by Kate Castle
Rogers did not even bother to look up from his writings. “Well, for reasons quite unknown to me, it seems your husband cares enough to have saved your hide, Mrs Bonny. You are a lucky woman. You have him and him alone to thank for keeping you out of jail. Therefore, following your husband’s claim on you, and your own…rather candid…confessions, I hereby grant you the King’s Pardon, on the condition that you change your sinful ways. However –” he paused to look at me, his fat lips twitching with the slightest suggestion of pleasure. “– as governor of this civilised British colony, I simply cannot allow your public infidelity and debauchery to go unpunished. I therefore sentence you to twenty-one lashes in the town square, tomorrow at noon. After which, you are free to leave and return with your husband to his estate. Where, I would suggest, Mr Bonny,” he said, finally turning his attention to my pathetic husband, “you work on your wife’s rehabilitation and her eventual reintegration into our civilised society.”
“Yes, your Honour – er, yes, Governor. I plan to do precisely that. Thank you for your understanding and leniency with regards to my wife’s inexcusable behaviour. It is very much appreciated.”
If James had his tongue any further up Rogers’ arse, he would be eating the governor’s supper for him.
Rogers continued as though James had said nothing. “If, however, I receive word that Mrs Bonny’s promiscuous tendencies have resurfaced, I shall have no hesitancy in throwing her in jail pending a full trial and punishment, as is deemed appropriate under the King’s Law. Is this understood, Mr Bonny?”
“Understood,” James almost whimpered.
I rolled my eyes.
“Mrs Bonny?” Rogers looked at me, his quill poised to write something else in his big fat book.
“I s’pose,” I replied, shrugging my shoulders.
“Very well. Take her away, Mr Tandy. And Mr Bonny, Mr Tandy – be sure to present Mrs Bonny to the town square by noon tomorrow for her whipping.”
Next to me, Alasdair nodded, rose silently and led me out of the courtroom, his vice-like grip burning into my forearm. James scurried out from the cheap seats and followed behind us, making sure he was always well out of my reach, of course.
I have never prayed to any god, but as I was dragged from that courthouse, I offered up a silent plea that – somehow – I would get the chance to wreak my revenge on these cowardly, pitiful excuses for men.
Sometime soon.
10
The next morning, an open horse-drawn carriage was waiting outside James’s house to take me to the town square for my public humiliation.
Alasdair took charge of dressing me again, most likely knowing that if I were left with a handmaiden, I would make my escape. I wondered what plans they were making to ensure that could never happen, and clung to the hope that – one day, for just one moment – they would become complacent. That was all I required.
Alasdair silently washed me from head to toe in a cast iron bathtub – my hands trussed to an eye hook in the ceiling and his hands roaming wherever they pleased. Afterwards, he dressed me in a simple thin white cotton gown, but with no undergarments. I tried not to think of the reasons why. Then he led me outside, to where James waited by the open carriage. My husband had a strange, satisfied look on his face. It was almost as if he were enjoying this, much as one would a special occasion. Not for the first time, I thought he must have some sort of profound mental retardation to conclude that the public whipping of his wife was an event to be celebrated. Or to think that I would somehow emerge miraculously transformed into a subservient wife.
I looked up at the cloudless blue sky, taking my mind somewhere far away, searching for some comfort. A lone herring gull circled high overhead, its cries echoing off the hillside. I tracked its journey from land to sea, out towards a small lugsail fishing boat returning from its morning catch. Gulls surrounded its yellowing sails, two dozen fluttering white dots in the distance.
It was the most perfect sailing day, calm waters and steady winds. The sun glittered a path over the ocean, its rays reflecting a thousand times upon gleaming waves of water, taunting me with a narrowing, sparkling route of escape; a clear course set for Mary, so very far beyond the horizon.
“Come now, Anne,” said James, cheerfully. “This day marks the end of your old life and the beginning of a new one with me. Together. Let us travel happily, in peace, from this moment on.”
I did not dignify his nonsense with a reply. Instead, I took his offered hand and stepped up into the carriage silently. I sat in the coach with James and Alasdair squeezed tight on either side of me. A rose between two pricks.
***
As we made our way into town, I understood why the governor had sent an open carriage.
People lined every street.
And not just men. Women and children filled the cobblestones in their hundreds, all of them dressed in brightly coloured suits and summer frocks. It seemed to me that there was a considerable number of women, especially. They gathered in excited groups, standing on tiptoe, pointing at me and gossiping with one another, every one of them straining for a good look at the infamous lady pirate.
Groups of girls played with whittled wooden sticks, pretending they were sword fighting. One little lass even had her dress tucked into her stockings to make it look as if she was wearing breeches. She swished her pretend sword left and right, a handkerchief tied around her mop of unruly, bright red hair. As our carriage passed, I caught her eye and smiled. It was the first time I had truly smiled in days. Her mother stepped in front of her, admonishing the girl and pulling her dress free before anyone else could notice.
It felt like I was in the middle of a grand wedding procession. And I was the bride.
Then a thought struck me: not only was I the first female pirate anyone had ever heard of, but I was most likely the first woman anyone had seen publicly whipped.
Usually, few people attended floggings. They had been such a commonplace occurrence on land for so long, that those present generally consisted of the culprit, his guardian or master and the guards tasked with carrying out the punishment. And maybe a drunk or two.
It seemed I had single-handedly made whippings a popular spectator pastime again.
The driver slowed the horse from a trot to a walk and the line of people street-side began to deepen.
We had arrived.
I peered past the driver’s shoulder as he brought the carriage to a complete stop.
In the centre of the town square, roped off from the crowd of onlookers, stood a tall wooden whipping post on a raised stone platform. The stage was flanked by a pair of King’s Guards dressed in their customary red, white and black uniforms. One of the guards was armed with a long rifle, capped with a gleaming bayonet. The other held a cat o’ nine tails whip at his side.
My stomach flipped and dropped heavily into my groin.
A cat o’ nine tails!
Lashings were usually administered using the single-tailed whip, either a single rope’s end or a leather cord used for horses and the like. Not at all pleasant, but overnight I had imagined the pain would be manageable. I was used to injury, to hurting.
The cat o’ nine tails, however, was an entirely different prospect. It was reserved for the punishment of the most severe offenders. A short whip, with nine knotted strands of rope connected to its handle, it was said to make you feel as though you were being lashed with nine whips made from sharp rocks, all at the same time. Whipping sentences were set in groups of three, up to a maximum of thirty-nine lashes. Men had died from the blood loss that came with thirty-nine lashes of a cat o’ nine tails.
As I climbed down from the carriage, I frantically tried to remember the sentence I had been given. I had been so intent on antagonising the governor and James in the courtroom that I had barely taken any notice of the formalities.
Had he said twenty-one lashes? For a woman? With a cat o’ nine tails?
For the first time ever, I feared for my life.
Silence fell on the town square as Alasdair and James ushered me towards the whipping post. There were no children playing here. The raffish crowds on the outskirts of town had given way to a higher class of spectator: wealthy landowners, their wives well clad in the latest fashions. Up close, the women lining the square found it harder to look me in the eye, their heads bowing as I was led past. One group had lined up close to the platform, yet were so prudish that they hid their faces within their deep-brimmed summer bonnets, twitching the hems of their long dark cloaks as if to pull them as far as possible from my path. Opposite them stood a group of older men and women, all dressed in black and white – I knew most of them as the colony’s elders. They looked at me with a queer mixture of interest and pity. It was just a small measure away from satisfaction. No wonder James felt so at home here.
We reached the stage and James left to join the elders. Alasdair pulled me onto the platform, dragging me over to the whipping post.
“Allow me, Mrs Bonny,” he murmured, very close to my ear.
He lifted my trussed wrists above my head and tied them to a metal ring nailed high on the post. Then he crouched and removed my silk slippers, squeezing my ankles spitefully. I felt him tie my feet together tightly. He tethered that rope to another ring at the foot of the pole. Then he straightened and used a knife to cut through the delicate shoulders of my dress. The gown parted and slipped away from me, leaving me completely naked.
I heard gasps from the crowd. And a low chuckle from Alasdair as he left my side.
Behind me, the guard’s footsteps were approaching.
I felt wetness on my cheeks and realised I was crying. I rested my forehead against the wood between my arms, squeezed my eyes shut, and braced myself for the agony that was sure to follow.
“AVAST!”
Gunshots rang out. Two loud musket shots, close to me. A rifle shot. Then five, six, seven more musket shots. Metal clanged against metal. Grunts and groans. Warm liquid splashed on my back, ran down my legs. I whipped my head to the left. To the right. I could not see anything from under my arms. But I could hear women screaming and men shouting. People jostling, running away. I could smell gunpowder. And blood…I could smell blood.
And then, suddenly, someone was close behind me, breathless and hot.
I braced myself.
Then I smelled something else. Apples and fine spices.
“Annie! Annie! Are you all right?”
Mary.
Mary had come for me.
She circled me, frantically cutting my hands and feet loose before taking my face in her hands. Her eyes were wild; incandescent with rage, the rush of blood, and some kind of raw, unbridled intensity that I had never seen in her before; that I had never seen directed at me before.
Worry. Love.
It was then that I noticed the summer bonnet tied about her neck and the black cloak that now draped like a cape down her back. She untied the cloak, wrapped it around my body, and handed me a short sword from her belt.
“Let’s get out of here, Annie.”
I turned and took in the scene before me.
Only a dozen people were left standing in the square. Nearly all the crowd had dispersed. A score of men lay dead or dying on the cobblestones. Unfortunately, as far as I could make out, none of them looked to be James or Alasdair.
Both King’s Guards lay next to each other in front of Mary and me, their throats slashed, a bullet hole in one’s chest. Dark pools of blood expanded and met underneath them, turning the limestone below almost black.
In the square, Jack and five or six of the crew were seeing off any brave – or stupid – men who had chosen to stay and fight. The crew were easy to spot – ladies’ summer bonnets dangled from their necks.
I examined the men that had stayed to fight. James was not among them. Of course. Pathetic.
Then I spotted Alasdair.
He was doing his best to fight Jack off, using the dead guard’s rifle bayonet as a weapon.
I leapt off the stage and ran at him.
“Annie!” Mary yelled.
Alasdair turned his head and watched, his eyes wide, as I raced towards him, Mary’s black cloak billowing out behind my naked, blood-streaked body. I must have looked a real fright because even Jack did a double take before he took the opportunity to disarm Alasdair, pinning his arms behind his back and pushing him down onto his knees.
“Allow me, Mr Tandy,” I said, and slashed my sword across his throat.
Blood cascaded down the front of his pristine suit. He looked at me in amazement for one delicious moment. I inhaled sharply and launched a thick gob of spit onto his face. His eyes rolled up into his head, and he slumped to the ground, face-first.
Mary arrived at my side and placed a hand on my shoulder.
“I never did like that fella,” Jack said, breathlessly. “Dresses like a pettifogger. And he always cheats at cribbage.”
11
We knew it was only a matter of minutes before the governor received word of what had happened and sent the King’s Guard out in full force. We wasted no time in getting out of the square.
“Where are we going? Where’s the William?” I asked Mary as we chased Jack and the crew down side streets and alleyways. As we ran, we tied bonnets around our heads and concealed our weapons. I used Mary’s sash to tie my cloak tight around my waist.
“Anchored in Goodman’s Bay,” Mary replied breathlessly.
I knew it well – a wide, sandy bay two miles west of Nassau Port, as the crow flies.
“We’re heading to Sal’s Tavern first…apparently you know it?” Mary continued, glancing at me. “We stole four horses from Goodman’s Farm to get us here; they’re tied up in the alley behind the tavern.”
“Mark!” Jack hollered ahead of us. “Stop your jabbering and make Anne run faster! I am not dyin’ today!”
“I’ve got no bleedin’ shoes on, you old fool!” I yelled. But I ran faster anyway.
***
We managed to reach Sal’s undetected, and rode double pillion cross-country to Goodman’s Farm. I rode behind Mary, my arms wrapped tight around her waist. As we galloped over the countryside, I caught glimpses of the William’s white sails over Mary’s shoulder, and eventually saw the Roger fluttering – black against blue – through tall palm trees.
Truthfully, I had never seen such a welcome sight.
We left the horses in the field they had been “borrowed” from and scrambled down the rocky hillside that led to the bay. The rest of our crewmates were anxiously waiting with two rowboats ready to ferry us to the ship. It was all hands on deck now – this was the most danger we had ever faced – and every last one of us took a length of oar. We reached the William in no time at all and clambered up the rope ladders.
Before you could recite the Lord’s Prayer, we had raised anchor, trimmed the mainsail and cast off, catching a strong north-westerly wind out of the bay. As long as we were sailing in a prevailing wind, I knew none of the flotilla I had seen moored in Nassau would catch us. The William was smaller, but she was faster. And we had at least a fifteen-furlong head start, even if the governor had the slightest clue where we were.
When we were sober and frightened for our lives, I decided the crew of the William were hard to beat. We knew how to drink. We knew how to fight. And we knew when to run away.
***
We sailed as fast and as straight as we could, until the wind dropped and the sun began to set portside. I took some private time to clean myself up in captain’s quarters, sponging off the blood from my body as best I could until I could properly bathe, and soaking the rope burns on my wrists in a bucket of sea water. I dressed in a fresh shirt, tied a bandana around my head, pulled on clean trousers and boots and – at cries of “land ho!” – went out to help furl the mainsail. Men’s clothes had never felt so good.
We lowered the anchor next to a group of tiny cays which Solomon, our navigator, reckoned were around five leagues off the north-eastern
coast of Andros Island. The islands were deserted as far as the eye could see – turquoise blue waters gently washed up on dazzling white shores, dotted with the occasional fat crab. Beyond the pristine beaches, thick-leafed rubber plants clung densely around palm trees, their trunks sprouting upwards and over, as if weighed down by the glut of plump green coconuts which – even from where we stood onboard – we could see burgeoning beneath their branches. From all the way up on the William’s forecastle deck, we could see the water surrounding the ship teemed with large green turtles and brightly coloured fish.
It felt like we had arrived in paradise.
“Somebody get me more ammo!” Jack shouted excitedly, leaning over the rail. “And bring me some bloody rum. We’re feasting on turtle tonight!”
While the crew picked off the fattest turtles they could see, Mary and I went to fetch a barrel of grog from the larder and more bullets from quarters.
“Are you feeling all right?” Mary asked, as I picked up Jack’s blackjack tankard from the bedstand. Its leather coating was well worn from countless nights carousing.
I turned and kissed her quickly, my arms full of supplies. “Don’t fuss, Mary. I’m still breathin’ and all in one piece, thanks to you. But…as it happens, I am more than a little interested…exactly how much convincin’ did Jack require to agree to my rescue?”
She had the grace to look away from me and paused at length before she replied. “A knife to his throat clinched the deal,” she said, her jaw tight with tension.
I had suspected as much but said nothing more, simply happy to be free, at sea, and back with Mary. “Come on, let’s celebrate,” I said lightly, and kissed her again.
