Blackbeard- The Birth of America

by Samuel Marquis

  Emboldened, a half-dozen of the King’s men that had been standing back timidly in fear closed in around him to finish him off. But he continued to fight furiously, swinging the weapon in a wild windmill attack that no one in front of him could repel with a blade. In response, several of the British seamen swung in behind him to stab him in the back with their swords.

  But still the towering figure refused to go down. As a fifth bullet struck him and he was slashed a seventeenth time by a British sword, he remained standing, swinging his heavy cutlass in proud defiance, like a wounded and cornered wild animal. As he fought for his life, the American was fueled by one thing and one thing only: an image of his beloved Margaret of Marcus Hook. He pictured holding his Swedish beauty in his arms next to a warm winter hearth along the banks of the Delaware. They were joking and laughing, playing the silly name games that lovers play, and she was softly singing in his ear and delivering sweet, moist kisses that made him quiver and tingle with joy for the tender things in this world, the better angels of man’s unseemly nature. Love, he knew, was the only thing worth living for. His beloved Margaret was the one sweet angel that had always reached right down and grabbed him and made him magnificently alive and yet all muddled and yearning and dizzy in the head at the same time. Like a fool, he had had the love of his life in his hands and he had let her slip away. His fine Swedish beauty.

  I am sorry, Margaret my love. I am sorry that I have made a mess of everything and will not return to you.

  Alas, I hope you can forgive me.

  CHAPTER 69

  OCRACOKE

  NOVEMBER 22, 1718

  FROM THE QUARTERDECK OF THE ADVENTURE, Caesar watched as the tide of battle turned and his pirate brethren were driven back. Blackbeard had rallied his men, but it was all for naught as they were swiftly dispatched around him until he was the only one left, fighting for his life. He was standing his ground and battling with great fury, but even through the smoky haze Caesar could see that he was badly wounded and running out of strength, and that the battle was lost.

  He knew now what he had to do: blow the powder magazine and thereby deny the hangman.

  And yet…and yet he couldn’t bring himself to do it, not yet. He could not take his eyes off the battle and wanted to see what fate would befall his captain, who was grappling with the officer in the blue jacket. The smoke was beginning to clear again and he could hear the metallic clang of their swords as they fought on the aft deck. It looked as though the pirate captain had the upper hand, but as he stepped forward to deliver the death blow, he was intercepted from the rear by a British seaman with a bright shock of auburn hair, who proceeded to deliver a terrific wound to his neck with his broadsword. The pirate’s cutlass blow failed to land on the officer in blue and blood spurted from his gashed neck. He then staggered on the deck, his legs wobbly though he continued to shout out defiantly and slash away to fend off his attackers, who were now emboldened and stepping towards him to finish him off. His grievous wound, coupled with the many other bullet and sword wounds he had sustained, had weakened him and made him vulnerable in the eyes of his enemies. Seeing that he was approaching his end and that the heavily armed British seamen were moving in for the kill, tears came to Caesar’s eyes.

  He held his breath in dreadful anticipation.

  The enemy seamen, who had kept clear of Blackbeard until now, closed in from behind like a pack of hyenas to stab the great pirate with their cutlasses. The British, wary of combating him face to face from the front, delivered thrusts and slashes to his back and sides as he continued to fight with the naval officer. And then, as he was cocking a pistol for a shot, the beefy seaman with the red hair swept in again and gave him a second stroke, this time cutting off his head and laying it flat on his shoulder. Blackbeard toppled over, not quite headless, and Caesar turned away in horror, tears streaming uncontrollably down his face.

  “Noooo!” he cried. “Noooo!”

  Unable to believe his eyes, he felt a part of him die right there and then along with his captain. He felt a powerful sense of loss: an era had come to a sudden and bitter end. Yet in his heart, he knew that his beloved Blackbeard could not have chosen a better way to die. He had fallen in the heat of battle, fighting like a wounded lion, and that was worth something.

  In fact, it meant everything.

  Suddenly, he heard whizzing sounds, a burst of heavy gunfire on the starboard quarter. The larger sloop that they had attacked first had come free and was advancing towards the Adventure, her decks swarming with the King’s men. He realized he had been so preoccupied by the fight aboard the smaller British sloop that he had forgotten about the larger enemy vessel to the north. If the battle wasn’t completely lost before, it was now. With no one to sail the Adventure and now two enemy ship’s to contend with, it was time now to execute Blackbeard’s wishes and blow the three vessels to kingdom come.

  He started for the companionway as his friend Richard Greensail and fellow seamen John Carnes, Richard Stiles, Thomas, Gates, James Blake, James White, and the remaining holdouts left to defend the Adventure opened fire on the British sloop sweeping in from the north. With Thache and his boarding party defeated, the enemy from this larger British vessel were now moving to board the pirate vessel as well. In the confusion of battle, someone had cut the lines joining the Adventure and the smaller enemy sloop, and they had momentarily become separated and drifted apart. But now the grappling hooks again locked the two sloops together and they were touching at their bows. Any second, the Adventure would be boarded by thirty of the King’s men from both enemy ships.

  That would be the time to blow up all three vessels.

  He quickly climbed down the stairs and began making his way to the powder room in the stern of the ship. He had a leather pouch filled with powder and a box of stick matches so it would take no time to turn the room into an inferno. Then it would be only a matter of seconds before the powder kegs blew. Though nervous at the prospect of committing suicide, he was intent on fulfilling his promise to his captain that had granted him his freedom. That way, he and his fellow gentlemen of fortune could go out on their own terms and avoid the hangman’s noose. He had heard Thache talking about such a final exit strategy with Charles Vane, Sam Bellamy, and other pirate commanders on several occasions. During their drinking binges, he had also heard his comrades in arms swear oaths that they would blow themselves up rather than be captured and hanged like dogs. He had often wondered if, when the moment actually arrived, such men would have the courage to light the match, or if they would hold out hope that a heartfelt confession, or a claim to have been kept as a prisoner, or the arrival of a new royal pardon, might yet spare them the noose. He had long doubted if even one in ten of his brethren of the coast who made such boasts would go through with it.

  But he would not let his captain down. He had been assigned a critical mission and he intended to follow through with it. It was his duty as a free seaman.

  He pushed open the door to the powder room. Thankfully, it was empty. He stepped forward to the powder kegs in the corner, removed the cork from the bunghole of the already opened keg, and poured out a trail of powder from his pouch from the middle of the room to the open powder keg to ignite it and set off the entire store. He then said a little prayer. He could tell that the battle on deck was already winding down. The gunfire had stopped altogether, and he could hear heavy feet on the wooden planks and gruff voices barking out commands. The Adventure had been taken by the two naval sloops and the King’s men now controlled the ship.

  It was time to fulfill the captain’s order.

  Lighting a match, he leaned down to put the match to the trail of powder, but as he did so he turned the match in his hand and it went out.

  Damn.

  He lit another. It was then, with the lit match in his hand, that he heard a voice.

  “What the bloody hell are you doing, Caesar?”

  Turning towards the sound, he saw the trader Samuel Odell and the pira
te James Robins, who had recently returned from Bath Town with Garret Gibbons. Apparently not wanting to take arms against the King’s men, they had hidden behind a clump of powder barrels in the Adventure’s hold.

  “What does it look like I’m doing?” he replied, certain that he was doing the right thing in obeying his captain. “I’m going to blow the ship. The battle is lost and we will all be hung if we surrender.”

  “Now just hold on, Caesar,” said James Robins, holding up both hands. “You and I are mates, and there is no reason to be rash. None of us here in this powder room will be hung as long as we don’t bear arms against the King.”

  Caesar hadn’t thought of that, but what difference did it make? His captain had given him an order and he must carry it out. He held the lit match just above the powder trail and the two men gave a little twitch. “The captain has ordered me to set fire to the powder stores and blow up the ship. It is what I must do since we have failed to defeat our attackers and will all be captured. I cannot disobey a direct order from the captain.”

  “But you can’t blow us all up, man!” protested Samuel Odell. “I’m no pirate and none of us has taken up arms. Have you actually lifted a hand against the King’s men, Caesar?”

  “No, but that doesn’t matter. They will hang us all anyway.”

  “No, they won’t,” said Robins, moving to his left. “Now just stop and listen.”

  But Caesar was done listening. His match was almost burnt out and he knew they were going to try and stop him. He started to touch the match to the powder.

  “No, Caesar, no!” cried Robins, and he and Odell jumped forward to restrain him.

  But they were too late. The lit match set fire to the powder trail on the floor leading to the keg. But he had to keep them from stomping out the flame before it ignited the powder kegs. He started to withdraw his knife to fight them off, but the young and solidly built Robins tackled him to the floor and clamped down his arms against the hard wood as Samuel Odell attempted to stamp out the fire with his heavy shoes.

  “Damn you!” protested Caesar, fighting to push the heavyset Robins off. “Now we’ll all be hung like dogs!”

  “No we won’t!” replied Robins. “We just have to play our cards right and say we didn’t take part in the fight!”

  “They’ll never believe us!”

  “Aye, they will! Now just stay down, damn you, and let them capture us here down in the hold! We’ll pretend to be prisoners!”

  “You fool, they won’t believe that either! Now let me up so I can follow through with the captain’s order!”

  “No way in hell, lad!” said Samuel Odell, who had put out the fire and was now helping Robins to restrain the black man.

  At that instant, a pair of British seamen bearing muskets and an officer armed with a cutlass burst into the room.

  “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!” cried Samuel Odell, holding up his hands. “We are prisoners aboard this ship!”

  “Is that so? We’ll see about!” snarled the officer menacingly. “On deck with your hands behind your heads! Now be quick about it—it seems you are our prisoners now!”

  The armed seamen jabbed their muskets at them and they rose up as commanded and went on deck. All three sloops were lashed together. Caesar and the survivors aboard the pirate vessel were duly hauled back on board the blood-soaked deck of the smaller British sloop, which Caesar could see was named Jane. There they were kept under guard, and left to patch their wounds as best they could.

  Looking around the blood-stained deck, he couldn’t believe how much carnage had taken place in so short a time. The entire battle had lasted no more than fifteen minutes from the initial broadside directed against the larger British sloop through to the surrender of the last of the Adventure’s crew. He estimated that there were ten dead pirates and another six or seven wounded, while the British, though they had won the battle, appeared to have suffered more grievous losses of ten to twelve dead and around twenty-five wounded. To Caesar, the fighting seemed to have lasted an eternity though in actuality it had taken no longer than the time it takes for a hungry man to eat his supper.

  The silence was acute as the stunned, deafened, and disoriented survivors regained their strength, hearing, and sanity. In the aftermath of battle, Caesar couldn’t help but feel deeply dispirited. Looking around at the faces of the survivors on both sides, many of whom were badly wounded, he could tell that many felt the same. Victors and vanquished alike had seen many close friends killed or wounded. Those that had survived were wondering how they had escaped with their lives. For Caesar, his good friend Richard Greensail was alive, but Garret Gibbons, his bosun buddy, had not made it.

  Feeling a numbness in his weary bones, he watched as the officer in the blue uniform ordered the British wounded, but not his fellow pirates, to be looked after. While this was being done, the lieutenant had his mangled hand dressed. Caesar thought he was lucky to be alive; if not for the red-haired man who had partially cut off Thache’s head, he would have been killed by the pirate. But Caesar had to admit he had fought bravely, and he had been clever to conceal the bulk of his forces belowdecks until Blackbeard had boarded. While the British wounded were being attended to and the pirates neglected, the officer and one of his men tallied up the cost of the action. Their count of the dead and wounded jibed with what Caesar had estimated from closely examining the decks of the combined ships.

  After a few minutes, he stood up to look at his captain. The great Blackbeard’s tall, spare, blood-soaked corpse lay sprawled across the deck, his nearly severed and heavily bearded head staring grotesquely at his British vanquishers. But there was a hint of a smile on his lips, or maybe it wasn’t a smile at all but simply a frozen grimace that now looked like a smile. But in it Caesar could see a hint of rebellion and mischief, as if the great pirate commander had somehow managed to have the last laugh. A weary smile and look of pride creased Caesar’s face. Suddenly, the world around him on Pamlico Sound seemed serene and filled with beauty—and he did not fear death.

  “What the hell are you smiling at?” asked Thomas Gates, one of the other five free black African pirates. “We have lost and will now be hung like dogs.”

  “No, we haven’t lost. We have won. Look at the captain’s face—the bastard is smiling because he knows we have won.”

  “What are you talking about?” sniffed Gates. “He’s dead.”

  “Aye, he may be gone from this world,” said Caesar with a knowing smile. “But he and everyone who fought under him this day shall live on for all eternity. For we are—and shall forever be—Blackbeard’s pirates.”

  CHAPTER 70

  COURT OF GUARD AND WHITE POINT

  CHARLES TOWN, SOUTH CAROLINA

  DECEMBER 10, 1718

  STEDE BONNET’S appointed execution day of December 10 dawned clear and sunny, but the fair weather did little to ease his mortal fear. Over the past week, as the time for his public hanging had drawn nearer, he was in such a state of terror that he could neither sleep nor eat. The prospect of a piratical “dance of death” at the end of a rope unnerved him. But now that the appointed day had come all hope was lost. His appeals to Governor Johnson for mercy had fallen on deaf ears, and there would be no more delays, no more stays, no more chances at escape, no timely rescue from a mob of pirate-friendly American colonists dashing in to spare him from the gallows. Bonnet had played his last card, and his time had run out and judgment day come.

  Outside the Court of Guard where he was imprisoned, he could hear a steadily increasing rumble of voices. A crowd was gathering. A pirate hanging was not only grand theater but a public holiday, and all of Charles Town’s citizens and even settlers from the outlying townships and plantations were turning out to watch the spectacle. Some came from as far as twenty miles away to make a picnic day of it. He could also hear the yelling and shouting of the street hawkers selling food and drink. But the most dreaded sound of all was yet to come: the slow creaking of the hanging cart. He knew w
hat it sounded like, for he had heard the macabre sound every time one of his twenty-nine crew members had been hauled away to White Point to be hung.

  Feeling butterflies in his stomach, he stood up on his tiptoes and peered through the window of the watch house on Half Moon Battery. In the distance, he could see the calm morning waters of the harbor and the open sea beyond. Just over the walls of the Half Moon Battery lay trackless miles of sea where he had spent the last year and a half of his life as a freebooter. He remembered it only as a bad dream. In the foreground, he saw the citizens of Charles Town chatting and milling about amid the street vendors who would profit from his hanging. For the hundredth time, he cursed his misfortune, closed his eyes, and held his head in his hands.

  It was then he heard the dreaded sound of the creaking wheels. It was the hanging cart.

  A crescendo of shouts rose from the crowd on the streets: “Seize him! Bring out the murderer!”

  “No, no!” he whispered desperately, his legs now trembling beneath him. He heard the scrape of the jailer’s boots on the stone floor approaching his cell. Two burly men who reeked of foul body odor and drink swiftly bound his hands together and proceeded to escort him from his cell. But his feet were frozen to the cold floor and wouldn’t budge. They grabbed him roughly and carried him along, his toes barely touching the ground. To the murmurs and jeers of the crowd, he was removed from the Court of Guard and hoisted into a horse-drawn cart. Down the length of Broad Street, he could see the throngs of people lining the street all the way to Charles Town’s western gate. With his hands bound tightly in front of him, he was paraded up Broad Street past the throngs of people who had turned out to see his execution. He thought the conveyance would take him straight to the gallows, but instead the horse drawing the cart turned in the opposite direction.