Read an Excerpt
Chapter One
Daniel Collins had never been to a hanging before.
His uncle, a peaceful Quaker, had strictly forbidden him to attend these gruesome public spectacles. And Daniel always obeyed his uncle's wishes.
But here he was, clinging to the branches of a stout oak tree, less than fifty yards from the gallows.
It was Tuck O'Neil who first told him about the hangings.
"You really should go," Tuck always said. "It's your public duty to see the scoundrels hang. And besides," he'd say with a wink, "it's the best entertainment the streets of Philadelphia have to offer."
Tuck was no Quaker. He was a red-haired Irish brawler who knew the city streets like the back of his hand.
On the outside, Tuck and Daniel were alike in many ways. They were long and lanky, with strong backs and large, capable hands. They were both tolerably handsome and clear-eyed. They were both in their fifteenth year, eager to cast off the ties that bound them to their homes and families and ship out for the open sea.
But on the inside, the two young men were as different as night and day. Daniel was no brawler. He had been raised in a pious Quaker household that sparkled with cleanliness and holy conversation. There was no music permitted in the house, no dancing, and certainly no talk of criminals and hangings. His Sundays were spent in the quiet meditation of Quaker Meeting, where he sat with Uncle Elias in the great holy silence, listening for the echoes of God's word.
When the other apprentices laid aside their tools and left the heat and dust of the shipyard to venture down to the execution dock, Daniel had always remained behind, securein the knowledge that he was doing the right thing. He wanted adventure, sure enough, but he had no appetite for cruelty.
Later he would listen with downcast eyes and sweating palms as the rowdy boys described the neck-stretching in vivid detail.
He listened. But he did not laugh when they laughed. He did not make jokes. He did not gawk at their souvenirs — hanks of hair and rope and pieces of dead man's clothing. Instead, he vowed to himself that he would never take part in such savagery.
But today was different.
It was June 5, 1718. And this was no ordinary execution. Today the notorious pirates, Hatchet Jack Morgan and Moses Skellington, would be hung from the public gallows before a thousand eager spectators.
"You can't miss this, Daniel," Tuck said. "There'll be a parade and a sermon and confessions and such."
Daniel looked up from his place in the sawpit. The workday was nearly over. The sun was dipping down, casting a golden light on the water and the wharves and the hulks of the unfinished ships. A wind came up from the eastern shore, smelling cool and green.
For an instant, Daniel's mind swam with possibilities. A parade. A sermon. A last dying speech from each of the pirates. An execution. Suddenly his life seemed very small. Daniel had never seen any of these things. And he feared he never would.
"Well," Tuck said, "are you comin' or aren't you?"
"I must admit . . ." Daniel said slowly, "I would like to see a pirate."
"Who wouldn't?" Tuck said, grabbing him by the arm.
Then, before Daniel had time to say another word, Tuck had pulled him up out of the sawpit and they were walking past the sawdust piles and the weathered stacks of lumber, past the barrels of lime and the piles of gravel, up out of the shipyard, toward the waterfront docks.
Daniel had to walk fast to keep up. He didn't want to be left behind, not this time.
And here they were, in the shelter of the leafy branches, twenty feet above the heads of the crowd. The tree they had chosen was close to the gallows and close to the river, standing alone along the muddy bank. Often the waters of high tide covered her roots.
From their perch in the fork of the tree, Tuck and Daniel could see everything.
To the north, a covey of graceful ships lay anchored in the depth of the river channel, copper-colored in the slanting afternoon light.
To the south, the Delaware River flowed on its twisting journey, nearly seventy miles downstream from here, through fertile farmlands and piney swamps, all the way to the Atlantic Ocean.
To the east, the green banks of New Jersey shimmered in the heat.
To the west, the sober faces of the red-brick buildings and ordered streets of the Quaker city receded into the haze.
Directly ahead, a gallows had been erected on the black mud of the riverbank. Daniel had seen many wooden structures in his time, but none like this.
It was horrible in its simplicity: The framework overhead consisted of a heavy wooden beam supported by two stout timbers. From this beam, the ropes would dangle and the pirates would hang. The beam stood a good ten feet above the platform. And this platform stood like a stage a dozen feet above the level of the ground. This way, the whole crowd had a clear view of the hanging.
The cobblestone promenade surrounding the hangman's scaffold teemed with people of every description: Bankers and bootblacks, sailors and seamstresses, printers, pickpockets, and politicians all stood on tiptoe, jostling against one another as they craned their necks, each searching for a clear view of the execution site.
Somewhere a man with a cockney accent was plucking a fiddle and singing: Hangin's the best way to die
for the poor, it's better than livin'
because when the gallows is high,
the journey is shorter to heaven . . .
Nearby a cluster of drunken men took up the tune, braying like donkeys. The laughter of their female companions was shrill, like carrion crows.
At the edge of the crowd, underneath the tree where the boys roosted, two men in red-striped shirts began selling bottles of apple cider and blackberry wine from a wooden handcart.
The Man with the Silver Oar. Copyright © by Robin Moore. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.
