Blackbeard- The Birth of America

by Samuel Marquis

  “It’s utterly magnificent. There’s no other way to describe it,” he exclaimed with feeling.

  “I believe this calls for another toast,” said his friend Robert Beverley, brother of Captain Harry Beverley, who had sailed off two months ago for La Florida.

  “Hear, hear,” agreed Lieutenant John Fontaine, a Huguenot who had served in the British army and become a friend to the governor in the past year.

  Staring out at the pristine frontier scenery, they quickly lightened the burden of a pack horse by drinking rye whiskey and champagne, making toast after toast to King George and each member of the royal family. They had reached Swift Run Gap, a notched gateway through the Blue Ridge, and while drinking their toasts they officially christened the two promontories framing the gap “Mount George” for the King and “Mount Alexander” for the governor. The expedition had departed Germanna eight days earlier on August 29 to explore the mountainous region west of the royal colony. The party included Spotswood and a dozen of his gentlemen friends, fourteen rangers, four Meherrin Indians, more than seventy riding and pack horses, and a bevy of slaves to ensure they experienced not a single privation. Spotswood wanted to survey the Blue Ridge in an effort to open up settlement on the western side of the mountain range and into the valley beyond for white settlers, particularly groups of Protestant immigrants who were arriving in the colony as indentured labor, and also to keep the French to the southwest at bay.

  “What a wonderful day,” said Robert Beverley after a hearty pull from a whiskey flask. “I wish my dear brother Harry could see this view. By the way, have you heard from him?”

  Spotswood felt a sudden jolt, though he said nothing. He nor anyone else had heard a peep from Captain Harry or his crew since Beverley had sailed off in July in his armed sloop Virgin of Virginia “in quest of pirates, Spanish wrecks, etc.” The lieutenant governor was feeling guilty about it as the captain was supposed to have reported in two or three weeks ago.

  “No, I’m sorry,” he said to Robert Beverley. “Before we left on our mountain journey, I hadn’t heard anything.”

  “I hope he’s all right. It’s been two months now.”

  “I’m sure nothing’s happened. Florida and Nassau are a long way off.”

  “Yes, but two months? I know there was a storm the day after he left, but he still should have been back by now. It doesn’t take but a fortnight from here to the Bahamas and back even in foul weather.”

  “His mission called for him to survey the wrecks and size up the pirates’ strength. I’m sure he’s just been delayed obtaining supplies and outfitting his ship for the return voyage.”

  “I hope so,” said Beverley. “But I have a bad feeling about it.”

  “Perhaps another toast to the King would make you feel better?”

  “Hear, hear. A good spirit always does the trick,” agreed the dashing young Huguenot John Fontaine.

  They proceeded to drain two bottles of burgundy and one of claret. Again, they gave toasts to King George and his extended royal family while the slaves fed grain to the horses, checked the cinches and packs, and fanned the group to keep them cool. Following the toasts, several in the company were tipsy and wanted to turn back, but the governor and Fontaine persuaded them to continue.

  Following an Indian trail, the explorers descended into the majestic valley, walking a full seven miles through woods and meadows, marked with the paths of elk and buffalo, until they came to the river, which in their exalted mood they called Euphrates. Crossing the river at a fording place, the party fished and hunted to provide a celebration feast. John Fontaine carved his name on a tree trunk and Spotswood buried a wine bottle with a proclamation of possession of the valley in the name of the King.

  That evening the woods resounded. After a festive dinner of perch, venison, and turkey, the men loaded all their guns. They drank the King’s health in champagne, and fired a volley; the princess’s health in burgundy, and fired a volley; and all the rest of the royal family in claret, and a volley. At the end, they drank the governor’s health and fired a final volley. They then proceeded to get obscenely drunk, partaking in Virginia red wine and white wine, Irish usquebaugh, brandy, shrub, two sorts of rum, champagne, Canary wine, and potent cider.

  Spotswood vomited twice, drank more, and had a wonderful time. And yet, in the back of his mind, he couldn’t help but wonder what had become of his friend Captain Beverley and his crew aboard the Virgin. Had the storm claimed them? Had they been taken by pirates and killed? Did the Spanish manage to capture them? Or even worse, had the devilish Spaniards executed them?

  Staring into the dying embers of the fire just before going to bed, he thought: I’ll bet it’s the damned pirates. And if it is, there’s going to be hell to pay.

  I will crush them.

  CHAPTER 15

  OFF CAPE DONNA MARIA

  WINDWARD PASSAGE, WESTERN HISPANIOLA

  DECEMBER 13, 1716

  FROM THE MARGARET’S LARBOARD RAILING, Thache stared out at a school of dolphins racing through the azure blue water, swimming with astonishing speed. A dozen miracles of nature with bottle-nosed beaks and gray dorsal fins glinting in the fading Windward Passage sunlight. They moved alongside the vessel with disarming ease, leaping out of the water every so often, carefree smiles clinging to their snouts as if there was nothing they’d rather be doing than racing against a ninety-ton pirate sloop-of-war.

  What Thache liked most about them was their sense of freedom: they made the ongoing battle over control of commerce on the high seas and independence from Britain seem remote and distant.

  A familiar voice from behind pulled him from his reverie.

  “Just look at them. Now aren’t they the lucky ones, with no scurvy dog Royal Navy to chase them down and blow them out of the water.”

  He turned to see his quartermaster, John Martin. With an unassuming manner, Thache slipped his hands over the railing, peered down at the dolphins, and grinned. “They are wonderful creatures,” he said, smiling at his friend and comrade-in-arms. “I think they’re on our side.”

  “Why is that, Captain?”

  “Because they value their freedom just as we do. They don’t have anyone telling them what to do. Why even the sharks don’t tamper with them.”

  “Aye, Captain. I didn’t know you were a philosopher.”

  “I’m not. I’m just a crusty old sea captain.”

  “Pardon me, but you ain’t old. Not yet on the wrong side of thirty by my reckoning.”

  “You would be right about that, John. Lucky guess, I suppose.”

  He winked and they both laughed. Five minutes later, still gazing out from the quarterdeck, they saw a pair of giant sea turtles paddling next to a thin trail of sargassum. Hawksbills. Their heads poked out of the water like little islands, their flippers turned lazily, and their shells were a rugged, yellowish brown and splotched with algae. Thache didn’t find them as amazing as the streamlined dolphins but they were intriguing just the same. A naturalist he had met in London had told him that turtles, like sharks, had been around long before the advent of man. He wondered if it was true or if the man had been pulling his leg.

  He took a deep breath of the salty air and smiled inwardly. The life of a pirate commander had its challenges, but he was in a good frame of mind right now with the coming of Christmas. His most difficult task was making sure he took enough prizes and seized enough quality food and liquor to keep the men happy and preoccupied. His crew was fiercely loyal to him, but they still had to be placated constantly with barrels of rum and casks of wine, heaping bags of silver and gold, and, when in the rough-and-tumble ports, ample dark-eyed native lasses who knew how to pleasure a man.

  He had taken several prizes in the Florida Straits and Windward Passage in the past two months and was sailing again in consort with Benjamin Hornigold. Following his removal as commodore of the joint fleet, Hornigold had limped back to Nassau with his twenty-six crewmen, sold the Adventure, obtained a new eight-gun
, ninety-ton sloop named the Delight, signed on sixty-five new crew members in accordance with the articles, and was now patrolling the western coast of Hispaniola as an equal partner with Thache, who still remained loyal to his old deposed and humiliated cohort. For reasons that were readily apparent to Thache and everyone else, Hornigold was no longer reluctant to attack English and Dutch vessels, though he continued to proclaim his fealty to Great Britain and prefer Spanish and French prizes.

  Thache’s men were calling their captain Blackbeard now. It was Caesar who had come up with the nickname in the early fall when they were refitting in Nassau, and Thache liked the nom de guerre from the moment he heard it. But it was his crew that enjoyed it the most: the name gave them a leader they could rally around and that set them apart, like Sir Francis Drake and his “Sea Dogs.” He had been growing his beard for a year and a half now and it was so long that he looked somewhat wild and unkempt. To hold it together, he twisted it into many little braids, each tied off with a small ribbon, some of which he tucked behind his ears. To his crewmen who had served in the military, the plaited beard resembled a British infantryman’s powdered Ramillies wig. Judging from the reactions of the captains and crews of the merchant ships he captured, he quickly learned just how effective a tool of terror his physical appearance could be. They were utterly terrified of the giant of a man with the wild-looking beard and crimson jacket who wielded a huge cutlass and three brace of pistols slung in holsters about his chest in the manner of a bandolier.

  Having been a rover now for over a year, he had learned that the two most important things were to constantly take prizes and to make his maritime targets surrender quickly and efficiently without a fight, both of which had the positive effect of maximizing profits, ensuring the safety of his men, and protecting his victims. To strengthen his targets’ incentive to peacefully submit, he had developed his own version of the Jolly Roger. The purpose of the black pirate flag was not to chill the blood of his victims—but rather to “signal” that as long as the merchant captain surrendered without a fight no harm would come to him or his men, thus ensuring a peaceful theft instead of resistance and the possibility of a bloody battle. Most pirate flags were black and white, or black, white, and red with clear ominous markings that were associated with death: devils, skeletons, skulls, and bones; spears, swords, and daggers; and hearts and blood. For his pirate flag, Thache chose a special design: a black background with a superimposed white skeleton clutching an hourglass in one hand, signifying that time was running out and capture was imminent, and a spear piercing a bleeding heart in the other hand. Both the spear and the hourglass signaled death and destruction—but only if the captain resisted.

  To get within cornering distance of a merchant ship, Thache typically had to fool the vessel into thinking he was harmless or friendly by flying false flags and feigning innocuous approaches. Thus, in a pursuit, he kept his pirate flag hidden until he had closed on his prize and there was no chance of escape. This enabled the Margaret to be mistaken for an innocent merchant sloop until he had effectively cornered his prey, at which time the pirate flag was hoisted and the merchantman was made aware of the solemn choice he faced: swift surrender or total annihilation.

  When the sun set in a brilliant burst of orange, Thache gave the order for the topman to trim the sails and went below. A half-hour later, Caesar scrambled up the rigging for nighttime lookout duty as a waning crescent moon appeared along with a smattering of stars. An hour after that, Thache returned to the quarterdeck and heard the call from the maintop high above the deck.

  “A sail, I believe!” cried Caesar.

  “You believe?” snorted Thache incredulously from the quarterdeck. “What do you mean? Is there a sail or not, man?”

  “I’m…I’m not sure.”

  “Not sure!” He tossed away the ashes from his clay pipe and stuffed the pipe in his captain’s jacket. “Well, is it Hornigold and the Delight or not?”

  “I don’t know if it is the Delight, Captain. All I know is I thought I heard something. I can’t see anything—it’s just the sound.”

  “Where?”

  “Broad on the starboard bow. It sounded like…like voices.”

  Thache looked at Israel Hands at the helm. “Voices? Rot my bones how can he make out voices?”

  “He’s got a sharp ear,” said Hands. “Got to be Hornigold.”

  “Aye, or it could be the bloody HMS Scarborough ready to blast us to perdition,” he fired back, referring to the British Navy’s man-of-war patrolling the shipping lanes from Honduras to Barbados, a thirty-two-gun fifth-rate greatly feared by the pirates.

  “I don’t think so, Cap—”

  His words were cut off as the sky lit up as if from a sudden flash of lightning. This was followed by a giant concussive blast that echoed through the night. When the dark sky was illuminated, Thache was able to make out a pair of vessels several leagues off his starboard gunwale, in the direction of Jamaica.

  “It’s the Delight, Captain!” yelled down Caesar. “She just fired a shot across the bow of a frigate!”

  “Aye, I saw it, lad!” he shouted back, feeling a surge of energy now that they were back in the game. “Set a new course, Mr. Hands, on that flash of light. I believe we’re about to share a prize with old Ben and his crew.”

  “Aye, Captain.”

  “Caesar!” he then called up to the maintop. “You get first dibs in the boarding party for identifying the fresh sail. Will it be a new pistol for you, lad!”

  “Aye, Captain. That’s what I want!”

  There was another bright flash of light followed by an explosion. Once again, Hornigold’s Delight and the brigantine were as clear as day in the sudden burst of illumination.

  “Damnit man,” cursed John Martin as he stepped up onto the quarterdeck. “Why doesn’t she turn into the wind and surrender?”

  “Maybe she’s going to put up a fight,” said Thache. “But we both know that would be a very bad choice.” Now to his navigator. “You saw those flashes, Mr. Hands. Hard to starboard and steady as she goes.”

  “Aye, Captain. Sou’ by sou’west.”

  When no more warning shots were fired, Thache knew the brigantine had quickly surrendered after Hornigold had fired his second round. But even though the wind had died down and the sea was only mildly choppy, it took them nearly an hour to locate and then weigh anchor beside the two ships. Thache came up alongside the captured vessel and went over in a longboat with John Martin, Caesar, and the other members of the twelve-man boarding party. After politely introducing himself to the captain, Henry Timberlake, in the presence of Hornigold, he quickly learned that the forty-ton Lamb had sailed out of Boston less than a month earlier and was bound for Port Royal. At the mention of Timberlake’s destination, Thache felt a wave of homesickness for his family in Spanish Town, but he suppressed his emotions in front of Hornigold and Timberlake.

  Over the next six hours, he and Hornigold’s boarding parties relieved Captain Timberlake and the Lamb of three barrels of pork, one of beef, two of peas, three of salted Atlantic mackerel, five barrels of onions, seven dozen kegs of oysters, fresh sail cloth, and all the ship’s stores except forty biscuits and ten pounds of meat to ensure that the captain and crew would make it to Jamaica without going hungry. By order of both Thache and Hornigold, not a single hand was laid upon Timberlake or anyone in his crew. However, Hornigold’s pirates threw some forty pounds sterling worth of Timberlake’s wooden staves overboard because he had made them fire two warning shots instead of turning his vessel into the wind after the first cannon ball was fired.

  At three in the morning, Hornigold and Thache sent Timberlake on his way on his much-lightened Lamb. As the brigantine slipped away into the night, Thache tipped his tricorn hat from the railing and bid him a safe journey.

  But Captain Henry Timberlake did not tip his hat in return. No doubt he was not pleased with having been plundered a mere two day’s sail from Port Royal.

  Howeve
r, Caesar was very pleased. By being the first crew member to spot the prize, he had gotten himself a new Queen Anne breech-loading screw-barrel pistol, manufactured by gunsmith Thomas Annely of Bristol.

  The same pistol wielded by his captain.

  CHAPTER 16

  CARLISLE BAY, BARBADOS

  APRIL 30, 1717

  AS THE REVENGE CAST OFF and slipped quietly out of the Careenage, Bridgetown’s narrow harbor, Major Stede Bonnet had second thoughts about his recent decision to become a pirate. The wealthy Barbadian planter had outfitted his own sixty-ton sloop, armed her with ten guns, and hired on more than seventy experienced seamen to operate her. Now he was sailing past old Fort James, into gently curving Carlisle Bay, and out into the open sea where he would be free to lead a life of freedom and adventure without the shackles of domestic life—and yet he felt miserable and ashamed. He was more than happy to leave behind a lonely island, a world of slavery and eternal boredom, and an unsupportive and nagging wife, but he felt miserable and ashamed because he was abandoning his three young children: Edward, Stede Jr., and his sweet little baby girl, Mary.

  How have I let it come to this? he asked himself, as the Revenge picked up speed in the light offshore breeze and began to roll in the swells. How can I leave behind three young ones, sad and fatherless?

  He didn’t know the answer, and deep down wondered if he ever would. Staring out at his four-hundred-acre plantation southeast of Bridgetown, bequeathed to him upon his father’s death in 1694, he pictured his three small children asleep in the nursery. Although he had told his family and friends he was embarking on a short trading voyage, he knew he would never return. He had decided to give up his life as an aristocrat, major in the militia, husband, and father to become a freebooter—and now that he had set out to sea there was no turning back. He had imagined this very moment since he was a little boy, reading the swashbuckling yarns of Drake and Morgan, Avery and Kidd. But he had never imagined himself as a twenty-eight-year-old father abandoning a four-year old, a three-year old, and an infant, nor had he ever anticipated the crushing guilt he would feel as he stole away in the night on the ebbing tide, like an escaping criminal. Why he hadn’t even bid his wife or children a final farewell.