He swam hard towards them.
But a Tiger shark came at him again. And now, to his dismay, he could see that there were in fact two Tigers hunting him. This time the shark that came at him aggressively bumped him without biting him, while the other one circled around him, stalking him.
Terrified out of his mind, Caesar shit himself and continued swimming towards the skiff.
Twenty feet, that’s all you have to go is twenty damned feet!
The second Tiger came at him, but at the last second it darted towards the reef as bullets began tearing into its dorsal fin and splashing the water around it. The men on the spar deck of the sloop were now shooting at the pair of aggressive creatures with pistols, muskets, and blunderbusses to drive them off.
He swam on, fueled by the raw animal fear of the hunted. With three powerful strokes, he closed the gap between himself and the longboat. Two pairs of strong arms reached down and pulled him aboard as a great cheer rose up from the starboard railing of the sloop. The sharks raced off to a smattering of gunshots, their bleeding dorsal fins slicing through the water.
A moment later he was hoisted on board the ship. A passel of darkly-tanned seamen with sun-bleached hair took him by the legs, held him up triumphantly, and patted him on top of his glossy, hairless, single-ear-ringed head and muscly back before setting him back down. He beamed at all the attention, feeling like some sort of hero.
It was then he saw him.
Smiling down upon him from the quarterdeck was a tall, spare man with a short, raven-black beard wearing a crimson brocaded cotton jacket, tricorn hat, and three brace of pistols suspended in a kind of bandolier. The man had an unmistakable air of command about him and was obviously the captain, but it wasn’t clear to Caesar if he was in fact some sort of pirate or a British officer.
The captain stepped down onto the spar deck and walked up to him, briefly examined his shark bite—which Caesar was thankful was only a superficial wound though it still stung like hell—and smiled through his deep ebony beard. “Looks like you’ll live, lad,” he said. “It is but a flesh wound and I would have to say that you got the better of those sharks than they of you. Well done!”
At this, the seamen gave a rowdy cheer. Someone stepped forward with a bottle of rum, splashed some on his wound, and shoved the bottle into his hands. Wincing in pain at the stinging sensation of the alcohol, he took the bottle and drank a huge swig, feeling suddenly more alive than he had ever felt in his entire life.
When the cheering died down, the captain with the black beard said, “Seeing as you swam to the Margaret instead of your own ship, I think it only fair that ye sail with us now. What say you to that? Do ye speak English?”
“Aye. And I can read and write as well.”
The tall man nodded approvingly and turned to his crew. “What do you think of that, lads! Not only can he outfight a pair of sharks, but he’s an educated man! Well then, I say he’s going to have to join our crew!”
The men agreed. With their heads bobbing up and down, they laughed and cheered uproariously in support of him joining the company. The captain turned back towards him. “What say ye? Are you willing to leave behind your mates over there and sail with us? I could use a good diver and another deck hand, especially a man who knows his letters for my record-keeping.” He motioned towards the Flying Horse. “But I must point out that your captain looks like he wants you back. Is he your master?”
“No.”
“Well, do you belong to anyone else that I should be aware of?”
He shook his head, not wanting to tell the truth.
“What is your name, lad?”
“They call me Caesar.”
“After the emperor of Rome himself. My, my, you are quite the high and mighty one, aren’t you? But you are a poor liar, son. Now who do you belong to? Is it someone aboard that sloop yonder or not? Because I like to know who might not take kindly for my taking his property aboard my ship as a full crewman.”
He realized he had no choice but to come clean. “It is true I am a poor liar. But it is also true that I belong to no one aboard the Flying Horse. The truth is I belong to Thomas Knight of Bath Town, collector of customs of North Carolina.”
“North Carolina, you say?”
“Aye. It was Knight who sent me down here to fish these wrecks with a dozen men from Bath County where we all live. We’ve been here three weeks and have not much to show for it.”
“I’ve seen you and your crew at work. Your captain is a mean fellow—I’ve observed him in action through me spyglass and don’t much like the way he treats you fellows. Is he a former Royal Navy man by chance?”
“No, I don’t think so. He’s a merchantman from Charles Town. I don’t much care for him, but I wonder if it would be right for me to leave my shipmates. Mr. Howard and Mr. Martin brought me down here as they were the one’s commissioned by my proper owner Tobias Knight.”
“I understand your predicament. But know this: if you sail with me, you sail as a free man.”
“A free man?”
“Aye, a free man, free as the wind in our sails. Any soul that can outfight a Tiger shark and read and write is no ordinary being and I want him aboard my ship. I don’t care the color of your skin. What do you say, Caesar? You’d better make up your mind quick because your captain is calling you.”
He peered over the deck railing. The captain was standing on the poop deck next to several of the Bath County men, including Howard and Martin. He had pulled out a speaking trumpet and was shouting out that he was sending over a boat to collect his slave, which made Caesar angry.
I’m not your slave, you bastard; I belong to Thomas Knight, who at least treats me fairly and lets me read books even though I be in bondage.
“He seems convinced that you belong to him. So what is it to be, Caesar?”
“First, can I ask your name?”
“Thache—Edward Thache. As you may have surmised, I’m the captain of the Margaret here.”
“There’s no better captain than Thache, mate!” said one of the seamen.
“Aye, Captain Thache always treats us square, all right!” gushed another. “Don’t make no difference if you’re a darky or not.”
There were cheerful mutters of agreement all around, including from two bare-chested black men armed with pistols and wearing shell and bead necklaces and golden earrings. He noticed them standing off to the right along with a bronze-skinned West Indian with a dark-blue ink “gunpowder spot”—or tattoo as the Caribbean natives called them—of a crescent moon perched above a brigantine on his chest. None of them appeared to be slaves, rather free men aboard Thache’s ship. Caesar decided then and there that this was indeed the kind of captain that he wanted to serve under.
Studying him closely, Thache gave a knowing smile. “Quite frankly, my good man Caesar, I didn’t know I was so popular,” he said with a shrug. “What say you after that unexpected endorsement?”
He nodded his head vigorously. “Count me among your crew members, Captain—that’s what I say!”
The crew gave a loud cheer that echoed all the way to the white sandy beach.
Thache nodded. “Good, it’s settled then. Now let’s make it official, shall—?”
But his words were cut off by the demonic whistle of a cannon ball, followed by a loud splash off the starboard bow. Crouching down to protect himself from a second projectile, Caesar saw Thache raise his spyglass and point it to the southeast.
“Spanish man-o-war!” he cried. “Hands, battle stations! Cut the anchor cable and raise the jib!”
The crew scrambled into immediate action and orders were shouted, only to be smothered by the deafening roar of a second round of cannon fire. Dropping to the deck, Caesar scuttled to the shelter of the larboard bulwark, took cover behind a pair of water-filled barrels and coils of rope, and covered his head with his hands.
“Looks like Captain Ayala Escobar has returned from Havana with reinforcements!” shouted Thache, pe
ering through his glass on the quarterdeck behind the helmsman. “Make headway, Mr. Hands, due east and out of range of those devilish Spanish guns! We make for Nassau!”
A moment later the seventy-foot Jamaican sloop Margaret, an eighty tonner with fine lines, was on her way and the sweeps were deployed for added propulsion. Though terrified, Caesar couldn’t help but feel he was in capable hands now with Thache in charge; he was glad he had abandoned his previous ship and cruel sea captain for this new vessel and particularly its leader.
Another cannon ball whistled overhead. But this time it wasn’t intended for them, but the British wrecker sloop to the east. The ball struck the ship’s stern, shattering the glass windows of the great cabin, blowing away a railing, and splintering the fragile wooden structure that surrounded the cabin just as the sloop came about. Caesar could smell the acrid sulfuric stench of gun powder and hear the screams of death and anguish from the sailors aboard the stricken vessel. It was his first time in battle and he found it terrifying yet utterly exhilarating.
He inched his way closer to Thache at the stern of the sloop, feeling that he would be safer nearer the captain, who already appeared to be a man who knew what he was doing.
He heard the long, drawn-out moaning sound of another lobbed Spanish shell and, again, he felt the blood curdle in his veins. It sounded to him like the cannon ball was headed straight for them, but it ended up splashing innocently into the water just short of a fourth boat trying to make its escape.
“Faster, Master Hands! This is not the time to spill the wind!”
“I’m on it, Captain! She’ll be in New Providence before you know it!”
Another Spanish shell explosion rocked the previously hit ship. Peering over the gunwale, Caesar saw a pulverized foredeck with nine men down, five of them lying very still and the other four wriggling and moaning in agony. Were they just unlucky or was it destiny that they should take the brunt of the attack? he wondered as he watched Thache barking out orders from the raised quarterdeck.
And then, before he knew it, they were all alone at sea with no ships in sight and the smell of gunpowder was gone altogether. Cautiously, he stepped towards the quarterdeck.
“Thank you, Captain,” he said. “Thank you for this chance to sail with you. I will be there for you when you need me and won’t let you down, I can promise you that.”
Thache smiled down at him, the dying orangish sunlight forming a kind of halo around his bearded head. “You’ll have your work cut out for you, Caesar,” he said. “Mark my words, you’ll have your work cut out for you. But we’ll make a seaman out of you yet.”
“Aye, Captain,” he said.
“Now go see the surgeon belowdecks and have that shark bite looked after. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you before I’ve made an old salt out of you, now would I?”
And with that he gave a wink and shouted out more instructions to his crew in a commanding yet mellifluous voice, looking to Caesar like Poseidon himself with the last rays of Floridian sunlight bleeding from the sky behind him.
PART 2
THE FLYING GANG
CHAPTER 7
NASSAU
MARCH 16, 1716
WITH BENJAMIN HORNIGOLD MATCHING HIM DRINK FOR DRINK, Thache sat outside on a splintery wooden bench at the Blue Parrot. The two sea captains—one well into his thirties, short and squatty, clean-shaven, and prone to violent outbursts, the other almost a decade younger, tall and sinewy, heavily bearded, and calm under fire—had taken a shine to one another and were enjoying their tankards of ale beneath a canvas awning while staring out at Nassau Harbor. The elongate stretch of shimmering blue water lay between Bay Street and the wharves lining the town’s waterfront, and the low offshore spit of sandy beaches and palm trees of Hog Island. Though Thache had been gone only two and a half months, the nascent sea rover community had close to doubled in size in that short time. More than a dozen single-masted sailing vessels were anchored in the middle of the channel along with twenty or more small trading sloops, periaguas, canoes, and woodcutter launches. The streets, taverns, and beaches were packed with people of a mix of origins: British, West Indian, African, Portuguese, Danish, French, Irish, Dutch, with more arriving every day.
The biggest change he noticed was the increase in the number of women, woodcutters, wreckers, runaway slaves, and Indians on the island as word of the Florida treasures continued to spread. Where before females had been in the extreme minority, there were now a large number of wives and unattached women taking up residence on the island: serving at taverns, mending sails and clothing, laundering, cooking meals, and keeping the seamen company at night. Augmenting the growing female population were woodcutters driven from the Bay of Campeche in Central America; black and West Indian slaves on the run from their masters in the Windward and Leeward Islands, Cuba, Hispaniola, and Jamaica; and young adventurers without sea experience bent on going a-wrecking.
With the limited housing, a class system had developed with regard to living arrangements on the island. The new pirate republic’s leading figures took up residence in the best homes: simple wood-framed houses looking out onto the bay. These notables included the most successful pirate captains and the merchant-smugglers who provided critical logistical support by buying the pirates’ plunder with cheap rum, tobacco, and ammunition. Once these homes had belonged to New Providence’s most reputable law-abiding colonists, but in the last few months most of these citizens had been forced to flee from the horde of surly and unruly gentlemen of fortune that had overtaken their island. Hornigold, as leader of the Flying Gang, and Thomas Barrow, chief of the wreckers, had harassed the law-abiding locals without mercy, shaking them down for drinking money and threatening or whipping anyone who refused them until only a few stubborn holdouts remained. The next best homes were the thatch-roofed huts of the second tier of wealthy pirates, usually former mariners, and those wreckers who had been smart enough to get in early on the action, before the Spanish began aggressively patrolling the waters around the shipwrecks. The humblest shelters were the tents, lean-tos, and hovels fashioned of driftwood, worm-eaten hulls, old spars, and palmetto thatch occupied by the logcutters, runaway slaves, West Indians, and unsuccessful wreckers.
All in all, Nassau now resembled an encampment of castaways, with bacchanalian sailors singing, dancing, drinking, and fornicating amid the cooking fires of a hundred huts, tents, and hovels. The air along the gently lapping beach was infused with fragrant smells of sea salt, tar, wood smoke, tobacco, gunpowder, smoldering meats, savory fish stews, and ale, wine, and rum punch to go along with the musky odor of the seamen. For most of the mariners it was a dream come true: ample food, drink, wenches, and leisure time. And when the loot ran out, there was always another merchant vessel to pillage or treasure wreck to dive upon.
“Where to next, Edward?” asked Hornigold, who though older and more seasoned as a privateer was not a mentor to Thache, but rather an equal on account of Thache’s upper-middle-class background, experience as a Royal Navy officer, and ownership of his own vessel. “Are ye but finished with the wrecks?”
Thache lit his long-stem white clay pipe, which he had packed with fine Virginian tobacco. “The pickings are getting slimmer, but they’re not tapped out yet. I was losing too many divers to sickness is the problem. It’s a hard business taking gulps of air and poking along that sea bottom with sharks all around.”
“Aye. That’s why you were smart to go in with Jennings and plunder the camp. Though I hate to give that pompous Bermudan any credit after he stole me bonny Spanish sloop and claimed I was a lowly, thieving pirate. He thinks he’s better than the rest of us.”
“No, Benjamin, he’s tricked himself into thinking that he’s still a privateer fighting for Queen Anne when he, too, is little more than a common pirate. But it’s just a game in his head that doesn’t mean a bloody thing.”
“He doesn’t want no dance of death. Truth is, I don’t either. That’s why I’ll stick to plundering
the Spanish and French and won’t lay a hand on an English or Dutch prize.”
He took a hearty gulp of ale and puffed thoughtfully on his pipe. “Easier said than done when you have a demanding crew to contend with.”
“Aye, but for the time being that’s how I plan to operate. There ain’t no use in making it easy for the King’s Navy to hang you. Isn’t that why ye obtained your commission from Governor Hamilton, so that you would be legal?”
“Upon my honor, but I’m beginning to think it doesn’t mean much. The whispers out of Jamaica are that the governor may be recalled and the latest commissions he’s awarded to Jennings, Leigh Ashworth, and the others may be revoked. The Spanish are up in arms and want Jennings hanged.”
“When you were in Jamaica, you didn’t arrange it with the governor to sign new departure papers?”
“Honestly, I didn’t see the point.”
“But you had a privateering commission, Edward. You had protection. At the time, didn’t you think it was worth something?”
“By my reckoning, ’tis all a sham. But for the time being, I, too, plan on sticking to only Spanish and French prizes. As you say, there’s no sense making it easy for the hangman.”
“So you’re definitely going on the account? Yesterday you weren’t so sure.”
“I’m still not. But I plan to seize prizes. They’re far richer plunder than those wrecks, and I’m tired of the merchant trade.”
“By the blood of Henry Morgan, you’re going on the account, just like this old fart.”
“You’re not that old, Ben.”
“Like hell I’m not. I’m nearly a decade older than ye, whippersnapper.” Hornigold downed his ale, gave a satisfied sigh, and belched loudly. “We should sail in consort, Edward.”
“I was thinking the same thing. The Straits and Hispaniola are ripe for the plucking, and with two sloops working in tandem we can take bigger prizes.”
“And we can fence our plundered goods right here in Nassau. There’s no government to stop us from doing as we please.”
Blackbeard- The Birth of America Page 7
