“Captain, I want to thank you,” said Caesar as Garrett Gibbons and the other clam diggers started over towards them.
Thache looked at him quizzically. “Thank me for what, lad?”
“For setting me free and giving me the chance to serve with you as a seaman. You changed my life and I can never repay you. I know things have not been easy for you these past few months with the breakup of the crew and everything else that’s happened, but I wanted you to know that I be grateful. I also want to thank you for sharing your books with me.”
“Well, truth be told, I stole a few of them from Major Bonnet.” He gave a mischievous wink, which made Caesar smile. “Like the prizes we take, he had more than he needed and could afford to give a few up.”
“You are a devil indeed, Captain.”
“So the newspapers say. In fact, if the Boston News-Letter is to be believed, I am a monster that enjoys sadistically torturing and murdering my fellow man. Why after reading but one of the recent articles, I almost feel guilty for my having never tortured or killed a bloody soul. Not a single one.”
“The British have to make you out to be a murderous cutthroat. That way they can turn the American people against you.”
“Aye, it’s called propaganda, and the newspapers are doing a damned fine job of it. If I did half the things they say I did, I would be far more dangerous than Lucifer, I tell you that.”
Bosun Garret Gibbons and the other men came walking up with their buckets of freshly-dug clams. Dusk was nearly upon them, with paint brush strokes of pink and gold as the sun trickled through the wisps of gossamer clouds hanging over Pamlico Sound to the west. From the water and the Old Slough to the south, Caesar could hear the noisy comings and goings of waterfowl: geese, brants, ducks, seagulls, great egrets, ibis, and pelicans.
Suddenly, Gibbons was pointing. “Two sail—two sail!” he cried.
Instantly turning his eyes to the southwest, Caesar spotted the masts of a pair of trading sloops along the western horizon, approaching the swash at the sound-side entrance of Ship Channel.
Thache pulled out his brass eyeglass. “They be coming from the Royal Shoal. Local traders, I suppose, but I know not who they might be. Maybe Master Odell will know.”
“We just sailed that way ourselves, so they may be Chowan or Currituck traders from up Albemarle way,” said Gibbons.
“One looks larger than the other,” observed Caesar.
“Aye, and they do not look familiar,” said Thache.
“They can’t be Royal Navy,” said Joseph Brooks, which drew a nod of agreement from the captain. “Those vessels ain’t no more than eighty tons.”
“I can’t see any colors, but they’ve got to be Carolina men from up around Albemarle,” said Caesar. “They wouldn’t do us harm, would they, Captain?”
“Nay, I don’t think so. We can send a boat over in the morning to see if they have anything worth trading for in preparation for our journey south. We have nothing to fear from Carolina men, lads. Nothing to fear at all.”
CHAPTER 65
OCRACOKE ISLAND
NOVEMBER 22, 1718
AT 08:57 HOURS, Lieutenant Robert Maynard of the Royal Navy instructed the officers of his flagship Jane and Midshipman Edmund Hyde, captain of the Ranger, to weigh anchor and commence their approach towards the two sloops anchored off Ocracoke Island. He knew that the larger of the sloops—the one with Spanish lines bristling with eight deck guns and a bow chaser mounted in the forecastle—was Blackbeard’s Adventure. But he was unfamiliar with the other vessel, which looked to belong to a local trader. The two sloops lay at anchor off the southern edge of the flat triangular spur of the barrier island. On the far side of the spur lay the landing place the pirates used when they wanted to go ashore, or to refill their water casks from the island’s spring, known as the Old Watering Hole.
With a longboat out front to take depth readings in the shallow waters of Pamlico Sound, the Ranger in the number two position, and Maynard’s flagship Jane taking up the rear, the three-vessel naval flotilla slowly navigated its way from the anchorage on the east side of Beacon Island southeast through Ship Channel towards Ocracoke Inlet. The longboat’s five-man crew was equipped with a sounding line, which they would use to take soundings as the procession of ships sailed southeast along the main channel and then turned into the left-hand tidal channel, or slough, that led to Thache’s anchorage and the watering hole. Maynard had no intention of allowing his civilian-rigged sloops to run aground on the constantly shifting sandbars and shoals of Ship Channel or the northwest-southeast trending slough where the Adventure and the trading vessel were anchored.
The sound was calm, the sky overcast. The lumpy seas of the past few days had given way to tranquil ones, and there was only the lightest of breezes to propel them on their route. With only a modest wind, both of His Majesty’s vessels were forced to lay out the sweeps, using the large oars to augment the sails and thereby limit the time that they would be under fire from the pirates’ guns.
As they neared Ocracoke Inlet, Maynard realized that he had lost the element of surprise. Peering through his spyglass, he saw the glint of the morning sun’s reflection off a similar glass from the pirate sloop. Someone was spying on him in return. His plan had been to lure the pirates into thinking that the Jane and Ranger were simple trading vessels so he could get close enough to cut them off before they attempted to escape through the inlet to the open sea. But already the rogues were tracking his movements and stirring about the Adventure’s deck like busy bees, unfurling sails and making their cannon ready to fire a warning shot and, if necessary, engage the enemy.
“They’re rolling out their guns! Crowd that canvas and have those oarsmen bustle to it!” he shouted to his first-mate and second in command of the flotilla, Lieutenant Baker, and his helmsman, the Scotsman Abraham Demelt. Standing next to the three officers was Maynard’s North Carolinian master pilot, William Butler, who was intimately familiar with the treacherous local waters.
“Aye, Lieutenant!” Baker scrambled across the deck and repeated the order to the oarsmen, who were already sweating heavily from exertion.
Bloody hell, we’re not moving fast enough, thought Maynard, worried that they would be sitting ducks once they came under Thache’s guns. He estimated that time would be shortly after they turned hard to port and struck north along the nearshore tidal slough that led to the Old Watering Hole. A hundred yards offshore of the watering hole was where Thache was waiting for them, guns a-ready. If heavy casualties were to be avoided it was essential not to reveal his identity until he had closed to within musket range, or roughly two hundred yards. By then it would be too late for Blackbeard to make his escape or to cripple the Jane or Ranger with heavy cannon fire. He had to keep the pirate guessing he was a simple trader for as long as possible, for the vessels under his command had no guns and his men had weapons suitable only for a boarding action: muskets, pistols, cutlasses, pikes, grenadoes, and boarding axes.
Soon they neared the point where the slough met Ship Channel at a ninety degree angle. Maynard gave the order over the speaking trumpet to the flotilla to strike north and replace the oarsmen of each vessel with eight fresh crew members as well as add two more men to each party. They needed to increase their speed in the feeble breeze and enable both vessels to close the deadly gap in front of the Adventure’s guns in as short a time as possible. The fresh bodies and two extra crewmen per vessel were swiftly deployed to augment the power of the sails.
Again peering through his spyglass, he could now make out each of the Adventure’s nine guns. As best as he could tell, Blackbeard was armed with eight three- to four-pounders and a smaller bow chaser, all the brass cannon glinting in the sunlight menacingly like projecting spearpoints. The pirate was also equipped with swivel guns on his quarterdeck. The light anti-personnel weapons were typically loaded with scrap metal and musket balls and had a range of sixty yards. If fired in the last moments before a boarding action, they
were particularly lethal. Studying the pirates’ bristling armament through his spyglass, he wished he had sacrificed a little draught and speed by mounting swivel guns of his own on the Jane and Ranger. But it was too late now. If he so desired, Thache could inflict lethal damage with his carriage-mounted guns and swivel guns, ending the assault before the attackers were within musket shot of the pirates.
“Larboard your helm and ease into that slough!” Maynard shouted through his speaking trumpet to Hyde in the Ranger and to the crew manning the longboat up ahead. “We don’t want to be running aground now!”
The flotilla made the turn and followed the slough north with the incoming tide, picking its way carefully amidst the shoals and sandbars towards Thache’s anchorage. The Ranger in the lead was two points on the starboard bow of the Jane, both vessels heading parallel to the marshy shoreline in the direction of the Old Watering Hole. Long, thin, and inhabited only by seasonal fisherman and herders, Ocracoke Island was covered in sand dunes, marram grass, gnarly live oaks and cedar trees, and scrub, with some reed beds on its inner side facing Pamlico Sound. With the wind down, sounds carried well over the water. Maynard could hear honking waterfowl over the sound of the water against the hull as the invaders knifed through the slough towards his adversary.
As the Jane closed the distance to around a thousand yards with the longboat and Ranger out front, he looked again through his powerful British Navy spyglass. As there was an incoming tide, the bow of the Adventure was pointing south, directly towards him. Slowly, as the Jane closed the distance between them, he could make out more and more of the details of the wanted brigand—the notorious Blackbeard the pirate—among the members of his outlaw crew. He stood out on account of his towering height, his crimson captain’s jacket, and his long black beard that appeared to be tied up in plaits. For a moment, Maynard’s breath was taken away. The man was leaner and sinewier than the naval lieutenant had expected, and he had a powerful air of command about him. He also appeared appropriately menacing with what looked like six pistols bandoliered about his midriff and a huge cutlass sheathed in his belt.
Maynard committed the towering figure to memory and sized him up. So this was his opponent: a tall, spare man with a commanding aura about him no doubt largely gained from his years as an officer in the British Royal Navy and as a privateer. Even from a distance, there was a look of indefatigable determination about the man and it was this feature that intrigued Maynard most of all. All in all an able foe, he decided, a brave and daring man who would not capitulate easily.
At that precise instant, he heard the explosion of a cannon. He had been so focused on Blackbeard the legendary swashbuckler that he hadn’t been paying attention to what the rest of his crew was doing, and now it appeared as if Thache had fired off one of his guns as a warning shot. Given the direction his sloop was facing, it could not have been easy, but Maynard quickly realized it was the bow chaser. The cannon ball whistled over the heads of the longboat crew and splashed into the water, producing a great gusher as if from the spout of a whale.
“Pipe to quarters!” he shouted to his bosun. Then to Lieutenant Baker and the other officers and crew: “To your stations and take cover! The next one won’t be a warning!”
“Aye, Lieutenant! To stations! To stations!”
Maynard peered through his spyglass again at Blackbeard and the Adventure. If they continued to close on the pirate, the next shot would likely be in range and on target.
“Pull that longboat! Get them out of there now!” he yelled to his bosun.
“Aye, Lieutenant!”
Another explosion thundered across the stillness of Pamlico Sound, sending the squawking water fowl near the Old Slough in all directions. The bellicose noise was swiftly followed by a whistling sound like a demon unleashed from hell. Maynard saw the splash of water a mere twenty feet off the Ranger’s larboard quarter. A great gasp of shock mingled with dread rose up from the men aboard both vessels as well as the longboat.
“They have our range! Get that damned boat and those men out of the water now!” he shouted again.
He looked at his silver mariner’s pocket watch, wanting to know the time, as his heart rate picked up in his chest from the excitement of being fired upon, even if it was only a pair of warning shots. It was 09:52 hours. Over the next three minutes, the longboat sounding crew was pulled back on board while the small craft was tied off and towed astern of the Jane. While the Ranger continued to close in on the Adventure, Maynard debated showing his colors.
No, make the great Blackbeard wait a little longer, he told himself. Already you have him confused as to who we are. You need to buy some more time before we come under fire from his powerful guns.
The Ranger and Jane continued to sail towards Thache’s well-armed sloop. The trading sloop remained anchored to the northwest and Maynard would not bother with it. As they drew closer to the quarry, he could feel his heart thundering in his chest. His body was on high alert with the rush he had felt in anticipation of battle on so many occasions during Queen Anne’s War, but not in recent years in his fruitless anti-piracy patrols in which he had never actually confronted any sea rover. He remembered back a decade earlier to the sea battle off Dunkirk, recalling the intoxicating combination of mortal fear and excitement coursing through his veins when he was in his mid-twenties. He couldn’t help but feel as if his whole life had led up to this moment in history, a life and death struggle off Ocracoke Island in the Year of Our Lord 1718. He could smell history in the air. Since he was a little boy, he had wanted to fight in a great bloody battle against an able foe and vanquish him. Right here and now was his chance against the notorious Blackbeard, scourge of the Atlantic and Lord of the Outer Banks.
He looked to the heavens, his legs trembling ever so slightly as he stood on the quarterdeck in supplication before the Almighty. Five more minutes, oh Lord. That’s all I ask of ye. Five minutes delay before the devil opens up with his guns. Then we will show our colors and the bloody battle will begin.
And when it’s all over and done, may ye Lord have showered his divine mercy upon me and my brave men.
CHAPTER 66
OCRACOKE
NOVEMBER 22, 1718
PEERING THROUGH HIS SPYGLASS, Blackbeard searched in vain for signs of a flag on the two vessels but saw none as the enemy closed the distance to a thousand yards. His head throbbed from last night’s drunken festivities on behalf of trader Samuel Odell and his crew, but his body was now on high alert. It was normal for warships to unfurl their colors before they opened fire, but in his fights with the French and Spanish during the war he and his opponents had often concealed their identities until the last second, and any trick that helped to delay the enemy opening fire was considered fair game. But still these new interlopers were behaving strangely. In many cases, captains flew false colors to keep their enemy guessing, but why were these two vessels not presenting their flags unless they were not the simple trading sloops they pretended to be. After all, they carried no guns and seemed to be crewed by ordinary seamen.
“Who are these infernal bastards prowling around our waters?” he wondered aloud, turning his eyeglass from one boat to the other.
“I don’t know, Captain,” responded Thomas Miller, quartermaster of the Adventure. “But they’re not standing down and I don’t like the looks of them.”
“Neither do I, Captain,” said Caesar. “They are sneaky devils and surely deserve a taste of our lead and iron.”
Thache nodded, feeling his blood rising. Whoever these new interlopers were, they were not following the standard script and standing down. He wondered who the hell they could possibly be—these two well-manned sloops hailing from Carolina waters with no carriage guns to speak of, sailing slowly towards him like stalking crocodiles. The world all around him seemed strangely surreal, like a dream unfolding inexorably before him that he was powerless to stop. He had no idea who these brash newcomers were or from whence they had come except somewhere to
the north. Morton had fired the traditional two shots across the bow, and now he and his badly hungover crew were waiting to see what would happen next. He wished they hadn’t gotten so bloody drunk last night.
“They be nine hundred yards and closing. They’ll be in musket range any moment now,” warned master gunner Philip Morton from his forward position at the bow chaser. “What do you want me to do, Captain?”
“Avast and stand by, Mr. Morton. We have the advantage of guns and they will pay dearly if they try to board us.” To his bosun. “Mr. Gibbons, if you would kindly hoist the Jolly Roger and let them know who we be. I will not be skulking about in anonymity for the likes of these rude gentlemen. Show them our colors and be quick about it, man!”
A cheer went up from the mixed crew of white and black men as the order was carried out. But the wind was so slight that the black flag with the pierced heart drooped like a soggy piece of bread.
Blast, that is not a good omen, he cursed. It appears we will soon be in for the fight of our lives, and all we have is this damned droopy black flag?
The two sloops made a formidable enemy, he could now tell, as he began counting the number of men on the two decks. Whoever the bastards were, they clearly had more men than him and the odds would be heavily against him if not for the advantage of his guns. He could still evade them by coming about and escaping to the north through the inlets and channels he knew so well, but that was not his nature. A voice inside him told him to sail right at them and fight it out. He quickly decided that that’s what he would do.
Blackbeard- The Birth of America Page 49
