Captain Judas by F. van Wyck Mason - Part of Chapter 01

1955 GENRE: Historical Fiction | Swashbuckling

What Price a Woman's Virtue?

They called him Judas, traitor, murderer—this hireling of the Moslem dogs. His name was a curse to all American seamen who felt the whip of their infidel masters.

But the men who swore death to the renegade Amos Trent little knew why he wore the Moslem turban and took the Bashaw of Tripoli's gold. To save a woman's virtue … to keep an American girl free from the lust and decadence of Tripoli's harems, Trent dared torture, dishonor and death.

Captain Judas is a brawling tale of the freebooting seas, written with all the color and action that only F. van Wyck Mason can bring to a story of high romance and adventure.

PART ONE 1

The Capstan Bars might not have been the most fashionable tavern in New York that May afternoon of 1805 but it probably was the smokiest, doubtless it was the smelliest, certainly it was the noisiest.

It was jammed to overflowing with seafaring men, all accustomed to shouting over a strong wind on an open deck—and a sailorman of these new, bustling, busy United States was never ashore long enough to learn to fit his voice to walls and a ceiling. The Capstan Bars rum was vigorous and cheap, conducive to loud argument; the tavern was no place for a man of jangled nerves or timid-manner.

Not that Captain Amos Trent had a frayed nerve or a tinge of timidity in the whole six foot two, two hundred and twelve pounds of him. An easy-going man, Amos Trent, with a quiet voice and a mild manner, but neither his smile nor his stout good humor persuaded many trouble-makers into provoking him unduly. And never twice.

"He's a terror when he's stirrrred up," was the way Trent's first mate, Davey MacCord, put it, "and most times the damn fool who'd stir him c'n see that in his braw, blue eyes.”

Davey MacCord had a Scotch burr that persisted despite all his efforts to cultivate a Yankee twang. The heather in his speech would not be ousted—Davey was forty-odd years out of Kincardine—in spite of all the mate's labors to cultivate a New England accent that would serve as protection against His Britannic Majesty's naval officers. In these times, with impressment so close to kidnapping that it would have taken a Solomon to tell the difference, a State o' Maine dialect was a handy thing, even though it was no guarantee that it would stop an Englishman's cry of "British deserter!"

Now, seated across the small, scarred, slop-stained table from Amos Trent, MacCord left off packing a blackened briar pipe with quid shavings and shook his head dolefully.

"It's a hard price the mon Kendrick wants f'r his cables," he said, "and one that'll make ye reach—"

He broke off as a difference of opinion made itself heard in a corner toward the rear of the tavern. Over the roar of voices came a bellowed curse, the crash of broken glass and the splintered thud of some piece of furniture being manhandled.

Trent and MacCord turned, idly curious, to see a big, fair-haired seaman jump to his feet, brandishing the broken leg of a chair. This he brought down enthusiastically on the head of his erstwhile drinking companion, a bearded man in dirty white canvas breeches and jerkin. The bewhiskered one slumped to the floor. The other turned, hitched at the broad leather belt that separated his breeches and his blue and white striped jersey, and foghorned a challenge to "any and all, one at a time or by the dozen." Something—a bung-starter, a belaying pin—cracked the fair-haired man behind the ear and he joined his friend on the floor. An expressionless, bored bouncer began dragging the two customers toward the rear door that opened onto the regular outdoor retiring room, the alley.

"You were saying?" Amos Trent asked, turning back to MacCord.

"That ye'll have to reach deep in y'r pocket for the siller to pay Kendrick f'r his cables," MacCord went on. He tamped the black, vicious-looking tobacco in the bowl of his pipe and stuck it in his mouth, screened by the grizzled beard. "And it ain't the best tackle, mon, f'r all his fancy prices."

Amos sighed and reached for his pewter mug of ale.

Davey's dissatisfaction over any and all prices was an old story.

“Who would you give our custom to, then?" he asked.

"Kendrick is the best—"

"Naa, naa," MacCord interrupted. "I heard of a mon in Amboy who—"

“We haven't the time," Trent broke in, in turn. "No, Mr. MacCord, we'll get the best we can for Medea. She'll need the best on this voyage and she'll get it."

"And bankrupt ye doin' it," the mate said gloomily. "Aye, the brig owns y'r heart and y'r—purse like a wasteful light o' love, I swear! Ye're bound to dress her in gear fit f'r a man-o-war.

Trent chuckled as he shrugged wide shoulders under blue serge. He sipped his ale again, then set the mug down on the table before him, cradling it in his blunt-fingered hands.

"And is man-o'-war's gear bad?" he asked mildly. "I mind you of that time last October when we had to run away from that French frigate. Remember?"

Grudgingly, the mate said, "Aye. 'Twas a livin' gale out o' the nor' east and a case of carry all or be took. The wind freshened—thank God—'til the Frenchie parted half his stays and so we won free. Aye, that was a close one, Amos.

"And the gear held and so we're here today," Trent said quietly. He raised his mug. "We're here to swallow a good luck drink to Medea, the fleetest brig that ever cleared Sandy Hook."

"And I'll drink to that, and hearty!"

The big man in the brass-buttoned, double-breasted blue coat and the smaller mate with the terrier whiskers drained their mugs and Trent signaled a serving wench. The girl scurried toward them, unmindful of the hands of the men who explored her briefly in passing. As the bouncer was bored with the duty of felling combative customers, so Martha, the wench, was bored with the pinching and pawing that was her lot. It was before the term "vocational hazard" had been invented, but the black and blue marks that dotted Martha's rounded stem might well have been Early American examples of the necessary evil.

Martha treated the usual Capstan Bars clients with an amicable contempt ("Ah, the lot of 'em would spend the night with a gel f'r a ha'penny and expect a big breakfast, t'boot!") but Captain Amos Trent was no usual client. In Martha's eyes quite plainly he was the handsomest, best-mannered, most-to-be-desired young man who ever had stepped into the tavern from River Street, albeit he stepped in too seldom. Martha never yet had led Amos Trent to the upstairs bedroom where she provided "special accommodations" but she had hopes.

"What'll it be, Cap'n Trent, sir?" she asked eagerly. By glory, he was handsomer the closer you got to him. "A bit o' the same, Cap'n Trent, sir?"

"Aye, Martha, if you please," Amos smiled. He pushed back his stool and stretched his height aloft, pitching a coin onto the tabletop. "'A moment, Davey," he added.

"The jakes."

Martha watched him shoulder his way through the smoky room toward the rear door, her bar rag making absent dabs at the table as her eyes followed him. She was conscious of MacCord's eyes on her and hurriedly collected the empty mugs.

"The cap'n," she said, "he be sailin' soon?"

"Sooner or later," the mate replied, enigmatically.

"A long voyage?" the girl pursued.

"Longer than some but not so long as others," MacCord grinned. The girl flushed angrily and tossed her head.

"Ye think I'm pryin', do ye?" she demanded. "I only wanted to know 'cause—'cause—" Her voice trickled off into silence.

"'Cause the sun goes out when he leaves and shines again when he comes back, eh?" MacCord chuckled. "Ah, don't shake y'r head at me, lass—I've seen ye look at him.

These peepers may be old but they ain't blind."

"Huh!" Martha snorted. "As if I care anything about Mr. Cap'n Amos Trent, I do! Why, I—I—" She turned back to MacCord. "Tell me, is he marrit?"

The mate leaned back on his stool, his grin widening.

"Married?" he asked with a roll of r's. "Ten times over, that l!d! He's got a baker's dozen o' bairns in Boston and as f'r the family he's got in Charleston—" He shook his head, clucking his tongue.

"Ah, ye mean old devil!" Martha flared. "Ye're just sayin' that to tease me. But tell me truly, Mr. Mate—is he marrit?"

"No, lass," MacCord said, sobering. "And I doot he'll ever be. Wedded to his brig, is Cap'n Trent. Oh, he likes the lassies well enough but never in a way that has a weddin' mixed up with it. A toss here and a tumble there and it's heigh—ho, m'lady, and pleased to ha' made y'r acquaintance."

Martha eyed the door through which Trent had disappeared, her full mouth drooping.

"It ain't even that f'r me," she mourned. "And why not?

Ain't I enough the grand lady?"

"Naa, naa," MacCord said kindly. "It's only because he's fittin' out his brig, Medea, noo and when he's dressin' that sweetheart he ain't got the mind to ondress another, in a manner o' speakin'. Now skip off, lass, and fetch our ale, 'cause here comes the cap'n now and he's got a powerful thirst."

Martha moved away, running the gantlet of thumbs and forefingers, as Amos edged through to the table and sat down.

"Ye've made another conquest, lad," MacCord chuckled. "The servin' wench was sighin' over y'r charms like a rusty pump. If time wasna so short, ye c'1d make her happy but—speakin' o' time, how soon d'ye think we'll be fit to sail? I suspect the Finch has all her supplies aboard the noon and we don't want her beatin' us to Gibraltar."

Trent laughed easily. "No fear of that, Davey: Finch isn't half loaded. And even if we get no start on her, I still think Medea could—oh—oh!"

MacCord turned on his stool at the change in Trent's voice. He scowled at the sight of the knot of sailors who thrust into the Capstan Bars, spat noisily on the floor and turned back to Amos.

"They have their brass," he said, "to walk in here, the domned impressin' bastards, the stinkin' Johnny Bulls."

"They don't do the impressin', Davey," Trent said quickly. "They're ordinaries, not officers. It's not them that grab our men off our decks but their damned, sneering officers—and back of them, the sea lords of Whitehall."

"Still," MacCord said sourly, "they've got their gall to come in here. Off the Swallow, they are, sloop-o'-war, anchored near The Narrows. By God, I'd swallow 'em if I had my way. If that milksop Jefferson would only—"

"Belay!" Trent said sharply. MacCord grimaced.

"Ye're still on the Constellation frigate, eh?" he murmured.

"Spite o' all they did to ye, ye still have respect f'r the gov'ment, ye do. If it was me, I'd—"

"But it's not," Amos broke in again. "And we'll not speak of it more, Mr. MacCord!"

The mate subsided, shrugging, as Martha returned to the table with the ale. Blissfully, the girl beamed under Trent's smile and casual "thankee," then sidled away as MacCord snickered, then buried his face in the foam while Trent scowled.

"Now, as regards that copper," Amos said sternly. 'Tm thinking we'll need at least four width—"

Conversations in the Capstan Bars were fated to be interrupted.

This time, Trent stopped as from outside the tavern came a mounting clamor of derisive hooting, its mocking tone underlaid by ugly menace. In their comer, the group of English sailors shifted uneasily on their chairs, eyeing the windows. They knew the temper of the town; theirs must have been a mighty thirst to have made them brave the bitterness of New York toward the Royal Navy.

"We'll need four good width of copper to fix her well above the water line," Trent resumed. "In the Mediterranean, the sea growths come very fast. It all counts when the Barbary pirates—curse all, what is that rumpus?"

He shoved back his stool, got to his feet and stalked to the window. Peering through the dirty, leaded panes he saw that narrow River Street, outside, was filled with a screeching mob of waterfront toughs, rat-faced urchins and shrill-voiced whores. A few shouted words came through the general uproar.

''Macaroni ... Englanders ... Nabs!"

Nabs—quality—in this part of New York? Trent frowned.

What fool of a gentleman would strut his fine clothes and fine manners along the waterfront? And "Englanders," too even a numb-skull fop from London should know better than to parade his gorgeous arrogance in this quarter!

Directly beyond the window were two hulking seamen who stood on tiptoe to look over the heads of the crowd toward the end of the street, where the yelling was loudest.

"Aye, Billy," one chortled, "they’ll pluck that fine jay proper in a minute. And, by God, do you mark that lusty trollop what's with him?"

''That I do. Come on, there are some pretties on her I c'1d use—and plenty of somethin' besides the jools, too. Come on!"

The two men shoved their way out of Trent's sight. From the end of the street came a howl.

"Strip the English bastards! Strip 'em bare-arsed! Impress our lads, will they? Aye, we'll impress the English bitch, then!"

From behind Trent came a crash, a curse, a chorused yell. The British sailors off the Swallow went into action with a rush. A countryman, a countryman's lady, were in danger and although the odds were overwhelming, the men from the sloop started to the rescue.

Trent had no love for the King's Navy but he was forced to admire these men's courage and their ability in a rough-and-tumble. Instinctively, the Britishers formed a flying wedge which crashed toward the street door. It moved slowly but it moved inexorably and it left a wake of sprawled bodies and splintered furniture, shattered glass, bloody noses, spilled teeth and broken heads.

From up the street came the high scream of a woman, whether in pain or fright or mad glee, Amos could not tell. Whatever the cause of that scream, it was enough to send the wide-shouldered, big-framed captain of the brig Medea through the front door of the Capstan Bars, out into narrow, cobble-stoned River Street.

As Trent paused just beyond the threshold of the tavern the mob's ugliness broke through mere invective into violence. A stone flew—another—a flurry of rocks and brick-bats hissed through the air. Glass tinkled. Another woman's screech sounded, this time clearly jubilant. Amos Trent surged forward.

The young captain used his hands, his elbows, his shoulders, ruthlessly to push his way to the core of the pandemonium. Breaking through, he saw that the mob's target was a tall, handsome man in a sky blue suit made showier by elaborate lace cuffs and a flowing Valenciennes neckerchief.

And beyond the young gentleman, huddled in a doorway, was the girl.

Please let us know in the comments if you like this story. If there is enough interest, we will publish more of this story.