by Kate Castle
“Anne, look here!”
I looked over to where he was crouched. Nestled in amongst the sea grass lay a huge conch shell. Mark picked it up and held it aloft, a magnificent grin stretching over his beautiful face.
“I’ve never seen one that big!” I exclaimed, like an utter simpleton. I felt my face prickle, embarrassed at my unguarded outburst. Thankfully, Mark did not seem to notice.
“I’ve never seen one at all,” he said. “I’ve heard about them, though. This here’s a queen conch. A very rare find. A very rare find indeed.”
He turned the rough, spiralled exterior over to reveal a beautiful bright coral pink underbelly. He traced his slim fingers over the large glossy pink outer lip. A brown snail emerged from his hiding place, its huge pointed claw swiping at Mark’s fingers. It seemed very odd to me that something so beautiful could accommodate something so ugly and aggressive.
Mark took a knife from his coat pocket and made short work of cutting the snail from its shell, thoroughly scraping out its crevices. He transferred the bulbous flesh to his knapsack.
“That’ll be a good addition to tonight’s meal,” he said, beaming. He knelt and washed the shell in the warm waters, before standing and holding the conch out to me, like it was the most precious prize in the world. “For you.”
“Oh!”
Delighted, I took the shell from him and turned it in my hands. I ran my fingertips in and around its many whorls and stroked the smooth, shiny inner surface.
“It’s heavier than I thought it would be,” I said. “And much more beautiful than any shell I’ve seen before.”
“Every queen conch is beautiful on the outside. Sometimes, rarely mind, you find a pearl inside one. A priceless pink pearl. They are so very hard to find, and so very valuable.”
Excited, I brought the shell’s opening close to my face and peered inside the empty crevice, looking for hidden treasure.
Mark chuckled. “I already looked, Anne. Alas, we didn’t get lucky this time.”
I smiled ruefully up at him. He was watching me intently.
It occurred to me then that, somehow, he had relaxed me enough that I had been acting a little too soft for my liking. I placed the shell carefully on the wineskins in the rowboat and leant against the rail, acting as nonchalant as I could.
“You’re quite the dark horse, ain’t you Mister Read?” I said, kicking off my boots and paddling my feet in the warm, shallow waters.
“Whatever do you mean, Miss Bonny?”
“You know – master swordsman, water diviner, shell connoisseur. What other tricks do you have up your sleeve, one wonders?”
He laughed and shook his head. “I just like to get on with things, Anne. I don’t make a fuss, is all. There’s nowt special about me.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Still, I have been thinking I can maybe learn a thing or two from you.”
“It’d be my pleasure, Miss Anne.” He took off his tricorn and held it to his chest, bowing elaborately. “What service may I offer you first?”
“I want you to teach me to fight like you.”
He laughed, a bright, musical sound that warmed me. “You would have to listen, Anne.”
“I’ve got ears, don’t I?”
“Sure enough.”
He walked to me and drew my sword from my sash. I felt a pull in my centre and involuntarily took one step closer to him.
“Hold out your left hand,” he said softly.
His breath smelled sweet, like apples and fine spices. I held my hand out, palm up, and he placed the centre of my sword on my hand, balancing the blade perfectly, parallel with the sand below.
“The first lesson you must learn is that you are your sword, and, in knowing that, you must always be balanced - mentally and physically - for your sword to become one with you.”
Stepping back, he performed the same action with his own sword, levelling it on his palm, and sank into a deep lunge - balancing his body perfectly. His sword did not move a whisker during the whole manoeuvre. “Try it, Anne.”
I copied him as best I could and was quietly pleased when my sword hardly wobbled in my hand.
“Room for improvement, but a good start.”
“Damn near perfect, that was!” I retorted.
“Now, stay exactly where you are and flip your sword up, catching it with your fighting hand, like this.” He flipped his sword up and over and caught it smoothly by the hilt with his right hand - still in a perfect lunge.
Cocky now, I tossed the sword up, too quickly, and sent it twirling away from me, missing the catch completely. It sank blade-first into the wet sand, and I lost my balance, toppling to the ground.
“For pity’s sake,” I huffed, brushing down my breeches. “What’s all this throwin’, twirlin’ and catchin’ nonsense? When do we get to fight properly?”
“You mustn’t let your emotions take charge of your sword.”
“I ain’t. My sword wants to kill you.”
“Your sword is an extension of you, Anne.”
“Fine. Then I want to kill you.”
“No, you don’t, Anne. You want to learn.”
“Stop saying Anne.”
His eyes twinkled with mirth, and something I thought looked like admiration. “Your sword reacts best to discipline. To physical control. If you let your heart rule, you will lose the fight. Every battle is won with the head.”
“Are you implying I ain’t clever?” I challenged, jutting out my chin.
“I’m implying your passion overrules your cleverness, of which, by the by, I have absolutely no doubt. Now…prepare…breathe. And…en garde.”
He settled into an elegant half lunge and levelled his sword at my chest, completely still, ready to fight.
I pulled my boots back on, picked up my sword, assumed the lunge position, and for the first time in my life…I decided to listen.
We practised until the sun went down and the other lads returned. By the end of our session, I had improved immeasurably. Mark was so delighted with my progress that he insisted on teaching me every day on the ship from then on. I was more than happy to oblige; it was the perfect excuse to spend more time with him.
After watching a couple of our lessons on the main deck, many of the crew signed up to learn Mark’s style of elegant swordsmanship too. Even Jack saw the benefit.
Feeling confident with our improved skills, we took a double-masted schooner with ease just south of Port Royal. Its plentiful booty and supplies kept us fed and watered for a whole month.
Our next take was not so easy.
5
It was early morning when we rounded the westernmost point of Jamaica into Orange Bay. A heavy mist hung over the water and the sun had not yet broken through. Although the coast must have been only a furlong from our ship, we could not make it out. The only sound was the faint flutter of the Roger overhead and the sea lapping at the hull as William sliced slowly through the water. They were my least favourite conditions to sail in – let alone attack a ship – but Jack insisted we needed another take that day as we were running short on supplies, and there was always a sloop in Orange Bay – seeing as it was the last mooring before Montego Bay and its bustling markets.
We did not reckon on finding three ships moored together.
Before we knew it, we were upon them, their masts looming high through the mist, like crosses on Golgotha. Mark and I stood next to each other on the forecastle along with most of the crew, ready for battle. I glanced at Mark and saw concern plain on his face. I looked back at Jack – at the helm – and his face held worry, too. But there was no turning back now.
Jack spun the wheel to bring us alongside the first ship and his urgent whisper reached us easily on account of the mist’s thick silence: “Stealthy take, lads!”
We hoisted the gangways over the taffrail and crept quickly and quietly onto the first Spanish sloop. Its main deck was deserted; its crew no doubt still slumbering below decks.
“Take the crew�
��s quarters,” I murmured to the lads.
They stole away to the starboard doorway which led down below deck, leaving Mark and me up top. There was no noise but creaks from the main masts and muffled steps from the crew as they descended the stairs below us.
“Captain’s quarters are open, Annie,” Mark whispered.
I ignored the jolt of pleasure I felt from his term of endearment and followed his gaze. He was right: the door to what would be the captain’s cabin lay wide open.
“Anyone on the helm?” I asked urgently.
“Not that I can see.”
“Where are the barrelmen?”
Mark looked upwards to the crow’s nest. “Nowt there.”
“I don’t like this one little –”
“AVAST!”
Out of the mist, three dozen men charged from the second ship alongside. They clambered over gangways and swung down from rigging-lines armed with swords, grappling irons, and clubs. Instantly, Mark surged forwards with his sword drawn and took on the first of them.
“Main deck!” I hollered, hoping the crew could hear me.
I fired my pistol at the most dangerous-looking Spaniard I could see, who was armed with two flintlocks and a wild look in his eyes. A heart-stopping booooom thundered through my chest as a cannon fired behind me and tore through the oncoming crowd, eliminating at least five of the horde. Swirling sulphurous fumes and smoke filled my nostrils. My ears rang. Breathless, I looked behind me to see Jack lighting the second gun’s fuse on the William. Then, with a rallying cry, he leapt over the taffrail to join the fight.
Cries echoed through the smoke and mist as the second cannonball hit the crowd. I fought on, slashing a neck, an arm, a face, another neck. My shirt clung to my chest with sweat and blood. Jack appeared next to me and fired both pistols into the melee before discarding them and drawing his cutlasses. Ahead, I could make out Mark’s long blade swishing left and right, slashed with red.
Musket shots whistled through the air, heralding our crew’s arrival from below decks. Panic broke out among the Spaniards when they realised they were now outnumbered. They started to retreat, jumping overboard to escape. Huge plumes of water splashed up and over the rails. Some of our crew ran to the taffrails and began picking them off in the water with their pistols, one by one. As the enemy dispersed, I looked around for Mark.
Beside me, Jack sneered. “Bloody Spaniards. Couldn’t fight on their own, had to join with the other ships. Bloody coat-tail cowards.”
I turned and punched him in the face, hard. He stumbled back, grasping his nose.
“Ahh! Anne – what the –”
“How many times have I told you? Never attack in the mist! Bloody Spaniards…? Bloody brainless, Jack. That’s what you are.”
I stalked off in a blind rage to find Mark. I found him on the sterncastle deck, hunched over, clutching at his side. My stomach dropped.
“You’re hurt.”
“It’s just a scratch, Annie. Nowt to lose your head over.”
He smiled at me and tried to stand up. His face twisted in pain. Moving closer, I gently lifted his hand away and opened his coat. His shirt was slashed open along his belly and a bright red patch bloomed through the cotton.
“Oh, bilge, Read. That there is no scratch. Let’s get you back to quarters and fix you up.”
I hoisted his other arm over my shoulder and walked him slowly back onto the William, glaring at Jack as we passed. He held a bandana to his bloody nose and eyed me warily.
“Search all ships for booty!” he barked to the crew.
“We’ll be in captain’s quarters,” I called back to him.
“Bloody women,” I heard him mumble.
6
I helped Mark out of his coat and onto the bed that Jack and I shared. His face was pale and covered with sweat. I began unbuttoning his shirt.
He grabbed my hand. “Annie, I’m fine. Leave me be, I just need to rest.”
“Claptrap,” I said, pushing his hands away. “You’re still bleeding.”
I popped another button. He gripped my wrists firmly, stilling them. His eyes held mine and, again, I felt our connection. That pull. Tugging me towards him from deep within my centre. I wondered briefly if he felt it as well.
I searched his eyes for an answer, leaning into him. He was so close I could see tiny golden flecks, like stars, in his ever-darkening blue eyes. His cheeks were flushed with colour. I dropped my eyes to his mouth, captivated by the way his lips swelled and parted.
“Annie –”
We were both breathing heavily. The air between us was charged, alive with energy. And then the only thought I had in my head, the only possible thing I could do in that moment, was to bring my mouth to his.
I had been kissed by many men before, but never had it felt like this. Melting, pillowy softness; feather-light, delicate, breathy kisses – slowly, tentatively exploring each other. As I moved to deepen the kiss, he brought his hand between us and gently pushed me away.
“Annie…there’s something you should know.”
My eyelids fluttered open. Dazed and breathless, I tried to focus on him. Blood roared in my ears.
“What is it?” My voice did not sound like my own. The words seemed to come out from somewhere very far away. I felt entirely disoriented, like my head was underwater; heavy, yet floating. “Is it Jack? You don’t need to worry about him,” I mumbled, dipping my head to kiss his neck. “I’m not his only paramour, you know.”
“No, I –” He sat up straighter, wincing with the pain from his cut. He took a deep breath. “I think it’s easier if I show you. Just…don’t kill me, all right? Remember…I’m still me.”
His hands moved to his shirt and he unfastened the last few buttons. Then, slowly, he pulled it open.
His skin underneath was smooth and milky white in contrast to the deep tan on his face and neck. My eyes moved lower and settled on two small, but unmistakeable breasts that heaved in and out. The breasts were tipped with rose-pink nipples, tight with arousal.
I sucked in a breath. “You’re – you’re a woman?”
Aghast, I clapped my hands over my mouth and stumbled back off the bed, onto the floor. She tried to swing her legs round to come to me but cried out in pain. A stream of blood seeped out of the cut on her ribs. I went to her, covering the cut with a bandana and pressing hard. We frantically searched each other’s eyes for some understanding, a reconnection. She must have read downright confusion in mine because she reached for my hand and pressed it to her chest. With a deep, shuddering breath, she began to tell me her story.
“Annie. My real name is Mary Read. But I have lived as a man for as long as I can remember.” She looked at me in earnest. “I never lied about who I am, just who I started out as. My mother disguised me as a boy when I was very young to guarantee my grandmother’s support. And so, I became my elder brother Mark, who died just before I was born. I have been him all my life. I was in the military for nine years before I boarded that sloop. Then I met you. Please understand…I never meant to hide anything from you. You know me better than anyone. This is who I am.”
She lifted her hand slowly and brought it to my face, cupping my cheek and swiping a single tear away with her thumb. I instinctively turned my face into her hand and kissed her palm. Her eyebrows rose slightly, and she gazed at me, waiting for me to respond.
“So…it’s Mary, is it?” I said, a small smile tugging at my lips.
“It’s anything you like, Annie.”
Her expression was so sincere, so loving, that I found myself overcome with emotion, and wondered briefly at this strange, new, soft person that I had become.
I leant in and kissed her shyly, exploring her again, almost as if it were the first time.
Gentle, almost chaste kisses quickly made way for more. I opened my mouth to deepen the kiss and she moaned, pushing her tongue into my mouth. Her fingers moved up into my hair to clutch a fistful of curls. We moved together instinctively, pushing
and pulling at each other with increased desperation, as if we were the only things holding each other up.
More. All I could think was, I need more.
I wanted to breathe her in, to consume her.
I sucked her bottom lip in between my teeth, bit along her jawline, and kissed hungrily down the smooth column of her neck. I was just moments away from unbuttoning her breeches when approaching footsteps broke us apart.
Mary pushed me away quickly and closed her shirt, settling back onto the bed, her face flushed, her chest heaving. I grabbed the bloody bandana and pressed it to her, trying to calm my own ragged breathing and pounding heart.
The cabin door was thrown wide open and Jack strode in. “How’s the patient?”
“He’ll survive –” “I’ll live –” we said in unison.
We stared at each other, our eyes wide. We could barely conceal our amusement at the situation, like two children caught with their hands in the gingerbread pot.
“Glad to hear it, Bucko.”
Jack tossed a sack of what sounded like coins onto the captain’s table and leant up against the bedpost, oblivious to our flustered state.
“You can patch me up next, Anne,” he said, pinching the bridge of his bloodied nose. “I’ll forgive you for this, by the by – just this once, mind – but only because we’ve plundered more Spanish doubloons than I reckon even Governor Rogers has in his filthy, double-crossin’ coffers. Not only that, but enough rum, mead, cured meats and beans to keep us alive for a month. And live chickens, would you believe! Chickens! Tonight, my friends, we celebrate.”
7
Later that afternoon, we dropped anchor just outside Montego Bay and welcomed aboard three of Jack’s acquaintances whom he had sent for, taxied from the harbourside in the ship’s rowboat: Pierre the dressmaker (who dressed even more elaborate than Jack in frilly-edged shirts and a pink coat), Matthew the barber, and another tall, smart gentleman named Alasdair whom I had not met before. Pierre and Matthew took those of the crew who required servicing and smartening up in captain’s quarters, including Jack himself. Mary declined the offer, of course, flashing a conspiratorial smile in my direction.
