled with thoughts and imaginations of how the battle would be waged and the results of the struggle. She had not long to think before the first of her cannon rocked the Mourning Dove, heeling her to starboard. A second, then a third shot shuddered through the hull. The air was full of men screaming and acknowledging orders, with the pounding of bare feet on the deck overhead, and with the dull boom of answering fire from the Brig. An enormous "CRACK" of shattering wood sounded above and forward,followed by the loud crash of splitting decking and timber as her mainmast fell, shot through at the base, and the Mourning Dove began to slow. Another "CRACK" and Morgan felt the ship shift direction as the rudder was shot away. Both were thrown from the bed as the two hulls crashed together, and as they struggled to rise, a loud cry arose from above, accompanied by the sound of many more bare feet on deck. The blasts of the cannon gave way to pistol shots and the sounds of steel slashing against steel. Screams Morgan thought not possible reached her ears as men were gutted by cutlass and boarding axe, and the acid coppery odor of blood and the stench of excrement drifted down the companionway and through the louvres of the cabin door. Then, as suddenly as it had begun, all was quiet.

Morgan heard footsteps above as men walked about the ship, and then heard the scuffle of bare feet on the floor outside the cabin door. The door rattled, then was silent. As Morgan and Penelope waited for the Captain's voice, the door burst off the hinges, landing on the floor at their feet, and a dark skinned man stepped through the doorway. Upon seeing Margo, the scar across his left eye and cheek was rippled by his smile, a smile that showed olive colored teeth set in the dark, pock-marked face. He stepped slowly forward, the dirk in his right hand waving menacingly, and blood dripped from his filthy right sleeve to stain the flooring with dark red spots.

"Neptune, suck me codpiece, what have we here? Why, it's a young lady and an old crone. Now...old crone, you most likely be loose, and dry as hardtack, but the lady...the lady be tight as a goat..." He brushed the stringy hair from his forehead with bloody fingers. "Aye, and slippery as a fish". He approached closer, unlacing his codpiece and freeing his manhood. His small organ waved in the air, and he manipulated it with his free hand, sliding the foreskin over the head and back.

"Aye, fine lady, just stay quiet, or I'll take you after this dagger finds your heart. 'Twouldn't be the first time I've poked a corpse. Corpse's, they don't fight, and be warm and wet for a long while". He grinned a yellow-green smile again. "Bit the titty tips off the last dead bitch, just before I shot her belly full with seed".

Morgan was shocked when Penelope spoke up.

"I fancy you know much of crones and corpses, you bastard son of a squid. No proper woman would want that little wrinkled little pricker or your slimy juice in her belly". Penelope chuckled. "I say's you wouldn't even get a dried up whore to lay for you lessun you paid her twice her price".

"Belay yer tongue, hag. After I finish with the lady here, I'll take a trip up your windward passage and show you how my "little pricker" feels. Maybe my mates would like a turn or two at that sloppy, scratchy hole. Aye, you'd be wet after that, slimy wet in both ports".

He was almost within touching distance now, and let go his organ to reach for Morgan. She remembered the pistol on the bed and whirled to pick it up. Cocking the hammer as she turned, she raised it to belly level, and prepared to fire. He crossed the few feet between them, as quickly as a viper, and struck the pistol from her grasp. It discharged upon landing on the floor, the ball lodging in the bulkhead. The man smiled again and sucked his yellow teeth, then extended his hand to touch Morgan's breast. At that instant, she heard a dull thud, and the dirk dropped to the floor. The man's mouth and eyes opened wide, and then he fell at her feet, a dagger protruding from his back. Morgan looked back to the doorway, and almost gave up hope. Three more men stood there.

Morgan turned to get the other pistol, but found it missing, lost during the violent rocking as the hulls met. As she turned back, she picked up the dead pirate's dirk, and held it before her. The three men had not moved.

As she prepared to defend herself, Morgan eyed the three men. Two were as the dead one at her feet, unkept and in filthy, bloody clothing. The one on the right was even more fearsome in appearance, with a ring of silver pierced through his nose and shaved bald as a doorknob. His eyes flitted nervously around the cabin, looking at Penelope, then at the other two men, then at her, and never stood still. The man on the left was less harsh in appearance, having only many tatoos upon his chest and arms, but the bulge in his baggy trousers left no doubt of her fate should he be left alone with her. He stood with his hands clenching into fists, then relaxing, over and over, and he licked his lips in a manner that was lewd and disgusting.

The man in the center was last to meet her gaze, and she was taken aback by both his stature and by the ease at which he confronted her. His body, tall in height and large in muscle seemed relaxed and at the same time, ready to spring into motion should the occasion demand such action. His raven-black hair lay casually on his shoulders, the front combed back and held in place with a band of red silk. His grey eyes pierced her soul for a second, and then even, white teeth gleamed through his open smile.

"A dumb sod was old Jaques, and now he meets his maker." He made a mock bow. "I am sorry, my lady, for robbing you of the pleasure of killing him yourself, but at times, my hand is quicker than my thought. Jaques would think nothing of killing you before ravaging your body, and you are worth far more than to be the unbreathing vessel for his spunk. If I am correct in my assessment, your charms are as yet untouched, and will fetch more in ransom or in the slave markets if they are allowed to remain so."

He stepped toward her, and Morgan waved the dirk. The tall man laughed, and said to the other two, "Ah, a virgin with spirit. She will bring much gold from some Spaniard in Cuba. Or... perhaps I shall keep her for myself, for a time at least, and then sell her to Madame Brigitte. But, if I am to make this decision, I must first inspect the goods."

He crossed the distance between them casually, and in a most haughty manner. As Morgan raised the dirk to strike, he easily caught her wrist. His crushing grip caused her to cry out in pain, and the dirk dropped from her grasp. Still holding her wrist in his large hand, the man stooped to retrieve his own dagger from the back of the dead sailor. He wiped it on the dead man's shirt carefully before rising to look into her eyes again.

"Now, lads, we shall see what fortune has brought us this day, and if she was worth wetting my blade in Jaques' blood."

His eyes locked on hers again, and she went cold with the realization that she was powerless to resist against such strength. In terror, she watched the steel blade slip under the lacings of her bodice and then slice through them as if they were mere threads. He inserted the blade between her milk white breasts and, with the soft sound of tearing cloth, the bodice and underlying corset was slowly slit to her belly. Her full breasts fell into the opening upon being freed from their bindings, and the sudden exposure to the air caused the nipples to harden.

"Look at this, will ye lads, the lady is pleased at my treatment". He laughed again.

The keen edge continued it's travel down her belly, the fabric parting before it as a field before the plow, and in a moment the skirt fell to the floor. Morgan stood in pantaloons and her open corset, blushing in embarassment. The humiliation was not yet complete; he slit the tie on the pantaloons, and they too fell into the soft pile that had once covered her lush body. Her most private areas were now revealed to her captors, and she was deeply shamed.

The tall man released his hold, and stood silent, drinking in the curve of her breasts, the dark nipples surrounded by dark circles, and wrinkled with the temperature, at the gentle, rounded belly that ended in the sparse, ginger curls that guarded her mound. His gaze traveled down to the soft, pouting lips visible beneath the soft downy hair, over the soft thighs and slender, firm legs. When he spoke, his voice was quiet, almost reverent in tone, and he spoke to only her.

"By the Saints, if you were only half as beautiful, I would take you now, but beauty such as this will fetch a fortune. Ah, would that I were a common sailor with no worries of sharing the prize with my crew. Fortune shines on you this day, my lady, for you shall escape unharmed, at least for the time. Your servant also shall remain untouched only because she serves you, though many of the men have been without a woman for weeks."

He strode toward the door, then turned back to her and said, "I am Captain Duncan Smithfield of the brig "Diablo". Your ship shall be sunk after we plunder her, and you will reside in a cabin on my brig. My word is that you shall receive good treatment as we sail for Terriva Island. There, I shall send word to the person of your choice that you are held for ransom. If your ransom is paid in a reasonable time, you will be released untouched. If not, I alone shall decide your fate. Gather your belongings. My two mates will show you to your quarters."

Morgan gathered her courage and spoke.

"How do we know that you will be true to your statement?"

"My word is known to be law among my crew. Just as Jaques discovered, failure to obey results in death. No man shall touch you, not even myself, providing you do not attempt harm to us. On this, I again give you my word."

They were shown to their cabin, and as they walked across the deck of the brig, Morgan's blood chilled. Several of the heathen crew swore at the mates for allowing the women to be so near the Captain. Their opinion was that he was keeping them to satisfy his own needs at the expense of theirs. They heard the grumbling as they walked down the companionway.

The cabin was smaller than the one on the Mourning Dove, but was at least had one large bed and the bedclothes were clean. There was a door opening onto a small gallery that traversed the stern of the ship, and Morgan and Penelope were free to walk there. They were not allowed on deck. On her first walk, Morgan noticed that the Captain's windows also opened onto the gallery, and she took care to determine if he was in his cabin before venturing across the stern. The window's were never open, but she could peek around the sash on the side and see most of the interior. If he was there, she usually stayed on the side of the ship. Unfortunately, the "seat of ease" was on the other side, and at least once a day, she was forced to walk past the windows even if the Captain could see her. He never spied on her as she took care of this personal task, at least she was not aware of any such act, but she always tried to make the walk in the morning, when the Captain was likely to be on deck, giving orders for the day.