THE HIGH SEAS: Lucky & the Jolly Roger

In centuries past, the fear of pirates was always uppermost in the thoughts of Dutch merchant skippers sailing their heavy-laden East Indiamen along the coasts of Africa. No such grim foreboding clutched the heart of Johannes Van Delft, master of the tiny (265 tons) Dutch coaster Combinatie, as he put out of Tangier Harbor into the Strait of Gibraltar, bound for Malta, one day last month, laden with $100,000 worth of U.S. cigarettes. It was the 20th century; the sky was blue overhead; ten kegs of good Holland beer were stowed below, to complement the vessel’s small water supply, and the captain’s own son, Cornelius, was in charge of her ancient but serviceable diesel engine. “We’re going to have a fine trip,” shouted Captain Van Delft down the engine-room hatch to Cornelius, and Cornelius agreed.

Late the following night, as the Combinatie churned her way through the Mediterranean about 15 miles off the coast of Spain, a loud crash jarred the darkness and the ship heeled dangerously. “Clumsy fishermen,” grunted the captain. Before he could bring his ship to a stop, the door of the wheelhouse burst open and a crowd of hooded men shoved their way in, pointing submachine guns. One of them, speaking English, ordered the captain to sit on the floor. Another snapped handcuffs on him. Cornelius rushed up from the engine room. The pirates covered him as well. Then all the ship’s officers and forecastle hands, seven in all, were herded into an 8-ft.-by-10-ft. cabin in the bow. There was no toilet, little air, and before dawn the pirates painted the portholes black.

In the Dark. As the days went by, the prisoners, crammed in the filth and darkness of the fetid cabin, tried to make out what was going on overhead. One day they heard another boat come alongside. Several days later, they heard the anchor dropping. Later the ship got under way again. Still later, the Combinatie stopped again and another boat came alongside. On the twelfth day, the engines started again but there was no sound of scurry on the deck. Captain Van Delft shouted. There was no answer. He shouted again; no answer. At last, the prisoners were able to pry open the cabin skylight.

The captain held up a broken mirror as a periscope. The decks were deserted. One by one, the trapped men hauled themselves up to the deck. The captain raced to the wheelhouse and found the wheel lashed. The crew searched the ship. Everything that could be moved—the cargo, the crew’s razors, even the ship’s bill of health—had been taken by the vanished pirates. Only a chart, with the Combinatie’s position marked on it, had been left. Cornelius’ overworked diesel engine was wheezing at the point of death. The captain ordered a jury sail rigged from deck canvas and pointed his bow back to Tangier.

In the Dock. Skeptical at first, officials ashore were finally convinced, after three days’ close questioning, that the story of piracy aboard the Combinatie was true, and the search for the culprits began. Last week, four members of the crew of a onetime British admiralty launch, the Esme, now owned by one Rue Wright, a Texan from Colorado City, were picked up in Tangier for questioning. Wright and his all-British crew (which was later released) claimed that the Esme herself had been a victim of piracy. She had, they said, been boarded at sea by a group of four Frenchmen and one American, and her crew forced at gunpoint to help in the maritime hijack.

“The whole business was so well organized,” said one of the Britons, “that we’d rather not talk unless we are guaranteed safety. The line stretches from Chicago to Lucky Luciano in Naples, and it’s really dangerous.” His words echoed many a recent rumor to the effect that New York’s ex-vicelord, deported to his native Italy in 1946, has hoisted the Jolly Roger to feed a European black market in American cigarettes.