“Murrell is trying to send our cannons to the bottom of the sea.”
Turning, Teach rushed to the stairs that led below. He found the captain along with Peter and another of his loyal sailors crouched on the gun deck. Murrell gestured wildly to the cannons. “I want them gone! All of them! Everything that isn’t strapped down needs to go!”
The two men moved to follow the captain’s instructions, but Teach snapped his fingers and sent Jack Thurston and another sailor to bar their way. “Captain! It’s too late to get rid of our guns and supplies. We can’t outrun them!” Teach insisted for what seemed like the hundredth time, the blood pounding in his head. From his vantage point on the stairs between the top and the gun deck, he took in the worried looks of the crew. It was clear to most of them that Murrell was close to collapsing beneath the stress of the impending battle. The two ships were practically upon them, their decks swarming with men.
“We’re a merchantman! We have no need for so many cannons!” Murrell shrieked, looking worriedly out the port side.
“We’ll need them to fight!”
“I’ll raise the white flag! I can negotiate with them.”
“If you surrender, we’re dead. There’s no guarantee any of us will live.”
Murrell whirled, pointing an accusing finger at Teach. “You tricked me into this! This is your fault!”
It took all of Teach’s self-control not to slam the man into the wall. “You said to ready the ship for battle!”
“Because you told me we couldn’t outrun them!” Murrell shouted back.
“We can’t! Throwing the cannons and cargo overboard would only have delayed the inevitable and left us defenseless!”
“Mutiny! This is mutiny! I’ll have your head for this! See if I don’t!”
The telltale shot of a cannon in the distance prevented any response. It was accompanied a few seconds later by a resounding splash next to the hull of the Deliverance.
It was only a warning shot. The next one would not miss.
“Captain! Captain Murrell, what are your orders, sir?” Peter asked.
All eyes turned to the captain.
Teach clenched the railing, convinced it would splinter beneath his grip.
“Raise the flag. We’re going to surrender,” Murrell said.
“No!” Teach bounded down the rest of the stairs and shoved his way past the captain.
Peter grabbed Teach by the arms to restrain him, but Jack Thurston threw a punch, catching Peter squarely in the jaw. In the cramped space, Peter fell into Murrell and the two tumbled to the floor.
Nobody moved to help them as they struggled to their feet.
Murrell pulled his pistol and pointed it at Teach, his hand shaking like a leaf in the wind. He motioned to the nearest gunners. “Take him. Lock him in the hold.”
The air was thick, the low beams of the upper deck pressing down on them. The two men hesitated. Peter was the only one to attempt to restrain Teach, but Teach easily shook him off, while Jack drew his own pistol, pointing it at Peter.
The hammer of Teach’s pulse caused his head to hurt. He knew what disobeying Murrell would cost them. They would be tried and executed for mutiny.
“Captain, please. Trust me. I know what to do. We can come out of this alive.”
Murrell stood there with his mouth gaping. He looked out through the gun ports, at the two ships, close enough now that they could see the men preparing their muskets. His eyes drifted over the gun crews before him, the cannons secured with thick ropes as the men of the Deliverance waited for their orders. Finally, he met Teach’s piercing gaze with a vacant look of his own, and shook his head. “We’re all doomed,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. He stumbled toward the stairs, with Peter close on his heels.
Not waiting to see where he went, Teach turned to the gunners, crouching low in the dimly lit space. Adrenaline coursed through his veins. “As soon as they come broadside, fire on the upward roll. They don’t expect us to fight. The only chance we have is to take out their rigging and canvas and make our escape.”
The men nodded, their bodies tensed as they waited for the first true shot to be fired. It didn’t take long. The Deliverance shuddered as two cannonballs crashed into her hull. Teach’s heart leaped in his chest, but he knew that his father had prepared for this and had purposefully reinforced the ship’s structure. Teach didn’t wait for the others to take another shot.
“Fire!” he yelled as the Deliverance rode up on the swell. The gunners jumped, touching their sizzling torches to the fuses.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
Teach’s teeth shook with the impact as cannons went off in quick succession. He nearly choked on the thick smoke encircling his head. The deafening sound left his ears ringing as smoldering scraps of soft cloth drifted upward.
He did not see the flight of the balls, but in a matter of seconds, a hole appeared in the middle of the topsail of the closest ship. Another ball hit the bower anchor with an echoing clang.
From behind the safety of the cannon, Teach waited while the sponger cleaned out any powder char or burning cloth left behind before he loaded more powder into it. Working together, the gun crews prepared their cannons, ramming the wad in before rolling the balls home.
“Fire!” Teach yelled once more. The cannons responded with another round of resounding booms. This time Teach heard the shouts and screams of men as the balls ripped through the other ships. He hoped they’d disabled more of their sails.
Musket fire exploded from the other vessels as their big guns ceased. If the Deliverance didn’t get away soon, their attackers would send them all to the ocean floor.
“I want you to continue firing. Don’t stop! As soon as you have the cannons loaded, send them off!” Teach cried out.
Grabbing a musket from a nearby barrel, Teach raced up the stairs to check on the men stationed on the top deck of the Deliverance. With a practiced eye he saw that thus far, none of the riggings had been damaged.
Something soared passed Teach’s ear, and splinters of wood flew through the air. Diving behind a crate, he took a second to secure a target and fired. One of the men from the other ships fell over the railing into the ocean below. Another sailor quickly took his place as someone handed him a loaded musket.
Teach heard an agonized cry. He turned in time to see Murrell drop, clutching his neck as blood gushed over his hands and arms. Peter was at his side in an instant, his usually emotionless face contorted with shock.
Scrambling toward the captain, Teach did his best to try to stanch the flow, but it was no use. Murrell was losing too much blood.
Peter grabbed the nearest musket and reloaded it. Taking aim, he downed one of the nearest assailants.
After a few more seconds, the Deliverance sailed clear of one of the ships. The smoke lay heavy, but Teach could see where the stern and quarter had suffered on the other vessel. A quick glance off the starboard side showed that the smaller ship still sailed on a parallel course with the Deliverance, so Teach called for the cannons once more. John raced past him and down the stairs to do his bidding.
The entire time, Murrell clutched Teach’s wrist, gurgling noises emitting from his throat, his eyes pleading with Teach to do something. But Teach could do nothing more than stay with him and watch the life slowly ebb from the older man’s face. Peter was like a man possessed, loading and firing without hesitation, and shooting at anything that moved on the other ship.
The battle raged on around them and each vessel hammered the other with a continuous din. Murrell’s grip loosened until his hand finally fell to the deck. As much as Teach had disliked the man, he had not wished for him to meet such a grisly end.
The sound of men shouting and the incessant cracking of muskets propelled Teach forward. He picked up another musket, reloading it with an expert hand. Sweat poured down his back and his blood hammered in his ears as he watched the small ship reel beneath the impact of three cannonballs. One went through her mizzen topsail, the
other two crashed through the deck. Surely she could no longer give chase, Teach thought.
The men surrounding him gave a cheerful shout as the Deliverance hauled her wind. In a matter of minutes, she was free, benefiting from the favor of the breeze and sailing once more toward her intended destination.
Taking a deep breath, Teach sat back. The acrid smell of smoke choked the air. That had been close. Too close. Once again, Teach hoped that Anne’s crossing had been easier than his. The thought of her experiencing a battle left him cold, despite the heat of the day.
“Teach,” John called as he ran up the stairs, stopping when he saw Murrell’s body.
Peter stared down at the captain’s lifeless form, the telltale glint of tears in his eyes.
John crossed himself and muttered a prayer, before meeting Teach’s gaze. “The gunners are all accounted for. We cut up the ships’ rigging and ruined their looks. That’s the last we’ll see of them.”
Wiping his brow with the back of his hand, Teach nodded at John. “See to the wounded. And tell the men to start patching the sails and repairing the hull.”
“Aye, Captain.”
Teach turned to Peter. “Help me take care of him.”
“Aye, Captain,” Peter said, his voice bitter.
Ignoring Peter’s resentment, Teach sent him off to fetch a hammock. Once he returned, the two of them wrapped Murrell’s body in it with a cannonball, and Peter quickly sewed it shut. He didn’t bother with the stitch through Murrell’s nose. The dead man’s skin had already taken on a chalky hue. Several members of the crew stopped what they were doing to watch as Teach and Peter hoisted the body in the air before tossing it into the waves. As Murrell sank below the surface of the turquoise waters, there was almost a collective sigh of relief. The tyrant was gone.
About to turn away, Teach hesitated when Peter spoke.
“He wasn’t always like that,” Peter said, his voice soft. He continued to stare at the water, his eyes unblinking. “When I first saw him, he was a gunner on a naval ship. A press-gang caught me unawares in an alley of London. I was only eleven at the time and they turned me into a bloody powder monkey.”
Teach knew about the navy’s practice of using small youth, chosen for their speed and height, to ferry gunpowder from the ship’s hold to the artillery. It was a dangerous job. In inexperienced hands, the powder could often start fires or cause explosions, especially during a battle at sea.
“I tried to run away, but they caught me. And beat me. My fingers were broken and bruised. Murrell taught me how to carry the powder from the hold to the cannons without dropping it. He told me I had to be strong. Not to let them see any weakness.”
An image of young Matthew tied to the mast flashed before Teach’s eyes. “There are other ways to show strength. Kindness is not a flaw. Neither is mercy.”
Peter’s lips twisted as he finally met Teach’s gaze. “Where will those emotions get you? People take advantage of you. They don’t respect you, neither. Remember who was captain of this ship.”
Teach knew he should keep his mouth shut, but he couldn’t stand to see Peter looking so superior. “Where is your captain now?” Teach asked before striding away, silently cursing his own reckless words. It was possible that once they reached shore, Peter would accuse Teach of mutiny. It would be Peter’s word against that of the crew, but the danger was still there.
Knowing how the others felt about Murrell and Peter, Teach doubted anyone would corroborate Peter’s claim. But would the authorities believe him?
Once again, Teach reached for the cords around his neck, working the thin leather between his fingers.
Even in death, Murrell still posed a threat. What had made the older man become so cold and brutal? What kind of a legacy was fear to leave behind? Not one that Teach wanted for himself. He never wanted people to dread him or the sound of his name so much that the only emotion they felt at his death was relief.
What Teach wanted most in life was to find Anne and build a quiet life together somewhere, away from the rest of the world. Only then would he truly be happy.
Only then would he truly be free.
CHAPTER 5
Anne
The port of Nassau assaulted the senses. The azure sky overhead was a darker mirror of the aquamarine waters below. It was like viewing the world through a green glass, with everything more alive and vibrant than the gray-washed landscape of Bristol. Fish of various sizes swam with the current of the Providence, breaking the crystalline surface as it reached the port.
Anne walked with unsteady legs as she took her first steps on land in more than a month, the dock seeming to roll beneath her feet. The briny scent in the air was familiar and yet somehow different, richer. The breeze bathed the waterfront with a mixture of fragrances from spices and oils, combating the putrid smells of wet canvas and rotting fish.
Countless boats dotted the harbor—longboats and barges from Europe’s northern coasts anchored beside cutters, frigates, and men-of-war from Asia and Africa. Vessels from every corner of the earth swayed with the calming waves. Shouts and cries in different languages rang through the air as figures scrambled across the rigging and decks, loading and unloading merchandise as well as passengers. Warehouses lining the wharves opened their arms to receive cargo.
Anne had never seen so much activity, not even in Bristol. And the heat was stifling. Sweat dripped from every brow, including Anne’s. Her skin was sticky and her dress clung to her as the roasting sun smothered her neck and back like a wool blanket. She could feel the warmth all the way to her feet.
Nassau burst with color. Not only did the inhabitants’ skin tones vary, from deep mahogany to angry red, thanks to the ever present sun, but their clothing boasted bright hues as well. There were men in striped trousers, some in plain sailcloth. Others wore fine red waistcoats and tarpaulin hats, though Anne wondered how they could stand the heat. Women marched across the docks in petticoat skirts and blouses, in brown, yellow, and even russet tones.
Here, at last, were people like her. How often had she longed for this day back in Bristol? Anne wanted to marvel at the sights and sounds, but her fear and anxiety prevented too much admiration. The image of those two ships bearing down on the Deliverance still plagued her mind.
Frustrated that Coyle wasn’t moving any faster, Anne wished she could force the crowds to part. She was determined to find someone who could help the Deliverance, but Coyle insisted on leading them along the crowded docks.
“Do you truly believe your uncle will know someone who can help us?” Anne asked, raising her voice over the commotion. It appeared the people of Nassau only knew how to shout, their voices rising to meet the sun’s rays.
Coyle nodded, perspiration beading on his ruddy complexion. “I do. Uncle Alastair has been here for eleven years. From what he’s told our da, he’s a powerful man, even if he does only run a tavern,” he yelled. “Alastair was one of the first wave of colonists to come back to Nassau after the Spanish destroyed it.”
Anne hoped he was right, as she followed his broad back, pushing through the heaving throng until something crashed into her. Startled, Anne threw out her arms, pushing Cara to the side. Anne landed painfully on her left wrist, her knees slamming into the hard earth below. People crowded quickly around her, threatening to trample her to death with every heavy step. She felt helpless, a mouse trying to survive in a world of hungry lions, and her fear made her angry. Anne shoved back with all her strength, struggling to get to her feet. She hadn’t survived the Drummond household and that awful boat ride to be trampled alive on the dock.
Finally, the weight on her body lessened as a stout man hauled a small figure off her legs. Cara pushed others aside and helped Anne to stand. Rushing toward them, Coyle stepped between the girls and the fighting pair, a circle forming as the crowd watched in anticipation. Some cheered, others hollered, throwing curses into the thick, humid air.
Both men were dirty, their shirts and breeches soiled from
weeks’ worth of filth, and their beards were messy and unkempt. The smaller one spoke in a foreign tongue, spitting words that Anne didn’t understand. The larger man circled him, slowly. Teasingly.
Anne had no idea what they were fighting about, but the bigger one was drunk, his movements strained and his speech slurred. His meaty fists hit air instead of the shorter man’s face.
“Let’s go,” Coyle urged, trying to push his way through the multitudes, but it was no use. An unwilling captive to the bloody spectacle, Anne watched in a mixture of horror and fascination as the small man suddenly brandished a blade.
No one intervened. Instead, the crowd chanted and the drunken man roared before charging the smaller man like a bull seeing red. Suddenly, he dropped to his knees, a look of shock lining his face. Anne closed her eyes, but not before she saw the knife sticking out of the man’s chest.
Coyle tried once again to shove his way through the assembly and this time he succeeded. Lightheaded and sick to her stomach, Anne held her arms out, hoping to escape the crush. She knew the people wouldn’t think twice about mercilessly trampling her beneath their feet.
Back in England, she had been aware of pickpockets and other petty criminals. The only victim she’d seen of a brutal crime was her mother, who’d scorned the advances of an earl’s son. He’d beaten her for her refusal and she’d later died from her injuries.
But as they made their way along the crowded docks, Anne couldn’t fully shake the image of the man stabbed with the knife.
Coyle and Cara appeared to be equally stunned. “What are we doing here?” Cara asked, her features pinched.
“It’ll be all right, Cara. You and Anne just stay close.”
“We can’t be close to you all the time, Coyle Flynn,” Cara said, her voice sharp. “We shouldn’t have come.”
“We had no choice,” Coyle snapped.
“Let’s just find your uncle,” Anne said, hoping to avoid another fight. Deep down, she agreed with Cara. She didn’t want to be another body lying in the street.
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