Rhett frowned as he took the sword. “Stede Bonnet of Barbados? Why I thought you were Charles Vane. In fact, we all did.”
He motioned towards his crew, who gazed upon Bonnet with puzzlement, which made him feel embarrassed. After a moment, smiles came to the faces of the colonel’s men and they roared with laughter, as if they had just heard a good joke. Pell and Tucker chuckled along with them, which angered Bonnet further. He vowed to get the last laugh on them one day for their gross insubordination and the disrespect they had shown him these past several months at sea. To do that, he knew he had to find a way to escape from his captors before he was put on trial. It was his only chance to go on and live another day and obtain his revenge on all those who had laughed at him behind his back and directly to his face.
When the laughter subsided, Rhett bowed graciously. “I accept the surrender of you, Captain Bonnet, your ship, and your crew. And since you have fought and surrendered honorably, I promise to plead for mercy for you and your men, even though the battle has cost me dearly.”
“Where will you take us?”
“To Charles Town—where you and your men will receive a fair trial.”
Stede Bonnet felt his whole body shudder. He stared off at the shimmering Atlantic just beyond the approaching Sea Nymph. He had been so close. He had only needed to sail another quarter mile to make it to the safety of the open ocean, where likely nothing would have stood between him and a Danish privateer’s commission in St. Thomas. He shook his head in despair. So close—and now all he had to look forward to was a rat-infested cell and the gallows. The governor of South Carolina and Charles Town’s merchant class, plantation owners, and other members of the landed aristocracy loyal to the Crown would bring picnic lunches, jeer, and cheer along with barefoot commoners in rags when he and his men were hung from the gallows at White Point. The thought of such a humiliating, un-Christian end made him tremble in his shoes.
Looking back at the Royal James, still leaning awkwardly to port, he wanted to cry. The fight that would become known as the Battle of the Sand Bars was over and so was his life.
Following the battle, Rhett remained in the Cape Fear River for three more days while the wounded were tended to and repairs were made to the damaged vessels. The Henry, Sea Nymph and Royal James, as well as the pirate prizes Francis and Fortune and their crews taken captive by Bonnet, set sail together southbound on September 30, arriving in Charles Town on October 3 to the relief of Governor Johnson. The King’s men suffered eighteen total killed and twelve wounded in the engagement, with fourteen killed and ten wounded on the Henry totaling one-third of her crew, and four killed and two wounded on the Sea Nymph, which had been out of range most of the time. Among the pirates, nine men were killed and five were wounded. Rhett took thirty-six prisoners to Charles Town.
Shackled in the Henry’s hold during the uncomfortable journey, Bonnet cursed his bad luck and wished he could turn back the clock to the time before he chose to become a pirate. What a mess he had made of his life. It seemed unthinkable that he had thrown it all away just to escape from his tyrannical wife, to overcome his melancholy over his son’s death, and to experience a taste of adventure on the high seas. But his year-and-a-half long stint as a gentleman of fortune had borne no similarity to the romantic vision that had filled his mind before he had set sail from Bridgetown. He was nothing but a common outlaw, a brigand, and a mediocre seaman. But what pained him most of all was that that if his beloved Allamby had still been alive, the boy would be embarrassed and revolted by the actions of his father.
Embarrassed and revolted in the extreme.
CHAPTER 54
OCRACOKE ISLAND
OUTER BANKS, NORTH CAROLINA
OCTOBER 2, 1718
“NOW THAT, LAD, IS DAMNED FINE COOKING!” exclaimed Blackbeard. “What do you call it?”
Caesar smiled at the captain, delighted that his epicurean creation had caught his fancy. He really wasn’t much of a cook; he just knew how to prepare a handful of dishes from his years lending a hand in Colonel Robert Daniel’s and Tobias Knight’s kitchens during his younger years as a slave. They stood on the west-facing shore of Ocracoke Island, staring out at the vast expanse of Pamlico Sound with a dozen other pirates, a mere stone’s throw from the Old Watering Hole long used by the indigenous Indian tribes of the Outer Banks and sea rovers alike. Anchored a hundred yards offshore in the tidal slough was the freshly careened Adventure, and spread the length of the crescent-shaped beach was the pirates’ base camp and their supplies: sailcloth awnings and tarpaulin ground-cloths; open cook fires bearing an assortment of seafoods and fresh meats; stacks of firewood and driftwood piled here and there; small kegs for stools circled around games of dice or cards; ceramic jugs of wine, rum, and brandy; and stacks of cutlasses, blunderbusses, and muskets, ready for action. The air along the gently lapping shore was infused with the fragrant smells of the sea, wood smoke, pipe tobacco, and Caesar’s freshly prepared dinner.
“I call it turtle hash,” he said, after taking a bite from his own plate. “I have to admit, it’s one of my best.”
Thache smiled wryly. “Turtle hash, eh? That’s a new one. What are the ingredients, if I may so bold as to inquire from his master chef?”
“Loggerhead turtle, wild onions, potatoes, clam juice, cayenne pepper and red pepper, and a little bit of salt pork.”
“It’s delicious, I’ll say that. What do you say men?”
“It’s bloody marvelous!” gushed Garret Gibbons. “Perfect cure for my hangover!”
“Aye, one of the savoriest dishes I’ve ever had the pleasure to devour, drunk or sober,” said the company’s quartermaster, Thomas Miller.
“I’m afraid you missed your calling Caesar,” said master gunner Philip Morton. “With cooking like this, you could run your own eatery in New York or Boston instead of being a Godforsaken pirate.”
“It’s not too late. I do have the King’s pardon and am a free man of only twenty-three. I have my whole life before me.”
“A pirate’s life is a short and merry one, but not for old Caesar here!” cried Gibbons. “Why he’s going to live to be a hundred, he is!”
They all laughed ribaldly with pelicans and gulls wheeling overhead against a backdrop of blue sky. Thache winked at Caesar as if to say, “Well done, mate!”
“Now you’re all probably wondering what the key is to making turtle hash,” said Caesar, explaining his culinary craft. “The key is to parboil the loggerhead for a half hour to make it tender. Then you cut the meat off the bone and cook it with onion, potatoes, and salt pork. Near the end, you throw in the cayenne pepper, red pepper, and clam juice with sea salt. And there you have it—turtle hash. The first time I ever tasted it was in Charles Town. But I was a slave then, so I have to say this tastes much better now.”
There was a round of good cheer. “I’ve never tasted anything so good,” said Thache. “It’s a damned sight better than the worm-infested dried beef, salt pork, and moldy biscuits we keep in the sealed casks below decks, wouldn’t you say, lads?”
There were murmurs and nods of agreement all around and then the group returned to eating from their pewter plates with their fine silverware pillaged from a half dozen merchant ships. They had been on Ocracoke for more than a week now, after returning from the Vice-Admiralty Court held in Bath Town on September 24. Tobias Knight’s and Thache’s master plan had been successful and Governor Eden had lawfully recognized the captain’s claim that the French ship was abandoned at sea and was rightfully his to bring into the colony—provided the customary tariffs be paid to the government. Sixty casks of sugar were to be delivered to the governor on behalf of the colony and another twenty casks were to be allotted to Knight as collector of customs. During the court proceeding, Thache also received approval from the governor to beach the French vessel Rose Emelye in shallow water nearshore and burn her to her waterline, so that the leaky vessel would not pose a risk to North Carolina shipping. The hearing had bee
n held the week before and now the Adventure’s company had returned to Ocracoke to begin the transfer of cargo across the sound to Bath. And they were also making preparations to put the torch to the mast-less French ship, although it had not been decided where to send the vessel to her watery grave, or when.
The pirates finished their sumptuous meal. Garret Gibbons then produced a Jew harp and began to play. Soon thereafter, after a round of vigorous belching, they pulled out their red and white clay tobacco pipes and began to sing. The familiar strains of A-Roving took to the woodsmoke- and turtle-hash-scented air, followed by Drunken Sailor and Coast of High Barbary. An hour before dusk, the sky turned from cobalt to salmon pink and a voice called out from the topmast of the Adventure anchored offshore.
“Sail! A sail!”
Turning to the south, Caesar spotted a mast several miles in the distance, clearly standing in to the inlet. Unlike the usual small trading vessels bound for Bath Town, this vessel was well armed. An alarm sounded on the ship into the speaking trumpet and Thache ordered everyone on shore to return to the ship at once with their weapons. Once on board, he gave the “All hands to quarters!” command and instructed Israel Hands, Garret Gibbons, Thomas Miller, and Philip Morton to leave their anchor at the mooring, make sail swiftly, and prepare to engage the new interloper since they were unsure if she was friend or foe.
Upon an ebbing tide, the Adventure made quick time out of Ocracoke Inlet and jibed towards the approaching vessel, which Caesar could now tell was a brigantine. He tried to recollect if he had seen the ship before, but it was unfamiliar to him. But to his surprise, whoever was in command of the vessel seemed to recognize the Adventure because suddenly a Jolly Roger unfurled off the brigantine’s backstay and began snapping in the brisk northwesterly breeze.
“Let’s show her our colors, mates! Hoist the black flag!” shouted Thache right away in reply, and Caesar saw a gleam in his eyes. Whoever this new interloper was, he was a fellow brethren of the coast and likely posed no threat.
“Who be it, Captain? Do you know?” asked Caesar, acting as his steward on the quarterdeck.
Thache peered through his spyglass. “I’m not sure. It could be Williams, Hornigold, or La Buse. Or maybe someone else. The ship is not one I’ve laid eyes on before, I know that. But she be one of us, mates.”
“What do you want us to do, Captain?” asked Morton.
“Roll back your guns and stand down. The brigantine is heaving to under our cannon.”
“Aye, Captain.”
Looking at Caesar, Thache scratched at one of the plaits holding together his long black beard. “I’m still wondering who she belongs to. Has anyone seen her before?”
There were nays all around.
“Wait a second! Now just hold onto your trousers! I think it’s Charles Vane!” declared Israel Hands, peering through his own glass.
“How do you know?” asked Caesar.
“Because that wild Jacobite from Jamaica is standing on the quarterdeck with the one man in the world who never fails to wear calico.”
“By thunder, you’re right,” cried Thache. “It is Vane, and standing next to him is Calico Jack Rackham himself.”
Caesar smiled. He liked Charles Vane’s young quartermaster. The members of the Flying Gang in Nassau had dubbed him “Calico Jack” because of the colorful patch work clothing he frequently wore and that seemed to capture the attention of the ladies of New Providence. Caesar could make out the man’s multicolored Indian prints clearly even from a distance.
“Aye, that be Calico Jack all right—or I be a lubberly Dutchman,” said Philip Morton.
Before Vane’s vessel and the Adventure came within hailing distance. Vane’s crew fired an honorary six-gun salute as was customary during friendly encounters amongst pirate companies. Thache had Morton return a rousing blast from two of his cannon and shouts of huzzah resounded the length of the deck. As the two ships neared, Caesar studied Vane’s brigantine. Equipped with twelve guns and manned by some ninety seamen, it was a formidable pirate ship-of-war.
The two vessels sailed through the inlet and anchored next to one another within pistol shot of the Old Watering Hole. Fifteen minutes later, Vane rowed over from his Spanish brig Ranger and came aboard the Adventure for a visit with several of his officers. He and Thache shook hands and embraced as Vane’s men hauled a keg of rum up onto the larboard railing. Then the visiting pirate captain turned to address the crowd.
“Greetings, men,” he began. “We are going to have one hell of a party, but first I am sorry to bring bad news. Nassau has fallen to Woodes Rogers, who with a large force has taken over as governor of the Bahamas. The islands no longer belong to us. Since his tenure began in July, he has convinced a great many of our brethren to accept His Majesty’s royal grace. But he has done even worse than that. He has hired on Hornigold, Jennings, Cockram, and others to hunt we pirates down like dogs. Aye, I kid you not, they have turned on us and are pirate hunters. Why we were almost taken by Hornigold just a couple of fortnights ago at Green Turtle Cay.”
The heads hung low for a moment before the men from both vessels erupted in a string of curses against the King and his pirate hunters. The angry epithets rose up in the dusky night and were carried off on the sea breeze skating across Pamlico Sound. After letting the men vent a moment, Vane continued with his news update.
“I have also just learned that Stede Bonnet, whom you lads previously sailed in consort with, was captured along with forty-five of his men in the Cape Fear River just a few days ago. Apparently, one Colonel Rhett sailed into the mouth of the river, engaged him in battle, and their boats were grounded. Bonnet went out fighting and took many casualties, but he and his men were taken to Charles Town. Governor Johnson of South Carolina is behind the whole thing, as he’s the one who commissioned Rhett. Apparently, the bastards thought they were coming after me.”
“Well, you’re no Stede Bonnet, Charles,” said Thache. “We all know that.”
“And thankfully so, but he was a proud Jacobite and for that we must still say a prayer for him, and especially for his men who deserved a far better captain than he. The man just seemed to have a knack for meeting the wrong people at the wrong time—and that includes you, Edward, you old scallywag.”
The men all laughed, and Vane’s officers began passing around the keg of rum. Though Caesar had never had a problem with Charles Vane and considered him a charismatic and entertaining figure, he had heard the unpleasant stories of his cruelty towards his captives as a pirate commander. Unlike his friend Blackbeard—who was falsely built up by the Boston News-Letter and British leaflets to be a notorious villain and predator—Vane was the real thing. Caesar had heard many stories and they had been verified by many sources. He was reported to have on several occasions severely beaten and abused captured merchant ship captains and their crew members to very near the point of death. It was also said that he liked to burn the eyes of his victims with matches, hang them upside down, and slash them with knives to get them to disclose where they had hidden their valuables. Caesar knew probably not all the stories were true, but there was a pattern of violence he found disturbing and he would make sure not to cross Charles Vane in any way during his stay here at Ocracoke.
“All right, that’s enough talk of sniveling English vermin and the meddling rascals of the Crown,” declared Vane. “It’s time to get this party started!”
“Oh, is it to be a banyan then?” said Thache with a big smile on his face.
“Aye, a full week of drunken debauchery and the telling of sea tales, one or two of which might even be true.”
“A week, is it? Then I hope you have brought plenty of rum.”
“It just so happens I have,” said Vane gleefully. “So let us drink a toast, gentlemen, to the eternal damnation of King George!”
“Good lord, Charles, is that the only toast you can make?” chided Thache.
“I’m afraid so. So join me, lads: To the damnation of that insuffer
able fool and bloated carcass of a man who doesn’t speak a lick of English, King George! But also to that scupperlout Woodes Rogers!”
The pirates gave a rowdy cheer. “To the damnation of King George and Woodes Rogers!” they cried again and again, raising their Monmouth sailor’s caps, tricorns, and wide-brimmed Spanish hats snipped on the sides giddily in the air.
Caesar smiled. They were in for one hell of a banyan.
PART 6
A CONSPIRACY
OF MURDER
CHAPTER 55
GOVERNOR’S PALACE
WILLIAMSBURG
OCTOBER 7, 1718
“WE CAN HELP ONE ANOTHER, GOVERNOR. We both want the same thing and I believe we can help each other get what we want.”
Spotswood raised an eyebrow at Edward Moseley, prominent North Carolina landholder and lawyer as well as former speaker of the House of Burgesses and surveyor general. “And what is it, Mr. Moseley, that we both desire?”
“We would both like to see Governor Eden run out of the colonies and an end to this piracy that has befouled our waters. I, Governor, can help us accomplish both.”
Here Moseley—who was said by his peers and rivals to have a tongue as smooth as the Commissary—paused to let his oratory resonate. Spotswood took measure of the man. They were seated in the governor’s office with early fall sunlight spilling through the diaphanous curtains at the window overlooking the Palace Green. Though he and the paunchy, thirty-six-year-old Moseley were not intimate friends, the North Carolina landowner had close ties to the Virginia government and he and Spotswood had had political dealings with one another regarding the colonial tobacco trade on several prior occasions. The owner of nearly one hundred slaves, Moseley lived in Chowan Precinct, which had a good road leading northward into Virginia’s Nansemond County and the ferries that crossed the James River to Williamsburg. As Governor Eden’s chief rival in North Carolina, Moseley had been aligned with the Popular Party, a political faction that opposed Tobias Knight, Colonel Thomas Pollack, and other leading gentry of the province who supported the current Eden administration, known as the Proprietors Party. Any opportunity to highlight Eden’s liabilities as governor would be capitalized upon by Moseley, whom Spotswood knew had greedy designs on the chief office for himself.
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